Work Text:
It happens, as everything in his life seems to, these days, in the library.
Linhardt’s working on Crest research to keep his mind off the everything that’s going on when Caspar bursts in, loud as ever. He lets out a sigh as he hears him ask a student near the door where he is, and drops his head into his book as he hears him tramp over. Too loud for the library—he reminds him constantly, and yet he never remembers.
“Lin!” he practically shouts. Goddess, he can feel the other students glaring at them. Deservedly so. “Seriously, this is where you’ve been all day? Again ? You missed lecture–” He plops heavily in the seat beside Linhardt, pouting “-and the professor is gonna get so mad at you, y’know, they keep saying attendance is important–”
Best to cut him off now, since he’s obviously on a roll. “Yes, well, I’ve been quite productive up here,” Linhardt says, sitting up. “I made a breakthrough, I believe.”
Caspar distracts easily, peering up at him. “Really?” he says, louder than before. Linhardt instinctively shushes him, and he does quiet down, albeit minutely. “Well, then, let’s hear it!”
Linhardt rolls his eyes, but he can’t help smiling at Caspar’s enthusiasm—he’s got his chin propped up in his fists, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Well, you see…” he begins, turning back to his pages of notes.
And there he is, droning on about the Crest research he’s been working on, when suddenly, in the midst of explaining a difficult concept, he looks at Caspar. This is hardly noteable—they are, after all, in conversation—except that Linhardt catches his eye and suddenly his heart stutters, which is odd , isn’t it? Because Caspar is looking at him the way he always does when he lets Linhardt tell him what he’s been studying: his eyes are wide, head tilted just so, mouth just partially open, making him look almost awed. Wait, why is he looking at his mouth ? Has it always looked so… so… His heart trips and tumbles, this time accompanied by a fluttering in his stomach. It takes him a moment to realize he’s trailed off, forgotten what he was saying entirely.
Caspar notices, of course. The open look of… interest(?) in his eyes is replaced by naked concern, and he leans up rather like an owl to get a closer look. Goddess, has it gotten warmer? “Lin? You alright?”
“Fine,” he says smoothly. Thank everything for that. Despite the whirling confusion in his head and the rapid pounding of his heart, his voice comes out completely steady. He tears his gaze away from Caspar’s handsome (handsome? handsome ?) face to pack up his books. Damn butterflies in his stomach. “I’m bored with talking about it, so surely you must be bored of hearing it–”
“Nah,” Caspar says in that easy way he has. “I never get tired of listening to you talk about this stuff.” Sothis dammit , are his palms sweating? They absolutely are. “But you must be hungry, huh? C’mon, I think dinner’s ready!”
At dinner, Linhardt sits across the table from Caspar, watching him cram food down his throat and talk with his mouth full and wondering when the hell it had become endearing. Afterwards, Caspar follows him to his room, telling him about some fight he’s already heard about a hundred times, at least, but somehow it’s comforting to hear it again. “Goodnight, Lin!” he says, smiling. “Sweet dreams!” Cute—why the fuck is it cute ?
“Yes,” he says, and he’s managed to act aloof all this time but now he falters, voice going wavery. “Goodnight, Caspar.” And then he’s safe in his room, alone with his tumultuous thoughts.
For once, he can hardly sleep. It can’t be, he thinks, and yet. He’s read the stories, heard the accounts. There’s no reason to think that isn’t what it is—sweaty palms, increased anxiety, a spike in temperature, heart palpitations. There is absolutely no proof to the contrary, except that it’s Caspar .
It is utterly unthinkable that Linhardt has fallen in love with his best friend.
Too little data, he thinks desperately. This could be a fluke. He’ll investigate this more tomorrow. With that resolution, he rolls onto his side and prays for sleep.
It’s a regular day — the sun is out, he can hear the chatter of other students — but he and Caspar are alone in the Black Eagle classroom. They’ve got textbooks spread out before them — yes, that’s right, Caspar needed help studying. And Linhardt is his best friend, so naturally he’d agreed to help him out.
Except he’s looking at Caspar, just like he had in the library, and Caspar’s looking back at him with those striking blue eyes of his, and then they’re both leaning into each other until their lips finally meet. It’s beautiful and perfect and makes his chest light up like an Aura but it isn’t enough, and when it ends Linhardt grabs Caspar’s face and keeps him close, kissing him again and again and again and–
Linhardt wakes up from a perfectly good afternoon nap, eyes wide, cheeks pink. A dream. Just a dream. Is he disappointed? Dammit .
It’s been a solid week since that unfortunate incident in the library, and Linhardt’s research into his own feelings has been disastrous. Rather, it’s been quite conclusive, with disastrous results. Neither sleep, nor research, nor even schoolwork have been successful in banishing these newfound… desires. Newfound and very inconvenient desires, considering the context. Caspar’s still as loud, rash, and unsuitable as ever, and he treats Linhardt with as much care as he ever has, listening to his Crest-related ramblings and checking that he’s eaten three square meals a day. Indeed, it seems that Caspar’s behavior hasn’t changed, both toward him and in general. That’s some small comfort, at least—Linhardt’s managed to act normal and thus avoid any changes to Caspar’s behavior that may muddle the results. The problematic, incredibly inconvenient results.
Linhardt is, in fact, in love with Caspar. He’s sure of it, even certain of the extent of his feelings. This is no friendly like or a mere crush ; he’s experienced those before, and they’ve never been quite so… intense. His feelings for Caspar, however, could certainly be described that way. Intense . And he hasn’t the faintest idea where they’ve come from. Caspar is his oldest friend, of course; his best friend, certainly; his confidant, he supposes, in that he tells him everything merely because he has nothing to hide. But-love? Well, love was never off the table entirely, but he’d always thought he looked at him as family . Romantic love is a new concept, and quite the heavy one to bear, at that.
The worst of it, though, besides suddenly needing to suppress the desire to, say, run his fingers through Caspar’s hair, is this: Caspar’s behavior toward him hasn’t changed . This newfound attraction isn’t a result of Linhardt picking up on unspoken clues, or Caspar being particularly chivalrous toward him, of late. No, just yesterday Caspar belched at midday meal, and laughed at Linhardt’s disgusted reaction. He’s still only Caspar , his best friend, which suggests his feelings toward Linhardt are the same as ever—he highly doubts Caspar could hide his feelings from him for a second, if he had them. Which means, no, his feelings haven’t changed. And Linhardt’s–
Oh. He sits up abruptly, blinking, brow furrowed, at that line of thinking. His feelings toward Caspar are… the same? But, no, that can’t be right—he’s in love now. Was he… always?
No. Impossible. Something to entertain as a thought experiment, perhaps, but he’s certainly not dense enough to go his entire life without realizing he’s in love with his closest companion. No, surely this is a recent development; he’d have noticed, otherwise. Caspar, on the other hand…
Traitorous hope stirs in his chest. Caspar does tend to be slow on the uptake. He could have similar feelings and not even know it. Linhardt shakes his head, banishing the thought. Pure conjecture. He can… look into it. But he doubts it could be the case—Caspar shows every single emotion on his face, even those he doesn’t even know he’s feeling. If Linhardt didn’t know before that he had to forget about his feelings for Caspar, he knows it now—Caspar surely doesn’t feel the same. He refuses to wallow in disappointment at the thought.
His train of thought is interrupted by pounding on his door. Not Caspar, no, he wouldn’t knock. “Linhardt!” Edelgard. That makes sense. She’s surely come to– “You’re going to be late for exams,” she says imperiously through the door. “Come along, now.” Drat. Although, perhaps this is precisely what he needs—what better way to ignore his undeniable attraction to his best friend than by throwing himself into classes? Ugh, he can’t believe he’s actually considering it; he truly is desperate.
He’ll figure it all out eventually, he thinks to himself as he clamors out of bed. Or perhaps not at all—he’s perfectly happy treating this the same way he treats his other problems, by ignoring it. Right now, he’s got his hands quite full with class, studying, unraveling the monastery’s many mysteries, staying alive through the next fight… Yes, he hasn’t the time to puzzle out himself and Caspar.
Until he does, though, surely idle thoughts wouldn’t hurt. Surely it wouldn’t be so terrible to let the mind wander, from time to time. Linhardt’s never been one to shy away from what brings him joy, so perhaps he’ll let himself indulge in his daydreams.