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Three Seasons Caspar and Linhardt Miss, and the One Season They Don’t
I. Spring
“Lin,” Caspar whispers. “Lin, wake up.”
Aforementioned Lin doesn’t stir but mutters something unintelligible under his breath. His head is resting on a library book, and a viscous line of drool suddenly drips out of the corner of his mouth onto the page. Caspar cringes.
“You’re supposed to help me, Lin! Studying for the exam, remember?”
“Knees,” is the feeble response. Or, that’s what Caspar thinks he says. Linhardt is always talking about going for the knees, for some reason. Didn’t he know that some people might not have knees?
Caspar stares more closely at Linhardt’s face to confirm that the man is indeed sleeping. Yep, he’s probably fully out, but there’s one last way to test that suspicion.
As gently as he can, he slides the book out from Linhardt’s head. It makes a hushed scraping sound as it moves along the solid wooden table. Linhardt’s head makes a dull thunk as it plops down. Just to test the limits, Caspar opens a different book, grasps Linhardt upwards by the ponytail, and places the new book under his head.
Still no sign.
“Lin, you’re damaging your library book.”
“Huh?” Linhardt jolts upright and wipes his mouth.
“Missed some.”
“What did I miss?”
Caspar points at the drool on Linhardt’s cheek, then points at the book he slid under Linhardt’s head, which did not manage to escape the same fate as the first one.
“Oh,” Linhardt says, following Caspar’s finger.
For a brief moment, a rare look of confusion graces Linhardt’s face. But it soon smooths into a wan smile.
“Where were we?” He brushes his hand over the page with a grimace and turns to the next paragraph. “Oh, we were reading about crestology?”
“You were helping me with my Reason homework!”
“Ah, but we were clearly reading about crestology.” Linhardt points at the book that Caspar had slid under his head and begins a long-winded lecture before he can be stopped.
Maybe it would’ve been more useful to ask Dorothea.
II. Summer
Linhardt likes sleeping under trees, always has. And Caspar does what he always has when Linhardt decides to nap and he’s brimming with energy that needs some sort of outlet. He pulls up the grass and dumps it on Linhardt’s chest like he’s seasoning a raw chicken.
It’s summer now, and the clovers are coming up. Caspar has never found a four leaf clover, but he also has never been particularly lucky. He’s not sure how four leaf clovers are supposed to bring luck if you’re supposed to be lucky to even have found one in the first place.
He turns to the green boy beside him, the only thing he’s been lucky enough to find. Caspar plucks the white flowers from the grass and weaves.
Linhardt once showed him how to do it, how to put the flowers together so they make a ring. “It’s rather simple,” Linhardt had said, as Caspar repeatedly failed. Linhardt is always doing things for Caspar that Caspar can’t do himself. It’s hard to imagine a life without Linhardt telling him how to make flower crowns, or what brawling knuckles to buy, or when he needs a haircut.
Caspar ties the final flower and examines the circle he’s made. It’s lopsided, knotted, and slightly mashed.
“Damn.” Caspar hurls the flower crown at the trunk of the tree a few feet away but missed terribly. The flowers come undone, falling from the sky like leaves from a tree, and land at his feet. Caspar reaches, grabbing the remains of his flower crown.
Linhardt is sleeping beside him still. It’s almost time for dinner, if the slowly setting sun is any indication.
Caspar hesitates a moment, his hand frozen near Linhardt’s hair. Then, as gently as he can, he nestles a string of three clover flowers in Linhardt’s green hair. Pranked, haha, that’ll get him. The flower is pretty, Caspar thinks. Linhardt’s hair looks pretty this way, splayed out on the grass, with Caspar’s flowers in it.
“Lin, wake up.” Caspar shakes Linhardt’s shoulder. “It’s time for dinner!”
It takes a few shakes, but Linhardt slowly comes to.
“Dinnertime.” Caspar repeats.
Linhardt groans. “You woke me up for food , of all things?”
“Sorry!” Caspar reaches over and brushes the grass off of Linhardt’s chest, feeling strangely awkward, then stands up and looks down the hill at the monastery.
“Are you going to help me get up?” Linhardt’s voice calls from behind him.
He turns around and offers his friend a hand, trying not to notice too much that Linhardt’s palm is soft and warm, or that it takes a second longer than comfortable for Linhardt to let go.
III. Autumn
Linhardt falls asleep on the dining hall floor regularly. This time, he is splayed out between two benches, mouth hung open and limbs spread-eagle.
Petra has already asked Caspar “if to be sleeping in the food area is a special Fodlan custom,” to which Caspar had responded, no, but if it was, it was a terrible custom. Petra had simply cocked her head at him for a moment and then left without another word. Caspar is never really sure what to say around her—she seems smart and knowledgeable in ways he is not.
“I wish he would sleep in his room,” Edelgard says suddenly, then turns in Caspar’s direction. “Caspar, I wish he would sleep in his room.”
Caspar scratches his head. He has to choose his words carefully, or he might find Hubert in his bedroom again pretending to be the lump of clothing on his chair. “I... do not control the speed at which Linhardt falls asleep.”
At this, Ferdinand perks up from the closest dining hall table. Without pausing from delicately slicing his pheasant, he chimes in over the clamor. “It is most unbecoming of a noble to fall asleep on the floor.”
Another voice pipes up almost immediately. “Ferdie, I couldn’t help but notice... I must be unfamiliar with the tradition of wearing riding gloves at the table?”
“I just came from the stables, Dorothea. I didn’t have the time to put these away and they’re new-- ”
“Bzzzzzzzz,” Dorothea cuts him off.
There’s a moment of blessed silence.
“...Okay?” Edelgard says.
Caspar decides to tune out the rest of his classmates and starts aiming water into Linhardt’s gaping mouth. He stands over his sleeping friend, tipping the cup over ever so slightly each time so that a little drip of water falls. He is not very good at this game, it seems, and keeps missing Linhardt’s mouth. Caspar drops to his knees to lean closer.
“Liiiiiiiiin,” he says. “Wake uuuuuup.”
Caspar tips another splash of water towards Linhardt’s mouth, and it actually makes it in between his lips. The next thing Caspar knows, his forehead is stinging, he’s been pushed backwards into the table bench with a yell, and Linhardt is gasping and sputtering.
“Ow! Did you have to sit up so fast, Lin?”
“Who stepped on me?” Lin says blearily.
Caspar turns to his right. Hubert stands triumphantly, glowering over Linhardt’s now sitting form. “You were in the way,” Hubert says simply.
“Can’t you go around? I’m not that tall.”
“I think you should sleep in your room,” Edelgard repeats.
Linhardt sighs and then turns to Caspar. “She wants me to sleep in my room.”
+1 Winter
Caspar is lying on his bed, hands behind his head, just staring at the ceiling. He’s never been much of a worrier, but never has his mind switched between harmless and serious anxiousness so quickly. Anxiousness about asking Linhardt to dance, then worry over how the hell a student killed a Knight of Seiros. After dinner, he headed straight to his room and started to try to take a page out of Linhard’s book and go to bed early.
Or, he would be attempting to do so if it weren’t for his door swinging open.
“Edelgard said a few months ago that I should sleep in my room,” Linhardt says without introduction, “but yours is the same thing, functionally.”
Linhardt and Caspar have been inseparable since they were kids, even though their parents did their best to prevent it, so it’s not surprising when Caspar finds Linhardt has barged into his room and simply stated this fact.
What is surprising, however, is that Linhardt shuffles over to his bed and makes himself at home right on Caspar’s pillow next to Caspar’s head.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
Linhardt’s back is to him, so Caspar can’t read his expression. Not that Caspar was ever very good at that, anyway, since Linhardt’s face is usually blank.
Linhardt ignores his question, and for a moment they both sit there in this silence. Caspar shifts backwards in the small bed to make room for the both of them, but then Linhardt scoots himself backward towards Caspar again anyway.
Just when Caspar thinks he’s asleep, Linhardt speaks next in such a soft, serious tone that it stops Caspar in his tracks. “What do you think is going to happen?”
Caspar chews his lip. “Now that the Professor’s dad is dead, you mean?”
“Yes, but also…” Linhardt trails off. “Something’s not right. If my hypothesis is correct, things could get bad.”
Caspar is used to Linhardt having the answers. He’s used to following, trusting Linhardt. Now that Linhardt is asking him this question like he himself has no idea what to do, Caspar feels a knot tighten in his chest. “I’m not sure.”
“We’ll stick together, right?” Linhardt turns towards Caspar and looks at him with serious, unafraid grey eyes.
“You know I’m not going anywhere!” Caspar says, pumping a fist at the ceiling.
Linhardt laughs a little, though it doesn’t sound happy. The knot in Caspar’s chest tightens again. “Okay, I’m going to sleep. Goodnight.”
He turns over again and Caspar hears his breathing even out almost immediately. But Caspar himself can’t sleep no matter how hard he tries. After what feels like half an hour, though it probably has been less, he sits up and shuffles as quietly as he can off the bed.
For a few seconds, Caspar stands frozen at the foot of the bed, just looking at Linhardt’s resting form. His best friend, the person who knows him better than himself, the person who cheers him on when he’s getting into trouble. What would it be like, if they were to part?
A fear seizes Caspar suddenly, a feeling he is not accustomed to. When he’s afraid, he rushes forward, fists up and ready. But right now there’s nothing to fight, nothing but a strange ache.
With a small sigh, Caspar pulls the blanket over Linhardt’s shoulders and sits at his desk. He toys with the cover of a book, one of Linhardt’s that he brought over once and forgot to take back. He thought Linhardt would’ve wanted it back by now, given the number of bookmarks in it.
Maybe he should write something funny on one of the bookmarks to make Linhardt laugh. Or something stupid. Equal effect.
Caspar picks up a pen and opens the book to the first bookmark when he notices three familiar clovers pressed between the pages.
What?
Linhardt wasn’t usually the type to press flowers.
“So you found it.”
Caspar slams the book shut, hard. “Found what!”
He turns towards the bed, feeling flushed for reasons he doesn’t understand or question. Linhardt is still lying there, but his eyes are wide open. “I meant for you to find it earlier. The flowers, I mean.”
“Huh?”
Linhardt blows out a huff of air. “You know, sometimes I do wake up and pretend I’m still sleeping just to see what you’re doing.”
“Are you spying on me?” Caspar yelps.
“I’m just taking a while to wake up.”
“Right.” Caspar shakes his head. “Are these from that day in the summer?”
Linhardt sighs like he wishes Caspar would catch on more quickly, but nods.
“Why’d you save the flowers, anyway?” Caspar opens the book again and brushes his fingers over the clovers.
“They were from you,” Linhardt says simply.
Caspar stutters to a stop at this, again caught unsure of what to do, finding pause when he usually has none.
“Just don’t leave me,” Linhardt says, in a voice so dry that he yawns at the end.
Caspar takes in the sentence, said so plainly and with love. He climbs back into his bed, and Linhardt shifts over again.
Caspar knees Linhardt in the calf, ignoring the latter’s grumbling. He’s not good with words, not good at finding them or knowing where and how to place them. “I always thought you’d leave me first! Funny.”
Linhardt twists around and looks Caspar right in the face. Caspar sees him look down, looking shy for the first time he can remember. Linhardt cups Caspar’s cheek with a gentle hand, then takes a breath as if he wants to say something.
“What?” Caspar demands, almost accusatory. His cheeks feel tingly and embarrassingly warm, and he swallows repeatedly as if he can suck the redness away. Linardt’s hand is so soft, and his touch is just hovering in a ticklish way.
“Be quiet,” Linhardt says, and Caspar can’t help but look at his lips and see that Linhardt is chewing on the bottom one. “I’m thinking.”
“Stop thinking! You’re making me nervous!”
Linhardt brings his other hand to the other side of Caspar’s face and raises his eyes with a smile. “Sorry.”
Then he bridges the gap between them, quickly, before Caspar can respond to his insincere apology. Caspar feels something soft and a little wet press against the corner of his lips, and then he has a mouthful of Linhardt’s hair, and Linhardt’s face is so close to his, and Caspar’s eyes are open they shouldn’t be open so he screws them tight, and then--
Linhardt pulls back, dropping his hands, and Caspar flings open his eyelids. “Linhardt, wh-”
“I missed by a little.” Linhardt’s brows are furrowed and he’s frowning, looking distinctly annoyed.
Caspar feels a fondness rise in him. Though his heart is beating so loudly he can barely think and suddenly his hands, and really everywhere, are sweating up a storm, he’s not scared.
“You can try again,” Caspar says breathlessly. “I mean, if you want to.”
Linhardt pushes back his hair and hesitantly takes Caspar’s hand. “Well, repetition is required for experimental integrity.”
Caspar rolls his eyes, but leans in again. He doesn’t miss.