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Caspar stood at the doorway of Ferdinand’s office, one hand on his hip and the other holding a cup of tea—though it had been cold for quite some time. His voice was stern, yet there was that hint of kindness to it; Ferdinand had taken it to mean that he wasn’t on Caspar’s bad side. Yet.
“Y’know, it’s not always a sign of weakness to take a break every now and then. You’ve been sitting behind that desk since dawn—aren’t you tired? You haven’t even eaten anything!”
Ferdinand could only chuckle. He set his quill aside, dipped into the inkwell, and peered up at the man before him, looking just above a pair of reading glasses. As his eyes adjust, he can see the crease between Caspar’s eyebrows, the slight pout in his lip. The way the teacup is rattling ever so slightly; though from Caspar’s own exhaustion or from his irritation at Ferdinand’s lack of self care, is unknown.
“I believe you’re overexaggerating. I did have a cup of tea this morning, and if I do recall correctly, you brought in a pastry shortly after, scolding me again about how I ‘never eat anything.’”
“That was yesterday!” Caspar stepped closer, no longer waiting to be invited in. “Look, I know you’re the prime minister and you gotta help out Edelgard however you can, but you’re wearing yourself thin. You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends.”
The scattered papers upon Ferdinand’s desk spoke for themselves about the current wellbeing of a certain Duke Aegir. Always one for perfection, and yet there was smudged ink on the most recent stack of papers; a poorly stamped seal on several letters; bent corners and worn edges. Ferdinand’s own hands were stained black with ink, blotches of it going up his arm and even seeping into the cuffs of his sleeves, which were rolled up hastily towards his elbows, creased recklessly. His coat thrown over the chair haphazardly; a candle placed precariously on the edge of the desk. All of it was pointing at Ferdinand’s undeniable unravelling at the unending stacks of paperwork, documents to be filled out. And for what? Not even Ferdinand could begin to explain.
“Nonsense, I am perfectly fine! I am more than capable of burning both ends of this candle you speak of.” He looks over to his candle, only now noticing that enough light was coming in through the window behind him that the candle was unnecessary now. Good thing too, given the candle wax was on the verge of pouring over the tin. “Though, I think that this candle is just about done for.”
The rattling of the teacup grew louder. Most definitely his temper, not exhaustion.
“Yeah, say that to the loads of papers on your desk. I haven’t seen you this disorganized in… ever! What’s even got you up all night anyway? You’ve been the prime minister for two years now, and the war is long since over, so what’s all this for?”
He wishes he could answer. “To be quite honest… I’ve stopped reading long ago. Though I probably shouldn’t admit to that; it is my job to read through these and give their due responses…” Ferdinand scratches at his temple, a lock of hair falling in front of his face. He blows at it uselessly. “I just cannot bring myself to be interested in the subject matter. Something of trade negotiations, terms of service, legal drudgery I’d rather not delve into. Sure, it was interesting at the beginning, but now? So much of it, repeated words, identical formatting, the same principles over and over. Have these people no originality? It’s as if they’re copying off each other!” He punctuates his rise in tone with an exasperated sigh, placing his head in trembling hands.
The sound of Caspar’s footsteps grew louder, until Ferdinand felt his presence in front of his desk. “Sounds like fun,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “but you’re the only one who can do this job. And if you’re gonna do it, don’t you at least want to do it with quality? Where’s the Ferdinand I know that would rather jump off the nearest cliff than be anything less than perfect? Where’s that competitiveness? That ambition to strive to be the best?”
Caspar’s voice was a little harsh for Ferdinand’s tired ears, but he appreciated the message nonetheless. “I suppose you’re right. But these are time-sensitive, I cannot just lie around uselessly until I ‘become myself’ again. It’s either now, or we have a war on our hands.”
The cup ceased rattling as it was put on the desk now, pushed towards Ferdinand. Still cold.
“I’ll have my brother make sure that we won’t get into a war over…” he picks up a stray piece of paper, scanning the document, “... the terms of fruit trade with Dagda. You need to rest. Or I’ll make you.”
Another chuckle. “And how do you suppose you’ll accomplish that?”
The movement was swift—it reminded him of Caspar’s speed on a battlefield—and all at once, Caspar was behind Ferdinand, his arms looped around his middle, and—
“Put me down!” Ferdinand yelped as he was lifted swiftly up and over the other man’s shoulder as if he weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes. The reading glasses in his hand fell to the desk in a clatter, Ferdinand now more focused on trying to push himself off Caspar’s shoulder. “I am serious, Caspar! Put me down this instant!”
“Nope, it’s bed for you. I’ve decreed it.”
“I am higher in rank than you!” But it was too late, Ferdinand’s cries fell on deaf ears. And admitting defeat, he fell limp in the other’s arms, now only grumbling as he was taken away from his office and into his quarters.
With a toss that should definitely not have been as easy as Caspar had made it out to be, Ferdinand landed on his bed with a muffled ‘oof!’. Caspar sat himself on the edge of the bed, next to Ferdinand, who was now face up, staring at the canopy of his bed.
“You gonna sleep now?” Caspar asked, looking over at Ferdinand.
“It doesn’t seem like I have much choice in the matter, do I?”
“Nope.” A grin.
Ferdinand only huffed, smoothing out his tossed hair between his fingers. “Fine. I will sleep, but on one condition.”
“And that is?”
“You sleep as well. I would prefer some company while I rest, and what better than my lover?”
“But I—”
“Would you wish me to sleep?”
Caspar laid himself fully on the bed, unable to argue. An impasse. A compromise. Ferdinand, thoroughly pleased with himself now he was able to obtain the upper-hand, attached himself to Caspar’s side, hugging him close, relishing his warmth.
“Goodnight, my love,” he whispered, already feeling his exhaustion catch up with him. The last thing he registered before he drifted off was Caspar’s voice, indistinguishable, but soothing regardless.