Work Text:
The ring tone feels like bells at a funeral. Specifically, bells at her funeral. Because she's dead. She's so dead.
Tududut. Tududut.
"Come on, pick up. Pick up pick up pick up pick UP"
Her little invocation fails a few times, but she doesn't know what else to do other than pace through the apartment and try again. It's quite late already, and Seteth will be home soon, and she needs a solution before he shows up and starts asking questions that she doesn't know how to answer.
Claude finally hears her prayer and picks up.
"Hello, friend."
There's mockery in his voice but she doesn't have the time to snap at him for it.
"I need help. Help me."
"Wow, you really are freaking out. I thought your messages were wild exaggerations."
"..."
It's not like she's asking for help often. It's usually quite the opposite, actually, with other people coming to her for help and herself offering it without a second thought.
"Honestly, just breathe. Everything is going to be fine."
"You don't know that. I don't know that. Oh, it's such a disaster…"
Claude laughs, as easy as ever, and she can't help the pang of jealousy and annoyance at his affected lightness. She knows it's mostly an act, but honestly, can't he just drop it and take this seriously, just this once, for her sake?
"I'm telling you, it's going to be okay. Just breathe."
She tries, but fails miserably and resumes her pacing through the apartment. Around the kitchen table, then the living room, avoiding the bedroom and bathroom and doing it all over again. And again. And again. All the while with her chest so tight she feels like she's suffocating.
"Listen to me. Breathe. Inhale, and exhale. It's okay. It'll be fine. You guys just need to talk about it."
"I don't think talking is going to do us any good now."
"Is that irony? My, the situation must be more dire than I thought."
"Shut up, Claude."
A hurt silence on the other end of the line. That was too harsh and uncalled for. She sighs.
"Sorry, I'm just… Panicking. I'm so…"
So what? Stupid? The whirlwind of emotions she's feeling right now is so uncharacteristic, when she's used to feeling so little, so few things, one at a time, in a dull, fuzzy way. She can't possibly make sense of everything going on in her head at the moment. She's used to emotions being soft pastel, delicate, and suddenly the whole technicolor rainbow is being thrown at her at Mach 2.
"I'm sorry too. I should take your distress seriously."
She finally halts where she stands, her full attention on the phone conversation.
"Thank you."
"I still think it's not as big a deal as you make it out to be. But one thing's for sure, you need to talk about it."
"I am" she tries. She doesn't sound very convincing, even to herself.
He doesn't dignify the weak attempt at justification with an answer and disregards it altogether.
"I'm here, whatever you need. But I can't have that conversation for you."
She sighs and throws herself on the sofa. A useless dramatic effect, as there is no one else but her here.
"I know. I just… Don't want to do this today. And yes, I know it's my own fault for picking today of all days, but I couldn't stop myself. I'm so angry at myself already, the whole mess is my fault!"
Claude is infinitely patient, keeps his tone even and kind when she wants to tear herself apart, scream at herself that it's wrong, wrong, all wrong.
"By, it's okay. It really is. It's life. And now that it's done, there's no point in torturing yourself like that. You did it together, and now, you have to sort it out together. Focus on the future, okay? You can't avoid that conversation and it's going to happen today, because you're in a state and he's certainly not going to pull an all nighter on valentine's day. Not Seteth. He's gonna know there's something wrong as soon as he opens the door."
She looks down at herself and has to admit that Claude has a massive point. She's avoided all text messages today and can pretend she's been busy, but the truth is she's in her pajama shorts and a massive sweater that she stole from Seteth's closet because it's big and soft and smells like him and she hoped it would comfort her. She can't say it has, but she's not taking it off. It's hers now. She can't even imagine how her face looks like. Her whole being screams of disaster. She hasn't worked herself in such a state since her father died.
"And for what it's worth, I think it's great news."
"You do?"
Her voice comes out small, mousy, in comparison with Claude's words that ring and echo in her head, soothing her panic a little. Maybe, if he can see it that way, Seteth can as well?
"I really do. I can't wait for you to -"
She hears the key turn in the lock.
"He's here, gotta go. Thank you."
She puts the phone down and gets up, all the tension back, her anxiety making her ears buzz and her hands shake. She's not ready. She's not ready at all. She can't even move from her spot, unable to go meet him or retreat and it's too late now because Seteth is done fumbling with the door - which was made particularly complicated by the ginormous bouquet he's carrying and barely makes it through the door - and looks at her, his smile instantly replaced with a worried crease in his brow.
He puts the bouquet down on the first piece of furniture he finds - a chair, from which it'll inevitably fall - and rushes to her. She stands, her throat knotted too tight for words to make it out. Even breathing feels too hard for her at the moment.
"What's wrong? Did something happen?"
Softly, ever so cautious, ever so tender, he takes her face in his hands, brushing his thumb lightly across her puffy, red cheeks, and fresh tears spill from her eyes, blurring his face and shape beyond recognition.
She knows he's speaking to her, but the whirlwind in her mind doesn't let her hear him, doesn't let her comprehend him, words mashed in a foreign white noise by her panic, as the sound of the blood rushing through her veins, the tightness in her chest, the numbness in her fingers and toes all fight for her attention.
Byleth has fainted before, a few times in her life. This is worse. It feels a bit the same, as it isolates her from her senses and traps her within herself, but it doesn't end. There is no brain shutting down, no end in sight, just this feeling of drowning, suffocating inside her own skin. And it's all her own fault.
She had this perfect life, with this handsome, kind, caring man, and she went and threw the whole thing to the fire. It might very well be that he doesn't want her anymore when she tells him. He might be angry. He might hate her. Just the thought makes her nauseous. And instead of forcing the words out, she cries, like an idiot.
It takes a while for her mind to stop racing, leaving her exhausted. They are on the floor, poor Seteth still in his work clothes, which are very not designed for that, wrinkled in places, taunt in others. It'll be a miracle if he can get up without ripping something. He's cradled her in his arms, her head nested in the crook of his shoulder. Her tears soaked through his shirt, but he doesn't say anything, lightly stroking her hair. Waiting for her to calm down.
She's so stupid.
The tears that had begun to dry on her cheeks find their way back to his shirt, and he tightens the embrace.
"By, what is it? What happened?"
She's never gonna be able to just say the words, but she can't keep torturing him like this. The cat has to come out of the bag. She takes a shaky breath, and untangles herself from the safety of his arms. She tries not to think about the possibility of this being the last hug, fails, and bites her lip viciously to stop herself from another waterfall of tears, which works only mildly better.
He lets her get up, and watches carefully as she stumbles away and to the bathroom. Only as she's about to disappear from his view does he get up, following from a distance. He doesn't see what she grabs from the bathroom, what she clutches hard in both her hands. After all, it's not like it's going to break.
She turns back to him, knuckles whitening from the pression she puts on them.
"What is it?"
Maybe he sees that she just can't say it. The words refuse to leave her mind, refuse to be spoken aloud. As long as they stay safely here, it's not real. He pries her fingers open, gently, slowly, one by one, and looks.
She holds her breath.
And holds.
He blinks.
Frowns.
Picks it up, take it right to his face, a couple of centimeters away from his eyes, which he really shouldn't because it's seriously unsanitary. He blanches and her stomach drops like lead. Snaps his attention back to her.
"It's yours?"
"What?"
"The test. It's yours? It's real?"
His voice breaks on the last words and she nods, tears back, vision blurred, wind knocked out of her lungs.
Which is why she doesn't see him pick her up in his arms, and is suddenly crushed in his bear hug, fierce, passionate.
" I can't believe you would cry because of that."
It doesn't make much sense, especially since he's obviously crying himself. Oh, goddess. She's gone and made him cry. Her throat is too tight for words still, so she snakes an arm up and trace one of the glassy tears on his cheek with her fingertip. He laughs.
"They're tears of happiness, By."
Tears of happiness. Her mind can't register. Fails to compute. Seteth continues laughing and spins her.
"Oh no."
He puts her down immediately, taken aback by her words, but she doesn't have the time to explain and rushes to the bathroom. The spin was just too much for her to stomach, quite literally.
He shuffles behind her, expression contrite.
"I'm so sorry, I should have thought…"
She shakes her head. At least she feels like she can breathe normally now. She washes her face and mouth and the cold water helps with the congested feeling of her eyes.
Seteth is standing still, looking at her with the same sad eyes as a kicked puppy.
"Don't worry, I was already feeling queasy."
He turns his gaze down on his feet, unconvinced. She comes and nuzzles her face on his broad chest, circling him with her arms. He melts into the embrace and kisses the top of her head.
"I love you."
The words fill her with warmth, burning away all her worry.