Work Text:
The moon is rising overhead, but Caspar doesn’t even notice. His entire focus is slimmed down – there is only his body, thrumming with energy, working on muscle memory, and the hard-packed dirt of the training grounds beneath his feet, and the unyielding, scratched wooden surface of the training dummy under each strike. His fists connect with the it, over and over, a stream of vicious cracks.
The enemy was formidable and we weren't expecting combat...
Caspar lets out a hoarse battle cry as he unleashes a particularly strong punch. The wooden dummy flies off its base from the force of it, making a thwap as it hits the ground. Caspar stares dumbly at it, panting, his lungs burning, as he becomes aware of his muscles screaming. Then he shakes off his exhaustion and goes to grab another dummy, leaving the broken one as a problem for someone else to fix–
I want you to consider your actions and apologize for them.
His jaw clenches. He sets the second dummy in place and takes up his stance, barely minding his sloppy form. It won’t matter in a second – when he starts moving, he won’t stop, not for a break, not for a blade, not for anything the enemy throws at him, not for any amount of protest from his worn-out muscles. Maybe that’s his problem – his brash, unyielding determination.
His bare knuckles strike the dummy squarely in the chest.
“Caspar? Is that you?”
The voice startles him, and he whirls around, fists raised, his heart pounding. There’s a figure in the shadows – at some point, it must’ve gotten dark out – and he’s worked up from training. The only thing that stops him from rushing in to attack is a familiar orange gleam and the soft sound of armored boots.
“Ferdinand,” Caspar says hoarsely, dropping his fists. “It’s just you.” Ferdinand nods, which is enough talk for him. He turns back to the dummy, adjusting his form a bit so it looks like he’s running drills instead of blindly, uselessly beating the shit out of something that can’t even fight back. He might as well try to save some face.
“It is quite late,” Ferdinand says, walking around him and studying his form. “Ah, you’ve locked your right knee.” Caspar adjusts. “Better. What on earth are you doing here at this hour?”
Caspar doesn’t answer for a moment. He lays a few punches on the wooden dummy before answering, “Training.”
Ferdinand laughs lightly. “So I had noticed! Come, let me join you for a match.” Caspar hesitates, shooting him a look. “It has been some time, has it not? There’s nothing wrong with a friendly spar.”
Caspar shrugs. “Okay,” he says, stepping away from the dummy. The sooner Ferdinand gets what he wants, he thinks, the sooner he’ll leave Caspar alone, and he can sit with his own thoughts. “Sure.”
Ferdinand beams and grabs a training lance from the rack. They face off, Caspar still bare-fisted. “You may make the first move,” Ferdinand says graciously.
You need to calm down . Fuck that.
Caspar doesn’t hesitate. He rushes in, fists clenched, and feints a hit to Ferdinand’s side to create an opening on his chest. The punch connects, and Ferdinand lets out a soft oof . Emboldened, he aims to kick Ferdinand, hoping to knock him over, but he dodges out of the way, leaving Caspar unbalanced. He stumbles, and Ferdinand takes the opportunity to whack him in the shin with the training lance. His breath hisses out of him, but he recovers, straightening back up to prepare for the next swing. Unfortunately, he’s a bit sluggish – the next two hits come quick, a jab to his thigh and a hit on his side. Caspar forces himself back into motion, and they continue – Caspar landing a few good hits, Ferdinand landing a good many more – until, all too quickly, Ferdinand’s lance connects with Caspar’s head. He’d obviously held back, but the force of it still makes Caspar’s head spin, and he steps back, holding up his hands in surrender.
“Fine,” he says, humiliated and out of breath. “You win.”
Ferdinand props his lance up beside him, leaning on it. “As to be expected,” he says, grinning. “Perhaps we should call it for the night.”
Caspar shakes his head, an abrupt anger boiling in his chest. “No,” he grits out. “I can keep going. One more.”
Ferdinand’s – perfectly manicured, of course – brows furrow. “Please, Caspar. You’ve been at it for hours! There is nothing wrong with stopping to rest.”
Caspar glowers at him, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Again,” he says, getting back into a fighting stance. “I’m not gonna lose. Are you scared?”
Ferdinand studies him for a long moment. “Very well,” he says, obviously reluctant. “On one condition. If I win, you must tell me what is on your mind.”
That catches him off guard. “Nothing is–” he starts, but he shakes his head aggressively. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s do this.”
Ferdinand readies his lance and nods. Caspar runs for him again, determined, but that determination isn’t enough. The adrenaline that’s been coursing through his veins seeps out of him, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion, and an ache in his muscles. He stumbles, just for a moment, and Ferdinand easily sidesteps his rush, and in one smooth motion, he sweeps Caspar’s legs out from under him, knocking him to the ground. Before he can muster the strength to stand, the blunted point of the training lance is pointed directly at his throat. Caspar follows the line of the shaft up to Ferdinand’s face and his sympathetic smile.
“That is that,” he says quietly, before straightening up and holding out a hand to help Caspar up. Caspar pushes down his annoyance at losing – his tiredness easily wins out – and forces himself to accept the help, letting out a low groan as he gets to his feet. Ferdinand doesn’t releases his hand right away, instead studying it carefully. He tuts as he examines his knuckles.
“You have been at this for too long, my friend,” he says. Caspar snatches his hand back, but Ferdinand’s right – his knuckles are bruised up, the skin broken in one or two spots. He overdid it. Of course. “Please, tell me what is troubling you. I may be able to help.”
Caspar crosses his arms, avoiding his eyes. The last thing he wants to do is tell Ferdinand what happened. He seriously doubts he’ll be of any help. But… He sighs heavily. They had a deal. Caspar can’t go back on that; he keeps his word, if nothing else. “When we were students,” he starts, his voice low. Ferdinand starts a little; clearly, he didn’t expect the story to go back so far. “There was this… guy. A bad guy. The Knights didn’t manage to catch him and question him. Because of me.”
He chances a look at Ferdinand. His brow is furrowed with confusion, but he inclines his head, signalling for Caspar to continue. “Earlier today, we got a report. Some soldiers fought with a gang of people, and a lot of men… didn’t make it.” He takes a sharp breath. “Everyone in that gang had the exact same tattoo as the guy I let get away.”
Ferdinand lets out a soft breath. “Ah,” he says softly.
Caspar barely pays him any mind. He’s staring at the ground, lost in the memory of the soldier’s report, the shock and dread he felt when realization struck, Byleth flatly comforting him. “All those men,” he says, and his voice shakes and he hates that it does, “died because of me. Because I was an idiot and I rushed in to be a hero.”
“Caspar,” Ferdinand says. He takes a step toward him, a hand outstretched. “That is not–”
“I’m so stupid !” he cries, balling his hands into fists. Ferdinand flinches back. “I fucked up, and now people are dead, and I’m still just the same dumb kid ruining everything–”
“ Caspar .” He takes a shuddering breath as Ferdinand’s hand finds his shoulder. “Please, breathe.”
“Ferdinand.” He’s surprised by his voice coming out steady, a sudden, empty calm washing over him. He looks up at Ferdinand, who looks deeply concerned. “Be serious. Look me in the eye and tell me it’s not my fault. Or tell me I’m any different than I used to be. I know I’m not.”
Ferdinand looks at him for a long time; Caspar shifts under the scrutiny. At last, he sighs. “I do not know whether you are guilty or not. But what I can say, Caspar, is that you’ve grown.”
Caspar laughs bitterly. Is that a joke? “C’mon. Just look at me – everyone else has been getting stronger and smarter and better , and I’m still just… me.” He jerks his head. “I’m such a failure.”
Ferdinand frowns. “I cannot accept that,” he says, an edge to his voice. “You are no failure, Caspar. You may work harder than anyone–”
“And look where that’s got me!” He shakes off Ferdinand’s hand and forces his tired body to pace. It aches. And yet, he needs the pain as a stubborn reminder. “I haven’t actually changed, have I? I work and work and work and I go nowhere.” He lets his breath out in a puff, slowing to a stop. He’s so tired. “I’m still as dumb and-and weak as I used to be.”
Ferdinand watches him. He doesn’t look stern anymore, just… sad. “I know what you mean,” he says quietly. “Believe me, I feel the same way. I’ve worked my entire life, not just to live up to my title but to deserve it.” Caspar looks sharply at him, but Ferdinand’s mind is somewhere else, his gaze far-off. “After everything, I fear that Edelgard is still several steps ahead of me. And everyone else… I feel they are catching up quicker than I can improve.” He shakes his head. “I am not certain I can develop any further. But you, Caspar.” He locks eyes with him, his brow furrowed. “I have seen your growth these past few years. You have never been content to stay in place, and I think you’ll find you haven’t.”
Caspar swallows, shaking his head. He feels so tired . “I can’t,” he says. “I’m not-I’m weak. I’m not strong enough.” Ferdinand tilts his head, and Caspar is absolutely exhausted. “I have to protect everyone.”
Ferdinand hesitates. “Well,” he says. “Can we not count on everyone to protect themselves?” Caspar blinks stupidly up at him. “We watch out for each other. All of us.”
Caspar considers it, thinking of the recent battles. He remembers rushing in, getting hit, but also – Dorothea’s quick casting, Bernadetta’s well-timed arrows, Linhardt’s healing support. Ferdinand, leading the charge, taking hits for the rest of them. Maybe the two of them do have something in common. Somehow, the thought doesn’t make him nauseous. “I guess,” he says quietly.
Ferdinand smiles brilliantly. “Besides, I have proof you have changed.” Caspar frowns, confused. “You are worried about protecting us. The Caspar of our academy days only cared to be the strongest. I recall him picking several ill-advised fights just to prove a point…” Ferdinand grins good-naturedly, and Caspar huffs, swatting at him.
“Hey, maybe that’s what the Caspar of today cares about, too!” Ferdinand laughs, ducking away, and somehow, Caspar laughs right along with him. Something in his chest eases, and he can breathe again. “What! Don’t make me prove it!”
Ferdinand shakes his head, putting his hands on his hips. “You are in no condition to prove anything,” he says firmly. “You are fit to fall asleep on your feet! Will you go to bed now?”
Caspar looks up at the twinkling stars above them, the pale, smiling moon. “Yeah,” he says, except it comes out as a yawn. “You might be onto something there.”
Ferdinand snorts, coming over to support him with an arm around his back. Caspar leans heavily on him. “I always am,” he says primly. “Come, now, let’s get you to bed.”
It isn’t long before Caspar has collapsed in his bed. His muscles groan, and he can’t blame them. He overdid it. He smiles lightly to himself. He always does – and the thought doesn’t fill him with a nauseating dread anymore.
With great effort, he rolls onto his side, thinking. He did something terrible, letting those soldiers die. He won’t forget that, and he won’t forget how that guilt feels. But…
But he told Ferdinand, and Ferdinand didn’t look at him any differently. Ferdinand comforted him, and grasped his shoulder, and practically carried him up to bed. Byleth heard and saw it all, and yet Caspar’s still here, not thrown out of the army for wasting the lives of so many men. Caspar squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t forgive himself for his mistake.
But maybe he can show himself a little understanding. Maybe he can believe that he’s changed, and he’ll do better next time. Didn’t his friends offer him that same kindness? He clenches his fists, then relaxes them.
He’ll do better. He knows he can.