Work Text:
Take a deep breath. Hold for five heartbeats. Exhale for three.
The sun beat down hot and hard on the Garreg Mach training ground. Heavy air buzzed with the sleepy hum of summer beetles. Steaming warmth rippled off the packed dirt in waves, casting a dreamy haze of heat across the spectacled vision of its lone occupant.
Ignatz pulled his glasses off and wiped the crystal lenses on the thin linen of his undershirt.
No matter how many times he had marched out to the battlefield, it was always the same—stomach burning tight and hot with the secret dread that he might not make it back. That one of his friends might not make it back. That the professor might not make it back.
Breathe. Hold. Release.
If he couldn’t even shake pre-battle nerves before training, what kind of protector could he really be? Not one worthy of the professor, surely—but no.
Ignatz pushed his glasses securely back onto his nose with a shake of his head.
He couldn’t do this. Not today. Not now that she had returned to them. Five years of desperate prayers finally answered by the Goddess—
Breathe. Hold. Release.
The archer lifted his bow and pulled back, peering down the shaft of his arrow. At the end of the training yard, the brightly painted target blinked at him in the afternoon sunlight; red and blue rings stood stark against the wooden stand's light burlap skin.
He would begin practice like he always did.
Take a deep breath. Hold—
—and release!
Schick!
Thunk.
One perfect shot: dead center of the target.
Ignatz huffed quietly to himself, a half-smile on his lip as he pulled a handful of arrows from the quiver at his waist. A loose roll of the shoulder, an easy shift back of the foot—
One!
Two!
Three!
Almost faster than the eye could perceive, the arrows shot one after the other from his bow, whistling in harmony through the air as they hit the target with a thunk, a thock, and a splitting, splintering rip!
Torn goose feather fletching drifted softly to the packed dirt ground of the training yard. A scattering of splinters ringed the target, and, split straight down the middle, the very first arrow of practice was peeled back and open like a morning glory to face the man who had so meticulously stripped and bound and sharpened it.
A direct hit.
Thock!—Thud!—Thunk! Three more arrows found their marks in the training dummies lined up along the wall—shoulder, chest, and head.
Ignatz sucked his upper lip against his teeth, grabbing another handful of arrows.
One kill shot out of three? Not good enough. This time, he had to pull stronger. Shoot straighter. And always faster, faster, faster—
Hilda’s voice cut across the training yard. "Apple incoming!"
The archer whirled, dropping to one knee, arrow trained to the azure sky. A glint of brilliant scarlet flickered against the glowing sun—and he fired.
A juicy thud echoed across the training ground as the fruit in the sky jolted back, before beginning its rapid tumble back to earth. Ignatz tossed aside his bow and dove forward into a headlong dash, hand extended, reaching up, up, up—
—and he caught it.
He caught the arrow, dripping with sticky juice, and weighted by the speared fruit. Ignatz let out a quiet sigh of relief, a tiny smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
A round of applause broke out behind him. Ignatz turned to greet the two women at the training yard gates, a pleasing warmth tingling in his stomach at the praise. Hilda and Byleth clapped harder as he approached.
"Thank you, Iggy!" Hilda hummed, skipping up to throw an arm around him. "That was amazing!"
Ignatz gave his bubbly friend a good-natured eye roll. "It’s been a while since I last performed that trick, Hilda. I’m lucky I didn’t miss."
"Oh, nonsense!" Hilda held out her hands. "Split it for me, will you?"
Ignatz wrapped his fingers around the apple. "I can give it a try, at least."
Deep breath. Hold. And—
He exhaled and gave the fruit a sharp twist. A loud crack, a splatter of juice: two clean halves of the apple rested in his palms as the arrow dropped to the ground.
"Ooh, good job!" Hilda beamed, taking the proffered snack and retreating back to the shade.
"Very impressive. You’ve kept up with your training." The professor added, rewarding the archer with a small smile. "But let me see…"
She reached up to his face. Light fingers tickled against his cheek, and for one short moment, Ignatz let his heart buzz at the sensation.
"You’ve got some juice…there."
A happy warmth flickered in his face and he smiled back. "Thank you, Professor."
"It’s just Byleth," she corrected him gently, wiping her hand on her sleeve.
"Sorry—Byleth." A tiny blush broke across Ignatz’s cheeks. Oh, how easily her name slipped off his tongue, sweet as the nectar of dripping honeysuckle. "I can finish up if you needed the training grounds—"
"No, actually." Byleth shook her head. "I was hoping you would work with me."
"Of course! Let me get my sword—"
She held up her hand. "I meant archery. I want to brush up on my bow skills, and I’d like you to coach me."
"M-me?" Ignatz squeaked. "That would be an honor, Professor—"
"Byleth."
"S-sorry—"
Ignatz just about choked on his own heart as Byleth’s hand came down on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze.
"No more apologies."
"Yes ma’am."
Byleth smiled. "That’s better."
If only to hide his steaming face, Ignatz looked away and over at Hilda. "Will—" Deep breath, hold, release— "...will you be joining us, Hilda?"
"Oh, no—I’m just here to cheer from the sidelines!" She gave him a lazy wave and a foxy, mischievous, all-too-knowing grin. "Go, Byleth!"
The former professor clicked her tongue and shook her head—oh, Goddess, her hair had brushed his shoulder. Was brushing his shoulder. Even through his shirt, the sensation was like magic exploding beneath his skin, a spiderweb of spells racing up his neck and down his arm into his hand—
Snap out of it, Victor!
He swallowed hard and pointed over his shoulder to the weapon rack. "I—I’ll go get a training bow."
"Thank you," Byleth nodded, stripping off her coat and tossing it aside. Freckles and silver scars co-mingled on her skin in an intricate dance, the faint patterning stretching across her shoulders like fading sunlight through leaves. She was cool and soft like the evening breeze, but with a strength in her stoic quietude that radiated from her minty eyes. Dangerous eyes, she had.
Dangerous to the painter’s heart, anyway.
Pull yourself together!
Ignatz spun on his heel and darted across the field to retrieve the weapon. He shouldn't be thinking this way. He couldn't be thinking this way. He wouldn't let himself be thinking this way.
Oh, Goddess, forgive him. Forgive him and his stupid fantasies of love.
"Need any help?" Byleth called after him.
Yes. Help my heart to stop pounding, help me to let go. I’ve grown weak, I’ve given up fighting this—even allowing myself to think of you this way.
"No—" was what he called aloud as he dug furiously through the rack of weapons, "just—looking for the right bow!"
"I’ll clean up the target, then."
"Thank you— Deep breath. Hold. Release. Banish the blush from his cheeks and the butterflies from his stomach. Spend a moment to calm his heart, to let the crowding thoughts subside.
With one last quick shake of his head, Ignatz grabbed a training bow and made his way back to his former professor. She offered him his own weapon with a smile.
"I figured you didn’t want this left on the ground."
"Yes, thank you."
He pretended very hard that he didn’t notice the brush of her fingers against his as they exchanged bows. He wouldn’t dwell on it. That would only make the ache stronger.
"Now," she gave the weapon an experimental pull, "shall we begin?"
"Yes! Yes—of course." Ignatz cleared his throat. "Um—what did you want to work on, specifically?"
"My form could be better," Byleth looked up at the archer beside her. "Accuracy depends on a strong foundation, right?"
"Just like the textbooks said." Professional smile, just like his father and brother. Warm and friendly and inviting—but never too close.
It made business complicated.
Not that he wasn’t already dealing with complications of his own making.
"Then, if you don’t mind—will you demonstrate for me? How you shoot?"
Byleth nodded. A tiny puff of dust sprang up at her boots as she shifted her stance apart, a ripple of strength running down her arms as she pulled back on the bow.
The sleepy chirp of birds slowly faded out, the nervous ache in the painter’s chest dissipating with it. He could see it as clearly as if he had the canvas in front of him: the very portrait of the Goddess was standing before him now. The brushstrokes of nature depicted the calm dignity on her face as she trained her eye on the target, her shoulders painted square and strong to bear the prayers and fears and worries and hopes of her children. Hands, soft and gentle for those who sought solace in her arms, were clasped fierce and firm over the grip of her weapon to protect those who cried out to her for help.
Her posture, though—it was a bit awkward. Her shoulders were too high, too tense—her bow arm angled a little too far toward the sun. Without thinking, Ignatz reached out, laying a hand on Byleth’s arm.
The surprised shiver underneath his fingers brought him screeching back to reality.
"I-I’m so sorry—!"
Ignatz sprung back like he’d been burned, face white as a sheet. She was red—oh, Goddess, like a rose. He had embarrassed her. She was embarrassed and he was the one to have done it—
"I should have asked—I’m so sorry—"
Byleth lowered her bow and looked him in the eyes. "No, go ahead."
"...what?"
The former professor shook her head. "Correct my form as much as you need to. You are the expert here."
"W-well, I'm no Claude, but—"
"I don’t need fancy tricks." Byleth’s solemn face twitched into a small smile, blush fading. "He may have the energy to spare, but I don’t. I prefer your style of shooting. Clean. Efficient. More accurate, to be honest."
"I won’t tell Claude you said that," Hilda giggled.
"You'd better not," Byleth called back.
Once again, she drew back on the training bow. The wood creaked, string taught and vibrating against the tension in her strong shoulders.
"Go ahead," she nodded, "fix my form."
Deep breath. Hold. Release.
Ignatz swallowed and stepped forward. "Okay."
With a timid care that mimicked the handling of a porcelain teapot, Ignatz held Byleth’s elbow, tilting her outstretched arm ever so slightly down.
“More like this—” he murmured. “Then—" His free hand gently pushed her arrow arm up. “In a line with your shoulder—”
This was something he knew. Something he could do and could do well. Ever so slowly, his stomach began to untie itself as he tapped his old professor—no, her name was Byleth—into proper form. One hand on her arm, the other on her shoulder—
Hilda chuckled quietly to herself. It was a shame that, even with glasses, Ignatz was so blind. Was he really the only one who couldn’t see the way their old professor looked at him? The blush dancing across her face as his hand cupped her arm, the smile twinkling on her lips as he leaned over her shoulder, his cheek pressed against her pink ear.
"Now, deep breath.” Ignatz said. “Hold.”
Byleth’s smile could have melted the sun.
“And release."