Chapter Text
"If you're like 5'9" and the rain washed out your hair dye and i hit you with my car just now in the parking lot outside the officers academy (there's a lovely shade of tealish-blue smeared across my windshield) and you're gay or at least bisexual and you're single and not mad about the car thing...call me"
BYLETH
Maybe it's the consequence of a late morning with no time for the first and arguably most important meal of the day, or the adrenaline rush of combat-rolling over the hood of a moving car to get here on time, but when Sylvain flashes his top of the line iPhone in Byleth's direction to share the tweet that has the whole classroom abuzz with chatter, Byleth feels his heart skip a beat.
Now, normally, Byleth's heart keeps a steady enough pace to replace a metronome, and even now, he doesn't allow his surprise to portray itself beyond a quiet gasp, but this snap reaction, as fleeting and as guarded as it is, is more of an emotional response than any of those in the Blue Lions study group have ever seen from him before.
Just like that, Byleth has outed himself as the subject of that tweet, confirmed by the rough state of his uniform, the breathless colour in his cheeks, and his rain-washed hair, the fresh re-dye already washing out to a bleached mint green colour he can never escape for long, and it's the ever-attentive Dimitri who realizes it first.
Immediately, Dimitri's hands slam down on his desk, his chair rocketing backwards, and he proclaims through gritted teeth, "Professor, you've been in a car accident! If you are injured, you should have gone straight to the infirmary!"
With a shake of his head, Byleth sets his messenger bag down on the pedestal by the chalkboard and starts pulling out his laptop for the lesson recap.
"Careful, Professor, they say people with concussions should avoid screen-time," Syvlain says from behind his iPhone, only to have to duck when Felix swats at the back of his head with a grumbled retort as Ingrid quietly chides his blasé attitude from the other side. "What? I'm looking out for our dear Professor's health." He raises his phone a second time. "And our friend Linhardt here is looking for the professor. It's a classic Cinderella story, and I'm not about to get in the way of fairy tale love. Especially not if it leaves more ladies for me."
"Control yourself, Sylvain," Felix groans.
"Linhardt is in the Black Eagles study group, is he not?" Mercedes considers with a contemplative finger tapping her chin, all in the effort of ignoring Sylvain's finger-guns and wink to punctuate his undeterred flirtations.
"I don't think it matters which study group he's in if he's always napping," Annette notes from behind the stack of extracurricular coursework she takes with her everywhere. Byleth still can't wrap his head around how she finds the time to overachieve this much and still make it to these non-compulsory study groups.
"I apologize for my peers, Professor," Dimitri says, still standing over his desk since his chair was flung out behind him, and he passes a punitive stare over the students he brought together in establishing the Blue Lions study group, "It is not our place to speak so chummily of your love life."
Byleth nearly drops his notes at this mention of his so-called love life. How could a narrowly dodged lawsuit even remotely resemble a love encounter?
"But I do insist you see the nurses. You have a worrying bruise forming on your forehead," Dimitri continues, and Byleth brings a hand up to his forehead just beneath a shock of coloured hair only to confirm Dimitri's words with the pain of this ginger touch. "We can always reschedule our study group to when you are in better shape."
With a sigh, Byleth concedes and dismisses the group with a wave of his hand.
Without a moment's hesitation, Dimitri, Dedue, Ashe, and Ingrid insist that they pack up his things for him much to Byleth's protests. Beyond them, he can see Annette seated at her desk as if in shock, wearing an aspect of intense concentration for the mental gymnastics Byleth can only suppose it must take to free up another slot in her busy schedule. It's enough to block out Sylvain's smooth-talking courts and jests as he comes over to lean against Mercedes' conjoined desk, only to be dragged off by Felix before he can get another word out.
It's a small group, sure, but there's never a dull moment for Byleth. As a post-grad student himself, it's a breath of fresh air to see these fourth-year undergrads rallying behind their themed study groups, turning their academic success into something more like a team sport competing against the Black Eagles and the Golden Deer. He never did anything like this during his own undergrad degree. It was quite the opposite, actually, and was certainly a lonely experience by comparison. So maybe that's why it's been something of an adjustment, facilitating this study group. He can never know what to expect from them. Most of all, he never anticipated how much they would grow to care about him, almost like he's one of them. Byleth is, after all, not quite a professor (no matter how much they enjoy calling him Professor) and not quite a student, certainly not the way they are.
It's... nice.
It feels a little like family, here in this grand, old monastery repurposed into an elite academic experience as a world-renowned university. Only the richest of the rich or the smartest of the smart have so much as the opportunity to get into this academy, and it shows. This ancient place is like a bubble of history in the modern world, and once you're here, you leave everything else behind. Your life becomes consumed with the pursuit of knowledge and the struggle of academia. But this small group of students has already begun to change that for Byleth.
To his astonishment, he notices the small smile caught in the corner of his mouth as he crosses through the enduring rainfall to the infirmary building.
Byleth's mind swirls with this warmth, lost in fuzzy thoughts - he still swears the fuzziness is only due to a lack of proper nourishment today - when he strides into the nurse's office, and so it's a moment before he recognizes the other person in the waiting room, asleep with his head in his hand. Linhardt von Hevring, academically inclined heir of House Hevring and a truly terrible driver, is slumped in an armchair waiting to be seen by the nurses just across from Byleth.
What else can he do but panic.
First things first, let's get one thing straight: Byleth never panics. But right now, trapped in a waiting room with the one person Byleth had hoped to avoid, there was only one explanation for the sudden clamminess of his palms and the heat rushing up his neck to consume his face. This is what it's like to panic.
Byleth isn't a fan.
The first thing he does is locate every possible exit: two windows (from the second story, it's a little risky), three doors to the nurses' offices (likely dead ends), and the door through which he came (undeniably the best option). He's about to make a break for it when he hears soft snoring coming from the other man.
It's a deadly deep sleep, the kind that made it look like he hadn't slept in months, but the emphasis is on deadly if Linhardt has come here with a concussion, much like Sylvain supposed Byleth has. The exit strategies come to a screaming halt in Byleth's mind. Should Linhardt be allowed to sleep? It's possible he might have hit his head on the windshield when he slammed the brakes.
Byleth thinks back to the moment. Did Linhardt even stop the car? All Byleth remembers is diving over the hood so he could roll over the windshield and cross to the other side of the car, avoiding any injury to his legs. He landed on the other side (miraculously, on his feet) and sprinted off to make it to his study group on time, but he can't recall what came of the car and its driver. The fact of the matter was, Byleth had woken up uncharacteristically late that morning, so late he didn't even entertain the thought of breakfast, and no measly car accident was going to stop him making it to his obligations with decent time. You see, Byleth has a tendency to fall into severe tunnel vision in moments of focus, and nothing had mattered more to him than getting to class.
The panic returns. Had Byleth unintentionally done more harm to Linhardt than this near-miss did to him? And to think, Linhardt, like all the other fourth-years in Byleth's study group, was only one semester away from graduation.
Gently, Byleth taps Linhardt's shoulder.
No response.
He tries shaking him.
Again, no reaction save a ludicrous snore.
With a sigh, Byleth stands in front of Linhardt's snoozing form and bends in close at the waist. With no other choice left in front of him to save this poor undergrad's life, Byleth slaps him awake. It's been a weird day, and in this moment, amidst the foreign panic gripping his heart and talk of concussions at the forefront of his mind, Byleth clearly didn't stop to consider his other options. But it works.
Upon impact, Linhardt lurches in his seat, startled awake, and startles again at the sight of Byleth standing there before him. Alarm is replaced by confusion, in turn replaced by recognition and then abject wonder as if he thinks he might still be dreaming. Finally, what appears to be permanent exhaustion creeps back in and Linhardt leans back in his seat, holding a hand to the red mark blooming across his pale cheek.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Linhardt sleepily says, as if he somehow isn't fully awake yet.
There's nothing left for Byleth to do. He has no choice. He has to say it.
"We haven't formally met. I'm Byleth. You hit me with your car."