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“Mind if I join you?” a voice asked from a few feet in front of Emil, causing him to jolt in his seat and whip his head up to see who it was. Had it been anyone else, he’d be rather annoyed at having his dedicated sitting-and-overthinking-things time interrupted—but looking up to see his favorite knight was a more than welcome surprise.
A warm smile crossed his face, any icy hostility he would have had melting away at the sight of Beowulf presumably beaming down at him—his helmet was on, but his voice indicated such an expression. “Hello, Beowulf!” Emil patted the low wall he was sitting on as an invitation for his partner to sit down.
Beowulf eagerly took a seat next to him, asking, “What are you up to?”
“Just taking a break from it all, you know. Gets loud sometimes,” Emil answered. He lifted an arm to gesture at the rooftop garden where they were currently sitting, adorned with colorful flowers and herbs. “Thedrick took me up here a while back. He said it was a nice place to get some quiet.”
“He does sit up here a lot,” Beowulf said, lifting his head to look over the garden. He glanced back at Emil. “I was wondering where you went. He said I might find you here.”
Emil leaned forward, as though to leap up from his seat. “Did something happen?” he asked, brows furrowing.
“No! No, everything’s alright. I just wanted to see where you were.”
“Ah, alright then.” Emil settled back into his seat, releasing a deep sigh. “It’s nice to get some fresh air.”
“Yeah.”
The two sat in silence for a few seconds, before Beowulf said, “He almost fell off this exact wall a few years ago, you know.”
Emil raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yes! He was—”
“He was doing a handstand, wasn’t he?” Emil said, smirking. Beowulf gave him a nod. “He’s still got quite the habit of doing those in places that he shouldn’t.”
“I had to grab him to stop him from slipping off. It was a close one.”
“A few years ago… how the hell do you even remember that?” Emil asked, raising an eyebrow. To his knowledge, Beowulf didn’t have the best memory, considering that he must have forgotten many of the things Emil did to have forgiven him.
If there was ever a time that one could hear blushing, it was then; Beowulf’s voice took on an air of fondness that he often had when talking about his loved ones. “W-well… me and Thedrick’s first few interactions are memories I hold very dear. I think about them a lot.”
Emil nodded, trying to ignore the little stab of envy he felt hearing Beowulf so fondly talk about Thedrick. Beowulf surely didn’t forget their first interaction as it was a rather unpleasant one that left him nearly in tears. Lucky Thedrick, getting to have had Beowulf's love from the start with no bad memories to sour their time together.
“It’s a damn good thing he doesn’t do it in front of Maerwynn,” Emil said. “We don’t want her getting any ideas.” They’d collectively learned the hard way that Maerwynn would mirror the mannerisms of anyone and everyone after she told Balthasar to “fuck off!” when he informed her that she needed to eat her vegetables. Although he was relatively merciful in his reprimanding towards her since she didn’t know the weight of her words, Thedrick, the clear source of this language, was not so lucky and got the worst scolding of his life outside of the time he tried sword swallowing. (No one knew why a chirurgeon had the authority to ground the court jester, but who were they to question him?)
“I’d prefer if he didn’t do it at all,” Beowulf replied, sounding exasperated.
“Honestly,” Emil agreed. “One of these days, he’s going to lose his footing and—” He mimicked a splat noise, making Beowulf cringe with an audible ‘eurgh.’
“I’d be surprised if he hasn’t already done that once and miraculously survived.” He hesitated. “Twice, probably.”
“It must be tiring to catch him so often,” Emil said. He would catch Thedrick when he fell, but unfortunately Emil was just far too slow (at least, that’s the excuse he’d make to Thedrick whenever the jester would ask from on the ground. As for whether it was actually true? Well…)
Beowulf giggled, “How does someone so good at acrobatics fall so much?”
“You’re no better, with how often you trip over your own feet. Like you did a week ago when you tried to catch yourself by grabbing that curtain,” Emil said, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a cheeky smile.
“Hey! I didn’t know it would just snap off of the window like that!” Beowulf’s voice lowered. “…and I didn’t know it would take half of the window frame with it…”
“It’s impressive how we’ve only one jester but so many fools,” Emil teased with a widening grin.
“You sound just like Balthasar,” Beowulf responded. “He says things like that all the time—you two would get along quite well! You should speak with him more.”
Emil cringed thinking about the chirurgeon and the idea of interacting with him more than he already had to. “I’m pretty sure he wants me dead, Beowulf.”
“I know you think he doesn’t like you, but I’m sure he does!” Beowulf continued in a cheery voice— “if he wanted you dead, well, you’d already be!”
Emil looked at Beowulf incredulously, not sure if Beowulf intended a joke or not; despite the morbid suggestion, his tone was entirely genuine.
“Beowulf, I’m fairly certain the only reason that hasn’t happened is because you’d be upset,” he said. “…and Thedrick would be too, I suppose,” Emil tacked on after a moment of consideration.
Emil regularly forgot that Thedrick still generally liked him despite their past break-up. He’d even fail to remember the nature of their relationship at times; on one occasion he instinctively slammed Thedrick against a wall when he so much as dared to kiss Emil on the cheek (he still grimaced thinking about the way Balthasar glared at him while he explained to Thedrick that he had been given a concussion.)
“So would Maerwynn!” Beowulf added.
“Yes, well, only because my blood tastes good.”
“She likes playing pretend with you too, though!”
“Ah, I guess I’m being spared for the three of you all’s sake, then. Still, it must be nice to not fear being murdered in your sleep if that ever changes, eh?”
“I suppose it is nice, yes,” Beowulf said.
Emil replied, “Although, I don’t envy having to babysit every hour of the day—that aspect of your life you can keep.” Maerwynn was sweet, yes, and he did really enjoy playing games with her, but being in the presence of any five-year-old at all times? Only Beowulf with his inexhaustible kindness and seemingly infinite patience (and blood) could handle such a thing.
“As much as I love Maerwynn, her endless supply of energy is a bit tiring at times,” Beowulf replied sheepishly, idly playing with the clasp on his cloak.
“Hm. Do you think being irritating is hereditary?” Emil asked, smirking at Beowulf. Despite his best efforts, a snide comment or two would inevitably slip past his filter every now and again. He couldn’t control it. (Well, he could, but what fun was that?)
Beowulf gasped, hand pulling up to his chest in an over-the-top offended gesture. “Hey! I wouldn’t say Maerwynn’s irritating. She’s just a baby,” Beowulf protested.
“A five-year-old baby?”
“A baby,” Beowulf reiterated firmly. “I swear, it was just yesterday that she was so small I could hold her with one hand…”
“You could hold anyone with one hand, Beowulf,” Emil pointed out. “As a matter of fact, I think I’ve seen you holding Thedrick by his neck-ruffle-thing at least three times.”
“Well, he’s just a tiny little guy, he’s an exception,” Beowulf countered. “And regardless of how small she is, I still think Maerwynn is just a baby. It wouldn’t be fair to call her anything.”
“Alright, alright, I concur.” Emil raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. He could have teased Beowulf further, but he had a feeling that his boyfriend would begin to take actual offense if he persisted.
If it weren’t for Maerwynn’s striking resemblance to Thedrick, most people would probably assume that Beowulf was her father—and not without reason, seeing as he was always holding her hand, carrying her on his shoulders, or affectionately bonking his helmet against her forehead. He essentially was, with how much he spoiled her.
“You didn’t deny that Thedrick was annoying, though,” Emil mentioned with a smirk. He had a bad habit of trying to make Beowulf badmouth his beloved little vampire, getting a childish satisfaction out of it in spite of his and Thedrick’s mended relationship; their rivalry was more for the fun of it than the result of actual animosity, although one couldn’t say the same about it a few years ago.
Beowulf paused. “Listen, I love him… which means I know better than anyone that he can be quite the handful at times,” he said in an affectionate tone, earning a chuckle from Emil. “‘Annoying’ isn’t the word I’d use though. I would just say he’s…”
“A nuisance?” Emil suggested.
“Enthusiastic!” Beowulf replied cheerily.
Emil snickered in response. “Yeah, enthusiastic. That's close enough.”
“Not really, I think mine’s a lot nicer,” Beowulf replied matter-of-factly.
Emil leaned over to his partner, saying in a stage whisper, “That was sarcasm, Beowulf.”
“Oh! Oh,” Beowulf replied in an equally over-the-top whisper. “Okay. Well… right, like you’re any better,” Beowulf joked now that he was in on the bit.
“Excuse me, I have many redeeming qualities!”
“Mhm? Like what?”
“I am…” Emil paused, considering. “Very handsome, as you can see.”
“Alright, and what else?”
“My beauty should be enough to convince you,” he said pompously, crossing his legs.
“Really? There's nothing else you can think of?”
“…my beauty should be enough to convince you,” Emil repeated, eyes narrowing.
“Well, you’re very funny!” Beowulf offered.
“Not really,” Emil replied, frowning. “Thedrick's the funny guy.”
“But you're very entertaining too! And you're fairly smart.”
“Are we talking about the same person?” Emil jested, shooting Beowulf a grin (Thedrick’s smirks must be infectious, considering that Emil found himself mimicking that face he’d make—that stupid face—far more often than he’d like. Damn that jester.)
“Cut it out Emil! Obviously you're the smartest out of the three of us.”
“Not a difficult achievement,” he said, grinning wider.
“Hey!” Beowulf cried, giving Emil a soft jab in the side with his elbow, although his voice was brimming with amusement.
“That’s like if I bragged about being taller than Thedrick.”
“One of these days we’ll find someone who’s smaller than him,” Beowulf said. “Surely he’s not the smallest man in the kingdom.”
“Oh, I think I saw a particularly tiny rat the other day that may be close in size! Although that may have been Thedrick himself, I only saw it from a distance,” Emil quipped, knowing that comment would get Beowulf all mock-offended.
Just as predicted, he gasped with such indignation that Emil could practically feel his scowl through his helmet. “How dare you say such things about him! I’m a knight, you know, I could get you in serious trouble for this!”
While he knew the threat held no water, he still threw up his hands in self-defense as though Beowulf would attack him at any moment for his jests. “Ah, Sir Beowulf, please have mercy. I sincerely apologize for this horrid crime.”
Beowulf collapsed into giggles, out-of-place in combination with his deep voice but somehow very fitting at the same time. The sound made Emil’s face grow warm, fake-guilty expression melting into one of pride at making Beowulf laugh.
“And why should I spare you, criminal?”
“Ah. Um…” Emil racked his brain for an answer. “Well… I’m… too pretty to go rot in the dungeons?”
“What, can you really not think of anything about yourself other than 'pretty?'” He sounded mostly lighthearted, but Emil could almost catch some undertones of… unease? His smile weakened a bit. They were just playing, there was no need for Beowulf to be troubled about anything.
“Well, there's not much to talk about,” Emil responded, shrugging.
“I just told you a bunch, Emil! There's a lot!”
“I'd still say being pretty is my main agency, though.” To be fair, it was.
Beowulf audibly frowned, tone shifting slightly towards chiding. “Mimi. You know there's a lot more to you than your looks.”
“It’s not that big of a deal, Beowulf,” Emil replied, slightly exasperated. “I don’t know why you’re behaving as though it is.”
“You’re acting weird,” Beowulf replied.
Emil’s brows furrowed. “I’m not.”
“You keep dismissing everything I say.”
“I’m not, I’m just telling you the truth.”
Beowulf turned his body to face Emil a bit more; the sudden attention made him squirm. “But that’s not the truth!”
“Fine, fine, whatever you say,” Emil replied dismissively. If there was one thing he hated to be, it was wrong.
He could see Beowulf bristle at that, shoulders hunching almost imperceptibly—although Emil had (rather embarrassingly) been paying extra attention to Beowulf’s mannerisms and body language for years and so caught on to that miniscule gesture. “I have a feeling you don’t really mean that,” Beowulf said, putting his hands on his hips (a gesture that was a little more awkward-looking sitting down, but still got across the emotion he wanted to convey.)
“I do, Beowulf!” Emil frowned. “You’re being dramatic.”
“See, there it is again! You’re brushing off everything I say!”
Emil wasn’t sure what had brought on this sudden burst of emotion from his partner, but it was certainly jarring to say the least. Beowulf was a rather emotional man, but such an intense shift brought on by seemingly nothing was concerning.
“I don’t—Beowulf, why are you acting so weird?”
“Because you’re acting like there’s nothing good about you but your looks!”
Emil responded in a confused tone, “I mean there isn’t a whole lot, is there?” He wasn’t trying to be dramatic. It was simply an objective fact.
Beowulf went entirely still, an alarming break from his constant fidgeting. He slowly turned his head towards Emil in a way that unsettled him. “…What?” he asked after a couple seconds of silence. His tone was flat, perhaps a little forced, as though he was trying to keep it as monotone as possible.
Emil’s eyes narrowed, and he shrugged. “I just agreed with your statement.”
“What do you mean there’s not a whole lot?”
Emil shifted in his seat, dread creeping up his spine. He didn’t like this anymore. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Do you—do you seriously think that that’s all I like about you, Emil?”
“Well, I mean, how else did I manage to woo such a handsome man, then?” Emil tried to joke, in a fruitless attempt to lighten the mood. It had no effect on Beowulf, who continued to stare at him.
“Because I like you for you, Emil! I know you well enough to know you’re acting all defensive.”
He felt a twinge of annoyance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emil retorted. “I think I’d know myself far better than you.” He regretted the delivery of the sentence the second it came out, knowing it would hurt Beowulf’s feelings, but he decided not to backtrack against his better judgment.
“I—well, I still know you fairly well. And I just don’t think you’re right.”
“I don’t see it.”
“Then I wish you could see what I see,” Beowulf said sadly.
“And what is that, exactly?” Emil scoffed, looking up at Beowulf with a defiant glint in his eye. “What do you see that I can’t?”
“I see…” Beowulf paused, as though contemplating. Emil watched him tilt his head just a bit, like he so often did when thinking.
“A sad little guy.”
Emil snorted.
“Hey—I’m serious—!” Beowulf protested.
“You wish I saw myself as a… sad little guy?” Emil asked, both incredulous and somewhat amused. Being a sad little guy was Thedrick’s job, not his.
“No, that’s not what I meant!” Beowulf protested, pressing a large finger against Emil’s mouth. “Shush. Let me finish.”
Emil easily could have responded but decided to respect Beowulf’s attempt to silence him.
“I just wish you could see how… sad it is, you know?” Beowulf said softly. “You already spent years here without any friends because you didn’t want to let anyone in, and you still act like that sometimes—you’re doing it right now. I know you think I don’t notice, but I do. It’s sad.”
Emil fell silent, not quite knowing what to say. It wasn’t his fault he was such a prick. Although… well, yes, it was his fault, but he’d changed. There was no reason to keep thinking about it. It was in the past.
He was about to voice this when Beowulf continued—
“I was talking to Cassian the other day,” he mumbled, wringing his hands. “He said that you probably act like this because you don’t like yourself. Is that true?”
Emil hesitated. “No.”
“Emil, be honest with me,” Beowulf said in a warning tone, somehow managing to sound gentle and firm at the same time.
“I am being honest,” Emil replied. “I don’t know where Cassian got that idea from.”
And to his credit, he was telling the truth. Emil didn't dislike himself. He just didn't like anything he did or said. Those two things were completely different.
“Why? Is it because you used to be a bit mean?” Beowulf pressed.
Discomfort was beginning to stir in Emil’s gut—and perhaps just a twinge of fear, too. He wasn’t sure why Beowulf's pressing was making him anxious, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant. “I don't want to talk about this anymore, Beowulf.”
He laughed, a humorless sound. “Why do I keep getting close to people that won't tell me anything?” Beowulf said, and Emil could tell that there was genuine frustration beneath his faux jovial inflection. “You all are going to be the death of me with all this 'I don't want to talk about it.’”
Emil huffed, “I don’t.”
“But I do!” Beowulf exclaimed, pointing to himself for emphasis.
“Yeah, well, we don’t all get what we want, huh?”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, though! Just talk to me…”
He scowled. “Why do you even care?”
“Because I’m your boyfriend! And so is Thedrick, and I’m sure he’d be worried too!”
“Then I guess you’d both be making a big deal out of nothing.” Emil rolled his eyes.
“Mimi, you have to talk to us about this.” Beowulf tried to cup Emil’s face with his hand, but he shifted away before he could. “Your issues are ours too.”
“They’re really not.”
“It hurts that you don’t want to let me help,” Beowulf mumbled.
Emil snapped, “I don’t care!” He felt horribly guilty for saying something so cruel to his boyfriend and knew that this would haunt him later, but in the moment it didn’t matter to him. Maybe he wanted to hurt Beowulf’s feelings.
Gods, what is wrong with me?
“Mimi,” Beowulf said in a dismayed voice that made Emil’s stomach churn. “You don’t mean that.”
(He didn’t.) “I do.”
Beowulf made a hmph sound. “Do you not trust me?”
(He did.) “I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Emil, stop saying that—”
“I don’t want to talk about this!”
“Why won’t you let me and Thedrick love you?” Beowulf cried out, sounding hurt.
“Because I don’t deserve it!” Emil spat, voice rising sharply in volume.
He stood up fast enough to make himself dizzy, but he shook off the vertigo quickly. Were those stars swimming in his vision or was it blurred with tears? Emil didn’t know and didn’t care to figure out; he was done with this conversation.
At least he would have been if Beowulf had not grabbed his hand.
“Beowulf.”
“No.”
“Beowulf, let me go—” Emil said, struggling to escape from Beowulf’s grip.
“No! We’re going to talk about this!” Beowulf ordered firmly. His hand tightened around Emil’s with the word ‘talk,’ so much so that it made Emil cry out in pain.
Beowulf quickly realized his mistake, swiftly letting go of Emil as though burnt. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, truly sounding the part. “Are you alright?”
Emil nodded hesitantly, not trusting himself to speak. He told himself it was the pain that would make his voice break if he tried to say ‘yes,’ and not how much it hurt for his partner to talk to him so softly after how awful he’d been. He really didn’t deserve Beowulf, did he?
Surprisingly, the moment he had confirmation that Emil was alright, Beowulf’s voice steeled again. “We’re still going to talk.”
Emil just blinked at Beowulf, nursing his hand and breathing hard from his sudden outburst, their eye level evened out by the fact that Beowulf was sitting. How nice for him to have a helmet obscuring his expression, to not need to keep his gaze from wavering like Emil did. He could almost catch a little glint of blue in the small crack that Beowulf saw through, but with it came no expression and therefore no indication that he may let up.
Emil internally composed himself, and then released a far-too-intense puff of air. “…Fine.” He sat back down, crossing his legs and looking up at Beowulf with a glare that could have melted his helmet. “Fine! What do you want to talk about, Beowulf?”
“Why do you think you don’t deserve us?” he immediately asked.
Ah.
Probably should’ve guessed he’d ask about that first.
“Does it have to do with you hating yourself?” Beowulf continued in a tone so blunt that it made Emil flinch.
“I already said I don't hate myself or anything.” He rolled his eyes. “I just don’t really like the way I am, I guess,” Emil explained, echoing his earlier thoughts.
His partner was silent for at least six solid seconds before he practically shouted, throwing his arms out in a dramatic gesture, “That's the same thing!”
“No, it’s not,” Emil replied, frowning. They really weren’t.
“Yes it is! The way you are is you! Not—” Beowulf pinched the bridge of his nose (or at least where it was on his helmet), mumbling something about how little sense that made under his breath. “But why? Why don’t you think you deserve us?”
“Well, firstly, you must not like me as much as Thedrick—"
Beowulf cut him off. “Do you really think I’d think things like that?”
“…what?”
He turned just a little more towards Emil, repeating himself. “Do you truly, actually believe that I would think something so unkind about you?”
Emil paused, at a loss for words. He hadn’t thought about it like that. “Well—"
“And do you think Thedrick is petty enough to hold a grudge for so many years even though you told him you’re sorry? That Cassian is so heartless that he thinks you’re a bother but pretends to like you?”
“I…” Emil trailed off.
“I thought you were done being mean, Emil.” Even if Beowulf was wearing his helmet, Emil could still vividly imagine the pitiful look on his face. His tone was brutally earnest. “I don’t know why you believe the people who love you are so cruel.”
“I—Beowulf, wait. You know I didn't mean anything by it,” Emil said. “I just thought, you know, logically—”
“Logically what?”
“I shot you, Beowulf. And I dumped Thedrick. And surely Cassian's job was made much harder by my presence.” Emil curled in on himself slightly. “If any of you had problems with me, they'd be justified. It wouldn't be anything to feel sorry about.”
“All of those things happened years ago, Emil. There's no need to dwell on them.”
“Yes, well, Balthasar still dislikes me because of all that, and he's the wisest out of all of us.” Emil almost never found himself siding with that weird doctor, but he’d do anything to win an argument.
Beowulf replied, “You seem to always base your thoughts and feelings on everyone else.”
Emil's eyes narrowed, mouth pulling into a thin displeased line. “Well, I was rather selfish before, right? I may as well make up for it.”
“That's not what people mean when they say 'consider the feelings of other people,' Emil.”
“Well, what do they mean then, if you’re such an expert?”
“Be nice. Not 'beat yourself up about things everyone has forgiven you for and disregard your own feelings,'” Beowulf deadpanned.
Emil couldn’t think of a suitable rebuttal, so he simply responded with a “hmph.”
“I want to ask you a question, but I need you to promise to be honest with me, alright?”
He squinted. “...alright. Fine.”
“Holding grudges against yourself... how does that make you feel, Emil?”
Emil took a deep breath, repeating the question in his head. In all honesty, he wasn't sure; any time he began to have feelings of doubt about his self-inflicted punishment, he would simply shove those thoughts into the back of his mind to gather dust. “...Bad,” he admitted. “Guilty.” He looked back up at Beowulf. “But I—”
“Don't you dare say you deserve to feel that way,” Beowulf cut him off again. “If it was me and our roles were reversed, would you think I deserve to feel guilty?”
“Of course not!” Emil answered without thinking.
“Exactly. You're being a hypocrite.”
Emil groaned. “It's different, though. You're you. You've always been nice and sweet; you've never done anything wrong. You don't have anything to feel guilty about.”
Beowulf fell silent, turning away from Emil just enough to suggest that he had broken eye contact. “I very much do. But I don't treat myself badly because of it. Sure, it always feels icky to remember it and I'm still sorry every day, but... Thedrick forgives me. It was a long time ago.” He turned back to face Emil again. “If I can forgive myself, you can too.”
Emil squinted, surprised at the notion that Beowulf had ever done anything to hurt Thedrick. To his knowledge (and much to his past self’s chagrin) he'd been swooning over that stupid clown since the moment they met.
Emil opened his mouth to ask what he did, and then closed it again, deciding that it was likely a sensitive topic and he shouldn't dig into it too much at the moment. “I suppose you have a point,” he mumbled, seeing as he couldn't come up with any counterpoints that didn’t involve saying that Beowulf deserved to feel bad, which he really didn’t believe. Maybe he did have a point.
Beowulf made a pleased hum and gave Emil a pat on the head. “That's more like it!”
Emil sighed softly, uncrossing his legs. “Was that all you wanted? Can I leave now?”
“You said ‘firstly.’ That means you have other reasons,” Beowulf reminded him. “What else?”
His face scrunched a bit. “...I didn’t really think of any other reasons.”
Beowulf didn’t respond.
“I promise!”
“Alright, alright. I better not find out you were lying, though,” Beowulf warned.
“Fine, whatever. Now can I go?” Emil felt like a child waiting to be dismissed at the dinner table to go sulk in his room alone, except this was far worse in that he was being forced to talk about feelings he much preferred to pretend did not exist.
“No. I still didn’t tell you about all the things I see in you!” Beowulf said.
“In your words, I am a—” Emil put his fingers up to do air quotes— “'sad little guy.' There's not much to discuss.”
“Well, I don’t just see a sad little guy. There’s more than that.”
Emil raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“A good babysitter for Maerwynn,” Beowulf said, holding up a finger. “She really likes you.”
“Enough to call me Stinky?”
“I think Stinky is a compliment!” Beowulf replied lightheartedly. “She doesn’t just like you for your blood, you know. Maerwynn’s always asking where you are whenever you leave the room.”
“I don’t even get to leave the room. She wants me to play ‘tea party’ with her every hour of the day.” Emil’s expression was annoyed, but his voice held a lot of affection. The noble never saw himself as the caretaker type, but he had a certain soft spot for the little princess—regardless of how demanding she may be.
“Exactly!” Beowulf said, smiling. “And you’ve been so much nicer to Thedrick, too.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to get my arms ripped off for being too mean,” Emil responded huffily. “I wouldn’t be nice to him if I didn’t have to be.”
“Really? You wouldn’t?” Somehow, Emil could sense Beowulf smile mischievously despite not being able to see his face. “Because I've walked in on you two making out at least three times this week—”
“B-Beowulf!” Emil said, face turning bright red. “We were just practicing!” He stumbled over the sentence, and he knew his sudden inability to speak was surely all the more incriminating.
“Really? And you were practicing when you brought both of us flowers the other day?” Beowulf inquired, voice giving away a grin.
“I bought too many,” Emil huffed. “I had a spare bouquet.”
“Sure you did!” Beowulf responded cheerily.
Despite all his grumbling—and he’d never admit it—he found that stupid little jester kind of endearing when he wasn’t being a nuisance. Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome, or maybe he was just growing soft; regardless of which it may be, he couldn’t deny that physical violence towards Thedrick wasn’t as appealing as it used to be.
“Oh, and Cassian has someone to go hunting with,” Beowulf added on to his list.
“Can't he just go with his...” Emil's face scrunched in consideration. “...friend, Balthasar?” (Any insinuation that the two may be anything more than rivals was greeted with open hostility from the chirurgeon and flustered dismissal from the officer, but they clearly had something going on. Even the rather oblivious Beowulf could see it.)
“Oh, no. Balthasar doesn't like that kind of stuff. It means a lot to Cassian that he has someone to share that with,” Beowulf clarified. “He likes spending time with you. Why else would he invite you?”
Emil opened his mouth to say something about how it might be easier to hunt with him there, but couldn’t really explain away the fact that Cassian would make conversation with him while they did so and offer Emil lots of practical advice for combat, both things that would be quite unnecessary if that was the case.
“And of course, you mean a lot to me, too,” Beowulf said, taking one of Emil's hands (a delicate hand for belonging to someone so abrasive) in his own (a mighty hand for belonging to someone so gentle). “I'm so happy to have you.”
Emil could feel his face growing warm, and he couldn't find it in him to meet Beowulf's gaze. “I’m happy to have you too,” he echoed, albeit far more quietly.
“You’re fun, and a good boyfriend, and you put together pretty outfits.” Beowulf said, voice growing soft. “I like the way you cross your arms to look tough when you’re getting teased. I like the way you braid my hair all gently. I like the way you smile when you’re trying not to laugh at one of Thedrick’s jokes. There’s just… so much about you to love, Mimi.”
Oh.
Oh, why did that sting?
Emil suddenly found a strange lump in his throat, and it took him a few tries to simply get out a quiet “oh.” His gaze dropped to the ground in the hopes that Beowulf wouldn’t see him rapidly blinking back tears. It shouldn’t have hurt to hear that.
It really shouldn’t have hurt to hear that, but it did. Perhaps it was that it hurt to be told to his face that the things he hated about himself were things to be proud of. Perhaps it hurt him to know he was wrong. He hated being wrong.
The strangest part of all was that, while it hurt, Emil felt a strange sense of gratification wash over him hearing Beowulf say such things. It wasn’t like the flattered feeling he got from a simple compliment, no, it went deeper than that. For once, Beowulf had said something kind and Emil had believed him. Perhaps it was naïveté, but he truly, honestly believed him. That miniscule part of Emil that always responded to praise with a whispered ‘they’re lying’ had finally shut its damn mouth for once.
“…and being so pretty certainly doesn’t hurt,” Beowulf tacked on, ruffling Emil’s hair. Emil couldn’t help but release a slightly tearful chuckle, leaning into the affections. He felt like a dumb lovesick teenager, giddily thinking pretty, he called me pretty despite the fact that his partner called him pretty practically every day.
“...Do you really mean all of that?” He felt stupid asking such a question, but something in him just needed to hear confirmation.
Beowulf pulled his helmet off, shaking his hair out much like a dog shaking water out of its fur. “Of course I do!” He shot Emil his usual sincere smile, one that still made his stomach do flips even after years of seeing it.
Emil went quiet, simply attempting to process his own feelings, a thing that he had done a total of zero times in his life. He wanted to just shove everything Beowulf said in the trash, but… Beowulf was a terrible liar, and far too kind to lie about anything in the first place. He’d have known for a fact if his boyfriend was merely pretending to like him. And Thedrick was a bad liar, too. Maybe Beowulf was right. Maybe his self-inflicted punishment was based on nothing.
“I’m pretty sure Balthasar actually wants to kill me though,” Emil suddenly said out loud with a frown, breaking the silence.
“Yes, well, he wants to kill everyone. You’re not special.” Beowulf paused, before clarifying, “to him. You’re very special to me.”
Emil searched Beowulf’s face for any trace of mistruth, and upon finding his expression to his satisfaction, said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For being a dick earlier.”
“Oh, that! I accept your apology. Thank you.”
“I do trust you, I promise.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it.” Beowulf pulled Emil into his lap, giving him a peck on the cheek. His face reddened significantly; he still wasn't used to how often Beowulf and Thedrick would so openly show him physical affection (and he couldn't help but hide a wobbly smile behind his hand whenever they did.) Beowulf sighed softly.
“You’re too hard on yourself, Mimi,” his partner mumbled, pressing a kiss against Emil's mousy curls. “Be nicer. Pretty please.”
Emil leaned closer, making a quiet noise of agreement.
“Promise,” Beowulf said in a serious tone.
“Do I have to say it out loud?”
“For me?” Beowulf asked, cupping Emil’s chin and tilting his face up to make eye contact with him.
Emil paused, mouth slightly open in flustered surprise. “…F-fine. Ahem, Sir Beowulf the Dawnbringer, I sincerely promise to be less of an asshole.” Although Emil’s tone was dramatically sarcastic, the corners of his mouth were upturned into a small smile. “Should I break this oath, I will promptly turn myself in and spend the rest of my days in the dungeons.”
“That will do,” Beowulf said with a dutiful nod. He pulled Emil’s face against his chest, enveloping him in a hug.
Emil was suddenly very grateful that he did not purr like Thedrick did (a discovery he’d made when they were cuddling one night) because the way that Beowulf was carding his fingers through Emil’s hair would have surely caused him to do so—and he’d be a bit embarrassed if Beowulf knew just how content he was.
He did, however, release a long sigh as he snuggled against Beowulf’s chest, trying to hide his smile as best he could. He might as well have just started purring anyway.
As much as Emil wanted to stay in the moment, he was struck with a sudden thought. “Shit!” he exclaimed suddenly, causing Beowulf to startle and look down at him with raised eyebrows. “We left Thedrick and Maerwynn alone!”
Beowulf’s eyes widened to an almost comical degree. “Oh no.” He very quickly pulled Emil off his lap so that he could scramble to his feet, practically tripping over himself in his haste. Emil followed suit (albeit more calmly.)
“Oh no, oh no oh no oh no Balthasar is going to kill us—” Beowulf fretted, more to himself than to Emil. Emil couldn’t help but chuckle at how he was spinning around in place, looking as though they’d pop out from behind a bush somewhere at any moment. “Oh dear, what if they set themselves on fire? What if someone breaks into the castle? What if he teaches Maerwynn more swear words?!” he continued, turning back to Emil.
“Well, worrying won’t do any good,” he pointed out. “We should go back, hm?”
“Yes, yes, let’s go,” Beowulf said frantically as he gathered up the end of his cape so that he wouldn’t trip on it.
“Hey, Beowulf?” Emil grabbed Beowulf’s free hand, who paused, turning around to look at him with a head cocked to the side like a dog.
“What?”
“Thank you.”
Beowulf just looked at him for a moment, a surprised look crossing his face at just how sincere he sounded. He smiled. “I just told you the truth, that’s all.”
“Well, I—” Emil broke their eye contact, blushing furiously. “Stop saying stupid nice stuff like that, you’re making this harder than it needs to be!”
“Cute,” Beowulf giggled, before pulling his helmet back over his face. Emil wished he had his helmet present to cover his own face, given that his cheeks were burning so hot it felt like he’d pressed his face against a hot pan.
“We should, um, get going before Maerwynn gets a hold of a knife again, huh?” Emil offered to get the topic away from him before Beowulf kept throwing out compliments.
“Ah, yes, that’s probably a good idea,” Beowulf agreed. “We’ve wasted enough time already, come on!”
(Luckily, the two found Thedrick and Maerwynn just taking a nap, surprisingly not having committed any chaos. Unluckily, it was in Balthasar’s infirmary, who had already prepared a thesis-length scolding for them.)