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Dedue found it easiest to measure his life by counts of five. Five stairs to the front door, five keys before he found the right one, five seconds to breathe before turning the handle.
Five years since he had last been home.
The house was far emptier than he remembered. He didn’t know how to feel about that.
His cousin (technically his father’s cousin, so his first cousin once-removed) had left a note on the console. Dedue didn’t read it; he knew what it likely said, and he didn’t want to hear its sentiment.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful to the man, quite the opposite. Dedue didn’t know where he would be without him. His cousin had been a constant pillar of support when Dedue had needed someone to fall back on, had taken care of all the legal and financial matters when Dedue had just wanted to shut himself into his room and never move again. Had even left, when Dedue had asked him to.
The house had been recently cleaned, and there were only a few pieces of furniture present, none of which Dedue recognized.
He unceremoniously dropped his luggage on the floor and laid down on the unfamiliar couch. He didn’t have the energy to go to the bedroom.
He counted his fingers, one-two-three-four-five, until his breathing returned to normal.
He awoke the next day, neck and back aching, when the morning sun peeked through the blinds.
He didn’t remember falling asleep; he didn’t remember if he had cried.
Five days later, he finally got around to renting a moving truck for all the boxes in storage. His cousin called, asked him how things were going and if he wanted any help adjusting, and Dedue avoided the questions by asking after his recent vacation, instead. The truck came and the boxes were unloaded, each meticulously labeled with his cousin’s handwriting. Dedue brought them inside, arranged them out on the floor, then wondered what the point was.
It wasn’t like most of these objects-- mostly clothes and books and personal affects-- would ever be used again. Not by their owners, and certainly not by him. He should’ve let his cousin sell or donate everything but Dedue remembered being a fifteen-year-old boy terrified at the prospect of losing anything more than what had already been taken from him.
So he did his best to give that boy a bit of grace, and opened one of the boxes.
Dedue & Aida’s Toys, read the label.
He wasn’t expecting the cupboard.
It looked as old and worn as the day his sister first got it, the wood veneer chipped and dull. He picked it up and something clinked from inside.
He had forgotten about the keys.
The cupboard had always been somewhat odd, for what it was. His mother had found it second-hand, hoping Aida could use it as a dollhouse of sorts-- it was around a foot tall and a little over half that in length, but its shelves were only about an inch deep. There was a lock, but no key, and the two children had become determined to find one that fit. It became a game (though at times the search had crossed into petty theft, Dedue remembered with chagrin) and while their collection of keys had grown, none ever worked.
That hadn’t deterred them, though, and at one point picking up any interesting looking piece of metal had been a habit for Dedue.
Until one day it hadn’t been.
Mixed among the pile of keys, he also found the prince.
The prince was the only toy in this collection that he felt he could call truly his. As children, they had shared almost everything (though Aida had monopolized quite a few of the toys for herself), but the prince was solely Dedue’s because his sister had absolutely hated it. She had thought the figurine had an evil air, with its stiff black fur coat and unusually shaped spear. One of its eyes had worn off so that the plastic was totally bare until Dedue scribbled on an eye patch.
So, obviously, a young Dedue had taken enormous pleasure in using him to disrupt her fantasy plans. He pretended the toy (who was probably only originally supposed to be a generic soldier) was a deposed prince, bloodthirsty and bent on revenge. It was a funny bit, especially as Aida got increasingly upset and started banishing the prince into the cupboard as punishment. That was another reason why finding a key had been important-- without locking the cupboard, the prince would keep breaking out of his prison.
Dedue knew that none of these keys would fit, but he spent a good few minutes trying them all anyways, the propped up plastic doll watching him as he did.
“You have no room to judge me.” He pointed at it. “You couldn’t even keep a hold of your kingdom.”
The prince still seemed too critical for his tastes, so he placed it back into the cupboard. “Good luck breaking out without me.”
But once he finished with distraction, the rest of the box remained. The rest of Aida’s toys, all the physical reminders of the wild stories she used to concoct, all the plot lines converging in a fashion he couldn’t keep up with when he played with her but seemed to make perfect sense in her young mind.
He’d never be able to make sense of them, never be able to make sense of her.
His fingers brushed against soft fabric-- her favorite scarf, wrapped in among the dolls.
And that was when he decided he was probably done with unpacking for the day.
Shakily, he pulled himself off the floor and stumbled into bed. He fingered one of the keys, running its grooves along the pad of his thumb.
You can take time, he heard his old counselor say. You don’t have to go through this all at once.
The single box he couldn’t even finish getting through taunted him from the floor.
He felt miserable; he fell asleep.
The next day he went to a cafe. It was within walking distance from home, since he didn’t ride in cars or buses if he could help it.
His potential future roommate was already inside. They waved him over.
Dedue hated searching for roommates, but he felt he needed one. His job didn’t pay particularly well, and funds from life insurance and his parents’ savings were running thin. It was lucky that the house was already paid off, but long-term storage had cost a fair sum, and even basic living expenses would continue to prove a strain. Renting out a portion of the house to a roommate to lighten the load had been his cousin’s suggestion. Dedue initially chafed at the idea, but had come to realize that the house was too empty to be in by himself.
This fellow had been nice online, affirmed his boundaries, and seemed just chill overall. They seemed just as calm today, as they and Dedue chatted over tea and coffee, respectively. There wasn’t really anything much of substance said. They-- having recently moved to the city-- asked for various recommendations of restaurants and things to do, but Dedue couldn’t give much advice. It wasn’t like he got out much. So he deflected, asked about their hobbies instead.
When their drinks and pastries were gone, they leaned over the table at him, pale eyes sparkling.
“I’m pleased to have gotten to know you, Dedue. Hope to see you again soon.”
It was only slightly unnerving, and Dedue extended a hand, immediately feeling awkwardly formal over it the second he did so.
“I’ll keep you posted. Have a good day.”
They inclined their head and stood to leave, while Dedue gathered his jacket and belongings.
He noticed a small, silver key caught underneath his chair leg.
It was a good sign, he decided, picking it up. A promise that things would get better.
Five hours later, his evening was interrupted by a sharp knocking at the front door. A gaggle of cheery voices were talking from the other side, and he pulled the door open to reveal a group of middle- to senior-aged women, each holding food.
“Dedue!” one exclaimed, reaching up to simultaneously hug him and pinch his cheek. “My, how tall you’ve grown.”
“We saw the moving van come in the other day, so of course we called Mosè because he hadn’t said anything about new tenants, but he said it was you moving back in! Why didn't you come visit your aunties?”
“I’m sorry,” Dedue replied, clearing his throat and attempting to break free of the multiple hugs he was now being wrapped in. “It’s been a busy time.”
Another woman tutted. “Of course it has, of course it has. Oh, I can’t believe it, you’re a man already.”
I don’t feel like one, Dedue thought.
Without needing permission, the aunties all shuffled inside, turning on lights and entering the kitchen to deliver their gifts. Dedue felt grateful that they’d come and strangely torn. His “aunties” weren’t family but they were as good as-- they had a hand in raising all the neighborhood kids. They were looking out for him, he knew, which was why they had come with laughter and food that made him weak with nostalgia. But another part of him hated the reminder of what life used to look like, and wanting to beg them all to go and just leave him alone, please.
When they started taking out pots and pans, he finally spoke.
“Please,” he began, “I can’t let you do this for me.”
The women stopped and stared, silent for a few seconds.
“Oh goodness, I had totally forgotten!” one finally said. “You’re a chef now, aren’t you?”
“Chef” sounded fancier than “line cook,” so Dedue didn’t correct her. “I can’t let you cook for me in my own house,” he said. “Or I’d be a terrible host.”
Their faces brightened, and they insisted they help anyway.
Dedue breathed a little easier. This was part of it, part of the song and dance of a familiar social custom. He could do this.
It was dark out once they finally left. They told him to visit for dinner, that they’d let him know when their children were back in the neighborhood, and to keep himself healthy and maybe even find a girlfriend.
He appreciated their kindness, it was familiar to him, but he doubted he would take them up on their offers. He didn’t think he deserved it, not after having spent the last five years trying to leave every part of his past behind, including them.
He shot off a quick text to his cousin, letting the man know about tonight’s dinner. He got a thumbs up emoji back and then the bubble that indicated the other person was typing. When the message had yet to be finished after five seconds, Dedue shut his phone off.
That night, when he was changing out of his clothes, he felt the key he found earlier in his pocket. The cupboard was still on his dresser. He tried the key out of habit, and was surprised when it clicked shut.
He had finally found it.
But he was too tired to fully process that fact, falling asleep moments later.
Dedue woke up to scratching sounds from the inside of his room.
He tried to peer through the dark, triangulating the sound. Was it coming from the roof? The window?
A light bang and thumping, then what sounded like faint swearing.
Dedue sat up and turned on the light.
The sounds were far too close. But he would’ve noticed someone else coming into the room-- he didn’t sleep particularly well.
The cupboard fell over, and he jumped.
He placed it back upright, then froze.
The sounds were coming from inside the cupboard.
The key was still in the lock. He turned it, opened the door, and…
A tiny little man was staring up at him.
“What kind of devil are you?” the man spat. “What cursed specter is haunting me now?”
“What the fuck,” Dedue whispered.
“Name yourself!” the figure demanded. “Release me from this prison!” And then he took the spear he was holding and promptly jabbed it into Dedue’s still hovering hand.
It hurt. A lot.
“Shit!” He withdrew his hand, sucking the blood that had begun to pool from the puncture. But he recognized the man. “You’re the prince,” he said, mostly to himself.
The man glowered. “The prince is dead. I am all that remains.”
“What the fuck,” Dedue repeated.
The prince shifted, looking uncertain for a second, before readjusting his spear.
Ah, nope, not dealing with that.
Dedue quickly reached over to slam the cupboard shut and locked the door again.
It was probably a dream, anyways.
In the morning, he checked the cupboard.
The lifeless plastic toy stared back at him, unmoving.
Just a dream, he told himself, ignoring the slight sting in his thumb.
He got through work fine-- it was a day like any other-- but found his thoughts drifting back to the prince in the cupboard.
It had to be a dream.
That the toy had come to life was implausible enough, but the fact that he was, in fact, a deposed prince with a violent streak was too much. That had been the story Dedue had given him, with his sister, all those years ago.
He got home and opened the cupboard again. Still plastic.
Maybe he was starting to lose it. He locked the cupboard, and leaned back against his bed.
Something started banging. “Fiend!”
Dedue quickly sat up and unlocked the door.
The prince immediately jumped out and started making a run for it.
Unfortunately for the little man, Dedue’s dresser was too high up off the ground to make an escape from, and he stalled at the edge.
Dedue had a brief moment to wonder what was happening before the prince decided to jump for it anyways.
Reflex had Dedue darting out, catching the living toy in a cupped hand before he fell to his death.
The prince thanked him by jabbing his spear into Dedue’s palm.
“Stop doing that!” Dedue said. “I didn’t mean to trap you, or cause you any harm.”
The prince regarded him dubiously. “Then why bring me here at all? Two times, now.”
“How could I expect locking a cupboard would bring you to life?”
The man crossed his arms. “Explain.”
So Dedue did, or at least tried to. He explained the cupboard with the missing key and how he had finally found one that fit the lock, and how the prince had previously just been a toy in his possession.
He didn’t say anything about how he had sort of maybe created the entire backstory for this person. That might’ve been too existential for the moment.
“And is this life-creating cupboard a...typical form of magic from your world?”
Dedue frowned. “Magic isn’t real.”
The man blinked owlishly with his one eye. “Magic is very real. How would you explain this?”
Dedue quickly ran through the multiple impossibilities of this situation in his head (the physics of it wasn’t adding up) and sighed. “Yeah, okay. This is magic.”
The little figure gave him a nod of a head that seemed to say obviously, so Dedue hastened to add. “But magic isn’t normal here; I’ve never heard of it existing.”
“There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” the prince muttered, sounding like he was quoting something.
That annoyed Dedue, but he couldn’t figure out a way of voicing his annoyance without it being interpreted as a threat. And he did not want to get stabbed again.
“What is your name?” The prince peered up at him. “If you even have one.”
“Dedue,” Dedue said, reminding himself to take deep, calming breaths. “Do you have a name?”
Neither he nor his sister had given him one, he was certain.
“Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.” And they certainly wouldn’t have given him one so pretentious as that.
So was this toy, this person, real? Like he had a real life and a real backstory that Dedue had pulled him out of somewhere between closing the cabinet door and turning the lock?
“What happened to your kingdom?” Dedue asked Dimitri.
Something seemed to pass over the prince’s face, like a shadow. He ground his teeth and snarled in the back of his throat. “Be still!”
“I’m not moving,” Dedue said, brow furrowing.
“Not you,” Dimitri said, looking up. He breathed. “You are quite still, aren’t you?”
Dedue couldn’t figure out if that was meant to be insulting or not.
“Would you like me to put you back?” he asked, softly, and Dimitri shuddered.
“Not-- not yet. They will be... but I am selfish, ungrateful…” he faded off into mutterings.
Abruptly, Dedue felt rude. He was hosting someone in his home, albeit unintentionally, after all.
“Would you like something to drink?” he hedged, interrupting the prince’s monologue.
Dimitri looked up at him, surprised, then grimaced. “The winter months have been lean.”
“Some food, then.” Dedue made a note to eat the same food before his “guest” to relieve some of that paranoia. He laid out a hand on the dresser. “I’ll carry you to the kitchen.”
Cautiously, Dimitri climbed into the open palm, gripping Dedue’s fingers to hold himself steady.
As smoothly as he was able to, Dedue carried the little man out of his bedroom. When he reached the kitchen he flipped on the light, causing the prince to cry out, covering his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you,” Dedue said as Dimitri rapidly blinked.
“And you said there was no magic in your world.”
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,” Dedue quipped, and Dimitri barked out a short, almost-laugh.
He set the prince down and opened the fridge, debating between some leftovers and old takeout. What food would a medieval prince prefer?
As if sensing his trepidation, Dimitri said, “So long as it is nourishing, I do not care for what the food is. I have no sense of taste.”
The takeout it was. It was on the spicier side, but it was also going to go bad sooner.
Dimitri eyed the microwave suspiciously as Dedue explained how it worked. “You cannot cook for yourself? That machine does it for you?”
“I cook for a living,” Dedue said, folding his arms. “I’m sick of it by the time I get home.”
Dimitri frowned at that. But he was able to handle spice, it turned out, which oddly pleased Dedue. He did have to eat with his hands though, as there were no utensils small enough for him. The scene of this three-inch tall man ripping his way through noodles was amusing.
“Would you like to wash up? I could find a container small enough to be a bath and heat some water.”
Sauce smeared across his face, Dimitri nodded.
Dedue ended up using a lid from a jar. He also shaved off a bit of his soap bar and found an old rag to be used as a towel. Halfway through, he paused to wonder why he was putting so much effort into this.
With all the necessary wash items acquired, he set up the bath and politely turned away. Dimitri stripped and entered the water, having gone oddly quiet, without even the dark mumblings from earlier.
“Why are you doing this for me? You owe me no loyalties,” he finally said.
And hadn’t he just been asking himself that same question? But Dedue had been thinking about it, and found the beginning of an answer.
“It’s what she would’ve done.”
“She?”
“My sister. It was her cupboard, her toys. She would’ve loved to find out it can bring them to life.”
“She passed.” It was a statement.
“Five years ago, along with my parents.”
“Was the killer brought to justice?”
And what did it say about the prince that that was where his mind first went to? “No-- no, it was an accident. The other driver-- it was their fault, but it wasn’t intentional.” Five years later, Dedue could still remember that day in picture-perfect detail.
Silence again. And maybe because he had his back turned, maybe because Dimitri still didn’t seem totally real, maybe because he was lonelier than he let himself feel, Dedue found himself saying, “I’m worried I’ll forget her, sometimes.”
Tears threatened his vision. He blinked them away. “Not forget about her, obviously, but that I’ll only ever remember those last, dying moments. It was slow.” The tears were falling now. “And painful. And I couldn’t do anything to help her except lie by saying everything would be alright. And I’m afraid that I’ll forget how she was in life, as a person, without the baggage of my own guilt.”
Many people-- his counselor, his cousin-- had tried telling him that it wasn’t his fault. And he understood that, but he still couldn’t help feeling--
“That it should’ve been you, instead,” came Dimitri’s voice, low. “That they should be here and you should be the ghost.”
The prince is dead. I am all that remains.
The sounds of water dripping and fabric shuffling came from behind him. Dedue turned and saw Dimitri facing him.
“I would like to go back now,” he said.
Mutely, Dedue extended his hand once again.
“I apologize for stabbing you,” Dimitri said, once he was set down in front of the cupboard.
Dedue rubbed his injured skin. “It’s understandable.”
Dimitri nodded, and climbed back onto the shelf.
Dedue closed the door, turned the key. He was struck with a sudden urge to say something to the prince, something achingly inane like, “don’t you become a ghost.” But the lock clicked shut, and he couldn’t find his voice in time.
Dedue avoided the cupboard for a while after that. He didn’t move it, just deliberately chose to not touch it, not look at it, not even think about it.
Meanwhile, the rest of the world seemed to be stabilizing around him. The fellow he had grabbed coffee with seemed to be the best roommate candidate, and they were finalizing contracts before moving in. He had another dinner with the neighborhood aunties. He called his cousin. He still felt lost.
His fingers sometimes twitched towards the key he always carried on him. Maybe the fact that he carried the key was damning enough. He wondered what Dimitri was doing, if he was trying to get his kingdom back, if he had found his vengeance. He felt uneasy, a sense of impending doom clouding his mind.
He had a day off work. He tried to go through more boxes-- his parents’ were somewhat doable, Aida’s still seemed an impossibility. He thought about going outside and gardening, then wilted at the thought. He looked at the cupboard. It stared back.
The key still fit. The lock still turned.
Dedue hesitated before opening the door. He supposed Dimitri would be mad at him, livid even, to be pulled out from his world unwillingly. He would probably get stabbed again.
He opened the door.
The bundle of damp fur pierced by tiny arrows did not immediately register as a person.
Then Dimitri raised his head. The one blue eye widened. “Dedue!” he called out, then promptly fainted.
Blood. All Dedue could smell was blood.
As gingerly as he could with his heart beating out of his chest, Dedue lifted the still prince out of the cupboard and onto the dresser. He was hurt, badly.
Dedue didn’t think, just acted. He was in the bathroom, grabbing any medical supplies he could see, then rushed back to the bedroom. He peeled Dimitri out of his cloak, then tried to take off his armor.
This was far too small a scale for him to work effectively on.
He only hesitated a second before turning to the toy box, plunging his hand through the plastic dolls until he found the right one-- Aida’s little nurse. Praying for a miracle, he slammed the toy into the cupboard, turned the lock, then opened the door onto the face of a very frightened woman.
“I’m sorry, please, I need help. I’ll let you go back after you help him, I promise.”
He showed her Dimitri, laid out, and she steeled herself, saying something about her oaths under her breath as she marched towards her new patient.
Dedue felt a rush of relief when the tiny case she was holding opened to reveal a set of surgical tools. She worked to remove the five arrows he had been struck by and bandaged Dimitri’s wounds, calling out for supplies that Dedue cut to scale.
After what felt like eternity, she stood. “He’s stable. He needs rest. Switch out the bandages, keep him hydrated, the like.” She eyed him. “Do you need me to stick around for all that or can I go home?”
The tone of her voice sounded like Aida’s. He coughed. “I’ll figure it out. You can go back.”
After she was turned back into plastic, he put her back in the box. He stared into it for a bit, at all the memories that threatened to break him. Take your time, his counselor’s voice came again, and I’m proud of you, from his cousin.
Fuck him, maybe he did need to hear that sentiment.
He reached back in and pulled out her old scarf. There were a few places where it was torn and would need mending. He glanced over to where Dimitri was still unconscious on the dresser. Well, he had time.
Dimitri first stirred five hours later.
“How are you feeling?” Dedue asked.
“I’ve had worse,” the prince replied, and Dedue, caught off guard, laughed.
“Sorry, that wasn’t funny. And...sorry, for pulling you back without your permission.”
Dimitri tried to sit upright, then winced. It took a while, with some delicate tweezer work on Dedue’s end and a bit of anesthetic (that the nurse had left) on Dimitri’s, but they managed to stumble through the first change of bandages.
“I wish you didn’t,” Dimitri said at last.“Bring me back here.”
Dedue stilled. “I can understand.”
“Even if it did save my life, I--”
“You don’t have control over it. Over me, when I choose to do it.”
Dimitri hid his face. “I have control over so little, it seems.”
“We cannot control the world, only our response to it,” Dedue quoted.
“They demand so much of me, and I-- I cannot--” Dimitri lifted his head, seeming so much smaller than he had before. “But it’s quiet here, with you. They stop, for a little bit.” He paused. “If you had asked me to come, on my own terms, I would’ve said yes.”
Dedue didn’t want to keep Dimitri any longer than he wanted, but it would still be a while before his injuries fully healed. So in the interim Dedue went back to his sister’s boxes and to find appropriately-sized objects for the prince to use. It turned out the cupboard could pull objects through without a plastic person attached, so Dedue got tiny books for Dimitri to keep himself occupied when he had to go to work.
He found unpacking to be easier when Dimitri watched him, the man curious but never prying. Together they managed to set up what was functionally a doll house on top of his dresser, complete with little screens for privacy.
They settled into a routine. They ate together, Dedue would help him tend to his wounds, and Dimitri would talk while Dedue worked through chores. It was strange, fascinating, and sometimes terrifying, sharing their lives with each other. He tried introducing Dimitri to modern music. It could’ve gone better.
He learned about Dimitri’s past, about the death of his family and the more recent coup. He wondered if he had influenced Dimitri’s backstory, and thought that even though he couldn’t give him a kinder past, he could at least help him survive the present.
“You care a great deal,” he said when Dedue gave him a new pair of clothes, hand-stitched (since he couldn’t just strip a toy).
“I try to,” Dedue said, then thought better of it. “I can’t help it.” And both statements were the truth.
They were two strangers, tied together by nothing but a cupboard and their separate griefs. And yet, there were moments in which they were more, like when Dimitri’s nightmares would overwhelm him and Dedue would extend a finger that he would clutch like a lifeline, and they would spend their silence just holding each other. Or when Dedue felt like throwing everything back in storage and Dimitri would have him list the contents of the current box he was unpacking, pushing him just enough and not letting him mourn alone.
“Can I ask something of you?” Dimitri said one night, five weeks after they had first met. “For after I return?”
“I suppose so,” Dedue replied, heart clenching.
“Do not cook only for others, Dedue. You deserve to have good things for yourself. And get out of the house some more.”
Dedue rolled over. “Then promise me something in return. Promise me that you will live, will try to live, not just exist as a ghost.”
Silence. “That’s a difficult thing.”
“You are asking me to do the same,” he pointed out.
“Then we owe it to each other; to live, not just survive.”
In the morning he found Dimitri standing over the scarf.
“It looks fully mended. Will you wear it?”
“It’s not mine to wear” was on the tip of his tongue, but something in Dimitri’s gaze made him pause. They had made a vow to each other last night, after all.
He picked up his sister’s scarf and gently wrapped it around himself, thumbing the edges.
“How do I look?”
And the prince smiled.