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Claude wakes up from a dream.
When he opens his eyes to the dark outlines of his dorm room, the details of the dream have already begun to dissolve, leaving behind only the faint, unsettling impression that he’s lost something important. That he’s been separated from something deeply precious to him—or that it has separated itself from him, detaching and falling from his chest like a vital organ to walk off and disappear somewhere beyond reach.
He lies in bed for a moment feeling dazed and hollow, the remnants of his dream clinging to him like a physical weight and making him ache with grief for something he doesn’t fully remember.
He’s woken up from nightmares before, but this feels decidedly worse.
Claude sighs and rubs the back of his hand over his eyes, takes a few deep breaths to settle himself, then turns his head to squint at the clock on his nightstand.
5am.
In a few hours, Claude will take the first of his final exams—the start of a two-week period that marks the end of his studies here at Garreg Mach. Once that’s finished, with his dissertation already submitted and no more classes to attend, there will be nothing left for him to do but pack his things, say his goodbyes, and graduate.
The ache in his chest shifts into something more familiar, something that’s pressed at his subconscious ever since spring swept through Fódlan with its mild weather and warm winds, quickening the flow of time and with it the growing sense of things coming to an end.
For months, he pretended not to notice, ducking his head and delaying the inevitable for as long as he could.
It catches up to him now.
༄
He steps out into the hallway, heading to the communal space of the three-bedroom suite he shares with Dimitri and Edelgard. It’s not huge by any means, but it has a kitchenette and a couch and just enough room to squeeze in a TV, a coffee table, and an overstuffed armchair.
Given how it’s the closest thing to a proper living room owned across all of their friends’ student housing assignments, it had quickly been co-opted as the unofficial hangout spot for their group, dutifully collecting traces of their comings-and-goings throughout the years: the stain on the carpet where Hilda had spilled a glass of red wine, the dark scuff on the wall where Felix had thrown a book at Sylvain, the various stacks of readings left behind by Linhardt and Hubert, scrawled notes sticking out of the pages in their unmistakable hand.
He feels another pang in his chest at the thought of it all packed up and cleared out, the room emptied of their crowded, overlapping presence.
Claude continues to feel his way through the dark, walking towards the kitchen, and opens the cabinet above the sink to make himself some tea.
He freezes when he hears a slight cough behind him.
Claude whips around, muscles tensed reflexively, only to see the vague shape of Dimitri sitting in the armchair, half-hidden by the shadows of the room.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
“It’s just me,” Dimitri whispers reassuringly, lifting his hands in a gesture Claude had seen him use on spooked horses and stray cats.
“Dima, what the hell?!”
Dimitri raises his finger to his lips and points his thumb at the door to Edelgard’s room. Claude winces and lowers his voice.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I was going to,” Dimitri says defensively. “You turned around before I could.”
Claude exhales, settling his nerves. With his pulse no longer jumping out of his skin, Claude figures he might as well ask the obvious.
“Dimitri,” he begins slowly. “Why are you sitting in the dark like some kind of… Bond villain?”
He’s only slightly exaggerating. The shadows are a paid actor in this scenario, draping over Dimitri’s shoulders like a cloak and casting his face in a way that seems to deepen and intensify his features.
It’s unfair and a bit ridiculous that Dimitri looks this good slumped in an armchair with bags under his eyes—blond hair mussed, no doubt, from tossing and turning in his sleep. But Dimitri being attractive was something Claude had long since accepted as an inescapable fact of life—like cold Fódlan winters—something he should have grown used to or at least built some kind of resistance against.
As it stands, he finds himself caught off-guard by the full force of it every time.
“I didn’t want to wake you guys,” Dimitri replies. “Not when we have our exams in the morning.”
“Is that why you’re up? You’re worried about exams?”
Dimitri blinks, registering the question as if the idea genuinely had not occurred to him.
He considers it briefly. “No.”
Claude feels his mouth quirk into a small smile at this, at the simple and straightforward way he says it. Coming from anyone else, the statement might have sounded like arrogance, but Dimitri had a way of making it seem like an objective, observable truth. Which it might as well be.
Claude reaches for the kettle, fills it with water, and turns it on with a click.
He, Dimitri, and Edelgard were all in the same department—Politics and International Relations—but of the three of them, Claude had always thought that Dimitri took to the subject best.
Beyond just being a good student, it was his commitment to the work of understanding it all—systems of power and the mechanisms of wielding influence, the moral and philosophical underpinnings of governance, the ripple effect of policies and how they solidify into the material reality of everyday lives. It was the way his eyes shone when he talked about tax reforms and open borders and initiatives built around creating opportunity, restoring relations, correcting injustices.
There was something solid and unshakable at the core of Dimitri’s vision, burning sun-like and steady with a light both brilliant and kind; it made Claude certain that Dimitri would become an incredible leader, even-handed and pragmatic, dedicated to the long project of progress in its most inclusive forms.
The water finishes boiling with another soft click. When Claude turns back around, he bears two mugs of steaming, gently fragrant chamomile tea.
He places the cups on the coffee table, sits down on the couch, and waits.
“It’s about us,” Dimitri says after a brief, comfortable quiet.
“...Us?”
“You, me, Edelgard.”
Ah. A flicker of disappointment flashes through his mind before slipping back below the surface—there and gone—leaving hardly a ripple on Claude’s face. He pretends he doesn’t feel it, lets the emotion pass without examination and takes a sip from his cup.
He’s always been good at this. This kind of strategic retreat. He knows how to assess a situation, how to delay a confrontation when he senses a disadvantage and stall for time until he’s better prepared.
Nevermind how it’s been years since he’s noticed the tender, jumpy thing that rears its head whenever Dimitri turns to him and smiles. For all that he’s grown used to its presence, even accepted it as a permanent resident, not once has he felt prepared to face it straight on.
“I was thinking,” Dimitri continues, “about what will happen to us after we graduate. I had this dream…” Dimitri frowns at the memory. “It was weird. It was like we were medieval lords or something standing on this wide expanse of a battlefield. We were enemies, I think—our armies were all under different flags. Yours was golden.”
Dimitri’s eyes drift to Claude’s shirt, where faded yellow lettering spells out their school’s archery team.
“All our forces were clashing, and in the middle of the blood and chaos, I just remember being filled with so much bitterness and rage—like I was choking on it. All those ugly, confused emotions… towards you, towards Edelgard, towards the world.”
Claude sees Dimitri’s jaw clench, his shoulders squared as he recalls it.
“It felt like everything was closing in on me, and I was this wild, cornered animal with nothing left to lose. I wanted to cut everything down. I wanted to hurt and be hurt.”
Dimitri looks up, pale blue eyes fixing him in his line of sight, and Claude feels himself go still.
“I saw you from across the field. Maybe you were calling my name, or maybe I was looking for you. But your face… it was like you were looking at someone who was too far gone to save.”
Dimitri trails off with a pained expression, his gaze sliding away to another spot in the room, and Claude realizes with lurching, instantaneous clarity that the thought of Dimitri no longer looking at him—of Dimitri avoiding his eyes—feels unbearable.
It takes all of Claude’s self-control not to leap out of his seat. He wants to interject. To deny. To say that if it were truly him on that field, he’d never stop having faith in Dimitri, even if it means staking his life on that belief. He’s certain of this. He’s never been more sure of anything.
“And then I woke up,” Dimitri says quietly, still looking away. “And I thought about how we have our exams, two more weeks of living here, and that’s it. Graduation.”
Dimitri sighs, rubs his face, and stares down at his hands.
“Claude. I’m afraid of what will happen when we leave Garreg Mach.”
As a long silence stretches between them, Claude understands what Dimitri means. His own chest aches in response. He’s been dreading it too—doing everything to avoid thinking about what it would look like for their lives to split apart. For the suite to be emptied; its inhabitants scattered.
The three of them had lived in each other’s orbit for so long that they’ve been shaped by it, the proximity exerting its influence and making itself known in how they always seemed to be in conversation with one another—thoughts and actions mirrored and reflected back and resonating between them in their endless variations.
From the start, they’d been tugged close on similar trajectories, carrying the weight of their own respective expectations. Throughout the years, they’d watched each other’s backs and kept each other in check—as rivals, as classmates, as friends sharing a home.
What would they become after separation?
Something crumbles inside of Claude—the result of Dimitri’s confession dislodging a piece of stone that had been keeping everything neatly compartmentalized. It collapses now, and in the small wreckage of his inner turmoil, Claude can no longer look away from the biggest thing he had been suppressing. The obvious reason why the thought of separating from Dimitri feels impossible. Unthinkable. Like losing a lung or some other part of his body necessary for the most basic function of life.
Before, he’d pushed down his feelings for Dimitri because he didn’t think it was worth the risk of things changing.
Well. Change was coming anyways, hurtling towards them at full speed whether they wanted it to or not. With this, at least, there was a chance for them to decide what form it would take.
“Dimitri.”
When Dimitri turns to look at him, Claude opens his arms in a wordless invitation.
Dimitri gets up from his armchair and folds next to Claude on the couch, his weight settling comfortably by his side, tucked in his embrace.
After a pause, he leans his head against Claude’s shoulder.
Hope like an arrow pierces through his chest, trembling as it strikes the very core of him.
“Dimitri...” Claude tries to find the right words. He’s someone who prides himself over his control of words, but they escape him now. Every possible expression feels inadequate.
“No matter what happens…”
That’s not right either, but he pushes on with it anyways, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can check their contents. Unplanned. Unpracticed. For what might be the first time in his life, Claude doesn’t know what he’s about to say, and it’s terrifying.
“Whatever you’re up against in the future, you’ll never have to face it alone. And… you’ll never lose me—that I can promise.”
Dimitri stares at him wonderingly, something shifting in his face as he realizes that Claude is serious. “How?”
“Because,” Claude starts, then stops as he becomes keenly aware of just how close they are, distracted by the sweep of Dimitri’s pale eyelashes and how loud his own heartbeat sounds in his ears.
“Because I’ve been yours too long for anything to change that now.”
“...Mine?”
“Yes, yours—Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,” Claude says airily, drawing out his full name with a light, teasing flourish. It’s a kind of deflection, reflexive out of the embarrassment that comes from too much honesty.
Then, quietly, he drops the last bit of armor.
“You have me if you want me.”
Claude braces for the chill that comes from being so exposed. He waits, suspended for the agonizing handful of seconds it takes for Dimitri’s shock to transform into something bright and open with amazement, a flush spreading on his cheeks as he looks at Claude like he can hardly believe this is happening.
When Dimitri reaches out to touch his face, his movements slow and hopeful, Claude sighs, releasing the breath he’d been holding with a small shudder.
Their first kiss is light and warm. Achingly gentle.
Slowly pulling apart, the air between them hums with a soft charge as they press their foreheads together, dazed with discovery.
“You have no idea,” Dimitri murmurs.
“Hm?” Claude responds, his attention pulled by how the flush has now traveled to Dimitri’s ears, turning them an appetizing shade of pink.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
Claude laughs, leaning in to kiss Dimitri’s cheek with unrestrained affection. “So you’re saying we could have had this sooner? What a waste!”
The sky outside the living room window has brightened into a deep, blue dawn. Any moment now, daybreak will crack golden over the horizon, sweeping away what’s left of the shadows.
Dimitri shakes his head, smiling. “Doesn’t matter now,” he says. “We have time.”
As if on cue, the muffled sound of Edelgard’s morning alarm rings sharply from across the hall, jolting them both before the sound cuts off.
In the beat of silence that follows, Dimitri and Claude exchange looks, hands still clasped tightly together.
Then—laughter rushes back in, breaking the stillness open, sparkling like light scattered into every corner of the room, brilliant and soaring and true.