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“It's not that I think he needs defending,” Felix says, which might not be exactly true, but it's close enough. “Or—controlling, I guess. Not anymore at least. And even before, it wasn't. This.”
Mercedes hums and keeps clicking her knitting needles. It's sort of entrancing to watch, but Felix can't bear to stand still. He keeps pacing, agitation itching beneath his skin.
Agitation and something else. Something unthinkable.
“He can handle himself. I know that.” He runs a hand through his hair, yanking out the tie so he can put it back up. Just to have something productive to do with his hands. “I'm not interested in being his master.”
Again, not wholly true, but that's not something Felix can think about. He'll explode if he does, and he doesn't want Mercedes to have to set down her knitting just to pick up all the horrid little pieces left behind.
“But that's not really what alphas are for, is it?” She's still not looking at him. It's kind. Felix chafes under it, but less than he once did.
He grabs a book left behind on a chair and walks over to a shelf so he can find where it's meant to go. There's a partially finished piece of embroidery still in its hoop in the space the book should slot in, and Felix takes that to put in the basket where Mercedes keeps her in-progress projects. How can she stand to live in such a cluttered space?
“No. It's not.” There's a half full inkwell in the basket, thankfully stoppered. He carefully shifts a few pieces of fabric aside, and yes, there's a quill as well. Those both go to her writing desk, and saints alive, here's something that really needs organizing.
“Alphas and omegas are both protectors in their own ways. There's no shame in that instinct.” Mercedes says it so casually, so calmly, like it makes perfect sense to her.
Maybe it does. Felix doesn't know the details of her biology, because it's none of his business. That whole thing about being able to detect it through scent is a bunch of beta nonsense, like most of what people believe about alphas and omegas. Felix's nose might be a little more keen than the average beta’s, but that could just as well be because of his crest.
The fact that he thinks Dimitri smells good has nothing to do with Dimitri being an omega and everything to do with Felix apparently being some kind of desperate, wanton degenerate. Not that being close enough to smell Dimitri only makes him (ugh) lustful.
Felix keeps getting the urge to wrap Dimitri in blankets and hold him close, regardless of whether his cock is out. He wants to feed Dimitri bits of cheese and fruit by hand. He wants to run his fingers through Dimitri's hair and tie it back for him every morning. He wants to buy Dimitri pretty baubles to hang from his ears and catch the light, so everyone can see that he's treasured.
It's awful.
“I feel out of control.” Felix puts his hands on the desk, now that it's been tidied and isn't strewn with papers. “This isn't—I never wanted this.”
Mercedes lets his words sit for a moment. Lets him squeeze his eyes shut and breathe, accepting the vulnerability of it. He's safe here. It's just Mercedes.
“You don't love Dimitri because he's an omega. I think you'd love him no matter what.” Her voice is measured and gentle. It flays Felix alive. “You aren't betraying yourself by caring.”
Her words are knives. He's bleeding all over her nice rug. There's no apology large or sincere enough to excuse his behavior. She wouldn't want one, anyway. She really doesn't think he's doing anything wrong.
Maybe someday he'll believe her.
Dimitri leads council meetings with an open ear and a firm hand. Felix cuts his tongue on his own sharpness, and Dimitri says thank you, says I rely on your honesty, says perhaps Duke Fraldarius put it bluntly, but he is not wrong to demand a higher standard of responsibility in how we care for the people under our protection, and Felix snaps six quills in one moon under the force of his own desire.
Claude sends a gift of odd new pens with a sturdy casing that holds ink on the inside. Felix tells himself that Dimitri's tendency to break quills is well known, and there's absolutely no reason that Claude would know about Felix developing the habit himself. The note specifies that two of the pens are for ‘His Dukeliness,’ but that's perfectly sensible. Felix is Dimitri's right hand. It requires a lot of writing.
Dimitri starts wearing actual colors instead of all black, and Felix does not snap the pen. Dimitri starts removing his gloves around his friends in an effort to ‘grow more comfortable with the scarring rather than hiding away forever,’ and Felix does not snap the pen. Dimitri throws back his head and laughs, unashamed in his joy, and Felix does not snap the pen.
Dimitri wears a dark blue shirt that brings out his eye. Dimitri puts a single, ungloved hand on Felix's back. Dimitri smiles at him with soft, easy fondness.
Felix snaps the stupid fucking pen.
Dimitri’s eye goes wide, and he pulls out a handkerchief with incredibly messy embroidery along the edge. “Oh my. I suppose these aren't as sturdy as anticipated. Here, let me clean your hand.”
And that's what he does, wiping away the ink instead of just giving Felix the handkerchief, which means his real actual skin keeps brushing against Felix. Dimitri is close enough that Felix can smell his fucking soap. He wants to bite Dimitri's neck, not because there's extra glands there or whatever that beta-concocted myth is, but because he has no other ideas for how to handle the awful want pulsing through him.
“Felix?” Dimitri looks at him. The fading sunlight illuminates his eyelashes well enough that Felix could count them if he had enough wits to remember what numbers are. They are so, so close together. “Are you alright? You have seemed rather jumpy lately.”
A year ago, Dimitri would've apologized for daring to make an observation about Felix. He would've asked Felix to forgive his presumption. He would've pulled back and looked away—wouldn't have been this close in the first place.
Now, he laughs at Felix's jokes, because the world has gone mad enough that Felix makes jokes on purpose. Or maybe the world is finally sane, and Felix is making up for all the madness himself.
He can smell Dimitri's soap. Worse, he can smell the salt and sweat beneath it. He can count Dimitri's eyelashes and watch Dimitri's tongue flick out to wet his lips, because he never uses the wax Felix gives him to avoid chapping, and Felix—
Felix leans into Dimitri's neck, takes a generous amount of skin between his teeth, and bites.
It's about a quarter as satisfying as he'd hoped. Mostly he just has skin in his mouth. It's Dimitri's skin, which would probably increase that satisfaction dramatically under different circumstances, but right now it's just skin in his mouth in a painfully awkward movement.
Felix opens his mouth. Pulls back. There's a beat of silence, just long enough to make Felix want to run, but short enough that he doesn't have the chance. Not with Dimitri blocking his way like this.
Because Dimitri hasn't moved an inch. He's still holding the damn handkerchief over Felix's hand. The texture of one of his scars is right against Felix's index finger. It's horrible. Felix has a terrifying suspicion that he'll start crying if Dimitri pulls away.
“You do know that doesn't actually mean anything, right?” Dimitri looks bemused. Faintly fond, maybe. Not hysterical, which is probably for the best. There's no need for both of them to be. “Well, I suppose it does mean something for you and I, but not because I am an omega and you are an alpha.”
“I know that!” Felix can feel the heat on his face. Someone could fry an egg on his forehead. He'd rather they didn't. He's never liked eggs. “I'm not trying to—to claim you or whatever. I'm just.”
He runs out of words. Even if he did have a way to explain all of his feelings (and he manifestly does not), starting off by biting Dimitri's neck doesn't seem ideal. He doesn't even have a good reason for it.
He lets his head fall forward and thump against Dimitri's chest. “I hate this.”
Not I hate you. Felix hasn't said or implied that in moons. Maybe longer. Hopefully longer.
He never hated Dimitri. He was afraid for Dimitri and for himself. He didn't understand the hiding or the bloodthirst. He still doesn't entirely, but he's learned to accept that. Dimitri lets him in now. Even goes so far as to ask for help on occasion. It makes Felix swell with pride and something that most people would probably call devotion.
If that were all, he might be able to stand it. But of course it isn't. There's also the part of him that Felix has never wanted, the thing that he's been told all his life means he's meant for leadership (for aggression), for protection (for throwing his body in front of a blade), for taking and claiming and being inhumanly possessive of what he sees as his.
(For blood in his teeth; for cruel insistence from his hands; for seeing tender, soft beauty and deciding that it is his. That he is owed.)
Dimitri's hand cups the back of his head gently, thumb stroking along his neck. “I have no expectations. I never have.”
“I know.” Felix sighs. He's always known that. Neither of them have ever embraced their inherited roles. Or maybe Felix has. He's been cruel. Been vicious. Protective, and he cannot possibly deny how very possessive he feels over Dimitri.
He doesn't want this. Loving Dimitri could never be simple, but Felix despises the idea of doing it because he's meant to. He doesn't want people to look at him and see a beast claiming a helpless bit of prey. He doesn't want people to see Dimitri that way.
Dimitri is strong. He can hold his own in a fight. He snaps sewing needles and lances alike. He does not need Felix's posturing. Does not deserve to be treated as a thing to be owned.
“Felix,” Dimitri says, and his voice breaks just a little bit. Just enough to make Felix raise his head and pay attention with all of his senses. “Do you…no, that's not how I want to ask this.”
He takes both of Felix's hands properly, handkerchief still trapped in one of them. “I don't care about what we were born into. If we were both alphas or both omegas, if one or both of us were betas, my feelings would be the same.” He smiles a little, like he can't help it. “I do not mind that we are this. I even…well, I hope it is not a dealbreaker for you, but I like some parts of it. The idea of being your omega is not unappealing.”
“How can you just say things like that?” Felix hisses, squeezing Dimitri's hands tightly enough to hurt. Dimitri just keeps smiling, fond and gentle and cutting through every defense Felix has been clinging to for years.
Dimitri shrugs. “I have spent my share of time agonizing over it all. I imagine Dedue and Mercedes have likely grown rather sick of my dramatics.”
Well. At least it's good to know Mercedes can keep a secret.
“I want you,” Felix admits. It comes out so much easier than he ever thought it would. Maybe it's from talking to Mercedes, like Dimitri says. Maybe it's just been sitting inside of him long enough. Maybe it's because he can't bear to do anything but meet Dimitri as an equal.
Dimitri's smile grows teasing. “Yes, I did gather that when you bit me.”
“Don't bring that up ever again. It didn't happen.” Felix wants to bury his face in his hands, but that would mean letting go of Dimitri, which is unacceptable.
“As you say, my dear.” Dimitri swallows, looking nervous for the first time. “If that is what you want, of course. I understand if it is not.”
Dimitri had started all of this with an aborted question. Felix fills in the rest of it now.
Do you want to be mine?
Felix brings up their joined hands (the ones not stained by ink) and presses a kiss to Dimitri's knuckles. He hears Dimitri's sharp intake of breath. Such a perfect little gasp. Felix intends to make it happen a thousand times. Maybe more.
He lets go of the hand and flicks Dimitri's forehead. Hard. Dimitri startles, raising his newly free hand on instinct, rubbing the spot.
“What was that for?” He sounds genuinely indignant, and Felix loves him. For the first time, that love doesn't feel impossible to hold inside himself.
Felix rolls his eyes, utterly unapologetic. “You were being foolish. I've always been yours. Obviously.”
His bravado fails toward the end, voice coming out quieter and just a little strained. Whatever. What matters is that he said it at all.
“Obviously,” Dimitri repeats, caught between sarcasm and awe.
“I'll be your alpha,” Felix says. It is so terrifying and wonderful to speak aloud. “And your husband. Consort. Whatever the word is. I'll be yours however you'll have me.”
Dimitri leans closer, until their lips are all but touching. “My love, I would have you in every possible way, so long as I may be yours in return.”
Before Felix has a chance to respond, Dimitri slots their mouths together, and it is—it’s—
It's a little clumsy, to be honest. It also makes Felix feel so dizzy with need and relief and joy that he has to stop embarrassingly quickly. But then it turns out that being separated is so much worse, and they're kissing again, and it is so good. It soothes the worst of Felix's wildness, and maybe that won't always work, but it’s enough for now. Dimitri is so much more than enough.
When they finally pull away for longer than a single breath, it's because they're both smiling too much for their lips to catch properly. Dimitri is laughing again, and Felix joins in. Their foreheads press together, and Dimitri's hand is still possessive and warm around Felix's.
“Alright then,” Felix says, incandescently happy in a way that used to be easy, when they were children. Maybe it will be again. “I'll be yours, and you'll be mine.”
Dimitri's smile is the most beautiful thing in the world. In all of human history, probably.
“Perfect.” Dimitri says.
And it is.