[Garreg Mach Monastery carries another reputation in these years, no longer the holy sanctuary of academic learning it once was. Now, it is a graveyard, its still-standing stone foundation the haunted tomb where the dead remain unburied. Only the most desperate would try their chances raiding this territory on rumor the Monastery might yet contain valuables—or, for the truly destitute, caches of food enough to feed an army. Those who trespass do not return, except on the rarest occasion of luck; such survivors carry fanatical reports of a one-eyed demon at the heart of the premises, some deranged creature half-animal and half-man and as bloodthirsty as both.
The reality is much less fantastical, but not any kinder.
Dimitri is unmoved when he sees the colored banners of the Imperial army breach the forested edge of the territory from one of the Monastery's higher battlements. It is not the first time they've sought to investigate this area, out of ignorance or otherwise, and he suspects it will not be the last. This suits him fine. As many as must be killed, he will kill, drenching the soil in their rotten blood until the stench drives even the smallest animals in the brush further away.
He waits for the cover of night, after the sun has burned its pale warmth out of sight, then descends the fortified castle into the wilderness surrounding it, no more than a black shape passing into the trees. Perhaps the stealth is unnecessary; he'd counted nine heads from his vantage earlier, an amount that might have daunted a normal warrior but less than he has confronted on his own by now. Still, Imperial soldiers are better trained than bandits and petty criminals. And he must live yet, even against his own will.
Picking off the men individually—sometimes two, three at once—and driving them into a confused scatter, Dimitri's assault begins and ends in the dark. He saves the general for last. And he is dully impressed, because he has been stabbed once in the shoulder and heavily battered through his blood-painted armor by the retaliation. The soldiers are led well.
Perhaps it is no real surprise, then, to see Sylvain when he comes to finish it, his childhood friend mounted on horseback, regal and proud, red hair a bright spot in the shadow. Dimitri slows to a stop. He plants Areadbhar in the dirt, and leans on the shaft, glaring levelly, as numb to the steady pain in his shoulder as he is to the sick twist of his stomach. His voice rasps with disuse.]
[ what an inauspicious day to be a sentimentalist. if sylvain had any sense he'd be kicking his own teeth in in an effort to stay away from unlucky things - old friends, family, the monastery in its empty, rat-infested glory. vermin littered it from wall to wall, the memories he's had of the place vanishing on sight as it towers over them like a beast. it has more in common with conand in terms of importance than anything else. he shouldn't have taken this tasking, and yet here he is. stuck in a place he'd rather not be.
his captains tell him: the townspeople are worried about the demon in the walls. sylvain had only shrugged, frowning at the report. in the absence of gods, men more desperate than he is have constructed false ones. perhaps that was inevitable, too.
in the dark, his men fall one by one as if hunted down. death doesn't bother him, at least not anymore, but when it's his battalion he starts to worry. he calls the search off; orders his captains to pull together the soldiers towards him in a close formation, ready to attack as a whole instead of scattered to the winds like easy prey.
he'd learned a few things, here and there. the empire not being charitable to his background considering the privilege (hah) he'd enjoyed as a friend and supposed confidante of dimitri, they have decided not to trust him; which is wise, really, though it means that sylvain has to prove himself twice as hard in battle because nothing else is riding on his name. more than that, the rumours about him continue to circulate: if he can betray his prince, what more for the emperor? nevermind the fact that he'd fought his father and everyone else to get here. that hubert keeps him on a tight leash. that felix is likely honing a sword's edge with his name on it. he had wanted freedom; he had obtained it at a cost; and while he does not regret his decision, sylvain being too jaded now to believe in nothing else short of the ground being razed to make room for a new fodlan. here, in the empire, he's just a general. one with his vices, but then again, who isn't?
such as this, for example. learning a taste for heartbreak is one of his tragedies. the familiar lance - and that is all where it stops. dimitri, as he is in a way that he doesn't remember. blue eyes that he could lose himself in his depths, blond hair so soft in his hands. that boy is long gone. shut up against the armour like it was his own prison, covered in blood, reeking of death. his horse whinnies, feels tense at his approach. sylvain's armor, black and red, well-used in war, looks pristine compared to his armor, well-worn, battle-tested. a threat.
how should he address him? he was your highness for most of his life; dimitri in the quiet of his bedroom which is now a memory he can never bring up lest he betray him even more. who is this man? faerghus' king? they don't even know he's alive.
his captains look to him in response.
sylvain is quiet, his horse impatiently pawing the ground, aching to fight. ]
... you're a little too good at making a guy's heart all a-flutter.
[ edelgard would want him alive. hubert will have his head if he doesn't comply. there is nothing for him to return to - gautier has denounced him, fraldarius will quarter him when its interim duke finds him. nothing but the empire, now, and edelgard's lovely hand, snow white, reaching out to him. come with me. ]
I know you're probably aching to stab me, but is there any chance you can make room for talks? Over tea, perhaps? [ sylvain smiles. he is a chameleon, wearing his old face, nice and warm and loving. his voice soft and affectionate. it fits him like a glove. there you go, your highness. i've been waiting for you. ] I recall you loved chamomile a lot, though I think you have different tastes now.
[Disdain torches a path through any of the fondness he might once have sheltered at Sylvain speaking to him in such a manner. Disdain not for the betrayal—he doesn't think so highly of himself, not anymore—but rather at the alliance the other man has chosen. His sole enemy. All that keeps him alive, now, is the promise of Edelgard's death. And Sylvain would willfully stand in the way of that. It is a worse transgression than he can imagine; worse, even, than being led along to think Sylvain might have loved him. A child's dalliance is easy to dismiss in light of that.]
Save your breath.
[Spat bitterly, Dimitri comes forward two steps, eye cold and blue on the enemy in front of him.]
Your men cannot leave this place alive. You and I both should know that. [Either they will die by his lance, here and now, or Dimitri will deliver them to the locked cells within the Monastery and forget the key. He speaks without intending to give Sylvain the choice; he's simply being clear.] You, on the other hand, I am inclined to spare... for now. Surrender, or I will force you to your knees myself.
[It's a dark, gritty growl as animal as the rest of his appearance. Mercy is nowhere in mind. However—a general of the Imperial army can be used for information. How stupid to send something so valuable straight to him.]
I think you'll find that as their loving general, I'm not going to let them fall to your lance. That honour, if it can be called as such, falls to me.
[ sylvain is strong, reliable on the battlefield as a capable general, but reckless, as always. his captains look at him, wincing at his words as he says them, because sylvain always fights like he's going to die the next day. his men deserve better, which is why he pushes them as hard as he can. but for himself? if he knew what self-preservation was like it had deserted him like a goddess in the ruins the way garreg mach stands now, a shell of its former self. and what are they if not that?
surrender, dimitri declares, and sylvain sighs. would that it was easier to do so, just to bend the knee and let him cut off his head the way he would want to. the way he probably deserves it, maybe. sylvain has very few regrets, and he can't really say past loves are one of them, but losing dimitri in this manner is enough to make a man pause about life. the promise of his life being spared is an attractive prospect. maybe if he were a better man, he would've taken the offer.
as it stands, he is no longer that man. whatever promises he'd made as a knight of faerghus to him, once upon a time, no longer applies here. all he has is sadness; but then again, all everyone has nowadays is sadness for currency. tragedy as a homecoming. the desire to kill him feels like miklan, feels like falling into a well and tasting rancid water in his mouth, winter in the cold mountains as all the numbness starts touching his fingers and toes and he contemplates of death.
the violence and vitriol feels like home. it is so palpable in the way dimitri talks that he can almost feel miklan's shadow. ]
As for being on my knees, well. I've got a lot of experience on that. You're just playing to my strengths here. [ the slightest tittering rumbles across his battalion, like crows in the fall. ] But I can't say I'm good at the 'surrendering' part at all.
[The familiar nonchalance that Sylvain wields is like its own weapon, worse than the ghosts haunting him because it is alive, adaptive, and unpredictable as it slashes across his memory. The pain is all that is the same. Dimitri feels no humor at the suggestive remark; if anything, it only cements the knowledge that such things are inconsequential to his childhood friend. That they mean nothing, matter not at all, and never held any sincerity. It stands at such a contrast to who he used to be—too naive not to think every touch implied real affection and significance, too easily manipulated. So be it.
Yet realizing this confrontation is going to come to violence otherwise, and knowing his old friend's skill, Dimitri does not do what he would normally do. His lance remains idle at his side, where it should already be in a someone else's throat. He may be no better than a monster, but like so many others in this wretched world, he is an intelligent one.]
Do you think so little of me? That I might blindly trust your pretense of negotiation? [This is hissed, edged in steel.] I am no longer that boy, Sylvain.
[It isn't that he cares whether greater Fodlan comes to know of his survival—disadvantageous as it might be. But his desires remain unchanged, and the only way to reach them is the path set through the corpses at his feet.] If you will not suffer their deaths here, they will be imprisoned at the Monastery until I decide otherwise. Then you and I will talk.
[He says the words, feeling already that they are a lie. As though talk is something he is even capable after so long. Perhaps there is some shred of his past self still scrambling for the light, deep down—something he must to amend.]
Accept this term, or we can finish our dispute here in blood.
[ you are still that boy, he wants to say to him. you would not be here otherwise. you would not have remembered what i was like. it wouldn't have mattered. at least there's something pure about being a beast: its appetites are only directed one way. but not for a human struggling to become someone else. and if there's anything sylvain has learned in his short life, it's that human beings, when faced with a lust for things that they cannot control, are predictable, and unfailingly so.
he sighs. ]
I don't think little of you at all. [ i don't think of you at all, he wants to lie, but he knows even that is a bit too transparent for him. ] I wouldn't have offered negotiations if there weren't any chance you might listen to begin with.
But my men deserve better than the General they have, and I'm not willing to accept such terms.
How about this: they will leave me with you, unarmed, and exit the monastery grounds until the day after. If I don't come back out, they can assume you've done the Empire a service. And all of my past loves.
[ several of his captains look uncomfortable at the offer. one clears their throat audibly, as if in disagreement; sylvain maintains the smile on his face. it's easy enough to wear, anyway. ]
[They are two immovable objects. His hand tightens on Areadbhar, as though an impulse away from throwing it the distance between him and one of the men—but he schools it through an effort of will. Perhaps it is his first wrong move among many he will make soon. It doesn't matter. What Sylvain's asking is not mercy, but strategy, or so he believes. Letting anyone leave this place alive is foolish. Even if he has a hostage, he knows the Empire's cruelty; they will swarm like rats to the Monastery.
Then again, if that should occur, it will draw his enemies straight to him.
Stepping forward, Dimitri moves fearlessly into the space close to Sylvain, ignoring the weapons that tilt in his direction as if awaiting a delayed command. Lance lowered in signal of his commitment, he reaches out and seizes the reins of Sylvain's horse.]
Fine. Drop your weapon. [A service for his past loves. Should he count himself among them? No sooner has the thought arrived and he's cast it bitterly aside. No, of course not.] Let them run back with their tails between their legs to live another day. I'll hunt them down later, if I must.
[If Sylvain has obediently disarmed, he will pull on the horse and begin to guide it away, mounted General and all.]
[ they rush to defend him, bless his men by the cruel goddess that watches over this rotten country, and sylvain raises an arm to stop them. his answer is to comply: they take his lance, silver and gleaming in the moonlight, and his sword. sylvain's second-in-command nods at his command, and the men leave. the taunting words of the prince matter very little to them: they are adrestian men and women, and as far as they're concerned he has lost control of himself long ago. what they are looking at is the former shell of dimitri alexandre blaiddyd.
sylvain thinks to all the times felix has called him a boar and thinks he must feel vindicated now, in a bitter way, that all of his nightmares have come to pass.
he is guided by dimitri on his horse, uneasy by the way someone else other than his owner has seized the reins. sylvain hushes it, running his hands comfortingly on the animal's powerful neck. he can't deny the unease, too. dimitri may be calm now, but he's one of the many intelligent beasts of fodlan. and sylvain has spent enough time in this country to know that nothing here gets done without violence. he is an unwilling captive with a bestial prince, and the image would've been hilarious if it weren't so serious. turning himself over to dimitri given the state of things is a dangerous gamble.
in the dark, he watches his form. his hair long and matted on the sides of his face, the pelt of his over his armour ferocious and big like a dead animal, his armour covered in blood and grime. dimitri has filled out to his height, none of the softness the boy he knew had. that one, he thinks, he'll have to keep for his memories from now on. this one refuses to be recalled, resists the notion that he was somehow that person long ago.
in any case sylvain makes for a poor hostage, because he can never keep his mouth shut, and this time is no exception. ]
We thought you were dead, [ he murmurs softly. ] I would've tried harder if I'd known you were waiting for me.
[ another lesson sylvain is good at, to the detriment of all who knew him: words, the body, the slightest gesture or look - they are all weapons in the hand of a deft artist. there are many ways to wage a war, yes, but there are also many ways to wear down an opponent's defense, and if dimitri will insist being his captor, then he will be the patient whetstone until the role doesn't suit him anymore. on the chessboard, it would be similar to sacrificing a pawn to promote a knight; but dimitri doesn't play chess.
so he speaks to him like he has a right to do so: like this were another tryst, and there is a body to get lost in at the end of it. it is much of fatalistic sentimentality as it is the reckless attraction to death that has guided most of his life. the gautier crest, after all, fits its lance in that it can only bring ruin. ]
[The eastern side of the Monastery isn't a long walk, and the courtyard looks black in the dark, stone no paler than the grass and weeds growing haphazardly and unattended around its structure. He maintains his hold on Sylvain's horse until they reach it—and then attempts to work the bridle off the animal completely with intention to let it graze in the yard. The stables are still intact deeper within the Monastery, but he does not lead them there. With Sylvain in tow, it would be time wasted, however much of it they might have. If the horse is well-trained, it shouldn't wander too far. It can be corralled later.
Dimitri's hands are deft in their work, inarticulate but gentle on the buckles and fastenings, regardless of whether Sylvain decides to help or halt him. He exerts more care toward the horse than it still seems possible he could possess, all while ignoring Sylvain's close look. Those light colored, pretty eyes would be too familiar to him—realer than a ghost, if not so hungry. He tells himself he will use this opportunity to go against his enemies. He will torture Sylvain, if necessary, to obtain the information he needs. He promises himself this with the delusional belief that it is true.]
How sentimental of you. [Not so much said in a growl as it is rasped, scraped out of his throat, because that is how he sounds now.] A fantasy. Don't try to tell me otherwise, Sylvain. You left me long ago for the Empire. I am certain I was never a thought in your mind.
[Perhaps Sylvain was even relieved to hear he was dead—one less childhood enemy out of the way. Whatever the temptation to sink into Sylvain's sweet words, he steels himself. He will not be so foolish a second time.]
Get down from your horse or I'll be forced to drag you off of it.
[The ache in his shoulder is becoming more noticeable, paired with the rhythmic pain of his head, both well-known hurts. He'll need to attend one of them soon.]
[ - a traitor, and other things beside, but sylvain's tone is light and warm. a flame dancing at the edge of his grasp, burning bright. it seems impossible to snuff out his energy even as garreg mach seems to dampen his cheer, however genuine it was, and even if dimitri wanted nothing more than to smear him on the cobblestones in his hurt.
because that's what this is, he thinks, watching him spit out the words like he was learning them again, rehearsed so many times it must feel real to him: he was hurting, this was pain. things that he'd bottled up for far too long now threatening to spill like a flood. whereas when sylvain is in pain he lashes out, self-deprecation and cutting words to himself or to the other. dimitri lacerates himself, and it is poetic in the way he tries to keep his distance but fails. i am certain i was never a thought in your mind. ]
How much would you like to gamble on that? [ he has a smile on his face, almost inscrutable in the way he addresses him. when dimitri removes the horse's bridle, he ruffles the side of her face with a hand and leans forward to kiss her on the nose; he watches him.
the glance is brief. heavy.
sylvain pulls away. in the dark, and cold, he can smell the blood from his injured shoulder. ]
... we should do something about that wound, however, if you intend to make me pay for my crimes through the night.
You wouldn't want to die over something so paltry as a soldier's lucky hit, right?
[ it won't be appreciated, he knows, but sylvain gives him a charming wink, because he can. he's flirted with death all his life, this is no different and no less dangerous.
most of all, he mocks him. their differences in strength are considerable, sylvain will grant him that much, but it's not like he's not without teeth. dimitri's the one trapped here with him. either he ends his miserable life or spares him out of some misguided idea about strategy and tactics; and somehow sylvain thinks he'd be foolish enough to choose the latter. because his highness, cruel as he can be, can't think of him fully as an enemy.
you left me long ago for the empire, he accuses. he's correct on that, but sylvain has never plead guilty to accusations of love. you were cheating on me. not his first rodeo. nor would it be his last, unless he ends it all. ]
[Dimitri scoffs, believing none of that farce for even a moment. He no longer has the luxury of hope or longing. This is his world now: pain, death, solitude. So when Sylvain looks at him, giving his mount a gentle show of affection—Dimitri turns away quickly, as though he can't stand the sight of it. How stupid.
Sensing his weakness, the ghosts at the rim of his awareness—forever there, if not always so visible—mock him for allowing Sylvain to get under his skin. Stupid, and pathetic, and weak, and there is no way he'll ever reach Edelgard if he can't handle this. Perhaps that is the trial he's meant to endure.
His shoulder burns when he switches his lance into the other hand, then reaches for Sylvain's arm to haul him roughly from the horse's saddle with no warning.]
Get down. If you believe this is enough to kill me, then you underestimate my will.
[Yes, he needs to do something about the wound. And he will. But it will not be at Sylvain's insistence, in some parody of care and concern. Dimitri maintains his grip on the other man's arm and begins to drag him inside. Sylvain is prisoner here; he must make that position clear.]
Is silence too much to ask of you, or will I be forced toward more extreme measures?
I don't know, why don't you show me some of your extreme measures and let's see how far will that take us?
[ goodness. a guy can't even get dragged out into the dark respectfully. the fact that dimitri is moving like he hasn't been injured is impressive, and he wonders just how often he's done that: shrugging off injuries like he entrusts himself to fate that he will wake up the morrow and will be ready to take his slow march of revenge, one step at a time, nothing more powering him than spite and hurt and rage. it'd be a lot more worrying if he didn't keep in mind, dimly, that the man also wants to kill him. he's a prisoner, he's a traitor, he can't be trusted. no-one should trust a gautier, anyway, that's for sure. least of all his friends. least of all his former liege. ]
All this for the chance at revenge, and I'm not even the one you want.
[ garreg mach is cold in ways it hasn't been for a while, and in times like these he wonders what happened to the boy he knew. thought he knew. did he just see what he wanted to see? which one of them was the fool, here? at least dimitri had a reason to stay alive. gautier will live on without him. the north has no need for such traitorous stock. ]
I see that your crude tongue has not changed. How disappointing.
[In other circumstances, he would threaten to cut it out of Sylvain's mouth—certainly he should at least make the intimidation clear. But he expects it will roll off his old friend's back like so much harmless breath, a change in language that cows Sylvain not at all. How many others have shouted themselves hoarse in some effort to be heard, to leave some visible impression on Sylvain? He cannot bring himself to that low, even if he may already be there in spirit.
Dimitri doesn't falter in his course, hauling the other man with him through the long-throated corridors, their footsteps an irregular pattern on the stone. He doesn't stop until they've reached one of the rooms adjoining the dormitories near the church. Everything is in disrepair: a too-clear depiction of the ruined creature, once a man, dwelling within its walls. Here, he shoves Sylvain ahead of him into the room, then stops to lean his lance in the corner.
It may be obvious at once that this is where Dimitri is spending much of his time, when he is not roaming the grounds or staring at the hole in the cathedral ceiling. There is a cot in the corner, and furniture wiped free of dust, and other items suggesting the requirements of the living, such as a water pitcher and crate of foodstuffs. Otherwise it is sad, pathetic space, unfit for a prince.]
Stay there and do not move, or I will make it so that you can't. [He hasn't responded to the second comment. Perhaps he is pretending it was never said.] You should make this easier for yourself and tell me what you know. I will not be so kind, asking twice.
[ there's safety in being predictable. to do so otherwise is dangerous and to invite trouble.
sylvain takes too long to look around his room. it's small. barely even a room, more a storage if he's being honest. it feels like a cage for a beast that's too large for it. he doesn't know why, but he does feel a pang of hurt in his misplaced heart at how low dimitri's fallen. his illustrious prince, once so bright, now relegated to the corner of the monastery like a limping wolf.
he sighs heavily after hearing the command. doesn't move. what is there to say? ]
... you can't honestly think I'm as important to the Empire as any of them from that class.
I'm only important to you. [ was? maybe? who knows. at least he doesn't look like he wants to fight anymore. sylvain only looks tired, exasperated even now that it's just the two of them and dimitri has him cornered. he's not foolish enough to risk his neck for the empire when the man can just easily crush him with a hand, not even relying on areadbhar at all in these close quarters. the prince won't trust him, and rightfully so; but maybe the boy he knew, once upon a time, would see reason. maybe. ] I'm the distraction, your highness.
[Sylvain's declaration earns a look, finally, eye cold and blue as it stares him down in the small room.]
I couldn't say. Once, I thought I knew you well. I was wrong.
[It's a growling, hurt accusation that he regrets as soon as he's made it. Dimitri turns away again, as though uncaring if a knife comes for his back—it isn't as though he had checked Sylvain's person. Certainly he has other defenses in place. Perhaps he would welcome the attack; it would give him a reason to react with his own violence. The bloodlust in him is always boiling.
Dimitri unclasps the heavy, matted cloak from around his shoulders and dumps it carelessly to the floor. Then his clumsy fingers yank at the buckles and straps of his armor, letting each piece drop as though shedding a great burden, again uncaring that it puts him in a vulnerable position. Once the breastplate is off, he takes a ratty cloth and presses it over the wound in his shoulder; it's soaked red in seconds.]
Do not call me that. [Lower, burning ire. He isn't Sylvain's prince any longer. He is no one's.] Do you enjoy it? Being so easily tempted that you would crawl into the lap of whichever master beckons you first? I should have known your loyalty would be as superficial as your affections.
[ he's surprised he allows himself to dress down in front of him. for a moment sylvain looked alarmed, as if he were about to reach for something else in his person - a dagger, anything - but he removes his awful cloak and armour besides and seats himself on the bed as he tends to himself. sylvain wants to tell him - clean the wound out first, it's no good if you just tend to it like that - but he notes the anger in his voice and he is chastised by it. more than that, he told him not to move. a cornered rat will bite.
instead, he runs a hand over his red hair as he watches him. listens to him. does he enjoy it? it's not really so much as enjoyment as wanting to be free. all his life he's always decided that he will do what he wishes. that he wants to be in a world where everyone else is free to do as they like, nothing to hold him back whether the lure of crests or anything else. personal attachments. power. under dimitri's rule, certainly all things were possible, and he believed in it, for a while, but he also believed in something else: the possibility that he could look elsewhere for growth. that alone was tempting enough, made his decision solid in leaving, and just when he was feeling regretful, the war came.
how to explain that now, with so much hurt the way dimitri carries it with him like the hundreds of scars that mar his skin. his soul, or what's left of it. there's no diplomatic way of saying, i never wanted you to get to know me. there's no diplomatic way of breaking up with anyone. does he enjoy it? edelgard didn't really beckon. she was an option. if anything else, hubert never wanted him in their ranks because he and dimitri thought the same thing, though he probably wouldn't want to be compared to him.
it is immensely funny and sad to him that the one time he makes a dispassionate choice is the one that gets mistaken for a passionate one. ]
Nobody's ever figured me out, so don't blame yourself. It's no shortcoming of yours - it's deliberate.
[ sylvain watches his wound soak the rag with blood and sighs. ] As for my loyalty, plenty of talk has been made about it and I see no reason to add to the noise, whether I'm wearing Faerghus blue or Empire red.
I hope you'll forgive me for disobeying you and calling you the prince, still. That's who you are regardless. That's who you'll always be to me - [ and maybe that's the problem. sylvain has a smile on his face that doesn't quite meet his eyes, but then again, that's how he's always been since the war. ] Unattainable.
[Empty words. Dimitri finds himself sneering, unconsciously pressing the rag harder against his wound until the sting causes him to clench his jaw; his strength betrays him again. In another world, he might have laughed at Sylvain's easy dismissal. Typical of the Gautier son to dance out of reach. He can barely recall the part of himself that once viewed Sylvain's flighty personality with grudging fondness and, later, burning insecurity—now it makes him feel hollow. Nothing but a black pit all the way down into his gut. He's more starkly aware of the years between them than ever before.]
Then you lack the pride and decency even to speak for yourself.
[Let alone the others who need it. Who, more than Dimitri—more than anyone still living—need a voice, need someone to take a stand for their sake. Even now, distracted by Sylvain's presence, he feels them in his periphery whispering their hurt words. Goading him to act while he has the opportunity.
... Act.
Dimitri feels it eating at his mind—that dark, dragging pressure of guilt, chewing on his patience, eroding his sanity. Why is he letting Sylvain speak? Why is he allowing him to lie to his face? Telling him what he would like to hear, that he is still his prince, that Sylvain might have cared, that once it might have been different. That it all is one tidy misunderstanding.
The blood roars in his ears as he whirls, seizing Sylvain by the throat and slamming him against the wall, gloved hands a tight collar that squeezes off air. The snarl is on his face—teeth flashing, mouth open, eye wide.]
[ he shouldn't be surprised that it's come to this, the prince angry and a flurry of emotion, all brutal force pinning him against the wall. not ideal. he needs his neck.
and yet it's the most honest he's ever been, hasn't he? he would never act like this to him at any other time. there must be something freeing in this, even if what drives him is anger, guilt, any number of betrayals and hurts that now won't let him rest. when his mask was broken in the holy tomb. what good are words? if anything else, he had thought it would happen sooner.
he doesn't fight him. can't, anyway. not good practice when someone's inches away from snapping your neck. instead sylvain reaches over and sinks his hands into his wound. he touches the side of his neck almost like a caress as he struggles in his hold. traces the angle of his neck, strong down his collarbone, and struggles to mouth the words, ] Make me.
[ red, dark in his fingers. like the banners he walks under. his nightmares. inverse of his eye. his hair curling down the side of his face like longing. the sunset. a bruised cheek in one's boyhood. a pathetic heart. all of that running through his fingers, so much time wasted, so much time grieved. this reunion is terrible, he thinks. they can't even hear each other. ]
[The pain of that touch jolts electricity across his nerves, the most he's felt in days—years, he shouldn't kid himself—acutely bright as it blisters through the sore wound. The immediate instinct is purely animal. He bares his teeth as though he's decided to rip out Sylvain's jugular singlehanded, and his hand tightens enough to put bruises around that slender white throat like a sick necklace. He could keep squeezing until he strangles the life out of his old friend. It would be the least that is deserved by either of them. For Dimitri to kill the only one he has ever...
Blood drips down his cheek, hot and tacky, distracting. It's nothing new. He can't even smell it. His whole world is too crowded by Sylvain, narrowed to this single point of violence that somehow still isn't enough. Make me might once have meant something kinder. A private kiss stolen in a dormitory bedroom; a handsy tussle in the practice yard; a knowing, low-lidded look across a classroom.
Dimitri's hand slackens just enough that when his other fist swings around, cracking across Sylvain's cheek in a punch powerful enough to knock him sideways, he'll be sent to the floor. There, Dimitri kicks him hard in the side, then the stomach, both at the joints of armor where it will hurt more. Then Dimitri is down on top of him like a dark storm, one hand yanking up Sylvain's handsome face by the roots of red hair, and he hits him across the other cheek.]
Shut— [snarled and panting, ragged as he falls to pieces in his rage,] —up, shut up, shut up...
he can't deny that it doesn't, and he can't deny that he deserves it. why else for? he betrayed a friend, his childhood friend, one of his many loves - maybe his only serious love - in pursuit of his own selfish desires, his own violent delights, he was not there when garreg mach fell to the empire and he was not there when he lost himself, slipping into the shadows as his friends tried to drag him back up to the surface, desperately so. too late. he sank. like so many other people in this war doing desperate things to live for desperate reasons, a prince can be driven to madness, too. does he feel something for it? all he can hear is dimitri screaming. all he can feel is his anger.
he feels like home.
he is home.
in the tower of dark winds. in the bottom of a well. winter in the mountains of gautier. a broken arm, a broken rib. he is home. he can't hate him for sending him where he belongs. he can't hate him for something that is, essentially, a more personal way of dealing with things, which he much prefers than areadbhar liberating his head from his shoulders.
he feels blood dripping down his nose and sylvain smiles. ]
That's ... it. [ gasping words in between his rage, sylvain lets his wrath pass through. ] There you ... are.
[ found you, he might've said, like they were children playing hide and seek again in their gilded youth. ] ... it's alright. I can ... handle it.
[ it's hard to see it with his bruises, but sylvain hawks out a sound that might've been a laugh. ] It's ... not ... your fault.
[Eventually, the tide of anger slows and begins to drag, and the violence tapers off, leaving Sylvain bruised and bloody beneath his heavy weight. There's an errant temptation in his mind, like the whisper of a vengeful ghost in his ear—that if Sylvain will tell him nothing, what reason is there to keep him alive?
How easy would it be to lift his hands and bracelet them around Sylvain's throat, strangling the last breath from his body? Too easy. It is a brutality he was made for. It is what he is meant to do.
Yet those reassurances reach his ears instead, each one as gentle a caress as a hand on his face, through his hair, soothing something dark and hungry for bloodshed. Dimitri realizes he is shaking. In the silence that follows, he can hear himself gasp as his body lowers itself the rest of the way on top of Sylvain. A collapse of willpower. He's holding Sylvain hard against the stone; he can't move, even if he wished to.
The warmth of physical touch is overwhelming. He remembers how this felt once, years ago, when Sylvain came to him behind the closed doors of their dormitory rooms. It isn't the same now, but it's close enough that it hurts. How easily those sentiments can blur together.]
I hate you. [This is gritty, pressed to Sylvain's cheek where the blood smears against his mouth like lipstick.] I hate you.
[ far be it from him to tell him what a prince must do, but when he repeats the words so intimately onto his cheek, with his weight so heavy on his back, sylvain has no choice but to surrender to it. he closes his eyes. he can't fight him anymore, never had the will to; but this gritty, deliberate confession is so closely said against his skin that it might as well be a kiss. and for all the affection he once won against his prince, this, he will take for himself.
after all - he should hate him. he must. doing otherwise is a death sentence to the future king, the only king, of faerghus. he is a traitor, he should be treated as such, even if this reminds sylvain of their childhood: stolen moments when he could swear and readily admit that he never hated the idea of love or commitment. when dimitri would murmur something approximating that ethereal feeling, and sylvain, who never believed in prayer, often found, in his fear, that it was almost an answer to something unsaid.
this is like that, too. he closes his eyes. each breath a surrender. the pain that cleaves him a mark. a homecoming. a debt extracted. love and hate are both the same sides of the coin: if his highness reaches over and this is what he finds at the end of his rope to wring around his neck, sylvain must open the door on the other side for him to realize he has never moved past him.
a knight moves unconventionally compared to other chess pieces. but a knight in the corner only has two possible moves. so all he says to that is, ]
... 'm here.
[ whispered so closely to the earth soaking his blood greedily. he feels his body shudder in - anger? anger. must be. how he misses him. completely inappropriate given the situation. sylvain remembers his obeisance. who does he serve? let him atone for it. let him - ]
[His shoulder hurts. It's the most bleak awareness, trivial in the moment, with Sylvain trapped beneath him and whispering those platitudes like a prayer. The pain is a sore, throbbing blister awakened from the agitation of being probed by those fingers from before; he can't clear the fog of it from his mind. Not even hitting the body under him had helped. It is a constant drum in his head—that song of violence, coaxing him to do more, to make it worse, to go all of the way. Men cannot be conquered into submission except with brute force. How long ago had he learned such a difficult lesson, and how many years had he foolishly believed he could change anyone with diplomatic words alone?
So easy to turn Sylvain over onto his back. So easy to fit his hands around that slender throat, above the collar of the black armor he's still wearing. Dimitri is like a possessed wraith on top of him—half in shadow, the palest part of him all of the naked, scarred skin of his upper torso. White, because Faerghus gets so little sunlight, and he's shut himself up in a self-made grave since leaving his home country. He is an indomitable force over Sylvain. His grip on that throat squeezes, and there's no doubt that if he tried, he could likely snap Sylvain's neck with that Crest-poisoned strength of his.
Sylvain keeps on breathing. Still alive.]
My will? [It's a hiss, Dimitri not caring if his weight is crushing the man beneath him who was once a cherished childhood friend.] Must I? Was that your plan all along, then? Oh, I should have known.
[The paranoia in him has reached a new height as everything falls into delirious place. His words come quicker, fanatic.]
You seduced me. At the academy, that was always your goal, was it not? To lure me in like the slut you are, so that when you betrayed me for those monsters, it would create a weakness to be exploited. It would be used against me. And now they've sent you back to finish it, haven't they? Did you think I would fall all over myself, the same little boy infatuated with your sweet, duplicitous playacting?
[ that awful pressure on his neck makes it difficult to think, to stop him, and it's terrible because he wants to laugh. did he seduce him? apparently enough for him to be angry at it happening. so perhaps he succeeded. how awful. had he known he mattered ... no. it wouldn't have changed a thing. sylvain would've kept his distance still, because dimitri was his prince, and he was not meant to be a retainer like dedue. or an unsheathed blade for his use, like felix. he was not meant to be anything like that. a slut, maybe. that would've been a right designation for the gautier heir whom nobody expects much of, and fine by him. he despises the lot of them anyway. wolves in faerghus. wolves wearing human faces. wolves wearing a prince's face. wolves wearing a duplicitous, charming philanderer. a weakness to be exploited. will dimitri kill him? he just might. his fear and anger are both too much right now.
he finds himself attracted to it. this dimitri, the one that felix had known about all along, who had endeavoured to keep wearing a human face for as long as he could in the academy until the emperor broke him. how he fears him. he could die tonight, licking the blood from his mouth and wishing it was his instead. waiting for his face to turn the same colour as his coat. faerghus blue until he dies. faerghus blue with the rage of one eye glaring at him and calling him a whore. he feels blood on him, dimitri's injury still hurting and raw. and the boy himself, still aching, an open wound. did he seduce him? he'd argue it was mutual. he can't refuse someone aching to be loved. so lonely he longed to be alone to convince himself it was proper, the right thing to do. so lonely he would feel there was value in betrayal where love is concerned. (love?)
his will. his body. his wrath.
nobody but me controls my vices, he wants to tell him. and you are my greatest vice.
such an aggressive wanting that he would bow to. not even edelgard would give him such satisfaction! hubert, maybe. disdainful, sneering, he'd quarter his body to his magic and leave him crashing down with nothing. dorothea knows him too well, the way he lingers around her like a knife with no handle, waiting to shear off thorns. that's what he was, for both empire and kingdom alike: a blade with both ends sharpened. no handles. nothing but risk.
negligible, useless, but the prince can't (won't?) kill him just yet.
he feels manic in this knowledge. you are still that boy. doe-eyed. soft. hiding behind this wolf of yours. following after me. holding onto my hand, asking me when i'll come back from gautier. telling me you fought with felix. that ingrid left you after you decided you didn't want to share your toys. you are still - ]
... beautiful, [ he murmurs. might be the lack of oxygen that's getting to him as he says it. ] Beautiful. Even now.
[ have his neck. his awful smile. the blood that covers his mouth from his nose, iron in his mouth. his pathetic heart. sylvain's skin bruising against his hands, faerghus blue and black. goddess, why did he leave. if he had known he would remember, he would rage, he would want this much, why did he ever leave. unattainable: that's what he was supposed to be. and yet here he is. you seduced me. ] ... yes. I did.
I'm ... selfish. Wanted the best. Who would crush my heart if he could.
[ sylvain feels serene, oddly enough for him. has a look in his eyes that shouldn't be there. ] If.
All at once, the tide of anger passes through him and over a cliff, crashing into the black. His hands release their tight hold around Sylvain's throat. He can see the impression of his fingers, bruised and swollen, skin inflamed as a result of the brutal strength he carries like a burden. What is worse than being called beautiful—a sweet word like dust in the air, quick to blow away—is that he is anyone's best. Impossible. Another paltry lie from a silver-tongued slut. The disbelief is on Dimitri's face, shadowed expression like a watchful animal as he lifts upright, trapping Sylvain by the bulk of his lower body now.
The ghosts are there in his head. Pale, illusory apparitions, white scars of memory. Telling him that this is vengeance, and that this is just, and that he should kill. He has every right to feed this hunger. Yet it comes up against a deeper resistance, an evocation of that if. What is so different? Why can't he do this?
How unfair.
The way Sylvain looks beneath him is the true beauty. Red hair like fire, bloody mouthed, those familiar eyes, the handsome curve of a jaw, full lips that taught him to kiss and slender hands that taught him the only pleasure he's ever felt. Is he so base and animal to be fooled by it a second time? Hatred at himself threatens to rise like bile; suddenly, he shoves himself stumbling to his feet, head turned away, unwilling to look too long for what he might do. He forces himself out of the room. The door slams, nearly cracks the wood, and then Sylvain will hear the latch bolt into place. He's locked inside.]
[ it doesn't register to him until a few minutes later that dimitri has left when he feels like he can have air in his lungs again. he could barely see him, anyway, after all the violence he unleashed on him in his rage.
sylvain takes huge, deep inhales of the air back into his lungs and stares at the darkness of the room, the ceiling barely visible in his pain. he's alive. dimitri didn't kill him. couldn't. or wouldn't. it reminds him of how some animals would save their prey for the long winter until they need to consume it during the leaner months. he feels oddly touched. saved, perhaps, out of some misplaced sense of sentimentality that the prince somehow remembered in his fury. as his enemy, and one who walks in red banners, general gautier thinks to himself: the prince is not invulnerable. this is a point of weakness i can exploit. i don't have to do anything, i just have to survive, and now i know i can hurt him, this is something i can bring back to hubert for us to ponder over and carry out more efficiently than i can ever do on my own. by now his men - some of them planted by the spymaster, he's pretty sure - must've sent a message to him already that the general has been taken hostage in exchange for his men. a noble gesture, but also, one that will cost hubert resources when the empire has so few of them, especially talented individuals who can lead, especially one with a crest and a relic weapon that can cleave battalions by themselves.
the pathetic boy in him is grieving. dimitri remembered me, the boy thinks. dimitri remembered me and felt something about it, and it wasn't his disappointment that kept him alive. it was something else.
and he dared not hope, but it was there: stubborn, persistent, traitorous. it coils around his guts and unwinds itself in the chambers of his heart to consider that there might be, still, something in there that he could rescue for himself. like sifting through sand in order to find ingots of gold, he felt brave and reckless and stupid and most of all, morally obliged, to hunt for his prince amongst the layers of beast and fur and blood.
but first.
he's alive.
sylvain rises, slowly, coughing out blood as he peels himself off the floor. he can move his limbs. nothing's broken, as far as he's concerned. his armour is killing him, and he has to deal with that: with dimitri's strength it's more of a hindrance than anything else, and if he removes it, perhaps he'll be more inclined to pity him considering he's not a threat anymore. (not like he's ever been - at least sylvain isn't foolish enough to say that for himself.) now that he knows he pities him, sylvain will exploit that for himself; not for the empire, but for himself and his selfish, greedy impulse to survive at any cost. he's done it in gautier. he's done it in conand tower. he'll do it here as well.
very, very slowly, he removes his armour and piles it on a heap on the side. he tries to stand up and stretch. the latter proves difficult, and he doesn't want to push himself, so he sighs and gives up, and gets on dimitri's bed, which smells musty and awful and he doesn't even know how he can withstand it; this coming from a man who've been sleeping from cot to cot wherever the empire drags its belly on the ground each time they make camp away from enbarr.
sylvain lies still on his bed. he touches his throat and feels each bruise, stinging on his skin and he thinks, he really is beautiful. dimitri had grown into his height, filled out his armour nicely and bulked up in his rage and strength. the kind of man he'd never had thought he'd grown into. even his hair, blond and drawn over his face like a wild mutt ... he's fond of it. if he cleaned up, he'd look good.
but what really stirs him is the fact that he probably hasn't looked at anyone the way he did earlier to sylvain in a very long time. he'd locked his door. he expected to come back to him. this isn't the first time sylvain's been with someone so persistent and bad for him it's almost laughable, but it is his first time having it be the prince of faerghus or what's left of him. and now he wears his colours on his skin, etched in his obsession and torment: faerghus blue and black making a necklace around his neck. it's the most committed someone's ever been with him, and is it any surprise that it was the same boy he'd fallen in love with in his youth? a torment that had consumed him so badly it unsettled him, made him feel like the ground beneath his feet has shifted to a degree that he can no longer be amongst the living because sylvain jose gautier never, doesn't, fall in love.
but he did. he did, and he did the most cowardly thing he can think of: he decided that he needed to do what's best for him, and left the only good thing in his life before he can ruin it utterly by existing. and in so doing, he damned himself. dimitri will be fine. there will be others to drag him out of this hell. but himself?
he does not belong to the empire. he doesn't belong to gautier. not his kingdom, not anymore. but he can belong to someone who would take the time to ponder in his grief whether he's worth killing. he can't remember when was the last time he'd felt something, but he certainly feels something worth sinking his fingers into like the way he did to dimitri's wound earlier. this, whatever this is, this horrible thing that they have - yes. it's worth something. it's worth lingering on. he doesn't even care that he's filthy. he just cares about the fact he's been betrayed.
nobody certainly provides the kind of intimacy dimitri in his rage does.
and the way he towers over him -
- sylvain slips his hand inside his pants. bites his lower lip as he massages the front of his cock thinking of his prince.
his hand around his neck.
fuck.
it's fine, isn't it? he's not going to come back, dimitri doesn't care, and if he changes his mind and kills him when he returns, then who cares if he does it after he's thoroughly disrespected the prince in his mind? because that's what he's doing right now, thinking about how the prince can put his strength to better use, thinking about how low and filthy that is, thinking about how unbearable it was to touch him and kiss him and whisper sweet nothings in his ear during their childhood because he's so - he's so - unattainable - and here he is now, scum of the earth, nobody would ever mistake him for a prince at all. that's bearable. that's attractive, because now, they're the same. they're equals. dimitri is nothing more than a beast and sylvain is a horrible man and he will deign to be devoured by this beast.
he spits on his palm and starts stroking his cock furiously to the thought of dimitri. small mercies that he probably isn't going to live this til tomorrow, but god. he can feel something, like this, if he thinks of him, and it wouldn't be such a bad way to die. he can remember what it's like, a glimmer of it, being in love. and isn't that great, isn't that fantastic, how warm they kept each other back then, childish and foolish the way they carried out their affairs in private, dimitri blushing as he tells him, i'll teach you how to kiss, here's how you jerk me off, watch me, your highness - and thinking of saying all of those words to the beast right now, undressing for him as he opens his mouth and sinks his teeth onto his skin. like this, sylvain would say. fuck me. eat me alive. i'm yours. i'm yours. i'm -
when dimitri comes back the unmistakeable scent of sex will hang hot and heavy in his room and sylvain wouldn't even bother putting his clothes back on. his slick is visible all over his bare thighs, and he falls asleep like that on his bed - naked, not a care in the world if dimitri would snap his neck then and there for the outrage. fuck him. fuck him, really. ]
[As soon as he's out of the room, prowling down the corridor in a haze of rotten self-hatred, the voices come rushing in.
What do you think you're doing? Kill him! Snap his neck, crack his skull, rip him open... He deserves it. He's with them. They are the reason we are dead. He is the reason. Have you forgotten us so easily? Are we nothing to you? Are you no more than a mindless beast in heat—
Dimitri turns and slams his fist into the wall, his whole body quaking, eye closed to blot out the silhouettes he knows he will see over his shoulder if he looks. His father, his mother, Glenn. The faces of the others he'd watched die screaming so many years ago, forever burned into his mind with a permanency that cannot ever be altered. He bears it; they berate him, then begin to beg and plead. Please don't forget me, my son. Or Glenn's, I'm scared, pitifully weak as it slides like a blade between his ribs and rends him straight through. Dimitri's voice rasps out of his throat.] I'm sorry. I'll— I will, I promise, I will avenge you... [Soon. He can't yet. Sylvain may have information that will take him closer to the Empire, to having Edelgard's head on a pike. Surely this is not all for naught. Surely he is doing the right thing.
Or perhaps he's already made the fatal mistake and now he's playing out the consequences. It would be as much as he deserves. They're correct. He's a mindless beast, a monster who knows nothing except how to inflict violence, how to steep his hands deep in the bodies of the dead. It will be the same with Sylvain. There's no hope for diplomacy.
These bleak thoughts carry him to the baths, where he fills a wooden tub with ice-cold water and freezes himself all the way through, until his fingers and toes go numb, until he can feel nothing but the slow pulse of his own heavy heart. In this, even the voices begin to fade away, leaving him cold and alone in the dark. He scrubs his skin until it's chafed a vibrant red. Then he gets out, naked and dripping, and wraps haphazard bandages around the wound on his shoulder. He takes no time to apply balm or ointment; he deserves to feel the sharp pain at the itchy pressure of the gauze, he deserves the jagged scar that will stitch itself into his skin as a result. His movements are careless, and the resulting wrap is sloppy but tight. It's enough.
Then he dresses, yanking on his trousers and boots while leaving his torso still bare and damply frigid, and he returns to the room.
Sylvain is the one thought he hasn't been able to rid from his mind, and by the time he reaches the door, he's made a decision. He will have to kill him. There's no other choice. Dimitri's hand is clumsy on the latch; the door slams open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
That scent assails him first—met next by the sight of Sylvain sprawled in his bed, lean and bare, miles of pale skin marked by the combat scars to match his own over the years. The first thought has is that Sylvain has changed: he's filled out with muscle, he has the body of a man to replace the sinewy body of a boy half-grown. The second thought is that Sylvain hasn't changed at all. Matched against the bitter memory of their shared past, Sylvain is exactly the same. To have stripped himself naked and pleasured himself in the bed of his enemy... Slut is the word that hisses, sinister, in his head once again. This is only another seduction tactic. He will cross the room and end this charade now.
Dimitri looms over the bed, tall and dark and deranged, and instead of putting his hands around that throat as he intends—he's pushing Sylvain down into the sheets face first. He's climbing on top of him, knees locked around the back of Sylvain's thighs, sitting astride. His boots dig into the mattress to apply his full weight, crotch pressed to the swell of Sylvain's ass.]
What were you expecting, hm? [It's growled, low and haughty.] That I would be lenient and kind if only you gave me your body? That I would let you free in exchange? How many times must I say it... I am not that boy anymore.
[ he's rudely woken up by tall, dark and deranged. mostly because he feels the air knocked out of him again as his face hits the scratchy linens, his weight heavy against his back as he feels something pressing against the curve of his ass. it's not like he's not aware of the effect he has on people. sylvain knows he's charming. handsome. attractive. devastating, and painfully so. when dimitri decides to shove him onto his bed on his stomach instead of snapping his neck, sylvain wonders if it'd be easier if he just told him he was going to surrender. less of a hassle, and at least, as far as he's concerned, more honest than anything else.
grim, bitter thoughts run through his head, self-deprecating: does he like the view from behind? does he enjoy his body? he smelled like he'd run himself a bath, skin chafed raw from the cold in some self-flagellating gesture; did he think of him and willed himself not to be aroused? was he trying to explain to the dead that lust isn't something to be easily killed? he could laugh. does. it's a struggle to do it with his face against the mattress but his shoulders are shaking. now that he's had a bit of rest, dimitri can add something awful to his memories: laugh like honey. laugh like rich chocolate. the way sylvain turns to look at him sideways, lashes long and beautiful as it frames his treacherous eyes. did you seduce me? yes. yes. always. sex is a weapon. one he is proficient in, deadly with.
two can play this game. if he won't be killed, if he can't make a decision, then he will force the king to move. a gambit for a play.
sylvain arches his back and grinds his ass against his crotch as he struggles to free himself from his weight. to no avail, of course. dimitri has him immobile. but the point isn't the struggle. it's the slow movement of the body. the arch of it. the deliberate push and grind, the soft smile. i am not that boy anymore, he says. he repeats. like a prayer. a chant. ineffective against what he can't control. lust, like fear, is an honest emotion. it supersedes all else. that's why it has to be controlled. mastered. utilized where necessary. the body remembers. the body doesn't forget.
sylvain grins. ]
... No, your highness. You aren't.
But you have the appetite of a man condemned, and one who isn't easily sated.
[ with rest comes his fangs. baring them against his proverbial prince. what does he like? what does he want? he will make him confess with his body. he will make him learn how to pray. how to be afraid. all men are the same in bed. a prince is no different. and where dimitri is cold and his skin feels raw, sylvain is soft and warm, the mattress underneath him heated by his body like a furnace. ]
And if you have to repeat it to yourself, you're probably not certain who you are, still. So spare me.
[ he licks his lips. ] This is an odd way to try and kill a man, you know. But I believe in you, I'm sure you can make it work.
[ if. if.
c'mon, break my heart. break me. sylvain is a mess of sharp emotions and keen arrogance. the way he is right now, the difference in temperatures, he wants dimitri to make good with what he doesn't want to do. you know you want to. break me, you brat. ]
[This is a mistake. Yet even in the process of committing to it, Dimitri can't seem to stop. The self-awareness alone isn't enough. It may even be worse, because he is staring down into the face of a decision he should not make—and still choosing to make it.
There is the element of seduction he already knows, and he can no longer deny that fact, not faced with Sylvain's sly look, those hooded eyes he'd wear in their dormitory and outside while knowing Dimitri watched him across the classroom or dining table with rapt enchantment. He had never thought he could be so attracted to another man. At first it had terrified him, and it was only Sylvain's familiar guidance that led him through the storm; a bond formed in childhood made more boyish and tender, exploratory, unjudgmental. He'd never denied Sylvain's handsomeness, it was clear in every pair of eyes he managed to lure in their youth. Enough to incite a dark, confusing, seeded jealousy in his gut each time he overhead idle gossip in the hallways of the monastery. It was not as though they'd ever promised anything to one another.
And yet, foolishly, he had...
It's like he recalls. Almost. Sylvain is pale and lean underneath him, toned curves of muscle, red hair messy on the sheets, mouth full and wide in the slash of a smirk. He's beautiful. His beauty is wasted on war, surely, just as it was wasted on every frivolous affair of the past. Wasted on a prince as unworthy as him. Wasted, now, on Adrestia. They do not deserve to possess him—but that was Sylvain's choice, and now...
Dimitri sucks in a sharp breath. That struggle is enough to bear, as easy as putting his hand on Sylvain's head and tangling his fingers into crimson strands, yanking at the roots to lift Sylvain's chin off the bed. It is the ache that is worse, attraction throbbing hot and low in his belly; he can feel himself harden in moments. The pressure against his groin is a sin. There's no disguising the considerable shape of that heavy cock through black trousers, even as he reflexively lifts himself onto his knees to escape the sinuous grind of Sylvain's slender hips. Running away.]
What do you know of who I am now? You left me years ago. [Gritted, disgusted at himself for being so aroused, furious at Sylvain for causing it in him again.] A quick death would be a mercy you don't deserve.
How many others have you bedded since? Did you seduce them as well? Did you make promises you never intended to keep? [All he's learned, he's learned from Sylvain. What can be said when he shifts again, driving a knee between Sylvain's thighs to force them wider apart, to expose everything between, from the slope of his ass down to the soft tuck of balls on the mattress, back forced into an arch by the hand still tight in his hair. His voice is a condescending hiss.] Tell me how you would rather be treated, Sylvain.
[ sylvain isn't one of the dead that have come to haunt him. it's with that certainty that allows him to say - ]
I don't want your mercy. Either do it or don't.
[ but that promise of death would be more worrying if he didn't follow it with that question - how many others have you bedded since? and sylvain can only laugh. he spreads his legs the way he wants him to. he is unfortunately beautiful. that arch would be a sin held in dimitri's hand if he so wished, the only man he'd ever allow to pull him this taut into desire despite how it would damn him. that's another secret that dimitri had become privy to, perhaps all too late - if he anchored himself onto the gautier heir, he would drown. perhaps he ought to have listened to past governesses and tutors who have warned him in his youth, and not with a hint of distaste in their mouths, that the gautier children were wolves.
dimitri is stubborn, however. stubborn and prone to his moods, wanting, hungry, a monstrous thing that wants to eat. what can he say to such a desire? why should he stop it?
he really should cut his hair. dimitri's holding onto it so firmly, the way his locks curl blood red around his fingers in a way it hasn't for a long time. a familiar colour that's now second nature to him given how easily he can crush a man's skull.
if he wanted to.
if. ]
... I want to be treated like how you see me, your Highness. [ his arms reach out underneath his makeshift pillow, grasping the linens. not allowing himself the luxury of touching himself and putting on a show, his body entirely on display for another man. this isn't the first time he's wanted him. this isn't the first time he's had to entertain him. what's a body? just something to be used. he wishes he could've taught that lesson to dimitri much better than anything else, but he was stupid enough to fall in love instead. and stupid enough to be hopeful about it on top of everything else, like he never learned his lesson.
well. maybe if he surrenders he'll forget how it was and they can both go back to a state of mutual dislike. then it'll hurt less. it's not like he wants him to make amends; the time for such things is long past. dimitri may not kill him, but he will do him worse: toy with him until he was no longer useful. not ideal.
he'll make it ... easy. ]
Do you want me? Then you should take me for yourself.
You remember how, don't you? [ he looks at him sideways, lip caught in his teeth for a brief moment before he purrs his name - ] Dimitri.
[ he doesn't often call him by name. in bed, sure. but he had to learn it. had to learn how to let go of power, to view his prince as the boy he liked as opposed to one whom he is rendering service to. it's cruel to do it like this. it feels good in his mouth: a solid, powerful name. he relishes each syllable, adds the right amount of tone on the exhale. one can easily get lost in such a voice. ]
[The rage is blinding, tastes like rust on his tongue. The feeling is so immense. It fills him to the brim, to bursting, and somehow in the center of it is a moment of pure clarity. Through the physical attraction to Sylvain's body beneath him, through the hurt of betrayal, through the slippery descent of madness—he sees himself as he hasn't in a very long time. He sees the situation. That this is all an excuse just to touch Sylvain again, to play pretend in the way they once were together. That this is a gateway to oblivion, and at least for an hour he won't think about anything else. That Sylvain wants it too.
This last fact hangs like a hook, tempting disagreement with the proof before him. Sylvain is a liar. He's a snake taken straight to bed; Dimitri should know that better than anyone now. But, for all of that, he had never lied with his body. Everything he had taught Dimitri seemed to come from a place of sincere pleasure.
So what of now?
After, that dark promise slithers through his mind. After, I can kill him.
Dimitri withdraws himself from the bed at the soft, sultry murmur of his own name, a beast retreating, but the weight of that one blue eye never leaves.]
How could I forget? [His voice is low, scraping like steel. He sheds none of his clothing as he crosses the floor except for the burden of his cloak. It drops, fluttering, heavy fabric piling on the stone floor. Then he takes something from a drawer in the dresser, item hidden in a closed fist.] You were a careful, experienced teacher. Every lesson came with a demonstration.
[He moves deliberately out of Sylvain's scope of sight, around the side of the bed until he can climb on from the foot, one strong knee down between Sylvain's pale and delicate ankles.]
You wish to be treated how I see you? Are you certain of that? [Darker, tone woven into one that is both malice and desire at once, he slopes over Sylvain's back once more.] I see you as a whore to be passed around at court, good only for the use of your body. Meant to be bred only for your lineage.
[There's some irony in this. How badly he had wanted Sylvain to love him, in another life; how desperately he'd wished for their coupling to be done with tender romance and gentle affection. How very wrong it has turned here.
If he is seduced, so be it. I will kill him after. A pair of bare, oil-slicked fingers find the line of Sylvain's ass and slide into that tight furrow, seeking his hole with a brusqueness that lacks finesse and patience.]
[ it's uncomfortable and painful. dimitri tells him he's learned his lessons then proceeds to show him poorly in the next breath; sylvain would laugh, if he weren't so enraged at him already. he's courting death. courting his highness' rage, a many-teethed thing that longs to sink into something warm and bloody. he shouldn't push him too hard. he might not see the sunrise at all.
dimitri's fingers are impatient, not letting him enjoy or adjust the way he likes it. not the worst sex he's had. it is, also, not enough to turn him off and make it miserable. maybe that's just how things have been with him for a long time: nothing in this world being entertaining enough to be worth living for, everything else that happens to him is just accidental, that when he actually gets hurt about something, when he feels pain keenly on an emotional and physical level, sylvain is surprised. it's like he remembers, briefly, that he still had a heart, even as it pathetically beats behind his rib cage. dimitri was once his love, he remembers that. and that his darling love has grown into something terrible, he can't say he hates him at all.
if nothing else, it makes him long for him more. makes him wish, for a hot second, that he had never betrayed him.
it's an awful thing to consider, because it's not like it'll change how they fuck. but sex is an arsenal to sylvain, and having someone use it against him, even accidentally, it's always humbling.
his body is honest about what it wants: only what dimitri wishes to give. and his highness is a ship leaking, all of his emotions breaking through the stern. when he whispers those words with malice, sylvain can easily imagine it: passed around under his orders, to be used. while he watches. bred for his pleasure, under his control.
he would surrender to such attention.
sylvain's hands clench tightly around rough sheets, his toes curling and his breath ragged as he fucks him with his fingers. he arches his back and pushes against his hand, greedy, wanting even more. didn't i teach you better? you call that technique? ]
Are you going to watch? [ sylvain grins. ] Will you let this whore of yours get filled up before you deign to fuck me with your cock, or will you let them breed me and leave me after?
... because if your answer isn't the latter, then you've lost to me.
But hey, that's not the worst that can happen, right? [ he reaches behind him to spread himself obscenely for dimitri's use. for all of his roughness, he hasn't forgotten how to do it, and it's driving him insane. he doesn't often fuck men. men are more demanding in bed than women, constantly wanting proof that sex matters. women are easier prey for him, and he relishes their hatred after. serves them right. they never wanted him. but dimitri - ]
.... ah ... it's still ... being with you, after all this time.
[ all this time, still a bad idea. still his awful vice. sylvain will never let go of him: a poisonous thought. maybe that's a kind of loyalty, too. not that dimitri will accept that as currency now. ]
[The ruins of Garreg Mach Monastery are cold on this night, as they are often, a fact he has embraced for its blessing. At present it is more useful than usual: Dimitri is running a fever. A consequence of some battle wound ill attended, most likely, and less out of an explicit desire to die—he can't, not yet—than a willful negligence and lack of proper treatment. The Monastery has fortunately maintained many of its stores of food and supplies over the years of its neglect, and he has found most of them in the cellars and storage closets. Still, it is no replacement for a trained healer. And if he is a bit brusque with dressing his own wounds, then it is only because of fumbling hands and a personal disregard for his own pain.
It has been two days since the reappearance of his professor and dear friend. In that interim, Dimitri has not yet decided how to handle it. At first—despite proof of the corporeality of Byleth's presence—he'd treated him as no more than an apparition on the fringes of his awareness, something to be ignored until it went away on its own, or until he satisfied it to absolution. Just like the others.
Yet as the hours wear on, and Byleth does not leave or otherwise state his demands, Dimitri's brittle composure begins to chafe. The man is like the raw, infected wound beneath his breastplate. His existence is sore and vivid in every corner that he turns. So Dimitri can do nothing but attempt to avoid him, which is how he's found himself up on the battlements in the middle of the night, facing the distant cliffs where Byleth was last seen on that battlefield. He can remember it to a painful clarity: that bitter, sinking pit in his stomach upon realizing Byleth was gone forever. He'd searched through the rubble until Dedue was forced to haul him away, hands bloodied, screaming.
In contrast to the weight of the memory, the night is crystallized with silence. He sits with his back against stone, armor and upper clothing stripped off, baring the mottled scars healed badly on his skin. The worst of those wounds is high on the right side of his chest. Exposed to the elements, the cold wind scything at feverish skin is a relief.
Naturally it is short lived. At the sound of footsteps, Dimitri doesn't lift his head, but his low voice carries like a growl.] You should leave this place. Why you continue to linger is beyond my understanding, except that perhaps you intend to drive me further into madness out of spite alone. There is nothing for you here.
[ Surprisingly, the loss of five years isn't so difficult to cope with. Perhaps because his mind has always been somewhat pliant, though instinct tells him his disposition is not the sole cause of his acceptance. There's something else at play here. A concept he can barely grasp but knows intuitively to be right. Just. As if this is the universe's attempt to balance the scales after he's recklessly defied the laws of the world and turned back time for his own selfish gain.
In other words, this is "fate."
Acknowledging his pilfered time as an inevitability does not mean his mind is completely at ease, however. Too much has transpired in his absence, more than he can begin to comprehend without venturing outside these stone walls. All he knows is the world he had only just begun to know has been turned on its head, leaving his home in disarray and his students scattered.
That said, scattered feels too mild a word when most everyone's fate remains unknown. Most, but not all. He'd been happy when he stumbled across Dimitri, the face familiar to him even when the expression was not. Over the last two days, however, whatever comfort came from being in his student's presence has mixed with concern. There's no sign of the smile of the prince he used to know, no sign of joy or kindness. These years apart have left Dimitri hurt in ways that he's yet to fully grasp.
Will the rest of his students be like this, too? The thought brings with it a spike of guilt. Guilt, for sleeping while his students suffered—and for accepting his lot so easily. Realistically, he probably couldn't have done much to change the events that occurred while he slept, but he cannot help but feel responsible all the same.
Sometime during his musings, his feet bring him to Dimitri's side. This place... he hasn't been here since his fall. Memories of the battle begin to flood his mind, but he wills them away in favor of focusing on the sight before him. That wound...
The severity of the injury stuns him, though he's otherwise unsurprised. He'd noticed signs of it in the way Dimitri moved, almost too stiff at times. Too rigid. He'd even caught traces of the scent of fresh blood and a festering wound when his companion moved too suddenly, presumably prying bandages from their place.
Byleth's lips tug unknowingly into a frown, and his eyes remain fixed on the sight right until Dimitri speaks. Reluctantly, he raises his gaze to his companion's one blue eye to take in his words.
... are his actions truly so unfathomable? He's often accused of being a hard man to read, but staying feels as natural to him as breathing. ]
Do I strike you as so callous a person? [ There's a moment's pause after his question. He doesn't need the time to gather his thoughts, nor does he require an answer when he's already well aware of what it will be. The pause comes only so he can consider how much of an explanation is needed here. ] I suppose I understand, in some small way, why you might believe that. But I'm afraid there is no mystery here. I stay out of worry for your well-being.
If that isn't reason enough— [ Here, his lids slide to a close and he releases a quiet exhale. ] —then let us leave it at this: this is my home, and there is little for me anywhere but here.
[Dimitri remains where he is, unmoving, back pressed to the cool stone as he stares out at the dark sky. His hands are cold; he's left on his gloves and curled them into his lap, knowing not to expose more vulnerable limbs to the element, but his body is used to the sheer temperature difference. If anything, he is reminded of Faerghus—an aching burn of nostalgia that is only embittered now. He wonders if he will ever return to his home country again. He wonders if he has a right to.
Even feeling Byleth in his peripheral, he is reluctant to turn. Something about the professor's presence is... overwhelming at such proximity, and he feels made of transparent glass, seen straight through and puzzled out to his deepest hurts. There is no mystery. Dimitri would disagree with that sentiment. All of it is a mystery from beginning to end. He doesn't understand what he's done to deserve the concern; in fact, if anything he should be bracing himself for yet more blame and anger. It should come raining down upon him like hellfire.]
I cannot make you leave. [Stated darkly, like its own insult—pointed upon himself rather than the man who was once his professor.] I can only tell you that your consideration for me is unwarranted and unnecessary.
[Dimitri's hands clench into tight, cold fists in his lap. His head aches; his chest throbs where the infected wound sits.]
... Your home is in a sorry state. ["I am in a sorry state." He could argue the point of Byleth finding somewhere else to go, but then, he is not one to preach about abandoning the past.] What will you do now, then?
[ Once upon a time, some of those words could have come from his lips. That may be why he knows there is little he can say to persuade Dimitri. Such thoughts aren't rational, after all. No matter how one might convince themselves otherwise. Not that silence is the best answer. Reassurance would be, he suspects. Yet, he also suspects any attempts at it would ring hollow.
If nothing else, his pause leaves him time to take in Dimitri's form again—poor as the angle is for a proper examination. All he can tell from where he is is the same as before: there is a wound, one pungent in odor and left to fester.
...? No, wait. Byleth's gaze runs along the muscles of Dimitri's arm, which seemed to clench. Even if only for a moment. Is there a wound there, too? Or is he simply reading into a gesture he's yet to discern the meaning of?
He ponders the pointed words and mysterious gesture a second time before speaking. Thankfully, this topic is an easier one. ]
No matter its state, it's still standing. [ That's important, though his feelings on this wouldn't change even if the buildings were reduced to dust. Emboldened, he takes one step toward Dimitri. ] I know there's much to do. For now, I'd like to start small. To tend to what I know I can so as to not lose myself to my goals.
That's also why, before anything else, I'd like to take a look at your injuries. Will you allow me?
[That sole blue eye flickers at the movement, too accustomed to tracking enemies on the battlefield; he cannot school his own response to the approach. He keeps his sight low, an eclipsed view of Byleth's figure—just the lower portion of his body, darkly clothed, coat fluttering with the wind. Byleth hasn't changed at all. He has not even aged a day.
It causes Dimitri to be too aware of his own appearance, filthy and dour, a certain contrast of memory. It is the first time he's felt any shame for it.]
... You are wasting your attention. [Quiet, rasping speech. It isn't a refusal. As if to clarify this, Dimitri's tensely coiled posture begins to open. His legs stretch out and he lifts his shoulders, though his head reminds bowed, allowing access to the middle of his body. Like a wild animal made momentarily docile. The wound is sliced across his bare chest from the work of a blade, four inches in length, skin puckered red and sore around the seam of flesh.] It will not kill me.
[At least, not quickly. If he does die from his wounds then it will be the goddess' will. Perhaps it would be a mercy to the world at large. They already believe he is dead.
He considers asking Byleth what his goals are, but the question dies in his mind, fading with fatigue and apathy. He is simply silent.]
[ Had the statement been left to sit a moment longer, the nuance of Byleth's response would have been very different. His tone would've been firmer, for one. As if he were hoping his insistence would somehow convince Dimitri or make up for his earlier hesitation. Peculiarly, his approach beyond that would've been more reserved. He would've only dared to take one more step, two at most, out of respect for his companion's space.
Thanks to the way the blond shifts and opens himself up, that isn't quite as necessary here. Soft footfalls precede his voice, as well as a hand he lightly touches to Dimitri's knee as he kneels. ]
It isn't a waste. [ There's a gentleness to Byleth's voice, now. One that makes its way to his features for only a scant few seconds before muted sorrow settles back in.
Before continuing, he pulls his hand away and focuses on his assessments. "Bad" feels too much like an understatement, just as the word "mild" had earlier. The bright red surrounding the cut, the slightly swollen flesh, and the length itself all point to an injury that needs more care than its received. ]
If the infection spreads, it might. [ Should he try and take Dimitri's temperature?
... No, not yet. He'll save it for when he comes back. ] I'll need to gather some supplies to take care of this. Will you wait for me?
[A single blue eye slides to the gloved hand on his knee, and it takes all of his willpower not to jolt away from it. Like an animal that has not seen a gentle touch in years, Dimitri watches warily, his whole body tense and held only by the knowledge that this is the professor, and if Byleth desired to kill him... there are better ways to do it than lie and feign concern. This does not make it easier to bear. The gentleness is so foreign, yet so familiar. The place on his knee burns after Byleth has withdrawn the touch.
Will you wait for me?
In this context, the question is benign. To Dimitri, who wishes it did not reflect the desperation of his despair all those years he was alone, he almost cannot find it within himself to reply. His voice is a raspy whisper when he finally manages.]
Yes. I'll wait.
[He has nowhere to be but here. If he left, he suspects Byleth would follow him through Garreg Mach like one of the many other ghosts that haunt him, persistent to the end. He still can't fully convince himself the other man is real and whole in front of him now.]
[ It's only when Dimitri's voice finally meets the air that Byleth realizes, given where they are, the question was perhaps a cruel one. Will you wait for me. As if finding Dimitri here wasn't an answer in and of itself. As if it wasn't a sign that, in all this time, Dimitri hadn't forgotten him. Hadn't been waiting for him. The thought felt too strange, too divorced from his reality to contemplate before now. After all, before he'd come to the monastery the concept of someone missing him in such a way never so much as grazed his periphery. Nor was he consciously aware such feelings could exist between two people.
His world had been too small for too long. Even now that it's expanded, and even after he's learned what it means to feel someone's absence so keenly, it seems like he's having trouble with such basic concepts.
Rather than leaving, Byleth remains where he is, one knee still awkwardly touching the rubble as he tries to redirect his thoughts. Somewhere along the way, a hand finds its way to his mouth, curling there as he contemplates. Seconds pass, then he shakes his head slowly. ]
No, I'm sorry. That was unkind of me. [ Remorse bleeds into his tone. No matter what his reasons may have been, he shouldn't have asked. And any explanation he could give now feels too much like an excuse to his mind. ] You shouldn't have to wait on me again. Not here.
[ Not even for this. Admittedly, he's still wary of forcing Dimitri to move with those injuries, but it isn't as if Dimitri planned on staying here overnight anyway. ...
He shakes even that thought from his mind. Then, he rises to his feet to reach his hand out to help the blond up. ] Come back with me instead.
[In that interim, his head has hung down, expecting the quiet footsteps over stone that will carry the professor away from him again. He is prepared to wait out in the cold night, wind scything his skin numb as Byleth vanishes and the promise of his return feels up to chance—that perhaps this is all imagined, in the end. He cannot seem to shake this possibility no matter how many times he's proved wrong.
Then he's spoken to, and a gloved hand is offered out once more. So like the phantom who had first found him in the ruins of the monastery only two days ago. Dimitri stares at it. His mind feels blank, his body tired and heavy.]
... [That sole eye closes as broad shoulders flex and relax on a deep, exhaling breath.] If you meant to show true kindness, you would leave me be for good.
[Yet these words come without that hot, incendiary tone he's thrown at the professor since their reunion. It's simply bare and worn down, vaguely reminiscent of a more polite, considerate version of himself than the beast he's become (and always was).
There's really no other choice. Even like this, he feels beholden to Byleth's instruction, regardless of everything else. Dimitri clasps that hand with his own—so much larger, folding over those thin and slender fingers, his palm huge and surprisingly warm. But he doesn't use the professor to leverage up his considerable size. Instead, his other hand plants on the stone and he pushes from there, until he's standing at his full and towering height, prepared to follow.]
[ And now they've circled back to this. Dimitri's insistence on the cruelty of his presence doesn't convince him. Not when he feels that hand grasping at his own, overly warm even through their gloves and with a touch that's somehow so tender. He doubts the latter is Dimitri's intention, it's more his impression as the prince's (king's? By now, Dimitri should have been crowned) fingers fold over his. His own respond in kind, but he's surprised to find that the blond never shifts any weight onto his palm.
The action, subtle as it is, speaks volumes of his student's mind. Some part of him knows he should take comfort in being allowed this close at all, yet he can't help carving more. He wants—
Byleth's brows furrow and the thought is lost to him before it finishes. All he does for the next few seconds is watch their clasped hands as he waits for Dimitri to stand. ]
No, it would only be an illusion of it. [ There's a finality to the words, a firmness that shows there's little that can change his mind on this point. Ironically, it was Dimitri who planted this thought in his mind. Dimitri, who always reached out to him. Who taught him how to lead, how to care, and how to mourn. If there's anyone in this world he could never give up on, it's the man in front of him.
When he reflects on everything Dimitri has done for him, his fingers squeeze around Dimitri's hand. ] Is there anything I should carry?
[His hand is kept prisoner by that firm, persistent hold. Dimitri finds himself staring down at their joined hold. It has been so many years since he's touched another living person without the intent to kill. Naturally, his mind drifts into the dark and twisted thoughts of how easy it would be to grab, clutch, and snap that slender wrist, barely any application of strength to feel it give beneath his superior power. Yet as soon as this occurs to him, he feels sick. He does not want to hurt the professor. An illusion or not, a ghost of the dead made temporarily tangible—it's real enough for now.
As though fearful he might accidentally hurt Byleth, he tugs his hand loose with noticeable abruptness. It closes into a fist at his side.]
No. [Dimitri bends to collect the clothing and armor he had shed to feel the cold, left in a bundled pile on the stone. He won't burden the professor with this. If he winces at the pain that lances across his chest from the inflamed wound, it's easy to mask.] Nothing.
[Then he sweeps past Byleth, shoulders slightly hunched and head down, headed for the stairs that will return them to the warm inner halls of the monastery.]
Byleth's hand falls to his side, the descent slow as he ponders whether he should regret it or not. Maintaining the touch had felt right. In his mind, refusing to break contact was the same as reinforcing his desire to stay together, but if in the process he caused his companion discomfort then perhaps he'd been wrong. It's still too difficult to judge what's too far—and what actions are more akin to treating Dimitri like a child than the adult he's become.
At his side, Byleth's fingers spread before curling toward his palm. Rather than dwelling on that or the solemn way Dimitri collects his belongings, he tries to make a list of the supplies he'll need. Bandages. Water, boiled preferably. Fresh clothes, as the garments Dimitri plucks from the ground are doubtlessly too caked in blood and grime to be worn. A twinge comes from his chest at the sight of them, not that they're the worst reminder of what Dimitri has endured these past few years. Even so, the thought he'd lost a moment ago returns. He wants things to be how they were before. Back when Dimitri relied on him, confided in him, and most of all allowed him to share his burdens.
Byleth tries once more to shove such unfair wishes away. Having them in the first place is what's truly cruel. Dimitri is still Dimitri, and he's certain that there's more of the boy he used to know left than the glimpses he's seen.
When his student (former student, his mind supplies. These corrections come too slowly and each feels more awkward than the last) moves, he follows. He makes sure to keep pace with Dimitri, going neither a step ahead nor a step behind just in case something goes amiss. ]
As much as I'd like to let you rest in your room tonight, the dust and debris will only aggravate your injuries. [ Though the same can be said for most rooms in the monastery. He has been able to clean his own room and the classroom, but—
No, there's no "but." Dimitri's condition is already poor, there's no sense in placing him anywhere that might worsen it. ] I'm afraid you'll have to settle for my room tonight. I can prepare yours tomorrow when it's bright enough to see what I'm moving.
[It is harder to ignore Byleth's physical presence at his side than it should be. Far worse than when he is at a distance somewhere on the grounds. After so long alone, with nothing but ghosts and regret for company, he's grown accustomed to the solitude, used to seeing his own shadow in the corners of his periphery at every turn—not another's, not the second pair of footfalls that follow him down the stairwell into heart of the monastery. He is caught between resentment at that fact and a darker, aching wonder at what is going on in the professor's mind. He looks no older than the day Dimitri thought him dead.
Where had he been? What had happened? Had he thought of him, even once, in those five years?
It seems he cannot help but think of him as the professor even now. Byleth. Calm, mysterious, concrete at his side—until he wasn't. Anger is a blister inside of him, but it comes second to the dragging sense of shame; Dimitri does not turn his head as they descend, route automatically carrying him toward the room near the dormitories where he's put a cache of supplies. The location is strategic, meant to make it difficult for bandits or thieves to find and ransack. He expects Byleth has already come across the hoard of food and medicinal supplies since his earlier exploration.
He hasn't asked why Byleth is wasting his time cleaning out other rooms. A single blue eye widens and flickers over at the suggestion, then darts again away.]
... That isn't necessary. I will not be sleeping. [So the heavy shadows of exhaustion and fatigue on his face have a plain culprit now.] The monastery must be guarded. The Cathedral is suitable enough for a short rest, should I find myself too tired. Don't bother with my room. It is not mine any longer.
[The Cathedral, which is huge and empty, where footsteps would alert him to anyone's presence on the glazed stone floor, where if he wakes up to the screams of nightmares he will not bother anyone else.]
[ Garreg Mach is a spacious place. Had the hoard been hidden somewhere else, such as one of the towering buildings or underground tunnels, he might not have spied it. Here, though. Here, he'd have trouble missing it.
Some part of him had not expected this level of clarity from Dimitri. The few times they've interacted since his resurgence, the prince has been little better than the beast Felix once thought him to be. Volatile, distant, and focused on a singular point his mind refused to deviate from. He'd feared his gentle friend had lost even the ability to care for himself, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Not entirely, at least.
Byleth eases into the room, his steps occasionally accompanied by the soft sound of rubble crunching under his boot. For the time being, he ignores them. Ignores the patches of dirt decorating the floor, the layers of dust settling on every surface, and the sharp stones littering the ground. Each makes resting here uncomfortable—and treating someone impossible. But right now, more than anything, he's happy to see he underestimated Dimitri.
He honestly thought this cache of supplies had been left by the Knights of Seiros after their last battle. His lips move before he can think to stop them. ]
I almost thought you'd been sustaining yourself on weeds. [ He'd caught the comments Dimitri would make to Dedue while they worked together, plucking them from the ground as they did their chores. At the time he'd agreed with Dimitri, but now... Now he doesn't want to imagine someone so gentle forced to live such a miserable life.
Byleth shakes his head slowly, drawing himself from his musings to concentrate on the man beside him. ] ... No, I suppose it isn't. I won't demand you stay there, even if I must insist you rest.
[ What a nostalgic conversation. Strange as it is to call it such when, to him, the last time they had this discussion was a few short weeks ago. ]
Garreg Mach was meant to be my responsibility. Tonight, I ask you leave it to me and allow yourself time to heal.
[The noise Dimitri makes at the first comment is a dry and humorless grunt, the shape of laugh that never materializes. Weeds alone wouldn't sustain his body in combat against his enemies. What was once a creative thought to survival is really just pathetic, boyish fantasy. He does not say this.
Time to heal, this ghost of a man tells him. As if it would be so easy to mend the injuries of his spirit. His body, perhaps, but those hurts are only a reminder that he's still alive, that he can still fight. What would he be without that? Even now the wound in his chest burns, throbbing with heat equal to his fever, a constant distraction luring him away from his murky thoughts.]
I will go to the Cathedral after this.
[This is as far as Dimitri appears willing to relent. He does not look in Byleth's direction as he drops his collected garments—armor, a tattered shirt, the heavy burden of his cloak—onto the ground at his feet like a pile of trash, an afterthought, then seats himself on a crate beside the collected supplies. His wound is exposed on the center of his chest: a nasty furl of flesh, jagged where the end of an enemy's spear punctured the skin and clipped off to the side of his shoulder. His breastplate saved him from death, but the surrounding area is mottled badly by deep, purple bruising, and the cut itself is bright pink with stinging infection. He is obedient, still and tense like a ready bow.]
This place is only a memory. You have no responsibility to it now. There is no one here but the dead.
[ Halls that were once replete with life and noise are now deathly still. The silence, which is somehow much more unbearable than even the soundless void that surrounded the Goddess' throne, gnawed at him in the first few hours of his homecoming. Now, he's accustomed to it. So much so that it takes that small grunt—which feels far more human than the earlier crunch of pebbles beneath his boots—to remind him of the deafening quiet of the monastery. It reverberates in the enclosed space, or perhaps it only seems that way to his ears. Regardless, the noise attracts his gaze and he finds himself observing the set of Dimitri's jaw.
...has he said something strange? Try as he might, studying the man reveals nothing more. All it provides is a fleeting thought that the prince's features stand out even when bathed in shadow. It's only after Dimitri makes his "concession" that Byleth's eyes stray to the side.
It's a dissatisfying response for many reasons. The cathedral has seen the most decay of any space in the monastery—the dirt that envelops the room, the debris that have laid siege to the ground, and the exposed interior that allows every element within its walls. There are better choices for a respite and yet... What can he do save agree?
After all, this could be an expression of Dimitri's faith in the goddess. Though it seems more likely he is struggling to grab hold of a reason when reason no longer applies.
"There is no one here but the dead."
The statement brings a crease to his brows and, with it, a twinge of an emotion he has come to know but not yet fully grasped how to cope with. To ward the sentiment away, Byleth raises a hand to gently touch at his bangs. The gesture only lasts a moment before he shakes his head and collects the supplies he needs. Then, he heads to the door. ]
... You and I are here. [ And they are the only ones. That he hopes his students will return and reside within these halls again is foolish, sentimental, and selfish. Like Dimitri, they have surely grown and found new pursuits. They cannot, nor should they, stay students forever. Even knowing that, he cannot keep himself from wishing otherwise.
[He had known, all along, war would never be an easy path. It makes the reality no more bearable. Dimitri isn't naive enough to believe they're nearing the end of it, even if the thought is a tempting dream and the others might wonder at his understanding of the situation. The truth is, Dimitri has not expected an easy way out. Since the Tragedy, he's become familiar with violence beyond the scope of the ordinary; he comprehends the harsh landscape of war far better than most, than those who might have grown up sheltered away from cruelty and betrayal. He never expected the decision to go against the Empire to be the way of kindness or mercy. Yes, he had wished he might change Edelgard's heart, but even this hope he recognized—in some deep corner of his mind where rage is painted bright red—it would be impossible.
So here they are. Edelgard is dead, and her closest advisor and retainer is sitting in a dungeon, in the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, where they once were dear childhood friends.
Dimitri had never told anyone about the Hubert of his childhood memory. He suspects Edelgard must have known, given their relationship to one another; surely they have discussed Dimitri back to front to further their own strategic ambitions. Not that they had seemed to gain anything of it. He hadn't seen Hubert during the war until the end, even if the other man's influence hung like a pall over every battlefield Dimitri entered against the Empire. Sinister, clever, ruthless. Hubert is a sharp blade where he is only a blunt instrument. Yet both of them know violence. Sad, that it has come to this.
His footsteps are heavy over stone as he descends beneath the castle, a cool draft reaching him from the shadowed corridors winding within this place. He doesn't visit it often, but it is not because he means to turn a blind eye to what is down here. None of his prisoners are treated poorly. They are fed, kept warm and healthy—only in chains. Hubert is no exception, no matter his deception and ingenuity on the Empire's side.
Arriving at the cell, Dimitri looks in through the barred window at its front, taking in the sight of the man who was once a precious part of his early life. The boy who taught him to play chess, to dance, who practiced little feats of magic to Dimitri's amazement, who made him think.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@diq
The reality is much less fantastical, but not any kinder.
Dimitri is unmoved when he sees the colored banners of the Imperial army breach the forested edge of the territory from one of the Monastery's higher battlements. It is not the first time they've sought to investigate this area, out of ignorance or otherwise, and he suspects it will not be the last. This suits him fine. As many as must be killed, he will kill, drenching the soil in their rotten blood until the stench drives even the smallest animals in the brush further away.
He waits for the cover of night, after the sun has burned its pale warmth out of sight, then descends the fortified castle into the wilderness surrounding it, no more than a black shape passing into the trees. Perhaps the stealth is unnecessary; he'd counted nine heads from his vantage earlier, an amount that might have daunted a normal warrior but less than he has confronted on his own by now. Still, Imperial soldiers are better trained than bandits and petty criminals. And he must live yet, even against his own will.
Picking off the men individually—sometimes two, three at once—and driving them into a confused scatter, Dimitri's assault begins and ends in the dark. He saves the general for last. And he is dully impressed, because he has been stabbed once in the shoulder and heavily battered through his blood-painted armor by the retaliation. The soldiers are led well.
Perhaps it is no real surprise, then, to see Sylvain when he comes to finish it, his childhood friend mounted on horseback, regal and proud, red hair a bright spot in the shadow. Dimitri slows to a stop. He plants Areadbhar in the dirt, and leans on the shaft, glaring levelly, as numb to the steady pain in his shoulder as he is to the sick twist of his stomach. His voice rasps with disuse.]
So our reunion arrives at last.
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his captains tell him: the townspeople are worried about the demon in the walls. sylvain had only shrugged, frowning at the report. in the absence of gods, men more desperate than he is have constructed false ones. perhaps that was inevitable, too.
in the dark, his men fall one by one as if hunted down. death doesn't bother him, at least not anymore, but when it's his battalion he starts to worry. he calls the search off; orders his captains to pull together the soldiers towards him in a close formation, ready to attack as a whole instead of scattered to the winds like easy prey.
he'd learned a few things, here and there. the empire not being charitable to his background considering the privilege (hah) he'd enjoyed as a friend and supposed confidante of dimitri, they have decided not to trust him; which is wise, really, though it means that sylvain has to prove himself twice as hard in battle because nothing else is riding on his name. more than that, the rumours about him continue to circulate: if he can betray his prince, what more for the emperor? nevermind the fact that he'd fought his father and everyone else to get here. that hubert keeps him on a tight leash. that felix is likely honing a sword's edge with his name on it. he had wanted freedom; he had obtained it at a cost; and while he does not regret his decision, sylvain being too jaded now to believe in nothing else short of the ground being razed to make room for a new fodlan. here, in the empire, he's just a general. one with his vices, but then again, who isn't?
such as this, for example. learning a taste for heartbreak is one of his tragedies. the familiar lance - and that is all where it stops. dimitri, as he is in a way that he doesn't remember. blue eyes that he could lose himself in his depths, blond hair so soft in his hands. that boy is long gone. shut up against the armour like it was his own prison, covered in blood, reeking of death. his horse whinnies, feels tense at his approach. sylvain's armor, black and red, well-used in war, looks pristine compared to his armor, well-worn, battle-tested. a threat.
how should he address him? he was your highness for most of his life; dimitri in the quiet of his bedroom which is now a memory he can never bring up lest he betray him even more. who is this man? faerghus' king? they don't even know he's alive.
his captains look to him in response.
sylvain is quiet, his horse impatiently pawing the ground, aching to fight. ]
... you're a little too good at making a guy's heart all a-flutter.
[ edelgard would want him alive. hubert will have his head if he doesn't comply. there is nothing for him to return to - gautier has denounced him, fraldarius will quarter him when its interim duke finds him. nothing but the empire, now, and edelgard's lovely hand, snow white, reaching out to him. come with me. ]
I know you're probably aching to stab me, but is there any chance you can make room for talks? Over tea, perhaps? [ sylvain smiles. he is a chameleon, wearing his old face, nice and warm and loving. his voice soft and affectionate. it fits him like a glove. there you go, your highness. i've been waiting for you. ] I recall you loved chamomile a lot, though I think you have different tastes now.
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Save your breath.
[Spat bitterly, Dimitri comes forward two steps, eye cold and blue on the enemy in front of him.]
Your men cannot leave this place alive. You and I both should know that. [Either they will die by his lance, here and now, or Dimitri will deliver them to the locked cells within the Monastery and forget the key. He speaks without intending to give Sylvain the choice; he's simply being clear.] You, on the other hand, I am inclined to spare... for now. Surrender, or I will force you to your knees myself.
[It's a dark, gritty growl as animal as the rest of his appearance. Mercy is nowhere in mind. However—a general of the Imperial army can be used for information. How stupid to send something so valuable straight to him.]
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[ sylvain is strong, reliable on the battlefield as a capable general, but reckless, as always. his captains look at him, wincing at his words as he says them, because sylvain always fights like he's going to die the next day. his men deserve better, which is why he pushes them as hard as he can. but for himself? if he knew what self-preservation was like it had deserted him like a goddess in the ruins the way garreg mach stands now, a shell of its former self. and what are they if not that?
surrender, dimitri declares, and sylvain sighs. would that it was easier to do so, just to bend the knee and let him cut off his head the way he would want to. the way he probably deserves it, maybe. sylvain has very few regrets, and he can't really say past loves are one of them, but losing dimitri in this manner is enough to make a man pause about life. the promise of his life being spared is an attractive prospect. maybe if he were a better man, he would've taken the offer.
as it stands, he is no longer that man. whatever promises he'd made as a knight of faerghus to him, once upon a time, no longer applies here. all he has is sadness; but then again, all everyone has nowadays is sadness for currency. tragedy as a homecoming. the desire to kill him feels like miklan, feels like falling into a well and tasting rancid water in his mouth, winter in the cold mountains as all the numbness starts touching his fingers and toes and he contemplates of death.
the violence and vitriol feels like home. it is so palpable in the way dimitri talks that he can almost feel miklan's shadow. ]
As for being on my knees, well. I've got a lot of experience on that. You're just playing to my strengths here. [ the slightest tittering rumbles across his battalion, like crows in the fall. ] But I can't say I'm good at the 'surrendering' part at all.
Can't we negotiate something else?
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Yet realizing this confrontation is going to come to violence otherwise, and knowing his old friend's skill, Dimitri does not do what he would normally do. His lance remains idle at his side, where it should already be in a someone else's throat. He may be no better than a monster, but like so many others in this wretched world, he is an intelligent one.]
Do you think so little of me? That I might blindly trust your pretense of negotiation? [This is hissed, edged in steel.] I am no longer that boy, Sylvain.
[It isn't that he cares whether greater Fodlan comes to know of his survival—disadvantageous as it might be. But his desires remain unchanged, and the only way to reach them is the path set through the corpses at his feet.] If you will not suffer their deaths here, they will be imprisoned at the Monastery until I decide otherwise. Then you and I will talk.
[He says the words, feeling already that they are a lie. As though talk is something he is even capable after so long. Perhaps there is some shred of his past self still scrambling for the light, deep down—something he must to amend.]
Accept this term, or we can finish our dispute here in blood.
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he sighs. ]
I don't think little of you at all. [ i don't think of you at all, he wants to lie, but he knows even that is a bit too transparent for him. ] I wouldn't have offered negotiations if there weren't any chance you might listen to begin with.
But my men deserve better than the General they have, and I'm not willing to accept such terms.
How about this: they will leave me with you, unarmed, and exit the monastery grounds until the day after. If I don't come back out, they can assume you've done the Empire a service. And all of my past loves.
[ several of his captains look uncomfortable at the offer. one clears their throat audibly, as if in disagreement; sylvain maintains the smile on his face. it's easy enough to wear, anyway. ]
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Then again, if that should occur, it will draw his enemies straight to him.
Stepping forward, Dimitri moves fearlessly into the space close to Sylvain, ignoring the weapons that tilt in his direction as if awaiting a delayed command. Lance lowered in signal of his commitment, he reaches out and seizes the reins of Sylvain's horse.]
Fine. Drop your weapon. [A service for his past loves. Should he count himself among them? No sooner has the thought arrived and he's cast it bitterly aside. No, of course not.] Let them run back with their tails between their legs to live another day. I'll hunt them down later, if I must.
[If Sylvain has obediently disarmed, he will pull on the horse and begin to guide it away, mounted General and all.]
https://i.imgur.com/kg1hlSp.png
sylvain thinks to all the times felix has called him a boar and thinks he must feel vindicated now, in a bitter way, that all of his nightmares have come to pass.
he is guided by dimitri on his horse, uneasy by the way someone else other than his owner has seized the reins. sylvain hushes it, running his hands comfortingly on the animal's powerful neck. he can't deny the unease, too. dimitri may be calm now, but he's one of the many intelligent beasts of fodlan. and sylvain has spent enough time in this country to know that nothing here gets done without violence. he is an unwilling captive with a bestial prince, and the image would've been hilarious if it weren't so serious. turning himself over to dimitri given the state of things is a dangerous gamble.
in the dark, he watches his form. his hair long and matted on the sides of his face, the pelt of his over his armour ferocious and big like a dead animal, his armour covered in blood and grime. dimitri has filled out to his height, none of the softness the boy he knew had. that one, he thinks, he'll have to keep for his memories from now on. this one refuses to be recalled, resists the notion that he was somehow that person long ago.
in any case sylvain makes for a poor hostage, because he can never keep his mouth shut, and this time is no exception. ]
We thought you were dead, [ he murmurs softly. ] I would've tried harder if I'd known you were waiting for me.
[ another lesson sylvain is good at, to the detriment of all who knew him: words, the body, the slightest gesture or look - they are all weapons in the hand of a deft artist. there are many ways to wage a war, yes, but there are also many ways to wear down an opponent's defense, and if dimitri will insist being his captor, then he will be the patient whetstone until the role doesn't suit him anymore. on the chessboard, it would be similar to sacrificing a pawn to promote a knight; but dimitri doesn't play chess.
so he speaks to him like he has a right to do so: like this were another tryst, and there is a body to get lost in at the end of it. it is much of fatalistic sentimentality as it is the reckless attraction to death that has guided most of his life. the gautier crest, after all, fits its lance in that it can only bring ruin. ]
PLEASE LMAO...... it's too accurate
Dimitri's hands are deft in their work, inarticulate but gentle on the buckles and fastenings, regardless of whether Sylvain decides to help or halt him. He exerts more care toward the horse than it still seems possible he could possess, all while ignoring Sylvain's close look. Those light colored, pretty eyes would be too familiar to him—realer than a ghost, if not so hungry. He tells himself he will use this opportunity to go against his enemies. He will torture Sylvain, if necessary, to obtain the information he needs. He promises himself this with the delusional belief that it is true.]
How sentimental of you. [Not so much said in a growl as it is rasped, scraped out of his throat, because that is how he sounds now.] A fantasy. Don't try to tell me otherwise, Sylvain. You left me long ago for the Empire. I am certain I was never a thought in your mind.
[Perhaps Sylvain was even relieved to hear he was dead—one less childhood enemy out of the way. Whatever the temptation to sink into Sylvain's sweet words, he steels himself. He will not be so foolish a second time.]
Get down from your horse or I'll be forced to drag you off of it.
[The ache in his shoulder is becoming more noticeable, paired with the rhythmic pain of his head, both well-known hurts. He'll need to attend one of them soon.]
heh
[ - a traitor, and other things beside, but sylvain's tone is light and warm. a flame dancing at the edge of his grasp, burning bright. it seems impossible to snuff out his energy even as garreg mach seems to dampen his cheer, however genuine it was, and even if dimitri wanted nothing more than to smear him on the cobblestones in his hurt.
because that's what this is, he thinks, watching him spit out the words like he was learning them again, rehearsed so many times it must feel real to him: he was hurting, this was pain. things that he'd bottled up for far too long now threatening to spill like a flood. whereas when sylvain is in pain he lashes out, self-deprecation and cutting words to himself or to the other. dimitri lacerates himself, and it is poetic in the way he tries to keep his distance but fails. i am certain i was never a thought in your mind. ]
How much would you like to gamble on that? [ he has a smile on his face, almost inscrutable in the way he addresses him. when dimitri removes the horse's bridle, he ruffles the side of her face with a hand and leans forward to kiss her on the nose; he watches him.
the glance is brief. heavy.
sylvain pulls away. in the dark, and cold, he can smell the blood from his injured shoulder. ]
... we should do something about that wound, however, if you intend to make me pay for my crimes through the night.
You wouldn't want to die over something so paltry as a soldier's lucky hit, right?
[ it won't be appreciated, he knows, but sylvain gives him a charming wink, because he can. he's flirted with death all his life, this is no different and no less dangerous.
most of all, he mocks him. their differences in strength are considerable, sylvain will grant him that much, but it's not like he's not without teeth. dimitri's the one trapped here with him. either he ends his miserable life or spares him out of some misguided idea about strategy and tactics; and somehow sylvain thinks he'd be foolish enough to choose the latter. because his highness, cruel as he can be, can't think of him fully as an enemy.
you left me long ago for the empire, he accuses. he's correct on that, but sylvain has never plead guilty to accusations of love. you were cheating on me. not his first rodeo. nor would it be his last, unless he ends it all. ]
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Sensing his weakness, the ghosts at the rim of his awareness—forever there, if not always so visible—mock him for allowing Sylvain to get under his skin. Stupid, and pathetic, and weak, and there is no way he'll ever reach Edelgard if he can't handle this. Perhaps that is the trial he's meant to endure.
His shoulder burns when he switches his lance into the other hand, then reaches for Sylvain's arm to haul him roughly from the horse's saddle with no warning.]
Get down. If you believe this is enough to kill me, then you underestimate my will.
[Yes, he needs to do something about the wound. And he will. But it will not be at Sylvain's insistence, in some parody of care and concern. Dimitri maintains his grip on the other man's arm and begins to drag him inside. Sylvain is prisoner here; he must make that position clear.]
Is silence too much to ask of you, or will I be forced toward more extreme measures?
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[ goodness. a guy can't even get dragged out into the dark respectfully. the fact that dimitri is moving like he hasn't been injured is impressive, and he wonders just how often he's done that: shrugging off injuries like he entrusts himself to fate that he will wake up the morrow and will be ready to take his slow march of revenge, one step at a time, nothing more powering him than spite and hurt and rage. it'd be a lot more worrying if he didn't keep in mind, dimly, that the man also wants to kill him. he's a prisoner, he's a traitor, he can't be trusted. no-one should trust a gautier, anyway, that's for sure. least of all his friends. least of all his former liege. ]
All this for the chance at revenge, and I'm not even the one you want.
[ garreg mach is cold in ways it hasn't been for a while, and in times like these he wonders what happened to the boy he knew. thought he knew. did he just see what he wanted to see? which one of them was the fool, here? at least dimitri had a reason to stay alive. gautier will live on without him. the north has no need for such traitorous stock. ]
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[In other circumstances, he would threaten to cut it out of Sylvain's mouth—certainly he should at least make the intimidation clear. But he expects it will roll off his old friend's back like so much harmless breath, a change in language that cows Sylvain not at all. How many others have shouted themselves hoarse in some effort to be heard, to leave some visible impression on Sylvain? He cannot bring himself to that low, even if he may already be there in spirit.
Dimitri doesn't falter in his course, hauling the other man with him through the long-throated corridors, their footsteps an irregular pattern on the stone. He doesn't stop until they've reached one of the rooms adjoining the dormitories near the church. Everything is in disrepair: a too-clear depiction of the ruined creature, once a man, dwelling within its walls. Here, he shoves Sylvain ahead of him into the room, then stops to lean his lance in the corner.
It may be obvious at once that this is where Dimitri is spending much of his time, when he is not roaming the grounds or staring at the hole in the cathedral ceiling. There is a cot in the corner, and furniture wiped free of dust, and other items suggesting the requirements of the living, such as a water pitcher and crate of foodstuffs. Otherwise it is sad, pathetic space, unfit for a prince.]
Stay there and do not move, or I will make it so that you can't. [He hasn't responded to the second comment. Perhaps he is pretending it was never said.] You should make this easier for yourself and tell me what you know. I will not be so kind, asking twice.
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[ there's safety in being predictable. to do so otherwise is dangerous and to invite trouble.
sylvain takes too long to look around his room. it's small. barely even a room, more a storage if he's being honest. it feels like a cage for a beast that's too large for it. he doesn't know why, but he does feel a pang of hurt in his misplaced heart at how low dimitri's fallen. his illustrious prince, once so bright, now relegated to the corner of the monastery like a limping wolf.
he sighs heavily after hearing the command. doesn't move. what is there to say? ]
... you can't honestly think I'm as important to the Empire as any of them from that class.
I'm only important to you. [ was? maybe? who knows. at least he doesn't look like he wants to fight anymore. sylvain only looks tired, exasperated even now that it's just the two of them and dimitri has him cornered. he's not foolish enough to risk his neck for the empire when the man can just easily crush him with a hand, not even relying on areadbhar at all in these close quarters. the prince won't trust him, and rightfully so; but maybe the boy he knew, once upon a time, would see reason. maybe. ] I'm the distraction, your highness.
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I couldn't say. Once, I thought I knew you well. I was wrong.
[It's a growling, hurt accusation that he regrets as soon as he's made it. Dimitri turns away again, as though uncaring if a knife comes for his back—it isn't as though he had checked Sylvain's person. Certainly he has other defenses in place. Perhaps he would welcome the attack; it would give him a reason to react with his own violence. The bloodlust in him is always boiling.
Dimitri unclasps the heavy, matted cloak from around his shoulders and dumps it carelessly to the floor. Then his clumsy fingers yank at the buckles and straps of his armor, letting each piece drop as though shedding a great burden, again uncaring that it puts him in a vulnerable position. Once the breastplate is off, he takes a ratty cloth and presses it over the wound in his shoulder; it's soaked red in seconds.]
Do not call me that. [Lower, burning ire. He isn't Sylvain's prince any longer. He is no one's.] Do you enjoy it? Being so easily tempted that you would crawl into the lap of whichever master beckons you first? I should have known your loyalty would be as superficial as your affections.
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instead, he runs a hand over his red hair as he watches him. listens to him. does he enjoy it? it's not really so much as enjoyment as wanting to be free. all his life he's always decided that he will do what he wishes. that he wants to be in a world where everyone else is free to do as they like, nothing to hold him back whether the lure of crests or anything else. personal attachments. power. under dimitri's rule, certainly all things were possible, and he believed in it, for a while, but he also believed in something else: the possibility that he could look elsewhere for growth. that alone was tempting enough, made his decision solid in leaving, and just when he was feeling regretful, the war came.
how to explain that now, with so much hurt the way dimitri carries it with him like the hundreds of scars that mar his skin. his soul, or what's left of it. there's no diplomatic way of saying, i never wanted you to get to know me. there's no diplomatic way of breaking up with anyone. does he enjoy it? edelgard didn't really beckon. she was an option. if anything else, hubert never wanted him in their ranks because he and dimitri thought the same thing, though he probably wouldn't want to be compared to him.
it is immensely funny and sad to him that the one time he makes a dispassionate choice is the one that gets mistaken for a passionate one. ]
Nobody's ever figured me out, so don't blame yourself. It's no shortcoming of yours - it's deliberate.
[ sylvain watches his wound soak the rag with blood and sighs. ] As for my loyalty, plenty of talk has been made about it and I see no reason to add to the noise, whether I'm wearing Faerghus blue or Empire red.
I hope you'll forgive me for disobeying you and calling you the prince, still. That's who you are regardless. That's who you'll always be to me - [ and maybe that's the problem. sylvain has a smile on his face that doesn't quite meet his eyes, but then again, that's how he's always been since the war. ] Unattainable.
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Then you lack the pride and decency even to speak for yourself.
[Let alone the others who need it. Who, more than Dimitri—more than anyone still living—need a voice, need someone to take a stand for their sake. Even now, distracted by Sylvain's presence, he feels them in his periphery whispering their hurt words. Goading him to act while he has the opportunity.
... Act.
Dimitri feels it eating at his mind—that dark, dragging pressure of guilt, chewing on his patience, eroding his sanity. Why is he letting Sylvain speak? Why is he allowing him to lie to his face? Telling him what he would like to hear, that he is still his prince, that Sylvain might have cared, that once it might have been different. That it all is one tidy misunderstanding.
The blood roars in his ears as he whirls, seizing Sylvain by the throat and slamming him against the wall, gloved hands a tight collar that squeezes off air. The snarl is on his face—teeth flashing, mouth open, eye wide.]
Shut up.
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and yet it's the most honest he's ever been, hasn't he? he would never act like this to him at any other time. there must be something freeing in this, even if what drives him is anger, guilt, any number of betrayals and hurts that now won't let him rest. when his mask was broken in the holy tomb. what good are words? if anything else, he had thought it would happen sooner.
he doesn't fight him. can't, anyway. not good practice when someone's inches away from snapping your neck. instead sylvain reaches over and sinks his hands into his wound. he touches the side of his neck almost like a caress as he struggles in his hold. traces the angle of his neck, strong down his collarbone, and struggles to mouth the words, ] Make me.
[ red, dark in his fingers. like the banners he walks under. his nightmares. inverse of his eye. his hair curling down the side of his face like longing. the sunset. a bruised cheek in one's boyhood. a pathetic heart. all of that running through his fingers, so much time wasted, so much time grieved. this reunion is terrible, he thinks. they can't even hear each other. ]
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Blood drips down his cheek, hot and tacky, distracting. It's nothing new. He can't even smell it. His whole world is too crowded by Sylvain, narrowed to this single point of violence that somehow still isn't enough. Make me might once have meant something kinder. A private kiss stolen in a dormitory bedroom; a handsy tussle in the practice yard; a knowing, low-lidded look across a classroom.
Dimitri's hand slackens just enough that when his other fist swings around, cracking across Sylvain's cheek in a punch powerful enough to knock him sideways, he'll be sent to the floor. There, Dimitri kicks him hard in the side, then the stomach, both at the joints of armor where it will hurt more. Then Dimitri is down on top of him like a dark storm, one hand yanking up Sylvain's handsome face by the roots of red hair, and he hits him across the other cheek.]
Shut— [snarled and panting, ragged as he falls to pieces in his rage,] —up, shut up, shut up...
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he can't deny that it doesn't, and he can't deny that he deserves it. why else for? he betrayed a friend, his childhood friend, one of his many loves - maybe his only serious love - in pursuit of his own selfish desires, his own violent delights, he was not there when garreg mach fell to the empire and he was not there when he lost himself, slipping into the shadows as his friends tried to drag him back up to the surface, desperately so. too late. he sank. like so many other people in this war doing desperate things to live for desperate reasons, a prince can be driven to madness, too. does he feel something for it? all he can hear is dimitri screaming. all he can feel is his anger.
he feels like home.
he is home.
in the tower of dark winds. in the bottom of a well. winter in the mountains of gautier. a broken arm, a broken rib. he is home. he can't hate him for sending him where he belongs. he can't hate him for something that is, essentially, a more personal way of dealing with things, which he much prefers than areadbhar liberating his head from his shoulders.
he feels blood dripping down his nose and sylvain smiles. ]
That's ... it. [ gasping words in between his rage, sylvain lets his wrath pass through. ] There you ... are.
[ found you, he might've said, like they were children playing hide and seek again in their gilded youth. ] ... it's alright. I can ... handle it.
[ it's hard to see it with his bruises, but sylvain hawks out a sound that might've been a laugh. ] It's ... not ... your fault.
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How easy would it be to lift his hands and bracelet them around Sylvain's throat, strangling the last breath from his body? Too easy. It is a brutality he was made for. It is what he is meant to do.
Yet those reassurances reach his ears instead, each one as gentle a caress as a hand on his face, through his hair, soothing something dark and hungry for bloodshed. Dimitri realizes he is shaking. In the silence that follows, he can hear himself gasp as his body lowers itself the rest of the way on top of Sylvain. A collapse of willpower. He's holding Sylvain hard against the stone; he can't move, even if he wished to.
The warmth of physical touch is overwhelming. He remembers how this felt once, years ago, when Sylvain came to him behind the closed doors of their dormitory rooms. It isn't the same now, but it's close enough that it hurts. How easily those sentiments can blur together.]
I hate you. [This is gritty, pressed to Sylvain's cheek where the blood smears against his mouth like lipstick.] I hate you.
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You must.
[ far be it from him to tell him what a prince must do, but when he repeats the words so intimately onto his cheek, with his weight so heavy on his back, sylvain has no choice but to surrender to it. he closes his eyes. he can't fight him anymore, never had the will to; but this gritty, deliberate confession is so closely said against his skin that it might as well be a kiss. and for all the affection he once won against his prince, this, he will take for himself.
after all - he should hate him. he must. doing otherwise is a death sentence to the future king, the only king, of faerghus. he is a traitor, he should be treated as such, even if this reminds sylvain of their childhood: stolen moments when he could swear and readily admit that he never hated the idea of love or commitment. when dimitri would murmur something approximating that ethereal feeling, and sylvain, who never believed in prayer, often found, in his fear, that it was almost an answer to something unsaid.
this is like that, too. he closes his eyes. each breath a surrender. the pain that cleaves him a mark. a homecoming. a debt extracted. love and hate are both the same sides of the coin: if his highness reaches over and this is what he finds at the end of his rope to wring around his neck, sylvain must open the door on the other side for him to realize he has never moved past him.
a knight moves unconventionally compared to other chess pieces. but a knight in the corner only has two possible moves. so all he says to that is, ]
... 'm here.
[ whispered so closely to the earth soaking his blood greedily. he feels his body shudder in - anger? anger. must be. how he misses him. completely inappropriate given the situation. sylvain remembers his obeisance. who does he serve? let him atone for it. let him - ]
Your will be mine.
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So easy to turn Sylvain over onto his back. So easy to fit his hands around that slender throat, above the collar of the black armor he's still wearing. Dimitri is like a possessed wraith on top of him—half in shadow, the palest part of him all of the naked, scarred skin of his upper torso. White, because Faerghus gets so little sunlight, and he's shut himself up in a self-made grave since leaving his home country. He is an indomitable force over Sylvain. His grip on that throat squeezes, and there's no doubt that if he tried, he could likely snap Sylvain's neck with that Crest-poisoned strength of his.
Sylvain keeps on breathing. Still alive.]
My will? [It's a hiss, Dimitri not caring if his weight is crushing the man beneath him who was once a cherished childhood friend.] Must I? Was that your plan all along, then? Oh, I should have known.
[The paranoia in him has reached a new height as everything falls into delirious place. His words come quicker, fanatic.]
You seduced me. At the academy, that was always your goal, was it not? To lure me in like the slut you are, so that when you betrayed me for those monsters, it would create a weakness to be exploited. It would be used against me. And now they've sent you back to finish it, haven't they? Did you think I would fall all over myself, the same little boy infatuated with your sweet, duplicitous playacting?
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he finds himself attracted to it. this dimitri, the one that felix had known about all along, who had endeavoured to keep wearing a human face for as long as he could in the academy until the emperor broke him. how he fears him. he could die tonight, licking the blood from his mouth and wishing it was his instead. waiting for his face to turn the same colour as his coat. faerghus blue until he dies. faerghus blue with the rage of one eye glaring at him and calling him a whore. he feels blood on him, dimitri's injury still hurting and raw. and the boy himself, still aching, an open wound. did he seduce him? he'd argue it was mutual. he can't refuse someone aching to be loved. so lonely he longed to be alone to convince himself it was proper, the right thing to do. so lonely he would feel there was value in betrayal where love is concerned. (love?)
his will. his body. his wrath.
nobody but me controls my vices, he wants to tell him. and you are my greatest vice.
such an aggressive wanting that he would bow to. not even edelgard would give him such satisfaction! hubert, maybe. disdainful, sneering, he'd quarter his body to his magic and leave him crashing down with nothing. dorothea knows him too well, the way he lingers around her like a knife with no handle, waiting to shear off thorns. that's what he was, for both empire and kingdom alike: a blade with both ends sharpened. no handles. nothing but risk.
negligible, useless, but the prince can't (won't?) kill him just yet.
he feels manic in this knowledge. you are still that boy. doe-eyed. soft. hiding behind this wolf of yours. following after me. holding onto my hand, asking me when i'll come back from gautier. telling me you fought with felix. that ingrid left you after you decided you didn't want to share your toys. you are still - ]
... beautiful, [ he murmurs. might be the lack of oxygen that's getting to him as he says it. ] Beautiful. Even now.
[ have his neck. his awful smile. the blood that covers his mouth from his nose, iron in his mouth. his pathetic heart. sylvain's skin bruising against his hands, faerghus blue and black. goddess, why did he leave. if he had known he would remember, he would rage, he would want this much, why did he ever leave. unattainable: that's what he was supposed to be. and yet here he is. you seduced me. ] ... yes. I did.
I'm ... selfish. Wanted the best. Who would crush my heart if he could.
[ sylvain feels serene, oddly enough for him. has a look in his eyes that shouldn't be there. ] If.
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All at once, the tide of anger passes through him and over a cliff, crashing into the black. His hands release their tight hold around Sylvain's throat. He can see the impression of his fingers, bruised and swollen, skin inflamed as a result of the brutal strength he carries like a burden. What is worse than being called beautiful—a sweet word like dust in the air, quick to blow away—is that he is anyone's best. Impossible. Another paltry lie from a silver-tongued slut. The disbelief is on Dimitri's face, shadowed expression like a watchful animal as he lifts upright, trapping Sylvain by the bulk of his lower body now.
The ghosts are there in his head. Pale, illusory apparitions, white scars of memory. Telling him that this is vengeance, and that this is just, and that he should kill. He has every right to feed this hunger. Yet it comes up against a deeper resistance, an evocation of that if. What is so different? Why can't he do this?
How unfair.
The way Sylvain looks beneath him is the true beauty. Red hair like fire, bloody mouthed, those familiar eyes, the handsome curve of a jaw, full lips that taught him to kiss and slender hands that taught him the only pleasure he's ever felt. Is he so base and animal to be fooled by it a second time? Hatred at himself threatens to rise like bile; suddenly, he shoves himself stumbling to his feet, head turned away, unwilling to look too long for what he might do. He forces himself out of the room. The door slams, nearly cracks the wood, and then Sylvain will hear the latch bolt into place. He's locked inside.]
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sylvain takes huge, deep inhales of the air back into his lungs and stares at the darkness of the room, the ceiling barely visible in his pain. he's alive. dimitri didn't kill him. couldn't. or wouldn't. it reminds him of how some animals would save their prey for the long winter until they need to consume it during the leaner months. he feels oddly touched. saved, perhaps, out of some misplaced sense of sentimentality that the prince somehow remembered in his fury. as his enemy, and one who walks in red banners, general gautier thinks to himself: the prince is not invulnerable. this is a point of weakness i can exploit. i don't have to do anything, i just have to survive, and now i know i can hurt him, this is something i can bring back to hubert for us to ponder over and carry out more efficiently than i can ever do on my own. by now his men - some of them planted by the spymaster, he's pretty sure - must've sent a message to him already that the general has been taken hostage in exchange for his men. a noble gesture, but also, one that will cost hubert resources when the empire has so few of them, especially talented individuals who can lead, especially one with a crest and a relic weapon that can cleave battalions by themselves.
the pathetic boy in him is grieving. dimitri remembered me, the boy thinks. dimitri remembered me and felt something about it, and it wasn't his disappointment that kept him alive. it was something else.
and he dared not hope, but it was there: stubborn, persistent, traitorous. it coils around his guts and unwinds itself in the chambers of his heart to consider that there might be, still, something in there that he could rescue for himself. like sifting through sand in order to find ingots of gold, he felt brave and reckless and stupid and most of all, morally obliged, to hunt for his prince amongst the layers of beast and fur and blood.
but first.
he's alive.
sylvain rises, slowly, coughing out blood as he peels himself off the floor. he can move his limbs. nothing's broken, as far as he's concerned. his armour is killing him, and he has to deal with that: with dimitri's strength it's more of a hindrance than anything else, and if he removes it, perhaps he'll be more inclined to pity him considering he's not a threat anymore. (not like he's ever been - at least sylvain isn't foolish enough to say that for himself.) now that he knows he pities him, sylvain will exploit that for himself; not for the empire, but for himself and his selfish, greedy impulse to survive at any cost. he's done it in gautier. he's done it in conand tower. he'll do it here as well.
very, very slowly, he removes his armour and piles it on a heap on the side. he tries to stand up and stretch. the latter proves difficult, and he doesn't want to push himself, so he sighs and gives up, and gets on dimitri's bed, which smells musty and awful and he doesn't even know how he can withstand it; this coming from a man who've been sleeping from cot to cot wherever the empire drags its belly on the ground each time they make camp away from enbarr.
sylvain lies still on his bed. he touches his throat and feels each bruise, stinging on his skin and he thinks, he really is beautiful. dimitri had grown into his height, filled out his armour nicely and bulked up in his rage and strength. the kind of man he'd never had thought he'd grown into. even his hair, blond and drawn over his face like a wild mutt ... he's fond of it. if he cleaned up, he'd look good.
but what really stirs him is the fact that he probably hasn't looked at anyone the way he did earlier to sylvain in a very long time. he'd locked his door. he expected to come back to him. this isn't the first time sylvain's been with someone so persistent and bad for him it's almost laughable, but it is his first time having it be the prince of faerghus or what's left of him. and now he wears his colours on his skin, etched in his obsession and torment: faerghus blue and black making a necklace around his neck. it's the most committed someone's ever been with him, and is it any surprise that it was the same boy he'd fallen in love with in his youth? a torment that had consumed him so badly it unsettled him, made him feel like the ground beneath his feet has shifted to a degree that he can no longer be amongst the living because sylvain jose gautier never, doesn't, fall in love.
but he did. he did, and he did the most cowardly thing he can think of: he decided that he needed to do what's best for him, and left the only good thing in his life before he can ruin it utterly by existing. and in so doing, he damned himself. dimitri will be fine. there will be others to drag him out of this hell. but himself?
he does not belong to the empire. he doesn't belong to gautier. not his kingdom, not anymore. but he can belong to someone who would take the time to ponder in his grief whether he's worth killing. he can't remember when was the last time he'd felt something, but he certainly feels something worth sinking his fingers into like the way he did to dimitri's wound earlier. this, whatever this is, this horrible thing that they have - yes. it's worth something. it's worth lingering on. he doesn't even care that he's filthy. he just cares about the fact he's been betrayed.
nobody certainly provides the kind of intimacy dimitri in his rage does.
and the way he towers over him -
- sylvain slips his hand inside his pants. bites his lower lip as he massages the front of his cock thinking of his prince.
his hand around his neck.
fuck.
it's fine, isn't it? he's not going to come back, dimitri doesn't care, and if he changes his mind and kills him when he returns, then who cares if he does it after he's thoroughly disrespected the prince in his mind? because that's what he's doing right now, thinking about how the prince can put his strength to better use, thinking about how low and filthy that is, thinking about how unbearable it was to touch him and kiss him and whisper sweet nothings in his ear during their childhood because he's so - he's so - unattainable - and here he is now, scum of the earth, nobody would ever mistake him for a prince at all. that's bearable. that's attractive, because now, they're the same. they're equals. dimitri is nothing more than a beast and sylvain is a horrible man and he will deign to be devoured by this beast.
he spits on his palm and starts stroking his cock furiously to the thought of dimitri. small mercies that he probably isn't going to live this til tomorrow, but god. he can feel something, like this, if he thinks of him, and it wouldn't be such a bad way to die. he can remember what it's like, a glimmer of it, being in love. and isn't that great, isn't that fantastic, how warm they kept each other back then, childish and foolish the way they carried out their affairs in private, dimitri blushing as he tells him, i'll teach you how to kiss, here's how you jerk me off, watch me, your highness - and thinking of saying all of those words to the beast right now, undressing for him as he opens his mouth and sinks his teeth onto his skin. like this, sylvain would say. fuck me. eat me alive. i'm yours. i'm yours. i'm -
when dimitri comes back the unmistakeable scent of sex will hang hot and heavy in his room and sylvain wouldn't even bother putting his clothes back on. his slick is visible all over his bare thighs, and he falls asleep like that on his bed - naked, not a care in the world if dimitri would snap his neck then and there for the outrage. fuck him. fuck him, really. ]
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What do you think you're doing?
Kill him! Snap his neck, crack his skull, rip him open...
He deserves it. He's with them. They are the reason we are dead. He is the reason.
Have you forgotten us so easily? Are we nothing to you? Are you no more than a mindless beast in heat—
Dimitri turns and slams his fist into the wall, his whole body quaking, eye closed to blot out the silhouettes he knows he will see over his shoulder if he looks. His father, his mother, Glenn. The faces of the others he'd watched die screaming so many years ago, forever burned into his mind with a permanency that cannot ever be altered. He bears it; they berate him, then begin to beg and plead. Please don't forget me, my son. Or Glenn's, I'm scared, pitifully weak as it slides like a blade between his ribs and rends him straight through. Dimitri's voice rasps out of his throat.] I'm sorry. I'll— I will, I promise, I will avenge you... [Soon. He can't yet. Sylvain may have information that will take him closer to the Empire, to having Edelgard's head on a pike. Surely this is not all for naught. Surely he is doing the right thing.
Or perhaps he's already made the fatal mistake and now he's playing out the consequences. It would be as much as he deserves. They're correct. He's a mindless beast, a monster who knows nothing except how to inflict violence, how to steep his hands deep in the bodies of the dead. It will be the same with Sylvain. There's no hope for diplomacy.
These bleak thoughts carry him to the baths, where he fills a wooden tub with ice-cold water and freezes himself all the way through, until his fingers and toes go numb, until he can feel nothing but the slow pulse of his own heavy heart. In this, even the voices begin to fade away, leaving him cold and alone in the dark. He scrubs his skin until it's chafed a vibrant red. Then he gets out, naked and dripping, and wraps haphazard bandages around the wound on his shoulder. He takes no time to apply balm or ointment; he deserves to feel the sharp pain at the itchy pressure of the gauze, he deserves the jagged scar that will stitch itself into his skin as a result. His movements are careless, and the resulting wrap is sloppy but tight. It's enough.
Then he dresses, yanking on his trousers and boots while leaving his torso still bare and damply frigid, and he returns to the room.
Sylvain is the one thought he hasn't been able to rid from his mind, and by the time he reaches the door, he's made a decision. He will have to kill him. There's no other choice. Dimitri's hand is clumsy on the latch; the door slams open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
That scent assails him first—met next by the sight of Sylvain sprawled in his bed, lean and bare, miles of pale skin marked by the combat scars to match his own over the years. The first thought has is that Sylvain has changed: he's filled out with muscle, he has the body of a man to replace the sinewy body of a boy half-grown. The second thought is that Sylvain hasn't changed at all. Matched against the bitter memory of their shared past, Sylvain is exactly the same. To have stripped himself naked and pleasured himself in the bed of his enemy... Slut is the word that hisses, sinister, in his head once again. This is only another seduction tactic. He will cross the room and end this charade now.
Dimitri looms over the bed, tall and dark and deranged, and instead of putting his hands around that throat as he intends—he's pushing Sylvain down into the sheets face first. He's climbing on top of him, knees locked around the back of Sylvain's thighs, sitting astride. His boots dig into the mattress to apply his full weight, crotch pressed to the swell of Sylvain's ass.]
What were you expecting, hm? [It's growled, low and haughty.] That I would be lenient and kind if only you gave me your body? That I would let you free in exchange? How many times must I say it... I am not that boy anymore.
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grim, bitter thoughts run through his head, self-deprecating: does he like the view from behind? does he enjoy his body? he smelled like he'd run himself a bath, skin chafed raw from the cold in some self-flagellating gesture; did he think of him and willed himself not to be aroused? was he trying to explain to the dead that lust isn't something to be easily killed? he could laugh. does. it's a struggle to do it with his face against the mattress but his shoulders are shaking. now that he's had a bit of rest, dimitri can add something awful to his memories: laugh like honey. laugh like rich chocolate. the way sylvain turns to look at him sideways, lashes long and beautiful as it frames his treacherous eyes. did you seduce me? yes. yes. always. sex is a weapon. one he is proficient in, deadly with.
two can play this game. if he won't be killed, if he can't make a decision, then he will force the king to move. a gambit for a play.
sylvain arches his back and grinds his ass against his crotch as he struggles to free himself from his weight. to no avail, of course. dimitri has him immobile. but the point isn't the struggle. it's the slow movement of the body. the arch of it. the deliberate push and grind, the soft smile. i am not that boy anymore, he says. he repeats. like a prayer. a chant. ineffective against what he can't control. lust, like fear, is an honest emotion. it supersedes all else. that's why it has to be controlled. mastered. utilized where necessary. the body remembers. the body doesn't forget.
sylvain grins. ]
... No, your highness. You aren't.
But you have the appetite of a man condemned, and one who isn't easily sated.
[ with rest comes his fangs. baring them against his proverbial prince. what does he like? what does he want? he will make him confess with his body. he will make him learn how to pray. how to be afraid. all men are the same in bed. a prince is no different. and where dimitri is cold and his skin feels raw, sylvain is soft and warm, the mattress underneath him heated by his body like a furnace. ]
And if you have to repeat it to yourself, you're probably not certain who you are, still. So spare me.
[ he licks his lips. ] This is an odd way to try and kill a man, you know. But I believe in you, I'm sure you can make it work.
[ if. if.
c'mon, break my heart. break me. sylvain is a mess of sharp emotions and keen arrogance. the way he is right now, the difference in temperatures, he wants dimitri to make good with what he doesn't want to do. you know you want to. break me, you brat. ]
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There is the element of seduction he already knows, and he can no longer deny that fact, not faced with Sylvain's sly look, those hooded eyes he'd wear in their dormitory and outside while knowing Dimitri watched him across the classroom or dining table with rapt enchantment. He had never thought he could be so attracted to another man. At first it had terrified him, and it was only Sylvain's familiar guidance that led him through the storm; a bond formed in childhood made more boyish and tender, exploratory, unjudgmental. He'd never denied Sylvain's handsomeness, it was clear in every pair of eyes he managed to lure in their youth. Enough to incite a dark, confusing, seeded jealousy in his gut each time he overhead idle gossip in the hallways of the monastery. It was not as though they'd ever promised anything to one another.
And yet, foolishly, he had...
It's like he recalls. Almost. Sylvain is pale and lean underneath him, toned curves of muscle, red hair messy on the sheets, mouth full and wide in the slash of a smirk. He's beautiful. His beauty is wasted on war, surely, just as it was wasted on every frivolous affair of the past. Wasted on a prince as unworthy as him. Wasted, now, on Adrestia. They do not deserve to possess him—but that was Sylvain's choice, and now...
Dimitri sucks in a sharp breath. That struggle is enough to bear, as easy as putting his hand on Sylvain's head and tangling his fingers into crimson strands, yanking at the roots to lift Sylvain's chin off the bed. It is the ache that is worse, attraction throbbing hot and low in his belly; he can feel himself harden in moments. The pressure against his groin is a sin. There's no disguising the considerable shape of that heavy cock through black trousers, even as he reflexively lifts himself onto his knees to escape the sinuous grind of Sylvain's slender hips. Running away.]
What do you know of who I am now? You left me years ago. [Gritted, disgusted at himself for being so aroused, furious at Sylvain for causing it in him again.] A quick death would be a mercy you don't deserve.
How many others have you bedded since? Did you seduce them as well? Did you make promises you never intended to keep? [All he's learned, he's learned from Sylvain. What can be said when he shifts again, driving a knee between Sylvain's thighs to force them wider apart, to expose everything between, from the slope of his ass down to the soft tuck of balls on the mattress, back forced into an arch by the hand still tight in his hair. His voice is a condescending hiss.] Tell me how you would rather be treated, Sylvain.
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I don't want your mercy. Either do it or don't.
[ but that promise of death would be more worrying if he didn't follow it with that question - how many others have you bedded since? and sylvain can only laugh. he spreads his legs the way he wants him to. he is unfortunately beautiful. that arch would be a sin held in dimitri's hand if he so wished, the only man he'd ever allow to pull him this taut into desire despite how it would damn him. that's another secret that dimitri had become privy to, perhaps all too late - if he anchored himself onto the gautier heir, he would drown. perhaps he ought to have listened to past governesses and tutors who have warned him in his youth, and not with a hint of distaste in their mouths, that the gautier children were wolves.
dimitri is stubborn, however. stubborn and prone to his moods, wanting, hungry, a monstrous thing that wants to eat. what can he say to such a desire? why should he stop it?
he really should cut his hair. dimitri's holding onto it so firmly, the way his locks curl blood red around his fingers in a way it hasn't for a long time. a familiar colour that's now second nature to him given how easily he can crush a man's skull.
if he wanted to.
if. ]
... I want to be treated like how you see me, your Highness. [ his arms reach out underneath his makeshift pillow, grasping the linens. not allowing himself the luxury of touching himself and putting on a show, his body entirely on display for another man. this isn't the first time he's wanted him. this isn't the first time he's had to entertain him. what's a body? just something to be used. he wishes he could've taught that lesson to dimitri much better than anything else, but he was stupid enough to fall in love instead. and stupid enough to be hopeful about it on top of everything else, like he never learned his lesson.
well. maybe if he surrenders he'll forget how it was and they can both go back to a state of mutual dislike. then it'll hurt less. it's not like he wants him to make amends; the time for such things is long past. dimitri may not kill him, but he will do him worse: toy with him until he was no longer useful. not ideal.
he'll make it ... easy. ]
Do you want me? Then you should take me for yourself.
You remember how, don't you? [ he looks at him sideways, lip caught in his teeth for a brief moment before he purrs his name - ] Dimitri.
[ he doesn't often call him by name. in bed, sure. but he had to learn it. had to learn how to let go of power, to view his prince as the boy he liked as opposed to one whom he is rendering service to. it's cruel to do it like this. it feels good in his mouth: a solid, powerful name. he relishes each syllable, adds the right amount of tone on the exhale. one can easily get lost in such a voice. ]
a crusty awful tag
This last fact hangs like a hook, tempting disagreement with the proof before him. Sylvain is a liar. He's a snake taken straight to bed; Dimitri should know that better than anyone now. But, for all of that, he had never lied with his body. Everything he had taught Dimitri seemed to come from a place of sincere pleasure.
So what of now?
After, that dark promise slithers through his mind. After, I can kill him.
Dimitri withdraws himself from the bed at the soft, sultry murmur of his own name, a beast retreating, but the weight of that one blue eye never leaves.]
How could I forget? [His voice is low, scraping like steel. He sheds none of his clothing as he crosses the floor except for the burden of his cloak. It drops, fluttering, heavy fabric piling on the stone floor. Then he takes something from a drawer in the dresser, item hidden in a closed fist.] You were a careful, experienced teacher. Every lesson came with a demonstration.
[He moves deliberately out of Sylvain's scope of sight, around the side of the bed until he can climb on from the foot, one strong knee down between Sylvain's pale and delicate ankles.]
You wish to be treated how I see you? Are you certain of that? [Darker, tone woven into one that is both malice and desire at once, he slopes over Sylvain's back once more.] I see you as a whore to be passed around at court, good only for the use of your body. Meant to be bred only for your lineage.
[There's some irony in this. How badly he had wanted Sylvain to love him, in another life; how desperately he'd wished for their coupling to be done with tender romance and gentle affection. How very wrong it has turned here.
If he is seduced, so be it. I will kill him after. A pair of bare, oil-slicked fingers find the line of Sylvain's ass and slide into that tight furrow, seeking his hole with a brusqueness that lacks finesse and patience.]
not awful!!!
dimitri's fingers are impatient, not letting him enjoy or adjust the way he likes it. not the worst sex he's had. it is, also, not enough to turn him off and make it miserable. maybe that's just how things have been with him for a long time: nothing in this world being entertaining enough to be worth living for, everything else that happens to him is just accidental, that when he actually gets hurt about something, when he feels pain keenly on an emotional and physical level, sylvain is surprised. it's like he remembers, briefly, that he still had a heart, even as it pathetically beats behind his rib cage. dimitri was once his love, he remembers that. and that his darling love has grown into something terrible, he can't say he hates him at all.
if nothing else, it makes him long for him more. makes him wish, for a hot second, that he had never betrayed him.
it's an awful thing to consider, because it's not like it'll change how they fuck. but sex is an arsenal to sylvain, and having someone use it against him, even accidentally, it's always humbling.
his body is honest about what it wants: only what dimitri wishes to give. and his highness is a ship leaking, all of his emotions breaking through the stern. when he whispers those words with malice, sylvain can easily imagine it: passed around under his orders, to be used. while he watches. bred for his pleasure, under his control.
he would surrender to such attention.
sylvain's hands clench tightly around rough sheets, his toes curling and his breath ragged as he fucks him with his fingers. he arches his back and pushes against his hand, greedy, wanting even more. didn't i teach you better? you call that technique? ]
Are you going to watch? [ sylvain grins. ] Will you let this whore of yours get filled up before you deign to fuck me with your cock, or will you let them breed me and leave me after?
... because if your answer isn't the latter, then you've lost to me.
But hey, that's not the worst that can happen, right? [ he reaches behind him to spread himself obscenely for dimitri's use. for all of his roughness, he hasn't forgotten how to do it, and it's driving him insane. he doesn't often fuck men. men are more demanding in bed than women, constantly wanting proof that sex matters. women are easier prey for him, and he relishes their hatred after. serves them right. they never wanted him. but dimitri - ]
.... ah ... it's still ... being with you, after all this time.
[ all this time, still a bad idea. still his awful vice. sylvain will never let go of him: a poisonous thought. maybe that's a kind of loyalty, too. not that dimitri will accept that as currency now. ]
@vocitus
It has been two days since the reappearance of his professor and dear friend. In that interim, Dimitri has not yet decided how to handle it. At first—despite proof of the corporeality of Byleth's presence—he'd treated him as no more than an apparition on the fringes of his awareness, something to be ignored until it went away on its own, or until he satisfied it to absolution. Just like the others.
Yet as the hours wear on, and Byleth does not leave or otherwise state his demands, Dimitri's brittle composure begins to chafe. The man is like the raw, infected wound beneath his breastplate. His existence is sore and vivid in every corner that he turns. So Dimitri can do nothing but attempt to avoid him, which is how he's found himself up on the battlements in the middle of the night, facing the distant cliffs where Byleth was last seen on that battlefield. He can remember it to a painful clarity: that bitter, sinking pit in his stomach upon realizing Byleth was gone forever. He'd searched through the rubble until Dedue was forced to haul him away, hands bloodied, screaming.
In contrast to the weight of the memory, the night is crystallized with silence. He sits with his back against stone, armor and upper clothing stripped off, baring the mottled scars healed badly on his skin. The worst of those wounds is high on the right side of his chest. Exposed to the elements, the cold wind scything at feverish skin is a relief.
Naturally it is short lived. At the sound of footsteps, Dimitri doesn't lift his head, but his low voice carries like a growl.] You should leave this place. Why you continue to linger is beyond my understanding, except that perhaps you intend to drive me further into madness out of spite alone. There is nothing for you here.
no subject
In other words, this is "fate."
Acknowledging his pilfered time as an inevitability does not mean his mind is completely at ease, however. Too much has transpired in his absence, more than he can begin to comprehend without venturing outside these stone walls. All he knows is the world he had only just begun to know has been turned on its head, leaving his home in disarray and his students scattered.
That said, scattered feels too mild a word when most everyone's fate remains unknown. Most, but not all. He'd been happy when he stumbled across Dimitri, the face familiar to him even when the expression was not. Over the last two days, however, whatever comfort came from being in his student's presence has mixed with concern. There's no sign of the smile of the prince he used to know, no sign of joy or kindness. These years apart have left Dimitri hurt in ways that he's yet to fully grasp.
Will the rest of his students be like this, too? The thought brings with it a spike of guilt. Guilt, for sleeping while his students suffered—and for accepting his lot so easily. Realistically, he probably couldn't have done much to change the events that occurred while he slept, but he cannot help but feel responsible all the same.
Sometime during his musings, his feet bring him to Dimitri's side. This place... he hasn't been here since his fall. Memories of the battle begin to flood his mind, but he wills them away in favor of focusing on the sight before him. That wound...
The severity of the injury stuns him, though he's otherwise unsurprised. He'd noticed signs of it in the way Dimitri moved, almost too stiff at times. Too rigid. He'd even caught traces of the scent of fresh blood and a festering wound when his companion moved too suddenly, presumably prying bandages from their place.
Byleth's lips tug unknowingly into a frown, and his eyes remain fixed on the sight right until Dimitri speaks. Reluctantly, he raises his gaze to his companion's one blue eye to take in his words.
... are his actions truly so unfathomable? He's often accused of being a hard man to read, but staying feels as natural to him as breathing. ]
Do I strike you as so callous a person? [ There's a moment's pause after his question. He doesn't need the time to gather his thoughts, nor does he require an answer when he's already well aware of what it will be. The pause comes only so he can consider how much of an explanation is needed here. ] I suppose I understand, in some small way, why you might believe that. But I'm afraid there is no mystery here. I stay out of worry for your well-being.
If that isn't reason enough— [ Here, his lids slide to a close and he releases a quiet exhale. ] —then let us leave it at this: this is my home, and there is little for me anywhere but here.
no subject
Even feeling Byleth in his peripheral, he is reluctant to turn. Something about the professor's presence is... overwhelming at such proximity, and he feels made of transparent glass, seen straight through and puzzled out to his deepest hurts. There is no mystery. Dimitri would disagree with that sentiment. All of it is a mystery from beginning to end. He doesn't understand what he's done to deserve the concern; in fact, if anything he should be bracing himself for yet more blame and anger. It should come raining down upon him like hellfire.]
I cannot make you leave. [Stated darkly, like its own insult—pointed upon himself rather than the man who was once his professor.] I can only tell you that your consideration for me is unwarranted and unnecessary.
[Dimitri's hands clench into tight, cold fists in his lap. His head aches; his chest throbs where the infected wound sits.]
... Your home is in a sorry state. ["I am in a sorry state." He could argue the point of Byleth finding somewhere else to go, but then, he is not one to preach about abandoning the past.] What will you do now, then?
no subject
If nothing else, his pause leaves him time to take in Dimitri's form again—poor as the angle is for a proper examination. All he can tell from where he is is the same as before: there is a wound, one pungent in odor and left to fester.
...? No, wait. Byleth's gaze runs along the muscles of Dimitri's arm, which seemed to clench. Even if only for a moment. Is there a wound there, too? Or is he simply reading into a gesture he's yet to discern the meaning of?
He ponders the pointed words and mysterious gesture a second time before speaking. Thankfully, this topic is an easier one. ]
No matter its state, it's still standing. [ That's important, though his feelings on this wouldn't change even if the buildings were reduced to dust. Emboldened, he takes one step toward Dimitri. ] I know there's much to do. For now, I'd like to start small. To tend to what I know I can so as to not lose myself to my goals.
That's also why, before anything else, I'd like to take a look at your injuries. Will you allow me?
no subject
It causes Dimitri to be too aware of his own appearance, filthy and dour, a certain contrast of memory. It is the first time he's felt any shame for it.]
... You are wasting your attention. [Quiet, rasping speech. It isn't a refusal. As if to clarify this, Dimitri's tensely coiled posture begins to open. His legs stretch out and he lifts his shoulders, though his head reminds bowed, allowing access to the middle of his body. Like a wild animal made momentarily docile. The wound is sliced across his bare chest from the work of a blade, four inches in length, skin puckered red and sore around the seam of flesh.] It will not kill me.
[At least, not quickly. If he does die from his wounds then it will be the goddess' will. Perhaps it would be a mercy to the world at large. They already believe he is dead.
He considers asking Byleth what his goals are, but the question dies in his mind, fading with fatigue and apathy. He is simply silent.]
no subject
Thanks to the way the blond shifts and opens himself up, that isn't quite as necessary here. Soft footfalls precede his voice, as well as a hand he lightly touches to Dimitri's knee as he kneels. ]
It isn't a waste. [ There's a gentleness to Byleth's voice, now. One that makes its way to his features for only a scant few seconds before muted sorrow settles back in.
Before continuing, he pulls his hand away and focuses on his assessments. "Bad" feels too much like an understatement, just as the word "mild" had earlier. The bright red surrounding the cut, the slightly swollen flesh, and the length itself all point to an injury that needs more care than its received. ]
If the infection spreads, it might. [ Should he try and take Dimitri's temperature?
... No, not yet. He'll save it for when he comes back. ] I'll need to gather some supplies to take care of this. Will you wait for me?
no subject
Will you wait for me?
In this context, the question is benign. To Dimitri, who wishes it did not reflect the desperation of his despair all those years he was alone, he almost cannot find it within himself to reply. His voice is a raspy whisper when he finally manages.]
Yes. I'll wait.
[He has nowhere to be but here. If he left, he suspects Byleth would follow him through Garreg Mach like one of the many other ghosts that haunt him, persistent to the end. He still can't fully convince himself the other man is real and whole in front of him now.]
no subject
His world had been too small for too long. Even now that it's expanded, and even after he's learned what it means to feel someone's absence so keenly, it seems like he's having trouble with such basic concepts.
Rather than leaving, Byleth remains where he is, one knee still awkwardly touching the rubble as he tries to redirect his thoughts. Somewhere along the way, a hand finds its way to his mouth, curling there as he contemplates. Seconds pass, then he shakes his head slowly. ]
No, I'm sorry. That was unkind of me. [ Remorse bleeds into his tone. No matter what his reasons may have been, he shouldn't have asked. And any explanation he could give now feels too much like an excuse to his mind. ] You shouldn't have to wait on me again. Not here.
[ Not even for this. Admittedly, he's still wary of forcing Dimitri to move with those injuries, but it isn't as if Dimitri planned on staying here overnight anyway. ...
He shakes even that thought from his mind. Then, he rises to his feet to reach his hand out to help the blond up. ] Come back with me instead.
no subject
Then he's spoken to, and a gloved hand is offered out once more. So like the phantom who had first found him in the ruins of the monastery only two days ago. Dimitri stares at it. His mind feels blank, his body tired and heavy.]
... [That sole eye closes as broad shoulders flex and relax on a deep, exhaling breath.] If you meant to show true kindness, you would leave me be for good.
[Yet these words come without that hot, incendiary tone he's thrown at the professor since their reunion. It's simply bare and worn down, vaguely reminiscent of a more polite, considerate version of himself than the beast he's become (and always was).
There's really no other choice. Even like this, he feels beholden to Byleth's instruction, regardless of everything else. Dimitri clasps that hand with his own—so much larger, folding over those thin and slender fingers, his palm huge and surprisingly warm. But he doesn't use the professor to leverage up his considerable size. Instead, his other hand plants on the stone and he pushes from there, until he's standing at his full and towering height, prepared to follow.]
no subject
The action, subtle as it is, speaks volumes of his student's mind. Some part of him knows he should take comfort in being allowed this close at all, yet he can't help carving more. He wants—
Byleth's brows furrow and the thought is lost to him before it finishes. All he does for the next few seconds is watch their clasped hands as he waits for Dimitri to stand. ]
No, it would only be an illusion of it. [ There's a finality to the words, a firmness that shows there's little that can change his mind on this point. Ironically, it was Dimitri who planted this thought in his mind. Dimitri, who always reached out to him. Who taught him how to lead, how to care, and how to mourn. If there's anyone in this world he could never give up on, it's the man in front of him.
When he reflects on everything Dimitri has done for him, his fingers squeeze around Dimitri's hand. ] Is there anything I should carry?
no subject
As though fearful he might accidentally hurt Byleth, he tugs his hand loose with noticeable abruptness. It closes into a fist at his side.]
No. [Dimitri bends to collect the clothing and armor he had shed to feel the cold, left in a bundled pile on the stone. He won't burden the professor with this. If he winces at the pain that lances across his chest from the inflamed wound, it's easy to mask.] Nothing.
[Then he sweeps past Byleth, shoulders slightly hunched and head down, headed for the stairs that will return them to the warm inner halls of the monastery.]
no subject
Byleth's hand falls to his side, the descent slow as he ponders whether he should regret it or not. Maintaining the touch had felt right. In his mind, refusing to break contact was the same as reinforcing his desire to stay together, but if in the process he caused his companion discomfort then perhaps he'd been wrong. It's still too difficult to judge what's too far—and what actions are more akin to treating Dimitri like a child than the adult he's become.
At his side, Byleth's fingers spread before curling toward his palm. Rather than dwelling on that or the solemn way Dimitri collects his belongings, he tries to make a list of the supplies he'll need. Bandages. Water, boiled preferably. Fresh clothes, as the garments Dimitri plucks from the ground are doubtlessly too caked in blood and grime to be worn. A twinge comes from his chest at the sight of them, not that they're the worst reminder of what Dimitri has endured these past few years. Even so, the thought he'd lost a moment ago returns. He wants things to be how they were before. Back when Dimitri relied on him, confided in him, and most of all allowed him to share his burdens.
Byleth tries once more to shove such unfair wishes away. Having them in the first place is what's truly cruel. Dimitri is still Dimitri, and he's certain that there's more of the boy he used to know left than the glimpses he's seen.
When his student (former student, his mind supplies. These corrections come too slowly and each feels more awkward than the last) moves, he follows. He makes sure to keep pace with Dimitri, going neither a step ahead nor a step behind just in case something goes amiss. ]
As much as I'd like to let you rest in your room tonight, the dust and debris will only aggravate your injuries. [ Though the same can be said for most rooms in the monastery. He has been able to clean his own room and the classroom, but—
No, there's no "but." Dimitri's condition is already poor, there's no sense in placing him anywhere that might worsen it. ] I'm afraid you'll have to settle for my room tonight. I can prepare yours tomorrow when it's bright enough to see what I'm moving.
no subject
Where had he been? What had happened? Had he thought of him, even once, in those five years?
It seems he cannot help but think of him as the professor even now. Byleth. Calm, mysterious, concrete at his side—until he wasn't. Anger is a blister inside of him, but it comes second to the dragging sense of shame; Dimitri does not turn his head as they descend, route automatically carrying him toward the room near the dormitories where he's put a cache of supplies. The location is strategic, meant to make it difficult for bandits or thieves to find and ransack. He expects Byleth has already come across the hoard of food and medicinal supplies since his earlier exploration.
He hasn't asked why Byleth is wasting his time cleaning out other rooms. A single blue eye widens and flickers over at the suggestion, then darts again away.]
... That isn't necessary. I will not be sleeping. [So the heavy shadows of exhaustion and fatigue on his face have a plain culprit now.] The monastery must be guarded. The Cathedral is suitable enough for a short rest, should I find myself too tired. Don't bother with my room. It is not mine any longer.
[The Cathedral, which is huge and empty, where footsteps would alert him to anyone's presence on the glazed stone floor, where if he wakes up to the screams of nightmares he will not bother anyone else.]
no subject
Some part of him had not expected this level of clarity from Dimitri. The few times they've interacted since his resurgence, the prince has been little better than the beast Felix once thought him to be. Volatile, distant, and focused on a singular point his mind refused to deviate from. He'd feared his gentle friend had lost even the ability to care for himself, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Not entirely, at least.
Byleth eases into the room, his steps occasionally accompanied by the soft sound of rubble crunching under his boot. For the time being, he ignores them. Ignores the patches of dirt decorating the floor, the layers of dust settling on every surface, and the sharp stones littering the ground. Each makes resting here uncomfortable—and treating someone impossible. But right now, more than anything, he's happy to see he underestimated Dimitri.
He honestly thought this cache of supplies had been left by the Knights of Seiros after their last battle. His lips move before he can think to stop them. ]
I almost thought you'd been sustaining yourself on weeds. [ He'd caught the comments Dimitri would make to Dedue while they worked together, plucking them from the ground as they did their chores. At the time he'd agreed with Dimitri, but now... Now he doesn't want to imagine someone so gentle forced to live such a miserable life.
Byleth shakes his head slowly, drawing himself from his musings to concentrate on the man beside him. ] ... No, I suppose it isn't. I won't demand you stay there, even if I must insist you rest.
[ What a nostalgic conversation. Strange as it is to call it such when, to him, the last time they had this discussion was a few short weeks ago. ]
Garreg Mach was meant to be my responsibility. Tonight, I ask you leave it to me and allow yourself time to heal.
a tag covered in cobwebs
Time to heal, this ghost of a man tells him. As if it would be so easy to mend the injuries of his spirit. His body, perhaps, but those hurts are only a reminder that he's still alive, that he can still fight. What would he be without that? Even now the wound in his chest burns, throbbing with heat equal to his fever, a constant distraction luring him away from his murky thoughts.]
I will go to the Cathedral after this.
[This is as far as Dimitri appears willing to relent. He does not look in Byleth's direction as he drops his collected garments—armor, a tattered shirt, the heavy burden of his cloak—onto the ground at his feet like a pile of trash, an afterthought, then seats himself on a crate beside the collected supplies. His wound is exposed on the center of his chest: a nasty furl of flesh, jagged where the end of an enemy's spear punctured the skin and clipped off to the side of his shoulder. His breastplate saved him from death, but the surrounding area is mottled badly by deep, purple bruising, and the cut itself is bright pink with stinging infection. He is obedient, still and tense like a ready bow.]
This place is only a memory. You have no responsibility to it now. There is no one here but the dead.
brings out a broom
...has he said something strange? Try as he might, studying the man reveals nothing more. All it provides is a fleeting thought that the prince's features stand out even when bathed in shadow. It's only after Dimitri makes his "concession" that Byleth's eyes stray to the side.
It's a dissatisfying response for many reasons. The cathedral has seen the most decay of any space in the monastery—the dirt that envelops the room, the debris that have laid siege to the ground, and the exposed interior that allows every element within its walls. There are better choices for a respite and yet... What can he do save agree?
After all, this could be an expression of Dimitri's faith in the goddess. Though it seems more likely he is struggling to grab hold of a reason when reason no longer applies.
"There is no one here but the dead."
The statement brings a crease to his brows and, with it, a twinge of an emotion he has come to know but not yet fully grasped how to cope with. To ward the sentiment away, Byleth raises a hand to gently touch at his bangs. The gesture only lasts a moment before he shakes his head and collects the supplies he needs. Then, he heads to the door. ]
... You and I are here. [ And they are the only ones. That he hopes his students will return and reside within these halls again is foolish, sentimental, and selfish. Like Dimitri, they have surely grown and found new pursuits. They cannot, nor should they, stay students forever. Even knowing that, he cannot keep himself from wishing otherwise.
He truly is a terrible teacher. ]
This will require fresh water.
hubert
So here they are. Edelgard is dead, and her closest advisor and retainer is sitting in a dungeon, in the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, where they once were dear childhood friends.
Dimitri had never told anyone about the Hubert of his childhood memory. He suspects Edelgard must have known, given their relationship to one another; surely they have discussed Dimitri back to front to further their own strategic ambitions. Not that they had seemed to gain anything of it. He hadn't seen Hubert during the war until the end, even if the other man's influence hung like a pall over every battlefield Dimitri entered against the Empire. Sinister, clever, ruthless. Hubert is a sharp blade where he is only a blunt instrument. Yet both of them know violence. Sad, that it has come to this.
His footsteps are heavy over stone as he descends beneath the castle, a cool draft reaching him from the shadowed corridors winding within this place. He doesn't visit it often, but it is not because he means to turn a blind eye to what is down here. None of his prisoners are treated poorly. They are fed, kept warm and healthy—only in chains. Hubert is no exception, no matter his deception and ingenuity on the Empire's side.
Arriving at the cell, Dimitri looks in through the barred window at its front, taking in the sight of the man who was once a precious part of his early life. The boy who taught him to play chess, to dance, who practiced little feats of magic to Dimitri's amazement, who made him think.
He takes in a breath, steeling himself.]
Are you ready to speak?