[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.
no subject
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.