[ - 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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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. ]