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“So what I’m saying is,” Sylvain begins, even though everyone wishes he wouldn’t, “he can snap anything in half, right?”
Ingrid shovels her food into her mouth more loudly.
“So if he can’t help but break pretty much anything he gets his hands on—” Sylvain continues, slouching between Ingrid and Felix, while Felix stands up from the end of the bench and Ingrid shifts her stance to prepare, “—that’s gotta make you wonder. Like, we've all noticed he breaks more things the more emotional he gets, right? So what happens when His Highness gets his hands on someone’s—”
A yelp. A thud. No one in the dining hall looks their way. Ingrid withdraws her fist and Felix retakes his place on the bench, sprawling to occupy Sylvain’s former space. Ingrid offers Felix a slice of her fried pheasant, and Felix accepts.
It’s familiar. Still, Ashe can’t help but wince a little in sympathy. Sylvain seizes that as a cue to switch to Ashe’s side of the table and rob Ashe of half his spot with an easy nudge. So, like always, Mercedes moves aside to give Ashe more room, Annette shuffles over with her, and Ashe smiles at them both in thanks.
“I’m just saying,” resumes Sylvain, who has never just said anything in his life, “that’s our future king. He needs to have little princes and princesses to carry on the line, you know? But he’s always breaking everything. So if he’s too strong to get with anyone without breaking their—”
Felix’s kick is so well-aimed that Sylvain is knocked straight off the bench and onto his back, with a loud “oof” that is also ignored. Ashe knows better than to try to reclaim his space, but he does at least take Annette’s offered bag to create a buffer between himself and Sylvain’s inevitable return.
(“Manspreading,” Dorothea had once explained to Ashe, to sympathetic nods from Annette and Ingrid. “Such a shame you get it from him too.”)
Ingrid moves on from trying to end the conversation with violence to doing it with words. “If that were why you were asking, then you’d realize it isn’t an issue. The Blaiddyd line has always been gifted with great strength, and they have had no problems—” a pause, and a helpless glance at Ashe, but he’s blanking on the chivalric substitute for what she’s trying to say “—doing their duty by the Kingdom.”
Felix scoffs (surprise) and scowls (shocking). “Enough. No one wants to discuss this.”
Sylvain starts saying something about ‘the Shield of Faerghus’ and protection that Ashe doesn’t even want to think about, but it’s hard to focus on that when he hears Annette’s tight mutter: “I mean, when you think about it, though…”
It probably saves Sylvain from another attack. Felix looks at Annette like he thinks she's been replaced by a double. “You’re not telling me that you want to know if the boar would break his partner in sex.”
“No!” Annette holds up her hands in front of her, which is a reasonable response to Felix except that Ashe can’t help but notice that Felix is wearing one of his completely harmless scowls, or what Ashe likes to think of as Sir Nemain with Squire Cooroy. “No,” repeats Annette, mostly breathing this time. “But, but. I mean, Sylvain is right? Sort of? The other day I saw His Highness pat Alois’s back while laughing at one of his awful jokes, and Alois tried to hide it but he went to Manuela afterwards and she had to use two vulneraries and an elixir. And that was with Alois wearing armor.”
“We all know the boar is strong,” says Felix, now more exasperated than angry. “We’ve seen him in action. That doesn’t lead to—this.” The violent gesture he makes with his hand (aimed towards Sylvain, who is now leaning on the table) doesn’t mask the rise of blood to his face.
Sir Nemain with the Lady of the River, Ashe thinks to himself, and nods.
Ingrid wears a similar color on her cheeks as she also gestures (also violently, and also at Sylvain). “No, it doesn’t. This is—this is His Highness’s private business, and we shouldn’t even be thinking about it. No one needs to wonder what His Highness’s strength might mean off of the battlefield, or what he might be able to do, or if he might be overwhelmingly gentle with his partner to compensate, or anything like that.”
Ashe looks at her. She does not look back.
“Someone might have to know,” says Mercedes, and maybe it’s because it’s her or because her voice is so soft and calm but they all shut up to stare. She hums in thought, apparently oblivious to their shock, as she continues, “His Highness is terribly strong, and I know it’s something that troubles him when he can’t control it. It might cause him to hold back from reaching out to anyone. I think that would be very sad for him, especially if he does reach out and someone gets hurt. That’s the sort of thing that he’s likely to take very hard.”
Felix’s groan is drowned out by Sylvain hitting the table and saying, “Yes! Exactly! Thank you, Mercedes! That’s what I’m saying! He’s our friend! We need to find out for his sake!”
“Oh, no,” says Mercedes. Her tone is completely unchanged. “You want to find out for your own sake. But that doesn’t make it an entirely pointless question.”
“Look,” says Ingrid over Sylvain’s whine. “We don’t even know if it applies. There’s no point in getting worked up over this. It’s just a stupid joke, from a stupid person, and we need to stop talking about it.”
“Y-yeah,” agrees Ashe, praying to the Goddess and several of Duscur’s deities that this will end the conversation. “It’s not like we can know for sure if it’s even a problem.”
Sylvain’s slouch transforms into a triumphant stand. “Great idea, Ashe! We can know for sure if it’s a problem by having sex with His Highness!”
“We are not going to—” Ingrid begins.
“Sylvain, you utter imbecile—” Felix hisses.
“Did I hear something about testing His Princeliness’s strength?” Claude asks, and roughly half the Blue Lions jump like they’re about to draw weapons.
Mercedes smiles. “Hello, Claude. It’s nice of you to join us.” Claude winks back at her.
“No,” Ingrid says. “Absolutely not. We are not—I’m not saying I’m not wondering too. Now. A little! But that’s our future king—”
Claude interrupts, “Your future king,” as Dorothea wraps her arms around Ingrid’s shoulders and adds, “I mean, haven’t we all wondered?”
There is another of those collective jumps of surprise, which Ashe thinks is a little silly at this point, and Ingrid groans, “Not you, too!”
“I’m not saying I would do it for the mystery,” Dorothea replies, a smile playing on her lips. “But he sparks a girl’s imagination. Haven’t you seen the way he can pin Dedue in training with just one hand?”
“Yes,” Annette sighs, and then lights up red and looks down at her plate. Ashe’s sigh is much less dreamy when he stares at his dinner, but no one notices.
Stubbornly, Ingrid continues on. “Be that as it may, no one is going to just have experimental—congress with His Highness. He would never agree to something so crass.”
“Ingrid is right.” Felix’s scowl is now long past Sir Nemain with people he secretly likes and far into Sir Nemain when facing the Green Dragon territory. “The entire idea is absurd. For all that the boar is like a wild animal when it comes to violence, he is too wrapped up in foolish ideals of chivalry and courtliness to accept some random offer. You would need to court him extensively to even stand a chance of having sex with him.”
There’s a collective pause.
“Hey, Felix? You… kind of sound like you’ve thought about this a lot.”
This time, Sylvain dodges.
“Hm, so that means there’s a real challenge to it.” If anything, Claude now sounds more intrigued. Ashe feels the sense of dread in his gut grow by the second. “You’d have to work out something real clever to win over Prince Charmingly Prudish there.”
“This is really inappropriate, guys…” Ashe is surprised that his voice isn’t immediately drowned out by the chaos. Instead, he suffers a pat on the shoulder from Sylvain.
“We’re just looking out for our friend. You’ve all seen His Highness; he needs to loosen up. Or loosen someone else up, I’m not judging.”
No one bothers to scold Sylvain for that one, which seems to disappoint him.
“It would be fun to give him a try,” Dorothea muses, tapping her jaw.
Ingrid puts her face in her hands. Annette mutters something that Ashe hopes wasn’t “and it'd be really hot.”
Claude doesn’t bother to shift when Hilda appears and leans on his shoulder. She says, “Sure, he’s cute, but it would be an awful lot of work just to find out.”
Claude nudges her with his elbow. “So you’re not interested.”
She nudges back to make him stay still. “No way. And I’m not helping you, either.”
“Hilda. You insult me. I’m not going to need help with charming His Royal Pureness. I can woo a heart so open, so sincere, so incredibly naive all on my own.”
There’s something about how Claude says it that feels wrong to Ashe, and it’s not just what’s being proposed. It feels scheme-y.
Claude continues, “What about you, Princess? No need to pretend you're not interested, we’re all friends here.”
Wait. Edelgard? Ashe blinks twice. She's just... holding a book in hand? Like she was just standing nearby reading? Except, isn’t that one of Hubert’s tomes?
And upside down?
Edelgard snaps the book shut and glares at Claude. “I’m not participating in this little game. You should all seriously reconsider what you’re planning to do as well.”
“So that’s a, ‘I like him too much to seduce him,’ or…?”
Edelgard is already walking out of the dining hall.
“Don’t worry,” Dorothea says, waving her hand. “Edie won’t spoil the fun. And no one here is going to actually break the poor boy’s heart, are they?”
“You aren’t?” Annette asks, to Dorothea’s laughter.
“Of course not! He’s handsome, a prince, a total gentleman, kind-hearted, and adorably easy to fluster. You don’t just toss away a guy like that. The politics that come with a crown would be a little tedious, I’ll admit, but he’s a much better catch than the rest of the Kingdom’s noble bachelors.”
“Ouch,” Sylvain says. Ingrid can’t seem to decide between laughing at Sylvain or crying at everything else.
“Besides,” Dorothea continues, glancing down at Ingrid. “Think of all the cute knights I’d have in my service if I were his Queen.”
She winks.
Sylvain seizes the opportunity left by Ingrid’s incoherence by saying, “Alright, so it’s me, Dorothea, and Claude. Any other takers?”
“Absolutely not,” Felix growls.
Mercedes hums, “I don’t really think this is a very good idea, but if anyone gets hurt, I’d be happy to tend to their injuries.”
Annette’s eyes are wide, and Ashe knows what the flush she’s still wearing means, but she shakes her head anyway. Then she looks at him and he holds up his hands to stop that thought before she says it. “No, no way!” Ashe feels the panic setting in. Trying to seduce his prince? For a competition? “I couldn’t—we shouldn’t even be doing this!”
Sylvain, ready to die young, asks, “Ingrid?”
“I would never.”
“So we’ll put everyone else but Mercedes down for wants to, but too chickenshit to go for it.” A knife flies. Ashe wonders if this is why Sylvain never gets hit on the battlefield. Sylvain continues, “Then it’s just the three of us. Winner gets to make Ashe cook their favorite dish for a month—"
“H-hey, I never agreed to that!”
“—plus the reward of knowing you did the Kingdom of Faerghus a great service. Obviously, no one can tell His Highness, or that spoils the fun. And definitely no one let this slip to Dedue. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him armored up in full garniture outside His Highness’s bedroom if he catches any word of what we’re doing.”
Dorothea raises a hand, as if this is one of the Professor’s lectures. The thought makes Ashe queasy. “I assume we won’t need to take this any further than we’re comfortable with? The question, after all, is only if his strength is a problem for him when he is—”
“Horny,” Sylvain says.
“—passionate,” Dorothea finishes, “But thank you for always reminding me how unfailingly direct you can be, Sylvain.” The sweetness in Dorothea’s voice when she talks to Sylvain always sends a shiver through Ashe.
“Sounds fair to me,” Claude agrees. “Should be something we can determine without going out of anyone's comfort zone.”
Sylvain says, “You’re both cowards, but yeah, that’s fine. As long as we can get a sense of His Highness’s self-control when he’s getting handsy, then it counts. Anything else is between you, him, and the Goddess.”
“This is wrong,” Annette moans, her face now buried in her recovered bag.
“So wrong,” Ingrid agrees.
Sylvain says, “May the best man win.”
Ashe wonders about hiding in the gardens until graduation.
While Dorothea is more than aware of the many-splendored nature of humankind and all the variety it comes in, she also knows that men, like opera singers, come in types. You have your tenors, your counter-tenors, your baritones, your basses, and all the little variations and varieties within those categories. And that's what determines what kind of role you get.
While Dorothea does not doubt that the courtly young Prince of Faerghus may have hidden depths and startling range, there are some men that a girl looks at and knows: that’s a tenor singing out his spinto years. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is one such man, and Dorothea knows how to play an excellent dramatic soprano.
It’s the perfect role for getting any of the Blue Lions—Dorothea has no doubts her Ingrid would fall for it in a heartbeat—but Dimitri seems particularly susceptible to the call of the weak and vulnerable. So when they’re in the stables, after she’s managed saddle and reins, she calls, “Your Highness? I’m having a little trouble. Would you mind terribly helping me out?
The answer comes immediately. “It would be no trouble, Dorothea. And please, you must call me Dimitri. I am your classmate, not your prince.”
“Not just yet, no,” Dorothea murmurs, and amuses herself with the way he seems to briefly flush. He really is too easy.
Still, he methodically checks over the tack before glancing her way. “Is this your first time riding?”
It isn’t. “More or less.”
He nods to himself, reaches for the saddle, then stops himself and glances at her for permission. “If I may?”
Tenors.
“Of course,” she answers, light and sweet. Only then does Dimitri lift off the saddle in one hand and carefully stroke down the horse’s mane with the other.
“She needs a saddle pad to protect her back. It will help her with the weight, and it will do much good for safeguarding the saddle as well. In this weather, cotton would be best. I can fetch one for you, if you’d like.”
“That would be so sweet,” answers Dorothea. She kicks herself for going with the ‘I forgot the cloth’ plan instead of just going a little too loose with the straps. She could have had him guide her fingers to it, really get some contact in there. Instead, she’s stuck waiting here for him to come back.
Sylvain grins at her from several stalls over. Dorothea rolls her eyes at him.
Still, Dimitri doesn’t take too long, and Dorothea makes the call to simply keep him around correcting her as she finishes with the tack. It doesn’t do to look too in need of saving, which is why she waits for everything to be in place before inquiring, “Would you mind terribly helping me into the saddle? I’m afraid I’m still feeling a little unsteady with this, and I’d hate to spook the horse.”
Sylvain ducks his head out of sight. A sound like choking comes from his stall.
“Of course,” Dimitri answers, and soon enough she has gauntleted hands on her hips, guiding her up on the horse. The effortlessness really is impressive. She can’t help but wonder if he could carry her and the horse at once. Between that and the way he managed his own horse’s tack, Dimitri looks like a man more than capable of handling his strength to her.
Dorothea asks Dimitri to accompany her on a ride, which he naturally obliges, and it’s just as charming a time as she’d expect. Sure, he’s a little stiff and awkward, but the sincerity manages not to tip over the edge into suffocating or obnoxious, and he certainly knows how to play his part. The only real count against him is that he fails to hurry off Ferdinand when he joins them. A downside to his openness, she supposes.
Despite the interruption of that obnoxious little bee, Dorothea manages to score a number of hits that have Dimitri smiling or flustered. It’s going well. He agrees to lunch the next day, which is only partially dampered by Dedue’s presence. She doesn’t dislike the man, but Sylvain is on the mark, for once: it's almost impossible to flirt around him. The other Blue Lions give her the space to work, even if Sylvain, Ingrid, and Annette can’t stop looking over to see how it’s going.
The answer is ‘Well, but a little slowly.’ Dorothea, however, has a strategy for that.
Once, when Dorothea was a younger girl, she witnessed Manuela try something in front of a handsome young suitor. Happy to play understudy to Manuela, Dorothea analyzed this trick from afar. Soon she learned to put it into practice, and then she found it had an excellent return rate on catching someone’s attention or getting them to invite you to dinner. Dorothea already has an amount of both from the prince, of course, but she thinks this little technique may be what’s needed to turn that warm attention a little hotter and secure a meal that does not come with a side of a six-foot-eight personal fortress.
Dorothea chooses the stables again, mostly because it’s her best chance to get Dimitri in relative privacy without calling him somewhere. She waits for her moment. She finds it as Dimitri approaches her with a smile.
Then she ‘drops’ her horse’s halter—
“Oh, Dorothea!”
—bends—
“Please, allow me to get that for you.”
—and snaps—
Agony. Sudden, blinding. She hears a deeply apologetic voice, distantly, as if from house left. Then she is off her feet, and slipping away, and only one thought flickers through her head.
Damned tenors.
There is no permanent damage to Dorothea’s face, likely thanks to her prince in shining armor lifting her up and personally carrying her to Manuela’s infirmary. Despite this, Mercedes insists on offering Dorothea healing for the lingering headache.
“I did promise to clean up after anyone who tried,” she tells Dorothea, as the group gathers around her at lunch the next day for the after-show review.
More like the post-mortem.
“What a surprising turn of events,” Edelgard snipes. Despite her icy tone, she has barely let Dorothea out of her sight since she heard about the accident. Dorothea takes advantage of it by leaning against Edelgard’s shoulder, pleased that Edie resettles to give her a better place.
“You know, you could probably use this to your advantage,” Claude says. Dorothea doesn’t know him well, but there's something in his smiles, not unlike what’s in Sylvain's. It's not quite as bitter, but... “Put the right spin on this, and a guy like that is all yours.”
“Oh, I know,” Dorothea answers over Edie’s scoff. Ingrid, who looks like she wants to chide her, gently holds ice wrapped in cloth to her head anyway. “He set up the whole scene for me: the beautifully wounded ingenue, the guilt-ridden leading man, a private infirmary for their duet.” Dorothea sighs “I’m not sure he has it in him to refuse a setup like that.”
“So why didn't you go for it?” Sylvain asks.
Dorothea thinks of the earnestness whenever Dimitri obliged her requests for assistance. The sincerity of every effort he made to be treated as a person instead of a prince. The desperation in how he sat at her side for hours, fetched her anything she even hinted she might want, apologized over and over with gifts of flowers and offers of aid.
Dorothea touches her no-longer-broken nose. “He’s just too dangerous. Sorry, boys, but I’m out of the game.”
“Well,” Claude says, stretching his arms above his head, “Guess that means it’s my turn. Hilda, if I die on the hunt, let the world know I died chasing the answer to one of the greatest mysteries of Garreg Mach.”
“Can’t I make Ignatz do it instead?”
This, Claude decides, is going even better than anticipated. Dorothea stole his thunder on the long horseride strategy, sure, forcing him to pick a new angle of attack. But now, at long last, Claude has Dimitri exactly where he wants him: alone, in Dimitri's bedroom, losing a game of backgammon.
“Ah,” Dimitri says, as Claude snatches up one of his pieces and sets it on the middle of the board. “Hm.”
“Don’t worry, Your Princeliness—”
“Please, Claude, I really wish you’d just address me by name—”
“—you can get your piece out. You just have to make the right roll.”
“Yes,” Dimitri says, slowly. “By rolling a number for a point unoccupied by two or more of your pieces.”
“Stones, not pieces, but yeah. Got it in one. See, you’re picking this game up fast.”
“Yes,” Dimitri continues, still looking at the board. “And every single one of your first six points—”
“My home board.”
“—your home board is occupied by no less than two of your pieces—stones. Meaning that there is not a single roll I can make to set my stone back on the board until you have already begun… bearing off, is it?”
“That it is,” Claude answers.
“And it was you who advised me that I had to take more risks if I hoped to advance.”
“That was my advice, yup.”
“I see,” Dimitri says. And he smiles. “Thank you for the lesson, Claude.” He rolls anyway, then offers the dice back to Claude.
Claude takes his turn continuing to gather his stones in the home board rather than leave Dimitri the space to escape. A quick glance confirms that Dimitri is still focused on the game, so Claude tries, “Enjoying it, Your Royalness?”
The thing is, the Blue Lions are incredibly wrapped up in each other. Claude realized that early on, the tight knit of the group standout even at an Academy where basically everyone comes from the same background. They are interwoven a dozen times over in those four childhood friends and then linked obviously and in hidden ways across the rest. Trying to unravel how the personal connects to the political with those eight gets you nothing less than a knot.
It’s that knot has kept him from getting any time alone with Faerghus’s future king. Ashe in the library, Ingrid in the training grounds, Dedue, well, everywhere—there’s always someone getting between Claude and the kind of privacy he needs if he wants to know what role Dimitri might play in his plans. Even when it comes to sleeping arrangements, the one place Claude can hope to get at Dimitri without Dedue interfering, Faerghus’s prince is sandwiched between two childhood friends who can’t be kept out of his business. So when the lion pride decided to collectively hand him a golden opportunity to pursue their leader without any interference, who was Claude to pass up that up?
Plus, Claude wants a new backgammon partner.
“The game is most intriguing.” Dimitri’s voice is as overwhelmingly sincere as his expression. It always makes Claude wonder when the other shoe is going to drop. “You say it is regarded abroad in much the same way as chess?”
“The game of kings, yeah,” Claude answers. “In some places, backgammon is as vital a part of a prince’s education as horseback riding and learning to throw a javelin. Young royals are gifted sets with dice made of ivory and boards of the best cedar, inlaid with turquoise and rubies. It's a whole thing.”
Dimitri glances down at the board. It's oak with ivory inlay. Claude wants to find out how Dimitri feels about foreign cultures, not hand him his background on a cedarwood platter.
“Fascinating,” Dimitri murmurs, tapping the bone dice together before taking another futile roll. “Certainly, there are similarities in the upbringing of future leaders. Yet it is different, too: an education in strategy that asks more respect for luck, for awareness that any strategist is playing against not just an opponent but fortune itself. I cannot help but wonder what influence the games we are taught might have on the strategies we use on the battlefield.”
“Who knows?” Claude glances at his board. No way to start bearing off without taking a risk now. He leaves a stone solo on the first point, knowing it’s the least dangerous position, and sweeps a second stone to safety. “You’d have to meet enough commanders who had that variety of training first. Then you’d have to start a war between them. That’s a lot of work to test a point of curiosity.”
“I don’t believe a real battle would be necessary,” Dimitri says. “Merely having the opportunity to learn from one another over a game might be enough.”
Claude looks up. But Dimitri is watching the board, and his frown indicates nothing but concentration on the game.
A few turns later, Dimitri gets lucky with a roll and can free his stone while capturing one of Claude's. But it’s what happens next that catches Claude’s attention: Dimitri switches Claude’s stone for his own, easy as anything, but when it comes to setting the piece down at the center of the board, he hesitates.
Claude takes the chance to slip his fingers between the fabric of Dimitri’s gauntlets—as warm as skin from being worn at all times, and what's with that, anyway?—and relieve him of the stone. Dimitri lingers a moment before withdrawing. Something in Dimitri’s face hits Claude: is Dimitri taking this whole strength thing even worse after the accident with Dorothea? Was Mercedes understating how much it bothers him? Just how bad is it if he’s worried about messing up over a game of backgammon?
“You okay there, Your Princeliness?”
The expression shutters away behind a polite smile, almost as quick as Claude could do it himself. Dimitri laughs, and it doesn’t come off quite as earnest as before. “It may not be inlaid with turquoise and ruby, but it is a lovely board. I would hate to damage it.”
“Don’t worry about it.” With a wave of a hand, Claude throws the whole idea away. “Not everything is as delicate as royal porcelain. Us ordinary folk have to make do with goods that have some durability.”
“That’s… literally the opposite of what often is the case in terms of the quality of materials affordable to different ranks of society, but I take your meaning. Your turn, I believe?”
The setback doesn’t stop Claude from winning, of course. And of course Dimitri takes the loss graciously and thanks Claude for teaching him the game. Claude insists on packing up the board himself, and Dimitri insists on walking him back to his room. Lorenz’s door is shut, which is lifesaving, but Claude notices two open doors on their way down: one at the end of the hall, and one between his room and Dimitri’s.
Hm. Maybe he needs to put more effort into securing their privacy.
Claude lingers at the threshold of his room, letting his eyes flicker over Dimitri in the late evening half-light. “That was fun. Good game, Dimitri.” It’s like someone turned on the sun, the way Dimitri smiles in response to that. Claude mimes covering his eyes. “Watch it there. Smile like that without warning and you'll blind a guy.”
If anything, that just gets Dimitri laughing. “Claude, please. No need to flatter.”
“It’s on you if my aim’s off tomorrow,” Claude insists. He turns it down a notch, slipping into a softer voice to add, “Remind me to get you all on your lonesome again sometime. It’s nice, getting to hang out with you without the whole royal retinue.”
“They are not a royal retinue.” And there it is: the sun eclipsed, and instead Dimitri grips the wrist of one gloved hand with the other. It’s as endearing as it is a tellingly bad habit in a future monarch. “They are my friends.”
A very loud scoff from Felix’s room.
“Still. I feel like I never get the chance to have you to myself.” With a wink, Claude tugs Dimitri’s hand free and bows over it, all courtly Faerghus knight. It’s agony not busting into laughter over the gesture, but Claude manages to crack out, “See you tomorrow for some more international relations.”
It’s not the same as using his first name, but does Claude detect a little flush there? Huh. He might really have the prince on the ropes.
“I would like that very much, Claude.”
Yeah, that’s definitely a flush. Dimitri isn’t meeting Claude’s eyes.
“I greatly appreciate this opportunity to come to know you…”
The gauntlet slips free from Claude’s grasp.
“…as a friend.”
Three doors down, someone howls with laughter.
Dimitri frowns. “Sylvain. I’m glad to hear you’re prepared to take an early night’s rest before your certification exam tomorrow.” Dimitri’s switch to stick-up-his-ass primness is so absolute Claude almost sprains his neck. Dimitri turns away from Claude’s door with a sigh, eyeing the threshold of the room of his other nearby childhood friend. “And Felix—”
A pause. Claude bears witness the exact moment Dimitri decides that saying anything just risks Felix doing something stupid out of spite.
“Never mind. Goodnight to all three of you. Tomorrow, Claude.”
It’s after Dimitri has shut his door that Sylvain slips out of his own room, slouching to a stop in front of Felix’s. “Ouch.”
Claude shrugs. “Temporary setback.”
“Yeah, okay. Friend.”
“I will kill both of you right now,” Felix says, and slams his door shut.
Claude decides that it’s Hilda’s own brand of loyalty that she has decided to stick with him at the royal retinue’s lunch table until this whole game comes to an end. The positions have reshuffled a little to make space for that oak backgammon board—Sylvain, it turns out, is a decent gamesman.
On other things, however, Claude still has doubts.
“Now that Claude’s struck out—”
“Had a temporary setback.”
“—it’s time for me to show you kids how it’s done.” Sylvain rolls a double and moves his pieces as he talks. “You were way too subtle, both of you. His Highness is a romantic, sure, but he’s also stunningly oblivious. You have to make your intentions clear with him.”
Ashe has his face buried in his hands. Mercedes is patting his back gently. Ingrid has resorted to disapprovingly cutting into her vegetable pasta salad, which isn’t too convincing, likely because it’s one of her favorites.
Annette actually looks a bit more intrigued than she probably realizes, but Claude decides not to call her out on it. This time.
“Don’t you dare make me overhear your inane attempts to seduce that beast.” And Felix, predictably, is right here, complaining about something he could easily walk away from. Claude cannot wait to sink his teeth into that whole complex. This little loosening up of the Blue Lions’ knot has given him so much to work with.
“Relax,” Sylvain says. “I’ve got this covered.” Then he glances at Claude and asks, “Best two out of three?”
Plus, it’s paid unexpected returns on backgammon partners.
Sylvain knows none of them buy what he said about getting Dimitri to loosen up, but honestly? Sometimes, Sylvain thinks that maybe they all need to take that idea more seriously.
He’s seen it, little slips here and there—the way things break under Dimitri’s fingers, not when he’s careless but when he is focusing on work too hard or stuck playing perfect prince to Kingdom lords for too long. He’s seen the way Dimitri stays steady and strong as weight is pushed down on his shoulders, brutal and relentless, until all at once the pressure comes out in the snap of whatever unfortunate object happens to be under the prince’s fingertips, and then Dimitri apologizes endlessly for the slip. So Sylvain knows.
Sylvain has watched all three of his best friends grow up. They lagged behind him for a while, bragging about bruises from the training yard while Sylvain had to decide how to hide his, but in one awful day they caught up, all at once, and then they could never go back. Sylvain still sees it in them, evolved in shape but the same patterns they fell into in those first days after the Tragedy hit: Felix’s porcupine survival strategy, Ingrid switching fiancés from a boy to an ideal, and Dimitri—in Dimitri, something wound up tight and held down close to his chest, something Sylvain can't name but knows is there. That thing, whatever it is, is the reason that Sylvain has stopped having to comfort Felix after fights with Dimitri and started having to just watch as Felix drives his spines into Dimitri over and over, because Felix has seen it better than anyone and he can’t stand it, and Dimitri refuses defend himself, and it just keeps going on and on until both of them look bled dry even though Dimitri never even tries to hit back.
Sylvain does a lot of watching, really. He’d call it voyeurism, but he’s pretty sure no one in this sad sadomasochistic shitshow gets a drop of pleasure out of it. Still, he can’t look away. If he doesn’t watch over those three, who will?
Which is exactly why Sylvain is going to have sex with Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Prince of Faerghus and cherished childhood friend, courtesy of a strategically sound three-step process.
Step 1: Groundwork.
Despite what Sylvain says, Dorothea and Claude had the right idea for their opening moves. They just don’t know Dimitri like Sylvain does. They don’t know that nothing hits him harder than simple praise—a supportive word here, a pat on the back there. They don’t know that all his favorite dishes are the ones he had as a kid, back when he had the world’s second-stupidest haircut (go to a stylist, Lorenz) and burst into tears every time he broke something he didn’t mean to. They don’t know that Dimitri spends at least a couple hours of every week teaching the local orphans everything from swordplay to the old chivalric tales they all grew up on, and that nothing in the world makes him more grateful than if you drop by unexpectedly and give him a hand acting out the death scene from Sir Kyphon and the Rose of Itha.
It’s afterwards, while they’re walking back to their rooms and Dimitri is laughing about Sylvain’s totally-not-overdone dying throes, that Sylvain sees Ingrid watching them, a book in her hand. She glances at him, then at Dimitri's smile. Her expression softens. She gives him a small nod, then holds up one finger and slashes it across her throat.
Sylvain doesn’t let his grin slip (he acted his death scene exactly how the kids wanted him to, thank you very much), even though he gets the message. But Ingrid is worrying too much. Hurting Dimitri is the exact opposite of what he’s going for.
The downside of all this is it keeps him busy during most of the day. Sylvain has no choice but to relegate his escapades to evening adventures, leaving him stumbling home late (or way too early) and ending up the victim of several of Ingrid’s lectures. It’s kind of exhausting. But there is nothing Sylvain wouldn’t do for a friend.
Step 2: Flirtation.
A week of offering Dimitri his attention has gone a long way to elevating Dimitri’s mood in general, so now it’s time to build on that groundwork with Sylvain's greatest talent: direct flirtation. The problem in this particular case is that Dimitri is familiar with Sylvain’s moves (“You mean he knows you’re an insatiable asshole,” Felix interrupts), so Sylvain has to adjust his usual flirtation strategies.
Blatant come-ons and clichés are out. Suggestive physical contact is in.
The benefit of this being Dimitri is that Sylvain spends so much time around him, it’s easy to get into his space. An arm around the shoulders at lunch here, a little extra physical contact at the training field there (Felix looks ten seconds from using Thunder to make Sylvain take his hands off Dimitri’s hips during their horseback lancework session), and Sylvain’s quickly getting somewhere. As bonus, Sylvain can also tell when Dimitri’s genuinely unhappy and needs him to back off (apparently a hand on his knee in the middle of class is a no-go).
It has a cumulative effect. Dimitri’s an obvious blusher (Sylvain still thinks he should use that as a charm point with the ladies), and Sylvain can tell that his blushes are coming easier now, that even a brief bump of the shoulders or an offer to walk with him to the Knight’s Hall is enough to get under Dimitri’s collar. Dimitri is almost ready, Sylvain knows it. It's just a matter of the tipping point.
It’s while waiting for this tipping point, getting help preparing a saghert and cream from Mercedes, that Dedue stops Sylvain, a firm hand on his shoulder and an even, steady request to speak away from the kitchen. Honestly, Sylvain is just surprised it took so long. Maybe it’s goodwill from their other conversations? He likes Dedue a lot. It’d suck if this torched that.
“What’s up, Dedue?” Sylvain asks, like he doesn’t know and Dedue doesn’t know he knows. This is probably not the best opening move, now that Sylvain thinks it through, but the words are already out.
“Sylvain.” There is a pause. It makes Sylvain wonder if Dedue didn’t know what he wanted to say before he came here, or maybe if Sylvain’s reaction has him recalibrating. “I know you are not the fool you appear to be—”
“Wow, okay. Fair, but ow. But also, thanks?”
Dedue’s brows furrow, which probably means Sylvain is in trouble for pretending he doesn't get exactly what Dedue means, but he keeps going. “As such, I am trusting that you are using your wisdom and intelligence carefully this time. Do not be careless with His Highness.”
It kind of stings, what Dedue’s implying. Sure, Sylvain started this thing as a game, but it’s not like Dedue knows that. Dedue should just think Sylvain is interested in Dimitri, and unless Dedue is jealous (holy shit, is Dedue jealous?) it’s pretty shitty to assume the worst. Sylvain holds up his hands and says, “Hey, not as bad as my reputation, remember? I promise, I’m just looking out for him.”
“I am aware you are a much better man than your reputation suggests,” Dedue says, which makes Sylvain feel shitty for thinking Dedue was being shitty. “My concern is that what you hope to give His Highness is something that you have mistaken for a salve, but which in fact leaves your wounds festering and untended.”
“Uh.”
“Please consider what I said. For your sake as well as His Highness’s.” Dedue nods his head before striding away, leaving Sylvain standing there like a total dope in the middle of the dining hall.
“Sylvain?” The voice of an angel breaks into that wreckage of thought. “Do you want to be the one to pull the dessert out of the oven?”
Sylvain snaps back around and takes the offered oven mitts. “My pleasure, Mercedes,” he tells her, and gets back to work on seducing his liege lord and friend.
Sylvain knows this is a good idea. Of course it is. He isn’t leaving things festering, he’s just enjoying his freedom while he has it. Dimitri deserves to have that, too.
Step 3: Closing the Deal.
Good mood: cultivated. Interested: piqued. Dimitri is now ready for Sylvain’s final move: a direct offer.
“You okay there, Your Highness?” Sylvain asks, leaning against the wall between their rooms and offering Dimitri the best angle on his looks. “You look exhausted.”
Dimitri sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s a wonder that nothing gets caught in the gauntlets. Sylvain can’t remember the last time he saw Dimitri’s bare hands. “It’s nothing to trouble yourself over, Sylvain. I’ve only been training for the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion.”
“Right, that.” Not that Sylvain hasn’t put more effort into his training for it too, but he has bigger priorities right now. “You really need to take a break, man. You know overworking’s just going to wear you down before we even get on the battlefield.”
“I know, I know, Dedue says the same, but…” A quick shake of his head, and Dimitri straightens, all the tiredness pushed down under his princely polish.
Sylvain is surprised to realize just how badly he wants Dimitri to throw that mask away.
“But I am the House Leader. I won’t let any of you down.”
“None of us want you to kill yourself training,” Sylvain insists. “Well, maybe Felix, but it’s not like he’s got a healthy idea of when to quit either.”
There’s no missing the mixed feelings in Dimitri’s soft laugh at that. Shit. Way to push Dimitri right into all that baggage. Sylvain has to keep this on track. He pushes off the walls and takes hold of one of Dimitri’s hands.
“Look, Your Highness. Dimitri.” There. Sylvain knew that’d stop Dimitri’s mind from wandering. The guy has always been a sucker for getting them to drop the formalities, and now Sylvain has his full attention. “You have a lot on your shoulders. I get it, I really do.”
“Sylvain…”
If this were anyone else, Sylvain would lightly stroke the inside of their wrist with his thumb right now. Instead it’s Dimitri, and he’s stuck holding cloth and metal. “But you need to let that pressure off. You need to let yourself relax, Dimitri. I can help you.”
“Sylvain,” Dimitri repeats, and looks him in the eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
Oh fuck.
Wait, which part of it? Getting him to relax? The competition?
Sylvain widens his eyes, innocent in a way he knows Dimitri’s never going to buy but determined to die how he lived: lying like an asshole.
“What are you talking about, Your Highness?”
“Sylvain,” Dimitri says, for the third time, which is basically the equivalent of Ingrid shouting his full name in the dining hall. “I’m not going to be seduced—” (oh good that one okay Sylvain can work with this) “—out of a conversation about your behavior these past few weeks.”
Wait, what?
Dimitri draws his hand away and folds his arms, and all at once Sylvain knows there is no working with this, period. “Even by your standards, this kind of behavior is too much. Out in the town until dawn, Sylvain?”
Oh no. Oh no.
“Your Highness—Dimitri, wait, that was because—”
“And your attitude towards these women. You give them no time at all during the day, brushing them off callously—”
“No, see, okay, I know that looks bad, but—”
“—and only spending time with them at night. It’s really too much, Sylvain. To be quite honest, I’m wounded that you think I would be so easily distracted from the issue.”
“I wasn’t trying to distract you—okay, I was, but not from that—”
But it is too late. It is far, far too late. However tired Dimitri was a moment ago, all the fire of Ailell sweeps into him at once as he kicks off on one of his multi-paragraph lectures. And Sylvain, last bedroom in the hallway, has no escape route.
Maybe Dedue has a point about this not helping.
Backgammon has kind of become a bit of a group thing. Today, Dorothea is thoroughly kicking Annette’s ass in it, and Annette is getting increasingly determined to have revenge. Sylvain would find it cute, if he weren't exhausted.
Ingrid, watching the game, promptly stabs Sylvain in the back. “So did I overhear wrong, or is Claude not the only one who struck out with His Highness?”
Claude, on cue: “Temporary setback.”
Sylvain doesn’t lift his head from the table. It’s his turn to play against Dorothea, but right now, all he can do is take the sweet, sweet release of cool wood against his forehead.
“I told you not to make me overhear your attempts,” Felix says. “It was pathetic.”
Sylvain can offer no retort. An angelic touch—Mercedes, of course—soothes the back of his neck. “Now, now,” Mercedes says, “don’t tease Sylvain too much. He tried very hard to make Dimitri happy. We should be kind to him for that.”
“Dorothea was right,” Sylvain mutters to his only true friend and supporter, the dining table.
“Was I?” Dorothea’s barely masked teasing doesn’t even penetrate the fog of exhaustion drowning Sylvain. “That’s awfully nice to hear. Was it about you being too much of a cad to charm him, or am I right about how you’re cruel to women and everyone knows it?”
“His Highness is just too dangerous,” Sylvain answers.
“You’re weak,” Felix snaps. Sylvain does not have the energy to tell Felix that he should give it a try himself if he thinks it’s so easy.
Awkwardly, Ashe laughs.
The inanity of it all is suffocating. With Sylvain out, Felix hoped it was all over, but still he sees Claude hovering around Dimitri, catching him alone for a quiet word or backgammon match. They’ve started going on horseback rides together, taking tea in the gardens. And all for the stupid game.
It makes Felix sick.
If Felix were to join the competition, he knows he’d succeed. No one, not even Ingrid or Sylvain, knows Dimitri better than Felix. They had grown up with Dimitri, but Felix had been raised for him, intended as Dimitri’s playmate and companion before he was even born. His old man admitted as much once, long before tragedy struck, back when Felix had been proud to hear it. Even with the Dimitri Felix knew gone and this bloodthirsty beast in his place, Felix knows him, he knows him, from the stuttering awkwardness he slips into whenever he can't find the right protocol in a conversation to the tight and untempered violence he carries inside him every single day. If Felix wanted to seduce Dimitri, to test his control in a moment of passion, he wouldn’t need any of the groundwork that Dorothea and Sylvain and Claude relied on. He wouldn’t even have to try like they did. He'd just do it.
It’s stupid. Felix has absolutely no desire to play.
“Boar,” Felix says, shoving a spear into Dimitri’s arms and not waiting for Dimitri to recover himself from the sudden invasion of his space. “Spar with me.”
“I—yes, certainly.” The damned boar always looks so startled and eager when Felix approaches him like this. It makes Felix want to smash his face in with the hilt of his sword until he shows his true nature, until he stops wearing the corpse of Felix’s friend like a costume and admits that the boy Felix knew is gone. But if there is one thing that the boar is good for, it’s fighting, and Felix will use that to gather his own strength.
Felix attacks.
They match each other, speed and precision against reach and strength. Dimitri swings his lance and Felix dodges; Felix thrusts his sword and Dimitri blocks the hit. Each pass is answered in stalemate, no advancing, no change, but Felix knows Dimitri, he knows that Dimitri has not been resting, he knows that Dimitri’s endurance is shot and that if Felix can stay in the game long enough to see Dimitri falter, he will win.
A sweep with one weapon, a lunge with the other. The training hall clears out as the dinner bell rings, but neither of them attend that distraction. They’re men from Faerghus, taught the language of battle before they had finished learning their mother tongue. Their fathers raised their souls to sing for war.
And then, there—the slip. Felix ends it all at once, a strike to the boar’s side, an elbow to his throat, a twist that disarms him and gets him down on the ground, underneath him, panting and pupils dilated and still half-burning with that need to fight, and even with a sword to his neck the beast looks like he’s ready to strike back, like he’d slit his own throat to win a fight.
Then it’s gone. Vanished back under a pretence, but the panting proves what they were doing was not so soft and gentle as the beast pretends to be. Dimitri looks up at Felix, and slowly, carefully, says, “Felix…”
Felix presses the sword down harder and Dimitri shuts up. He complies, like he always does, because fighting is the only time Felix can make him be honest. Now it’s the lie again, the mask of the prince, sweat-drenched and still even though they both know Dimitri could throw Felix off with ease if he really wanted to. Even though the laws of their country give this animal royalty absolute authority, the kind that could have Felix destroyed for the things he says.
Felix knows, because he knows Dimitri: Dimitri will let him do anything. No matter how often he spits vitriol at him, Dimitri will simply accept it. If he tells Dimitri not to speak to him, Dimitri will obey. If he draws this sword away and tells Dimitri to stay perfectly still, not to move, not to speak, Dimitri will simply watch him with those same steady blue eyes and play dead until Felix tells him he can go.
And if Felix leaned down now, if he decided to end Sylvain’s stupid game once and for all—
“Felix,” Dimitri says again, and smiles so softly that it's a slap. “Thank you. I truly do enjoy the opportunity to spend this time with you.”
Felix yanks away.
He can't stand this. He can't be near him. Felix leaves the sword on the ground and puts distance between them and doesn't look back at that unbearable, suffocating, affectionate expression, not even once. It isn't real. “Don’t talk to me, boar prince. I'm using you for your brute strength, nothing more.”
And because Felix told him not to speak, Dimitri doesn't say a thing.
The next day, Felix decides to eat lunch as far away from the rest of those clowns as possible. It takes all of Sylvain's cajoling to get him back at the table, and only for the opportunity to watch Dorothea kick Sylvain's ass at backgammon. It isn't much of a consolation, but Ashe offers him some of his sautéed jerky, which Felix can admit he appreciates.
At least a little, anyway.
“Felix? You really think so?” Ashe passes the small packet of seeds over to Dedue, who nods his thanks. It is their usual morning routine in the greenhouse, tending to the plants before the day starts. It’s soothing. A good way to begin any day.
“It didn't occur to me at the time,” says Dimitri. “Afterwards, however, and in consideration of the previous efforts, I thought it possible that he, too, may have been attempting to win the game. At the very least, Felix is incredibly competitive. I imagine it would irritate him to continue to watch the others make attempts on me when he is certain he could win with ease.”
Dimitri’s responsibility in this shared gardening activity is to move anything heavy. It is not that he lacks a willingness to help, and Dedue certainly has the strength for any of the tasks Dimitri takes. But after the second time Dimitri broke a pair of gardening shears just by holding them, they decided as a group that Dimitri is better off handling the heavy lifting. It leaves Dedue more time to focus on the more delicate work with Ashe, while Dimitri can contribute without being in constant terror of destroying everything he touches.
“You believe this to be the end of it?” Dedue asks.
Ashe hesitates, thinking over yesterday’s lunch. “I’m not entirely certain. Claude keeps saying it’s a temporary setback every time they bring up him, er, striking out. He might have a plan to try again.”
“Oh, he’s been trying,” Dimitri says. Ashe and Dedue both look at him, but Dimitri just shrugs. “He’s pleasant enough company, and not too forward, so I don’t mind. I suspect that his real motives are purer than the competition itself.”
Ashe isn’t so sure, but he’s not going to argue with his prince. At the very least, Dimitri has the right to take his own chances with the Academy’s infamous schemer. “If you say so, Your Highness.”
“Plus,” Dimitri continues, tone turning pointed, “he has started addressing me by name more frequently. I greatly appreciate it.”
There is a pause. Ashe and Dedue look at each other. Ashe briefly wonders if anyone who grew up in Dimitri’s social circle understands what subtlety is.
Dedue says, “Be that as it may, Your Highness,” and Dimitri deflates on the spot. “You were perhaps too harsh with Sylvain. I sincerely believe he intended the best for you.”
“I agree,” Dimitri replies. “Sylvain’s heart is generally in the right place, even if the rest of him isn’t. In this case, however, I know that what he thinks is best would not have benefited either of us. My lecture was also sincere.”
The worst part of working with Dimitri is how anxious he gets when he no longer has useful tasks to do. The way Dimitri stands now, his fingers tapping, makes Ashe feel the need to invent something, like bags of rocks to be moved or a dead bear to carry.
It’s probably the idleness that gives Dimitri the space to sigh and run a hand through his hair, like he is carrying something too heavy for even his strength to bear. “I simply wish I had known before the encounter with Dorothea.”
Ashe winces. The one end to a romantic overture that they hadn’t all three discussed and agreed on before it happened. It was Dorothea’s injury that had sent Ashe to try to wait it out in the greenhouse, where Dedue had been gardening and Dimitri had been trying not to break anything while helping Dedue garden. Dimitri looked so distraught over the accident that Ashe broke down and admitted what was happening on the spot.
After that, Ashe became their man on the inside, revealing plans in advance and strategizing on how to end each one. It isn’t exactly how Ashe imagined serving his prince, but the time with Dedue and Dimitri is nice, and it was actually a lot of fun listening to Sylvain brag while knowing exactly what his downfall would look like. Ashe has not said that last part out loud to anyone.
He is pretty sure Dedue suspects.
“Dorothea seems fine now,” Ashe reassures Dimitri, not for the first time. “She’s getting very good at backgammon! Yesterday, she almost beat Claude.”
“Oh? I’d like to see that.” As he gives up and settles on the ground between Dedue and Ashe, Dimitri adds, very quietly, “And get tips on it.”
It’s the sort of thing Ashe would call a pout, if that weren’t his prince he was talking about. But he can’t quite make himself call it ‘a regal display of displeasure’ instead.
Suddenly, footsteps, and a loud and familiar voice breaking through the calm of their gardening. “Your Highness! I am here to accompany you for the day. There is no need to thank me; I consider it my noble duty to show you a much better time than what Claude has inflicted upon you. Shall we be off?”
Ashe turns. He sees Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, holding a rose in one hand, posed for Dimitri just outside the greenhouse doors. He sees Dimitri himself, frozen, like he’s been found in an ambush and is too startled to fight back. He sees the whole story play out in his mind’s eye: Dimitri too polite to refuse, Lorenz ushering him away, Dimitri anguished and exhausted by the end of the day. The Prince of Faerghus is in danger.
So Ashe Ubert, commoner, aspiring knight, and the Blue Lions’ dedicated archer, launches himself forward and snipes a kiss from his liege lord to protect him from this terrible fate. Distantly, Ashe has the hysterical thought that any knight would do the same.
Dedue stares. Lorenz drops his rose. A loud crack echoes in Ashe’s ears.
“Sorry! He’s taken!” Ashe squeaks as Dedue, so impassive it makes Ashe want to cry, calmly and deliberately closes the greenhouse doors in Lorenz’s face.
Dimitri still isn’t moving. Ashe thinks, based on the color of Dimitri’s face, that he may just have committed regicide. That’s fine. He’s also pretty sure he just conducted his own execution, so that saves the Kingdom the trouble of a trial. Ashe is dead now, for treason, and his only request as a would-be knight is to lie beside his would-be king.
Wait, no, he didn't mean it that way—
“I believe,” Dedue says, terrifyingly inscruitable as he helps both Dimitri and Ashe to their feet, “that it may be for the best, Ashe, if you inform the others that you have found the answer to their question.” Dedue gestures downward. Ashe follows the line of movement. There are two great cracks on the ground where Dimitri’s hands had been. The stone is nothing but rubble.
“Please bury me now,” Ashe begs instead.
“For His Highness’s sake,” Dedue insists.
Dimitri manages, “I—thank you for protecting me, Ashe, that was—very brave of you!” before fleeing from the greenhouse. On his way out, he runs by a baffled Lorenz, who is dusting the dirt off of his rose.
Ashe tries to sink to the ground. Dedue’s firm grip doesn’t let him. “I just wanted to hide here until it was over,” he moans.
Gently, Dedue pats his back.
Ashe stands in the dining hall. His face is on fire. There is no Dedue to keep him standing. There is only him, his friends, and his duty to his prince. “G-guys,” he starts, “So, about that whole, um, bet, competition, thing—”
Sylvain drops his lunch tray in a clatter of metal and wood.
“Holy shit.”