Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The delegation from the Church is scheduled to arrive before noon, and Duke Felix Hugo Fraldarius has a problem: he has misplaced his king.

Fortunately, Dimitri isn’t outright missing. Wherever he is, Dedue is likely with him, which means he is certainly safe—and of course there’s no general uproar to speak of an assassination or a kidnapping, attempted or successful. But that doesn’t change the fact that the king and his trusted, favoured vassal are not where they are supposed to be, and it won’t be terribly long before Felix is going to have to start turning over cushions and checking under desks, and that is, frankly, just as annoying as it is undignified.

Not that Felix cares about whether or not others find him dignified. Of course he doesn’t; that is a silly, frivolous thing to be concerned about.

And so Duke Fraldarius stomps and stalks around the castle, looking for the king, not asking for help from the knights and servants who give him a wide berth. He finally ends up in the royal wing, which is not anywhere near where the king is supposed to be at this hour according to the schedule Felix himself made for today. Dimitri is usually very good at sticking to Felix’s schedules, and yet, the royal wing is the right place to look. The doors to the royal bedchambers are open. Dedue stands out in the hall, looking perfectly composed, and Sylvain stands beside him, looking like a normal person. To a layperson, everything must seem fine; Felix knows better.

Then there’s the sound of small feet, and he looks over his shoulder to see Annette jogging up behind him.

“Found him!” she declares, bending over and putting her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

“Thank you, Annette,” Dedue says, in a particularly formal inflection that Dimitri once insisted is the next best thing to Dedue declaring his undying love for Annette and now that Felix knows that, he can’t un-know it.

“You didn’t find me,” Felix says.

“But you’re here now, aren’t you?” Annette counters. “Therefore, I found you.”

Felix decides not to argue with that stunning logic. He looks up at Dedue. “What’s going on? Where is he?”

Beyond the open door, porcelain shatters. Sylvain winces. Annette says, “Oh no”. Dedue blinks. Inside the room, Mercedes’ sweet, high voice says, “Oh dear! It’s all right, Your Majesty, I’ll clean it up.” And there’s a low, frustrated groan that could have only come from one particular boar who is, ultimately, Felix’s responsibility since Professor Byleth is now Archbishop Byleth.

“He was fine after breakfast,” Felix says.

“And he’s not now,” Sylvain says. “He fell to pieces when you went to have your terribly mysterious meeting.”

“So that’s why he didn’t show up in my office,” Felix says.

“Yeah.”

“And why are you three out here?”

“My wife kicked us out,” Sylvain says. He almost sounds proud of that.

Dedue’s gaze fixes on a spot far down the corridor. There’s no way he’s pleased about Mercedes taking charge of this situation. Had Felix been here from the beginning, Dedue also wouldn’t be well pleased with Felix taking charge, either, but Dedue won’t argue with Mercedes in particular. Even Felix finds it hard to argue with Mercedes.

Felix rolls his eyes. “Useless,” he mutters, and shoulders his way past Dedue and Sylvain and into the bedchambers.

Dimitri sits on a chair in front of the hearth, wearing only a pair of black pants. They are ridiculously tight—who thought it was appropriate for Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd to wander around wearing pants that look like they’ve been painted onto his stupid long legs? He wears nothing else, his hair is a mess, and he’s bent double, his elbows on his thighs and his face in his hands. Mercedes, meanwhile, is humming softly as she cleans up a mess of tea and porcelain.

“We have servants for that,” Felix says.

Dimitri flinches.

“It’s all right, Felix,” Mercedes says, all sunshine and light, “I don’t mind helping His Majesty myself. Besides, I think right now it might be better to have as few people here as possible.”

Dimitri says something incomprehensible from behind his hands.

Felix’s mouth narrows into a line of pure displeasure. “We can’t minimise people right now. The delegation from the Church will be here soon.”

“True,” Mercedes agrees, all sweetness and songbirds, “but his Majesty knows the Archbishop, and Linhardt, and Seteth. Now that you’re here, Annie and I can go make some arrangements to make sure that any rest of the Archbishop’s entourage don’t crowd His Majesty and perhaps get sent to different tasks, until the king is feeling better.” She puts a gentle hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “Does that sound all right, Dimitri?” she asks, softly, finally using his name.

More muffled noises, but they sound more affirmative than distressed this time.

“Wonderful. That’s settled then. Annie and I will take care of that, if you take care of his Majesty, Felix,” says Mercedes, with a beatific smile.

Felix just nods, crosses his arms, and looks at Dimitri.

He hates this. He doesn’t hate Dimitri. But he hates this. He hates seeing him like this.

When Mercedes is done tidying up, Felix follows her to the door and firmly closes it in Dedue and Sylvain’s faces without a word. He locks it for good measure, even though he knows Dedue will be quietly furious about it—not that he’s entirely sure Dedue can’t actually get in.

Then he crosses the room, and drops to a crouch in front of Dimitri.

“Look at me,” he says.

Dimitri doesn’t.

“Look at me,” Felix repeats.

Dimitri doesn’t.

Dimitri can’t?

“What did you do that could have possibly been so bad in the space of two hours?” Felix can crouch forever if he needs to. He doesn’t want to, of course—but he’ll do it if he has to.

Dimitri shakes his head.

“Did you step on a cat? Did you lose your crown? Do you have a stomachache? Did you accidentally cancel the Saint Cethleann celebration? Did you outlaw summer carnivals and don’t understand how you’re supposed to rescind the order?”

Months and months ago, the first time Felix found Dimitri in a state and unable to speak, Felix had demanded to know if Dimitri had eaten all the cheese in Fhirdiad and was too embarrassed to tell anyone. Before that, though, he first asked a series of much more serious and, in hindsight, upsetting questions—had he had to have a friend arrested for treason? Did he kill someone? Had he started another war? Those questions had caused Dimitri’s distress to mount immeasurably, and, frustrated, Felix demanded to know about the cheese gluttony.

And, miracle of miracles, Dimitri had looked at him, that—

beautiful

—blue eye of his impossibly wide and round. And then he’d slumped in his seat, a hand on his stomach, and started to laugh.

Felix doesn’t let anyone else see this. He won’t. Not that he cares about dignity, or anything like that; it’s because this is just for him and the boar. That’s why Dedue and Sylvain have to be on the other side of the door.

“Look, it’s not actually all that difficult for us to rescind silly laws you make in a fit of pique, you know,” Felix says, in his most reasonable tone. “I decided to look into it, just in case, since it wouldn’t be the first time in history that a monarch—including your own ancestors—made a weird law that later got revoked, and it won’t be the last. Besides, you’ve been the king for all of a year now—in the long run, that’s not a lot of time.”

He stops talking, to indicate that Dimitri now has to try to talk to him.

“I hate it when you have to be the reasonable one,” Dimitri says, his voice rough.

“I’m always the reasonable one,” Felix says.

“You’re the stubborn one. Ingrid is the reasonable one. Sylvain is the irreverent one. I’m the—”

“Whatever you’re going to say now, think really carefully about whether or not I’m going to have to commit treason by stopping the king from insulting the king,” Felix says, quietly.

Dimitri closes his mouth.

“Better.” Felix stands upright, rests a hand briefly on Dimitri’s shoulder—he is so warm, which Felix takes as a sign he hasn’t entirely calmed down from whatever is troubling him—and strides confidently through to Dimitri’s dressing room. “Come on,” he calls, “on your feet, boar. You can’t meet with the Archbishop if you’re only wearing pants.” At minimum three separate people would have an attack of the vapours, though the Archbishop wouldn’t be one of them.

“Are you going to dress me now?”

“You’re only wearing pants. Obviously I have to. What happened to your shirt from this morning, anyway?”

Dimitri appears in the doorway. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Felix raises his eyebrows.

Dimitri sighs. “I went out on the balcony for some fresh air.”

“And?”

“There was a flock of birds flying overhead.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“That doesn’t happen.”

“It did. We can go to the laundry and I’ll even show you. I had to wash my hair, too.”

“And you forgot to comb it?”

Dimitri says nothing.

“Boar.”

“I didn’t forget,” Dimitri mutters, stepping closer so Felix can hold a shirt up against his chest before tossing it aside in favour of a different one.

“You deliberately didn’t comb your hair?” Felix asks.

“No,” says Dimitri, softly.

Felix stifles a sigh. “Did something else—”

“No. There wasn’t any particular... thing. This time. It was just...” Dimitri looks down at the floor, and shrugs one shoulder. “It doesn’t exactly have a schedule.”

“There’s been too much going on,” Felix says, helping Dimitri into his shirt. “I said we should have delayed this until late summer.”

“The visit is very important to the Archbishop,” Dimitri says. “And to me,” he adds, softly, and Felix feels as though the boar king has just stabbed him right in the heart while also apologising profusely.

And so he takes a breath. He looks only at what his hands are doing as he does up the fastenings on Dimitri’s shirt. Bit by bit, the pale, scarred chest vanishes from view, and then Felix steps back to inspect Dimitri with an appraising eye. “It’ll do,” he says, after a moment. “Now, sit.” He points at the vanity, and when Dimitri obediently sits, Felix reaches around him to pick up a comb.

(There’s just so much of Dimitri. They know a few men taller and broader, but Dimitri is the only one whose personal space Felix ever invades. When he invaded Dimitri’s personal space when they were younger—so much younger—the sheer amount of Dimitri never seemed... so much.)

“You don’t have to do this,” Dimitri murmurs, after managing not to wince—too much—as Felix attacks a tangle in his hair.

“And yet, here I am,” says Felix. “Can’t have you reuniting with the Archbishop with your hair a mess.”

Honestly, what would this man do without him?

Dimitri chuckles softly. “It wouldn’t be the first time he saw me with tangled hair,” he says.

“Immediately after a battle is different,” Felix says. He frowns at the top of Dimitri’s head as the comb gets stuck on a tangle again, and this time, Dimitri really does wince. “What did you wash your hair with? Glue?”

Dimitri hesitates, then says, “The bottle was blue.”

“Solid blue glass?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I gave strict orders that that one not be left for you,” says Felix. “It dries out your hair. So I take it you forgot to use that Almyran oil afterwards, too.”

“I didn’t forget,” Dimitri protests. “The directions I was given were clear that I shouldn’t use it often except in winter or I would end up looking like I had just poured oil directly over my head.”

“You take so much looking after.”

“But you do so marvellously,” Dimitri says, with a little smile.

“Ugh.”

“Thank you, Felix.”

“Tch.”

“Seteth? Look over there.”

The Archbishop points off to the corridor on the left. Seteth looks, making a curious little “hm?” noise; he probably thinks he has no reason not to look. In that moment, Archbishop Byleth throws all caution and propriety to the wind, leans up on his toes, wraps his arms around the King of Faerghus and united Fódlan, and hugs him tight. Dimitri lets out a soft laugh, and hugs him back, now that they are largely out of sight of anyone but their own respective inner circles.

Felix’s eyes slide over to Linhardt, who regards this display of affection between Byleth and Dimitri with his usual heavy-lidded stare. On the one hand, Felix knows that Byleth is hopelessly devoted to Linhardt. On the other hand, Felix has an uncomfortable feeling that had Dimitri asked for Byleth’s hand, Byleth would currently be both Archbishop and Prince Consort.

The very idea causes a bitter taste to rise in Felix’s mouth and an uncomfortable feeling to form in his gut.

The hug between the two most powerful men in Fódlan opens a veritable floodgate of affection as everyone, even Dedue, wants or accepts a hug from their old professor, as Seteth protests that there was no need for subterfuge and he wouldn’t scold old friends for hugging, even in public, after so long apart. Bernadetta clings to Seteth’s sleeve, and though she merely wiggles her fingertips at Ingrid, she does let both Annette and Mercedes hug her—frankly, a huge accomplishment, worthy of note—and Hapi, while pleased to see her, doesn’t push Bernadetta any further.

When Byleth approaches Felix, he hesitates briefly and instead simply holds out his hand, and Felix nods as he grasps it. “Thanks,” he says, quietly.

“You look well,” Byleth says, just as quietly. “Your new position seems to suit you.”

“I’ve been too busy for it to not fit,” Felix says, glancing over to Dimitri, then back to Byleth. “How did you manage to convince both Linhardt and Bernadetta to make the journey?”

“There’s a carriage,” Linhardt says, stepping closer to stand beside Byleth. He’s smoothing his hands over the front of his clothes as though he’s been dreadfully and unacceptably rumpled from all the hugging. “I slept through most of it. As for Bernadetta...”

“I didn’t convince her of anything,” Byleth says. “Seteth did.”

Interesting. Felix glances over at them. Bernadetta is still talking with Annette and Mercedes, while Seteth speaks with the boar and Sylvain. Felix watches, fascinated, as Bernadetta slips her hand into Seteth’s, even though they are standing at angles from each other.

Felix wonders what it would be like to—

“—while I’m here.”

Felix blinks and turns back to Linhardt. He doesn’t panic, of course not, but he has no idea what Linhardt has been talking about. Byleth puts his hand on Linhardt’s back and says, “The royal library can wait, love.”

Linhardt sighs. “I suppose.”

Byleth smiles indulgently. “What hardships you must endure,” he teases.

Felix looks away again, and finds Dimitri glancing his way. Dimitri flashes him a bright smile. Felix feels the strangest sensation in his stomach that is familiar, both because he used to feel it when he was much younger, and because he’s felt it several times over the past year on a distressingly regular basis, though he had stopped feeling it for a long stretch of time. It’s a flutter, very familiar but long suppressed, that comes from being the focus of the boar’s attention—and his smile.

But that attention is quickly drawn away from Felix as Dedue leans in to speak in Dimitri’s ear, and then the boar nods.

“Felix?” Byleth says.

Dammit. Felix returns his own attention to Byleth and Linhardt, but blinks a few times instead of saying anything, because he has no idea what he should say.

“You seemed far away,” Byleth says.

“Are you working too hard?” Linhardt asks. “I’d advise against it.”

“Of course you would,” Felix says. He wants a royal commendation for not rolling his eyes or scoffing. Maybe a plaque he can hang on his office wall.

“I would,” Linhardt agrees. “I keep advising against it to my husband, but he never listens. Does Dimitri?”

Felix blinks a few times, struggling to adjust to Linhardt’s change in subject. “Does Dimitri what?”

“Listen to you,” says Linhardt.

Felix crosses his arms. “I’m his closest advisor, of course he listens to me.”

“Mm. Of course.”

Felix scowls, but before he can demand to know what Linhardt is getting at, Dimitri approaches.

“Professor—ah,” Dimitri’s cheeks turn a bit pink, and Felix doesn’t like that at all, “forgive me: Archbishop. You should be shown to your guest quarters. There is a grand feast being prepared, and I imagine you and your entourage will want to freshen up from your journey.”

Byleth puts his hand briefly on Dimitri’s arm—Linhardt doesn’t react other than blinking slowly, in a very Linhardt fashion—so Felix chooses, very responsibly and maturely like the duke he is, not to bite anyone.

(Why does he feel a sudden urge to bite? Maybe he’s unwell. Maybe he should talk to Mercedes.)

(Maybe their old professor should keep his hands to himself and/or his own husband.)

Annette and Mercedes insist on showing Bernadetta to her quarters themselves, with Hapi and Ingrid being dragged along. Ingrid’s presence makes Bernadetta go a little pale, but Seteth leans down, and murmurs in her ear, and though she doesn’t perk up much, she offers him a tremulous smile. He touches her shoulder, and that seems to give her even more Bernadetta-level bravery, and off the ladies and the lady knight all go together.

Various servants and low-ranked officials manage various servants and low-ranked officials. Dimitri wants to show Byleth and Linhardt to their quarters himself, which necessitates Dedue and Ashe follow along.

Sylvain drops an arm around Felix’s shoulders. “Let’s get into trouble,” he suggests.

“We have an hour at most,” Felix says, finally rolling his eyes now that he’s being far less observed—now that he’s just Felix again instead of Duke Fraldarius.

“That’s plenty of time!” Sylvain says. “We could—oh. Seteth. Hi.”

“Gentlemen,” Seteth replies, with a kindly smile. “You both look well. It seems married life—” here he nods to Sylvain, “and duty—” and then he nods to Felix, “suit you quite well.”

Sylvain just beams at that. Every time he talks about Mercedes, he glows, just as he had on their wedding day. Not that Mercedes hadn’t glowed, too, but Sylvain had shone like the sun. “It’s been great, Seteth, it really has,” he says, effusively. “Married life is incredible, and I can’t recommend it enough—but, it’s objectively the truth that I simply have the best wife in the country. In the world, maybe.”

And then, much to Felix’s mixed feelings, Sylvain steps away, slings his arm around Seteth’s shoulder instead—Seteth looks at Sylvain’s hand on his shoulder but lets the whole situation happen—and begins to lead him through the same doors everyone else disappeared through and deeper into the castle. Felix does not sulk as he follows along behind them.

There’d been a brief moment when Felix had thought maybe he could talk to Seteth about his work. Instead, he gets to listen to Sylvain sing Mercedes’ praises, as though Seteth has never met Mercedes before. There is truly a lot about Mercedes to praise, especially since she has never again brought up the part where Felix reminds her of her brother—but for the last year, every one of Sylvain’s letters has mostly been about Mercedes.

Felix doesn’t begrudge him that, and clearly neither does Seteth, because he just nods along and makes “Mmhmm” noises every now and then to indicate that he’s listening to Sylvain.

They are all pairing off. Well, nearly all. Linhardt and Byleth had gotten married shortly after the war, then Hanneman and Manuela, then Balthus and Constance. Fortunately, all three couples had the good sense to marry within rapid succession, at Garreg Mach—naturally, many people want to be married by the Archbishop who had led or saved them all.

Ferdinand and Dorothea had wanted to be married in Aegir territory, so Byleth had travelled for them, and so had the royal entourage. The ceremony had been beautiful, according to Ingrid, who spent a great deal of time afterwards talking about it, and the celebration afterwards great fun, according to Sylvain, who spent the night catching up with people and dancing with Mercedes.

Felix still sort of just feels like it was a wedding, not unlike other weddings, followed by a party, not unlike other parties.

And, as the visiting head of state, the boar had acquitted himself very well. He’d seemed happy, and he had managed to hold himself together until the journey back. Dedue and Felix had kept that breakdown a secret from everyone but Dimitri’s inner circle, somehow. It helped that it had been a quiet one, leaving him melancholy and refusing to eat.

They returned home, and soon Mercedes and Sylvain were wed, in Gautier, and Sylvain glowed his way through it. One would think no man had ever been married before Sylvain Jose Gautier became Mercedes von Martritz’s husband.

Ashe and Hapi had a small, quiet affair here in Fhirdiad, and there was not a sigh to be had in the place.

The nuptials end there, but there would surely be more. Ignatz had followed Petra to Brigid. Caspar and Hilda had gone off somewhere together. There’s whatever is going on between Catherine and Shamir.

And, of course, there’s Annette and Dedue. Dimitri and Ingrid both believe the proposal is inevitable. The number of their old friends and allies who had not paired off is growing increasingly smaller.

Then there’s the inevitability of children.

Not that Felix ever spends much time thinking about all of this. It’s just something he’s been noticing. If Felix didn’t follow everyone else into marriage and, eventually, children, Fraldarius would be fine—he has any number of cousins he can rely on to carry on their bloodline, but he really needs to gird himself and talk to the boar soon about thinking about finding a queen. Ingrid is right there. As far as Felix knows, Marianne hasn’t married anyone. Bernadetta... well. No. Maybe not. Besides, by all accounts, she seems very content to stay at Garreg Mach, maybe forever.

If only the thought of Dimitri marrying didn’t make Felix want to cause severe harm to a training dummy.

Felix doesn’t want to marry. Well, he supposes—no. No, he just doesn’t want to marry. He doesn’t think about children, much. He wants—

Sylvain puts his hand on Felix’s shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. “See you at the feast,” Sylvain says. “Don’t be late. His Majesty will pout.” He winks at Felix, for some reason, and then wanders off, whistling unnecessarily and leaves Felix alone with Seteth, perhaps just because he has somewhere to be that he hasn’t shared with Felix, which is rude, because Felix made the schedule for today.

To top it all off, Felix has missed something again; he is fairly certain of it. But the next thing he knows, he’s standing awkwardly near the door to Seteth’s guest quarters as Seteth promises to wash up quickly. He emerges not long after, having changed out of his travelling clothes and into the church garb Felix is much more used to seeing him wear, and regards him for a moment. Seteth’s expression is solemn, but then softens all at once as he smiles.

“You truly do look well, Felix,” he says. “You have, indeed, surpassed my expectations.”

The strangest thing happens.

Felix’s face feels very warm. Honestly, all of him feels pretty warm, and he just doesn’t know what to say. When Seteth steps closer, and puts a hand on Felix’s shoulder, Felix doesn’t bat his hand away.

A long, long time ago, Felix had been easily pushed to tears. He remembers that. He remembers it so very, very well. He remembers, most vividly, how he’d cried when his family had to leave Fhirdiad, or when the royal family had to leave Fraldarius. He’d cried, too, when he’d had to be parted from Sylvain and Ingrid, but never, ever, so much as when he’d had to part from the crown prince.

Then Glenn had died.

And then the crown prince had been replaced by a boar wearing a Dimitri-shaped costume.

Felix’s tears had dried up.

In the present, the strangest thing happens. He almost feels like those tears are going to come flooding back.

He clears his throat. He looks away, because eye contact is absolutely, definitely, much too much right now. “Uh,” he says, eloquent and poetic in a way that would make Lorenz Gloucester demand smelling salts and a fainting couch.

“I’m sorry,” Seteth says, removing his hand (Felix is a bit disappointed, and that’s also deeply strange). “I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

“No!” Felix says, much too loud, much too forceful. “No. You haven’t.”

“Ah, good, then.” Seteth’s kind smile returns to his face. “But I truly am proud of you, and all you have accomplished so far.”

(Oh, no. No, no. Felix clears his throat, and makes himself remember things like ‘breathing’ and ‘not crying’.)

“I haven’t done much,” he says, his voice sounding a bit off to his own ears. “I’ve just been helping. There’s so much work to do.”

“Oh?” Seteth tilts his head to the side, raising his eyebrows. “That’s not what people have been saying in their letters.”

“People?” Felix echoes, past shocked and into flabbergasted.

“Yes, people,” Seteth says. “His Majesty, of course, but also Ashe, Ingrid, Annette, and Gilbert—ah, sorry, Gustave. Ferdinand and Lorenz have spoken glowingly about how their various proposals have received your support and suggestions, and the new King of Almyra recently mentioned you quite glowingly as well. Mostly, they have all written directly to the Archbishop, but he makes mention of it, and I do screen some of his correspondence. If someone doesn’t organise it for him in order of importance,” he adds, quietly, “it makes for more work for him to do, and I will never hear the end of it from Linhardt.”

Felix snorts.

“Much like you and His Majesty,” Seteth says, “Linhardt is in charge of Archbishop Byleth’s schedule.”

Felix blinks several times, staring just past Seteth’s shoulder. He has nothing in common with Linhardt von Hevring (Eisner? did he take Byleth’s name as his own?), and there is certainly nothing in common between Linhardt and the Archbishop, and Dimitri and himself. “Ah,” he says, after a pregnant pause.

“By all accounts, you take very good care of him, Felix,” Seteth says, patting his shoulder again. Felix looks at Seteth’s hand. Then up at Seteth’s face. Six years since Felix met the man, and he truly hasn’t aged a day. Despite his strange little beard, he is quite handsome. Felix isn’t going to think about the fact that he just thought that. “I truly am proud of you. When history remembers you, I imagine that it will speak fondly of the way you worked hand-in-hand with the Saviour King. You’ve accomplished so much in so little time, and your shared future looks very bright.”

“Thank you,” Felix says, a bit roughly.

Seteth’s keen eyes study Felix for a moment, before he smiles, gently, as if Felix is a child. Or Flayn. “I will stop making you feel uncomfortable now. Shall we head to the feast?”

“Yes,” Felix says. “I’ll escort you.”

“I appreciate that. I don’t know the way.”

“Why are you still awake?”

Felix stands in the doorway to Dimitri’s chambers, arms crossed and glaring at Dimitri.

Dimitri opens his mouth, closes it, then tilts his head slightly to the side like a particularly slow puppy, and finally says, “Why are you here?”

“I decided to check on you,” Felix says.

“All right,” says Dimitri, drawing out the syllables a little. “But... why? It’s the middle of the night. Everyone else is probably asleep. You should be asleep.”

“You should be, too,” Felix says. “And yet, here we are.” He points in the direction of Dimitri’s bed. “Go to sleep.”

“I have a headache,” Dimitri says, a little plaintively.

“All the more reason to go to bed.” Felix points as insistently as he possibly can.

“Why did you come to check on me?”

Why indeed? The feast had been—fine. It went well. Everyone was happy; there was talk of the past, but only fond reminiscence; and talk of the present and future avoided the business of ruling and governance, focusing instead on hopes and dreams. Dimitri had been quiet, though he hadn’t seemed far away. He’d responded easily and without hesitation when spoken to.

Felix doesn’t bother lying to himself that he’d spent the entire night keeping an eye on him. Not that Dedue wasn’t doing the same thing, but, perhaps by way of apology for past very harsh words, Felix wants to let Dedue relax, sometimes, and to enjoy his time with Annette. So he kept himself near Dimitri, and—perhaps unfairly—assigned Byleth and Linhardt’s seats between Dimitri and Dedue, so that Dedue would have no choice but to focus on Annette.

Felix isn’t going to apologise for that.

“I wanted to make sure you went to bed, and of course I saw light under your door,” he says, crossing his arms and looking stern.

“I can be trusted to put myself to bed, Felix,” Dimitri says, and Felix has to give him some credit—some—for keeping his exasperation to a minimum.

“Yeah? Prove it.” Felix resumes his imperious pointing. “Go to bed. Now.”

“You’ve become very bossy with your new position in this kingdom,” Dimitri says. He sounds amused. Felix frowns at him, and the big, ridiculous creature just grins. “It suits you, you know.”

Three times. He’s heard that three times today—twice by men he admires and looks up to, and now from the boar. Dimitri. His king.

(Dima.)

His face is warm. He’s blushing. Dimitri doesn’t say anything about it, if he’s able to see it from where he stands.

“I could not have accomplished all of this without you, Felix,” Dimitri says, instead.

“You’ve mentioned that,” Felix replies, dropping his arm to his side.

“Not often enough. Now—do you need to choose my nightshirt for me tonight?” Dimitri’s tone is just this side of arch—which , for him, could be considered downright sassy. Sylvain would be impressed.

Felix huffs. “No, as far as I can tell there’s no one here you need to make a good impression on.”

Dimitri makes a soft, barely-audible humming noise. “I suppose not,” he agrees. “Or...” He glances to the side, then back to Felix. “Or,” he repeats, a little more confidently, “you could stay and we could have some tea. I know chamomile isn’t your favourite,” he adds, speaking faster, “but it helps with sleep sometimes.”

Felix hesitates. Dimitri sounds so sincere, so eager, but Felix is exhausted—they both are. Felix has been working so hard to plan this entire visit while also taking care of his regular duties for the kingdom and its governance. Dimitri is always one episode with his “ghosts” away from exhaustion so deep it puts him in bed for at least a day.

But Felix hesitates just a little too long. Dimitri’s broad shoulders droop a little, and he puts on the single saddest but bravest smile that Felix has ever seen, and he says, “No, it’s quite all right. We really should both just go to bed.”

And if Felix, Duke Fraldarius, doesn’t feel like an absolute wretch in that moment. He forces himself to not take a step forward, to not get Dimitri’s hopes back up. “A compromise,” he says, softly. “I’ll come wake you in the morning, and we’ll have breakfast, and I’ll tell you about my meeting with Yuri, since I didn’t get a chance earlier.”

Dimitri’s smile is tremulous, but genuine, and Felix feels something—something physical, inside his chest, in his throat, in his guts, something he hasn’t felt since he was much, much younger, something that’s supposed to be dead and buried instead of spending the past year or so lumbering about like a draugr from ghost stories. “I had best get to bed then,” he says. “Good night, Felix.”

“Good night, boar.”