Chapter Text
Despite the fact that it is only morning, it feels as though many more hours than that have passed. Dimitri resists scrubbing a hand over his face, knowing it will make people fret. Almost anything he does seems to have that effect, and that, by itself, is tiring.
Instead, he distracts himself by pouring himself another cup of tea.
“Shall I send for some more, your Majesty?”
“No, it’s fine.” Dimitri focuses in on the gentle steam as he raises the cup. He can smell it better that way, and he could use the calm of the lavender’s scent.
Gilbert nods assent, and tidies papers between his weathered hands. “Very well.”
“We’re just about through this morning’s reports, anyhow. It’s as good a time to break as any. The rest can wait.” Rodrigue says this casually, but his eye is a little too keen, where Dimitri can feel it landing on him. He must sense his weariness, but he doesn’t mention it, turning his attention to the stack of envelopes that have sat at the corner of the lacquered wood table. They’re bound with some simple twine, carefully separated away from the rest. He turns them over in his hand once, twice. Thinking.
“Ah, that’s right,” He muses, “The latest batch of eligible young ladies whose hand you ought to consider.”
Dimitri swallows half the cup in one go.
“It is something you should take the time to go over.” Gilbert comments. “You’re nearing your 27th year, Your Majesty. The people are anxious to see their beloved king wed, and an heir to the throne. It would add peace to their hearts, and therefore stability to your reign. The right match could also go a long way in strengthening an alliance.”
“This is true,” Rodrigue adds this with a touch of reticence. And perhaps, some preemptive resignation. “I am certain you could find an acceptable match, with some attention and some patience.”
Replacing his cup to the saucer without the sound of shattering porcelain takes its own measure of attention and patience. Dimitri lifts his gaze to the tall windows, to a full and blooming blue sky. He prefers it to the muddled reflection of the meeting room’s table.
“In the wake of everything else there is to attend to, it is far from my priority.”
A predictable answer from him, and one they have heard many times. Rodrigue clearly bites back an argument. Instead, he merely sighs distantly; it’s a conversation they have wrung through Dimitri many times, and so all he eventually says is, “Very well.”
They begin to gather their things, anticipating the end of the morning’s briefing. Dimitri pauses.
He isn’t quite sure what it is that he sees in the sky that day, which offers him a little courage. Hardly a cloud to be seen, and the serenity of Fhirdiad’s snow-covered landscape—maybe that is it.
“Besides,” He says aloud, “I have already made up my mind.”
Both of them pause. To put off the conversation altogether is routine for him. To have anything at all to say on the matter is not.
Their growing anticipation begins to weigh down the air of the room.
“You have?” Rodrigue breaks the silence first. Curious, he glances at Gilbert before he looks to Dimitri. “In what way?”
“I have decided who I would like to marry.”
—
Just a few weeks after the curtain falls on summer, the autumn semester at Garreg Mach begins. Already, gold has begun to seep along the edges of the forest, sienna petals falling from their branches. The air is brisk and sharp. Especially in the mornings, sweet as the white fruit of an apple, left overnight in the chill.
The sun breaks over the towering monastery walls, bathing the training ground in great, silent swaths of light. It’s enough to make Dimitri blink his tired eyes, lids heavy with another night of thin sleep. And while he’s often one of the first people, it’s not unusual to see a few others preparing for an early training session before class.
Ingrid is already here, chatting away with another student. One of their Blue Lions—Dimitri vaguely recognizes the shape of his face, seen in passing, but can’t quite place the boy’s name. He tries, making their way towards them, as they gesture excitedly to each other, Ingrid testing the heft of one of the training lances. She catches sight of him and beams, waving.
That’s when he turns around, squinting against the sunlight. It catches in his hair, humble gray to Ingrid’s gold. Dimitri catches him tilting his head, curious, as though trying to place him—
And his stomach drops as he recognizes the familiar signs. Pale green eyes dart to his uniform, his cape signifying him as the house leader. Everyone knows that it’s he who heads the Blue Lions this year, and he wouldn’t have had to have met Dimitri to know he’s—
“Your Highness!” Ingrid says, her smile sweet and familiar. “How do you fare this morning?”
“Well, thank you. And yourself?”
He’s their classmate. But he stands there, rigidly, staring at Dimitri, mouth slightly agape. Dimitri watches as his face blanches, and almost stumbles when Ingrid slaps him on the back of his shoulder.
“Great, thank you. Oh, this is Ashe, the adopted son of Lord Lonato we’ve heard about.”
“I have not had the pleasure.”
Ashe only gulps, and mumbles something resembling a greeting. Ingrid gives him a puzzled look, nudging him with her elbow.
“Oh, y-yes,” He wipes his hands on his jacket, wipes nothing, dropping his eyes and thrusting one towards Dimitri. “A-a pleasure—honor. An—an honor. To, uh, m-meet you.”
Right as he reaches to take it, Ashe gasps and yanks it back, instead reverting into a deep bow at the waist.
“M-my apologies, Your Highness. I shouldn’t have presumed to—”
“Ashe,” Ingrid laughs, “There’s no need to be so nervous.”
“She’s right,” Dimitri adds. “Please, be at ease.”
“B…but you’re, um.” Ashe’s eyes are stuck to the floor, and Dimitri carefully sets a hand on his shoulder. The plates along his gauntlet clink, quick as Ashe’s gaze snaps to his face.
“Here, I am simply your classmate.” Dimitri assures him. “Feel free to treat me as nothing more.”
Now, the blood rushes to Ashe’s face.
“I—I, um. R-right.”
Dimtiri gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile, and turns towards the rack of weapons, dropping his hand from Ashe’s bony shoulder.
“Now, then. Since we are all here, why not a spar?”
“I’d love that.” Ingrid joins him. “Ashe is very adept with a bow, but he also has recently decided to try his hand at wielding a lance.”
“Is that right?”
They all feel too light in his hands. He ponders having one made with an iron shaft and wooden head, but…no, if he were to strike someone with the rod, even accidentally…
“I would be more than happy to offer some practice. It’s my favored weapon, after all. Though, may I assume that Ingrid has already begun some guidance, being that it is her specialty as well—”
“A-actually,” Ashe blurts out, and pales all over again, realizing he’s interrupted Dimitri, “I—I shouldn’t. That is, I wouldn’t want to trouble you. M-m-maybe some other time.”
“Are you sure?” Dimitri’s hand pauses, hovering over the rack. “It is no trouble at all. I would be happy to—”
“N-no,” Ashe’s voice cracks on the word. “I ought to—I ought to go, actually, um—”
Ingrid’s eyes go wide. “Ashe,”
“T-thank you anyway. E-excuse me!”
Then he ducks his head and half dashes past Dimitri, ignoring Ingrid calling his name. In a flash, he’s across the training yard and slipping into the shadowed walkways, to disappear around the corner.
—
For Farghus, even the late spring can be quite cool. Even now, as the sun reaches for noon, there is a slight chill in the air. Claude loudly hates it, Edelgard only barely tolerates it better, and wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of complaining along with him, anyway.
He can’t make everyone happy. Sometimes, he is tired of trying. But he knows that at the first sign that they should move south or even east, towards the Alliance, Claude will jump at the opportunity, and then he will have to hear Sylvain suffering in even the mild heat of Goneril or Aegir. Felix likes it about as much, but will grit his teeth and say nothing.
There is little way for him to make anyone all that happy. He certainly will not right now.
“Well, this is quite the surprise.” Rodrigue’s smile is warm, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “But I am glad to hear it. Who is the young lady?”
Dimitri closes his eyes briefly, and takes a deep, bracing breath.
—
Ashe is common-born, and not a distant cousin or nephew or similar, as Dimitri had assumed. He and Lonato are not blood, and neither are his younger siblings. So, his reaction makes a little more sense.
But even weeks later, he jumps in Dimitri’s company, can barely meet his eye. He hunches his shoulders and bites his lip and shies away as though his very presence could burn or shock him, if he were to get too near.
And he is not like this with everyone, not even other nobles.
Sylvain guffaws at Dimitri’s face as it falls, following Ashe’s latest hasty retreat.
“Does he act like that with you?” He asks, eyes fixed on the still-open door of the classroom, where Ashe had been but a moment ago. Before Dimitri had opened his mouth, and done the terrible deed of inviting him to lunch in the dining hall with them.
“Nah,” Sylvain slings an arm over the back of his chair. “He was a little nervous at first, but he warmed up pretty quick.”
Dimitri breaks his attention on the empty doorway, and turns it to Sylvain instead. Sylvain, who is warm with everyone and anyone, who could set nearly anyone at ease. His casual manner, charismatic in a way he could never hope to be. His eyes trace over his open collar, his unfastened jacket button, the rolled up sleeves—
“Careful, Highness,” Sylvain drawls, “Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll start to get ideas.”
Ignoring the bait, Dimitri instead asks, “Then why me?”
Sylvain slings his leg over Felix’s knee, who only grunts and shoves it off. “You’re his prince. Royalty. It’s different, you know, even if you don’t like to think about it.”
Dimitri curls his hands. “But you are still nobles. Royalty, no, but. He is far more casual around you and Felix.”
Sylvain shrugs. “It’s enough of one. Besides, I’m not all that respectable of a noble, and Felix—well, have you seen the stars in that kid’s eyes? He’s like, Ashe’s hero.”
“Oh shut up.” Felix snaps. “I’m not his hero. He thinks I’m—I don’t know, he’s got his head filled with those garbage chivalric tales, that’s why he gets along so well with Ingrid. Thinks I sound like a character he read about or something.”
“Ah…I see.”
“Is that why?” A foxlike grin splits Sylvain’s mouth. “I just thought he had a bit of a crush.”
“It’s not a damn crush.” Felix hisses.
“I dunno, Fe, I think you could have a real chance.” Sylvain sings, “He’s got a pretty cute face, you know. Maybe you could take him on a nice horseback ride, be his knight in shining armor—”
“I’ll take that shining armor and shove it up your—”
“Now, now, would you kiss his freckles with that mouth?”
Instinctively, Dimitri shifts away as the argument turns into a scuffle, original conversation forgotten. Instead, he wilts in his seat, wondering how he is ever meant to lead a country when he cannot even make conversation with his own common-born classmate.
—
“Your Majesty,” Gilbert tries to reason, and the tone itself has Dimitri on edge. “You cannot, with all due respect, be serious.”
“This is…well.” Rodrigue hedges, once the shock begins to ebb away. “I did not think your choice would be so…”
“Rodrigue,” Dimitri sighs, already tired, and Rodrigue hesitates, choosing his words with care.
“It’s…not…”
The two men pass each other looks, and Rodrigue turns towards Dimitri in his seat.
“It’s…untraditional.” Is the word he chooses, kindly. “And not the most advisable match I could see for you.”
Gilbert sets his hands on the table. “Sir Ashe is a fine knight. But he cannot give you an heir, something you need as Faerghus’ king. That aside, he has no lands, no wealth, to offer.”
Dimitri stares at his own clenched hands. With effort, he unfurls them, releasing the confession to scatter like dice across the tabletop. “That does not matter to me. I require nothing but his hand, should he be so generous as to give it to me.”
“It will matter to your people. They will want to see you with a suitable wife, children who can carry on your tradition.”
Rodrigue strokes a hand across his jaw, “Compromise can be made. After all, he is hardly the first king to take a husband. The consideration would then simply be a royal consort, to act as a surrogate.”
“This is true. Perhaps it can be considered, then, although the decision must not be made lightly. She would have to be someone of good standing, from a distinguished house that would not take the position as a slight.”
“Not many would take the offer of being His Majesty’s consort as an insult, but I do see your point. The decision will have to be made carefully—”
“I have no intention of fathering children with anyone for mere political benefit. Or children at all, if we do not want them.”
Beneath their bewildered stares, all Dimitri thinks of is Ashe’s delight at children. They flock to him, drawn in by his kindness—as Dimitri had been. As Dimitri is, every day. His joyful laughs among the staff’s children, the little ones around the church, or the city. It isn’t uncommon for him to have a child settled on his hip, while another pulls at his sleeve, begging for attention. Ashe adores children, and has often reminisced or shared memories of when his siblings, now grown, were small.
“…Not until I have discussed it with him, first. If we are to father children, it will be on our terms. ”
—
Waiting for Ashe to become comfortable around Dimitri feels like waiting for the ice to thaw during winter. Only by droplets, melted from the sun, only to freeze again later during the night.
“I…I’m sorry.” He is earnest in his apology, because Ashe is earnest and honest about everything. He cannot be anything else. “It’s just…well. You know, commoners like me would rarely even be able to see a royal prince like yourself. And I see you almost every day…you talk to me as if we are equals, and—”
He mistakes Dimitri’s frown for displeasure, and waves his hands, palms out as if in surrender. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know that we aren’t—”
“We are equals.”
Ashe stares.
“W…what? Your Highness…”
A church bell tolls, far off in the distance. A nearby class lets out on the opposite side of the plaza, the students filing out in a stream of gold and black. Chatting and laughing amongst themselves, voices carrying over the manicured grass and hedges.
“…We’re. We’re not, though.” Ashe drops his eyes to the ground. There is a small scuff on the toe of his boot. “We aren’t equals.”
That thought haunts Dimitri. How can he say that? What more can Dimitri do to bridge the canyon between them? Ashe is out of his reach. He is prince, to be crowned upon his coming of age to king, and this is his Kingdom.
But he cannot have Ashe. He cannot have his friendship.
Defeated, he watches from afar as Ashe laughs easily with Annette, huddles over books with Ingrid. Dedue finds perhaps his closest companion at Garreg Mach in Ashe besides Dimitri himself and it’s—
—it’s not fair.
—
“You must. You must have children—”
“Your Majesty, think about this—”
Dimitri dismisses them abruptly, and excuses himself from the room as civilly as he’s able. He turns a corner so quickly, he startles a servant who stammers apologies after him, as though they were the one who nearly bowled him over, and not the other way around—
—it’s not fair.
Fair would be Dimitri’s corpse in the ground, and Glenn still walking among the living. Fair would be Dedue’s family alive and well in Duscur, able to welcome him home with the smells and tastes of his childhood. Fair would be Dimitri’s blood in the soil, his bones picked clean by the crows and the rats. Fair would be for the dead to rest peacefully, and not screaming in his skull night after night, loudly enough that he rakes his own arms with his nails, swallowing bile and acid—but that, he does deserve. That, at least, is fair.
—
Sun-warmed stone greets Dimitri as he pushes open the creaking kitchen door. Afternoon light streams in through the scratched windows, the steam rising from the pots to evaporate in its glare. Already, the prep table is heaped with vegetables, the sound of steel-on-wood sending Dimitri’s already acute headache into something terrible.
But Ashe is there, pausing his knife work to give him a shy and glowing smile.
“Oh…! Are you my kitchen partner today, Your Highness?”
“I am, yes.”
This is a good opportunity. He can bridge the gap between them—he can. Dedue had offered to swap chores with him; he was assigned to stable duty today, which he knows Dimitri to vastly prefer than to the kitchen, where he’s broken who knows how many tools and doesn’t know a thing about cooking besides. He could only follow recipes to the letter, because he has no way to judge how it comes out, and that keeps their taste bland, and the task unchallenging.
But Ashe is clearly in his element. He is at ease, even with Dimitri stepping gingerly beside him, aiming for something casual as he chimes, “What are we making today?”
“Well, the cooks asked us for meat pies,” Ashe wipes his hands on his apron as he leans over to look at the list. It’s a coarse weave intended for pure utility’s sake, practically burlap. But it suits him, somehow. Being in a kitchen seems natural to Ashe, Dimitri ponders, while his eyes trace the tie, where it slinks around Ashe’s waist to tie at the back. It’s knotted in a bow neater than he could manage. Even on someone else. He’s more lithe than the stern lines of the uniform make him look, the hooded shirt beneath the jacket deceptively loose and baggy—
—Ashe is saying something—
“Pardon?”
Ashe blinks at him, eyes big.
“S-sorry, was I going too fast?” He wanders over to pull at the huge sack of potatoes, grunting slightly at the weight. “I was saying, I’ve already started boiling water with some herbs. Um…could you start by peeling and cutting some potatoes?”
His hand wraps clumsily around a kitchen knife. The weight, the hilt—it’s so different from a true weapon.
Ashe is beside him, whisking something into an iron skillet, dropping chunks of meat to sizzle. He snatches various tins and bottles from the shelves, barely giving them a glance before his hands fly, throwing pinches and dashes in to join the beef.
It stops when Dimitri presses too hard and sends a chunk of potato shooting halfway across the counter, inches from his nose.
He stares.
Dimitri feels the burn start at his ears, and spread down to his throat, where an apology lodges itself, as Ashe takes in what’s happened.
He’s done it again. His stupid hands, his stupid Crest. He had wanted this to go well so badly—
Ashe laughs.
“Oh, wow!”
Giggling, he retrieves the fallen potato piece, and with a paring knife, goes about peeling it.
“You really sent that flying!”
Dimitri tries to wrap his head around what’s happened. He didn’t frighten Ashe; he’d thought it was funny. Without a word of reproach, he’d simply…taken care of it.
Because he doesn’t know any better , a vicious little whisper curls in the back of his skull. He doesn’t realize what you’ve done. What you are.
Because he doesn’t realize that what he’s just seen is the first hint of the monster you are—
It evaporates beneath Ashe’s gentle green gaze. His smile, shy as a morning glory, glancing at Dimitri’s work thus far.
“No one’s taught you how to hold a kitchen knife properly, have they?”
Dimitri looks at his hands.
“Those gloves and gauntlets can’t make it easy work either.”
“I…I always wear them.” He says dumbly.
“You don’t have to take them off! Not if you don’t want to.” Ashe assures him. “I just thought it might be making it more difficult for you.”
Dimitri can’t help but stare at him. It isn’t until Ashe’s cheeks begin to turn pink beneath his freckles that he realizes that he is.
Dropping his gaze, he wrinkles his nose, trying to ignore the new prickle of heat across it.
“I…I’m sorry.”
“No need to be.” Ashe’s laugh is butterscotch-sweet as he returns to his skillet. “I just thought it was…kinda funny, is all. I’m so used to everything you do seem so…so perfect, and easy. In a way, it’s nice to know you can mess up too, you know?”
“Of course I do.” It’s ridiculous.
“I mean, I’ve never…well, forgive me, but I’ve never seen anyone cut pieces quite so unevenly before.”
Dimitri turns his attention back to the pile of potatoes he’d stacked at the end of his cutting board. Dismally, he realizes Ashe is right. They’re horrific—different sizes, some broken partway through, while others are practically minced.
He’d been so focused on controlling his strength, he’d…he’d done shoddy work.
“Here, let me show you a trick.”
Ashe moves deftly into his space, Dimtiri obediently stepping aside.
While the class bells chime, and students’ voices float past the kitchen, Ashe demonstrates how to properly hold a kitchen knife, the way for Dimitri to hold his hands to safely cut all the ingredients he could want.
Dimitri keenly watches Ashe curl his fingers to the knuckle, chopping and slicing through potatoes, carrots, turnips…
“But,” Dimitri protests, looking at his flexing hands as though treacherous vipers, “My strength…it’s my strength that is still a problem.”
“Hm.” Ashe looks over them. And shrugs, smiles. “Well, you’ll practice. I’m sure you’ll be better in no time!”
He has struggled with tempering his strength since childhood. But Ashe is right—the new knife hold and techniques make the task easier.
“See, you’re already doing better!” Ashe chirps. Dimitri looks at his newly sliced potato to note…that yes, he is. “Just take your time. We’re in no rush.”
This seems like such vital knowledge. And yet he did not know. He never was taught.
Ashe pulls the meat off the skillet, uses the leftover fat and some flour to create a roux for the broth they’ll make. He again thoroughly ignores the recipe that Dimitri had left handily nearby for his own assortment of seasoning.
It’s akin to magic, watching Ashe bring all of it together, boiling down the water into a savory gravy for the vegetables to simmer in. His hands work flour, water, salt, into a dough, shows Dimitri how to knead it. What to look for to know it’s ready. How to set it aside to prove, how to know it’s ready.
At the end of it all, he holds a spoon of the filling he’s prepared. Satisfied, he fetches a clean one to offer a taste to Dimitri.
“Here,” His eyelashes flicker gold in the sunlight. “You should try what all our hard work amounted to.”
Dimitri points out that it is Ashe’s hard work, and not so much ‘theirs’. He was more hindrance than help, which Ashe disputes. Kindly, because that is all he is. Kind, and earnest, because that is all he is.
He doesn’t know how to tell Ashe that he wouldn’t be able to give an opinion to the taste. That if he didn’t watch everything that went into it, he wouldn’t be able to guess much of what it’s even made of.
It’s a shame, the sharp pang in his chest says. Ashe is lauded as one of the best cooks in their class. No one skips the dining hall when they know it was his assignment that day. And he will never truly know for what.
But he takes the spoon, and lifts it to his mouth. Ashe watches, simmering in tempered pride, nervous for his judgment—sighs softly in relief when Dimitri smiles.
“It’s delicious.”
The warmth will last him through the night. It sits in his chest as a comfortable weight, while the places on his hand that Ashe had touched through his gloves, continue to prickle.
—
Not until he has a lance in his hand does Dimitri feel any better. In the open space, he can breathe again.
“You look troubled, Your Majesty.”
He had hardly noticed Ingrid enter the training yard. She doesn’t wait for his reply before she selects a lance off the rack.
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
She tests its weight, and offers no elaboration. Only a wry smile…they all have a lot to be troubled by nowadays.
“Spar?”
“Two of three?”
“Deal.”
—
“I lied.”
Ashe blinks as he turns his face up towards Dimitri from where he’s kneeling, carefully holding apart some leaves to water their planter. Squats, actually, his knees nearly pressed up into his chin—the sort of subtle gesture that sets Ashe apart from his blue-blooded classmates. It’d be considered lowbrow, crass, and would make their delicate peers titter. Dimitri couldn’t care less.
“I couldn’t taste the stew you made.” Dimitri explains, his long limbs suddenly feeling all the more exaggerated, like he’s been stretched out. Awkwardly, he closes his fists. Reopens them, flexes his fingers.
“Couldn’t taste?”
Brushing off a few crumbs of dirt, Ashe pushes himself to his feet.
“I…I don’t taste much of anything.” Dimitri confesses, and when Ashe’s eyes widen, he straightens his back reflexively, spine locking into place.
“Ever?”
Dimitri shakes his head.
“…Oh…”
“I’m sorry to have deceived you.”
“No, no, please don’t!” Ashe flushes, shuffling his feet. “I’m…I’m so sorry, if I’d known, maybe I could have…well, to be quite honest, I don’t know what I would have done instead. But that’s nothing to apologize for! That sounds…forgive me, but that sounds awful. If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing! I was probably so rude…”
It’s Dimitri’s turn for surprise. “Is it so terrible?”
“I think so, at least…”
Brushing his hands free of more dirt, Ashe wipes them on the front of his apron. He doesn’t wear gloves when working in the plants like most of their classmates do, and there’s dirt packed under his fingernails. Dimitri notices.
They are working hands—newer calluses are forming from his weapons training at the academy, but Dimitri is interested in the others. The ones from cooking, from mending tears, climbing trees and scaling walls to thatch a roof.
They are good hands.
Ashe blushes, noticing his stare, and shoves them away in his pockets.
“I—” Dimitri starts abruptly, “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s—it’s okay.” Ashe mumbles.
Dimitri feels his face heat, and muses how rather warm it is today.
—
Ingrid wins the first bout, and then the second.
“I knew you were distracted.”
Nonetheless, she indulges him in a third and then fourth round. In the midst of war, her skill with the lance has blossomed.
Dimitri wonders if she’s trying to beat the answer out of him, rather than simply asking. As much as she may worry, her sense of propriety stays her tongue from asking about anything too directly, or prying where she may with someone else.
Finally, he takes the fifth round, and, satisfied, she slings the training lance back onto the rack.
“About time you got your head on straight.”
“I don’t think it has ever been on quite right.”
“Nonsense.”
They sit on a bench together in silence, sipping water and watching other soldiers spar in the distance. They both know what’s to come next, but it still takes time for Dimitri to feel the moment is right.
But he caves. Ingrid is not one for idle gossip, and he could use a confidant.
He tells her. He wants to marry not a noble lady, but a man of the common people. His most seasoned advisors did not take his decision well, not that he hadn’t expected resistance…but the frustration remains. It will be an uphill battle for him to marry the person he wants.
Gazing at the sky for the words, Ingrid’s eyes flicker from cloud to cloud to pluck them. Very much like himself, marriage has always meant something different than love .
“We belong to duty first, as nobles of Faerghus…at least, that is what we’re taught to believe. Our future intertwines with that of our country’s, belongs to our people and the service of that future. The people we govern depend on us. But still, we have our own lives, don’t we?”
She sounds distant for a moment, asking herself the question at the same time she answers him.
“Even if that is not always easy…it is ours. Sometimes, it is easy to forget that very fact.”
She looks at him, then, full of determination, full of meaning.
“There are times that we must do what is right for us, Your Majesty. We live with those consequences, but those, too, are ours.”
Dimitri is surprised to hear her say so. Ingrid, who lives and breathes duty above all else. She smiles at him with affection that he does not deserve, and places a hand on his arm.
“If this war has taught us anything good at all, it’s that we should grasp happiness where we can find it. The weight of what we must do…we couldn’t bear it all alone. None of us. Not even you.”
—
Ashe’s skill as an archer grows quickly. He’s often in the training grounds, more than most students, and his dedication pays off. Dimitri notices, but only from afar. Watching from the shadows beneath the cool stone pillars and the shaded hallways, he admires the arrows that sail from Ashe’s bow—closer and closer to the targets, from further and further away.
Even more than that, his alertness and stealth make him invaluable in mock skirmishes. He’s able to move around so quietly and with such care, it’s nearly impossible for even the other Lions to keep track of him in the field. But he’s always where he needs to be. They can count on him.
Dimitri longs to befriend him, but doesn’t know what has to happen for him to bridge that gap. His hands are gloved and armored, keeping the world safe from his killer’s hands—maybe he should not reach. Maybe he does not deserve to touch something so gentle and bright.
—
After training, Ingrid excuses herself for some errands she has to run. Before she leaves, she has Dimitri promise he go straight to the dining hall for lunch.
He makes good on it, spotting Felix and Annette from afar, already there; they’re angled towards one another where they sit. Felix is pushing something towards her on the table—the look on her face suggests reluctance.
“Felix,” , he hears her whine as he draws closer, “I told you not to buy me anything!”
“You like these, don’t you? Take it.”
“I’ve been eating way too many sweets lately…”
Ah. That explains the conflict. He can’t help but smile, even through the pang of envy.
Their union had been celebrated. They had no plans to be married until the war was officially over, but the engagement had generated no shortage of excitement. They’re both crested nobles, and considered a good match, though it had nothing to do with how they came together. Felix had always turned his nose up at the idea of love for himself, and yet he had turned it down to gaze at Annette.
The rare softness in his eyes that Dimitri had begun to recognize for what it was is on full display now, as he stubbornly keeps a smile at bay. The corner of his mouth is pulling just so, even more when she complains and bats his shoulder with a tiny fist.
“Stop fattening me up!”
“Quit whining. I don’t care.”
“I do! Some of us have certain, special dresses to fit into, you know!”
That sets off a blush across his face, and he turns away, grumbling into his tea. He always loses to her.
—
When some of the class go to the river on a free day, it’s abnormally warm. They roll up their pant legs and wade into the cool water, dip their hands and splash their faces. A few thought to bring their lounge clothes, better suited for being wet than their uniforms…Dimitri remains dressed, sat on the riverside, and so does Dedue.
Sylvain is more than glad to take advantage of anything that could take the edge off the hot weather, dragging a fully dressed Felix until they’re thrashing in waist-deep water while Mercedes giggles and Ashe—
Ashe swims with Petra, taking to the water like the fish Professor Byleth is hunting for nearby.
His back looks broader than it usually does, cloaked in the structured shape of their uniform jacket. The linen shirt clings to muscle that hours at the archery ranges has carved into his shoulders, down and past his waist.
Droplets of water fly from his hair when he shakes his head. He laughs, the sound as joyful as the sunlight that fractures and splits on the river’s crackling surface.
Dimtiri can’t pull his eyes away—
—and realizes that he’s staring.
A shriek breaks his train of thought, followed by a loud splash. Dimitri’s attention whips over to where Claude is doubled over in laughter and Hilda is dragging herself back to the shore from where he had tossed her in. Already, she’s giving him an earful.
The scene gets a soft huff of laughter from Dedue, and that makes Dimitri do the same. They are so easy with each other—Ashe looks so content with Petra. She is royalty too, is she not?
She’s pretty, the princess from Brigid. Beautiful, actually, now that he looks at her sharp and striking features, her clever, bright eyes. Her muscles well-formed and lithe, smile glowing, hair running like silk in the current.
Ashe…Ashe smiles back at her.
But when he turns and catches Dimitri’s eye, it drops from his face. Dimitri quickly looks away, mortified, pretending he wasn’t looking at them at all.
Ashe smiles at the princess of Brigid, but not at him.
—
“Didn’t go too well, I take it?”
Annette unwraps the little parcel of biscuits. Dimitri vaguely recognizes the emblem on the package—a well-regarded bakery in Fhirdiad, its confections highly prized and none too cheap. Felix would have had to go well out of his way to fetch them for her.
The only reason he knows of them at all is because of another sweet tooth in their midst. Ashe loves the apple danishes the most, and the strawberry and chocolate rugelach. But of course, nothing Dimitri has ever brought back for him has disappointed.
“Of course it wouldn’t have.” Felix scoffs. “Old man wouldn’t like the idea of letting you go to anyone but someone he approved of.”
“It’s not that he disapproves of Ashe, per se.” Dimitri wrings his hands a bit. He only unclenches them when Felix makes a pointed shove at his plate, and he retrieves his utensils. “Objectively, it’s not… favorable for my position.”
Annette sighs airily. “I think it’s romantic for the king to marry a commoner.”
Felix snorts. She elbows him in the rib.
“Ashe is loyal, and has a good heart. But most of all, he makes you happy! I think that should be most important. Though I know it’s not that simple…”
The bite of veal in Dimitri’s mouth is tender, but tastes of nothing anyway. He chews it slowly.
“All your advisors will ever care about is if it’s advantageous for you. For the Kingdom.” Felix scoffs again, leaning his elbows against the table.
“And you?”
Felix’s eyes narrow.
“What about me?”
Dimtiri smiles. “You’re one of my advisors, too. What do you think?”
Felix sits back with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest. “Any marriage of yours will have consequences, and I suggest you keep that in mind. Not to mention that if you’re going to get married, remember that whoever you choose will be stuck with you, for life.”
Annette rolls her eyes with a sigh. “Clearly, Felix is also a romantic.”
“He isn’t wrong, though.” Dimitri pokes at a potato with his fork, chasing it around his plate. “Maybe…maybe it is worth reconsidering. Maybe he wouldn’t…want that. That is…”
Silence falls across the table. Annette watches him with soft concern. On the other hand, Felix locks his razor-sharp gaze onto Dimitri.
“So you’re just going to be beaten down again by the useless words of old men? It’s your life, idiot.”
“Don’t be mean.” Annette scolds. “Dimitri, have you…have you talked to Ashe about any of this?”
Dimitri chews his bottom lip, watching his ill-fated potato. That, at least, is a fight he can probably win.
“Only vaguely.”
When he doesn’t continue, Felix demands, “What does that mean?”
—
“Am I attractive?”
Dedue looks up from where he is studying a textbook, for an upcoming tactics exam. He looks taken aback by the question, and Dimitri immediately regrets letting it fly from his mouth, but he can hardly take it back.
He feels Dedue’s questioning gaze, even as he stubbornly keeps his own fixed on his image in the mirror. Suddenly it seems stupid and vain.
“Attractive?”
Dimitri’s ears begin to prickle with heat as he looks at himself, staring back. He takes care of his appearance as much as he feels like he should…but he’s never thought much past that.
“That is…I’m…I. Well…” Dimitri murmurs, seeing too-large hands that hang at the end of gangly arms. Are his knees too bony? His nose too curved? Face too long?...He’d never thought about any of it before.
Dedue, for what it’s worth, doesn’t tease him. Once the silence has dragged on long enough for Dimitri to feel even more self conscious, he thoughtfully answers, “Objectively, I believe you would be found attractive.”
“I…I see.”
He swallows. He rubs a hand over his chin. His narrow jaw. Looks at his deep-set eyes that look back, and the remnants of sleepless nights that shadow them.
“Is there a reason you are asking?”
Immediately, Dimitri clears his throat. In his mind, he imagines Petra. How does he stack up?
“I just…I wonder. That’s all.”
Is Petra’s beauty what puts Ashe at ease? Is it because she is not royalty of his own homeland?
Dedue adds, in a tone so subtly humored that only someone who has been around him as much as Dimitri has could recognize it, “If you are wondering about a specific person’s thoughts, that is something you would have to ask them directly.”
“Dedue!” Dimitri whines, and Dedue chuckles. “There is no one!”
“I am only saying that a general consensus does not necessarily match an individual’s.”
“I…you have a point.” Dimitri fidgets with his gauntlet.
He could never imagine asking a question like that directly. To—to anyone, but to—
“Forget I said anything.” He sighs, embarrassed. “It was a foolish thing to bring up.”
—
Dimitri loses to the potato. It sits on his plate, going cold, until Dedue arrives and urges him to clear his plate.
“If you do not,” He cautions, “The food will go to waste.”
That’s what gets him. Dimitri sighs, and shoves a loaded fork into his mouth.
Annette’s eyes twinkle. “Ashe will always make sure you’re well-fed, that’s for sure.”
“You do need someone who will remind you.” Felix says dryly.
“Is that what we’re discussing?” Dedue looks between the three of them. Annette glances at Dimitri, biting her lip.
He waves a hand, mouth still full. Felix reads his permission and tells Dedue, “The boar thought to bring the idea of marrying Ashe to Gilbert and my old man.”
“Ah.”
“As you can probably guess, they didn’t take to the idea.”
“Marriage, hm?”
Dimitri’s ears start to burn as he starts to feel the tease in Dedue’s look. He swallows.
“Yes.”
“You’ve thought about this for a while. I am surprised you finally decided to say something about it.”
“Wait! Really?! For how long?!”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters! How long did you think about it before proposing to me?”
“That’s not important.”
“What?!”
“You never answered, by the way.” Felix cuts back to Dimitri. “You said you had only talked to Ashe about a marriage vaguely.”
“Well, I…I never used the word… ”
“Then that’s not anything at all.”
Dimitri sighs. “I was hoping he would…get the idea.”
“Dimitri.” Dedue tidily cuts into his quiche. “Ashe knows you, I would venture, more than many others. But he isn’t a mind reader.”
“I…I know. I just…I haven’t…gotten the chance.”
It’s only partially true. He could have brought it up before Ashe left, on a long expedition that would take him from the Locket all the way up to the Sreng border. But he had turned over the idea for a long, long time, and still had not gathered the courage to talk to him about it before he was gone. Every day, his absence is more agonizing. More now, with this looming in his mind.
As it had since the moment he had thought of Ashe, and thought the word marriage.
—
On a sad blue night, Dimitri comes upon him in the training grounds, neither gentle or bright. He is alone, firing arrow after arrow in frantic succession, quick on his feet and breathing hard. From here, Dimitri can hear his rampant breathing, his shoulders tense and hands shaking. From exhaustion, or something else—?
The bowstring snaps, and it takes Ashe a moment to recover from the startle. When he does, he lets out a frustrated growl and flings it to the ground, before he drops to his knees.
The ground is quiet after that.
“…I apologize if I am intruding.”
Ashe’s head snaps up, eyes wide, red around the edges. His nose, too. When he realizes he’s not alone, that his prince is witness to both, he hurriedly turns back away, wiping at his face.
“I—no. No, I’m sorry,” Ashe hiccups. “I ought to be the one sorry.”
“You should not.”
Dimitri walks over, carefully, willing himself to be small. Like a non-threatening presence, not a prince or a predator in the night. Lowering himself, he sits beside Ashe on the ground, and offers a handkerchief. Ashe stares at him.
“Please.”
Hesitantly, Ashe accepts it with trembling fingers, a garbled thanks making it out in a garbled whisper.
The breeze is cool, hopefully pleasant on Ashe’s flushed skin, peach-red beneath his freckles. Dimitri hugs his knees, and searches the stars for courage.
“I am sorry about…Lord Lonato.” Dimitri whispers. “I wish I could have done something more.”
Ashe stares at the crinkled handkerchief, wrung between his hands.
“If you are angry with me,” Dimitri adds, “I understand.”
Maybe he’d even welcome that? Would that be better than Ashe’s discomfort, borderline fear? Dimitri is familiar with anger. Maybe he could do something with that.
“Angry?”
Ashe’s voice is small. Dimitri pulls his gaze down to find his face turned up towards him, and can’t help but find him a little bit lovely…even with his red-scrubbed nose and tear-filled eyes. Even if he hates his sadness.
“Why would I be angry with you? I know you had nothing to do with it…you tried to reason with Lady Rhea. I know you did…I heard. And I heard how you tried to talk Lord Lonato down…”
Dimitri drops his eyes in guilt.
“I am so powerless.”
Ashe is quiet.
“If I had been able to persuade them,” Dimitri whispers. “Maybe it didn’t have to come to this. Maybe I could have prevented all of it.”
And prevented Ashe from a hurt like this.
“…Maybe.”
For a while, they sit in silence. The night grows deeper, the dark’s depths widening to a cold yawn, and they sit a little closer.
“It hurts that he’s gone.” Ashe wipes at his nose again with the handkerchief, and sniffles. “My parents died, and I’ll never taste their cooking again. Lord Lonato is gone, and I’ll never again taste the tea he brews…never listen to his lessons on plants and herbs. I learned so much from him, and now…now he’s gone.”
It pains Dimitri to hear Ashe’s words. As a thorn pierces your fingertip, so does the anguish—because loss, Dimitri knows. Not Ashe’s, but he can feel it in the blood that pools around the wound.
“I would love to hear what he taught you.”
Ashe’s head lifts for him to look inquisitively at Dimitri.
“If you would…like to.” Dimitri looks back at him, and still sees only stars. “If you would be willing to share. I would like to listen.”
The color of Ashe’s eyes remind him of sage. He loves the smell of that herb.
“Only if you want, of course,” Dimitri adds hurriedly, “You don’t have to.”
“That’s…kind of you.” Ashe murmurs, shifting slightly where he sits. Their shoulders bump together. “But are you sure you want to?”
“Yes,” Dimitri assures him. “Yes, as your…friend.”
Ashe’s eyes widen.
“Friend…?”
Dimitri swallows around the lump in his throat.
“Yes,” He says. “Yes.”
—
After a, no insult to the chefs, frankly forgettable lunch, Dimitri walks over to the gardens with Dedue. He likes to help, in what little way he can, and the greenhouse is a sanctuary to them both. Although most of the fertile land has been prioritized for growing food, there is a patch of land that is Dedue’s, and no one else’s—Dimitri made sure of it.
Along the path, Hapi runs into them, playing eenie-meenie-miny-moe until she slides her arm into Dedue’s.
“Tough luck, Didi.”
“Maybe I’ll have better luck next time.”
“I’m not intruding, am I?”
She isn’t.
—
So he does. They explore the forests together, Ashe pointing out various plants and herbs. Some, Dimitri knew because of his own education—but not all of them, not the local wilds of Garreg Mach.
Ashe’s voice is more soothing as they walk along the trails—and often, off them. Finding creeks and hidden meadows, sometimes even charming waterfalls, deep in the woods. They wander further and further, all on their own. In those moments, the few Dimitri can pry from the oppressive drum of his responsibilities, he can leave the specters that haunt him behind as well.
And he learns a lot, too. Plants that are good for salves, medicines. Roots that are edible and poisonous, and ones that can be stewed into tea or cooked into food. All things that Ashe had been taught by Lonato, the shadow of his absence casting grief over him, sometimes stilling him to guilt-laden silence.
But grief, Dimitri knows. He asks questions, makes comments, steers the conversations as smoothly as he can. Points out the stars above them, when they have begun to appear in the dusky sky.
Once he dares, he sets a hand on Ashe’s shoulder. For comfort, he hopes. It makes Ashe jump and stare at him a bit, unsure what to make of it; but that, in time, becomes familiar. He jumps less, and only looks at Dimitri a little sadly.
“You’re too kind.” He might say quietly, eyes dropping before he adds, “Your Highness.”
“Not at all.” Dimitri’s fingers brush through the folds of Ashe’s hood, straightening them. Selfishly, he lets his hand fall over the back of his shoulder, indulging the little electric hum it leaves behind.
“…Let’s keep going. I want to find that rare specimen you were mentioning earlier.”
The knowledge would one day come in hand in a way he would never have expected.
—
Hapi crouches down next to the bed of pitcher plants, skirt hiking up around her legs. She’s more muscle than most expect of a mage, her skill with the artes coming more from instinct and practice than hours locked away to study. Instead, she trawled the mountains and climbed boulders and trees when the fancy struck her, and is well-acquainted with manual labor—in Abyss, and in a military camp, everyone pitches in.
Dedue notices. Dimitri notices him notice, and hides a smile as Dedue turns away to hide his attention.
“Check out these guys.” Hapi is saying to the air, probably meant for them, and rolling up her sleeves to keep them from the dirt. “Almost ready for munching, I’d say. Dewdrop, you’ll whip up something tasty with them?”
Dedue is filling a watering can at the well. “If you like.”
“I would like.”
—
Of all people, Dimitri shouldn’t critique others’ eating habits. But he notices Ashe’s growing absence in the dining hall.
“Doesn’t he normally eat with you?”
“Yeah…” Annette’s brows furrow as she nibbles on the end of her fork. “But after what happened with Lord Lonato, I think he just…needs some space, you know?”
“I am worried as well.” Mercedes confesses. “But we can’t force him. The best we can do is be there for him.”
The dinner service will end soon. It’s possible Ashe is avoiding company, and getting his meals elsewhere without them.
Dimitri might have waved it off altogether, if he didn’t watch Ashe growing more withdrawn, more pale, as days go on. He accepts Mercedes’ cookies with a smile and a word of gratitude, practices in the training yard, and doesn't miss a lesson.
Still, the day comes when his concern breaks through his reservations, asks Byleth their advice, and they shrug, tilt their head, and say simply, “It’s Ashe. Don’t you know how he is about food?”
And he feels like a damned fool. Even more of one when he is standing in front of one of the stoves after hours, and realizes he has just as much of an idea as what to do with a display of ingredients and utensils in the evening as he is during the day. The back of his neck is aflame when he goes to find Dedue in his room and ask for his assistance.
He comes, of course, with little question. Only a small pull of his mouth as he asks, “Cooking for Ashe, hm?”
“Not so loud!” Dimitri hisses in the empty corridor, as though Dedue ever is.
—
“Soooo. Freckles.” Hapi brushes her hands down her skirt. “I was just gonna ask when he might be back.”
Clearing his throat against his fist, Dimitri answers, “It’s a little hard to say. Hopefully, in another week or two…before the new moon, at the very least.”
Hapi is looking at him thoughtfully, and he resists fidgeting.
“What is it?”
“You must miss him.” She concludes, brushing her hands free of some dirt. “Hew Dewdrop, help a lady up, wouldja?”
If Dimitri didn’t know any better, he’d say that Hapi needs no help in getting up, and may be looking for an excuse to take Dedue’s arm again, which he offers silently, and without complaint.
Instead, he admits, “I am…looking forward to his return.”
“I’m sure he misses you too.” Hapi grunts slightly as she hoists herself up onto Dedue’s shoulder to water the hanging pots. He carries her easily, large hand gingerly on her hip to steady her balance.
Dimitri catches his eye, teasing and lovingly accusing, only for Dedue’s brow to tighten, and his gaze to dart away.
“It’s nothing dangerous, is it?”
“No. At least, it shouldn’t be. He’s conducting inspections, mostly. Sylvain is technically head of the expedition, but he wanted Ashe along specifically.”
“Good thinking. Freckles will keep him on track.”
—
Ashe doesn’t seem to know how to respond when his door swings open to find Dimitri and Dedue before him, a tray clasped in his hands.
“Ah…y…your Highness…?” His eyes flicker from one to the other, while Dimitri momentarily somehow forgets how to speak altogether. Dedue fills in for him.
“I hope we’re not disturbing you. His Highness has been concerned about your recent absence in the dining hall, and wanted to ensure you’ve eaten well enough.”
“His Highness did?” Ashe stares openly now, owlishly wide. Dimitri clears his throat.
“I—yes. Of course, I can’t cook myself, nothing edible anyway, and I asked Dedue for his assistance—”
He’s rambling.
“But I just thought, that, perhaps, it wouldn’t…well, that maybe something other than the dining hall meals would be…refreshing? Different,” Dimitri clears his throat again, “Dedue’s cooking is superior to most, anyhow, as you know…I’m sorry, we aren’t interrupting or bothering you in any way, are we?”
Ashe seems lost for words, taking all of this in. Dimitri feels his ears start to burn.
Dedue gives a curt nod of his head and presses a hand to Dimitri’s back, urging him to take a step forward.
“I hope you will enjoy the meal. For now, I will take my leave. Goodnight, Ashe. Your Highness.”
“I—’m sorry for having troubled you so late, Dedue. Don’t let me keep you.”
“Of course.”
Then he’s gone, leaving Dimitri and Ashe to stare at each other.
“I can leave it here for you.”
What he really wants is to watch Ashe eat. He’s feigned interest in food himself when he had none, just to be left alone.
“Oh, no, how rude of me.” Ashe steps aside, ushering him inside. “Please. I wouldn’t mind some company.”
—
Later in the afternoon, when Dimitri is in his office and up to his ears in paperwork, is when Byleth drifts in, unannounced. Their arms are stacked with their own load of documents, a hangdog expression, and a doughnut clenched between their teeth.
Dimitri chuckles, reaching over to pull a chair beside his desk for them to drop into.
“I came to help you, ” They groan around a mouthful of pastry. “So why am I stuck doing the Church’s paperwork?”
Dimitri licks his thumb and leans over to wipe some jam from the corner of their mouth. Byleth digs a hand into the paper bag cradled to their chest and deposits a still-warm doughnut onto Dimtiri’s desk, dangerously close enough to spray a supply contract with powdered sugar.
“Here. Eat.”
—
One spoonful, and Ashe is in tears.
Dimitri watches on in shock. He had never meant to hurt, only to help.
But Ashe is sniffling, head bent, tears falling like raindrops onto the tray, into the bowl, making dark spots in his uniform shorts.
“I’m sorry,” He warbles, scrubbing the back of his wrist across his eyes. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
Dimitri fishes in his pockets and comes up empty, and instead whips off his cape to offer. Ashe actually laughs a little, gently refusing.
“No, no, don’t be ridiculous, I can’t use your cape to wipe my face.”
He ends up using the napkin instead, through another sob or two.
Helpless, Dimitri only watches.
“No, I apologize. I didn’t intend to…upset you in any way.”
“You haven’t.” Ashe promises. “Not really. It’s not you. I don’t know why I…”
He trails off, leaving them in silence. Defeated, he stares at the tray, until Dimitri timidly pushes at the bowl with his fingertips, urging him to take another bite. Ashe does, but slowly.
After Duscur, Dimitri had Dedue. Had Rodrigue. Ashe’s parents are dead, and while he has friends at the Academy, where his status as a commoner already sets him apart from most, he has no family, no one comparable to either. His brother and sister are miles away, and he is the oldest besides; he inherently is the one to take care of them, as he always has. He wouldn’t let them see him fall apart. Has had to be the strong one for them for so long, Dimitri questions whether or not he could be anything else.
Who does Ashe have, to let him have a moment of weakness? To staunch the wound of his loss, and support his back when his shoulders finally begin to bow with the weight on them?
Dimitri slides from his seat at the desk to a knee, and while he loses courage at the last moment to take Ashe’s hand, he diverts it to his wrist. Carefully, gently, Ashe’s eyelashes flicker, before he raises his head to stare at Dimitri.
His eyes are tearful, nose red.
“I’m sorry.” Dimitri tells him. “I’m sorry you lost him. I’m sorry we couldn’t prevent this tragedy. I’m sorry there is so little I can do…”
Ashe’s lips are parted, his breathing raspy and wet. His chest begins to hitch as Dimitri continues.
“Loss is…something I understand. But please, do not shut yourself away from the world, cruel as it might seem.”
He thinks of Ingrid, locked away in her room for days at a time, and Felix, who layered armor over his heart and masked his face with it, too. Even Sylvain, who lost a friend just as they did, and had somehow pulled them together.
“Whatever I can do to help, let me.” Dimitri pleads, squeezing just a little, hoping his clumsy message makes its way home. “You are a bright spot in the Lions, Ashe. You are stronger than most I know, but that doesn’t mean you have to bear that pain alone. If it takes bringing you meals after hours, or going to the forest and searching for plants, or…whatever else will help. Let me. Please.”
For a moment, Dimitri fears he’s overstepped, when the tears pour again, leaving fresh trails down Ashe’s cheeks, speechless.
“You shouldn’t…you’re my…”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Dimitri leans forward and wraps a hand around the back of Ashe’s neck, reeling him in close enough to press their foreheads together.
Ashe’s breath catches; it’s the closest he’s ever been to Dimitri, and he freezes like a deer in lights.
“It doesn’t matter that I am the prince of Faerghus. I am your friend, if you will have me as one. I am your friend, and I want you to know that you aren’t alone in your pain. I don’t know what I can do, but I…I want to be there for you. Others will, too, of course…”
Ashe’s bangs have gotten longer, and they brush against Dimitri’s temples. His breath is soft—the tears have stopped with his shock, the last one tracing from the corner of his eye down the curve of his cheek. Dimitri imagines brushing it away, if his hands had been bare.
For those few moments, those long, private, precious seconds beneath the flickering of candlelight, Ashe is still, accepting Dimitri’s touch, letting the words sink in.
And then he is crying again. But then he laughs, too, and Dimitri is mesmerized by it. Boyish, something like innocent, the steam rising from a freshly baked sweet, warm against his cheeks.
“I’ll try to remember that,” Ashe scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’ll try. Thank you.”
“…Good. Now,” Dimitri urges, “Your meal. Dedue worked very hard on it, you know.”
“Right, right…”
Ashe eats until the plate is clean, and Dimitri is satisfied.
“I’ll take it back to the dining hall in the morning for breakfast,” Ashe tells him, stacking them neatly on his desk. “I’m on dish duty anyway.”
“Very well.” Dimitri concedes. Compromise, he tells himself. Small steps.
They talk for a while, about nothing in particular. Ashe seems tired, but more at ease, maybe having gotten out some small part of his agony. He’s still a little red-eyed when he sees Dimitri out when the candles are burning low, and pauses at the door, prompting Dimitri to do the same.
“I…I want to thank you. Again. For checking on me. For the meal. I know cooking isn’t your favorite thing to do.”
Even his cheeks are a little red.
“Of course,” Dimitri keeps quiet, matching the midnight hour. “If it helped at all…I’m glad.”
Ashe looks up at him with a small and genuine smile, and it makes Dimitri’s tired heart flip a little.
“It did. Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll take better care not to worry you.”
“It’s not my worrying I care about. I care about you.”
Dimitri blurts it out, and it’s like a scrap of paper burnt above an open flame—instant, intense, leaving empty air in its wake.
Ashe stares at him, aglow from the lantern by the door. Dimitri stares back, aghast at himself, before clearing his throat in his fist.
“That is…I.”
Why is he embarrassed?
“I do, Ashe. I’m your friend, remember? At least, I would still like to be.”
“…Oh! Oh yes, of course.” Ashe fidgets with his shirt hem. “I…yes. If you’d still also like to have me, I’d like to be your friend. It would be my honor.”
“No honor. Just your friendship.”
Ashe laughs like honeyed tea.
“Okay. Friends. We’re friends.”
And Dimitri considers that a victory.