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Chapter Text

Even from high up in his chambers, Dimitri can hear the music.

He stands on the balcony, bare hands resting on the stone balustrade. The cool night wind brushes his cheeks, carrying the inexorable sound of excitement along with it, shouting and laughter and the dim chaos of a large gathering of people as heard from outside of it. The whole palace is alive below him, an endless stream of carriages winding along the road, light spilling from every window, every doorway, flooding the grounds below.

And Dimitri stands on his balcony. Alone, lit only by the light of the moon above. He can hear the beginnings of the ball pulsing through the palace like a heartbeat, but he stands here. Separate, distant. 

It is the way of things. Always has been, for Dimitri is king, and he cannot revel as others do. His arrival to the ball must be carefully timed. He is to enter when the ballroom is near its maximum capacity, when his guests have had time to greet each other, to eat, to drink. He is to arrive when those unfortunate guests running late are racing their way up to the palace so as not to miss him. It is an event, the arrival of the king. A spectacle. One of the many sights his guests have come to see.

Dimitri is not very good at making an entrance. Not the ballroom kind anyway, though in the sea of battle he is unmissable. He remembers leading on the battlefield during the war, fire in his blood, strength and purpose and violence in every breath, power in mind and heart.

Here, making an entrance under the mantle of a king, all he feels is silly. 

Dimitri sighs. He does not resent it, not exactly. But for all the challenges of being king, the long nights and gruelling days in war and peacetime alike, this is the part of his role that always seems… well. Superfluous.

He inhales cool air. Twists his fingers together, staring idly at his scars, then forces himself back upright. He heads inside, closing the balcony door firmly behind him, and the noise of celebration dulls to a low hum.

It is almost time.

Dedue picked his outfit out for him. Not in so many words, and not directly. Instead, he has spent the last few days making mild remarks about Dimitri’s wardrobe as though hoping his advice will go surreptitiously absorbed but consciously unnoticed, with occasional questions like, “You still have that silk vest from Derdriu, yes?” and, “Shall I take those boots you purchased in Enbarr to be polished when I take mine?”

In all honesty, Dimitri would gladly have asked him, plain and simple. But Dedue is a funny man, so straightforward in some ways and so roundabout in others. Unfailingly well-dressed and fastidious in his personal appearance, and though Dedue would never outright say that Dimitri dresses too shabbily for his station, it would, perhaps, explain his recent fixation with Dimitri’s wardrobe.

Dimitri is terribly fond of him.

Dedue has chosen black on black, as is Dimitri’s preference. His costume is many-layered – shirt, vest, overcoat, heavy black cloak and trousers – along with a black cravat and shining silver stitching and buckles all over his person. But for the first time in a long time, in a decision from Dimitri surprising to them both, Dimitri’s shirt is blue. A small change, when Dimitri looks in the mirror to check his buttons are done up right. Not too much, a pop of blue near his throat and wrists. Not too different.

Still, it is strange. For once, Dimitri looks like a king.

“Your Majesty,” comes a knock at the door. “We are ready for you.”

Dimitri exhales. Then he raises his head, and goes to meet his fate.

Dominic, one of Dimitri’s aides, escorts him through the palace. He has a harried look on his face and a list in hand – he often does, come to think of it – and other servants and workers move swiftly out of Dimitri’s way as he comes.

Dedue meets him near where he will make his entrance. Even with the doors closed, the crowd noise is loud and excited. Dedue’s eyes warm when he catches sight of Dimitri, though the shift of his weight from one foot to the other betrays his discomfort. Left to his own devices, Dedue would skulk into the ball through one of the back doors, leaving grand entrances to the purview of others.

They have reached an agreement. Unspoken, but Dimitri is as stubborn in this as Dedue is in dressing him for the occasion. Dedue is his vassal, and it is perfectly ordinary for him to enter behind the king at such an event, as distasteful as he finds it. But it is more than that, far more than the awaiting crowd will ever know – Dimitri wants Dedue to be part of the royal party. The only family Dimitri has, in the only way he has it.

Dedue is a reserved man by nature, just as Dimitri is disinclined to peacock about in all his finery. They have compromised.

“You look good,” Dimitri says when he draws level, clapping Dedue on the shoulder. Dedue has grown into a fashionable man, loathe as he would be to accept such an assertion, and today he is dressed in a dashing red coat, a gold earring larger than his usual dangling from his ear.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Dedue says. “You as well.”

Dominic, Dimitri’s aide, is flipping pages back and forth, eyes racing as he reads, mouthing soundlessly to himself. Dominic looks up when another servant steps out from an alcove and nods at him. Then Dominic bows low to Dimitri.

“They are ready for you, sire.”

Dimitri takes a breath, one long, steady inhalation. Gathering his composure for the night to come.

Just a moment. Just one more moment.

He smooths down his layers. Looks to Dedue, stood silent and still behind him. Dedue meets his gaze with a quirk of his brow, subtle but wry. He does not like these events any more than Dimitri does, but he is here. Walking beside him. 

Dimitri smiles. Impulsively, he claps a hand to Dedue’s shoulder again in a gesture of silent gratitude. Then, emboldened, he steps through the door Dominic bows him through, out of the shadows and into the light.

For a moment, it is blinding. The ballroom is ablaze with light, and the blast of royal trumpets cuts above the din of the crowd. Dimitri straightens his back, raises his chin, and smooths his features. His great cloak sweeps behind him as he moves from the doorway towards the stairs, every step slow, heavy, unhurried in the manner expected of him. It would not be much of a spectacle if he were to jog down the staircase and into the crowd before anyone got a good look at him, though he is sure it would give his guests something to talk about.

“His Royal Majesty, King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd of United Fódlan!” shouts the announcer.

Dimitri raises a hand in greeting. Takes the first step down, then again, then again. He lowers his hand, but the crowd has hushed completely. They are bowing, curtseying, every last one. Even the guards bow their heads to him, though their backs remain ramrod straight at their posts.

The respect they afford him is too much, far more than he is due. They were not commanded to bow, nor to go silent. No speech is planned. He is just walking down the stairs.

It is too much. It is also… an honour. Dimitri wishes he were worthy – someday he will be worthy.

Dimitri stops. Dedue comes to a smooth halt a step behind, as though he expected it. And as heads begin to rise, looking to Dimitri, he thinks he knows what needs to be said. What they all want.

“People of Fódlan,” he says, his voice carrying through the hall. “You have travelled from all over the continent to be here tonight. For some that is a great distance indeed, for others a mere stone’s throw away, yet we are here. United.” He pauses, and feels the bated breath, the energy in the room, the eyes on him. “I have no grand speech to make, for tonight is not a night for serious things. It is Saint Macuil Day. We come together as one people to share in a common joy. To dance, and to make merry. Orchestra, play on – let there be music!”

Cheers, laughter, applause. And then comes the music once again. Sweeping the crowd up and away.

Dimitri goes down to his people. Joins them, Dedue a steady presence at his side.

Even with him, this ball is no different from any other. Dimitri is whisked into the sea of people. People talking at him and shaking his hand and begging scraps of his attention, as much as they can get.

“A most excellent celebration, Your Majesty.”

“Such a joy to be here, Your Majesty, an honour.”

“Your Majesty, delighted to see you again. Have you met –”

On and on it goes, but it is easier with Dedue beside him. Dimitri includes him quite pointedly in every set of introductions – it is right and proper since Dedue is here as his companion – but Dedue does not look thrilled about it. He is polite and gentlemanly, but he obviously does not like making the acquaintances of strangers in such high volumes or in such rapid succession.

Perhaps Dimitri’s aversion to it is not such a great character failing.

Lord and Lady Denmar, to Dimitri’s surprise, also muster the courage to face him. Lord Denmar pushes his way through the crowd, as loathsome as ever, but he is already sweating by the time he reaches Dimitri. Bows excessively low, as does his wife.

“Charmed, Your Majesty. A delightful evening.”

“Lord Denmar. Lady Denmar.” Dimitri inclines his head, but does no more than that. Raises a brow and lets the man sweat.

“You must come to the Denmar estate should you ever be in the area, sire. We would be honoured to host you. And to show you, most courteously, the respect we hold for you and… yours.”

Denmar, like so many before him, stutters to a halt when he realises Dedue is looming over him. Looks up and up and up to an almost comedic degree as Dedue stares him down, a veritable wall of muscle radiating his disapproval.

Dedue is one of the gentlest people of Dimitri’s acquaintance, in both temper and temperament. Dimitri has no intention of telling Denmar that.

“Thank you, my lord,” Dimitri says, impressively neutral.

“You must understand, sire, I hold you in the highest respect.” The rictus grin is back. If this is Denmar’s best attempt at an olive branch, it is pitiful indeed. He is too proud a man to grovel, though, and Dimitri can appreciate that in the abstract.

“Thank you, my lord,” Dimitri says. “Do excuse us.”

Let him sweat. Dimitri doubts it will change him, but it is a nice thought all the same.

Denmar doesn’t dare chase him this time around. And Dimitri and Dedue are quickly swallowed up by the crowd, back into the flow of things. In high demand, as ever.

“Quite an evening,” Dedue mutters when the tide of new people finally abates.

“Not over yet,” Dimitri says darkly. “Have you spotted Lady Olivia, by any chance? Denmar tried to forbid her coming, but I was quite sure she would be in attendance this evening. Still, I have not seen her.”

Dedue, easily some two heads taller than the majority of the crowd, looks around. Spots her, after a few moments of searching, and points. Dimitri follows his gaze and – yes, there she is. In a group of people her own age, by the look of it, smiling brightly and doing some silly dance with another young woman.

“Good,” he murmurs, smiling to himself.

He promised her a dance. He has not forgotten. But on the whole, after all that has passed with her father, he thinks it is a promise better broken. Let her have fun while she is young. Let her enjoy herself as a girl her age should, on the cusp of society rather than facing the pressures of an elevated station and the eyes of the court.

“Your Majesty!” comes another voice. Dimitri turns, inclines his head, and the cycle begins again.

Dedue is not used to this. After another half an hour, he is beginning to get a pained look about his face.

“Take a break, Dedue,” Dimitri tells him.

“When you do.” Dedue is such a good man, and loyal to a fault. But there is no need for him to stand guard all night.

Dimitri opens his mouth to begin that line of persuasion when, by sheer coincidence, his eyes alight on a young woman standing rather nervously off to the side. Well-dressed, though not dripping jewels like some of the nobility, more practical than fashionable. Obviously waiting, for she is not speaking to any of the lords of ladies around her, but too shy to approach.

It is only a hunch, that she is waiting on Dedue rather than him, but…

“Do you know her?” Dimitri says. Dedue checks over his shoulder and – there it is. The barest hint of a flush on his cheeks.

“An acquaintance,” he says, turning back to Dimitri. Dimitri can feel the smile spreading on his cheeks. “An acquaintance, Dimitri, nothing more.”

“Of course, of course,” Dimitri says amiably. “But take a break. I believe she is waiting to speak with you.”

Dedue seems torn, but Dimitri turns to the next person awaiting his attention, and after a moment Dedue goes. Dimitri spies him a few minutes later, sitting over by the wall, engrossed in conversation with the lady. He looks happy. Perhaps she is a new friend, perhaps something more – Dimitri will prise news from Dedue later.

Dimitri goes back to his conversation with Lord Something-or-other, nodding his head at the appropriate times and thanking him for his attendance at the summit, then he moves onwards. More people to meet. Smile, bow, shake hand. Smile, bow, shake hand. The same routine, monotonous despite the revelry all around.

A reprieve, though, is quickly forthcoming. He spies a familiar head of red hair, and Annette waves eagerly at him through the gap in the crowd. She does not approach, well-used to his constant busyness during events such as these, but her smile is bright and welcoming.

Dimitri excuses himself mid-conversation, nodding a farewell to the lords and ladies clustered around him, leaving before anyone can protest. He does not feel guilty, somehow – indeed, there is something satisfying about this rebellion, no matter how small it may be. He strides his way through the crowd, cutting a path towards her and side-stepping anyone who tries to get in his way.

“Annette,” he says, and her smile is a burst of joy in an otherwise cold and overwhelming crowd. He bends to greet her, a hand steadying her at the elbow just as she rises on her tiptoes so that she may kiss his cheek.

“Your Majesty!” she chirps, bouncing on her heels. Her hair is already coming loose from its complicated bun, her smile entirely unguarded, and for all her sharp intellect, there is something keenly endearing about her total lack of artfulness.

She is not alone, of course. Annette rarely is, and Dimitri vaguely recognises the assortment of scholarly types clustered around her, most trying not to seem as though they are not staring at him. Or, in some cases, desperately trying to shrink back into the crowd so as to avoid his notice.

He does not blame them. He understands the feeling all too well.

“Good evening to you,” he greets them at large, inclining his head politely.

“These are some of my colleagues from the school,” Annette says, gesturing with an unnecessary amount of energy, as though Dimitri could possibly confuse who she means. “They weren’t sure if they were allowed to come, but some of them have never been to a ball before! I was sure you wouldn’t mind if I brought guests.”

How Annette manages to be simultaneously so charmingly guileless and so graceful in her social manners, Dimitri will never fully understand. When she sees a crack, she smooths it over, and her companions’ nerves are all too apparent.

She has many friends, Annette. It is hard not to like her. Even Felix likes her, and he hardly likes anyone at all.

(Damn it all. Dimitri has been trying so hard not to think of Felix. Has been doing so well at it.)

“Quite the contrary, I am pleased to make your acquaintances,” Dimitri says. Formal where Annette is disarming, but he speaks as warmly as he can muster at the present moment. (He does this to himself, honestly. His thoughts always, somehow, circle around to Felix.) “Annette speaks very highly of you all.”

Dimitri is expecting to do the rounds. Shake their hands, learn their names, as is right and proper. Some of them he is expecting to recognise, because what little time he is able to spend with Annette is always full of her sunny enthusiasm and stories from her work. Annette, though, surprises him. 

“Excuse us,” she tells her friends. Then she takes him quite unsubtly by the elbow and all but drags him over to the wall.

Dimitri goes along with it, in no small part out of sheer surprise at the novelty of being tugged about by anyone other than Dedue. It is… nice. In a strange way. Reminiscent of his teenage years somehow, though he was even more aloof in those days than he is now, unsettled as he was.

Annette clasps his elbows once they have some semblance of privacy. Her gaze trails up as though she is studying him, a little frown between her brows. In his peripheral vision Dimitri sees people looking – they always look at him – but Annette pays them no mind.

“You’re looking well tonight,” she says. “I like that coat. You look so handsome!”

How she says such things so blithely, Dimitri has no idea. He can feel himself flush, one of his full-face flushes that he absolutely hates in how much they betray him.

“Oh…” he manages to say before he is cut off.

She’s laughing at him. Laughing. Covering her mouth with her hand and twinkling up at him.

“Ah, Dimitri,” she says. His given name, not his title, which she says so rarely it is almost harder to take than the compliment. After a moment, her humour fages, though her expression is still warm as she looks up at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you. Dedue said you weren’t up for visitors when I was around, then I had a whole classful of students to supervise on an excursion into the countryside. Teenagers can be such a handful, honestly.”

Dimitri blinks. There is a lot to take in there. A burst of shame that she, too, knew he was unwell, gratitude to Dedue for keeping him out of sight, frustration that Dedue must cover on his behalf, and a strange feeling of disorientation that comes with the realisation that his friends think and talk about him when he is not there.

Of course they do. Everyone does, with their friends and loved ones. It is another one of those things that is perfectly obvious most of the time, but he forgets when he’s battling one of his fits of melancholy. 

Still. Did everyone know he was unwell?

“I spent half the week shepherding them away from cliff sides,” Annette continues, pressing a hand to her forehead. “No common sense or self-preservation.”

“I believe we were much the same when we were young,” Dimitri says, because it is one of those things people say. When they were young, war came. “Truly, no apology is needed. But I am glad to have a moment with you. I have been meaning to thank you for the books.”

Annette frowns, tilting her head. “Books?”

“The piano books,” Dimitri clarifies. “The ones you sent me.”

Annette’s frown does not alleviate. Her lips are parted, just a little, as if in confusion. She blinks.

“Oh,” she says, rallying a moment later, “the books!”

Annette is not dishonest by nature. She makes a poor job of it, and there is a swooping sensation in Dimitri’s stomach.

“Oh, don’t mention it,” she says, waving a hand, laughing awkwardly.

“I hope you are recovered as well,” he says. Pushing, even though he isn’t sure he wants the answer. (Even though he knows it already.) “Felix told me you were too unwell to attend the opera with us.”

Dimitri watches her face closely when he says it. Watches the flicker of her eyes, the firming of her lips, the transition from cheerful to something that can only be called long-suffering before her expression smooths out again.

Felix is not a dishonest person either. Indeed, as flaws go, his may well be an excess of honesty. But he is… well, shy in his own strange way.

Dimitri is a fool. He has been such a fool.

His breath catches. Panic flares, white hot, though it is not a rational response, not one he can explain. But Felix is unattainable, a perfect dream, as distant as the moon itself. It has always been so. Felix is supposed to be so.

“I’m feeling much better now,” Annette says, eyes darting evasively. “I’m glad you are too. Felix was beside himself, though don’t tell him I said that.”

Another jolt. Breathe, Dimitri reminds himself. Breathe.

“But – the opera!” Annette says, mercifully oblivious to his inner turmoil. “How did you like it?”

“Very much,” he manages.

It is impossible. Should be impossible, that Felix would – well. Perhaps Dimitri is reading into things, he tells himself for the hundredth time.

(He knows. Yet more evidence, plain as day, and Dimitri is not stupid. But he is ever a fractured thing, as contradictory in this as he is in every other respect. Two sides in direct opposition, both right and both wrong.)

“Dimitri?” Annette says. “Are you all right?”

He is such a fool. Feels… nauseated, actually. Nauseated and faintly electrified, like every hair is standing on end.

A month ago, he would have lied to her. Perfectly well, my apologies, he might have said, smiling insincerely down at her.

“I need a drink,” he says instead. The coward’s way out, in many ways, and yet infinitely more honest. Contradictory again. “Do excuse me.” He turns on his heel and makes a bee-line for the drinks table. 

He doesn’t get far, because he never does. Tabitha, the head servant, would be appalled if His Royal Majesty had to stoop so low as to pick his own drink up from a table with everyone else rather than have it presented to him on a silver platter. She insists it’s a matter of safety – easy to poison his cup if he takes it from a public source – but it means some poor servant is formally assigned to leap on him whenever he looks like he might be getting thirsty.

“Your Majesty,” says the servant, bowing low and looking admirably good-natured about the whole affair.

Dimitri accepts it, because he has to. Ends up with a single glass of white wine, presented and tasted in front of him before it is relinquished to his grasp. He looks around for Dedue, spotting the familiar head over the top of the crowd, still in conversation with his new friend. Dimitri will not interrupt him, but nor does he wish to go back to his duties. 

He needs a moment. He was doing so well, but Felix doesn’t need to be physically present to throw him for a loop, it would seem.

There is a group of young ladies talking animatedly nearby who haven’t noticed Dimitri’s presence, so he uses their position to his advantage. Slinks back against a wall for a brief moment of respite, shielded from general view by the extravagance of their hairstyles.

He watches the dancefloor. The ball has begun in earnest, and people are dancing. He sips his wine, taking deep, calming breaths. His stomach is rolling – nausea? nerves? – and he uses the moment of solitude to pull himself together. He mentally runs through his list of things to-do instead. People to talk to or be seen dancing with, with his regal mask firmly in place.

His focus lasts for all of a minute. His eyes are treacherous things. Search, without his meaning to.

For Felix. It is always Felix.

He is dancing, skilled and graceful, movements sharp and precise. Matter-of-fact even when waltzing, no frills or unnecessary motions, back straight and shoulders in perfect alignment. Dimitri watches him because he cannot help but watch him, gaze fixed, chest aching that all-too-familiar ache.

He is not alone in watching, he knows that well. Felix is a handsome man. Handsome and widely admired for it, with his dark hair and sharp features and steely, striking eyes. He’s so handsome that Dimitri wonders if he even knows, because he doesn’t act like a vain man no matter how many people trip over themselves in service of his beauty.

Felix is a perfect impossibility. A dream, a fantasy, captivating but never made flesh and blood.

(His hand on Dimitri’s cheek. Warm, callused. Cradling it like it was something precious.)

“So this is where the wallflowers hide.”

Dimitri startles, almost spilling his glass. It is, of course, Sylvain. No one else would think to sneak up on him like that, nor lean against the wall beside him, bumping their shoulders together.

“Can’t say I blame you,” Sylvain continues, pulling a silver flask from his pocket.

“I should have thought the palace provided you with ample options to drink,” Dimitri says.

“Sure, but I want it to really burn. Only get the kind of kick I want with the cheap and nasty stuff.”

Sylvain throws back his drink, his face twisting as he shudders – must be quite some kick. He’s dressed as well as ever, fashionable and bordering on outrageous, pushing the boundaries of decency with the cut of his trousers and the openness of his shirt. But he isn’t out dancing. Instead, he’s come to lurk around the edges, and hidden as Dimitri is, Sylvain can’t have known he was here before making his way over.

“Everything all right?” Dimitri asks quietly.

“Fine.” Sylvain shrugs. He holds his empty glass up to the light as if asking it to explain itself, still grimacing. “Yourself?”

“Fine.” So maybe neither of them is entirely honest. 

They stand, for a few moments, in companionable silence. But Dimitri hasn’t forgotten what Sylvain said to him that day in his office, when Dimitri tried to beg his forgiveness. Hasn’t forgotten the promises he’s made, both to Sylvain and to himself. Dimitri swallows, looking out at the dancing.

Looking, more honestly, at Felix.

“I think I am lost, Sylvain.”

Felix is taking a new partner. A woman this time, her hand in his, his hand upon her waist. He leads strong and capable, in this and in everything else.

Sylvain follows his gaze, and Dimitri wishes he weren’t quite so clever sometimes. Sylvain can be a complete fool when he wishes to be, but other times, his instincts are razor sharp.

“You…” Sylvain trails off. His head moves between Felix and Dimitri, and even in his peripheral vision Dimitri can see his lips parting in surprise. Then, slowly, he grins. “Huh. Well. You sure know how to play your cards close to your chest, don’t you, Your Majesty?”

Dimitri tips his head away. Unsure how to respond.

“Here I thought Felix was out of luck,” Sylvain murmurs, far more considering than Dimitri expected it to be.

“Sylvain, please,” Dimitri says. Desperate to get away all of a sudden, regretting his honesty, but Sylvain must see it on his face. He doesn’t let him.

“You’re a tough one to read, I guess,” Sylvain says. “I didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Sylvain.”

“I kept telling him he was reading too much into it. Your hot and cold routine’s been driving him crazy, you know.”

“Hot and –” Dimitri bites down the flare of temper, but it’s a near thing. He takes in a steadying breath. “I do not know what you are talking about. And I certainly do not appreciate the implication.”

Hot and cold routine. As though Dimitri has been playing games. As though it is him who –

He grinds his jaw. Bites his temper back, and back, and back.

“All right, all right.” Sylvain looks amused, the dastard. Amused and infinitely more energetic than he did when he came over, as though the whole affair is invigorating for him.

Dimitri shoots him a sour look. Sylvain dutifully wipes the smirk from his face, but his eyes are still sparkling. Dimitri wishes Sylvain would stop looking at him like that. Wishes especially that he didn’t look so knowing.

“Huh,” Sylvain says again, seemingly to himself.

They go quiet. The music changes, and the dancing with it. Felix switches partners – Dimitri wishes he could stop watching him – but this time he dances with Annette. His expression is soft with fondness, his lips moving as they speak.

Dimitri shuts his eye, just briefly. Throws back the rest of his glass of wine in one go. Not like he can taste it anyway.

“Come on,” Sylvain says. “No use hovering around here. Lady Valora’s still hoping for a dance with you, I’m sure, and you did say you would.”

“Who?” Dimitri asks, thrown. “When?”

Sylvain openly rolls his eyes at him. Not many people do that, and Dimitri would almost appreciate him for it if he weren’t so busy feeling prickly about everything else.

“One of the many beautiful women I introduced to you before finding out about this whole thing,” Sylvain says. “Over there.”

He points to a woman in a fine purple evening gown, glittering with gems. She is familiar, now Sylvain mentions it. Dimitri has a dim memory of having spoken to her.

“Ah.”

“Go on, go have a dance.”

Dimitri frowns. “What are you going to do?” 

“Have another drink,” Sylvain says, already pulling his flask out of his pocket. “I’ve got some thinking to do. My whole worldview’s been rocked, you know. Here I was trying to set you up, and you didn’t breathe a word this whole time.”

Dimitri feels his cheeks heat, his stomach rolling again. “Do behave yourself,” he bites.

Sylvain just snorts. He’s still got a twinkle in his eye, like he thinks this is funny. “Always do. Now go on.”

He elbows Dimitri in the side. For a moment Dimitri considers ignoring him – there’s not a lot Sylvain, or anyone else for that matter, can make him do if he really doesn’t want to – but Sylvain’s staring at Felix now. Then at Dimitri, then back at Felix. His brow is furrowing, and Dimitri senses questions on the horizon. Questions he cannot begin to answer, not even to himself.

He goes. (Or, perhaps more accurately, he flees.)

He pushes his way through the crowd to Lady Valora. Conversation all around them dies as he enters her circle, but Dimitri is used to that. To being on show.

“My lady.”

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” she says, curtseying deeply.

“Would you do me the honour of a dance?” 

It’s hardly his smoothest offering, said with no preamble whatsoever. But another lady beside her titters. Lady Valora’s own hand flies up to her chest, though she forces it still again. Eyes all around them. Interest, with whispers to follow as soon as Dimitri is out of earshot. If he has learned anything at all these past weeks, it is that people love to gossip.

“The honour is all mine, sire,” Lady Valora says, slightly breathless. 

She offers her gloved hand, setting it in his own, and he leads her onto the dance floor as the next number begins.

It is a fast waltz, with mercifully little time for talking. Dimitri does recognise her, he is sure of it now – she is one of the guests visiting for the duration of the summit – but he does not remember what they have said to each other. 

Best to stay quiet, as much as propriety will allow. And for the gossip-mongers no doubt watching on, it is not difficult to appear impartial. Now Dimitri has officially joined the dancing, there are many others eagerly awaiting their turn with the king. Lady Valora receives no more attention than any of the rest, though she is the first to take his hand this evening.

One dance, and it is over. One dance, and Dimitri is allowed to move on.

“I hope we shall have the opportunity to dance together again,” she tells him as he leads her back to her friends. “You are a fine dancer, Your Majesty.”

“I thank you. I hope the same.” It is as much politeness as he can manage. He takes his leave. Back to the dance floor, and to the next person waiting.

He dances. One song, then the next. He usually enjoys this part, all things considered. People talk less when they are dancing, and Dimitri has always liked to move, in whatever way it comes. Ballroom dancing is as disciplined in its own right as combat arts, and his instructors equally ruthless in their judgement.

He isn’t having much fun tonight, though. Still feels sick. Still feels far too on edge, every flash of dark hair conjuring Felix and making his stomach jolt all over again, though he only catches sight of the real Felix once. 

Their eyes make contact. Hold. It is Dimitri who whirls away.

(Hot and cold routine, Sylvain said. It preys on him, indignation and heated offence.)

“Your Majesty,” says Dedue as the latest piece of music comes to an end.

Dimitri releases his partner, so relieved to see Dedue he almost sags with it. He leads his partner back to their former place, as is proper, but Dedue whisks him away after. They disappear, however briefly, into a gated side-room to have some water and privacy.

Sanctuary. Merciful, merciful sanctuary.

“You look tired, Your Majesty,” Dedue says. “Please, sit.”

“No Your Majesty tonight, I beg you,” Dimitri sighs, doing as he is bid. “I grow weary of the title.”

It is not proper of him. An overstep, though he only realises it once the words are out of his mouth. But Dedue just nods in understanding, pouring them both water. His steady presence, even more than this private room, is a sanctuary.

“You are in high demand this evening,” he says, handing Dimitri his water.

“I could say the same of you. Will you ask your new friend to dance?” The reddening of Dedue’s cheeks is all the answer he needs. 

“Drink your water,” Dedue tells him, avoiding eye contact, his flush spreading all the way to his ears.

The reprieve isn’t a long one, but it is very welcome. The water is cool, and Dimitri drinks a second glass. Shuts his eye, the sickness in his stomach receding, at least temporarily. He presses the glass to his forehead, letting it cool him as much as it can. 

They cannot hide forever. After a few minutes, they head back to the hall.

“Be mindful of your heart,” Dedue murmurs as they pass through the doorway, and Dimitri fights back the instinct to wave him off as he usually does. To insist he is well, that all is fine.

Dedue is no fool. And his care is a precious thing. 

“I will,” Dimitri promises.

Dedue means it literally, not metaphorically. But then Dimitri spots Felix leaning against the wall nearby, as though he has been waiting for him. Spots Felix and his steps falter, heart jolting in his chest.

Felix’s arms are folded, his head tilted off to the side in a forbidding manner. But he looks up as Dimitri passes through the gate, his intent made clear when he snaps upright at the sight of him. 

Dimitri does not freeze, but it is a near thing. His stomach churns, his mouth going dry. He straightens his back, stilling and allowing Felix to approach him. Dedue hangs back, and Dimitri has only a moment to flick him a look of betrayal before Felix is upon him.

“Dimitri,” Felix says.

Dimitri turns to face him slowly. Felix is even more handsome up close, shadow in the hollows of his cheeks, his eyes that extraordinary amber unique to him and him alone. His angular features are perfect in every respect, from the line of his jaw to the set of his brows.

He is waiting. He is… so much. 

(Dimitri feels so much, just at the sight of him. Wild with it, mad with it, consumed by it. He cannot afford to be any of those things.)

“Felix.” Dimitri bows, an incline of his head and shoulders rather than a bow in full. Still more formal than it should be for a man he has known since his boyhood, and he sees Felix’ surprise at the gesture.

More surprising still – after a moment, Felix mirrors him. He bows back.

Silence between them. The hall is filled with noise, bright music and dancing feet and the endless thrum of conversation. Felix’s eyes flick to Dedue, then back to Dimitri.

Felix’s coat is a dashing forest green tonight, of a finer fabric and cut than he usually wears. It accentuates the taper of his shoulders down to his narrow hips, the lean strength in every part of his body. His hair is pulled back from his face, but he has left it loose around his shoulders, fine and dark.

Dimitri can scarcely breathe. Cannot do this. Does not know how.

Felix straightens his shoulders. Raises his eyes to meet Dimitri’s, bright and burning. “Will you dance with me?”

The shock of it is an almost physical blow. Dimitri’s stomach clenches so hard it is painful, and he looks to Dedue as if for aid, but Dedue avoids his gaze. Feigns interest in something in the distance, and Dimitri has no choice but to look back at Felix.

He is beautiful. He is perfect. He is here, so close, and it is not at all like Dimitri thought it would be. Dimitri feels ill. Wants to go back to his chambers and shut the door. Wants to hide himself away from Felix and his beautiful, piercing eyes. 

He does not want this. 

He wants this so very badly. 

“Yes,” he breathes. Small, choked, utterly graceless in its acceptance. Far beneath the eloquence a king should possess. 

But there is a light in Felix’s eyes. His lips quirk upwards then straighten out again, a spasm that betrays his emotion even more than the exhale that sounds uncannily like relief. Felix extends a hand to him, offering. 

Impossible. It should be impossible. But Dimitri takes it. 

The next moments are a blur. Felix leads him to the dance floor. Turns to face him, and Dimitri’s arms position themselves on instinct. Felix’s hand is on his shoulder blade, stepping in close. They look at each other, poised, breath bated. 

The music begins. And they dance.

It is nothing like any dance Dimitri has danced before. They do not speak, and yet the whole world is swallowed up in the bubble of their silence. They touch exactly as a hundred others have touched Dimitri, and yet Felix’s hands on him are lightning down his spine. The steps are thoughtless, but Dimitri’s mind is racing a thousand times too fast.

One step, another. A waltz, steady and graceful. Felix is in his arms. His hand in Dimitri’s. His steps in perfect time – for once, they move together in perfect time.

Dimitri’s chest aches, and aches, and aches.

“Dimitri,” Felix murmurs, low, almost reverent in its quiet.

Dimitri has never heard Felix’s voice so. Never heard him speak Dimitri’s name like that, and it sends a strange thrill down his spine, makes his breath catch and his heart beat wildly. 

“Yes?” Dimitri says. The most he can say tonight, it seems. Barely a whisper, but it does not matter, even as the dance and all its chaos rages around them. He knows, somehow, that Felix will hear him.

Felix’s hand tightens around his own. He turns them, graceful and strong, keeping perfect time. His hand is on Dimitri’s shoulder blade, leading him. And Dimitri goes without question.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” Felix trails off. Swallows, eyes darting, steps slipping before he rights himself.

“What would you ask of me?” Dimitri murmurs. 

Felix is in his arms. So close, no armour between them, none of their regrets. Dimitri is holding him. Is allowed to hold him, allowed to want to. 

In this moment, fool that he is, he would give Felix anything. 

He wonders if Felix knows. If it is that which renders Felix silent, eyes fixed so intently on Dimitri’s face. Felix’s grip tightens again, as if to bring him closer. 

“I’m not good at this,” Felix says, low, impassioned. “I’ve never been. I’m a man of the blade, I don’t know how to be anything else. But – Dimitri…”

He swallows, something hypnotic about the bob of his throat. His eyes will Dimitri to understand. To hear words he cannot speak, sentiments beyond his reckoning, for Felix is a man of action above all things.

The music ends. And just like that, the spell breaks.

The dance floor shifts all around them. Couples leaving, couples entering. The noise of conversation is overwhelming again.

“The song is over,” Dimitri says stupidly. More disorientated than he should be as he steps back into reality. 

Felix catches his hand when Dimitri goes to pull away. “Another.”

“Duke Fraldarius!”

They are interrupted by a voice familiar to both of them. Felix shuts his eyes. His jaw grinds, and when he opens his eyes again they are cold.

“Sir Wesley,” he says as the knight pushes through the crowd.

He bows to them both, deep and flourishing. He is all golden hair and smiles, tight clothing and that boisterous, unstoppable charm. Handsome and shining and great.

A perfect match for Felix. A perfect man. Dimitri goes still.

“Begging pardon for the intrusion, Your Majesty,” Sir Wesley says. “I have come to ask the Duke Fraldarius if he would grant me the next song. I know there is quite a queue indeed for the honour of Your Majesty’s hand – I would not be so bold as to barge my way to the head of the line.”

His smile is… oddly strained. Dimitri notes it, but does not take its meaning. His heart is too busy sinking into his boots.

“I’m busy,” Felix says shortly.

Dimitri pulls his hand abruptly from Felix’s. Remembers, with a sudden and unwanted clarity, that here is a man who asked to marry Felix. And no matter Felix’s reasons for his refusal, Felix… never told him.

He bows his head, brisk. Every part of him feels frozen, every place Felix touched him icy. What is he, placed next to a man like Sir Wesley? Clumsy, tongue-tied, difficult. Felix has already refused far better.

Dimitri is a fool.

“Excuse me,” he says, turning away.

He hears Felix’s groan. Hears his muttered curse. And Felix, as he so often does, catches him.

“Dimitri,” he says, but Dimitri does not want to be persuaded. Does not want to bear witness to… whatever this is. Does not want to be caught, not this time.

“Let go, Felix.” His voice is dark and biting. Utterly charmless, cruel in its authority, a warning in every sense of the word. Everything that has not changed, and never will. Everything Felix hated about him. 

Felix’s hand tightens convulsively. A moment of silence, so different than the ones that came before it, the tension almost too much to bear.

“My dear duke –”

“Get lost, Wesley, I’ve nothing to say to you.”

“Nothing to say to anyone, it would seem,” Dimitri cuts in, heavy, damning, cruel. “Surely you can spare him a moment, Duke Fraldarius. I believe, with your history, you must owe him that.”

Felix’s face blanches. He looks as stunned by Dimitri’s sudden cruelty as Dimitri is himself, by the anger lurking beneath the sharpness of his tongue. But Dimitri is not done yet. Cannot help himself from leaning in, from biting.

“I am sure you can find something to talk about with your would-be fiancé.”

Felix’s hand releases him reflexively. He looks – shocked, hurt, a hundred other things so wrong on his perfect face. And Dimitri already regrets it, but it is too late.

He pulls away. Felix lets him go. 

- - -

It is late. 

Dimitri stands on his balcony. The air is cold, too cold for the cotton shirt he’s stripped down to, his arms covered in goosebumps. The moon shines brightly above, and beneath him the party continues on. Likely will until dawn. It has already turned 2am, but life goes on. 

Life goes on. 

Dimitri inhales, shaky. A tear tracks down his cheek, but he makes no move to dash it away. It is not the first. It will probably not be the last. 

Dedue went to bed an hour ago. He was not happy to, but Dimitri made him go. 

Another tear. And another. One falls onto his bare hand where it rests on the balustrade, and Dimitri stares at it idly. Watches it track its way across his skin, agonisingly slow. 

He hears the door to his chambers open behind him – unlocked, he did not even think. Hears a voice calling his name, and Dimitri shuts his eye, another tear slipping down his cheek.

It is Felix. Come to find him again, Dimitri supposes. He is not sure why he bothers. Yelling at him can surely wait until morning. 

“Dimitri?”

Dimitri should cover up. He should throw on his mask, all politeness and smiles he does not mean, so Felix cannot see through the cracks. Dimitri should, at the bare minimum, stop crying.

He should. But he doesn’t. Can’t bring himself to do anything, to be anything other than what he is.

“Dimitri?” Felix’s voice comes from the balcony door. It is strained.

Another tear, and Dimitri squeezes his eye shut. Hates himself. Hates Felix, too, just a little.

Let Felix see him. Let him see what Dimitri truly is, a man broken beyond repair. Let him see him in all his ugliness, his madness, his shame. Let him. 

He hears Felix’s boots click along the stone. Hears Felix’s sharp inhalation of breath.

“What’s wrong?” Felix says. Predictable, really, the most obvious question to ask. Dimitri doesn’t answer it. 

He tips his head back, opening his eye. Gazing up at the moon. Still crying, but such is the life of a madman. He doesn’t care. 

Another inhale, this one sharp with frustration. Slowly, Felix comes to stand beside him, leaning his hands on the balustrade. Tense. 

“You never told me Sir Wesley asked you to marry him,” Dimitri says at length. If Felix were not still before, he is now. Carved from stone. “Not yourself.”

“… No,” is all Felix says. Matter of fact. Maddening.

A few scant weeks ago, Dimitri would not have expected Felix to tell him, tentative as their relationship was. Too distant, too strained, too different to Felix’s relationships with any of their other friends, barely stumbling towards mutual civility.

But he does not know how to be reasonable about this. Does not know how to even begin.

“He would make an excellent match for you. Talented, handsome, charming – why, he has half my court enchanted!” Dimitri’s voice is strained, even to his own ears. “He would be a fine match. Worthy of you.”

“What are you even talking about?” Felix says. It’s so brusque, so him, so entirely different than any response Dimitri might have anticipated and yet entirely predictable. Felix is not the sort of man who dwells. Felix sounds confused, frustrated. 

Let him be that, too.

Dimitri swallows, lowering his gaze to stare at his own hands on the balustrade. “You could have told me.”

Another quiet, as if Felix is formulating his thoughts. Felix rests his elbows on the balustrade, leaning against it. He makes no pretence of looking out at the view. He is looking right at Dimitri.

“How?” It is so infuriatingly simple a reply that Dimitri bristles.

“Any number of ways,” he says acidly, about to start listing them off – a letter, a messenger, in conversation, Felix, like normal people – but Felix does not let him.

“How could I have told you?” He sounds tired, heavy. Felix exhales roughly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I didn’t intend to deceive you. I didn't even think I stood a chance with y–"

“Please.” The word bursts from Dimitri’s lips, entirely unbidden. His heart is beating too fast, and he is finding it difficult to breathe. 

Too much. Far too much. 

Felix is quiet a long moment. “What is it?”

Dimitri shakes his head. Unable to answer. All this time he has wanted, dreamed, never daring to hope. There was a strange kind of safety in the secrecy of his heart. Another piece of him locked away in his tower, never to see the light of day.

“Then… is this your answer?” Felix’s voice is tight, strained. Because Felix is the kind of man who needs clarity. The kind of man who knows what he wants.

Dimitri is not like him. He shakes his head again. Raises his chin, proud and cold, as though it might shield him. 

(He doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know why he is this way, why he makes everything so complicated. Mad, volatile, unpredictable even to himself.)

“Dimitri.” It borders on a growl. Felix finds Dimitri infuriating, Dimitri knows he does. Finds Dimitri’s moodiness baffling, his anger contemptible, his weakness revolting. 

He does. Dimitri knows he does. He does.

“I do not recall being asked anything,” Dimitri mutters. 

“… so you’re going to be like that, huh?”

“Like what?” Dimitri rounds on him. Chest heaving, and Felix startles at the change in him, the sudden flare of his temper. 

This is who Dimitri is. This is what he is. 

“Like what, Felix? Mad? You know very well that I am. And as far as I remember, it disgusted you deeply not so long ago.”

Felix’s jaw grinds. He squares up. “Don’t put words in my mouth. We talked about that.”

“You used to love me, do you remember?” Dimitri continues, words bursting from him all in a flood. “When we were young you adored me. You loved me, and I thought it would always be so. But you hated me after the Tragedy. You taunted me, mocked me, left –”

He cuts himself off, but it’s too late. Left him. Felix left him.

He swallows. Looks away, chest brittle, fire sputtering and dying.

“Is that what this is about?” Felix says. Quiet, voice laden with emotion, but Dimitri cannot begin to parse it.

Maybe it is. Felix left him before. Abandoned him when Dimitri needed him most. Dimitri had been so sure of his love, the constancy and security of their friendship, and Felix left. 

Maybe it is. Then again, maybe it isn’t. Dimitri is so many broken pieces – even he does not know.

“It is not that I blame you,” Dimitri says, because that is true too. They were both just boys. Confronted, for the first time, with the brutality and meaninglessness of death. “It is…”

It is that Felix loved him once, then hated him just as readily. It is that Dimitri had so many people taken from him but Felix walked out on his own two feet. It is that all these years Dimitri has held this… torch for him, hidden in a corner of his heart unwelcome and unexamined, because Felix did not want him in his life. A great wall of distance between them so huge and all-consuming that he never told Dimitri he was seeing someone, let alone that someone asked to marry him.

Dimitri is so fragile beneath his mantle. If he were to accept Felix, and then Felix left him again…

“Dimitri,” Felix says, low and urgent. “You know how I–”

“I don’t know,” Dimitri bursts out. “I know nothing about you anymore, Felix. I cannot read your mind. I do not know what you want from me.”

Silence. Total silence. 

It is fine, Dimitri tells himself. It is to be expected. His eye burns, but he rubs it with his palm. By the Goddess, he is pathetic. Weeping openly in little more than his undershirt and trousers. A mad, sad sack of bones. All of it on display, no veneer of politeness to hide behind, no painful formality to shield the worst of himself from Felix’s sight.

He does not expect Felix to love him again. He has never expected that.

“You’re freezing,” Felix says suddenly. “How long have you been out here? With bare feet, too – Goddess’ sake, Dimitri.”

Felix is always so practical, so grounded. It is one of the things about him that Dimitri has always…

“Come on,” Felix says, commanding.

Dimitri goes quietly. He sees little point in resisting it. Felix is being… unexpectedly kind, all things considered, ushering Dimitri over the doorstep and shutting the balcony doors. Dimitri can’t be bothered to walk the distance to the chairs, to sit and talk and pretend to be something he isn’t. He sinks onto his piano stool. Good enough.

Felix busies himself with the fire. Stokes it, adding a fresh log and extra kindling to make it roar. He jabs at it with the poker until it’s crackling merrily, using perhaps an unnecessary amount of force. 

But then, there is nothing left for him to do. He has no choice but to turn back to Dimitri. To turn back into yet another one of their silences. 

“I… should have told you about Wesley myself,” he says at last. Pulled from him with the greatest reluctance, and Dimitri looks away. Felix moves, haltingly, over to the sofa. Perches on the arm of it rather than sitting properly. Facing Dimitri. “I didn’t want you to know about me and him. I’m not proud of it.”

Dimitri doesn’t follow the second sentence, but the first he comprehends perfectly. He nods, a lump in his throat. He could not speak if he wished to.

Felix folds his arms, shifting his weight. Still so handsome. Dimitri wishes he were less. 

“I didn’t… I never loved him.”

Love. That word, in Felix’s voice. Dimitri’s voice unsticks in his throat. “Pity for him, then.”

Felix nods. His jaw shifts, an odd motion. “I deserve that. I knew you’d think less of me for the way I acted with him.”

Think less of him? It is a strange thing to say. Felix is the most handsome man of Dimitri’s acquaintance, likely one of the most handsome in the whole of the kingdom. It is hardly a surprise that he has taken lovers. He could have anyone he wished.

“And you’re right, you can’t read my mind. But you never let me speak plainly, either. Every time I try to, you run away from me.” Felix looks frustrated again, but it is tinged with something else, something betrayed by the sag of his shoulders, the furrow of his brow. “What do you want me to do, Dimitri? Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”

He sounds… exhausted, actually. But his eyes are clear and honest.

“Anything?” Dimitri asks, slow, confused.

There is nothing confused about the way Felix answers. He speaks a declaration, an oath. His eyes burn with his intensity. “Anything.”

Dimitri’s heart stutters in his chest. It is aching again, that endless, longing aching. A rhythm entirely of its own, a song for Felix and Felix alone.

It has been like this for so long. Dimitri is so very, very lost.

“Don’t laugh?” he says, small. Felix’s brow furrows, but he nods at once.

Anything, he said. Anything.

Dimitri turns in the piano stool. Rests his hands over the keys. He has sat in here so many times, alone, the very heart of him hidden away.

He is tired of it. No more hiding, he decides. No more.

He steadies himself. And he plays.

The tune flows from his fingers, sweet and melancholy. Familiar, for he has played it a thousand times, here where he was sure no one would hear him. Played it and thought of Felix, joy and grief, longing and regret, all the things Dimitri cannot put into words.

A declaration of his own. The only one he can make, imperfect as it is.

He has loved Felix for so long.

"That's Borodin, isn't it?" Felix says when the music stops. His voice is little more than a whisper.

"It is yours," Dimitri says.

He can practically feel Felix's surprise, but he lacks the courage to turn. Dimitri shuts his eye. Takes one breath, then another.

Felix – impatient, proud, ever-moving Felix – does not interrupt him. Does not speak so much as a word.

"It is your song,” Dimitri says, too much and not enough, raw and painful. “I play it only when I think of you.”

He hears Felix's sharp intake of breath. Feels more than sees his approach, for Dimitri still cannot look at him. Foolish, small, afraid.

“Dimitri,” Felix says. His hand is on Dimitri’s shoulder, turning him. His voice is hoarse, and harsh, and coloured with both the pride and steel he is so known for, nothing given away, nothing gentle about it at all.

It’s his eyes that plead. Felix swallows, wordless. Raises a hand, trembling just the faintest bit, to cup Dimitri’s cheek.

Please, his eyes say. Unable to speak the words aloud, and Dimitri has flaws enough, but that is Felix’s. He is breathing roughly, almost choking on it, but he cannot speak. His eyes flick to Dimitri’s lips, then back to his gaze, pleading.

Pleading.

Felix loves him. Dimitri knows it, lets himself know it. Lets himself feel it, for the very first time.

It’s real. Felix is here. Felix loves him.

“Yes,” Dimitri breathes.

Felix leans down. Swift, decisive, his nerves only apparent in the way his fingers shake. 

And Felix kisses him.