Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s loud.

It’s loud, but not with clashing steel or screaming wounded or the ghoulish, haunting cries of the dead. No, the tavern is loud with peals of laughter, warm with party-goers, and Dimitri’s head feels light not because of blood loss or injury but thanks to the dizzying, maddening crowd. Annette plays the lute in the corner while Alois accompanies her on a second-hand Viol. Their music weaves into a jolly, upbeat tune reminiscent of Dimitri’s childhood music lessons, exasperated instructors fretting that he’d broken yet another harpsichord or snapped a sackbut in two, and he does his best to clap along.

After all, the bonds he’s made here, unlike his childhood instruments, aren’t something he can break. Goddess knows Dimitri’s tried.

The song bursts with innocence and nostalgia and mead-addled joy. It’s exactly what Dedue and Ashe deserve. The thought alone is enough to spread warmth through Dimitri’s cheeks and his chest—or maybe it’s the amount of mead he’s drunk, but as Sylvain might say, that sentiment isn’t in the spirit of partying. Instead, Dimitri takes another sip from his glass, doing his best to focus on the party itself, and on Sylvain and Mercedes’ strict instructions to have fun.

It isn’t hard, not when he’s surrounded by so many dear friends, and ones shining so brightly at that. Ashe reaches for Dedue’s hand and lifts it to his lips, pressing a little kiss to the back. Dedue smiles, bigger and brighter than Dimitri has ever seen from him, and nods, saying yes, he does agree to this dance: and once again, the crowd goes wild, even though they’ve seen this once already. Ashe and Dedue’s wedding ended an hour ago.

It’ll be a teeny-tiny afterparty, Sylvain had said. You’ll only need to come for a bit, Sylvain had said. Just for their nearest and dearest, Mercedes had followed up with a brilliant smile, and Dimitri’s heart melted as he nodded and agreed.

He suspects the hundreds of people crammed into the tavern are not all Ashe and Dedue’s “nearest and dearest”, but that’s Dimitri’s fault for taking the Margrave Gautier at face value.

Besides, it’s for Ashe and Dedue. King or not, Dimitri would have turned up to a large party honoring the two of them anyway, though he suspects he might have maintained more decorum if he’d known the gathering would triple in volume. As is, it’s too late. Sylvain had gotten to the tavern’s bar and immediately distributed shots of rum for the former Blue Lions class, then shoved glasses of mead into Dimitri’s face. Half an hour later, Dimitri was recounting a story about injuring himself peeling a potato, a crowd of unamused nobles forced to hang onto every word, Mercedes offering more drinks as he rambled, saying something about inventing a special tool to remove vegetable skin…

Oh dear. Maybe Dimitri is a little drunk. That’s not the worst thing, is it?

Sylvain would be proud of him. Or at least, Dimitri thinks Sylvain would be proud if he wasn’t busy chatting Yuri up at the bar, arm slung around his waist, grinning widely as he belts the song, off-key. Yuri grabs Sylvain’s wine glass from his free hand, tossing his head back and taking a long sip, and Dimitri smiles. Sylvain’s busy, and Dimitri’s not about to march up to him and request validation for his inebriated state. It’s just nice to see his classmates having fun. Annette’s face is flushed and sweat drips down her forehead as she picks at the lute’s strings, and Mercedes has dragged Ingrid into the circle of dancers, haphazardly keeping rhythm to the beat alongside the overjoyed newlyweds. As for Felix…

Felix had been at the bar earlier. Dimitri never has a hard time keeping track of Felix’s movements, but he’d lost count after Felix downed three beers and two shots of what looked like more rum, though Dimitri can’t be certain. He’d split from his classmates as they scattered through the tavern, and in a crowd of hundreds Dimitri can’t be certain where Felix is. He wonders, briefly, if he should go search the bathroom in case of any incidents. That man could never hold his alcohol.

“Dance with me.”

A familiar voice rings out, slurry with drunkenness but otherwise loud and clear. Dimitri whips around in its direction. Felix approaches from his right, hand extended, ears bright red—and Dimitri eyes go wide, and he stumbles back, embarrassed. He’s gotten complacent. Not noticing an approaching enemy could mean an arrow through his head or cold steel piercing through his heart. He was fortunate that that was Felix, and not—

“Don’t leave me hanging. Will you join me, or must I drag you kicking and screaming onto the dance floor myself?”

Felix’s next sentence jolts Dimitri back into the real world. The war is over. The fighting has ceased. They’ve ushered in an era of peacetime, a world where soldiers no longer need to cower at the sound of fireworks, where children don’t need to worry about their parents coming home wrapped in body bags. It’s strange to think about, when combat is all Dimitri has ever known, but perhaps it’s time to let go of that.

The Professor had spent months in Garreg Mach helping Dimitri with his footwork. One step forward, one step back, fight with a squared stance and your legs slightly apart. Today, he’ll use those skills for dancing instead. He takes Felix’s hand with a smile, offering him a bow in return.

“The least I can do is have the honor,” Dimitri says, and this time, the warmth in his chest isn’t just from the alcohol. “Apologies in advance for my lumbering clumsiness, but yes, I’d love to dance with you.”

Dimitri hasn’t danced since the Millennium Festival at Garreg Mach, in the safety of that ballroom so many years ago. It feels strange, now, to be holding someone’s hand instead of a weapon, to take steps to make merry rather than making war. But Felix’s hand fits perfectly in the spaces between his, and his footwork is surprisingly quick and nimble. It makes up for Dimitri’s hesitance and how he stumbles over his own feet. Felix rarely smiles, but Dimitri wonders if he sees the slightest hint of one tug at his lips; or that could be wishful thinking, or the mead talking. He supposes it does best not to dwell on it, not when they’re pressed so closely he can feel Felix’s heartbeat thump against his ribcage.

Dimitri blinks into consciousness. Glaring sunlight pours through the windows, beaming directly into his eye; he lifts a hand to shield it. His back and posterior ache, nothing compared to the wounds of war, but his spine hurts from the uncomfortable position he’d found himself in, and there’s a strange crick in his neck that he’s never experienced from battle of any form. His head spins, his tummy hurts, and when he tries to ask, “Where am I?” his voice comes out as a loud, hacking cough.

“Ack,” Dimitri mutters, holding his hands to his mouth. That’s right: he’d spent the night drinking, partying, and making merry, in an act of hedonism he’d never thought he’d indulge in. He doesn’t regret it, even as he comes to his senses. The tavern’s floor is uncomfortably hard. But he’s still warm with residual joy, and the teal cape draped around him is delightfully soft, and Dimitri lifts it to his face, burying himself in it. It smells familiar, comforting, even if it bears the aroma of mead and rum. He chuckles to himself.

There’s only one person this could belong to, and they’d danced the night away together. Dimitri wasn’t sure he’d ever see the day.

“Finally. His Majesty rises from his deep slumber. I was beginning to think it’d be nightfall before you stirred.”

Felix comes into view, holding two glasses of water. His ponytail is loose, his collar is rumpled, and someone named Dimitri had mysteriously left a string of red marks on his neck the night before. But Felix is attractive regardless, the sun reflecting in his hair and brown eyes. Dimitri can’t help but grin, wide and unbridled.

“You stayed to look after me.”

Felix shoves a glass in his face.

“Drink.”

Dimitri snorts, but he does as Felix says, closing his eye and taking a sip. Ah, water has never tasted so refreshing. Even while he spent five years in the woods, driven mad by his specters and getting cut up by branches and thorns, Dimitri doesn’t recall having appreciated a drink like this. Especially not one offered to him by someone so dear, a drink he will hold to his heart and think of as precious for the rest of his days. He laughs again, knowing Felix would surely scowl at the sentiment. Felix frowns.

“The party’s over. What is there to laugh about?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Thank you for staying, Felix. I had an absolutely delightful time last night.” It’s worth repeating, since his first expression of gratitude had gone so pointedly ignored. He watches with delight as Felix’s lips part, and he stumbles backward, and then glances away. He mutters something inaudible underneath his breath, before clearing his throat.

“This place is a pigsty. A fitting resting spot for you, considering. Sylvain and Annette have returned to clean, but it’s hard work. Dedue attempted to return to help, but I shooed him away. How dare he.” Felix says the last words with disgust, as if Dedue had insulted his bloodline instead of offering his assistance, or, perhaps, asked Felix what color the blue lion was.

It’s one of the many things about Felix Dimitri finds endearing. Dimitri takes a deep, thoughtful chug of his drink, noting that Felix did not mention himself returning. That tells Dimitri all he needed to know, even if he barely remembers the tail end of the night. Slowly, he rises to his feet, groaning with the sudden, lightheaded rush. Felix reaches to grab him.

“Have you lost your mind?”

The insult doesn’t faze Dimitri, especially not when Felix takes Dimitri’s arm and slings it around his neck. Dimitri has to arch his back to rest against Felix, but he doesn’t mind, especially when Felix grabs his other arm by the elbow. It’s almost like they’re dancing again. Felix clicks his tongue, still wearing that endearingly irritated look on his face.

“You’re returning to your quarters, and you will rest.”

“I’ll be fine,” Dimitri says, resting his head on Felix’s. “Another glass of water and I’ll be ready to provide the cleanup crew with whatever assistance. Where’s everyone else?”

“Washing dishes in the kitchen. I doubt you’ll be much help there, you clumsy oaf.”

“Fair enough.” Dimitri reaches for Felix’s cup and downs its contents. Felix rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest, yet another sign of Fraldarius affection. “Then shall I get started cleaning here, then?”

“You will not—” Felix begins, but Dimitri gently taps the back of his foot with his, and Felix is silenced with a huff. Felix ferries Dimitri to the bar, where Dimitri’s able to collapse on a stool and get a better view of the party’s aftermath. Felix wasn’t lying. This place really is a mess. Drinks are spilled and sticky across the wooden tables and flooring, broken bottles haphazardly strewn across the ground, and the stench of vomit wafts across the premises. Dimitri wrinkles his nose, pulling Felix’s cape tighter around him. He certainly hopes the money was worth it for the poor tavern keeper.

At least they can start being helpful. Dimitri isn’t much for household tasks, but his rough, scarred hands will be better than nothing. Felix marches behind the bar to pull out a burlap sack, scanning the tavern with a groan.

“I’ll gather the bottles. Join me if you want.”

“As you wish.” Dimitri winces as he gets up from the stool, but at least it’s just his back and bones that ache now. He can handle this as long as he doesn’t experience that strange, spinning sensation in his head. Felix grunts, grabbing a beer bottle and tossing it into the sack. The dark circles under his eyes are more prominent than usual. Guilt stabs through Dimitri. Did Felix get any sleep that night?

He supposes he’ll take care of Felix once the cleanup is done. It’s the least he can do. Dimitri bends over to pick up a stray handkerchief with embroidered initials he doesn’t recognize, and a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich that even he can’t find appealing. It’s still too bright here. But he won’t leave Felix alone to clean, especially if the remainder of their friends are washing up in the kitchen. For a split second, he pictures his childhood etiquette teacher scoffing at him. The King of Faerghus, picking up garbage like a common maidservant!

Dimitri pushes the thought away. No, he thinks to himself. He’s only been crowned for less than a year, but this is exactly what a King should do. Take responsibility for his actions. Dedue might be on his honeymoon, but he’s certain that’s what he would say about this, too.

Besides, there’s something pleasant about being here alone with Felix, picking up garbage after a long night with loved ones and friends. Perhaps it’s that he wouldn’t have had this luxury during the war. Dimitri reaches for a bottle, not noticing Felix’s slender fingers wrapping around it until it’s too late. Their hands brush against each other, the touch brief but exciting, Dimitri lifting his fingers to his face like a schoolgirl with a crush.

“Ah,” Dimitri says, “sorry about that.”

“After everything you did last night?” Felix points at his neck, then pulls his collar down to show the marks and bruises Dimitri left there. Dimitri blinks in surprise. What else had he done while in his inebriated state?

“You know what,” Dimitri manages to muster, “You’re correct. I shouldn’t be sorry for whatever I did, should I?”

Felix rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling the same small smile from their dance last night, and from the kisses they’d shared right after. They should really have a conversation about this, Dimitri muses, but that can wait. For now, they have a task to do. Felix stashes the bottle in the sack.

“Constantly selling yourself short like a con artist at the market. Are you certain you’re fit to rule?”

The smile hasn’t faded. Dimitri can’t help but laugh.

“I'll allow you to be the judge of that.”