fatal flaws

i now have my inbox calls linked to the pinned post so i don’t actually lose them. if i lose muse for them, you can always check back on the pinned and if the inbox call is gone, it means it was dropped. if i haven’t sent you something from it before dropping the call, i promise it isn’t any issue with you in particular, it’s more because those inbox calls tend to be done on a whim by yours truly, so when the muse dies, i prefer to either put up another call with another specifics or wait for it to strike again.

he lifts his eyes from the blurring official lettering, vision swimming from the exhaustion. he’s all too aware that his work binge is not healthy, but it is the only way he can feel at ease in his own skin after every choice consciously made, every ghost that still insists to remain staring back in each mirror, in each reflection, no matter how further he goes down the road. straightening his back against the wooden chair, his fingers curl into a fist over the paper, his signature scrawled along the ending lines, crest of blaiddyd pressed in wax as if it lends the words of a boy-king more credence.

[ if he stares at himself in a mirror, right now, will it be his own image staring back or will it be his late father’s? will it be his uncle’s, in his rage and spite?

—or, even worse, if fate’s cruelty is so willing, will it be the lilac gaze of the one girl it seems he cannot ever reach? ]

“—all these years, through the tragedy,  through the bitterness of my uncle’s treachery and now through the flames of war itself, you have been the most steadfast presence in my life. am i the king you expected me to be, my friend? i realize it may sound offputting, to hear me ask so so bluntly, but i fear i can no longer assess that for myself.”

unprompted / @hamartio

HE STILLS AT THE SOUND OF HIS NAME, an eyebrow arched in quiet curiosity as he turns to face the young king. his voice sounds rough with exhaustion; dark circles rim blue eyes, no doubt the result of too many late nights such as this. he has already made his opinion on his majesty’s sleep habits well-known, of course, to little avail. yet if he cannot convince him to take care of himself, he can at least shoulder the burden with him. [ paperwork is hardly his strong suit, but many hands make light work, as they say. ]

          he cannot tell what the king is thinking, not precisely, but he can hear the weary tremble in his voice, can see the far-away look in his eyes. he has seen him like this many times over, yet it never ceases to make something in his chest constrict at the sight. haunted, he thinks. there is no other word for it. 

          he is reminded, suddenly, of their teenage years. of being summoned to the prince’s room in the dead of night, listening to him babble idly in a language he barely understood until sleep claimed them both. he had not realized, at the time, that it might be seen as inappropriate — he had shared a bed with his sister all his life, after all — but rufus had been furious. had told him that it would reflect poorly on the prince, that there would be rumors. he’d stopped answering dimitri’s late nights summons after that, even knowing that both of them slept far worse for it.

          [ there are still rumors, some more cogent than others, yet he finds it more difficult each day to care. ] 

          “ your majesty. ” he slides, gingerly, onto one knee, bringing himself to the other man’s eye level where he sits. dedue reaches slowly, gently, for his fist, and smooths thumbs over his wrist, the heel of his palm, the joints of his fingers, coaxing his hand into a more relaxed position. “ dimitri. ” the name, reserved only for these private moments between them, still feels foreign on his tongue, but it is worth it to see the light it brings to the other man’s face each time. 

          “ you have met my expectations and more. ” his voice is steady, even, as dedue looks back up at him. “ you have shown great care and compassion for the people of duscur, and have worked tirelessly in rebuilding it even amid a war. you have always put your people first, often before even your own health. you have been forced to make difficult decisions on many occasions, and each time, you have made them selflessly, with thought only for the wellbeing of your people. and if those things do not make you a good king, then i fear no such king exists. ” 

          dedue presses a kiss, featherlight, against a scarred palm, his heart racing as he does so. they have been tiptoeing around such things for the better part of two years now, each well aware of the other’s feelings yet too timid to say so. “ you should rest, your majesty, ” he says, quietly. “ i will stay until you fall asleep. ”

@patroklides

Silhouettes of the Night ◊ Red Dead of Night