she’s anxious tonight, the way that speaks to a huge impending battle that they don’t know they’ll make it out of, and when sleep evades her, seeking company feels like the natural thing to do. dorothea’s surprised to find ferdinand outside his tent still, despite the late hour. she’d kinda had him pegged for one of those early to sleep, early to rise types. guess he can still surprise her, even after all this time. in the moment, an idea sparks. he doesn’t seem to be looking her way, so she takes a detour around his line of sight, quiet as can be, before returning to sit beside him around the camp’s fire.
“hey, ferdie, ” dorothea begins, hastening to explain her presence before he has a chance to probe, “ i couldn’t sleep, and when i saw you out here, i was thinking… we never quite got around to having those pastries you made, did we? ” she hesitates for a beat before proceeding to pull out a plate of biscuits from behind her back that are, at the very least, innocuous looking, “ i hope it’s not too forward of me, but i, well, made some biscuits earlier. would you like to try one? ” she waits for his reaction — dorothea knows her reputation for cooking isn’t the greatest, after all, so rejection wouldn’t come as a surprise to her. she feels bad, testing him like this, which… explains why her resolve crumbles soon enough, breaking character as shyness melts into humor manifested in upturned lips, “ i’m just kidding. i got these from the cafeteria ; they’re safe to eat. ”
another pause, as if she’s dancing to a tune only she can hear, her every breath following its rise and fall.
and then,
“ hey, ferdie? if we survive this war… will you make them for me again? ”
The consistent curve of his back, slumped forward to closely watch the tip of his lance as it hit the whetstone, had started to weigh him down altogether. The campfire had reduced to a barely-lively couple of flares, and he started to suspect the strain from squinting had started to bring forth a headache. Perhaps Dorothea had noticed that too, or, less optimistically, her presence had been entirely coincidental. Ferdinand knew which option he was inclined towards, if only to soothe that same war-weary fatigue he could recognize in her as well. He straightened then, and found himself interrupted just as he was about to return her greeting in kind.
At the mention of their past, his grip on the whetstone faltered just so: like with most emotions, Ferdinand had never worn surprise with subtlety.
“...Correct. Sharing them over tea had been my intention all along, but… after you left, my appetite trailed off behind you. Fortunately, Bernadetta seemed to appreciate my generosity after I offered them to her.” His smile was fond for many reasons, and before it could turn into something more curious, Dorothea managed to startle his pulse into quickening with a single, simple reveal, which wasn’t actually that simple to him. “You made these? For me alone? Ah, no, forgive my presumption, I was merely...” Stating his wishful thinking aloud? he couldn’t say that, either. Ferdinand felt the same liquid warmth that spread over his chest reach his face, and he thanked the heavens the lighting was poor. “...Er, regardless! As I am deeply touched by your thoughtfulness, I shall repay you by way of—! Huh?”
All at once, his body temperature runs cold, and his frantic display of gratitude is quieted into shock. Huh?
“O-oh, it was... a joke... yes, I should have known. They do seem rather familiar, now that I look at them closely.” Despite the great wave of disappointment washing at his feet, he chuckled, mostly at himself. “I’m grateful, nonetheless,” a brief pause of his own, voice crystalline, maybe the slightest bit cheeky, “You were thinking of me, after all.”
She was quiet, and he let her. Silence was a luxury they could hardly afford, unless they seeked it late into the night or early at dawn. Besides Dorothea, however, the quiet was nothing short of meditation. When she next spoke, he turned his body to face her. In that moment, a particularly resilient flame made the bonfire crackle, persevering still.
He had pondered that future often. It was best he thought of it through idealization if he hoped to keep a semblance of faith amidst the setbacks they had endured, and one aspect of his plans kept him obstinate: life after the war, or rather, home, beyond any material representation. In other words, Dorothea. It’s what he envisioned, at the very least, when he thought of the notion. His heart wouldn’t settle, but he willed himself to safekeep those aspirations. Until the war ended, that is.
“When we win the war,” He began, voice even and effectively single-minded as he reached for the hand atop her lap, gently squeezing it in further reassurance, "I shall prepare them as often as you'd like me to.”
