#drabblegames

"Just so. Apparently I'm unapproachable and intimidating," she took a swig of her drink, "and Jeralt wasn't big on well, affection."

"Well, that won't do. What do you do if someone hugs you?"

Byleth rolled her eyes. "I hug back. I'm not made out of stone Sylvain, I'm just not very good at it." Sylvain pondered her words. It made sense. All throughout their time in school she'd been respected but also held at a distance for most of them, many students finding her stoic nature hard to connect with. It made his heart ache a little bit, thinking back on Byleth trying and failing to understand why people acted the way they did. Five years later and it seemed something in her had shifted but the old distance was still present. She was a leader, a teacher, almost mythical at this point. No wonder she looked lonely at times.

"Come then." Sylvain stood up, flashing her a grin. "Up."

Byleth blinked at him, squinting a little bit as if she could read his intent through sheer will. It was sort of adorable. Then again, Sylvain had always found her fascinating and with her return that fascination had grown to warmth, heart aching pleasantly whenever he spent time close with her.

"What are you planning?" Byleth set her tankard aside - because of course Jeralts daughter drank out of a tankard - and stood up, still eyeing Sylvain suspiciously.

"Oh my lady," Sylvain bowed, "you must allow me to teach you the noble art of hugging." A smile tugged at his lips when he heard her sigh fondly. "It's an invaluable skill."

"Oh, is it now," she rolled her eyes again - if Sylvain kept this up she might break her record. "Show me this invaluable skill then."

Sylvain straightened up and met her gaze and the reality of what he suggested sunk in. It had been a joke, at first, but now Byleth was looking at him with guarded curiosity in her eyes and the idea of drawing her into his arms made his chest feel heavy and light at the same time.

"Well," he started, clearing his throat when the word came out raspy. "You start by extending your arms, obviously."

"Obviously," she echoed and raised her arms up. Sylvain swallowed and stepped closer, gently touching her elbows and drawing his hands up to her shoulders. The air felt thick and he tried to force a jovial grin. He'd done this plenty of other women, surely it wasn't different because it was Byleth.

Of course it was.

"Then you go in for the kill." Byleth opened her mouth to respond but he tugged her forward, smoothing his hands down her back until she was flush against his chest. Something inside him told him that this went beyond the playful flirting he usually kept up, that he was doing this for his own selfish gain but when Byleth exhaled and relaxed in his arms all other thoughts died. She still had her arms up as if unsure what to do with them so Sylvain hummed, turning his head and mumbling into her hair, "You usually hug back at this point, put your arms where they feel comfortable." Byleth nodded against him and slowly he felt her arms circle his waist, bringing them even closer together.

Surely she felt his heart beating out of his chest? Or perhaps his heart had stopped altogether?

Standing like this Sylvain realised how small Byleth was. Her firm hold on his waist betrayed her true strength and realistically he knew she could snap him in half and he wouldn't even have time to register it happening but despite that she felt vulnerable in his embrace. Soft and warm, he felt her chest raise and fall with every breath she took.

This was where a friend would step back. This was where Sylvain should step back - but he found he couldn't bring himself to. Instead he rested his chin on top of Byleths head and rubbed small circles on her back, swallowing hard when she tilted her head up and let her breath fan over his neck.

Of course it was different. It was Byleth, whom Sylvain had watched, admired, mourned. The others made fun of him for his puppy crush and he played along like he should because how would anyone understand? She saw him as a person before his crest and still they had left her behind for five years -

"Sylvain..." His train of thought came to an abrupt halt when Byleth broke the silence, voice muffled against his chest. "Are you crying?" Was he?

"If you needed a hug you could have just told me," Byleth continued when he didn't respond, "No need for an excuse."

Maybe this is for the best. Ume Ochazuke closed her eyes in anticipation of the final swing the Fallen would make, the one that would bring her down one last time. Every movement made her joints feel like they were on fire and the small comfort of warmth was offset by the knowledge that it came from her blood. Ume braced herself for the pain - 

- and awoke in softness. Anguished cries had been replaced by silence and the stink of battle by lavender cotton. Where was she? Ume laid still, assessing the dull ache in her body. No doubt she was alive somehow. With a cautious shift, Ume let her eyes flutter open. Above her was a high wooden ceiling full of dancing shadows. A quick glance to her side revealed a lit candle to be the source and she watched the shadows, transfixed until a creak caught her attention.

“Relax.” 

Ume jolted and despite her body protesting she swiveled to try and find the voice. A sharp pain made her cry out and she collapsed back on the bed to the sounds of the stranger swearing softly.

“- you pulled my stitches.” 

“Who are you,” Ume exhaled with a wince, “and where am I?” She lifted her head and tried to make out the person at the end of the bed. Slowly, the face of a white-haired young man came into focus. He looked worried with one hand outstretched as if ready to steady her. 

His hands look gentle, Ume noted offhandedly.

“I’m a friend. Your human is safe. Now let me take a look at your wounds.” Upon hearing that Plum was safe it was as if all fight left Ume’s body. With a sigh she relaxed into the covers and the young man must have taken that as permission because he approached cautiously, pushing the sleeves back on his kimono.

Once again the room fell silent as Ume let the stranger examine her wounds, yellow eyes intently focused. Finally, he tsked and took a step back. “The good news is that you didn’t pull any needlework.” The young man pulled a hand through his hair and glanced away. “The bad news is it’ll leave a scar.”

“I don’t mind, as long as Plum is safe, I don’t...” Ume mumbled, reaching out. After a moments hesitation, the stranger took her hand in his and squeezed. Already Ume’s eyelids began to feel heavy and her breath slowed. She was too tired to see the expression on the strangers face soften nor notice him tucking the covers around her.

However the last thing on her mind before slipping back into sleep was that she had been right about his hands.

Strikhedonia - The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”.

Matthew tilts his head and huffs, cigarette trembling in his pale hand. His eyes are half closed and his body is heavy against the couch, legs splayed. The apartment hasn’t been cleaned in days and it shows - Arthur looks like a stormcloud walking, picking at the things scattered everywhere like he's picking at an old wound, like he wants nothing else than to stab Matthew. Matthew doesn’t care.

“This looks like absolute shite.”

Matthew tells himself he doesn’t care.

“Matthew, are you even listening to me?” Arthur’s voice is on the edge of fury, Matthew can tell, and the thought makes him pretty darn content.

It’s done done done he’s gone gone gone -

No. It begins with a letter, it begins with walls the colour of shells, the colour of bones, the colour of nothing. Gilbert hasn’t heard his mother tongue in years but a phrase rises unbidden to his mind -  aller Anfang ist schwer. All beginnings are hard and Gilbert holds too many of them, he stacks them on shelves and lets them gather dust. Where will I get the money, what flowers should I get? 

Correction. It doesn’t begin with lights, or letters or 2 am coughs, it begins with a girl. She’s moving and Gilbert can’t stop looking at her, unable to comprehend her shouting but knowing that the curve of her lips would fascinate any renaissance painter for hours. The thought comes and goes, his head pounds, why did he come here, what has he done -

I.

Arthur's  cheek is still stinging when Alasdair leans in and brushes their lips together. It could barely be called a kiss considering how brief it is; nevertheless it leaves Arthur reeling, makes him gasp. "You're an idiot," Alasdair mumbles and presses his lips to Arthur's again and again, his large hands move up to cup Arthur's jaw and tilt it and - oh. It is soft and unexpected and Arthur can't help the weak noise of surprise slipping past his lips.

It is a lot more simple than it should be after that, answering his kisses. Arthur moves his arms up around Alasdair's neck, loses himself in the sensation of Alasdair's lips over his, their fight completely forgotten. This is right, he thinks. Of course this is what was going to happen all along. Everything else can wait.

II.

"Good morning to you too, arse." Arthur huffs as he pulls the curtains away from the window, ignoring Alasdair's muttering from behind him. He knows now that Alasdair barks worse than he bites and only getting an 'arse' when he is forcibly woken before eight o'clock in the morning is a win.

"You were the one who asked me to wake you up, remember?" Alasdair groans and buries his head in the pillow. Arthur can't help his lips quirking into a smile as he turns around and climbs back into bed, dropping a kiss to Alasdair's freckled shoulder. "Don't be like that, I made breakfast." A muffled 'oh god' is heard from inside the pillow and Arthur smiles wider. It's disgusting, really, how giddy and happy he feels right now. Another kiss lands on Alasdair's warm skin before he slaps the Scot's back. "Come on, get up now."

III.

"Shut up," is gasped against Arthur's lips, breathed against the damp skin on his neck, whispered again and again until he is shaking with emotion, head tilted back while Alasdair kisses him stupid. His fingers are in Arthur's hair, pulling just hard enough to make it painful. "Don't talk to me about trust, Arthur."

Of course not.

IV.

They haven't touched each other for weeks when Arthur slips into Alasdair's lap and lets his head drop forward onto his shoulder. His chest aches with the familiar warmth. They are both too stubborn  and they both have left too many things unsaid to start apologising now, but it is a start. When Arthur presses his lips to Alasdair's neck the Scot only lets out a quiet sigh, and maybe they will be okay after all. Maybe they can fix this.

Arthur brushes his lips along Alasdair's jaw and when the heavy feeling in his chest threatens to choke him he tilts his head up to capture Alasdair's mouth instead. When he captures the Scot's bottom lip between his teeth he feels a pair of arms circle around his back and it almost hurts to feel this much, this intensely. They kiss like it's the first time all over again, slow and languid; when Arthur's lips part Alasdair slips his tongue inside and makes him come apart.

When the morning comes they will be back to bickering and hurting and talking in circles around each other, but at least they can have this.

V.

"I'm going, Arthur." The telltale sound of Alasdair's backpack being zipped makes Arthur's fists clench.

"Bloody eager to get rid of me, aren't we?" In the short silence following his words Arthur knows he has struck a nerve and when Alasdair steps out of their bedroom his eyes are almost black with fury.

"Don't you dare. I tried to make this work. I tried my goddamned hardest!" Arthur swallows and glares at him -  tries to think of anything but mornings spent in bed, promises kissed between shoulder blades, names breathed out, the sting of a slap, Alasdair, Alasdair, Alasdair. It hurts too much if he does.

"Well, not hard enough apparently." Ah. Anger, his ever-present companion and loyal companion. Arthur regrets the words even before he speaks them, but he keeps his head up anyway. Alasdair lost the right to his emotions the moment he quietly said 'this isn't working, Arthur', the very second Arthur could read the rejection in his face.

God, it hurts.

"Fuck you," Alasdair says, almost tiredly. "I wish I never fell in love with you, you absolute piece of shit."

Love doesn't fit us, Arthur thinks bitterly. Love is made for those who has the sense to appreciate it, for people who don't end up choking one another just by being in the same room too long.

It is instilled into his very bones, the slow-burning fury learned from both the men Matthew once called father, once called brother; no matter how much he wants to deny it both Arthur and Francis have shaped him. Matthew tries to convince himself that he does not miss them. “it’s been a long time since I heard you laugh” Matthew cloaks himself in kindness and keeps his hurts close to his chest, nurses them and at night, at night he tosses and turns and wonders what else there is. He is young and he is flawed and he is finally, finally free. It’s for my people Matthew says with his head held high, negotiating trade treaties and unions while his patience slips through his fingers like sand. He is fine. He can do this. “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Come home Matthew”

“We miss you”

“We’re worried”