Urbain’s been particularly clingy this evening, which isn’t anything new, but it’s also different from how he usually is. He’s a little less cheerful than usual, and a little more touchy than normal. He’s taken every opportunity to be within arms reach, almost as if he was afraid that she’s slip right through his fingers, lost forever. Which is ridiculous. Because she’s right here. She’s almost always right here.

“What’s wrong, Urbain?”

Her thumb traces the natural line of his cheekbone. She sometimes forgets how pretty he is. She sometimes forgets, but never enough to not come back to him. He’s intoxicating like that. He’s addictive, and no matter how much she tries, Harmony just cannot quit him.

His kisses are sweet and soft and slow. And they’ve become routine. Those kisses of his, kisses that make her feel like they have forever, when did they become her normal? Once upon a time, there was nothing but rushed, sloppy, and fiery kisses, kisses dripping with desperation and need. Once upon a time, their reunions were quick with just one goal in mind. Back then, the few kisses they did share before getting down to business were just a bad habit. They were nothing like these slow kisses, kisses that feel like what Harmony believes a kiss should feel like.

“Stay here. Please.”

“I wasn’t going to leave. When’s the last time I didn’t spend the night?”

Another thing that had become routine: waking up in Urbain’s bed. Or him waking up in her bed. It doesn’t matter if the dip in the mattress doesn’t perfectly match the other’s body, it doesn’t matter if the warmth of the covers isn’t always that comforting feeling of the other, in the end, all that matters are those nights they spend next to each other. Because those are the nights Harmony remembers. Those are the nights she looks forward to, as twisted as it sounds.

“Harmony…”

Another hum as she presses another kiss to his soft lips. Her name always sounds so sweet when it’s him calling for her, be it the way he always finds a way to slip it into conversation or when he’s desperately pleading her to keep going. Her name has never sounded better than in his voice.

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

“Please. Please…”

Urbain’s nose finds the warm spot of her neck. He presses another kiss, but it’s obvious that he’s not trying to pull her to bed. He just wants to be here. Standing in the kitchen. Arms tightly holding onto Harmony.

“Please, just for tonight, can we pretend it’s just us?”

Pretend it’s just them? Is there someone here that Harmony isn’t aware of? And sure, Urbain probably has someone else he’s been seeing, or maybe just hooking up with, but tonight? It’s already just them.

“What?”

“Just for one night. Just for tonight. Can we please pretend that you’re mine? Just mine.”

His? Why would he ask for that? They know what their arrangement has been for years. It’s love until the sun comes up. But beyond that, they’re nothing. He’s not hers, the same way she’s not his. They have lives outside one another. Harmony still has a man who calls her and takes her out from time to time, though that is also fizzling out. But that has nothing to do with Urbain. And it’s also none of his business.

“Why would we do that?”

Harmony’s gotten pretty good at pretending, but this? This might be a step too far. Not for her, though. She’d be fine pretending for a night; isn’t that what she doesn’t every time she spends the night next to Urbain? For a moment, he’s the only one in her life. But she’s able to wake up and walk away. She has that strength. Urbain though? He’s softer than her. He gets attached more easily than she does. And she’s already hurt him once because they found themselves in this exact situation.

“Because I need it. Because I need you. Because I…”

Love you. Harmony knows that’s what he wants to say. He hasn’t said it in years, sure, but she can tell when it’s about to slip. And that’s when she knows she has to take a step back and remind him of what they are. He might have hurt her first, but that doesn’t mean she has to hurt him back. Not like that, at least. He deserves to love someone who can say it back to him. Someone who can feel it with him. Someone who can love him in the light of the city, not only in the darkness of the night.

“It’s not a good idea. And you know it.”

“Just one night. Give me just one night. Let me believe for one night.”

His eyes seem so blue in this light. It’s so brief, the color filling Harmony’s world before going back to darkness as he presses his forehead to hers. They’re so blue, so sad, so… Urbain. In all of her years meeting different people, there has never been anyone who ever came close to that color. And Harmony has searched. She really has, be it subconsciously or not.

“Tell me why you want to and we can maybe.”

“You know why, Harmony. You know why I want this.”

“I want to hear you say it. I won’t push you away this time.”

“Harmony…” Another kiss. Another long, slow kiss. “Please… Please…”

“Say it and—”

“Because I love you! Because I love you and you know it! Because I’ve always loved you! Okay? Is that enough? Please… please, I love you, and I can’t… I can’t… This…”

If he’s crying, Harmony doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to know. All she wants to know is the feeling of his lips on hers. All she wants is his body on hers. All she wants is his love flowing through her veins. All she wants is her name on his tongue. All she wants is another night.

“I’m yours. All yours, Urbain. Only yours.”

It’s not a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. He might be able to tell her that she’s his first choice and still walk away in the morning, meeting others while she’s gone, but that’s not something she can do. There are others in her life. She can’t tell Urbain that she will always choose him, always come back to him, but still stay with the others who keep her company. He might get the wrong idea if she tells him for real. Or maybe she’ll wonder the wrong things about what they have going on.

If she tells him the truth, maybe tonight would repeat itself too often. Knowing what love feels like, actual love rather than just the casual sex they’ve been having for too many years, she can’t know it. If she knows it, she’ll crave it. She’ll crave the way his hands feel as he slowly unbuttons her shirt, pressing kisses to her skin as he calls her beautiful. She’ll crave the way his skin feels under her fingertips as she plays with the waistband of his pants, not worried about getting this over with quickly, not worried about diving right in to relieve the stress and tension. She’ll crave the slowness of it, the attention and care of it. She’ll crave the way her back sinks into the mattress as she’s slowly undressed, bring called a million things she had never heard before. If she tells him the truth, then she’ll know what she had been missing out on for years.

If she tells him the truth, then what would stop him from pressing kisses to her inner thighs over and over again? What would stop him from taking his time with his tongue inside her? What would stop him from running his hands down her body, leaving a trail of fire as he never had before? What would stop him from smiling as she begs him for more, calling his name over and over again? What would stop him from making his name the only thing known to her?

Reki side-eyes Langa as the boys pulls a chair next to him. He has to slap his hand away from the bowl of chocolate before he finishes it. Again. He’s already emptied two bowls of chocolate chips, and at this rate, there won’t be any left when comes time to actually decorate the gingerbread house.

It had been a mistake to bring out the cany decorations before they were needed. He now knows he should have left them sealed, stashed away from Langa, but it’s too late now. Even if Reki were to put them away, Langa knows of their existence. It would only be a matter of minutes before he’d find the open bags of sweets. And no matter what anyone said, Langa is anything but an airhead. That boy is sharp when he wants to be, and when he wants something, he will get it, no matter the cost. Anyway, Reki isn’t in the mood to fight with a sugar fiend or deal with a pouting 18-year-old.

“We are not going to destroy it, as you say.” He huffs as he narrows his eyes onto Langa, slapping his hand away yet again. “And isn’t this like a Canadian thing or something? Didn’t you make gingerbread houses as a kid?”

Langa shrugs as he drops a pinch of colorful sprinkles in his mouth. Reki sighs as he watches him, not bothering to stop him from the house’s eventual decorations; he’ll have to content himself with decorating it with only icing, it seems.

“The most we did were the gingerbread men. Never actually made a house. My mom always insisted we decorate them as a fun family activity, but my dad preferred them without the icing and as soon as I was in front of the cookies, I’d forget I was supposed to decorate them. So I’d end up just eating them like that and my mom gave up after a few years. So we didn’t really…”

Langa gestures at the mess of collapsed walls as he sticks of the tiny candy canes Reki had found at a market a few weeks ago. He seems so unbothered, but Reki is determined, a smile spreading across his cheeks.

“You’re a menace, dude.” He nudges Langa, causing him to drop a few of the sprinkles he had snatched yet again. “C’mon! Help me with this! It’ll be fun, I promise!”

Langa’s smile mirrors Reki’s as he leans into him. It’s instinctual, the intertwining of fingers under the table; they know they don’t have to hide their affection, but it’s become a habit. After months of having done it, it just feels natural there. It feels natural to pull Langa’s hand onto his lap. And with Langa this close, Reki can’t help but grin as that pretty smile is pressed to his cheek. He can’t help the giggles that break form his lips as Langa whispers into his skin.

“Anything with you is fun, Reki. You make everything fun.”

“Only because you’re also there.”

Both burst out laughing, foreheads pressed together. They giggle together, their noses brushing against one another. They smile at one another, smiles that are impossible to hide or supress – Reki knows that no matter what happens, even if their project is a complete failure, they’ll have enjoyed themselves trying. And just like the walls of the house Reki had tried building, the pair break down, laughing that uncontrollable laughter, that laughter caused by nothing more than a glance. They laugh until it’s hard to breathe, the air between them too heavy. An when it gets heavy like that, silence falls. Silence falls as does Reki.

“Reki?”

Reki hums, his eyes having fallen shut. He never really can keep his eyes open around Langa, not when they’re this close. He likes falling into a world of fantasies, one where he can kiss Langa without any worries. He likes that world where nothing really matters, nothing except the one he loves. He likes falling into that world, a world he finds against Langa’s lips.

“Reki.”

Reki sighs, but his eyes stay shut. He doesn’t want to leave this dreamland, not before he’s gotten his kiss. And with the pad of Langa’s thumb pressed to his bottom lip, Reki can’t help but want that kiss even more.

It feels so close; it feels like it’s right there. It’s not a kiss yet, but with Langa’s warm breath on Reki’s lips, it’s only a matter of moments before the distance is closed. It’s a matter of moments before he can feel those lips against his, the ocean of love crashing against him. It’s only a matter of moments before the tide washes him ashore, finding his paradise.

“Reki…”

Finally. Finally, a kiss. It’s chaste, nothing more than a quick peck to the lips, but it’s a kiss nonetheless. It’s a kiss and Reki is more than happy about it. He’s so happy as love spills against his lips, love like and overflowing, ever-flowing fountain. It tastes like their first kiss, the warmth of Langa’s breath, the cool of his lips. It tastes like their first kiss, quick but sweet. And as Langa presses another kiss to Reki’s lips, a kiss that lasts longer this time as he moves even closer, their knees bumping together under the table, it feels like time has slowed around them. When it’s just them, everything fades. When it’s just them, all that remains is the love that unites them.

“Reki?”

His eyes finally flutter open to find the ocean-blue of Langa’s eyes. Waves of emotion play in those eyes he loves so much, color that glistens under the kitchen lights. Langa really is the prettiest boy Reki has ever laid his eyes on; who could possibly be prettier than the boy in blue who saves his look of adoration just for Reki? Who could ever feel more like home than him?

“Reki? Don’t we have a house to build?”

“Our home.”

Langa’s breath hitches as Reki pulls him close, closing the distance with another kiss. Home is found in those lips. Home is found in those eyes that grow wide before being squeezed shut. Home is that skin that’s always so soft. Home is that silky hair that slips between Reki’s fingers. Home is Langa, all that he is and all that he will be.

“We’ll build a home.”

“A home as sweet as you, my Love. A home I’ll love more than even those sweets you refuse to let me eat. A home where everyone will know that I love you and only you.”

“A home where all I’ll do is love you. Because it’s you. You’re my home, Langa. You’re my home and I love you. And I promise to love you infinitely.”

Byleth narrows her eyes, sucking in a heaving breath. The boy had gotten stronger since the last time they had sparred; maybe such is the effect of his becoming a man behind her back. He’s as cunning as ever, but there’s more to him now. Now, he seems stronger, more calculating, less predictable. He seems steadier on his feet; it’s not as easy to knock him back as it had once been. It’s not as easy to pin him down and claim victory.

The cool breeze is pleasant against Byleth’s bare arms, her coat now tossed to a corner of the arena. It helps ease her ragged breaths, but it isn’t long before she must turn her attention back to the man standing across from her. While she would have loved to enjoy the fresh evening air, be it just for a moment, Byleth knows better than to let her guard down around a grinning archer. She knows better than to let her guard down as Claude reaches over his shoulder, his fingers curling around another arrow he pulls from his quiver. She knows better than to trust the mischievous smirk pointed at her; it shouldn’t come as a surprise that it’s accompanied by a storm of arrows, each barely missing Byleth before lodging themselves in the stone columns delimiting the arena. And she can hear the oscillation of the fletching, the slow calming, but her eyes are on the man reaching for yet another arrow.

It’s a warning shot he sends her way, a reminder to keep her eyes and mind on him. It’s a warning shot, the cool metal grazing Byleth’s cheek. Had it not been a warning, it wouldn’t have missed her; Claude does not miss. Claude, he’s the best archer Byleth knows; Claude, he’s got the best aim Byleth knows of. And she knows she can’t be lax with him; this is a simulation of the battles to come, after all. They both have to be at the top of their game; they both have to be ruthless in their fighting, even if they will be standing for the same cause.

“I thought we were practicing your swordsmanship.” Byleth pushes her sweaty bangs out of her eyes before tossing her hair over her shoulder and straightening herself out. “And as far as I’m aware, a bow isn’t the same thing as a sword. Or did you forget that?”

Claude huffs out a laugh as he tosses his bow aside. It clatters against the ground, begging for Byleth’s attention, but her eyes refuse to leave Claude. They follow his every movement, following the curl of his fingers around the hilt of the sword. She watches as he twirls it around a few times, accustoming his wrist to the weight and motion of the weapon. She watches, swallowing back a snort as the sword hits the ground, slipping from those hands Byleth knows all too well.

While reaching for a bow has become second nature to Claude, swords aren’t exactly his field of expertise. He’s grown more comfortable with the close-range weapon, Byleth can see that from his stance, but he’s still nowhere near as prolific as she is. And he’s honestly almost cute, slowly going through the motions; he’s almost cute as he nods to himself, steading his grip on the hilt.

There are little chances Claude will ever actually use a sword on the battlefield, but both know it’s better to be overly prepared than caught by the unexpected. They’re both  unfortunately aware of the fatality that comes with using the wrong weapon at the wrong time; they’ve seen the risk it poses. Hence the reason for their training sessions; they can’t risk the loss of the Alliance’s leader. Byleth can’t risk losing Claude, not when they’ve just been reunited after a five year long dark night.

There’s a glint in Claude’s green eyes as he readies the blade in his hand. Clearly, he’s rusty, his clumsiness overshadowing his many hours of practice, but the rust seems to wash away as confidence flows through him. It glistens in his eyes, those same eyes Byleth knows only grow more distracting as nights go by. It pulls at the corners of his mouth, a grin she knows the taste of. Claude, he’s going to give it his all; Byleth, she’s in for a good fight.

“Ready, Little Fawn?”

One last flick of the wrist is the last warning Byleth gets before Claude is charging towards her. Her eyes follow his footwork as she parries the attack, the clanking of metal resonating in her ears. The corrections fall from her lips just as naturally as swinging a sword; all it took was one year of instructing for it to become ingrained into every sparring session she partakes in. And with each correction, Claude readjusts his stance, power cutting through, strength Byleth quickly mirrors. Even if he’s taller, even if he appears stronger, even if he’s flashing his charming grin, there’s no way he can win. He can be as attractive or as cunning as he wants; he still won’t beat the legendary Ashen Demon; no one will beat her in her field of expertise.

They’re both quick on their feet, they’re both agile fighters, but Byleth still has the advantage. She’s just a little faster than Claude, always striking first, always more on the offensive than he can be. And Claude deflects every one of her attacks, pushing her back, but it’s not enough; for every step forward of Claude’s, Byleth makes him stumble back three. He’s a worthy opponent, but she’s still stronger, still more skilled; his moves are still too predictable. His schemes haven’t worked this time; three more steps back and he’s caught between a wall and his opponent. Two more steps back and Byleth is claiming her victory. One more step back and—

She should have known better than to try to corner a stag. Claude, he’s fast, faster than she remembers him to be. He’s fast, and he’s cunning, and he’s far too charming, his stupid smirks and taunts leaving Byleth with the slightest hint of flushed cheeks. Claude, she had underestimated how good a fighter he is; she hadn’t anticipated the possibility of him slipping beneath her, kicking up a storm of dust as he inverted their positions. She hadn’t anticipated him to be this strong, his final blow making her stumble back, her back hitting a wall.

Everything suddenly feels like it’s going a million times faster than before. Byleth’s mind races as she takes in her surroundings, looking for an opening. She hasn’t lost, not yet, not ever. Claude might have more tricks up his sleeve than her, he might be more agile than her with his light archer footwork, but Byleth is still stronger than him. She’s still more skilled with a blade, pushing Claude off of her and quickly bringing them back to the center of the arena. She’s more powerful than him now that determination burns from within; there’s no holding back any of her strength, Claude now stumbling back as he deflects every one of her hard blows.

Byleth is determined to win this fight. No matter how much of a fight Claude puts up, he will not be keeping victory away from her. His little archer steps will do nothing to lead him to victory; his little schemes will not help him win; his green eyes won’t distract Byleth enough for her to drop her guard once more. There’s nothing that can keep her from claiming her victory.

A cry echoes throughout the training grounds, Byleth’s sword descending onto Claude’s shoulder. The cry echoes until it’s drowned out by the sound of clashing metal, Claude’s blade barely managing to protect him from what could have been a fatal blow. Both his hands grip the hilt of the sword, his body shaking ever so slightly as he concentrates all his energy on repelling his opponent. Concentration pulls on every one of his beautiful features, but despite his gritted teeth, there’s still a glint in his eyes. There’s a glint in his eyes, but it’s not their usual glimmer of mischief. This shine, it’s something Byleth can’t name.

“Is this really your best shot—” His strength is incomparable, jerking his opponent off of him with nothing but his blade— “Teach?”

Another battle cry breaks from Byleth’s lips as she attacks him once more, fury blinding her and taking control of her. She shouldn’t get so worked up at such a pathetic taunt, but Claude has always had a way of getting under her skin. He knows what buttons to push to make her see red; he knows what to say to ensure she will give it her all, refusing to accept defeat. She will not lose to Claude; it would be downright embarrassing for the sword-master to lose to an archer of all people. It would be an embarrassment for the instructor to lose to her student. It’d be humiliating  to lose to soft green eyes and a stupid smirk. It’s impossible for Byleth to lose to those filled in shoulders or that sharp jaw.

“You’re distracted.” Another slash in her direction; another collision of swords. “And unsteady.”

The yelp that breaks from Byleth’s lips is disgraceful to put it simply; she falls back as Claude somehow finds a way to trip her. Her movements are anything but elegant as her weapon slips from her fingers, clattering on the ground, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to turn the fight around once more. Pulling this off is relying on a wildcard, Byleth knows that, but that doesn’t stop her from trying, launching her leg higher than it’s ever gone. She aims for Claude’s head, hoping and praying she can knock him aside, but his reflexes are finer than she had expected. Calloused fingers curl around her ankle, fingers she normally loves feeling against her bare skin; another yelp jumps out of her as he yanks her forward, sending her sprawling across the floor. And when Claude presses his weight down, straddling her hips as he holds his blade to  her throat, something flips in Byleth’s stomach.

Maybe it’s the way his green eyes glisten in the night; maybe it’s the feeling of his body over hers. Maybe it’s the cold blade against her throat, the way she’s doomed, her life resting in the palm of his hand; maybe it’s his voice, that low, raspy tone he reserves for her and her alone.

“And I win.”

Byleth could have given up, accepted that Claude had defeated her; she could have given in, given herself up to him, but she isn’t known for easily giving in. Her mind races, desperately searching for a way out of Claude’s grip; it’s instinctive, the balled fists she throws his way. She tries to hit him, tries to break free, but he’s faster than her, dodging every one of her punches. He evades each attack, something Byleth fails to do; calloused fingers curl around her skin once more, both wrists pinned above her head. And her breath catches at the base of her throat as Claude leans over her, his warm breath against the shell of Byleth’s ear.

“Ready to call it quits, Sweetheart?”

Another taunt has Byleth squirming under the weight of Claude’s body, trying once more to break free, but she’s depleted the last of her energy. No matter how hard she tries to fight him, she’s come to accept that his grip on her is iron-like; she’s come to accept that she’s helpless to the feeling of his nose grazing her neck, a feeling that has her stomach sinking and her breath catching once again.

Byleth is trapped with no way out; Claude has trapped her with his strength, his skill, his prowess. It’s his incomparable abilities as a soldier which allowed him to claim his victory today. It’s his schemes and his cunning that have Byleth surrendering to him. Or at least, that’s what she tells herself as she lets her body relax under Claude’s. Because while it’s true that all those qualities did grant him a win, she’s ignoring a key fact to his victory. She refuses to admit her weakness.

Green eyes, they’re the ones that got Byleth in this situation. Despite the glistening mischief, softness is what truly shines through as Claude pulls back. He’s looking at her with those same eyes he gives her when it’s just the two of them, that same look that makes her melt under his touch. Those green eyes, how is she supposed to focus on anything other than their beauty? How is she supposed to care for anything other than those eyes that always search for her first thing in the morning, eyes she knows always have her back? How is Byleth supposed to ignore the green of Claude’s eyes, that green that starts to fade behind lashes as calloused fingers lift her chin? How is she supposed to not melt at the prospect of a smile pressed to hers, a smile she dreams of, a smile she had been looking forward to tasting once she was supposed to claim victory? And Claude, well, a victor is entitled to his prize, after all. Who’s Byleth to deny him of what is rightfully his?

“Sylvain!”

Distractions don’t dull either Claude or Byleth’s reflexes; the high-pitched yelp from the sidelines is startling enough for them to immediately jerk away from each other. And it doesn’t take a hunter’s gaze to spot the source of the sound: the pink pigtails are a dead giveaway of Hilda’s presence. If she thought she wouldn’t be noticed, half-hidden behind a stone pillar of the arena grounds, then she might need to put in a bit more training. Had this been a battlefield, she would have been immediately picked off. Sylvain as well, for that matter.

“Get your hands out of my face! You’re gonna ruin it!”

“Then you should stop spying on the professor and Claude! You’ll end up seeing something you weren’t supposed to see.”

Warmth spreads across Byleth’s cheek, though she doubts she looks anything like Claude. If they hadn’t had an audience, she might have told him the pink looks good under his skin, a color that makes the green of his eyes stand out even more. Had they not had an audience, Byleth might have even pressed a kiss to those burning cheeks as she pushes herself up from the ground. Had they not had an audience, a lot could have happened, perhaps even those things Sylvain loudly whispered about, those things Hilda isn’t meant to see, whatever that is. 

“C’mon, Sylvain! We both know that you’re just as curious as me! Like, I know you’ve also been wondering if Claude and the professor are an item. Which—" Hilda finally manages to push Sylvain off of her before waving her hand at the center of the training grounds— “by the looks of it, they totally are! Which means Marianne owes me dessert.”

“I mean…” Hazel eyes flicker towards Byleth and Claude before falling back onto Hilda as Sylvain drops his voice to a still clearly audible whisper. “We have no proof they’re in a relationship. It could totally just be a fling type of thing.”

“Stop dreaming about getting with the professor. She’s off the market, as sad as that is for you. And anyway, not only would she never take you as a husband, but also, I’ve kinda been rooting for Claude since the beginning. I mean, you weren’t the one who had to listen to him go on and on about her every day.”

The blush deepens as Claude falls back. He’s shaking his as Byleth bites back her hint of smile, a smile they both know means she will be teasing him about this new revelation. And even though Claude seems to be denying those accusations with his big eyes and his mouthing of “she’s exaggerating,” it’s hard to believe him. The boy who was always so good at concealing his true intentions and feelings has become a man betrayed by his very own facial expressions.

“And also, unlike you, Claude knows how to treat a woman. Which is obviously thanks to all my wonderful advice, which you refuse to take. Maybe if you had listened to what I have to say, you could’ve had a chance with the professor. But no. And you won’t be able to break them up, no matter how hard you try, you womanizer!”

“Excuse you, but I know how to treat a woman. It’s just not my fault there’s so many beautiful girls falling over themselves to be with me, but there’s only one me to give to them all.”

Hilda gags as she shoves a winking Sylvain away. If she had once been trying to conceal her presence, then she has since given up that endeavor. Her weight is shifted to the side, her body leaning dramatically into one of the pillars that had once barely hidden her. She’s back to making faces as Sylvain as he goes on and on about all the wonderous things he’s done for every woman who has given in to his charm; he’s also conveniently leaving out every terrible action Byleth has unfortunately been stuck reprimanding him for.

Had the setting been in the slightest bit different, Byleth might have enjoyed watching the two unlikely friends bicker. She had had her fair share of dinner time gossip from each, and she had never minded the near monologues they would present to her, but this time, it wasn’t quite as enjoyable. This time, the gossip just so happened to be the once mysterious mercenary, and it most definitely was not gossip about her strength and near-monstrous tendencies on the battlefield. No, this time, she was the center of a love affair, something she damn well wished she’d never be a part of, but alas. At least Hilda and Sylvain’s attentions were back on themselves, giving Byleth the opportunity to push herself off the ground. Claude is not far behind her, dusting himself off as his eyes flicker between the gossips and Byleth.

“By the goddess,” Hilda sighs, a hand on her cheek and a dreamy look in her eyes, “the things I would do to have a lover as passionate as those two are for each other. Like, I would literally die if someone was so ready to die for me. Or kill for me! It’d be so hot to be scoop up and rushed to safety by a hot and sexy savior. And like, my safety would be the most important thing in the world.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so picky, you’d have already found a guy who was ready to do that for you. A strong man like myself would be more than pleased to have a wife as cute as you, but you keep on rejecting every single guy that offers you a ring or eternal love.” Hilda gasps at Sylvain’s remark, but he quickly brushes her off. “It’s almost as if you already made up your mind about who you want, but that would mean having to work towards getting her—”

“I simply haven’t found the right guy!” Hilda’s tone is stern, but there’s an edge of panic that doesn’t go unnoticed by a smiling Sylvain. “I have absolutely no one on my mind. Your accusations are simply absurd. There just hasn’t been a single man that lives up to my expectations and I don’t exactly have the luxury of husband shopping while we are at war.”

“Sure, whatever you say.”

“I just want to have whatever Claude and the professor have going on for them.”

Finally, Claude clears his throat, drawing both Hilda and Sylvain’s attention to him. “You do know that we can hear you, right?”

Both bystanders stare at the leader of the Alliance, suddenly seeming like frightened deer. They couldn’t have possibly thought that they were being discreet, could they? No, that’s impossible. The human mind can’t be that ridiculously caught in its delusions.

“Right.” Hesitation coats Hilda’s voice, her eyes suddenly bouncing between Claude and Byleth. “We were just passing by.”

Amusement plays on the corners of Claude’s mouth, a look that almost looks too good on him. As charming and persuasive as Hilda can be, she hasn’t succeeded today. She’s smarter than to think she can trick Claude, of all people. She knows better than to try to lie to Byleth. And the sheepishness is almost cute on her, had it not been for the fact that she and Sylvain had purposely come to disturb a sparring session. But only one culprit would be dealt at a time.

“Hilda.” The girl straightens at sound of the professor’s stern voice. Her breath seems to catch as pink eyes widen upon crossing the gaze of the Ashen Demon. “Since you were just passing by, then I assume you must be getting ready to practice your fighting skills. Care for a spar?”

“Oh! Oh no! Absolute not, Professor! I was actually…” Her eyes quickly scan over the training arena, pointedly avoiding Byleth and Claude’s general direction. “I was actually here looking for my gloves! Yeah! I seem to have misplaced them, so I was retracing my steps with Sylvain!”

Swiftness suddenly takes over the girl as she grabs Sylvain’s hand and tugs him forward. Normally, he’d have been grinning at the thought of a girl being so forward with him, but in this circumstance, Sylvain seems just as scared as Hilda. He doesn’t say anything as he stumbles along, both making a dash out of the training grounds. Never had Byleth seen either one disappear so quickly, not even on an actual battlefield.

“So…” Claude’s voice is particularly loud against the sudden silence of their self-made battlefield. “How are we getting back at them?”

Green finds green, idyll pastures suddenly disrupted by mischief. The king of cunning had ideas, Byleth was sure of that. But first, he wanted to hear all of Ashen Demon’s ideas. First, it was for her to suggest an appropriate punishment for the intruders.

“I think you might enjoy my ideas.”

Laughter resonates against the stones surrounding them. It’s like a ray of sunshine piercing through the clouds of worry that had started to form. It feels like the first rain after a torrid summer. It’s a laugh that always brings comfort to the one that thought she could never be comforted.

Never had they had the intention of hiding from the others; it’s simply that the truth never found its way out into the public. The truth had become comfortable away from prying eyes and idle gossips, and Byleth just wasn’t ready to let go of that security. Vulnerability had never been her strong suit; a heart had never been something she had considered having until rather recently. But now that Hilda and Sylvain had popped the bubble of security that had once engulfed this little love affair, then it’s only fair that Byleth gets her vengeance. It’s only fair that she would get back at them if they were to go out and spill her secrets to anyone who is willing to listen. Still, she’d go easy on them. That’s not too bad, now is it?

“You’re a warrior who’s meant to lead his troupes. Lead them to victory, not to their demise. I taught you to lead with your mind, not your heart, and yet here we are, blood on our hands. Blood that had no business being spilled.”

She’s cold. She’s calculating. She doesn’t want her troupes to die, but not because of the bond she has with her soldiers. She needs them, but she hasn’t brought herself to love them. At least, not the way Claude has. Claude leads with humanity; Edelgard leads with knowledge. They both knew this would end in war between them at some point, but it had worked. They’ve been fighting side-by-side for years now. Their differences caused conflicts in this very conference room, but everything had always been resolved. Every dispute has led to better ideas. Or at least, their differences had never led to significant losses. Not until now.

“You think I wanted this? You think I wanted this bloodshed? You think I wanted to lose my second in command?”

Claude’s fingers dig into the rich wood of the table. Bare nails carve their presence into it, evidence of his frustration that will last forever, evidence that will find itself in the history books that will be written when this war will finally be over.

“Unlike you, I can’t just brush off the feelings when someone dies. Unlike you, I have to not only deal with the pain myself, but I have to cheer the troupes up. Because I’m not the only one who lost someone dear to them. But then again,” his fingers relax, revealing the fresh indentation of the wood, and he cocks his head to the side with a bitter smirk, “what was I expecting from the emperor of the Adrestian Empire? The selfish and prideful and vain emperor. All that matters are your numbers and your advancement.”

Edelgard watches him from a distance, her eyes never leaving his face, not even once. It’s the way she’s been raised to rule: never let your guard down; always show that you’re on top. She doesn’t let anyone see how she’s feeling; her emotions are concealed behind the face of a strong emperor. She almost glows in the dim room, glows against the horrors of war.

But across from her, Claude is tired. He’s frustrated. He’s the opposite of the Adrestian emperor, the leader of the Alliance that wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s a great schemer, everyone knows that, but he’s not the best at putting his feelings aside when it comes to lost lives and war. The dark circles are proof of his sleepless nights spent thinking of ways to avoid death, both for himself and for his troupes. He doesn’t stand as tall as the woman in front of him. If anything, he looks like he’s about to crumble, crumble from sheer exhaustion and exasperation.

“Do you think it does nothing to me when—”

“Hilda is dead!”

Something from that cry strikes Edelgard, but just for a moment. She recomposes herself rather quickly, both hands folded themselves. She speaks once more with that clear and crisp voice of hers, a voice that has left chills in her audiences.

“Claude, this is your sentimentality speaking once more. Please compose yourself. Captain Goneril will be remembered as someone exceptional and you will learn to lead with more of an iron fist next time. You’re still my general and I need you to start being rational. This war won’t be won by matters of the heart, Claude.”

“Captain Goneril…” Claude snorts. He looks even worse than at the beginning of the conversation. He looks like he sees ghosts circling the emperor’s head. “You can’t even say her name, just her rank. But please, please my dearest Emperor,” venom coats the title, the strongest of the Alliance’s leader’s poisons, “tell me, what good is a title given by you if I’m slowly driven to madness from all my sleepless nights? Tell me, what good does a title holds when my friends die in your little game of chess? What good is a damned title when it changes nothing in the way we’re all dropping like flies on the battlefield?”

His words grew louder and harsher, more frantic than ever. Claude was right; he was growing madder as the months of war stretched on and his own nights of sleep became less and less frequent. There was too much going on in that head of his. He had told his friends so much. He had confided in his professor. But with the never-ending war, there was nothing more that he could do except push forth and hope for the end.

Or let himself be consumed by his own delusions and madness.

“That’s right,” another snort, some sort of choked laughter, “you have nothing to say to that, do you? Because you know I’m right. This whole thing is insane and you know that your way of leading isn’t right. You’re too far from your armies; you lead them like they’re pawns on a board. You don’t care for the losses; you just care for an end. Your end.”

“Claude,  please—”

“I saw you as a friend, Edelgard. I thought we could lead Fódlan to a brighter tomorrow, one where the wall would be taken down, one where we could all be united. I thought you were like me on that point; that’s the only reason I agreed to join you. But clearly, I was wrong. I was wrong to think that you cared about my people, about your people, about our friends.”

“Claude, you’re being irrational again.”

She takes a deep breath before she continues. She’s reassessing her words, thinking about them carefully before letting them flutter free for the man to seize. She doesn’t want another outburst from him. She doesn’t want to drive him away more than she already has. More than he’s already driven himself.

“You know as well as I that we’re not here to make friends. This is war. This is bloodshed. This is a massacre. We knew this from the start. We knew there would be blood on our hands, the blood of our enemies and the blood of our allies. We knew we had to lead with an iron fist, not with a heart of gold. Emotions only get in the way of our schemes, of our victory. Just look at you. Look at the condition you’re in.”

There’s a pause in the conversation. Edelgard watches Claude’s chest rise and fall, watching him struggle to breathe. Had he been hit during the previous battle? Is he suffering from something hidden, something he’s disregarded due to his blind fury about Hilda’s passing? Or is it anger choking him?

“I’m not here to make friends, and I don’t think you’re here to learn from me. We misjudged our situations and, perhaps until now, it has worked in our favor, but that time has ended. I mistook you for someone that was ready to be my general, but that was my error.” Violet eyes pierced every heart, sharper than the lances that lined the wall. “Claude von Riegan, I release you from your position as a general of the Adrestian army.”

Silence hangs heavy in the room. Edelgard’s words were clear and precise, as if she had rehearsed them for weeks. There was not a stumble nor a pause, just a flow as smooth as the run of a river. Her heart had no say in what came out of her mouth, a true demonstration of her motto: rule with the mind, not the heart. There is no place for passions in the midst of a war.

“You…”

Claude straightens his back, suddenly looking far taller. He wasn’t the tallest man they had encountered, but in this room, in this old conference room that felt like it was caving in on itself, he seemed taller than even the worst of the demonic beasts they had slain.

“Fine, but hear this before I leave.  You may be releasing me from my position in this army, but that won’t take my convictions away. You won’t take my beliefs away. I will continue to fight for the unification of Fódlan. I will continue to fight for the people. Because at least I know what I’m fighting for. But you, Edelgard, do you know what you’re fighting for?” He cocks his head to the side, that sly smile of his reappearing. “Glory? To be known? To be in the history books? I know what my goal is, but do you?” There’s a taunt in his voice, a dangerously cool taunt that could unleash a brand-new war. “Do you know what you’re fighting for, o wise one? You with all the answers, tell me, what are you fighting for?”

“I’m fighting for the unification of Fódlan as well, and you know that. I want a better place for our people to live.”

“If you’re fighting for the people, then why’s your life spent all alone? Hear me, Edelgard von Hresvelg, you’re—” his hands slam down on the table— “alone!”

The word echoes throughout the room. It rains down like a shower of arrows, sharp and deadly. Alone. Edelgard is alone. She’s alone at the top of her throne, and she knows this. She knows this, she’s always known this, but she’s never let it show. Or at least, she doesn’t let it show that it affects her until now.

There’s a shift in Edelgard’s stance. Her eyes grow wide for a fraction of a second, something that’s rarely ever seen in her. And they drop. Her gaze drops down onto the table, though not for very long. But it’s long enough. It’s long enough for anyone to have noticed the change in the emperor’s posture. She’s just a little bit smaller, just a little bit caught off guard, just a little bit more like a girl. She’s just a little bit more like the girl she had once talked about, ever so briefly, the girl who is deadly afraid of rats and who doesn’t like constrained spaces. It’s a tiny change in her attitude, almost invisible, but as noticeable as the ruins in which Fódlan finds itself.

Eyes meet from across the table, one glare far harder than the other. Emperor versus leader. Mentor versus student. Leicester versus Adrestria. Riegan versus Hresvelg. Claude versus Edelgard. It’s a war with no beginning; it’s a war with no end. It’s a broken pact that never should have happened in the first place.

“One day,” Edelgard’s voice is soft, softer than it’s ever been, “you’ll understand what I’ve been trying to do. One day, you’ll see why I’ve been so hard on you. One day, you’ll finally grasp what comes with being a good leader. But not today. After all,” a smile stretches across her lips, crinkling the corner’s of her eyes, “you’re just another man. Raised so far from the court, so far from war councils, all the way in Almyra, how are you to know what it’s like to rule a country? You’ll never know what I go through!”

Edelgard’s hands on the table don’t echo the way Claude’s did, but the violence is there. It’s there in her eyes. It’s there in her hair that’s slipped out of their neat buns. It’s there in her clenched jaw. Frustration radiates off of her body leaning over the conference table, the only thing keeping her from striking Claude with all her concealed violence. Politics and diplomacy vanish at that moment; her whole façade falls, leaving her baring her true self.  

“I had no childhood! I didn’t get to play with other children! I didn’t get to live as a big happy family! I had to flee my country, flee my family, flee everything I knew! I had to watch my siblings die or go mad from horrific experiments! I was the sole survivor! I was the only one who made it! And my country depended on me to guide it correctly after all of that!

“I was thought to put my emotions aside. I was taught that the ends justify the means. I was taught everything you reproach of me, von Riegan, and I don’t plan on changing the way I view the world. If you decide to go against me, I will not hesitate to take you down. But I promise you this: when I’m done with Fódlan, it will be united like you so want it. I just won’t bring it together with your sentimentality. I won’t let myself lose it because I put my emotions where rationality should have been.

“Now,” Edelgard straightens, taking her air of an emperor once more despite her dishevelled state, “get out. Get out before I kick you out myself!”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Claude scoffs, finally turning away from the emperor. He looks a little less blinded by his frustrations, but he still holds his head high. Perhaps watching the stoic woman turn into something so emotional made him understand where she was coming from, but his pride won’t let him admit to such a thing. So he just turns away from her, not letting his eyes linger on her any longer. Instead, green finds green, a spark of hope glistening in Claude’s eyes.

“Well, Teach?” He extends his hand to the one who silently stood to the side, his smile looking soft on his lips. “You coming with?”

“Professor.” Edelgard’s voice is sharp with a warning from her corner of the room. “You’re not going to leave me, are you?”

» "Claude, I'm coming."