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“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.”
Yang doesn’t flinch as he would have, once. Bittenfeld supposes he’s finally grown a spine at last.
His brows furrow and the corners of his mouth tighten.
That’s another thing Bittenfeld doesn’t like about Yang. He never says what he’s really thinking.
“You may be too much of a coward to fight, but we aren’t.”
“I don’t believe in throwing away more lives than we have to,” says Yang.
The fledgling argument is stopped in its tracks when Oberstein enters the room – Bittenfeld doesn’t like Oberstein either, but Oberstein has showed himself ready to lend his support to Yang’s ideas on more than one occasion.
Besides, there are more important things happening here than Yang Wen Li.
If there is anything more humiliating that losing more men and ships than any other commander in a battle by reason of inattention and poor judgment, it would be being saved by the man you’ve been calling a coward for years.
Bittenfeld takes Reinhard’s rage because he knows it is his due. He barely registers the finer details of his punishment or the consolation from his colleagues.
But he does notice when Yang arrives, and Reinhard’s attention immediately focuses on him.
“Explain yourself, Admiral Yang,” Reinhard commands, his voice as cold as it was when addressing Bittenfeld.
Yang’s expression is a study in confusion.
Reinhard sighs audibly and snaps, “I ordered all communications with Bittenfeld be broken off. Why did you defy my orders?”
Yang sounds genuinely puzzled when he replies, “Was that order intended to apply to Captain Eugen as well?”
“I had thought you cleverer than Bittenfeld,” retorted Reinhard. “Clearly I was wrong. You were not to contravene the spirit of my orders by talking to his subordinates instead.”
Bittenfeld is surprised to find himself feeling sympathy for Yang. He hadn’t needed to help Bittenfeld out of the mess he’d gotten himself into, after all. And here he was, in all likelihood about to be punished himself for it.
“Your Excellency,” Yang says, quietly. “I do not think that you intended me to stand by and do nothing in the event that I saw an opportunity to prevent wasted lives.”
“I certainly did not give you license to choose which of my orders to obey and which to disregard, however creatively,” Reinhard replies, but the venom is fading from his voice. “I will speak to you later.” He glances at the assembled officers. “You are all dismissed.”
Yang’s shoulders stiffen as Bittenfeld approaches. If Bittenfeld had room in his heart for any more regret, he would certainly feel it now.
He knows he should say something – the casualties his fleet took would have been far greater if not for Yang.
In his own way, Yang had even defied Reinhard himself to do it.
Bittenfeld is… impressed. He hadn’t thought Yang had it in him.
Yet his throat seems to close up against all words, and all he can do is clasp Yang’s shoulder briefly, if fervently, on his way to his ordained punishment.
It is impossible to miss the way Yang flinches at his touch, but there is nothing Bittenfeld can do about it now.
There are worse things in the world than realising that you might be slowly developing feelings for someone you’ve been butting heads with for a very long time, but Bittenfeld can’t think of any of them right now.
His punishment hadn’t even commenced before Reinhard had come to personally tell him that he was no longer to be confined to his quarters, nor would his regiment be put under Kircheis’s command.
He didn’t need to be told that he was still in disgrace, and that it would be a long hard road to win back Reinhard’s regard. It was not difficult to see Kircheis’s gentling hand in this sudden about-face, but Bittenfeld was in no position to look this gift horse in the mouth.
Naturally, he had celebrated his reprieve by going out and getting completely drunk.
The corridors are swimming before him, and he’s coming to realise that he might have drunk more than he could really handle. Muller and the rest of the junior admirals have taken themselves off to bed, but he hadn’t wanted to leave the bar just yet.
A soft voice from behind him startles him into yelling. When he finally stumbles around to face it’s owner, he’s greeted by a concerned Yang, his hands out in a pleading gesture. He’s saying something Bittenfeld can’t quite make out, so he moves closer, only to have Yang back away.
He growls in frustration and Yang jumps, his eyes wider than saucers.
But at least he starts making sense.
“Please let me help you back to your quarters.”
“Does it look like I can’t handle myself?”
Despite his belligerence, Yang draws closer, and puts a tentative hand on Bittenfeld’s shoulder.
“You look like you could use some help.”
Bittenfeld is about to retort when the floor swims beneath him, and he ends up staggering into Yang. To Yang’s credit, he braces himself and doesn’t fall over, even with the sudden imposition of Bittenfeld’s not inconsiderable weight.
Maybe Yang has a point, after all.
That’s how Yang winds up in his room, struggling with the fastenings of Bittenfeld’s uniform. For some reason, he seems to think Bittenfeld shouldn’t be allowed to simply fall asleep as he is. Bittenfeld alternates between trying to shove Yang’s hands away, and finding Yang’s hapless attempts deeply amusing. It’s one of these attempts that leads Bittenfeld to say what he says, half as a jest, half as something else he doesn’t want to think too much about now.
“This is not how I hoped you would undress me, Yang Wen Li.”
He lets his hand fall heavily on Yang’s head. Distantly, he notices that Yang’s hair is much softer than he expected it to be.
Not that he’d been thinking about it.
Of course not.
Yang jumps (again), then abruptly goes quiet and still, and redder than Bittenfeld has ever seen him. More scarlet than he’d been after they’d all gotten Yang incredibly drunk after Astarte.
It’s a very fetching colour on him.
Emboldened by the alcohol, Bittenfeld thinks nothing of telling him so.
Yang flushes even more, which is strangely gratifying.
“That’s not… there’s nothing special about me at all.”
Bittenfeld lets out an explosive laugh, because that is the funniest thing he’s heard all day. Maybe the funniest thing he's heard in his whole life.
He pokes Yang in the chest to make his point clear.
“That’s where you are WRONG.”
Yang seems to shrink in on himself then, which motivates Bittenfeld to pat Yang’s head in what he means to be a reassuring manner.
From the way Yang flinches, he had not been as gentle as he intended to be.
“Go to sleep, Yang,” he says.
Mumbling what Bittenfeld thinks are apologies, Yang beats a hasty retreat.
When Bittenfeld actually tries taking off his own clothes, he regrets not asking Yang to stay. Some things are a lot harder when you’re incredibly drunk, and undressing without Yang Wen Li’s help is one of them.
Naturally, he regrets everything he can remember in the morning.
Somehow he manages to drag his hungover self to the mess hall, where Muller finds him and shoves a plateful of eggs and sausages at him.
He is in the middle of bemoaning why Yang always ends up seeing the worst of him, when he realises his compatriots have gone oddly still and quiet around him.
He realises why when someone behind him speaks.
“If that’s the worst of you, there’s still more good in you than there is in most men.”
He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Yang is standing behind him.
It’s just his luck.
As much as he would rather be burrowing into the table or facing the full military might of the Free Planets Alliance right then, he can’t, so he settles for resting his head in his hands and hoping Yang goes away.
Mercifully, Yang does, leaving him to his misery.
Yang has always been the quiet type, but Bittenfeld has never seen him so still.
He still looks far too pale, nearly swallowed up by the hospital bed that looks far too big for him, his face half-obscured by the oxygen mask.
Yang’s fine, he’s been told. He only suffered a little smoke inhalation, and it was a good thing Bittenfeld got to him when he did. He has no reason to doubt the doctors - only the best care for the Empire’s leading strategist after Reinhard.
Still.
Bittenfeld knows it’s selfish of him, to even need this reassurance, but the stillness is just too much, and a part of him just yearns to reach out and -
Yang’s wrist seems so small when his own hand can engulf it so completely. But there it is, what he was looking for, if slow and sluggish - a pulse steady with the rhythm of Yang’s life.
Yang stirs in his sleep, turning his face towards him. Bittenfeld pulls away as if he had been burned.
But to his relief (and disappointment), Yang doesn’t awaken, only subsiding into what seems to be a deeper sleep, at least. He doesn’t look comfortable, but Bittenfeld cannot imagine how he would be.
At least, he is still here.
Still alive.
Bittenfeld settles in to the too-small chair. He’ll be here for a little while yet.
Bittenfeld must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knows, he is opening his eyes in a dark room. There is a dull ache in his lower back from the awkward position he’s in, folded over Yang’s bed.
He must have fallen asleep, watching over Yang... He becomes dimly conscious of a muted light near him, and...
Someone tentatively stroking his hair.
A small flare of adrenaline lights up his nerves, but it’s not enough to rouse him completely. So he turns to the side, and - there’s Yang.
Sitting up in bed, mask gone, looking down on him and... gently stroking his hair.
He becomes acutely aware of how he is practically lying in Yang’s lap. A hot flare of embarrassment rises up in him, but it’s overruled by his body telling him how comfortable he is (lower back notwithstanding) and how it doesn’t particularly want to move right now.
There is something soothing about Yang’s gentleness, and he leans in to the touch, bumping against Yang’s fingers. Yang seems to belatedly realise he’s awake, and suddenly becomes oddly self-conscious. He draws his hand away, upon which Bittenfeld finds himself missing Yang’s touch immediately.
He makes a show of slowly straightening up, and yawning.
“Fritz?” Yang asks, softly.
When Bittenfeld’s face heats up immediately, he has to make a great effort at nonchalantly turning his face to the side so Yang won’t see.
He makes a noncommittal noise in response.
“Why are you here?” Yang asks, softly.
Bittenfeld wonders if it’s a trick of the light, but Yang’s cheeks look distinctly pinker than they were moments ago. So Bittenfeld fills Yang in on everything that’s happened, the fire, the desperate search for Yang, that escape just in time. Yang listens quietly throughout, his eyes occasionally flickering to Bittenfeld’s face, but mostly fixed on the blanket.
From time to time he picks at the blanket, not unlike the way he picks at his cape during long briefings or when he’s nervous or uncomfortable. Bittenfeld’s noticed Yang doing that when he’s talking to him, too. He wonders idly, even as his report to Yang draws to a close, if there’s anything he could do - or stop doing - to make Yang more comfortable around him.
His story winds down. Bittenfeld is seized by the urge to lie down again. Maybe with his head in Yang’s lap this time. He wouldn’t mind if Yang put his hands in his hair again.
He wouldn’t mind at all.
“Why are you still here?” Yang asks, even more softly.
Bittenfeld makes a show of stretching, to hide his face and any sign of his suddenly hammering heart.
When Yang remains obstinately silent, Bittenfeld realises that he’s holding out for his answer.
“Someone has to look out for you,” he says, eventually. “It might as well be me...” He trails off as he turns to look at Yang, who even in the dim light of the hospital has gone decisively pink.
“Oh,” he says, quietly, picking at the blanket again, determinedly looking down at it as if it holds all the secrets to the next intergalactic ambush.
Bittenfeld is suddenly seized by the urge to put his hand over Yang’s. But. Yang isn’t well and -
He startles when a feather-light touch descends on his own hand.
“Thank you, Fritz,” Yang says, clumsily patting his hand. Clumsily because Yang is still determinedly not looking at him and so misses his mark more than half of the time.
But Bittenfeld doesn’t care. His heart is too busy being full. Without thinking about it, he turns his hand over and closes his fingers around Yang’s the next time they descend.
He feels Yang’s shock vibrate through his frame and all the way through to the tips of his fingers. He’s just about to let go in mortification when Yang deliberately closes his own fingers around Bittenfeld’s and doesn’t let go.
Now it’s his turn to jump.
But he doesn’t let go either.
Yang’s hand feels so small in his, so delicate and unwarlike. Yet this hand belongs to one of the greatest strategists of the Galactic Empire. This hand charted a path out of annihilation for him and his Black Lancers at the Battle of Astarte.
He lifts Yang’s hand to his lips and drops a clumsy kiss on Yang’s knuckles. He knows that this hand will lead them to victory, just as he knows he will run into fire to save its owner as many times as he needs to.