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The back of Dimitri’s neck hurts. And his shoulders, and his lower back. He’s been tense lately, to put it kindly, but a king knows no rest when there is a war to fight.

Today, Dedue firmly suggests taking a five minute break from leading his army —as if that is even possible—, so he settles for walking around camp in an attempt to clear his mind. He is left feeling a little guilty, but he waves his loyal retainer away just so he can have a semblance of peace for a while. He does tell Dedue he should have something to eat or take the chance to rest as well, and after promising he won’t leave the settlement nor partake in any activity that could qualify as work, he is finally left to his own devices. 

Dimitri doesn’t have to think twice before heading for the training grounds. He knows the only way his body ever gets to relax is through physical exercise, and thankfully, there are plenty of more than capable sparring partners around. That’s what an age of war will do, he supposes; gather skilled fighters in one place that won’t stop growing until the bloodshed is over.

As he considers sending for Felix, given he shouldn’t be as busy as the king himself is supposed to be, a blur of mint hair shines at the corner of his vision.

The Ashen Demon is crouching next to one of the wild dogs that sneak into camp to try their luck at getting their paws on some scraps. Byleth observes the creature intently for a moment before offering some food to it. The dog whines and wags its tail happily, all but wolfing down the treat on the ground. 

The sight makes Dimitri huff with amusement, and the sound, as soft as it is, draws Byleth’s attention to him. His vibrant eyes come to Dimitri, and so the king has no other option but to come closer, if only to say hi. 

He can’t say he’s held a single conversation with this man ever since he joined their army thanks to Shez, but he would be lying if he said he’d meant for it to be that way. His duties and obligations as king aren’t something he can brush off or look away in favor of getting to know newcomers better. The same could be said about his strictly professional relationship with Miklan, or even Dorothea or Bernadetta, who deserted from Imperial ranks to save their lives. Dimitri hasn’t exchanged more than a glance with them so far, and as much as it pains him to keep it that way, he barely has time for himself. Not that he’d spent his free time doing anything else than training, but still.

“What a vivacious fellow, that one,” he says, as a manner of greeting. 

Byleth nods in acknowledgement, but doesn’t add anything else. His silent gaze falls to the dog again and remains there, as if watching it enjoy its meal is way more interesting than anything Dimitri has to say. The young king doesn’t doubt it for a second, seeing he’s never been good with social cues nor socializing in general, but it’s been a while since the last time someone has come as close to ignoring him. 

“Out for a stroll?” Byleth asks then, carefully eyeing a cat that appears piqued by what is transpiring here. The animal gracefully approaches them, sits on its hauch legs and looks up, not even sparing a glance towards the dog to its left. 

It takes a moment for Dimitri to realize he is being addressed. For some reason, Byleth talking to a cat doesn’t seem all too unconceivable a possibility.

“Why, yes. Dedue insisted I had some time to rest. Not that I completely disagree, but there is still much left to be done.”

Byleth procures what looks like a sardine from the basket he is carrying and offers it to the cat. The fluffy thing inspects it before accepting it, and the dog whimpers at the sight.

“I was on my way out for an expedition,” the man says, not even looking up. He is busy scratching the dog’s chin with a gloved finger. “Would you want to come with?”

Just the two of us?, Dimitri doesn’t ask, but his answer rolls off his tongue automatically either way. “Dedue said I shouldn’t leave camp.”

Byleth seems unfazed.

“I see.”

He won’t insist, apparently, because he gets to his feet. He waves goodbye to the animals and gives a little bow towards Dimitri, then he sets off to the stables. Dimitri is left alone— or almost, because soon he has two pairs of eyes on him, waiting expectantly for him to produce more food out of thin air. 

Byleth’s black cape waves behind him as he walks away. Is he going out on his own, or meeting with someone later? The uncharacteristic surge of curiosity makes Dimitri wonder why would Byleth invite him, of all people, to join in all of a sudden. He was probably just being polite, Dimitri thinks, but finds he wouldn’t mind disrupting his routine with such an unexpected proposition.

It might be the dazzling sun and the clear sky after the morning rain, or how serene the training instructor seems to be, relaxing at the bench under a tree, that an invisible force pulls Dimitri forward. Namely, towards the stables.

He arrives just in time to see Byleth securing his horse’s seat. The soldier on stable duty salutes Dimitri, drawing unwanted attention to himself —so much for discreetly disobeying Dedue—, and the king just grins at her when she asks him if she should prepare a horse for him. 

The mercenary eyes him curiously, already up on his mare. 

“Changed your mind?”

Dimitri chuckles awkwardly, shaking his head. 

“Only if the invitation still stands.”

The terrain is rather bland because of the recent rain; going to the forest or the waterfront would only be asking for trouble, so they set off for the plains near the settlement. The breeze is clean and almost chilly, it caresses Dimitri’s face and fills his lungs as they advance. He can feel his muscles relaxing, the soft movement of the horse granting him the semblance of peace he always gets when riding for fun.

To his right, the Ashen Demon calmly observes his surroundings, taking in the landscape. Since it’s been raining more as of late, the trees and the vegetation are greener, the rivers fuller. 

Dimitri has to admit he wasn’t expecting it to be this enjoyable— the fact that Byleth is mostly quiet and Dimitri himself has a hard time making small talk only makes the silence feel more natural.

And speaking of which, Byleth seems at ease too. Dimitri is glad he isn’t ruining the expedition for him, that they can coexist like this, even if they don’t talk much. As he’s mentioned before, he hasn’t had many opportunities to share a meal or have a one-on-one conversation with Byleth, partially because of his commonly packed schedule, and also because of Byleth’s infamous reputation. Dedue doesn’t trust him yet, and neither does Felix.

But, well, Dimitri might not be an expert, but he doesn’t think Byleth looks that much like a demon most of the time, or at least not when he isn’t on the battlefield. Rather, it’s like he always has this tranquil atmosphere about him, permanently collected, never perturbed. Dimitri doesn’t know him enough to be able to tell whether this is a mask he wears or not, but he can't help but wish some of that fortitude of character for himself. 

Today, as he rides next to him, he seems content basking in gentle sunlight, having a moment of peace.

“You are staring, Your Majesty.”

Dimitri blinks a few times.

“Ah, my apologies.” He looks away, to the path ahead. “I don’t think we’ve had the opportunity to be alone like this.”

Byleth hums.

“Were you hoping for it?”

Dimitri thinks a younger version of himself would have flushed at that.

“I can’t say I have, forgive me,” he chuckles. “But it might be the perfect time to get to know each other better, don’t you think?”

Byleth nods, but doesn’t have much to add after that. They spend the rest of the trip in relative silence, mostly interrupted by Dimitri’s insights on the terrain and the state of the army as of late. Byleth never shows any signs of finding this boring —or particularly thrilling—, so Dimitri figures they are both that bad at socializing.

Once they lay out their picnic in a clearing they find in the woods, horses safely attached under a nice shadow, they sit to enjoy the food Byleth brought. It turns out, Dimitri notices with amusement, it’s mostly pastries and sweets, accompanied by tea. The cake slices look suspiciously familiar, like those Mercedes used to bake during their academy days. For a tortuous second, Dimitri laments not bringing anything himself.

Byleth beats him to it and offers him some tea, to which he gives a nod and a thanks. The flavor is not really that important when he can’t taste it, but he doesn’t see the point of bringing that up. He accepts the first thing Byleth suggests, and that’s it.

The sunrays are filtered through the foliage overhead, and the breeze feels so fresh against his face that Dimitri sighs contentedly. A change of scenery can do wonders to one’s spirits, Dedue always says, and Dimitri wonders why he took so long to put it to the test. Maybe what he needed all along was a hand to push him in the right direction. 

Not that Byleth had insisted that much, but still. 

“Do you have any pastimes, Byleth?” he hears himself ask when his companion is taking a break from engulfing snacks. 

If Dimitri smiles at the sight of a lone crumb by the corner of Byleth’s mouth, the king doesn’t notice.

The Ashen Demon tilts his head, as if he is giving the question some thought.

“I don’t know if ‘like’ is the right word, but I find myself helping people almost reflexively.”

Interesting, and truth be told, unexpected.

“Is that why you invited me to come along?”

Green eyes come back to him. Dimitri doesn’t think he’s ever seen eyes like these, and yet… they are somewhat familiar, like they stirr scattered memories from somewhere.

Which can’t be, so he discards the thought.

“You looked like you needed a change of pace.”

Dimitri nods, sincerely grateful. 

“Well, I did. It was very kind of you, thank you.”

Nightmares are something Dimitri should be used to by now, he repeats this to himself every night as he shivers in a cold sweat, as he forces himself off the bed to splash his face with freezing water once he is done shaking. And yet, here he is once again, choking on spit that tastes like blood, rushing out of his tent in desperate need of icy air that bites at his face and tears at his lungs from the inside, forcing him to wake up. 

As he walks— or rather, as he runs away from his tent (why is he running from them, from his family? Why does he bother, when they won’t leave? And more importantly, how dare he run?), the full moon shines brightly in the sky, watching him closely. She must find his pejorative entertaining, because she doesn’t blink, doesn’t grant him any privacy to suffer in peace.

Dimitri himself would bark a laugh, were he not struggling to breathe.

Without knowing why, he stumbles his way to the chapel , and it’s as if his feet take him there on their own, as if something up above makes the decision for him and an outer force pulls him in.

Inside, somber silence welcomes him. Some candles light the surroundings of the makeshift altar when they shouldn’t this late at night, seeing it could lead to a potential fire, but there is something— someone else that shouldn’t be here, sitting at the first row of pews.

Dimitri doesn’t recognize the shadowy silhouette, but his throat burns too much for him to call out to them. Only now he realizes he bolted out of his accommodations without any weapon, and that were this person an enemy, he’d be forced to defend himself with nothing but his bare hands. The sole thought of getting more blood on them makes his stomach churn, makes him gulp down the bile that raises up his esophagus.

The ghost, unbothered by his presence until now, glances back at him. Shrouded as they are in darkness, it’s hard for Dimitri’s eyes to discern their features right away, but then a cloud makes way for some moonlight to come in from the window on the east wall.

The light that spills inside, lazily sliding over stone and wooden pews, is then reflected off pale green locks. Mint eyes bore into Dimitri’s heart, with a grip that shouldn’t be as painful as it is. But that pain, Dimitri finds, is oddly soothing, like the pain of coming back home after being lost.

It’s the Ashen Demon, who doesn’t appear to be especially surprised to see Dimitri here in the middle of the night. Then again, he is not a very expressive man. Dimitri wishes, maybe foolishly, that he was able to read him.

“Your Majesty,” greets Byleth calmly, and only then the king realizes he’s been holding his breath.

A moment passes, in which the silence stagnates between them. Byleth doesn’t appear to be in a hurry— it’s as if he is waiting for Dimitri to find his voice.

Feeling his pulse throb behind his temples, Dimitri swallows thickly. 

“You said once you didn’t believe in the church of Seiros,” he says, and he doesn’t know why. 

Byleth’s gaze slowly returns to the altar, and Dimitri is immediately grateful for the room he’s been offered to gather himself. 

“I don’t,” Byleth answers simply.

Dimitri makes a meager attempt at fixing his blond mess of hair, but alas he doesn’t have a hair tie, so he quickly gives up on that front. More importantly, he gingerly smooths the wrinkles off his sleeping garments and chastises himself for showing an ally such an unbecoming sight.

He should just turn on his heels and go back to his tent, even if he won’t be able to sleep again, because tomorrow will be a busy day and both him and the Ashen Demon could use some rest…

But he can feel the strain of Lambert’s empty eye sockets from the door, where the stench of a rotting corpse awaits, so Dimitri cowardly chooses to step further into the chapel. 

The wood of the pew creaks beneath his weight as he sits. He turns to look at Byleth, at the other side of the path that leads to the altar. Dimitri tries not to think too much of the distance he willingly put between them, just tells himself intruding in the other man’s space by sitting on the same bench would have been rude.

Yes, that makes sense.

“Do you?”

It takes a second for Dimitri to understand what Byleth means. He knows the answer he is supposed to give, but he still finds himself smiling sadly as he looks down at his hands.

“I want to believe I do.”

Byleth doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t even hum to let him know he is listening. Dimitri doesn’t see the point of admitting he is incapable of sleep, even if Byleth himself might be a victim of the same unfortunate condition. Justifying his presence here doesn’t seem as important when he is sure Byleth doesn’t mind either way, so Dimitri tells himself he’ll take advantage of that and remain quiet.

For a moment, it works.

“I've always had strange dreams.”

Dimitri’s gaze goes up, but Byleth isn’t looking at him. His green eyes are fixed on the altar, or on some point over it, because he looks pensive, lost in thought. For the first time, Dimitri wonders if he isn’t interrupting him by being here.

He doesn’t appear vexed by the king’s presence, though. Dimitri must be half asleep still, because he allows himself to let his eyes slide over the other man’s delicate features. Byleth has a thin nose, a profile that could be described as elegant, his posture straight even when relaxed. Particles of light dance around his hair, frame his head like a halo. He looks like an ethereal being, just the way the goddess’ followers depict her in paintings, poems and songs.

Unreachable, beautiful. Like a fallen star from the sky, a spark of light sizzling still.

Dimitri’s gaze falls once more. What is he thinking?

“I can relate,” he says in a small voice.

They make each other company in silence.

“Are you two heading out?”

Jeralt and Byleth come to a halt upon hearing Dimitri’s voice, and they turn on their heels to meet his eyes. Jeralt lets go of this horse’s rein to bow, but Byleth doesn’t. Dedue has expressed his unconformity at the lack of manners the Ashen Demon shows from time to time, but Dimitri hardly finds it relevant. He is not downright rude , just a little obtuse when it comes to social hierarchy, so it’s not a problem. It’s less that he willingly chooses not to bow and more like he just forgets doing it. Dimitri finds it refreshing, to be honest.

Jeralt says something that doesn’t quite register in Dimitri’s brain. Then, Byleth nods.

“Would you like to tag along?” he asks, and the slight inflexion in his voice suggests his invitation is sincere.

Dimitri wants to say yes, but he feels it might be a tad intrusive. After all, these two don’t get to spend much time together as father and son lately. Dimitri enjoys both their company, but he’d rather step back so they can have the day for themselves. 

It is a bit surprising to find he is a little disappointed by his own choice, but he doesn’t think much of it. He can always ask Shez to spar with him to pass the time.

Smiling, Dimitri shakes his head.

“Please, don’t pay me any heed,” he raises a hand. “I was just on my way to the training grounds .”

It seems enough an answer to appease Jeralt, who bows again and goes back to getting their montures ready, but Byleth doesn’t move. Dimitri gives him a curious look, doing his best to keep his smile in place. The gaze of the Ashen Demon is not something one can easily ignore, and it might have to do with that sensation of him being able to see through you.

“Is something the matter?” the king asks, a tad hesitant. 

After a dreadfully long half a second, in which Byleth appears to have something in mind, Dimitri can see how he decides against voicing it out. 

The mercenary bows his head this time, and follows after his father.

They eat together sometimes. At first they sort of run into each other at the recreation quarter , no surprise there, seeing pretty much everyone eats there, but one day Shez offers to cook for them and they share their first meal together. Dimitri can’t taste much of what his commander makes, which is admittedly a shame, but he can’t deny it smells appetizing more often than not.

As time passes and their campaign moves forward, whenever Dimitri has the good graces of seeing Byleth in line, he asks him to join him and Dedue. They are quite the pair when they are together, Dimitri finds one day. Who would have thought Byleth was as enthusiastic about food as Dedue? His eyes almost shine whenever he attentively listens to Dedue go on about his homeland’s cooking, and Dimitri is more than happy to passively listen to their lively conversation about different recipes. It does wonders for his weak craving for any meal. 

Besides, it’s a delight to watch Byleth eat. He isn’t one to waste anything on his plate, and if you were to offer him more, regardless of how much he’s already had, he wouldn’t hesitate before accepting. Dimitri saw Jeralt scolding him for that once.

“I've had an immense appetite since I was small,” the mercenary muses one day, contemplative. “But I can also go days without eating a thing.”

They train together too, whenever their schedules align. Again, Dimitri isn’t a person with much free time on his hands, but when he is able to spare some, he’d rather do it training. And well, Byleth is not just about any opponent. His movements are polished and practiced, you can see he’s spent a great deal of time and effort into building his technique, but then he’ll pull something out of his sleeve you’ve never seen before, and judging by his stance, by the way he attacks and parries with a sword, he is not above coming up with a new style all of a sudden, with original motions of his own. 

Fighting him is invigorating, truly a challenge, and Dimitri can’t help but recall the time when they were enemies, how many men and women fell in battle just because of him. Shez had once told Dimitri the Ashen Demon was an one-man-army, and that he himself was faced with an imminent death when they first showed off against each other. Dimitri remembers being in awe of this mysterious individual, having heard tales of his achievements and how he could easily handle a hundred men without breaking a sweat or showing any emotion for their deaths.

There was a time when Dimitri put those rumors to doubt, only to swallow back his words once said demon officially joined them.

So, truth to his legend, Byleth’s prowess is no joke, no wives tale, and Dimitri loves sparring with him. For one, because he is unpredictable— his years living as a mercenary, the thirst for survival ingrained into his every move, not to mention Dimitri can almost go all-out on him. Almost, and that is something of note that he can't say about most of his comrades.

Today, a blur of green silently calls for him in the distance, and he knows he has to take a break, if only to train with Byleth again. Dedue gives him a knowing look he pretends not to notice, and so he starts for the training grounds, already pumped.

Rather than his usual sword, today Byleth fights Hapi using magic. The way he thrusts his hand out and fire is born from his palm, lighting, black wind, you name it, will never cease to amaze Dimitri, who is all but useless when it comes to the simplest of magic conjurings.

The king remains to the side, among the small crowd that observes the fight. Audiences are to be expected whenever Byleth is around, mostly because everyone remains curious about him even now. Something similar happens with Shez and that peculiar power he has. Whenever those two spar, half the camp comes to see them.

Predictably, Dimitri’s presence is a tad more noticeable than that of any other member of the army, so he greets those who turn to him with a quiet nod, hoping Byleth and his sparring partner don’t stop on his account. He would hate to distract them.

Mint eyes come to him then, like a magnet, and as soon as they meet his, they return to the task at hand. Dimitri clears his throat, and he doesn’t know why he feels heavier all of a sudden. 

He forces himself to focus on the fight as a whole, rather than on a single participant.

Once they are done, the crowd disperses. Hapi is beyond well-versed in dark magic, that much is evident, but while she is panting and pressing a hand to her chest, Byleth looks all but completely composed. If anything, some of his sweaty locks stick to his forehead. But his breathing is almost regular in the way it makes his chest rise and fall, so no, he isn’t as exhausted.

Byleth crosses the distance between them in a few strides and offers her some words of advice. This isn’t the first time this happens either, Dimitri notices. Felix himself has bailed on Dimitri more than once because he’d rather cut his right hand off than miss the opportunity to learn and receive feedback from the Ashen Demon himself.

Dimitri feels a tad warmer all over at that. It’s as if it’s in Byleth’s nature to nurture and guide people, so their effort bears fruit. He would have made a wonderful professor at Garreg Mach.

Hapi leaves with the face of someone who could fall asleep at any given moment, and so Byleth is finally left to his own devices.

Dimitri takes a deep breath and starts in his direction.

“Good spar,” he says as a greeting of sorts.

Then the mercenary, focused on the pages of his worn-out tome, looks up. When Byleth’s eyes lay on him, a tiny smile curves his lips, and Dimitri blinks, slightly taken aback. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him smile, at all. 

It’s odd, because he finds himself easily smiling back, and he feels his heart coming alive in his chest.

“You look happy,” he says, because he is stupid and his brain is having trouble processing the information his eyes show him. But he can’t look away, all but mesmerized by the sight.

Byleth shrugs, clearly in a good mood. The gesture is jovial, and it reminds Dimitri they are only a few years apart despite their roles in this war.

“You don’t seem as tired today.”

He doesn’t feel as tired, that is true, not anymore after what he just witnessed. He doesn’t retort, doesn’t have an answer. It’s as if his tongue has stopped working.

Byleth is patient as always as he waits for Dimitri to recover. It doesn’t happen. 

A light chuckle, a sound that has Dimitri holding his breath. 

“I’ll go grab a sword.”

Byleth turns on his heels, and Dimitri can’t do much more than watch him walk away.

Something tugs on his heart until it starts aching.

Byleth slashes through bandits like a lethal breeze, a flash of green lightning that strikes certain and true. 

Even though their expedition is ruined by the ambush, Dimitri can’t say he laments getting the opportunity to fight alongside the Ashen Demon back to back. It’s not a difficult endeavor, seeing these fiends are not exactly military trained and are barely any challenge to the king and one of his strongest fighters, but Dimitri still wishes violence wasn’t the first option.

They are doing just fine until Byleth’s footing falters, no doubt because of the mushy terrain after the rain, and Dimitri has to jump in to cover for him. The clash of his lance with cheap armor resounds in the clearing, and with that, the bandit staggers back onto the ground, the blade of Dimitri’s weapon grazing his neck in warning. 

He spares his life, deeming him unworthy of death for a petty skirmish. His companions, weapons raised, wait only for him to get back up to retreat, leaving the corpses of those not so fortunate behind.

Dimitri would mourn their passing had he not had more important matters to attend to. 

Once they are gone, he turns around to Byleth, who is already back on his feet.

“Byleth. Are you alright?”

The mercenary shakes his head, clearly displeased with himself.

“It is embarrassing, such an amateur mistake.”

Dimitri offers him a conspirative smile.

“Good thing I don’t plan on saying anything.”

Byleth snorts softly, and that little sound is reward enough after the whole thing.

They should get going, seeing their picnic was interrupted and all but ruined. A shame, truly, because Dimitri was enjoying himself with good company, but passing on the report of hostile groups around the area might even help prevent something like this happening to less wary comrades in the future.

Byleth takes a step, only to stagger, a light grimace marring his fair features. Dimitri draws closer, not really thinking when he gets a hold of the man’s bicep to help him regain his balance.

“It’s my ankle,” Byleth explains. “Nothing to worry about.”

But Dimitri does worry.

“Don’t force yourself.”

Dimitri finds it frustrating that he can't do much to help. If only he’d been better at faith magic— or, well, any kind of medical first aid, perhaps he could have mitigated the pain a little. 

Byleth’s horse is nowhere to be found, probably scared off by the ruckus, so there is that. It makes sense in hindsight, seeing it was one of the new breeds they acquired in the last village they visited, most likely in need of further training. Dimitri will see to it with the stable master. Again, complacency got the best of them. They will need to share Dimitri’s stallion, then.

He feels his cheeks warm up, just at the thought of mounting the same horse together. Byleth would need to sit behind him, pressed close to his back. Not that the horse isn’t big or strong enough for two riders, but… Perhaps it would be better to offer the horse to Byleth and limit himself to walking by. They aren’t precisely close to camp, but he could cover the distance by foot, should the need arise.

“We’ll have to use my horse,” he says, and he hopes it sounds like the suggestion it is.

Luckily, Byleth just nods.

“Sorry.”

Dimitri lets out a tiny breath. 

“Don’t be.”

Dimitri takes it upon himself to retrieve their belongings, despite Byleth assuring him he can handle such a menial task even in his condition. Dimitri has none of it and hurries along, getting everything back into the basket and securing it onto his monture.

Then, he offers Byleth a hand to help him get on the horse. The mercenary accepts readily, albeit he wouldn’t have any difficulty doing it on his own. Dimitri hoists himself up as well, and once he is safely sitting on the chair, once he feels Byleth’s gloved hands hold onto his cape, he beckons the horse to get going.

The weather is pleasant although the sun hides behind a thick layer of gray clouds, and one can feel the moisture in the air. They move a little faster, since this time around the track back is more about reaching camp than enjoying the scenery, but Dimitri knows galloping back just for a sprained ankle would raise some questions. So he tries to keep calm and focus on the road ahead, on the sinking of the horse’s hooves on damp vegetation. But with Byleth holding onto him from behind, even if he isn’t circling his waist with his arms, he is painfully aware of his heart hammering his ribs from inside his chest.

“Who taught you how to fight?” asks Byleth, seemingly out of nowhere.

But Dimitri knows better. Byleth is everything but unobservant, always willing to help, even if the problem is just Dimitri overthinking. He sighs, deciding to accept the distraction for what it is. He does lament not being able to turn to look at him. It would be rather awkward, being so close and all. 

He finds he likes Byleth’s gentle voice at his back.

“Many instructors, and my father, whenever he had the time.”

Byleth hums. Dimitri thinks he’ll add something, voice out his thoughts, but he doesn’t, not right away.

“You don’t hold back, but you are reckless,” he comments.

Dedue has said the same thing before. Felix has as well, more than once. Dimitri shrugs.

“I was only glad I didn’t get in your way.”

Byleth shakes his head.

“You're easy to fight for. Your commands are intuitive.”

“Yours are better.” 

Byleth chuckles, and Dimitri wishes he could trap that sound in a bottle. He feels Byleth leaning in, resting his forehead on his back, and Dimitri stops breathing. He can hear his heartbeat flapping like a bird’s wings behind his own temples. 

They are alone in a bubble for what feels like too long, a quiet second that stretches over time until Byleth speaks again.

“We live in an Age of war—but I feel like that's what I'm suited to.”

Dimitri swallows.

“I sincerely doubt that, my friend.” 

Once they reach camp, earning more than a few curious looks, Dimitri dismounts his horse and extends a hand up towards Byleth to help him down, which is quickly accepted.

Some knights rush to meet them, but Dimitri doesn’t give them the opportunity to ask pointless questions.

“Byleth is hurt. Please let the nurse know we’ll need her assistance.”

The knights exchange a hesitant look, but one of them nods.

“Right away, sir.”

With her gone to procure the nurse, Dimitri turns to Byleth, standing idly to his right.

“I’ll carry you.”

The near panicked look Byleth gives him upon hearing that would be amusing if Dimitri hadn’t been serious on his intent. The mercenary shakes his head.

“I can walk, you don’t have to—”

In a swift movement, Dimitri hooks an arm behind back and his knees and pulls him up. Byleth gasps, taken aback, but he knows better than to struggle. If anything, he clutches the fur of Dimitri’s armor for purchase. 

The other knight hastily offers his help, volunteering himself to carry Byleth to the infirmary instead of the king, but Dimitri refuses it. He doesn’t want to let go of Byleth until he absolutely needs to. Besides, his weight is nothing for Dimitri’s strength, barely more than a couple of silver swords , but infinitely more invaluable, more precious. Something he ought to protect.

“You may return to your post,” Dimitri dismisses him. “Thank you for your hard work.”

The knight stutters a bit, no doubt with the intention of insisting, but Dimitri has stopped listening. He turns on his heels and heads for the sick bay.

There are some puzzled people that halt their own activities in favor of looking at the odd picture they make, and albeit Dimitri would find it embarrassing in other circumstances, nothing matters to him more now than getting Byleth some help.

“It’s just a sprained ankle,” Byleth tries, voice low, only for Dimitri to hear.

The king risks a peek into his face, only to find a lovely pink on Byleth’s cheeks and an averted gaze.

“H-hush, you rest.” Dimitri clears his throat, eyes ahead. “You are fairly light either way.”

It appears as if he wants to rebuke that last statement, but reluctantly, Byleth complies. He lets himself go lax in Dimitri’s firm hold, head gently resting over the king’s shoulder, tucked into Dimitri’s neck, against his fluffy collar. And, as delusional as he is, Dimitri wishes there wasn’t a chunk of cold metal— namely, his armor, between them. 

Well, at least he can’t hear Dimitri’s rabbit-quick heartbeat like this.

Byleth fiddles with the pelt under his gloved hands. Dimitri thinks he might have heard him letting out a tiny sigh.

“Just don’t let Jeralt see me like this.”

Dimitri feels himself blush with shame. The last thing he wants is to embarrass Byleth in front of his father, who happens to be one of the most famous mercenaries in the continent. What would he say, if he saw his son carried like a maiden just for a sore ankle? 

Suddenly, Dimitri feels a tad dumb, yet he tightens his hold on Byleth.

“I apologize, but please bear with it for a little longer.”

Byleth nods, falling silent.

The nurse is an old woman that looks like she’s seen her fair share of horrors during her lifetime, long wrinkles giving her a perpetual frown and round glasses that rest over her minute nose, gray hair tied up on top of her head. She appears surprised to see the king himself deliver an injured patient, and even more so when he gently lowers Byleth to one of the cots, only to reveal the problem being his swollen ankle.

From that point on, it’s surprisingly quick. She uses faith magic to repair any damage and ice compresses to help the swelling. She carefully bandages Byleth’s ankle under Dimitri’s attentive gaze despite her telling him he isn’t needed here anymore. Dimitri knows this, of course, but he wants to remain selfish to the end. Meanwhile, Byleth’s face is bright red. Dimitri’s own might as well be a perfect mirror, he has no way of knowing.

When she is done, the nurse gives Byleth some medicine for the pain and instructs him to rest for about two days. When he seems to want to say something, she lifts a finger to make him keep it to himself. Byleth’s mouth snaps closed.

She makes sure to bow before Dimitri, but before she is out the infirmary, she gives him a look that says she can’t believe he called her for this. Dimitri tries his best to stand straight when he thanks her for her help.

After she is gone, he is left alone with Byleth, the faint clatter of life in the camp filling in the silence between them.

Dimitri wants to crawl under a rock. 

Rubbing the back of his head, he risks a glance at Byleth.

“So much for taking a break,” he muses, chuckling awkwardly. 

Contrary to what he is expecting, Byleth sighs and gives him a tender smile, and it’s impossibly fond, as if instead of mad, he is touched by the pathetic display of Dimitri’s pushing attitude today. 

“We can always try again,” he says, and it sounds like he means it.

Some knights enjoy healthy rapport through ale after training. Dimitri isn’t one to partake in those kinds of vices, but even he can see the appeal of stopping thinking for a little while and passing out after a night of easy fun. The goddess knows he could use some way to quell his swirling thoughts for a while.

Last night, Sylvain let him know he was going out with some knights today, just to blow off some steam. This week, the camp’s location is rather close to a small village in the middle of nowhere, so they want to, and Dimitri quotes, “help the local economy”.

Dedue’s judgemental stare made Dimitri chuckle, but he still admitted he liked the idea. Even Felix and Shez said they’d be going, so with his right hand there and one of his best soldiers close by, Dedue had no choice but to allow it. 

Which brings Dimitri to his current predicament. They are on cleaning duty, him and Byleth, that is, and the king is too busy considering the possibility of Byleth joining in tonight’s outing to notice the stretching silence.

Predictively, Byleth doesn’t mind peace and quiet while he works, so he isn’t the first one to disturb it, although he must be able to tell there is something on Dimitri’s mind. He still gives him all the time in the world, and for that, Dimitri is infinitely grateful.

The king swallows, looking down to the dagger he’s been polishing for a while now, just to have something to do.

“Do you drink, Byleth?” he hears himself ask.

Byleth doesn’t miss a beat.

“Not particularly. Do you?”

That is a little surprising, Dimitri thinks, that a mercenary isn’t keen on alcohol. He seems to remember Jeralt downing mug after mug at the recreation quarter, and momentarily wonders if Byleth is more the kind of person to look after drunktards than joining their ranks.

“Sometimes it helps,” he says, setting the dagger aside. “To relax, that is.”

Byleth doesn’t have a retort to that other than a soft, “I see.”

Dimitri fidgets with the scabbard of the dagger. It’s cheap leather, but resistant. 

What is he so nervous about? All he has to do is invite the mercenary to join their plans tonight. Worst thing Byleth could say is no, right? So there is no need to dwell too much on it. 

Dimitri clears his throat.

“By–”

“Byleth!” rings another voice, making both men turn to the door, now wide open, where Yuri just appeared out of thin air. “We’re going out tonight, wanna come with?” 

Only then he seems to notice Dimitri at all, and he has the good graces of, albeit belatedly, nodding towards him.

“Your Majesty.”

Dimitri presses his lips together. 

“Good day, Yuri.”

Yuri gives him a radiant smile and turns his attention back to Byleth, hand on his hip, waiting for an answer.

“So? Everyone’s going.”

Seemingly deep in thought, Byleth tilts his head. There is a small silence. 

“Are you going?” the mercenary asks Dimitri, then.

It takes a moment for the king to process that he is being addressed at all. Green eyes wait for him to react, like they always do, never pressing on.

“I am,” he responds meekly, and Byleth gives him a firm nod, satisfied with the answer. He turns to Yuri.

“Sounds fun.”

So there’s that, apparently.

They meet again later tonight, at the tavern. Felix and Dedue accompany Dimitri, and while they all agree on not wearing war armor so they don’t stand out like a sore thumb, the few other guests still eye the swords attached to their hips suspiciously. Nothing they can do about that, but they can’t exactly show up completely unarmed either.

Byleth arrives together with Jeralt and some of their men, and as he sits across the table, in front of Dimitri, he gives the king a little smile. Dimitri swallows discreetly, but manages to smile back. 

One would think that, not being used to drinking, Dimitri’s resistance to alcohol would be way below average —Shez certainly believed so, seeing he handed him a mug with a knowing smirk in place—, but that misconception couldn’t be further from the truth. Among so many other things that constituted both a blessing and a curse depending on the situation, his Crest granted him an astonishing resistance to hold ale in. 

And curiously enough, the same could be said about the three mercenaries sitting across from him. Jeralt downed mug after mug, barely affected, while Shez and Byleth did the same as they snacked on the dry meat the waitress had to keep replenishing every few minutes.

Who would have thought, Dimitri wonders, that Shez and Byleth would be sitting next to each other, comfortably sharing beer and tales of their adventures? Dimitri feels a pang of relief, if he is being honest, because part of him always thought they were closer to mortal enemies than they were to healthy rivals.

Dimitri contentedly observes them talking, not wanting to interrupt. Sylvain takes care of that when he proposes a shot drinking competition. Unsurprisingly, both Jeralt and Alois enthusiastically accept, and so does Mercedes, smiling beatifically when half the table turns to her with wide eyes. Balthus cackles and slams the wooden surface with one big palm, flagging down the poor waitress once more.

It’s getting late, and after so many mugs —he stopped counting at some point—, Dimitri’s head feels sluggish. It’s a sensation he both enjoys and despises— his mind going blank for more than a second is blissful paradise, although he is wide open for any potential attack at the same time, in a weakened state. He shouldn’t like it one bit, and yet. It might be the company, that he is surrounded by trusted allies, or because he is just tired of dead people screaming in his ears every waking minute, but he decides he doesn’t care tonight. He’ll pay dearly come morning, in more ways than one, he knows this, so he takes another swing from his drink.

He leans over the table, forgetting any manners the governess back at Fhirdiad drilled into him, using his arms as a makeshift pillow. Despite the laughter, the music and the clatter swirling all around him, he doesn’t find it hard to believe he’d be able to fall asleep on the spot.

Half lidded eyes follow Byleth’s motions as he sips from his own drink. A pink tongue peeks out to lick at some foam left on his lips, leaving them shiny and inviting.

Jeralt says something, something funny, Dimitri assumes, because Byleth smiles. 

There it is again, that pain in Dimitri’s chest.

He must be plain obvious on his mulling, because Byleth notices the scrutiny and gives him a curious look.

“Yes?” 

Dimitri wants to straighten in his seat, but he doesn’t find the strength. Also, he doesn’t feel like moving. Or looking away from Byleth, for that matter.

“Your hair,” it’s the first thing that comes to mind. It might not be a lie, but it isn’t completely true, either. “It’s different from the first time we met.”

That seems to take Byleth aback, if slightly so, because he tilts his head, perfect eyebrows pinching together. He even brings up a hand to his own green locks.

“Truly? What did it look like?”

What was it, again? Dimitri racks his brain, only to come back empty handed. He squeezes his eyes closed, as if that will give him the answer. He shakes his head. He can’t help but feel like he has that image right there, on the front of his mind, but that as soon as he reaches for it, it slips away from his grasp. Maybe a different color? 

“I can’t remember.”

Something Dimitri likes about Byleth, is that he can speak without saying a word. His eyes do that a lot, he thinks. Most of the time he can’t quite understand the language they speak, but he desperately wants to believe he’s learning to decipher them, little by little.

Or it might be that his eyes have started to speak louder as of late, to shout so Dimitri can hear them.

For example, tonight, across the table and through the cheer and laughter, they say, “Let’s get out of here.”

Byleth’s eyes glint in a way that has Dimitri’s lips curling upwards, and he feels a little breathless, but he gets to his feet either way when the mercenary does.

Outside, the night is cold. The breeze bites at Dimitri’s cheeks, and while it stings, he thanks the way it helps clear his head, if only a little. Byleth’s hair gleams in the moonlight, and since he left his coat inside, every curve of his body calls for Dimitri’s wondrous eyes. They walk side by side, maybe a bit closer than to what is considered proper, shoulders brushing every once in a while. 

Dimitri must say something silly, because Byleth snorts softly and looks down, as if hiding his smile, and Dimitri wishes he wouldn’t do that. A voice in his head reminds him that he should be mindful of his own station as king, of what rumors these kinds of escapades could fuel if he is not careful, but he finds he is a tad more concerned about the way Byleth’s gentle smile adorns his beautiful face, about how long his lashes are. As a matter of fact, Dimitri can barely think of anything else right now.

They come to a stop next to an alley that further down opens up into the plaza. The darkness offers cover here, barely disrupted by flickering puddles of street lights. Dimitri’s clumsy body staggers a little, and he has to hold onto Byleth’s shoulder so as not to lose balance. Byleth’s hands come to his biceps in response, as if to secure him in place.

“Careful.”

Dimitri chuckles, as if it’s funny that he is a fall away from shaming his entire bloodline. 

“My apologies.”

They stand a little closer now, and to any onlookers, it must be as if they are sharing a secret here, secluded from the rest of the world. Dimitri sighs. Would it be too terrible if it were the case, too presumptuous of him to want something like that? Dimitri wants to learn more about Byleth, to be able to call himself his friend. To be there for him, should he ever need someone to confide in. He can’t help but wonder where these feelings come from, how long have they been festering in the depths of his heart.

He also wishes he were strong enough to pull away. But he doesn’t want to, not really. Being here, sharing Byleth’s space, it feels like he is safe, like nothing could go wrong. Which is a childish perception, based on nothing else than alcohol in his system. 

Dimitri has grown greedy, and wants one too many things.

“Are you even drunk?” he asks, voice low and dangerously close to teasing. Maybe a tad accusative. 

Byleth huffs, looking down again before his eyes flick up beneath long green lashes. Dimitri’s gaze remains glued to his lips.

“A little.”

His hands slide down the mercenary’s arms to his lower back, and Dimitri must be out of his mind, because he pulls him closer. Absent-mindedly, he rubs the dark fabric of Byleth’s robe between his fingers. 

“ What is it ?” Byleth asks in a whisper, a slight curve to the corner of his mouth.

Dimitri hates that he must be making a fool of himself, but he finds he doesn’t mind Byleth making fun of him if he is going to look at him like that. 

With barely functioning lungs, the king sighs.

“I love seeing you smile. ” 

Byleth’s chuckle is almost silent, very quiet and meant for Dimitri’s ears only. He shakes his head and presses his forehead to Dimitri’s collarbone. Byleth's body feels warm against his, full of life, and albeit Dimitri wishes he’d stop hiding his face, he also wants to remain like this, fused into an embrace that makes him stop feeling the cold. 

“Are we speaking truths?”, Byleth asks, and he sounds amused.

Dimitri swallows thickly. Feeling Byleth’s chest breathing against his is distracting. 

“I can stop,” he lies. “If you’d rather I kept them to myself.”

Byleth’s hand gives his arm a little squeeze.

“I wish you’d cut your hair.”

A smile curves Dimitri’s lips against his will.

“I wish you’d talk more.”

Byleth gives a tiny laugh, and Dimitri presses a long, reverent kiss to the side of his head.

The hold on his bicep tightens again, but this time it’s different. It’s stronger, and Dimitri doesn’t have time to think about what it means because he feels warm lips against his pulse. He shudders. 

Byleth whispers over the place where his jaw meets his neck, “I like it when you call me by my name.”

Dimitri’s hands slide up Byleth’s back, hungry, over the place usually hidden by that piece of armor that hugs his waist, wanting to feel what is underneath. His lips graze the shell of Byleth’s ear.

“I wish you didn’t wear so many layers.”

Byleth swallows.

“I wish you’d come to my tent whenever you can’t sleep.”

Dimitri takes a deep breath. 

Byleth pulls away just enough so he can look up, and his mint eyes tell Dimitri what he wants him to do. 

Drawn by the only brazen cell in his body, by Byleth’s soft voice and starlit eyes, Dimitri slowly leans in. The tip of his nose brushes Byleth’s, and it’s a little cold, but the man’s breath is warm as it condenses over Dimitri’s lips. He feels like he is short of starting shaking. He lets his eyes flutter closed.

“Byleth!” a strident voice cuts through the night, then. “Captain Jeralt is looking for you!”

Dimitri nearly jumps, releasing his hold on Byleth as if the contact burns. Byleth snorts, hand withdrawing to fall to his sides.

A bob of red hair comes springing their way, and Annette waves when she spots them, all but staggering amidst light hearted giggles. Dimitri would be mad if his soul hadn't left his body for half a second. If anything, he is mortified for painting such a scandalous scene. Just to think anyone saw them…

He clears his throat, and attempts taking a very discreet step away from Byleth. 

The mercenary must take note of his discomfort, because he looks at him, inexplicably affectionate, just like always, despite him having done nothing to earn such patience, and Dimitri can breathe again. 

He swallows the ball of cotton in his throat, and tries for an apologetic smile. Byleth bites back a grin, and his eyes turn to the newcomer.

Annette doesn’t ask about them being here all alone, her bubbly voice suggests she either didn’t notice or doesn’t mind at all. She excitedly hooks her arm with Byleth’s, most likely a little intoxicated as well.

They go back together, supporting Annette’s weight at both her sides, so she doesn’t fall.

There is a voice. It’s low and rich and beautiful, and it both lullabies Dimitri and keeps him from entirely drifting away. It’s a voice he knows too well, the voice of a siren and that of a savior. 

Byleth is singing.

“In time's flow… see the glow of flames ever burning bright…”

His words cut through flames, through screaming and the cheers of the crowd as Rufus’ head falls to the ground. It brings rest after the pain, solace after the storm, warmth, like the sun.

A hand runs through Dimitri’s damp hair, the gesture so careful and fond he wonders what he ever did to deserve it. 

“On the swift river's drift, broken memories alight…”

Dimitri sighs, eyes fluttering open just a little. His eyelids feel too heavy. What he sees after following the song back to the world of the living, is an angel looking down at him in the darkness. Green locks of hair gleam faintly in the moonlight, and the sight brings peace to Dimitri’s troubled heart.

“Professor,” Dimitri rasps, not able to find his own voice.

Byleth’s hand on his head halts its soothing motions. Dimitri’s vision is a tad too blurry to discern the man’s expression in detail. It takes a short moment, but Byleth resumes his gentle caresses. He quietly hushes him, his other hand coming to the boy’s chest, right over his heart.

“It’s alright,” Byleth muses. “Those who tried to harm you are far away.”

Despite seeing them in dreams, over and over each night, despite knowing he’ll see them again tomorrow, and the day after and so on until the day he dies, Dimitri believes him. For a short, blissful second, he believes him.

Byleth starts humming, resuming his song. Dimitri feels his eyes closing, sleep clinging to him like a veil, and soon he is gone again.

Next day, he wakes up alone in the chapel, with a numb ache on his back that suggests he spent the night on this very pew. 

As he gets to his feet, the first rays of sunlight bathing the venue, he tries to remember how he got here in the first place.

On their route to Ailell, the Imperial army attempts to fall back to Garreg Mach. The Kingdom gives chase, hoping to stop them before they arrive. 

They find Duke Aegir and Count Bergliez commanding their forces, and the fight is long and hard, but they manage to win. With both Byleth and Shez on their side, the soldiers feel invincible. Dimitri, on his part, can only think of Edelgard as he tears through flesh and bone.

The knights of Seiros, led by Seteth, are on their way to occupy their rightful place at the Monastery, so Dimitri voices they should come meet them. Even if he’d rather sweep the battlefield in search of white hair and a red cape. His army shouldn’t have to carry with his childish yearning for his sister, he knows this. 

“No, let’s keep searching.”

Byleth’s voice makes Dimitri turn to him for what feels like the first time in forever. After the fight, the mercenary’s green locks are tousled and his clothes dirty, yet he doesn’t appear tired. He never does. He conducts himself with the same grace and elegance he’s always had. How can he still stand tall, despite everything? 

Dimitri’s own bones feel heavy as they do their best not to crumble under the weight of the armor his father gave him. Once again, he feels jealous of Byleth, of the way he doesn’t bend, doesn’t break.

Byleth doesn't let Dimitri’s gaze drift elsewhere. Green eyes glint with purpose, asking him to listen.

“Sometimes, the person you’re looking for is hiding right under your nose the whole time.”

Dimiri packs sweets for Byleth— pastries and cookies he knows he favors over plain sandwiches and fruits. 

On the riverbank, beneath the shadow of a tree, as the gentle breeze agitates the branches above, he watches him drift asleep, hands over his belly. It’s a fascinating process that takes ten minutes tops, and nothing else than a comfortable spot on the grass and the faint gurgling of running water in the background. Dimitri wishes he could fall asleep as quickly, but his envy doesn’t deter him from enjoying the sight.

Byleth’s long lashes flutter every once in a while, and he stirs in his sleep. With a tiny smile, Dimitri wonders what he might be dreaming about.

He leans in, reaching out to brush away a strand of green hair, and the motion, albeit awfully delicate, more careful than anything Dimitri’s hands have ever been capable of, still manages to rouse Byleth.

Heavy lidded eyes look up at the king, hazy with any lingering sleep. He doesn’t bat away Dimitri’s touch, but rather, he leans into it. 

Dimitri doesn’t have anything to say, and neither does Byleth. The mercenary allows Dimitri’s gaze to remain on him, unbothered by the scrutiny. If anything, it appears as if Byleth has something in his mind.

“I hope all our allies survive this war,” he muses.

Dimitri smiles. 

He keeps quiet, doesn’t find the words, so he stays content with staring at Byleth, finger gently tucking a mint lock behind his ear. The mercenary stares right back, now fully awake.

Dimiri wonders if he’ll live to see the end of the war, if Byleth will be there once it’s all over. It is unlikely, since the cease of conflict would directly mean he’d be out of a job, but the king can’t help but hope. That he stays around. For him. That fate is whimsical enough to let them live and find each other after the bloodshed ceases. 

When was the last time Dimitri wished for his own survival, that he allowed himself to want something past his search for justice? He doesn’t remember.

Byleth hauls himself up to his elbows, observing him intently. Then he reaches for the back of Dimitri’s head and brings him close. He presses his lips against Dimitri’s, stealing the king’s breath away, pulling him out of his head by force. Dimitri freezes, and Byleth gives him another closed mouth kiss, then another.

He draws back all too soon, as if to weigh Dimitri’s reaction. Green eyes ask Dimitri to kiss Byleth back.

Then, as if struck by lighting, Dimitri finds his body again and obeys, capturing Byleth’s mouth in his once more. This time, though, Byleth’s lips open up for Dimitri’s and the king grunts upon tasting Byleth’s unique flavor— mouth is wet and soft and sweet, it tastes like the strawberry pie he just had. Dimitri gently pushes him down so he is laying back on the patterned blanket, and he sighs, feverish, a shudder traveling up his spine, feeling his limbs and his mind melt. He kisses Byleth like he is starving, as if he can give him the air he desperately needs to survive. 

Byleth repays him in kind, licking into his mouth just to tease him, just for his tongue to retreat when Dimitri’s wants to give chase, nibbling at his lower lip, kissing him back with just as much abandon, until Dimitri’s lips hurt. His hand closes into a fist on blond hair, and an arm comes to circle Dimitri’s neck, pulling him closer still, so Dimitri has to accommodate himself between his legs.

“Dima,” Byleth pants.

With his brain sunk into a thick fog as it is, it takes a moment for Dimitri to react to the name. A name he’s never told Byleth about. He pulls back, and Byleth appears positively panicked, as though he called someone else's name in the throes of passion, cheeks flushed and hair a mess framing his face. 

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

Dimitri tries to school his breathing back into something normal, to no avail. It takes  him a moment to come back from the high of kissing Byleth like he is going to die tomorrow. 

He swallows the excess of saliva in his mouth, and when he speaks, his voice comes out ragged.

“Perhaps you heard it from Felix.”

Byleth blinks up at him, as if he himself is disoriented, like he doesn’t get what one thing has to do with the other.

“Perhaps, yes.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

They stay in silence for a moment. There are birds nearby, chirping overhead. Byleth’s thumb brushes Dimitri’s cheek, and his hand is so very warm. A reassuring weight that brings him back to the earth.

“It hurts, looking at you,” Dimitri muses, voice barely there.

He sees Byleth’s throat work. He nods, like he understands, like he feels it too.

Slowly, gently, he cradles Dimitri’s face in both his hands, and pulls him down, to place a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. Dimitri relaxes, letting his eyes flutter closed. He grabs one of Byleth’s hands, gives it a tiny squeeze, and kisses his palm. 

When he opens his eyes again, green ones are there for him. To hold onto like a lifeline.

From afar, this close, whether Dimitri is dreaming or wide awake, Byleth looks familiar, painfully so, like he was always there, like he is part of him, like he belongs in the deepest ends of Dimitri’s entrails. 

He wonders why.