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Seeing Byleth again, almost two years after the war, makes Claude draw in a deep breath. It feels as if it’s the first time he’s done it in a while, drawing air into his lungs. Byleth looks radiant in white, a shocking contrast from the professor clad in black that lives in Claude’s mind rent free, who used to run from place to place within Garreg Mach with a bucket of flowers to give away, who would flash at the corner of Claude’s vision whenever he had the chance to see the man in action on the battlefield.
Now, he stands before his throne, green hair the exact same shade Claude has seen in his dreams for years, framing his face like the halo he should have, as he is supposed to be the literal reincarnation of this people’s goddess. There aren’t many in Almyra that follow the religion the Kingdom and the former Empire share, and Claude himself would rather put his faith in himself than in any god, but Byleth is the proof of divinity being a real thing. The people of Fódlan agree with him in this respect, because no one opposed when it was announced that the Archbishop was to take the role of King consort, and honestly, who would? When it was clear this goddess of theirs favored the man and guided his hand to rule over them next to the Savior King.
Dimitri looks proud next to him, golden hair tied back and silver armor shining under the light that pours from the stained glass at their right. The eyepatch doesn’t scar his appearance of the idealistic prince that he had even back in his academy days, but the bags under his good eye do catch Claude’s attention. He remembers them from the war, and what they meant. Most of the mandataries here —Claude included— have heard of the rumors surrounding the royal couple, rumors a part of Claude’s skeptical nature desperately wants to be wives’ tales, but he has yet to gather evidence in any given case.
Byleth doesn’t smile during Dimitri’s speech. He waits until the king turns to him to let his lips curve at the corners. It doesn’t seem insincere, but it is a bit odd when the last time Claude saw him, he was all smiles. Again, another contrast to the kind of man he was when he first got to Garreg Mach. Now, he seems to have something weighing on his mind.
The crowd claps, some guests even raise their wine cups to show their excitement, and Byleth’s green eyes find Claude. The boy feels his heart stop in place for the split of a second the eye contact lasts, but he quickly gathers himself. He gives Byleth a wink as he applauds, accompanied with his characteristic smile.
But Byleth pretends not to see him. His eyes go back to roaming the room as if he didn’t recognize a former student among them. Claude’s smile doesn’t drop, but he feels it waver. No one needs to know the rejection stung.
He does feel another gaze on him, though, and he doesn’t have to be a genius to know it’s Dimitri’s. So he flags down a servant and takes a drink from the tray they show him, feigning ignorance.
The dinner is next, and from Claude’s point of view, it’s the main part of the event. He exchanges pleasantries with high Lords and people he has never met in his life before, but he isn’t here for them. He cautiously keeps his eyes from wandering too much, albeit he never catches a glimpse of light green until the exact moment the food is about to be served. And he isn’t the only one; everyone is already sitting, including the king —now without armor, wearing ostentous clothes befitting of his status (tall neck, long sleeves)—, but there is an empty seat next to him.
Byleth joins the table, drawing more than Claude’s eyes up to look at him. He apologizes for his tardiness in the voice Claude has missed for who knows how long, and takes his seat to his husband’s right. Dimitri smiles adoringly at him, and covers one of Byleth’s delicate hands with his. Claude never before thought his hands were delicate, because well, the Ashen Demon seemed to dance while fighting, yes, and he was good at more graceful work as well, as shown whenever he took care of the flowers at the greenhouse, but Claude thinks it has to be due to Dimitri’s long fingers engulfing Byleth’s, his thumb tracing soft patterns on the white skin, that they seem so very small now.
Everyone is in good spirits. Unsurprisingly, the food is amazing, and there is enough alcohol to make the most important men of the room forget Dimitri is half their age. The conversations run smoothly around Claude, and of course, he can’t avoid getting involved here and there, when the people at his sides ask him about Almyra’s weather and inconsequential stuff like that. Claude plays along, as much as he hates it. Lorenz might have been a good companion for this kind of event, he tells himself.
Discreetly, he looks in Byleth’s direction while he pretends to be deep in conversation with the woman to his left. The archbishop doesn’t talk, and no one attempts to address him in any way. It’s almost as if he isn’t even present, or as if he is a ghost. Dimitri talks to a couple of noble women from some other country, but neither of them direct their eyes to the professor. Byleth does look at them, though, silently taking in the exchange. From time to time Dimitri turns to him, gives him a prompt and Byleth responds, and the women nod nervously at every word that leaves his mouth. As soon as he is done speaking, their eyes return to Dimitri and don’t come back to him. Not unless Dimitri gives them permission to, it would seem.
(So little to no interaction with the archbishop, lest you want to anger the king.)
Bringing a cup of water to his lips, Claude hides the heavy sigh that leaves him.
No one really knows who started it, but one could argue the rumor came from the maids of the castle. Who else would even imagine that King Dimitri prohibited Byleth to leave the castle grounds when not accompanied by him, or that there was a servant that suddenly disappeared after being caught red handed leaving the archbishop’s chambers in the dead of night? Now, none of these rumors are something to be concerned about, since they likely mean the king wants his husband to be safe, and it remains clear that whoever doesn’t respect their marriage is to be severely punished. There is nothing odd to any of it.
But what about the one that says Dimitri would chain Byleth to Areadbhar? That he only permits a single maid to tend to him and no one else is to speak or to even look at him unless Byleth himself addresses them first? Claude is everything but gullible, but he distinctly remembers the way Dimitri’s blue eyes would follow the professor wherever he went. That he did this before the war, when the king was a prince, a boy clearly enamored with the young professor, just like everyone else. And even then, Claude thought there was something amiss with it. Something dark, not so innocent as the rest of them once thought.
They would share meals and tea parties, and more often than not train together. You could see them almost daily coming out of the sauna or simply taking a stroll early in the morning, so it wasn’t really that surprising when they announced their marriage many years later. Then again, once they were five years into the war, when Byleth turned out to be alive and fought alongside Dimitri to grant him victory, Claude got to be witness to five days tops of their campaign, but he noticed right away Dimitri’s tired eye following Byleth’s every move, just like he did before, despite not giving him the time of the day when spoken to directly. Hilda told him then that whatever they had going on back in their academy days was long forgotten, but Claude begged to differ. The pain in Byleth’s eyes whenever Dimitri was too lost between ghosts to listen to him, and the murderous glare Dimitri directed to whoever dared approach Byleth in anything other than a business capacity, proved the contrary.
After Edelgard fell, Dimitri’s condition improved considerably. Or at least, that is what everyone wanted to believe. As Claude secretly observes the king bring Byleth’s hand to his lips, placing a reverent kiss to his knuckles as he smiles at him like a man madly in love, he finds he harbors his doubts still.
Because the truth is, Claude never saw Byleth again. No one did. His research said that neither Seteth, who was always a close friend to the professor, nor Ashe, arguably his favorite student, nor any other of the Blue Lions, ever got the chance to talk to him again. He even came to live to Fhirdiad, breaking the apparent tradition of the archbishop handling their duties from Garreg Mach. Seeing how the king was the head of state while Byleth’s position was more of a spiritual guide to the people, it made sense that these two occupations were to remain separated. Seteth is currently taking care of commanding the Monastery and the Knights of Seiros, which are basically Byleth’s obligations. Claude knows for a fact they haven’t been exchanging letters —Seteth admitted Byleth had never in two years written back, not even once, but not without a hint of hurt in his tone —, so it would appear as if Byleth is the archbishop in nothing other than name.
Which is why Claude accepted the invitation Dimitri extended to him. He knew this was nothing else than a fancy party, not a single political or social issue ever to be addressed or discussed, so it would be a complete waste of time in other circumstances, if not for one of the hosts being the only person Claude has ever felt something for.
And just to be clear, this isn’t personal. Claude knows Byleth’s feelings for Dimitri are real, and while a part of him wished at some point in the past that it would change, he promised himself he’d never long for someone he couldn’t have. He came to terms with Byleth not being his since he was a student, since the moment he saw him smile for the first time ever, across the courtyard while sharing pastries with none other than Dimitri— but upon breaching the envelope sealed with Dimitri’s family crest, the hope of finding what happened to the esteemed professor presented itself.
So here he is, for the first time ever, without a full-fledged plan. Well, he did make some preparations beforehand, he is not stupid.
After a while, in which Claude limits himself to sip from his water from time to time, observing this bunch of important people getting drunker and drunker, he notices out of the corner of his eye that Byleth stands up and disappears through a door behind Dimitri’s tall seat at the head of the table.
Claude doesn’t know if this really goes unnoticed or if the guests pretend to be too busy to catch on it. Whatever the case, he knows this is his chance. Some other men had come up to their feet to visit the restrooms, but they all were directed by servants to a different door, closer to where Claude's seat is. He figures he has to start somewhere, so he calls for a maid he recognizes, eyelids a tad low and a fake stumble helping him to appear as harmlessly drunk as possible.
As they walk, the girl —that couldn’t be older than eighteen— quickly and discreetly whispers instructions for him to reach the Royal Chambers, where he’ll surely be able to find Byleth. When they reach the restrooms, there are some gentlemen coming out, so the maid bows and he dismisses her right away, even if she puts on the show of asking him if he wants her to wait for him.
Once alone, Claude makes a mental map of the rooms he’s seen so far, aided by the directions the maid gave him. The door Byleth crossed back at the dining hall comes to mind. He takes a deep breath, telling himself that, if caught red handed, he can always blame his current location on being completely wasted.
He has ten minutes, tops.
So he makes haste, advancing through the deserted hallways of the palace, the carpet muting his steps as he draws away from the chatter at his back. He is a bit nervous, he can’t deny that, but as the corners and furniture change in the way the maid described, he can feel himself growing optimistic. He is not that fond of traitors, but he’ll see that she is well rewarded after this. Not everyone is willing to risk their life for a few coins, but Claude wants to believe this girl wants to help Byleth as much as he does.
(Maybe a little too much.)
She also mentioned security thinning as one drew away from the hall, since the guests there are so big-league and such, and Claude is grateful he doesn’t encounter that many knights because of it. The ones he does see are easy to avoid, so there is that.
The doors to Dimitri’s chambers are exactly where they are supposed to be, big and heavy and ominous, just like the man himself. Claude hates that once, the same man preached his desire to be an emissary of hope instead, not of fear. So much for dreams.
He cautiously pushes the wood open. The room is dark, curtains drawn. Byleth is nowhere to be found, but from here, Claude can hear the constant hiss of a faucet in the bathroom, can see the stripe of light under the ajar door. With his heart beating loudly in his throat, he follows the sound.
The king consort is leaning over the sink, mint locks slightly damp as he looks down. He is frowning slightly, and his shoulders are sagged. Claude feels his chest swell, and that means he has to speak up and say something, anything. He has never been good with feelings, but he was thankfully blessed with a silver tongue instead. He pushes the door open.
“I have to say, Teach,” he starts, bringing a gloved hand to his heart, startling the professor that turns around lightning fast. “It’s not nice to be given the cold shoulder like that.”
Byleth is just as beautiful up close, if not more so. It almost hurts to look at him, when you know what he is suffering within these walls. His wide eyes going over Claude’s form are enough proof of his own surprise, but as usual, he is quick to recover.
“You can’t be here,” he says, voice clipped as he ignores Claude’s greeting. “You have to go.”
Claude takes a few tentative steps towards him. When Byleth doesn’t make up for the lost distance, Claude comes a tad closer, within arm’s length.
“You still cut to the chase, I see.” Despite his playful tone, his smile drops easily. “But you know why I’m here, don’t you?”
Byleth licks his lips as his eyes go downwards, and it is something so unlike him, Claude’s fears start gnawing at his insides. He doesn’t think he has ever seen anyone change as much as he did Byleth. This is new too, but unlike the progress he’d undergone at Garreg Mach, it’s not as heartwarming to witness. He seems tense, afraid. Claude discovers it is a look he doesn’t like on the professor.
“This is too dangerous–”
“I’m here to help you, if you allow me to.”
Byleth shakes his head. He closes the faucet, hands nervously coming to his pristine clothes to smooth invisible wrinkles . He quickly dries his face with a small white towel.
“You can’t.”
Claude likes a challenge, everyone knows that. He lifts his chin into the air.
“Just you watch.”
“Claude, you really have to go now. If he notices we’re gone for too long…”
The boy’s thin eyebrows go up, urging him to go on.
“He’ll do what, exactly?”
Byleth’s expression twists, like he is physically in pain. He doesn’t meet Claude’s eyes when he answers. It takes him a few seconds to do so.
“It won’t end well for you.”
Silence settles between them. Claude wants nothing more than to knock the professor out and carry him out the door, to pause this conversation and continue it later, but it’d be ridiculous to expect him not to fight back.
“Teach…”
“I’ll buy you some time if I go first.”
With that, Byleth deems the exchange over. He attempts to go around Claude, but the bowman surprises even himself when one of his hands darts up to the other man’s bicep, to keep him from leaving. Byleth stops on his tracks, taken aback at first, then with a pleading expression on his face. This close, Claude can see the force he is tensing his jaw with. They’ve always been around the same height, even back then, and Claude absentmindedly hates that he didn't grow a little taller in two years .
“You haven’t written to anyone,” he says nonchalantly, voice low, no accusation in his tone. “Seteth is worried about you. We all are.”
Byleth swallows, although he relaxes a little. Claude doesn’t want to let go of him, but he does nevertheless, to show he is not going to force him to do anything. Yet.
“I’m protecting them.”
Claude scoffs, can’t contain himself. This man has always been famous for putting others first, for taking the roles of both sword and shield, but this is ridiculous.
“What about you?” he asks. “What about your freedom?”
Byleth’s eyes remain away from Claude.
“He needs me. I can’t leave him.”
(Byleth loves him still. Despite it all.)
Claude makes a face.
“No offense, Teach, but I seriously doubt you can give him the kind of help he needs.”
Byleth’s lips form a thin line.
“He is… getting better,” he protests, but he sounds so, so tired.
Evidently, this is a burden too heavy for him to shoulder on his own.
He all but deflates, shoulders dropping and suddenly appearing very small in his ornamented tunic. He rests his forehead against Claude’s shoulder, hands grasping at his golden robes. Again, this is unheard of, since they never were that close to begin with. Claude doesn’t really have quells when it comes to physical contact, but Byleth’s proximity somehow manages to make his heartbeat go faster.
The bowman clears his throat, but he still brings a hand up to the back of Byleth’s head, in a feeble attempt to offer some comfort. Claude wants to reassure him in some way, to tell him he is right here with him and that he won’t have to be alone anymore, yet he chooses to remain silent instead. He doesn’t know why, but it seems to be the best alternative. It can be due to Byleth needing a literal shoulder to cry on, rather than someone telling him what he already knows.
“I’m sorry,” Byleth sniffs, looking up.
“Hey, no problem. I’m your man for both evil schemes and cuddles. Just say the word.”
Byleth smiles, and it is tiny and precious, just like it used to be all those years back. It’s as if the sun is bright again today, despite the circumstances. His green eyes go over Claude’s body with something akin to pride. One of his hands comes up, the pads of his fingers brushing against the boy’s jawline, over his beard.
“You are all grown up,” Byleth mutters, eyes both on him and somewhere far away at the same time. “Everyone must be.”
Claude takes the hand in his, wishing he wasn’t wearing gloves right now. He resists the impulse to lean into it. This is not the time.
“They’d be happy to see you,” he assures, knowing those words will reach him. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Where he can’t find us.”
Byleth shakes his head, his expression says he doesn’t believe that is even possible.
“He’ll kill you. He’ll declare and fight a war for me, just like he did for Edelgard.”
“You sure hold yourself in high regard, Teach.”
The older man scoffs, gives him a playful, but alarmingly weak push with his free hand.
“This is not funny.”
Claude meets his green eyes, and when he gives Byleth a small grin, the man tries for one too, even if he presses his lips together.
The clock is ticking and this doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Claude understands Byleth is afraid —everyone is afraid of Dimitri, really, maybe even Claude is, a tiny little bit, which is why they have to get going ASAP —, so trying to convince him he is safe is the way to go. Even if Claude isn’t sure of this himself.
Allowing that urge he has been trying to keep at bay to take over, he pulls the professor close, circling his waist and pressing the man against him. Byleth seems taken aback, but he lets it happen either way. This close Claude can hear him gulp, can better smell a cologne he doesn’t recognize, a soothing floral aroma that could help identify Byleth as former head of the Church of Seiros, but maybe not so much as the Ashen Demon.
In his arms, Byleth doesn’t feel especially thin or fragile, and Claude feels a bit stupid for considering the possibility of an ex-mercenary degrading into such a state, but the king’s behavior towards his consort is something he has been thinking about the whole night. Good news is, Byleth is sturdy and lithe, not out of shape at all.
(So he is in fact, not weak. No signs of malnourishment, no visible bruises nor hollowed eyes. A tad contradictory.)
That gives Claude some solace, that Byleth has been exercising and isn’t starving to death, unlike the sorry estate some rumors depict him in.
“We can just disappear, tonight,” Claude whispers in his ear, giving him a meaningful squeeze. “I have a wyvern ready. By the time he notices, we will be halfway to Almyra.”
Byleth sighs, and the warmth of his breath tickles Claude’s neck.
“Claude, don’t you see? He’ll go mad until he finds me. Innocent people will suffer because of it.”
Claude did think about that. His comrades made sure to repeat it over and over so Claude wouldn’t forget it. How could he? When that has always been the way of the Kingdom; sacrificing a few to save some others? Claude desperately wants to believe Dimitri’s people won’t abandon peace just because his, well, glorified version of a pet was taken. It isn’t like it was once some years ago, when Byleth’s presence aided to calm and direct the people through religion. No one outside of the castle had spoken to Byleth in what felt like a long time. So they were starting to forget him. Right now, he was just the pretty flower next to the king, and little else. He could wither, and no one would notice. And even if they did, no one would say a thing.
“But above all else, I don’t want him to hurt you,” Byleth says, a low admission that takes Claude out of his head.
(...)
Quietly, Byleth slides both hands around Claude’s torso, and the way they drag against the fabric of his clothes makes the boy shudder a little. He hates himself for letting that reaction through, but he is getting distracted. He hates himself even more for leaning in and kissing the top of Byleth’s head. When he speaks, his lips brush against soft, mint locks.
“You did the best you could. You always have.”
Byleth shakes his head no.
“It was not enough.”
Claude just holds him tighter.
“Let us protect you this time.”
Once again, Byleth swallows. Half of Claude’s brain is screaming they are running out of time, but just when he is about to say something, the professor looks up and nods.
“Let’s go, then.”
Claude’s smile comes without warning, and so does his body not listening to his brain when he remains frozen in place as Byleth gives him a quick peck on the cheek. It might be the adrenaline and some years of longing mixed together, but Claude’s mind briefly forgets the situation they are in, can’t take his eyes off the professor’s face when it turns a lovely shade of pink. Byleth leans in again, aiming for his lips this time around.
(Why is any of this happening?)
It is rushed and heated, but it still makes Claude sigh in something akin to relief. Because somehow Byleth is kissing him, and he was the one to initiate it. He holds onto Claude’s clothes like he is a lifeline, and Claude tilts his head to get a better angle.
(This makes no sense.)
He had no idea Byleth could kiss like this, that a man that stoic and apparently level-headed could make the sounds he is letting out against his mouth. It is better than anything Claude ever imagined all those nights alone in bed, and albeit he perfectly knows this is a stressful situation and that this kiss, as amazing as it might be for him, could very well not mean a thing to Byleth once they are out of danger’s way, he lets himself enjoy it for exactly five seconds.
(Get it together.)
He isn’t about to take advantage of it, he tells himself, so he nips at Byleth’s lower lip to get his attention. His now puffy lips are tempting enough, let alone his heavy-lidded eyes, but Claude has always found pride in keeping a cool head. A cool head he lost for a couple of seconds, but still. No one can blame him.
“As much as I’d love to let you do as you please, Teach, we have to go.”
Byleth draws back, clearing his throat.
“Right. Sorry.”
They already have plenty of things to talk about as it is, and none of that can happen here, so they have to make haste. Claude pulls him along, outside of the bathroom. Once they get to the hallway, they run hand in hand. Claude tells him his wyvern should be in the balconies, so Byleth leads the way. The way his eyes change from their prior, almost meek state to this— this seeking hunger with an objective clear in mind, brings Claude back to his academy days.
It’s not the first time he wishes he could go back, not by a long shot, but Byleth’s hand in his is new and it is what makes his heart beat loudly in his chest. This is the man he fell in love with.
(Focus, focus, focus.)
They don’t find a single guard, which is already odd, and judging by Byleth’s frown he is thinking the same thing. Claude was hoping they could leave the castle while avoiding conflict as much as possible, but he knew he had to be prepared for anything. He extracts two hidden daggers from his clothes as he runs, and asks Byleth if he can still use magic.
The former professor doesn’t get the chance to answer, or rather, it wouldn’t make a difference either way. Because when they reach the balconies, sky already dyed red, a small crowd of knights is patiently waiting for them. The young maid is here, too.
So much for a stealthy rescue.
They come to a halt at the sight of king Dimitri, towering over his guards. The frown of his mouth suggests he is well aware of what is happening here, but the look in his blue eye… he seems genuinely pained.
“Beloved,” he rasps, and it sounds like he is begging.
“Your Majesty,” Claude raises his voice, making use of his best dazzling smile. He doubts it’ll make any difference, but he has to try. “Despite your lovely event, Teach here was in need of some fresh air.”
Dimitri doesn’t respond. His attention is solely on Byleth, as if Claude isn’t even present at all.
(You have to protect Byleth.)
Claude doesn’t want to think what a spiteful Dimitri would do to his husband, should he get his hands on him, so he has to think, fast.
Dimitri takes a step forward. Without hesitation, Claude throws an arm before Byleth. This is the worst case scenario already, with Claude being a ranged fighter, and Dimitri’s monstrous strength being famous across the continent. Byleth’s dagger is not a sword, and he doesn’t have a tome either.
“Why, Beloved?” Dimitri’s hand is shaking, his hold on Areadbhar strong enough to break any other lance. His voice sounds awfully small, too. “He is our friend.”
The crease in his brow betrays his heartache, and it’s odd, but he doesn’t appear betrayed, hurt by their offense. If anything, he looks a few moments away from crying.
Claude feels Byleth’s gentle touch on his arm, silently asking him to let him do the talking. Claude isn’t very convinced this is the best course of action, but he figures Dimitri won’t listen to a single thing Claude says.
Reluctantly, he lowers his arm.
“I’m truly sorry, Dimitri,” Byleth says, voice low and gentle. “I knew it would hurt you, but you have to open your eyes.”
He takes a step towards the king, which Claude definitely knows is not a good idea.
“Teach,” he whispers, and there is urgency in his tone.
Byleth ignores him. He crosses the distance between them and Dimitri, under everyone’s undivided attention. Only now, Claude notices there is no wyvern. They are fucked. Their only chance is to appeal to Dimitri’s love for his husband, and hope he doesn’t break Claude’s neck at the first opportunity he gets.
And speaking of which, Dimitri doesn’t look as angry as he was expecting. He seems devastated, as if mourning, shoulders hunched and small next to Byleth, who is standing tall.
Byleth turns on his heels, eyes glinting in the twilight.
“I owe you an apology too, Claude.”
Claude shakes his head. He doesn’t. Wanting something better than this life of imprisonment, an escape to this fate— it is not something to apologize for.
“Please,” Dimitri muses, weak like Claude has never heard him, and Byleth lifts a hand, caresses his cheek, soothing a beast.
Claude doesn’t know what he is pleading for. For Byleth not to go, to stay with him, one would think.
(But Dimitri is a king, he doesn’t need to beg.)
There is something else that catches Claude’s attention then, another glint under the dying sunlight on Dimitri’s neck, something he didn’t see before. Peeking from beneath his regal attire, a collar. The crest of flames embedded into the Blaiddyd royal blue.
Dimitri whines like a hurt animal, his blue eye on Claude for the first time, and it looks so, so sad.
“Please don’t make me kill him.”
Byleth hushes him softly.
“He tried to take me away,” he says, all the while keeping eye contact with Claude. “Is that what you want?”
Claude’s stomach drops, and he understands.
“No!” Dimitri barks, growls, an inhuman sound tearing his throat apart, holding Areadbhar so tightly it might snap. He starts trembling, like a spring about to bolt. “ Mine. Mine .”
Perhaps this is how Byleth managed to survive, Claude can’t help but theorize, stripping Dimitri of his power and offering to hold it for him, to make use of it so Dimitri wouldn’t have to.
Claude is so fucking stupid. He trusted someone he never knew, and he is going to pay for that mistake.
Claude searches for Byleth’s gaze, for any remnant of the kind professor that once made him believe the world was not such a bad place after all. But when he finds it, it’s empty, devoid of feeling. Worse than it used to be. Like he is an entirely different person.
(You fell for it.)
(You are going to die.)
(That’s what you get.)
Byleth brings Dimitri’s face closer to his, leaning into his ear to whisper, yet never looking away from Claude, both knowing he’s about to seal his fate in the hands of a broken man.
“Then you know what must be done.”