Archive of Our Own

Dimitri did not come to the monastery to learn; he came for vengeance. Yet, as it happens with all best laid out plans, a disruption arrives: Byleth. A professor who may not be the best example to follow in how to be a king, but the kind of person that Dimitri can't help but admire. It hits him strong and fast, and he takes comfort in noticing that he doesn't seem to be the only one affected among the Blue Lions. Everyone in their little family clamors for Byleth's attention in their own way, even Felix with his caustic demeanor seems to melt over time and harangue Byleth for sparring matches at dawn — daily.

It is a weight off of Dimitri's shoulders. He's the one deigned to rule Faerghus, the logical leader of the group, but he doesn't feel ready quite yet. If he could have friends — family, even, people close to him so he can be Dimitri instead of "your highness", it would be the greatest comfort, and Byleth is the one who allows that to happen. Granted, Dedue still considers himself a vassal and Ashe might burst a blood vessel if he tries any harder to talk casually to him, but it's the closest he's even been. Even with Ingrid, Sylvain, and Felix, too much has happened since the tragedy for Dimitri to return to their circle of childhood friends as the Dimitri he was before.

The truth is, he believes that Dimitri died that day too along with his father, his stepmother, all family down to the last drop of Blaiddyd blood. His childhood friends, all stained by the tragedy in their own way, know how he's changed. Felix, perhaps, in the most honest way with his cursed nickname.

Boar prince.

Dimitri knows he deserves it. What he's not sure he deserves is the right to consider the blue lions a family of sorts — how could he replace his lost loved ones, with how they visit him in his nightmares and even, sometimes, talk to him during the day? He could never. He must follow in his father's example — follow his ghost, even.

But yet, with the professor, he finds himself watching, wishing, and wanting — to be just like him.

The reasons for a wish like that are obvious. For one, the professor has the kind of strength that comes from a combination of natural talent and years of mentorship.

"Professor, please spar with me, if you're so inclined." Dimitri bows as he asks, and relishes that Byleth never seems to meet his formalities with an insistence on being less formal. Things like status don't seem to matter much to him in a way that manages to avoid disrespect. Simply, Byleth is divorced from the politics of it all. Even religion too. A model of true neutrality.

Byleth, as usual, does not answer right away. But he nods, and hands Dimitri an iron lance. It's a change from the usual training lance and Dimitri feels hot pride burst inside of his chest — the professor thinks he's ready to bring real weapons into their training sessions.

"We will focus on parrying and disarming, not striking, for safety." Byleth shifts into a ready stance, as unreadable and calm as always. Dimitri, in contrast, is humming with excitement and energy inside. Some would call it a joy for battle; he knows that it's actually bloodlust that runs in his veins, but he hides it well with his steady smile.

"Understood."

"With one rule." Byleth's gaze glints. "You cannot break your weapon." With that, he lunges, and Dimitri's thoughts scatter like crows at dusk, his grip immediately tightening then loosening erratically.

He must have noticed Dimitri's habit of breaking everything. Sewing needles, scissors, quills, training lances, cups — he leaves behind a trail of crushed items everywhere he goes because of his freakish, brute, strength. His usual approach of throwing himself into a match and letting his instincts guide his moves is disrupted; he tries to focus on his lance instead, the way he holds and swings it as Byleth expertly jabs at him with a wooden training sword. The worst it'll do is bruise him — but the true wound would be disappointment, failure, a shake of the head instead of the praise he so desperately wants.

They easily break out into a sweat. A heated dance of blocking, stepping back then advancing, a few desperate attempts here and there to knock the weapon out of Byleth's hand with the shaft of his lance. Despite his earlier excitement, Dimitri knows he's holding back from the fear of actually landing a hit on Byleth and, goddess forbid, hurting him.

There are too many factors to keep track of all of them at once. Dimitri feels control slip out of his hands like sand between his fingers, and the more desperate he turns the more terrified he becomes of accidentally harming him. His moves turn erratic. His lance, wild.

Then, when Dimitri counters on instinct, the blade of his lance narrowly missing Byleth's arm, an overwhelming wave of shame and violence overtaking him, he registers the sound of a loud snap.

The lance, as well built as it was, now split into two.

"Professor, I. I'm so sorry." Dimitri rapidly spirals downwards in his head. "Not only did I almost harm you, but I failed your lesson. It would be such an easy rule for anyone else, I do not know why I couldn't, why I always break things like this." Dimitri the failure. Dimitri the helpless student, unable to be taught. Dimitri the wild boar prince, unable to be tamed. "I know that in a battlefield a mistake like this could cost me my life. Or the life of an ally, or a person I'm protecting, or yours —"

"Dimitri," Byleth interrupts, stepping forward so that he can draw Dimitri's gaze away from the floor. "That is not my intended message. What's important is that you have great strength, but it needs to be controlled. That was the purpose of this." He takes the broken pieces from Dimitri's hands. "There's also a reason why this is called the training grounds. And why we're practicing here, not on the battlefield. You are allowed to make mistakes here."

Dimitri looks up to meet his gaze, his own silently begging to believe what Byleth is saying is true.

"Besides," Byleth delivers in his standard deadpan, "we can buy more lances."

Something about it makes Dimitri smile and ease back into his usual noble, upright, state. "Yes, you're right, professor. Thank you for bearing with me."

"No need for thanks. It's what a teacher should do."

Unknown to Dimitri, Byleth actually has little idea on what he's doing, but it's something Jeralt would say and do so that's usually a good guideline to follow on how to be a good teacher. He also does have in the budget enough to afford at least five more iron lances, and did actually calculate it on the spot because it seemed like information that could help ease Dimitri's worries.

Byleth has a brilliant mind. Dimitri wonders if he could ever become as brilliant of a tactician as him. But his mental strength goes even deeper beyond his knowledge of battle tactics and maneuvers.

It's that unchanging nature of his. Sure, the blank face can be a bit unnerving at first, but that's also the power of it. Byleth reveals his emotional cards to very few people, and remains unfazed in the face of danger and panic.

Dimitri, on the other hand, feels like glass blown to be very thin sometimes, a perfect image of a prince, the responsibility of revenge threatening to crush him into a fine dust.

"Professor, how do you manage to keep your face like so?" he asks after class one day, because he's always the one who lingers the longest after class to talk with Byleth, and the rest of the Blue Lions allow him that time either out of kindness or because of the whole future-ruler-of-their-home-kingdom thing.

Byleth's eyebrow barely arches. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, so unreadable. Your expression. It's admirable how little you manage to give away about your true feelings — it must be a necessary skill to learn for negotiations, I can imagine." While the way he phrases it is... questionable, Dimitri is the picture of beaming compliments and awe. If only he could be like him. So calm, cool, and put together.

"Yes, it could be helpful in that context. But my face isn't intentional. I've never been expressive, even since the day I was born."

"Even as a baby?"

Imagining Byleth as one, deadpan gaze and all on a small head, is oddly hilarious to Dimitri and he has to hold back a smile. (Again! Another time that hiding his emotions would do him well.)

"Yes, even then. Jeralt told me that I didn't cry."

"Do you cry, professor?" The question comes out without thought. Dimitri's eyes widen and he immediately backpedals, frantically recovering, "you don't have to answer that, my apologies, it's a highly personal question, and concerning Captain Jeralt too."

His death still looms in the air around them. Dimitri knows how it feels to lose a father, and his heart aches for Byleth, a constant bruise on his own heart when he thinks about how it feels to be the last of your family, and how cruel the goddess must be to inflict it on yet another person. If Dimitri could bear all of the pain for him, he would.

"It's okay, Dimitri."

Byleth rests a hand on his shoulder to comfort him, yet again, and while it is awkward in the way the professor is when it comes to any sort of physical contact, it's so warm. Dimitri hopes his face isn't turning red — because of how touching his kindness is, nothing more.

"I did that day. But no other time."

Dimitri is normally so well spoken, but he seems to turn into a blubbering fool around the professor. "If it were you and I, I think I would."

Byleth looks surprised, touched, unreadable yet again. He opens his mouth to respond but Dimitri babbles out some kind of excuse about forgetting he's on watch duty and look at the time he must go, so sorry professor, before fleeing.

Dimitri can't believe himself — saying such a thing. Next time he should mask it as a joke, he decides. Putting the professor in such a position, pressuring him to say something in return like if he would cry for him too, how inappropriate of him.

Though he hopes. If it was him. Selfishly, monstrously, he hopes that Byleth would be moved enough to feel for him so.

Byleth is immensely popular. It's hard not to notice with how students in all three houses chatter on about him. The admiration runs far and wide, and Dimitri waxes on to anyone who will listen about how Byleth's strong reputation is an example that's an opportunity for any future ruler to know, including himself.

The recipients of said lecture tend to zone out once he goes into his deep analyzes into each word the professor uttered during their lessons that day, even the merits of the tenor of his voice, but there's common ground when it comes to plain compliments.

Dimitri hears them all. Despite how Byleth gives off a blank look most of the time, it's read as calm rather than disinterested, cool rather than cold. He also, Dimitri hears, has a tendency to return lost items that the owner never even noticed was missing, and gives out all of the flowers he plants each week in the greenhouse. The tea-times are infamous in monastery chatter and students have taken to directly gifting him boxes of tea in hopes that it might lead to an invite.

Dimitri receives none of it. He supposes it must be because they see each other often enough, with Byleth being the head of the Blue Lions house, and it's not as if he needs to convince him to switch houses. Dorothea gets showered with roses on the regular; what in the world would Dimitri even do with flowers? Break all of the stems by accident and watch them wither in his room, which he's never in because he practically lives on the training grounds, or in the stables?

What nonsense. He doesn't need any of it.

He also hears, often, about the professor's appearance. Now that isn't an area that Dimitri is too concerned with, since it's not a useful skill to learn, but he can't help but overhear others. He's an impressive figure in his all black set, his mint-green hair kept down in swirling locks that frame his face in a pleasing manner, the striking pale hue of his pupils.

And he's fit. They all have to be, but Dimitri does hear a lot about Byleth's broad shoulders and toned figure, his whole body reportedly made of only lean muscle and calluses after years of mercenary work.

The reason why Dimitri pays so much attention, of course, is because Byleth is the prime example that he must follow. Who better to emulate than the professor? His body is fit and ready for battle, toned and lithe unlike Dimitri's thin frame. It may be because of his age, but he looks forward to the day when he'll be taller, broader, and much more like Byleth instead of himself.

So like a good student, he notices and memorizes all traces of Byleth's scars when he catches glimpses of them. He's cognizant of the flashes of skin that sometimes, rarely, show when they're sparring and it's much too hot for coats, so Byleth sheds his gear down to the thinnest layer.

He wants to be trusted and likable. It's natural to be revered in a position of power, but he craves that easy sense of friendship that Byleth somehow manages to bring to his students by having no concerns about titles and who his students will become in the future. Dimitri is to be king. He's going to be at a status so high, that there may be no one who refuses to call him his majesty. All of Faerghus will know him, yet none will be by his side. The throne will be his home, but without family, without friends. Without a beloved who wants him for who he is — who he really is, monster included.

It sounds like the loneliest place in the world.

"Dimitri." He snaps out of his reverie and raises a hand in greeting.

"Ah, professor. It's a pleasure to see you. How is your rest day going?"

"Well. Are you available?"

It can't be. Dimitri's heart pounds. The highest honor — !

"Yes I am, do you need assistance with any tasks? I am happy to help."

"No tasks. Would you like to join me for tea?"

Byleth's face may be its usual stone cold unreadable, but Dimitri's is not. A faint pink scatters across the bridge of his nose.

"It would be my honor."

Dimitri doesn't remember a second of it, but he's sure it was the most joyous hour of his life.

The Blue Lions dine together every Friday evening, and tonight is no exception. The chatter is lively around Dimitri and he manages to hold his own with Dedue on one side and Sylvain on the other, the former so quiet that he doesn't feel the pressure to talk, and the latter so talkative that Dimitri barely has to open his mouth. It's not a bad arrangement.

"It's just, I'm not sure if I want to be him, or be with him, you know?" Sylvain jokes with a saucy wink to someone nearby and Dimitri promptly chokes on a chunk of roast pheasant.

"Your highness —" Dedue smacks him so quickly it barely has time to stumble in his throat. "I'm fine, Dedue, thank you," Dimitri assures him so that the panic and determination can ease off of Dedue's face.

"What is that you said, Sylvain?" he asks, sliding into the conversation.

"What, about Manuela? I'm not sure if I should go repeating that though."

"No, about the..." Dimitri waves his hand about in the air as if to gesture vagueness. "Being, or being with, idea."

"Oh, that one. Right — I meant, sometimes it's hard to tell if you admire someone so much because you want to be like them, like they're an ideal version of the person you want to be, or because you want to be with them, because you have a big fat crush."

"Right." Dimitri strokes his chin in thought. "How do you tell the difference?"

"Huh. Good question, your highness. I guess the easiest way is to try giving them a kiss?" Sylvain delivers the end of the line at the girl across from them and she turns beet red.

Dimitri gawks. Preposterous idea! "That is much too forward Sylvain, and you should not be doing that to your mentors."

Sylvain tilts his head in question. "Who said anything about mentors?"

Who said?

Oh.

Dimitri said.

It's his turn to go beet red and flee.

The war has begun and Dimitri still does not know the difference. He does know that when he sees Byleth, his heart begins to pound at a rapid pace, yet he feels so impossibly calm at the same time with him nearby. He knows that his gaze has drifted to those lips far too often, and he's thought about Sylvain's suggestion once or twice before.

But there is no time to figure out such predicaments. War is a paradox of present and future, where survival is not guaranteed so the present is everything, yet people talk about the future with wistful sighs and blind hope. After the war. Promises are made, and hopefully kept.

Dimitri refrains from making any such promises, because there is only one he must keep; there is no room for others.

Yet, he finds his eyes searching for Byleth among the surging crowds of soldiers rushing to the battlefield. If he could find him. See him. If this is his last chance, if something were to befall either of them, then he's not sure if he could live without an answer to the question plaguing his mind. The dreams that sometimes give him brief respite from his constant nightmares. Of Byleth. Of being held.

He spots a flash of pale green hair.

"Professor!" Dimitri surges forward and manages to catch his shoulder without thinking about how this is the first time he's reached for him.

"Dimitri." Byleth scans him, a sign of concern that Dimitri knows well by now, and seems satisfied with the lack of injuries. "You're unharmed. I'm glad." It's only the beginning, but there must be bloodied bodies in the fray already for such a reaction.

"Same to you. I must have a quick word with you, if there's time —"

A roar interrupts. The massive sight of a dragon flying overhead.

"Yes," and Byleth would not do it for just anyone, but he does it for him, "but quickly, Dimitri —"

Dimitri lets go.

"Next time. After the battle. There are more urgent issues at hand." He sounds confident, that they will both make it out. That there will be a tomorrow with him. To talk — to confess. There has to be, or else Dimitri will have to bear yet another regret on his shoulders. He is already selfish, foolish, enough to try now of all times.

Byleth locks eyes and nods. "Next time."

Byleth disappears into the crowd and Dimitri hears someone calling for him. He is reluctant to turn away, but he does. He can't falter now. He will be brave —

Tomorrow.