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004 » i feel like i can't break through
fanart by Living201882687.
for "alexandre" at antileon.
fanart by Living201882687.
for "alexandre" at antileon.
fanart by Living201882687.
for "alexandre" at antileon.
fanart by Living201882687.
for "alexandre" at antileon.
no subject
He was too young to understand at the time, but now he is old enough to remember. He wishes he could have protected her, but he wishes that a lot of things about his early life were different, really. The coin they had left in the house was enough to keep him alive for a few weeks, since her murderer was kind enough — he laughs bitterly sometimes — not to take his money back after he'd killed her, but soon Alex was on his own in the streets, begging for scraps, too young to work a proper trade but too old to be taken in by other families. He'd almost turned to prostitution himself to survive; he knew that some of his sister's johns were still in the village, that the few who would take a boy in place of a woman had offered princely sums to be the first to take him, but giving in to that temptation had seemed foolish when his eternally bruised and battered sister had always made him swear he wouldn't do it. That he would become something greater than the sum of her hopes. That he wouldn't end up like her.
But he'd almost done it. He even had a client in mind. A particular merchant, brutish and cruel, had offered him 500 gold pieces just to use his mouth. The only reason Alex had hesitated was because he knew from prior encounters that offers like that were often a ruse, that men like that would take whatever they wanted if they weren't satisfied. But he'd been on the street and it had been deadly cold in that village out on the outskirts of Galatea territory, and he had almost been thinking of just rolling over in the snow to die when the Archbishop's entourage had rolled into town.
He wishes that the man himself had been the one to see him first. But the truth of the matter is that things weren't so romantic. The first person to spot him out on the streets had been an ordinary soldier garbed in Garreg Mach colors, older, one that he would find out was a longtime veteran who'd served at the monastery even back when the archbishop was simply a professor there.
What are you doing out here, boy? the man had asked, crouching to squint at Alex's face past his mane of dirty blond hair. Then he'd whistled, in a way that had made Alex's spine prickle with fear until he realized that there wasn't anything predatory in it; the man was just marveling at his features, not gazing with desire. Goddess above, you look just like King Dimitri back in the day. Hoy, Your Eminence! You'll want to see this! Take a look at this child —
And then he'd taken Alex kindly by the hand, and dragged him to the center of the procession, and the man sitting in the carriage there had the loveliest face Alex had ever seen.
That was a long time ago now. Apparently, the archbishop had been journeying to Fhirdiad for diplomatic reasons, and taken a detour specifically to ease some of the pains of Faerghus's most poverty-stricken territories. Alex had not been the only orphan rescued from the village that day, but he knew that he was the archbishop's favorite from the way that the man's eyes would linger on him, the way that he seemingly could not help but smile looking at him — the way he never touched, but he seemed like he wanted to. And Alex knew one thing —
He could use that to his advantage.
Years have passed since then. Alex has cut his hair shorter, grown much taller. The monastery's good, hearty food has helped him greatly in that respect. The thin and frail child who would have been brutalized by the lustful men of his village has now become a long-legged and broad-shouldered youth who commands the attention of most people he passes. And it's easy to get people to talk. All he has to do is smile at the archbishop's old friends and most of them immediately melt into chatter, oh, you look just like Dimitri used to before the war, what a funny coincidence, goodness, could you be some bastard son of the royal family's, have they tested you for the Crest of Blaiddyd —
So he's heard quite a lot. About what King Dimitri was like in his youth. And he thinks he's gotten the mannerisms down right now, the hairstyle about accurate. Alex will probably never be as cultured as a prince, but he does his best to stand up straight, even when he's clad in the monastery's simple wools and linens instead of a noble's finely starched shirts.
Officially, he is nothing more than a ward of the archbishop. In private, however, he alone of all the orphans taken in by the church has the freedom to come and go from Byleth's personal quarters. It is known by many that the archbishop treats him as affectionately as a son.
Alex thinks he can do better than that.
So he is quiet as he steps into Byleth's office, a small tea tray in hand. Byleth doesn't appear to hear him coming. Near-silent, Alex places the tea tray on a nearby table, then creeps quietly behind Byleth, leaning down so that he can speak in his low voice directly into the man's ear. ]
I fear you are working too hard again, Archbishop.
[ Carefully clipped, every word properly enunciated. He trained himself out of his common drawl long ago. ]
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He and Byleth are close friends still. How could they not be? They are due to meet again in two moons to discuss the passing of a new edict meant to alleviate poverty in the Adrestian regions. They have led Fódlan together as if with joined hands: representatives of both state and faith, acting in unison to bring peace to the realm and alleviate its suffering.
Selfishly, sometimes, Byleth still imagines it. Taking Dimitri by the hand. But he knows he can't. He knows he can't.
He has been so hopelessly in love with Dimitri for all these years.
Age has made Dimitri more handsome, but it has left Byleth untouched. It is clear now that Byleth is of the same persuasion as Rhea and Seteth and Flayn, but the people of Fódlan have long stopped questioning the unnaturally long lifespans of their religious leaders, and so the unchanging face of the archbishop just seems to them to be divine providence. The grace of the Goddess. His former students have all figured by now that Byleth will outlast all of them, but they also know that their professor was one with the Goddess, and so that, too, only seems natural.
Oftentimes, he finds himself thinking that the world has changed around him, but that he never will.
Anyway, he knows that he can't think of Dimitri in the way that he used to. He presided over the man's marriage years ago. Dimitri has a son and a daughter now, one Crested and the other Crestless, though they try not to treat the children differently; they have tried through all their policies and proclamations to end the system of prioritizing Crests to the point of prejudice. Byleth sends the children gifts regularly, though nothing too extravagant, nothing inappropriate for his station.
He has not allowed himself to become another father or an uncle to them. He can't. It's terrible, and selfish, because the children did nothing to deserve his distance. He knows this. But even so, Byleth — Byleth cannot look at Dimitri's children and not feel a great pain lance through him, even after all this time.
The perpetual ache in his heart — he thinks it stopped hurting him long ago. Really. He thinks it will always be a part of him, this great and unrequited love for Dimitri, but that can't be helped. It's fine. Things are better this way. One day, Dimitri will die, and he will go on living, and perhaps then the idea that the boy he loved never loved him will no longer hurt him as it used to.
The bigger problem is this:
...Nowadays, it feels as if Alex has been trying to imitate Dimitri.
And Byleth can't — quite — understand why. Where did he even hear about what Dimitri was like in his youth? It is true that if he committed a sin it was in selfishly taking the boy with him, that day out in Galatea territory. It is true that he took other orphans from that village, gave them food and an education and jobs to do about the monastery; it is true that Alex was the one he favored most among all the others, and yes, in all truth, it was because of the boy's handsome face and blond hair and Blaiddyd-blue eyes. But he never — never did anything, never said anything, never acknowledged the boy's similarity, never. Never. Would have never done anything. Just wanted him to be happy —
(And they haven't, actually. Tested him for the Crest. Byleth keeps refusing to let him into Hanneman's old research room; he lies and says that the Crest Analyzer is broken, that it's dangerous in there. Deep down, Byleth knows that he may just be afraid of what they find; that if it turns out Alex does have a Crest, and the Crest of Blaiddyd at that, the forces that be within the nobility will be clamoring for his hand in marriage, for his loyalty, to use him as a breeding stud for their daughters.
Better to never find out. Better to not know. Alex doesn't have Dimitri's superhuman strength, that much is clear, and so Byleth feels fairly sure that the boy is Crestless. But they've never tested it, and he hasn't trained Alex in anything more than basic swordsmanship.
Lately, Alex keeps asking to train with a lance.)
He's startled from his thoughts when Alex creeps up behind him. In times past, in the age of war, it would've been absolutely unthinkable for anyone to get the drop on Byleth like that, but years of peace have left him vulnerable, and he really didn't hear Alex come into his room. ]
...Alex.
[ It is so, so hard not to call him Dimitri, some days. The one grace that stops Byleth is that so many years have passed since he presided over Dimitri's wedding and knew that his quiet love would have to be silenced for good that Dimitri doesn't really look like Alex anymore. He always has to think of Dimitri's new face — a little more grizzled, a little more aged — to remind himself not to call Alex "Dimitri."
The barest trace of something like anticipation trickles down Byleth's spine. ]
I'm working no harder than I usually am, I promise.
updating this to post-tfln because i'm thirsty
He lied, in other words. Even then, he'd been plotting and scheming. It was the first time he had been told that he resembled the king of Fódlan and he had immediately made the determination that he would milk the connection for all it was worth.
That he would never wind up in that cold snow, wishing for death, ever again. ]
That makes for little reassurance. Your usual pace is just as distressing.
[ Now he has one hand on his savior's shoulder, the archbishop squirming slightly and avoiding his gaze, and he finds that he loves being able to elicit such a reaction from the man. Byleth is almost twenty years his senior and looks not a day older, which makes it very difficult for his hormonal eighteen-year-old brain to not want to fuck him at all hours of the day. Alex has to resist the urge to tip Byleth's head up and kiss him immediately. One thing at a time, he thinks. He will be patient. For now.
He looks down at Byleth, smiling faintly. Wearing the mask of a foster son's warmth and adoration. ]
You always work as if you are trying to run from something by doing it...
[ A gentle squeeze of the shoulder. A patient rub. Alex always touches Byleth with such ease. Dimitri had always been too afraid to touch him for fear of breaking him as he did with everything else. ]
Won't you take some time to rest with me? I've brought tea, and the snacks you like.
you want that priest obliterated
He can't look Alex in the eyes. He's afraid of what the boy will find there. Longing? Hope? Lust for a man he had gladly marched into hell for? He doesn't want Alex to look into his eyes and find him staring at a memory. He doesn't want his ward to think that he wasn't valued, or that he was always a replacement for someone else.
But it seems that Alex has already made his decision in that regard. ]
...Usually, I am the one inviting others to tea.
[ That's only half-true. He hasn't invited anyone to tea in ages. Part of it is that he's been too busy, but the truth of the matter is also that he's withdrawn over the last few moons, and it's been public gossip within the monastery as to why. The Archbishop has only grown more and more solemn, in the time that I've worked here. Goddess knows what plagues him...
He should be happy. Fódlan is at peace. It's just — he's terribly, terribly unhappy, too, and it's all he can do to keep that unhappiness from the others. Seteth and Flayn and the rest. They don't deserve to see his unhappiness. ]
As you wish...
[ He allows himself one small indulgence; he leans back in his chair, into the arm on his shoulder. He allows himself to submit, very slightly, to Alex's whims. Some small degree of tension eases out of his back as he does so.
They have discussed this, but even so, Byleth tries one last time to refuse: ]
Alex, I... Truly, I have only ever wanted you to be happy.
no subject
I am happy, Archbishop. I am happy whenever I get to be with you.
[ The young man only smiles. Alex works diligently, like a trained butler of the sort normally only available to noblemen. Swiftly, the young man clears off several items on Byleth's desk, carefully rearranging things so that the archbishop can easily resume his work later. Then he lays out the teacups and snack curate, placing both in an area that will be easy for Byleth to reach.
Not that the archbishop will need to reach for anything himself. Alex smiles in his polished sunshine way and settles into the man's lap. ]
Let me tend to you.
[ His voice is tender, promising, as he slides into the seat beside Byleth — the man's armchair is much too big for him, so Alex can also fit in it. He's half-leaning on Byleth's thigh, half-pressed with his chest up against Byleth's side. He used to sit like this with the archbishop when he was a much smaller boy, freshly taken in from the Galatean snowfields and in desperate need of warmth.
Now he's older and bigger and stronger, and it's an easy thing for him to snake his arm around Byleth's waist. It's an easy thing for him to reach over to the dessert plates and pick up a finger cake laden with cream — the sort that Byleth tends to like, that he can eat dozens of in one sitting. ]
Say "ah".
[ Too doting? Or too daring? ]
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Byleth had felt such an intense desire to protect him, then. As if he could use this as a second chance of sorts, an opportunity to make things right, as he so often did, turning back the hands of time with the Goddess's power —
Now Alex is much too tall to be snuggled up underneath Byleth's arm like this, but the archbishop finds himself unable to refuse his ward as he parts his lips and finds a bit of cake pressed against the tip of his tongue. He wants to dislike it. He wants very much to dislike it. Unfortunately, food has always been one of Byleth's weaknesses, and he finds his heart softening as the sweet sugar melts on his tongue and he chews through that exquisitely soft cake.
So sweet. All too sweet for a broken man like him. He shouldn't — he shouldn't be enjoying this — ]
I should be the one tending to you...
[ Unfortunately, he can't finish his thoughts without Alex pressing more fingerling cake against his lips. Byleth tries to frown, but finds himself merely fluttering his lashes and opening his mouth again. And when he does, he's rewarded with sweetness, softness — the unrelenting, unyielding attention of the young man by his side...
...This is so embarrassing! He's not a child, or some sort of baby bird...! ]
Alex, I can feed myself. You should have some for y — for yourself —
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Oh, that euphoric expression on Byleth's face — the fluttering lashes, the trace of a moan in his voice — they exceed Alex's own fantasies. His cup runneth over with love — and, admittedly, arousal — for his silly, selfless savior. His Byleth, whom he knew he could seduce with food. Now he has the object of his fantasies eating out of his hand and off of his fingers, and when he presses a cream-stained index against Byleth's lips, he's delighted to find that the archbishop automatically laps at it like a little kitten, hopelessly pliant in spite of the surface-level protest on his lips.
Alex smiles like a cat with a mouse. He leans in and nuzzles like one, too, pressing a customary, worshipful kiss on the bridge of Byleth's nose. ]
I don't want any for myself. I want to give it all to you.
[ Already, he is overstepping his bounds. And he will overstep them some more by the end of the night. He oversteps some more when he trails his kisses lower and kisses a bit of cream from the corner of Byleth's mouth. ]
I want to give you lots and lots of other things, too... You'll accept them for me, won't you?
[ Alex lowers his voice — ]
Professor.
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Does Alex's voice really sound like Dimitri's, or has Byleth just deluded himself? Does he really even remember what Dimitri used to look like? He swore to himself that he had gotten over it; he told himself dozens and dozens and dozens of times that it didn't hurt anymore when he looked at him, that he could look Dimitri in the eyes and think about anything but what their lives could have been like together or how badly he had wanted to kiss his lips in their youth.
(Sometimes, in his heart of hearts, he does feel resentment. He does feel hatred. He hates himself for feeling it because he knows that it is unjust. That he has no right to demand anyone's love. But even so, even still — he thinks it sometimes. I bled for you, he has whispered to himself. I died for you. I held your hand when no one else would, I rescued your country from the brink of destruction — and this, this is how you repay me —)
But that's just how it is. Winning a war could not make Dimitri love him when the man had always wanted a queen, and there was no one else in the world that Byleth could imagine loving.
So he had resolved to die alone.
Now there is an impossibly handsome young man in his lap whispering pretty things to him, cooing in his ear; now he has the object of his fantasies in his arms at last, except that he knows it isn't the same man and that Alex — that this is wrong. It's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong. He needs to tell Alex to stop this. He needs to say something, but when he reaches for that something, he finds himself incapable of shaping the words into what he needs... ]
Please —
[ Please what? He can't think of how to end the sentence. His body is stirring for the first time in years and he knows that it is all so dreadfully wrong — ]
Please don't. Please don't call me that.
[ He grips the blue scarf hanging loosely around Alex's neck with trembling desperation. He hates it. When did Alex start dressing like Dimitri to please him? Why can't he think of when this began? ]
Alex, you... you don't understand how much this hurts me.
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[ Alex's gaze softens. He touches the hand caught in his scarf. Strokes it. Soothes it into relaxation. He folds the tension out of each and every finger, then lifts Byleth's hand to his lips, and kisses his fingertips, holding eye contact for as long as he can manage it.
He loves Byleth so passionately. So fiercely. He will set this man's body aflame tonight. He must. This feels like his one and only chance, and he knows he has the archbishop on a precipice, perfectly poised to fall into sin. ]
You've loved me for so long. Won't you surrender to the fantasy for just a moment?
[ Gently, ever so gently, he laces his fingers into Byleth's. First with one hand — the hand he kissed — and then the other. Once he's holding both of Byleth's hands, he settles his hips more firmly over the archbishop's, outright straddling him now, his hips splayed wide to present his own quickly blossoming cock.
With the weight of his body on his lover's, Alex guides Byleth's hands to his hips. He is trying so desperately to look innocent, to play the role of the vulnerable prince that he thinks Dimitri was, but he can't help himself. The look in his his blue eyes — it's wanton, long-lashed, low-lidded. He licks his lips, seductive in the worst and most sinful way. The curve of his waist is slimmer than Dimitri's ever was, but his shoulders are just as broad. ]
Just a little while, Professor. It won't hurt anyone at all. And I'll make you feel so, so good, in just that moment...
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It has been... so long. Truly — so, so long since he last allowed himself to feel anything like desire. When he was young, he had stroked himself a few times, but without desire, and really only to sate the hormonal cravings of his body. He had never thought of anyone in particular in those days; he simply visualized bodies without faces in fantasies where he wasn't even a part of the proceedings.
Later, as an adult, and in moments of great shame, he succumbed and let himself indulge in the fantasy of having Dimitri take him. That happened once or twice in his twenties. But after a certain point — the marriage, maybe, or the delivery of Dimitri's child soon after that — it had seemed pointless to even fantasize about it. It had seemed cruel to even stoke the old fire and keep it alive.
Byleth stopped even masturbating to the idea that Dimitri might love him, years and years and years ago.
So it's not. It's not lust that Alex had to come to him with. If the boy had asked for love instead, Byleth would have given it.
The seat of the archbishop does not ask Byleth for abstinence, but Byleth has been abstinent for many, many years. The goddess never asked him to. The goddess would probably be disappointed in him for being this pathetic, for all this time.
But he wants to. He wants to give in for once. His hands are on Alex's lips and Alex wants him to want him, and he —
Just once, he thinks, so desperately trying to rationalize what he knows will be a great sin. Can't I have the one thing I've always wanted, just this once...?
Can he.
Can he.
The name rises unbidden to his lips, so broken that it might well be a sob — ]
...Dimitri.
[ His voice is so husky that it's nearly a croak, the way he says his beloved's name. Oh, this is wrong. This is so, so wrong. But Alex is the spitting image of him. Alex looks the way he did, all those years ago. Alex's tongue drags over his lips and his lashes are so long and his face is so pretty and Byleth wants him so, so terribly. ]
Do you... do you promise? [ He feels so foolish. So desperate. So full of misplaced hope. ] Will you... please, just for one night...