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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. ]
no subject
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? ]
no subject
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 —