[ byleth, misunderstanding the thought to give him some makeup: ]
Is it... that bad?
I realized a long time ago that I must have a frightening face, but I didn't think the situation was so dire that I should cover it up. Jeralt always says I resemble my mother...
[ give him a moment, he needs to process the fact that "frightening" is what Byleth got out of this. man, Jeralt must really have sheltered this guy... ]
That's not what I meant at all. You only look frightening because of your reputation, but you're not ruggedy and scarred and all rough around the edges like most mercs. If anything, you're too pretty to be a merc.
[ wait, he just heard himself talk-- ]
I mean, if I didn't know any better, I'd probably think you were closer to a noble rather than a warrior.
[ actually, just noble doesn't cut it, either... who else is it that Byleth reminds him of....... ]
[ in battle, everyone's afraid of him; outside of that, the other mercs tend to give him a wide berth. that... probably means his face isn't the best, right? byleth's never cared that much about it one way or another, though...
(the fact he's never been hit on is probably solely because it would be wildly inappropriate to make a move on the captain's son; the women who would've looked at him with interest would've realized it was better to admire him from afar, and any men that dared to make a move would've probably been impassively thrashed by jeralt for the insult. mostly just because they would've been closer to jeralt's age than byleth's.)
but shez says he's pretty... that's a new one. is he pretty? jeralt says he resembles his mother, but byleth always figured he meant more in terms of coloring than looks... ]
Am I...? I've really never thought about it.
It is a little overwhelming, I have to admit. The company that Jeralt and I usually keep... it's always been coarser. Rougher. But there are so many nobles here... with pretty faces and soft hands and sweet perfumes. I don't know how I feel about it yet.
You also have a handsome face, I think. The others must admire you greatly.
Handsome? That's gotta be a first for me, though I've been called a "Babyface" before. Not sure what to make of that...
[ the audacity of some random NPCs, I swear!! but on the other hand, Shez is practically an expert at friendzoning everyone, and it's mostly unintentional, too. too many Earnest Feelings openly professed, and not enough willingness to put down roots anytime soon. he loves the nomadic life of mercenaries too much to settle down.
(that might as well work as his alibi, too, in case Jeralt personally goes over Byleth's messenger owl logs. he's not trying to woo the pants off your son, promise!) ]
But I definitely get you on feeling overwhelmed around all these nobles and their fancy habits. Took me a long time to get used to it, and honestly I still can't say I've figured out all the proper etiquette for their tea parties...
[ oh. oh careful now. this is one of those rare moments the wheels in his brain are spinning, he's gonna do it, gonna produce one (1) whole Idea...!! ]
Hey, I bet you would have a much easier time with that! Why don't you give it a try?
[ Byleth was apparently not kidding about being a clingy, sleepy drunk.
As soon as he finishes his first glass of whiskey, he's drowsy, his long lashes fluttering as he struggles to keep them open. In the next moment, he's fully — or apparently near-fully — asleep. He's just conscious enough to mumble incoherently as he clings first to poor Felix (who happened to be nearby, and much to Byleth's slumbering surprise, does not immediately shove the professor off, but instead grudgingly passes him over to "the boar") and then to Dimitri, who seems equal parts embarrassed and pleased to be the professor's teddy bear. It's a wonder that Byleth can sleep in the crowded, loud bar.
Despite Sylvain's best efforts to make this a "Manwhore Monday" for the ages, none of the other Blue Lions seem inclined to flirt with any of the young women in town (who are mostly just peasant girls and the occasional wandering mercenary, given that this is no place for eligible noblewomen to spend their time). Instead, they seem more inclined to laugh and chat among themselves.
At length, Dimitri politely excuses himself, ostensibly to go out into the cold air outside to sober up a little, but perhaps also because he's flushed so dark pink that he's nearly crimson; Byleth has not made things easy for him, being very happy to squeeze whoever — or whatever — is in reach of his arms. "I'm sorry, Sylvain, could you watch the professor for a moment?" the prince (king, everyone keeps having to correct themselves) asks, gently disentangling himself from Byleth's greedy limbs so he can, apparently, go get some air.
Dedue goes to accompany the young king, as always, so that leaves Felix and Ashe and Sylvain with the professor on Sylvain's shoulder, practically in Sylvain's lap.
He still has his eyes closed, but he also seems mostly awake. ]
Mmmnnh...
[ Byleth rubs his head against Sylvain's shoulder. ]
instead, he mother hens. who wants food, who needs to be topped off, who needs water.
and sure, he could be chatting up the girls in town, telling them how pretty they look in the torchlight and sneaking out to the alley for a sloppy handjob, but actually, this is way more fun. he might have oversold manwhore monday to the professor. it might be more like "man distracts himself from the sorrows in his life monday," but who's keeping track, really.
besides, he enjoys ashe's bawdy laugh and dimitri chugging an entire flagon of beer himself while the blue lions cheer him on a lot more. felix even cracks a smile. it was definitely worth the wheedling it took to get them all to come out.
he waves dimitri off, no doubt needing to cool off from byleth hanging off him all night. the professor had not been kidding about the clinginess, but it's...cute. he's a warm, comforting weight on sylvain's shoulder. reminds him almost of felix when they were younger, trying to stay up late at night to watch the fireflies in the garden. but when he tries to catch felix's eye and smile, he can't. of course felix has already turned away. what'd sylvain expect? ]
Sorry, Professor. I'll wear less for you next time.
[ he brings a hand up, combing slowly through byleth's hair. it's softer than he'd imagined it being. ]
Guess I better cut you off, huh? We still gotta make it home with you after all, you party animal. [ as though sylvain hasn't been plying byleth with water for the last hour or so. ] So? How's your first Manwhore Monday?
[ Byleth has been drinking water, but it hasn't seem to have made him any more sober. It may be the case that he's actually already sober, but likes having the excuse to be clingy and childish, pawing at his friends in a catlike, babyish way. He'd normally never let himself cut this loose, so in that respect, perhaps Manwhore Monday has been a rousing success.
(And, yes, many years ago, when he was still enough of a boy to be childish but enough of a man to drink with the other mercenaries, he was prone to doing this to Jeralt, too, clinging to the man's broad chest, nuzzling into the soft prickle of his beard until his father started stroking his back and took him up to an inn room to sleep.)
Sylvain does not have a beard for him to nuzzle into, but Byleth seems to enjoy the stroking of his silky hair all the same. He shifts his cheek pillowed against Sylvain's chest, completely oblivious to the way that Felix seems to be getting slightly huffy about the whole thing.
The professor's voice is low and sleepy when he speaks. ]
It was okay.
[ Just okay?! ]
Next time... we should bring games. Of the kind that Claude seems to like.
[ ...Like... board games...? ]
'Cause Felix gets all competitive... and it'd make Dimitri laugh...
You know, I think that could be arranged. A chessboard would really liven up Manwhore Monday, Professor. How'd you know?
[ sylvain gives him a lopsided grin as he leans back in his seat. one hand steadies both their weight on the bench. byleth's hair tickles where it brushes along the collar of his shirt and the skin he exposes as he nuzzles. ]
Felix isn't really the type for chess, though. He much prefers fighting himself than letting the pieces do it for him, right, Fe?
[ another hopeful attempt at getting felix to smile at him, dashed when felix shoots to his feet in a huff. there's some kind of murmur about air or maybe dimitri needing him or whatever excuse he feels he needs to get away from sylvain as fast as possible.
of course.
ashe is all but fallen asleep against the wall on sylvain's other side. who knows what dimitri and dedue - and now felix - are getting up to outside anymore. ]
Did I overdo it, Professor?
[ not the time for a sincere question, maybe. sylvain sighs. he brushes back the hair from byleth's face, tucking some of it behind his ear. the rest falls back over his forehead. he really does almost look the same age as them like this, relaxed and sleepy and open. ]
Think we should try heading back then? I'll play chess back at the monastery with you, if you'd like.
[ from here! a few months later, after defeating miklan ]
hey. professor. sorry. it's late. just couldn't sleep. i was thinking about when we were talking that one time. about being a spoiled noble and the monsters hiding in the blue lions house. so. now you know what i was talking about, at least. you met him.
[ It's been a few months, and the new professor has softened considerably. Not so much yet that anyone has managed to make him smile or laugh — indeed, he's still as stoic as ever. But it's been long enough that most of the class has seen him do things like gently cup his hands around a grasshopper bumping against the glass in the greenhouse to let it free outside, or stop to pet the cats before class, and everyone sort of agrees now that there is nothing very scary about the Ashen Demon at all.
(Dimitri might actually have the beginning signs of a crush. Not that any of the other Blue Lions have noticed. Dedue might know, but as with all things concerning His Highness, the young man from Duscur keeps completely silent. But maybe Sylvain has taken note of the sort of bright and bushy-tailed way that Dimitri always straightens whenever Byleth enters a room. The slight color to his cheeks when he receives praise.)
Regardless. They have just confronted Miklan, and Byleth knows a little more about why Sylvain acted the way that he did.
He still doesn't see any monsters. Just broken men. Even the beast that Miklan became — only a broken man in the end. ]
which part? the part about the good old noblemen of faerghus?
[ that faerghus - including sylvain's father - was not kind to her nobles. so why should the nobles be kind to their children? sylvain was spoiled, though, when he compared himself to his brother. he was still the gautier heir, after all. he was still part of the family. that, already, was more than miklan ever got. didn't that make him spoiled? ]
[ It's not like Byleth gets drunk all the time — far from it, actually — but Sylvain is probably used to taking care of him by now. It should come as no surprise that the professor, who indeed looks rather small when he's curled in on himself, has been sleepily waiting on the bar's "sober bench" this whole time. ]
Sylv'n... You came?
[ He looks up when called, a little dazed, and then —
— immediately opens his arms for his big Sylvain. The hat is nice, but he wants a hug! ]
[ hat secured! at least byleth won't catch a head cold now, hopefully. sylvain kneels down to give him a hug--
--that is, a hug that he uses to lift byleth into his arms. byleth is, luckily, slight enough that sylvain can carry him like this. it's clear that he ran out in a bit of a hurry with his plaid pajama pants, worn garreg mach university hoodie, and hastily tied sneakers, but he couldn't leave byleth all alone for too long. he doesn't even have his own coat on, but he made sure byleth has his hat. ]
Sounds like you had a nice night out, huh, Professor? You really went hard, huh!
[ A quick glance into the windows will finally reveal who Byleth was drinking with: Hanneman and Manuela, apparently, as well as some of the other faculty members. It's a bit of a surprise that they left him to sober up on the bench here, but it looks like Hanneman is the designated driver of the night and is currently quite occupied trying to keep Manuela from hitting on anything that moves...
Regardless. Byleth is safe now with one of his students to escort him back to their hotel rooms for the night. He's also kind of cute like this: placid and childish, and also easy to carry. Some people wiggle and make things hard when they're drunk; it's equally hard to carry people when they're blacked out, though, because they get too heavy. Byleth seems to be just the right amount of buzzed — he can make his weight more manageable to Sylvain but also not move around much at all. ]
I won. [ He flashes a little peace sign with his fingers. ] At great cost.
[ The vaguest answer possible, and Byleth knows it. He shakes his head and elaborates. ]
Jeralt's Mercenaries distributed wages evenly among the members of our group according to seniority and contribution, but since my father was the captain, the lion's share of our earnings naturally went to him. We offered better-than-average pay for the lifestyle, from what I understand, but whatever was leftover after everyone else was paid was mine and my father's by rights.
[ He takes another sip of wine, holding it delicately by the stem. It's always strange to see it, somehow — despite being raised as a mercenary, with no etiquette teachers to swat his elbows off of tables or his hands out of his food, Byleth is always so strangely graceful regardless. ]
What I earned was his as well... but it's not like I had a lot of needs. So he usually spent most of it buying everyone else rounds of beer or equipment. It improves morale... or so he said.
[ Another small sip, and then he continues: ]
It's the same principle, I think. Making sure everyone eats dinner.
[ Byleth pauses briefly, and then — the corners of his lips seem to lift ever so slightly when he says — ]
But... I also just think people are cute when they eat.
[Felix seemed to be paying attention. More attention than what he ever seemed to pay in lectures anyway. Whether it's the fact that he's not distracted by scribbling down his redheaded desk partner's notes or he's brimming with energy from the (perfect) meal, who could tell. But his eyes are sharp as he listens, as if he's taking everything in, and even committing it to memory.]
It sounds like a good method. Is that sort of approach how most outfits do things? What about if someone gets injured or is killed? I'd thought it like how pirate crews run, where a percentage of the wage is taken from every crew member and held in trust- with the idea being paying off those that become burdensome.
[If Byleth was particularly perceptive, perhaps he'd get the impression that Felix was asking questions for a reason. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he'd simply find it cute. Cute in the way that he tends to find most mundane things cute.
...Like eating. As engaged in the conversation as Felix is, he can't help but furrow his eyebrows at that. Because yes. That's weird.]
[ Byleth drains his glass of wine. He also pours himself some more. Again, he lacks the crass, boorish manners of the mercenaries he describes. He drinks in such a reserved fashion; he stops less than midway through his glass, then gently sets the bottle somewhere near Annette's elbow.
On second thought, he'll move that back to the center of the table. Because, you know. Annette. ]
Other mercenary groups had their own way of doing things. Some of them operated like pirates, under the rules you describe. As for injuries and deaths... Jeralt managed a sort of discharge fund for those mercenaries who were injured to the point that they could no longer fight. It wasn't enough to retire off of, but it was usually enough to get them to the nearest village and start up a new trade if they could manage it. He would pay any surviving family members that they had if they died, too, but the truth is that we rarely had to issue such payments. Most of our mercenaries didn't have family to speak of.
Everyone called him generous, but generosity wasn't typical, in the business. Most mercenaries were simply thrown out of their groups and left to die if they couldn't fight anymore. We were considered a particularly good group to work for. Of course, you had to be appropriately skilled to work for us. Jeralt would not allow anyone to ride with us if they could not handle themselves to his standards, no matter how hopeful or desperate they were.
[ Byleth doesn't know it, but his voice is always particularly mellifluous when he talks about his life as a mercenary. He's practically spellbinding to listen to (and to look at, too, if one were so inclined to his looks) — his gaze far-off and distant, as if looking through the mists at battles long past and memories long faded. Old, somehow, despite his young face. Perhaps merely timeless.
And then he says a curious thing: ]
...But that is to be expected, I suppose. The lives of people are not worth much outside of this monastery.
[Byleth is wholly unique. One would think- from the way he looks, from the way he drinks- that he's never been in a single fight, incapable of viewing, let alone inflicting, the beautiful violence he could commit.
...Yes. Beautiful violence. Unlike, say, a certain boar- where every thrust of his lance is clumsy- gutteral but nonetheless effective- no different to any actual boars grunting and thrashing and impaling whatever unfortunate creature fool enough to meet their tusks without fear of personal harm, there's an elegance in every strike Byleth makes. An unemotional detachment. No hatred. No malice. He merely moves an arm like one would swat a fly, and things fall, bleeding beyond all reasonable repair by any healer- often dead and gone before they even meet the ground.
Him striking an enemy down is no different to how he drinks his wine. A slight, beautiful movement requiring little to no effort, but successful nonetheless. More than that. ...Beautiful. Because yes- There's beauty in it. Much like there's a curious beauty in Byleth himself. In his appearance. In his voice. He's so together. Detached, most certainly, even strangely detatched. But together.
Felix admires it. Perhaps he would even be attracted to it- were he the sort to be less sentimental or less stubborn about his own preferences. In the absence of attraction, he could focus on emulation in his own swordplay- about the only thing he could emulate. Speaking as smoothly as Byleth, for instance...
No. He knows his limitations. He can only enjoy that. But as for what is being said, not how it sounds:]
...That's...
[Considerate. He'd thought that without a mutual pension, the injured were on their own. Or, like some bandit outfits, simply left behind or killed as some far-flung idea of mercy. But he's too much of a skeptic to consider Jeralt's approach mercy.]
...Clever. Your father's band must have made enemies. [It's the nature of things.] Paying off the infirm is a purchase of loyalty. But settling them...
[Well. Felix was a noble. But he knew how villages worked. Commoners tended to stand together. And they did not look kindly upon strangers appearing and asking questions.
It's a lot to chew on. But what Byleth says next- about lives outside of the monastery not being worth all that much- it makes him ask something else.]
...Was there any sort of work your father refused?
[ It isn't hard to find Dimitri in the cathedral, where he's been for the past few nights. A part of Byleth has often wondered why the fallen prince has taken to haunting the church's great hall when he could just as easily hide away in his old dorm room or any other place where he wouldn't be as easily seen; the monastery is big, and there are other places that Dimitri could go. At times, Byleth has wondered if his wayward prince has been praying for forgiveness from the goddess, or else, seeking divine judgment from her in a different way.
Dimitri needn't search so fervently. The goddess has been beside him all this time.
At any rate. After the conversation over their relics, Byleth walks in through the cathedral doors, the expression on his face placid but faintly pained. He of all people has known that Dimitri is not quite as mad as the others think that he is; his madness, if it must be called that, is borne more of a refusal to forgive himself than anything else.
But if he wants to see Byleth, then Byleth is what he shall receive. It is Byleth who has been tending to him all this time, making sure that he eats, that he does not neglect himself. ]
Dimitri.
[ Byleth materializes by his side, as always. His voice is husky, low. The voice of a man deeply, painfully in love. ]
[ Dimitri stalks between the ruined pews with a fervor. He cannot rest, he cannot pause, he cannot-- he cannot breathe. His hands flex and clench at his side, and he wishes for his spear, wishes to kill something to quiet the cacophony of his voices that scream and shout into his mind.
He is almost sure that he had imagined the whole thing when Byleth arrives. Dimitri turns sharply, his cloak sweeping out around his ankles. The instinct is there to bolt, to disappear because he does not, can not be seen. But Byleth is at his side before he can make any sort of decision.
Dimitri instead takes a sharp inhalation, the chilled air stinging at his lungs. ]
You are mistaken. [ He says the words gently, surprising even himself. ] You should not see me like this.
[ It is cold. It is a cold winter night and they haven't had the resources to repair the cathedral, so the ceiling has been open and the pews have been exposed to the elements for years. Even so, Byleth does not waver.
He lowers his eyes, stripping himself of his gloves. He never did that at all when they were younger; the other students used to gossip and wonder if perhaps their mercenary professor was so heavily scarred under his clothing that he did not want his bare skin to be seen at all. The truth was much more banal, and terrifying if one stopped to think of it: despite his bewildering number of combat engagements, Byleth had no particular scars to even speak of.
But he takes them off because he thinks it's important. He wants Dimitri to see him, to feel him — ]
You said that you wanted to see me, earlier.
[ Byleth reaches out. Barehanded. He's slow, no sudden movements, because Dimitri is like a wild animal these days, and he might startle too easily. But he slips both of his hands along the lines of Dimitri's jaw, framing his face. Gentle. Patient. Accepting. ]
I regret that I cannot tell you anything specific. The Lord Protector is my uncle by blood, but we were never close. During my father's reign, he often kept to his territories in Itha.
[But... He's lazy. neglectful. incompetent. gluttonous. and the rumours...]
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@sheezit
[ byleth, misunderstanding the thought to give him some makeup: ]
Is it... that bad?
I realized a long time ago that I must have a frightening face, but I didn't think the situation was so dire that I should cover it up. Jeralt always says I resemble my mother...
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[ give him a moment, he needs to process the fact that "frightening" is what Byleth got out of this. man, Jeralt must really have sheltered this guy... ]
That's not what I meant at all. You only look frightening because of your reputation, but you're not ruggedy and scarred and all rough around the edges like most mercs. If anything, you're too pretty to be a merc.
[ wait, he just heard himself talk-- ]
I mean, if I didn't know any better, I'd probably think you were closer to a noble rather than a warrior.
[ actually, just noble doesn't cut it, either... who else is it that Byleth reminds him of....... ]
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(the fact he's never been hit on is probably solely because it would be wildly inappropriate to make a move on the captain's son; the women who would've looked at him with interest would've realized it was better to admire him from afar, and any men that dared to make a move would've probably been impassively thrashed by jeralt for the insult. mostly just because they would've been closer to jeralt's age than byleth's.)
but shez says he's pretty... that's a new one. is he pretty? jeralt says he resembles his mother, but byleth always figured he meant more in terms of coloring than looks... ]
Am I...? I've really never thought about it.
It is a little overwhelming, I have to admit. The company that Jeralt and I usually keep... it's always been coarser. Rougher. But there are so many nobles here... with pretty faces and soft hands and sweet perfumes. I don't know how I feel about it yet.
You also have a handsome face, I think. The others must admire you greatly.
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[ the audacity of some random NPCs, I swear!! but on the other hand, Shez is practically an expert at friendzoning everyone, and it's mostly unintentional, too. too many Earnest Feelings openly professed, and not enough willingness to put down roots anytime soon. he loves the nomadic life of mercenaries too much to settle down.
(that might as well work as his alibi, too, in case Jeralt personally goes over Byleth's messenger owl logs. he's not trying to woo the pants off your son, promise!) ]
But I definitely get you on feeling overwhelmed around all these nobles and their fancy habits. Took me a long time to get used to it, and honestly I still can't say I've figured out all the proper etiquette for their tea parties...
[ oh. oh careful now. this is one of those rare moments the wheels in his brain are spinning, he's gonna do it, gonna produce one (1) whole Idea...!! ]
Hey, I bet you would have a much easier time with that! Why don't you give it a try?
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@lackingluster
[ Byleth was apparently not kidding about being a clingy, sleepy drunk.
As soon as he finishes his first glass of whiskey, he's drowsy, his long lashes fluttering as he struggles to keep them open. In the next moment, he's fully — or apparently near-fully — asleep. He's just conscious enough to mumble incoherently as he clings first to poor Felix (who happened to be nearby, and much to Byleth's slumbering surprise, does not immediately shove the professor off, but instead grudgingly passes him over to "the boar") and then to Dimitri, who seems equal parts embarrassed and pleased to be the professor's teddy bear. It's a wonder that Byleth can sleep in the crowded, loud bar.
Despite Sylvain's best efforts to make this a "Manwhore Monday" for the ages, none of the other Blue Lions seem inclined to flirt with any of the young women in town (who are mostly just peasant girls and the occasional wandering mercenary, given that this is no place for eligible noblewomen to spend their time). Instead, they seem more inclined to laugh and chat among themselves.
At length, Dimitri politely excuses himself, ostensibly to go out into the cold air outside to sober up a little, but perhaps also because he's flushed so dark pink that he's nearly crimson; Byleth has not made things easy for him, being very happy to squeeze whoever — or whatever — is in reach of his arms. "I'm sorry, Sylvain, could you watch the professor for a moment?" the prince (king, everyone keeps having to correct themselves) asks, gently disentangling himself from Byleth's greedy limbs so he can, apparently, go get some air.
Dedue goes to accompany the young king, as always, so that leaves Felix and Ashe and Sylvain with the professor on Sylvain's shoulder, practically in Sylvain's lap.
He still has his eyes closed, but he also seems mostly awake. ]
Mmmnnh...
[ Byleth rubs his head against Sylvain's shoulder. ]
...You wear too much perfume...
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instead, he mother hens. who wants food, who needs to be topped off, who needs water.
and sure, he could be chatting up the girls in town, telling them how pretty they look in the torchlight and sneaking out to the alley for a sloppy handjob, but actually, this is way more fun. he might have oversold manwhore monday to the professor. it might be more like "man distracts himself from the sorrows in his life monday," but who's keeping track, really.
besides, he enjoys ashe's bawdy laugh and dimitri chugging an entire flagon of beer himself while the blue lions cheer him on a lot more. felix even cracks a smile. it was definitely worth the wheedling it took to get them all to come out.
he waves dimitri off, no doubt needing to cool off from byleth hanging off him all night. the professor had not been kidding about the clinginess, but it's...cute. he's a warm, comforting weight on sylvain's shoulder. reminds him almost of felix when they were younger, trying to stay up late at night to watch the fireflies in the garden. but when he tries to catch felix's eye and smile, he can't. of course felix has already turned away. what'd sylvain expect? ]
Sorry, Professor. I'll wear less for you next time.
[ he brings a hand up, combing slowly through byleth's hair. it's softer than he'd imagined it being. ]
Guess I better cut you off, huh? We still gotta make it home with you after all, you party animal. [ as though sylvain hasn't been plying byleth with water for the last hour or so. ] So? How's your first Manwhore Monday?
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(And, yes, many years ago, when he was still enough of a boy to be childish but enough of a man to drink with the other mercenaries, he was prone to doing this to Jeralt, too, clinging to the man's broad chest, nuzzling into the soft prickle of his beard until his father started stroking his back and took him up to an inn room to sleep.)
Sylvain does not have a beard for him to nuzzle into, but Byleth seems to enjoy the stroking of his silky hair all the same. He shifts his cheek pillowed against Sylvain's chest, completely oblivious to the way that Felix seems to be getting slightly huffy about the whole thing.
The professor's voice is low and sleepy when he speaks. ]
It was okay.
[ Just okay?! ]
Next time... we should bring games. Of the kind that Claude seems to like.
[ ...Like... board games...? ]
'Cause Felix gets all competitive... and it'd make Dimitri laugh...
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[ sylvain gives him a lopsided grin as he leans back in his seat. one hand steadies both their weight on the bench. byleth's hair tickles where it brushes along the collar of his shirt and the skin he exposes as he nuzzles. ]
Felix isn't really the type for chess, though. He much prefers fighting himself than letting the pieces do it for him, right, Fe?
[ another hopeful attempt at getting felix to smile at him, dashed when felix shoots to his feet in a huff. there's some kind of murmur about air or maybe dimitri needing him or whatever excuse he feels he needs to get away from sylvain as fast as possible.
of course.
ashe is all but fallen asleep against the wall on sylvain's other side. who knows what dimitri and dedue - and now felix - are getting up to outside anymore. ]
Did I overdo it, Professor?
[ not the time for a sincere question, maybe. sylvain sighs. he brushes back the hair from byleth's face, tucking some of it behind his ear. the rest falls back over his forehead. he really does almost look the same age as them like this, relaxed and sleepy and open. ]
Think we should try heading back then? I'll play chess back at the monastery with you, if you'd like.
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hey. professor.
sorry. it's late. just couldn't sleep.
i was thinking about when we were talking that one time.
about being a spoiled noble and the monsters hiding in the blue lions house.
so. now you know what i was talking about, at least. you met him.
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(Dimitri might actually have the beginning signs of a crush. Not that any of the other Blue Lions have noticed. Dedue might know, but as with all things concerning His Highness, the young man from Duscur keeps completely silent. But maybe Sylvain has taken note of the sort of bright and bushy-tailed way that Dimitri always straightens whenever Byleth enters a room. The slight color to his cheeks when he receives praise.)
Regardless. They have just confronted Miklan, and Byleth knows a little more about why Sylvain acted the way that he did.
He still doesn't see any monsters. Just broken men. Even the beast that Miklan became — only a broken man in the end. ]
Yes. I remember.
I still stand by what I said.
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the part about the good old noblemen of faerghus?
[ that faerghus - including sylvain's father - was not kind to her nobles. so why should the nobles be kind to their children? sylvain was spoiled, though, when he compared himself to his brother. he was still the gautier heir, after all. he was still part of the family. that, already, was more than miklan ever got. didn't that make him spoiled? ]
or the part about hurting myself
[ both? both. ]
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[ no surprises there. ]
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@lackingluster
[ It's not like Byleth gets drunk all the time — far from it, actually — but Sylvain is probably used to taking care of him by now. It should come as no surprise that the professor, who indeed looks rather small when he's curled in on himself, has been sleepily waiting on the bar's "sober bench" this whole time. ]
Sylv'n... You came?
[ He looks up when called, a little dazed, and then —
— immediately opens his arms for his big Sylvain. The hat is nice, but he wants a hug! ]
Professor's been waiting...
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[ hat secured! at least byleth won't catch a head cold now, hopefully. sylvain kneels down to give him a hug--
--that is, a hug that he uses to lift byleth into his arms. byleth is, luckily, slight enough that sylvain can carry him like this. it's clear that he ran out in a bit of a hurry with his plaid pajama pants, worn garreg mach university hoodie, and hastily tied sneakers, but he couldn't leave byleth all alone for too long. he doesn't even have his own coat on, but he made sure byleth has his hat. ]
Sounds like you had a nice night out, huh, Professor? You really went hard, huh!
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[ A quick glance into the windows will finally reveal who Byleth was drinking with: Hanneman and Manuela, apparently, as well as some of the other faculty members. It's a bit of a surprise that they left him to sober up on the bench here, but it looks like Hanneman is the designated driver of the night and is currently quite occupied trying to keep Manuela from hitting on anything that moves...
Regardless. Byleth is safe now with one of his students to escort him back to their hotel rooms for the night. He's also kind of cute like this: placid and childish, and also easy to carry. Some people wiggle and make things hard when they're drunk; it's equally hard to carry people when they're blacked out, though, because they get too heavy. Byleth seems to be just the right amount of buzzed — he can make his weight more manageable to Sylvain but also not move around much at all. ]
I won. [ He flashes a little peace sign with his fingers. ] At great cost.
@woedao
No, not quite... or sort of, in a way.
[ The vaguest answer possible, and Byleth knows it. He shakes his head and elaborates. ]
Jeralt's Mercenaries distributed wages evenly among the members of our group according to seniority and contribution, but since my father was the captain, the lion's share of our earnings naturally went to him. We offered better-than-average pay for the lifestyle, from what I understand, but whatever was leftover after everyone else was paid was mine and my father's by rights.
[ He takes another sip of wine, holding it delicately by the stem. It's always strange to see it, somehow — despite being raised as a mercenary, with no etiquette teachers to swat his elbows off of tables or his hands out of his food, Byleth is always so strangely graceful regardless. ]
What I earned was his as well... but it's not like I had a lot of needs. So he usually spent most of it buying everyone else rounds of beer or equipment. It improves morale... or so he said.
[ Another small sip, and then he continues: ]
It's the same principle, I think. Making sure everyone eats dinner.
[ Byleth pauses briefly, and then — the corners of his lips seem to lift ever so slightly when he says — ]
But... I also just think people are cute when they eat.
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It sounds like a good method. Is that sort of approach how most outfits do things? What about if someone gets injured or is killed? I'd thought it like how pirate crews run, where a percentage of the wage is taken from every crew member and held in trust- with the idea being paying off those that become burdensome.
[If Byleth was particularly perceptive, perhaps he'd get the impression that Felix was asking questions for a reason. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he'd simply find it cute. Cute in the way that he tends to find most mundane things cute.
...Like eating. As engaged in the conversation as Felix is, he can't help but furrow his eyebrows at that. Because yes. That's weird.]
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[ Byleth drains his glass of wine. He also pours himself some more. Again, he lacks the crass, boorish manners of the mercenaries he describes. He drinks in such a reserved fashion; he stops less than midway through his glass, then gently sets the bottle somewhere near Annette's elbow.
On second thought, he'll move that back to the center of the table. Because, you know. Annette. ]
Other mercenary groups had their own way of doing things. Some of them operated like pirates, under the rules you describe. As for injuries and deaths... Jeralt managed a sort of discharge fund for those mercenaries who were injured to the point that they could no longer fight. It wasn't enough to retire off of, but it was usually enough to get them to the nearest village and start up a new trade if they could manage it. He would pay any surviving family members that they had if they died, too, but the truth is that we rarely had to issue such payments. Most of our mercenaries didn't have family to speak of.
Everyone called him generous, but generosity wasn't typical, in the business. Most mercenaries were simply thrown out of their groups and left to die if they couldn't fight anymore. We were considered a particularly good group to work for. Of course, you had to be appropriately skilled to work for us. Jeralt would not allow anyone to ride with us if they could not handle themselves to his standards, no matter how hopeful or desperate they were.
[ Byleth doesn't know it, but his voice is always particularly mellifluous when he talks about his life as a mercenary. He's practically spellbinding to listen to (and to look at, too, if one were so inclined to his looks) — his gaze far-off and distant, as if looking through the mists at battles long past and memories long faded. Old, somehow, despite his young face. Perhaps merely timeless.
And then he says a curious thing: ]
...But that is to be expected, I suppose. The lives of people are not worth much outside of this monastery.
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...Yes. Beautiful violence. Unlike, say, a certain boar- where every thrust of his lance is clumsy- gutteral but nonetheless effective- no different to any actual boars grunting and thrashing and impaling whatever unfortunate creature fool enough to meet their tusks without fear of personal harm, there's an elegance in every strike Byleth makes. An unemotional detachment. No hatred. No malice. He merely moves an arm like one would swat a fly, and things fall, bleeding beyond all reasonable repair by any healer- often dead and gone before they even meet the ground.
Him striking an enemy down is no different to how he drinks his wine. A slight, beautiful movement requiring little to no effort, but successful nonetheless. More than that. ...Beautiful. Because yes- There's beauty in it. Much like there's a curious beauty in Byleth himself. In his appearance. In his voice. He's so together. Detached, most certainly, even strangely detatched. But together.
Felix admires it. Perhaps he would even be attracted to it- were he the sort to be less sentimental or less stubborn about his own preferences. In the absence of attraction, he could focus on emulation in his own swordplay- about the only thing he could emulate. Speaking as smoothly as Byleth, for instance...
No.
He knows his limitations. He can only enjoy that.
But as for what is being said, not how it sounds:]
...That's...
[Considerate. He'd thought that without a mutual pension, the injured were on their own. Or, like some bandit outfits, simply left behind or killed as some far-flung idea of mercy. But he's too much of a skeptic to consider Jeralt's approach mercy.]
...Clever. Your father's band must have made enemies. [It's the nature of things.] Paying off the infirm is a purchase of loyalty. But settling them...
[Well. Felix was a noble. But he knew how villages worked. Commoners tended to stand together. And they did not look kindly upon strangers appearing and asking questions.
It's a lot to chew on. But what Byleth says next- about lives outside of the monastery not being worth all that much- it makes him ask something else.]
...Was there any sort of work your father refused?
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@compunctions
[ It isn't hard to find Dimitri in the cathedral, where he's been for the past few nights. A part of Byleth has often wondered why the fallen prince has taken to haunting the church's great hall when he could just as easily hide away in his old dorm room or any other place where he wouldn't be as easily seen; the monastery is big, and there are other places that Dimitri could go. At times, Byleth has wondered if his wayward prince has been praying for forgiveness from the goddess, or else, seeking divine judgment from her in a different way.
Dimitri needn't search so fervently. The goddess has been beside him all this time.
At any rate. After the conversation over their relics, Byleth walks in through the cathedral doors, the expression on his face placid but faintly pained. He of all people has known that Dimitri is not quite as mad as the others think that he is; his madness, if it must be called that, is borne more of a refusal to forgive himself than anything else.
But if he wants to see Byleth, then Byleth is what he shall receive. It is Byleth who has been tending to him all this time, making sure that he eats, that he does not neglect himself. ]
Dimitri.
[ Byleth materializes by his side, as always. His voice is husky, low. The voice of a man deeply, painfully in love. ]
Will you look at me?
ps ily
He is almost sure that he had imagined the whole thing when Byleth arrives. Dimitri turns sharply, his cloak sweeping out around his ankles. The instinct is there to bolt, to disappear because he does not, can not be seen. But Byleth is at his side before he can make any sort of decision.
Dimitri instead takes a sharp inhalation, the chilled air stinging at his lungs. ]
You are mistaken. [ He says the words gently, surprising even himself. ] You should not see me like this.
❤❤❤
He lowers his eyes, stripping himself of his gloves. He never did that at all when they were younger; the other students used to gossip and wonder if perhaps their mercenary professor was so heavily scarred under his clothing that he did not want his bare skin to be seen at all. The truth was much more banal, and terrifying if one stopped to think of it: despite his bewildering number of combat engagements, Byleth had no particular scars to even speak of.
But he takes them off because he thinks it's important. He wants Dimitri to see him, to feel him — ]
You said that you wanted to see me, earlier.
[ Byleth reaches out. Barehanded. He's slow, no sudden movements, because Dimitri is like a wild animal these days, and he might startle too easily. But he slips both of his hands along the lines of Dimitri's jaw, framing his face. Gentle. Patient. Accepting. ]
And I want to see you. I always want to see you.
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after a long week i have returned!
welcome back!!!
@viderunt
I don't know much about your uncle. What is he like?
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[But...
He's lazy. neglectful. incompetent. gluttonous.
and the rumours...]
Might I be frank with you, Professor?
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