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Felix finds him in the lavatory, swearing quietly, muttering to himself. It's a novelty to have indoor baths after so long on the front lines, and lighting quick fury rushes through Felix's extremities at being interrupted, especially by Dimtri's presence. Careful not to tip him off, Felix steps quietly forward to see better.
He's... he's shaving . The porcelain basin in front of him is spattered with tiny droplets of blood among the fine blond hairs. It's obvious that Dimitri hasn't bothered with a close shave in years, only getting as short as scissors or a knife will allow. He wonders if it's Byleth's presence that's sparked this turn of events, whether the professor asked him to do this or whether it's simply having to face people on a daily basis who aren't trying to kill him.
"Damn it!" Dimitri hisses, and Felix watches him clap a hand to his jaw, blood dripping from between his fingers. He's only made it halfway across his face, his chin and right cheek still covered in overgrown stubble. Felix watches the boar prince make eye contact with his reflection in the cracked mirror, watches him slowly wash the blade in the basin and line it up to start again.
Dedue had done this for him, before the war. Felix knows it, even if he hadn't seen them. He'd seen Dedue shave his own face with practiced motions, hands careful and precise and almost dwarfing the curling ivory of the razor's handle — Dimitri's razor, if the carved insignia and richness of the blade was anything to go by. It only made sense. The spoiled prince and his loyal servant and the strange, heated way they looked at each other sometimes. The way Dimitri would rub at the soft place beneath his bottom lip, always perfectly groomed, never a single cut on his skin even when the other boys were just learning how, when the rest of them would show up to lectures with little marks and scars on their cheeks.
There's something feverish and tight in the pit of Felix's stomach as he watches, fueled by bitterness and grief and that inexplicable heat that rises whenever Dimitri is being especially pathetic . He should leave. He should get Ashe or Mercedes or, hell, Sylvain would be better. One of them could help.
Instead, he steps forward and lets his boot click on the floor as a warning, the sharp sound echoing off the tiles of the lavatory.
"You're going to bleed out if you keep going like that, boar," he says, unable to keep the sneer from his voice and his lips. "Let me."
In an instant, Dimitri's back up against the wall, brandishing the razor like a knife. It's such a comical image that Felix laughs, tossing his towel and soap onto one of the shelves above a sink. He raises his hands in a mockery of surrender, despite both of them knowing that in their respective states — Felix with him cornered, fully clothed, fed; Dimitri disoriented, shaking with hunger and exhaustion and paranoia — Felix could easily take him down with only bare hands.
"If I were here to kill you, I would have brought my sword, not soap." Dimitri's shoulders relax infinitesimally and he lowers the razor.
"Then why are you here?" he growls out, turning back to the mirror, careful to keep Felix in the peripheral vision of his good eye.
"I was going to take a bath," Felix replies, crossing his arms. "Not everything is about you, boar."
As he watches, Dimitri tries — and fails — to shave another stripe down his cheek, hissing as he nicks himself again. His cheeks are sunken and hollow, making the motion even more challenging with his shaking hands. Felix tsks.
"I said , let me do that," he repeats, stepping forward and reaching for the razor. Dimitri eyes him warily.
"Why?" he demands, suspicion lacing his voice. It's a good question and one Felix refuses to think about for any amount of time.
"You're injured enough as-is," Felix says instead — a half-truth. Dimitri is injured after his foolish battle, but Felix would be lying if he didn't wake up from dreams of Dimitri pushed to his breaking point, torn apart and still fighting, still drawing blood and rending flesh.
There's a stool that's probably been sitting in the lavatory for years now, and Dmitri doesn't complain as Felix drags it over and pushes him onto it. He's more reluctant to relinquish the razor, but finally gives it up with a glare and a mutter that Felix doesn't catch.
And here they are. Felix stands before the once-future king with a razor in his hand, the other man defenseless, his lips slack, his eye glassy and distant. Felix swallows hard and rinses the blade of blood and soap.
"Chin up," he says, and his voice is hoarse.
He's never done this for another man before, only for himself. The angle is different and strange and involves a lot more touching than he'd thought. He places one hand on Dimitri's jaw, keeping him still, the other dragging the razor with a slow, deliberate motion. It makes a coarse scratching sound with every pass over sallow skin. Dimitri’s breath goes heavier, slower, his hands twitching in his lap every time Felix repositions him for a better angle.
Felix moves around to his front, clears his upper lip with sharp little flicks of the razor, trying to ignore how Dimitri’s breath stutters out onto his palm. He puts the pad of his thumb under Dimitri’s chin to tilt it up further and — Goddess, Felix can feel him swallow. The silence is deafening, oppressive. He should speak, fill it with taunting insults or jabs or something but instead, Felix simply washes the blade clean in preparation for the next stroke.
He moves to begin on Dimitri’s right cheek and Dimitri’s hand shoots out, making Felix curse in surprise.
“What?” he demands, meeting Dimitri’s burning gaze. The prince swallows visibly.
“I can’t —” Another swallow, throat bobbing. “I can’t see you there.”
Annoyance, pity, impatience flare through him — pathetic , Felix thinks. What does Dimitri think he’s going to do? Kill him? Felix wouldn’t give him the satisfaction for all of Fodlan.
“I’m not going to slit your throat, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Felix snaps. He shrugs Dimitri’s hand off and steps into his blind spot. “Stay still.”
“Felix —”
“I said still , boar.” The anger pulses white-hot in him and he takes Dimitri’s jaw firmly in hand, turning his face up and to the side, exposing his throat.
Dimitri fucking whimpers.
Felix freezes, grateful that Dimitri can’t see his expression. Slowly, he brings the razor close, scraping it down. Experimentally, he tightens his grip. Dimitri’s breath stutters. Felix keeps his own exhale deliberately even and continues until Dimitri’s cheek is smooth and clear.
“Your throat,” Felix says, quietly, voice coming out so rough that it’s barely audible. He turns to wash the blade, and when he looks back, Dimitri’s simply staring at him. His hands are motionless in his lap. Felix thinks he might be hiding arousal, but he refuses to look long enough to tell.
“Tilt your chin up,” Felix tries again, only to be met with that stare, glassy and so tired. He makes a frustrated noise in his chest. “Fine. Have it your way.”
And perhaps it’s the sadist in him, perhaps it’s a desire that he’s buried so long that it inevitably bubbles up through the cracks, perhaps it’s so far down that his conscious mind no longer even knows, but Felix takes Dimitri by the hair and wrenches his head up to bare his long throat.
“Felix!” Dimitri protests, body tensing like a coiled spring. Felix laughs, the sight of Dimitri so vulnerable below him running like lightning through his veins, terrifying and intoxicating.
“Best stay still, boar,” he taunts, resting the razor just under the corner of Dimitri’s jaw, where his pulse jumps jackrabbit-quick. “Wouldn’t want me to slip, would you?”
Dimitri’s breath is ragged and it’s unmistakable now how his hips shift, how his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Pathetic, pathetic , but Felix’s own trousers tighten and he thinks, in a self-loathing kind of way, that they’re quite a matched pair, aren’t they?
“Felix…” Dimitri whispers, hoarse. He makes a tiny, startled noise when Felix presses the razor in harder, so close to breaking skin.
“Do you think,” Felix says, possessed by something he doesn’t know how to name, “if I dug deep enough, I could cut the beast out of you?”
The razor breaks skin. A trickle of blood down Dimitri’s throat. His eyes close, his mouth twists into something resembling a smile.
“I won’t stop you,” Dimitri says, expression not unlike a statue of a martyr at peace, and disgust wells in the pit of Felix’s stomach.
“That’s far too easy a death for a beast,” Felix spits. “At the very least, your death should be useful. ”
Dimitri doesn’t answer, just breathes shallowly, eye shut. Felix wants to scream, wants Dimitri to fight back .
Instead, he repositions the razor and finishes the job, scraping away stubble until Dimitri’s throat and chin are as clean as his cheeks.
How easy it would be. Felix has cut hundreds of throats — one more would be easy.
His eye is closed.
Felix lets the basin drain of pinkish-gray water, drops the razor into it with a clatter. He threads his fingers again into Dimitri’s hair, pulling him back to look Felix in the face. Dimitri looks significantly less feral clean-shaven, but Felix knows better than to trust that face.
He always expected their first kiss to be rough, biting, half-kiss-half-duel. This, though? This is a conquering, this is Dimitri allowing him to take. This is Dimitri not giving a damn what happens to his body in the space between here and Enbarr, so long as he can stand on his feet and carry a lance and sever head from shoulders before he dies.
This is not what Felix wants.
He pulls back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Next time,” he snarls, “find someone else to help you.”
Dimitri doesn’t say a thing as he leaves.