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It is after the battle at the Valley of Torment when Claude looks over their exhausted though successful troops and finds himself almost fearing even a simple bandit attack. There are two many wounded, there is too much weariness even with Judith's reinforcements, and so they may make it to Garreg Mach unscathed, or they may not, if fate is unkind. Before safety surrounds them they must travel the road that circumvents the mountain range between the Alliance and the Kingdom, and the last scouts report a brimming stirring of thieves and outlaws in the area as of late, when neither nation can gather the required resources to put a stop to the opportunistic banditry.
The map in front of him a blur, Claude presses the heels of his palms against his burning eyelids, but no changes present themselves when he looks at the faint traces again. Either the candlelight has become too poor in the tent or they need to find a new map supplier.
“When did you last sleep?”
Or that.
Lorenz lets the tent flap flutter closed behind him and approaches the table with two slow, hesitant steps that despite their stiffness belie the amount of blood he has lost.
“You should be lying down,” Claude says, endeavors to banish the weakening relief at the sight of Lorenz on his feet and the impulse to hold him close, to guarantee he's alive and real. But reassurances can come later. Claude has kept a determined distance from Lorenz’s side since Lorenz recovered consciousness; he needs his mind clear to deliver a full battalion of injured soldiers to safety with the Imperial army on their heels and bloodthirsty bandits surrounding them. He needs the tall walls of a fortress around his people before he allows in his mind the reality of Lorenz cleaved by a lance from shoulder to chest. The sight keeps nonetheless plaguing the smooth darkness of the back of his eyelids every time he closes his eyes.
“My eyes,” Lorenz says, “are up here.” He is wearing every layer today, which means that shirt, vest, jacket and finally coat cover his right shoulder, the place Claude has been staring at because the last time he saw Lorenz--with a thread blanket covering him and blood still matting his hair--only bandages and the endless pour of Faith magic kept skin and muscle and bone from tearing apart.
He can’t help the twitch of his lips when he obeys Lorenz and averts his eyes from his shoulder to return his gaze. Any delight his waspish remark brought leaves Claude as he takes in the lifeless quality of his pallor, the bruises under his eyes; even his lips are pale.
“Lorenz,” says Claude.
Rolling his eyes, “Oh, spare me,” Lorenz says. “The healer recommended a stroll.”
“In the middle of the night? ” In two strides he is holding Lorenz’s elbow, guiding him with a gentle grip to the small cot in the corner of the tent. Lorenz doesn’t protest, which is entirely due to the fact he lacks the strength to resist, not the underlying desire. “Which healer?” Claude demands when they are both sitting on the edge of the cot. “Not Marianne. Not Lysithea.”
Lorenz looks around him, but is forced to answer when he fails to find any flaw in their surroundings. Claude has not had the time to untidy the diligent work of the servants, and the temporary tent remains neat and the cot made for the only night they can afford to stop and rest. “No, not them. If you must know, there are other healers in the army,” Lorenz says. Only after a heedful moment he lets his back rest on the pillows Claude has piled behind him, breath shallow until he finds a comfortable position, half reclined on the cushions but with his feet still on the ground. “I am fine,” he adds with astounding confidence for someone whose warm slippery blood had coated Claude's hands and forearms and clothes just three days ago. Beneath his short nails, resilient to soap and scrubbing, Claude thinks he can still find some traces of it; half moons of copper and rust encrusted in his nails as in his mind.
With Lorenz sitting down, when Claude is sure he isn’t going to faint and burst his head open on the ground, Claude could allow himself to believe him, even if for a heartbeat. With his warmth beside him it is easy to forget how heavy and cold, motionless, Lorenz’s body had been, when Claude had dragged him to Marianne on the battlefield, how endless the stream of blood.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, then?” Claude asks. He bends his back to lay his elbows on his thighs, presses the palms of his hands together between his knees to conceal the tremors running through them.
If Lorenz has heard the scratch in his voice he chooses not to comment. “Hilda updated me on our whereabouts,” Lorenz says. “Why are you postponing your decision?”
"Didn't know bedrest involved micromanaging nowadays." Claude raises an eyebrow, but Lorenz ignores him. Sighing, he says, "I’m not postponing anything." He moves to lean back on the pillows, next to Lorenz, to better look at him, careful not to jolt his tattered body. Lorenz fails to move away as he has been doing for months, since their reunion at Garreg Mach; always a guarded distance, which Claude notices and still keeps pushing to close, at first curious to see how many inches triggered the alarms in Lorenz’s head--somewhere between sitting next to each other during war councils, which Lorenz readily did, and Claude leaning in to whisper some casual comment to him alone during these meetings, which Lorenz avoided with a frown by subtly leaning back. It has become routine: for Claude to move in and Lorenz away. Which is why, now that Lorenz’s injury sets him to prioritize what little comfort he can get and he doesn’t reel back, Claude does not expect to find, even though he has been looking for months, the distinguished angles of his face in profile within touching distance; high cheekbone as Lorenz stares not at Claude, straight nose pointed ahead.
This close, Claude’s nose is tickled by whatever soap Lorenz used to wash the blood off his hair; this close, he can see the curve of his eyelashes. There is a moment of silence as Claude asserts just how badly he miscalculated, and then he keeps talking, jolted out of his contemplation when Lorenz tilts his head slightly away and his hair curtains part of his face. "I know we cannot continue to Garreg Mach as we are.” He clears his throat. “I was looking over the maps to figure out what road to take from here.”
“There is nothing to figure out,” says Lorenz. “You know which the safest route is, which keep can lodge and feed all of our troops and help our wounded." There is a faint quality to his tone that Claude dislikes, voice weaker than he's ever heard him. But Lorenz persists, obstinate: "And if somehow your constant dismissal of rest and sleep has finally caught up with you and hindered your cognitive skills, I am here telling you now--”
“Hindered my cognitive skills?” Claude mutters, amused despite himself.
“--that the Gloucester Estate is the keep to which I refer.”
“Oh! Really? I thought you meant Goneril.”
He receives a withering look. In reply, Claude says, “Your delightful father has behaved himself so far, I am...reluctant to dangle the candy right before his eyes. Our soldiers cannot fight the Gloucester battalions as they are should he realize his heir is under his roof and safe as I am within manacles-distance and unsafe. And Daphnel territory stands at the same distance to the north.”
“My delightful father,” Lorenz says, conveying with his voice alone the tone of a long-suffering sigh and a roll of his eyes, “is not home at the moment. Last I heard from him, he had traveled to manage Acheron’s Estate after his unregretful demise. And House Daphnel lacks the means to support our numbers.
“Even were he home, I can handle him.” This he says meeting Claude’s eyes, resolute. “That is, if you trust me.” And this, he has the nerve to say after throwing himself, three days ago, between Claude’s unsuspecting back and the lethal unerring blade of an Imperial lance.
The lighthearted words come to Claude at will, as does the curl of the lips, though slightly belated as his heart constricts painfully inside his chest. “Do you think I just allow any ailing invalid in my tent? At midnight?”
Lorenz snaps his head around to properly glare at him, hair whipping in the air. “I am not invalid.”
...
Only after Claude promises that he is going to inform the troops about the change of plans in a minute does Lorenz agree to rest his eyes for a moment. But Claude stays, listening in the ever-growing darkness of the tent as the candle burns away, to Lorenz breathing and alive; he had given the orders to the battalions some hours ago as the sun set, when he had decided their safest bet was to go to Gloucester Estate. One, he would not endanger his troops because of Count Gloucester’s fickle allegiances, he would not keep Lorenz away from much-needed bed and rest; two, Lorenz was, against his father’s expectations, supporting Claude, had shown up at Garreg Mach with the rest of the Golden Deer and caused something to shift in Claude. Exchanging with him for the past years cautious letters about the state of the war had not prepared him at all for the unwavering determination dressed in polished armor. Something rebels in Claude at the thought of disappointing the man exhausted from blood loss and pain and fever that now, much to his future discontent about what he would call lack of decorum for stealing another’s cot, sleeps by his side.
...
Lorenz insists on riding the last leg of the journey, stubbornly dismissing every healer's recommendations to travel in the cart reserved for the injured or, in Lysithea's case, forceful orders only not bodily put into action because she wouldn't use her magic on Lorenz while he is healing.
With Barbarossa injured--two arrow wounds on their way to recovery--Claude rides beside him.
"How is your wyvern?" Lorenz asks, voice brittle despite his best efforts.
The warmth of the weak morning sun tickles Claude's skin and glints off Lorenz's armor every time his eyes glance in his direction. Claude bites on the words Lorenz does not want to hear about lying in the infirmary's cart for a gentler ride. But then he looks to him and sees the clenched jaw, the pale skin tightening around his eyes. "Better than you. Resting. A wyvern is more sensible than the proud scion of House Gloucester. Any comments?"
"Such inconvenience,” Lorenz says, “that I do not follow the scent of raw meat into a cage."
Claude feigns to think for a moment. Then, "Will you consider it if I change the raw meat for a fresh tuna fillet and prosecco?"
“I am positively seduced," Lorenz says, dryly. The road stretches in front of them, flat and easy to navigate, and Lorenz continues rigid on his horse, but the lines of pain etched in his face fade slightly, first stark then faint, as he maneuvers his mount with effortless poise.
"Oh, you are high maintenance," Claude says.
"Not at all," says Lorenz. "I merely prefer red wine.”
"Yes,” Claude says smiling, “I know." For some reason the fact that he was right in what he had privately guessed as Lorenz's favored drink causes an unsettling wave to surge through him: something that leaves him unable to tear his gaze away from Lorenz until the man in question realizes and meets his eyes before inevitably looking away. Claude endeavors to return his mind to a neat thinking path: He had noticed Lorenz’s preferences some time ago, as had he noticed the sad lack of funds for such indulgences the army suffered lately. “So, how many bottles are exactly in your father’s cellar?”
In the cold morning, the soft laughter Lorenz lets out clouds in front of his mouth, fleeting like the sound that barely reaches Claude’s ears. “None for you.”
It is not the first time Claude thinks that these roads Lorenz must know like the palms of his hands: This is the place where he grew up, where he took his first pony to ride, his first horse. Despite the wariness that comes with wartimes and abundant bandits, Claude can appreciate the rich foliage on both sides of the road; he knows that from Barbarossa’s back the dust road would look like an ant trail buried deep between thick bushes, the lush copse of the orange trees plagued with the sound of birds and the white blossoms coyly permeating the green leaves. He can imagine a bony child sitting proudly on top of his small pony following his tutor's instructions, keeping his chin up and his back too straight.
"I had not the chance to apologize for taking your bed from you last night,” Lorenz says, substituting child for man in Claude’s eyes. “Did you sleep, at all?"
Claude had, lulled by Lorenz's even breath, allowed for a long moment of stillness and closed his eyes; he’d been then unwillingly pulled into slumber along with Lorenz. And next to him. Waking some time close to dawn he had removed himself from the bed with none of the grace Lorenz employed when he avoided Claude's proximity. Lorenz had thankfully not woken to Claude falling off the cot, or when he had removed his shoes to properly lay him down and covered him with the blankets. As Claude brushed his hair from his face, Lorenz had, in sleep, tilted his face into Claude’s hand for a heart-stopping second that had caused the night to stutter around him.
But Claude says, “I was just on the verge of blissful and most-needed rest when you started snoring."
"I do not,” Lorenz says slowly, "snore.” Like Claude has accused him of committing a sin.
“A most delicate and exquisite snore! Very noble-like. I am sure not even the Goddess can fault you for that.” But Lorenz is ignoring him now, Claude’s trembling smile giving his lies and intentions away. It’s been a long time since he has ridden beside Lorenz like this, as lately all they do is march into battle. Claude remembers those long rides during their academy days, when Lorenz had insisted on accompanying him only because he mistrusted him. Lorenz has never admitted--not that Claude has asked--but he thinks Lorenz came to enjoy that time they spent together as Claude had, even if he mostly irritated Lorenz with jests and banter.
It isn't long before, on the horizon, Claude sees the road opening up, and behind an iron gate guarded by Gloucester soldiers the plains surrounding the manor. It is the first time Claude is going to see Lorenz’s home. He keeps clutching the reins of the horse in his hands, restless. Never has a strategic retreat presented such endless possibilities.
Next to him, Lorenz looks on his house with none of Claude’s concealed impatience, but beneath the serenity the familiar grounds reflect on his face with the warm welcome of a loved and missed home. Not like Claude misses Almyra, with an ache blunted dull by the years; Lorenz crosses the gates to his house and his whole body relaxes, finding himself in a place easy to return to and, most of all, untouched by war, safe.
…
So: Lorenz’s home.
Claude has seen the courtyard and the stables and the countless horses. He has noticed the respectful deference of the soldiers toward Lorenz, the fond politeness of the servants. The elderly woman who must be the housekeeper fusses when she realizes Lorenz was injured recently. After hours on a horse, there is no way for him to deny that he is hurting, which leads to the housekeeper to send for the keep’s physician.
This is how Claude finds himself in Lorenz’s room, waiting with him for the physician, unable to bite down the smile. That's part of the reason he stands with his back towards Lorenz. It is also because he can't stop looking at the walls covered with shelves full of books--poetry books!--and with a variety of paintings. Lorenz, having slept in this room more than half his life, stands in the middle of it unfazed, resigned to Claude's curiosity.
Nothing catches his attention for long. He feels like a kid during Winter Solstice morning, in a room filled with presents. “What is this painting!" Claude cries out. "Is this supposed to be Saint Macuil? Why exactly is he half-naked while being pierced by arrows? Oh, look at those lips. No wonder he was canonized if he looked like this…”
There is an enticing waver in Lorenz’s voice when he says, “That was a present from my father.”
All Claude needs to say is: “Was he aware what he was regaling you with?”
Lorenz's laughter is not for long. Grimacing, he presses a hand to his right shoulder and Claude sobers, walks him to the bed with the faintest support on the small of his back. Once he is sitting, Lorenz says, “Are you done with your inspection?” as Claude stands in front of him, rocking on his feet as he takes in the enormous bed and the carved mahogany posts. Are those cherubs? “Your quarters are in the East Wing,” Lorenz adds.
“ Am I done?” Claude says. “Have you any idea how many fantasies you’re fulfilling right now? The ammunition you are providing me with!” Claude turns to take another look around the room: the matching set of wardrobe and chest--carved with the same winged chubby infants as the bedposts--the tidy desk where a pen with his full name crammed in its surface lies next to a book about flower language and another one that seems to be about optimizing tea time. The jar used to store his pens is teacup-shaped. The rug Claude stands on depicts what seems at first like a traditional hunt but turns out to be just horses, of all shapes and sizes. The bed curtains are pulled back at the moment, but with a flick of his hand Claude reveals endless etched roses looping together. It is, after all, a mix of Lorenz's interests made exuberant--as children tend to do--combined as he grew from child to adolescent to an adult who had not had the time to change his old decorations. An image of his own quarters back in Almyra flashes through his mind: wyvern decoration, abundant wyvern decoration. “Lorenz, I fear you cannot ever double-cross me now, I could very possibly ruin your life, bribe you until the day we die.”
There is resignation in his tone when Lorenz says, "As if I would ever betray you, you impossible man."
It is a good thing he has his back to Claude and does not see him freeze midstep, almost stumbling into the dresser. Lorenz will turn away from Claude’s proximity and then say things like that. Unbelievable.
The noise of a drawer opening and closing catches his attention, and Claude turns to see Lorenz put a small notebook inside his jacket.
"What are you hiding back there?" Claude singsongs, realizing Lorenz's strategic position close to the bedside table.
"Nothing," Lorenz says, and he has sounded steadier at times.
“Is it your diary?” Claude insists, rounding the bed to return to his previous position opposite Lorenz and the unimpeded view of his face. Which sports a red blush over the cheeks, as expected. "Lorenz?" Claude adds, unable to help sounding how he feels, helplessly endeared. "Did you just hide your diary from me? It's not like I would have read it without permission."
Even blushing, Lorenz manages a flawless searing look. "I did nothing of the sort because I do not keep a diary," he says. "But you would do anything without permission, as you usually do."
Claude flings a hand over his heart. "You wound me. I would never. Come on, what’s in it? Did you write about me? Oh, Lorenz if you knew how my heart is beating with joy. You have to tell me. Please. I will forget all about the gaudy bed curtains and that horse on the rug that has what I hope are five legs.”
"There is no horse with five legs in my rug.” But he sounds like he will thoroughly check it as soon as Claude leaves him alone.
"Come on. I will tell you what I’d have written when I first met you.”
That seems to tempt him, but, "I do not need you to tell me, I can guess: ' The Gloucester heir is another pompous fop who doesn’t know left from right. I can play him at will without breaking a sweat because I am so cunning and adept. But he is every bit as courteous as I fail to be; I do not understand how someone can have such good manners and flawless noble disposition.” A pause, and yes, Claude is finding this awfully entertaining, Lorenz making his voice rougher included; he can’t help but smile when their eyes meet. But then, Lorenz looks away again, silence stretches. His voice returns to his own tone as he continues enunciating: “But he follows behind his father like a duckling at court, unable to think for himself.’”
Claude interrupts him. “Ah, yeesh. Absolutely not.”
Lorenz quirks an eyebrow in his direction.
“Totally. One, you forgot about the hair. The hair made a lasting impression.” Lorenz rolls his eyes. “And most importantly, two, I wouldn’t be so harsh. It’s true I thought you were a colorful popinjay at first, but you had a good head on your shoulders. I always knew you were smart.
“Don’t make that face," Claude says to Lorenz's look of half surprise and half disbelief. "I’m not going to shower you with compliments, but you know I don't lie-- About this anyway," he hurries to add before Lorenz can intercept. "I can tell you with total honesty that the constant questioning was fun. And it didn’t even last that long.”
“Except that it did,” Lorenz insists. “I reported to my father whatever trivial things you did that I found distasteful or suspicious.”
“Did you tell him about the midnight trips to the lake? The booze we snuck in? I didn’t think so. I bet you didn’t tell him about game night in Hilda's room either.” There had been one particular game night Claude is sure Lorenz has not mentioned to his father, which had involved a very entertaining game of truth and dare.
Claude wonders with a new kind of curiosity if Lorenz had written about that night in his diary--when Hilda had dared Lorenz to kiss Claude and Lorenz, infuriated and prideful and uncowed, had. It is as if Claude’s interest transmits itself to the room, suddenly the silence acquiring meaning as they look at each other. But Claude shakes himself away from it. It was more than five years ago. They had been tipsy and teenagers playing a game. Claude barely remembers it, except for the sound Lorenz had made in the back of his throat when Claude had grinned and slipped him tongue. And how wet and soft his lips had been. And those long fingers made hesitant as Lorenz touched his face, cool at first until the contact warmed them. Lorenz must have come right from training, because the faint smell of ozone clung to his skin beneath the scented soap he used--like Lysithea’s room after an intense studying session of Reason magic. Now, Claude’s gaze falls to Lorenz's hands on his lap. He wears a couple of thin silver rings, which he did not during their academy days.
Even if Claude never knew those hands then, he thinks he can appreciate some other changes that appeared in the time Claude wasn’t there to see them: though less than Claude’s, they are slightly broader in shape than they used to, the knuckle of his thumb no longer boyishly jutting out; if he touched them, Claude guesses callouses from Lorenz’s diligent lance work would stretch over the heels of his palms and the pads of his fingers. But what keeps Claude’s eyes stuck are the fixed traits, untouched by time, the way they remain the same after five years, during a war; the nails that are still rounded and short and perfectly neat to match the elegance of the slim fingers that remind Claude of harps and pianofortes--and the fine-drawn commitment and determined loyalty needed to coax a melody from a secretive and insouciant instrument.
"So, what about me?" Claude asks again, eyes darting back to Lorenz's face.
Lorenz sighs through his fine nose. But before he can deny Claude’s request someone knocks on the door. Lorenz blinks, confused for a moment until he remembers the physician. "You can cease your visit now, that will be the physician," Lorenz says, and calls for her to come in.
But while the short woman enters and sets about opening her satchel and arranging a new set of bandages on the dresser, Claude stutters on his feet. "I want to stay-- That is, can I stay?" he asks, and makes himself look at Lorenz, at the surprise across his face.
"Why would you want to stay?"
Good question.
"Come on. You welcome us into your home and provide for our troops… What kind of leader am I if I don't assure your wellbeing?" Claude hears himself speak, wincing internally at the unflinching dishonesty of his words.
As it is, Lorenz lets him stay with reluctance and confusion painting his features, and Claude moves close to the clear window letting light into the room to stay out of the physician's way.
...
The physician covers most of Lorenz’s body and face as she works, helping him disrobe and peeling the tight bandages off his shoulder. All Claude gets a glimpse off is an endless pale expanse of skin only interrupted by a furious red scar--and then Lorenz’s breath hitches when the physician starts palpating around the scarring wound and gingerly moving the injured joint to check for lasting damage, and Claude’s focus narrows into Lorenz’s pain like they are back at camp when Marianne had had to give him stern instructions--more than once--to go wash off the blood staining his armor and skin while she worked to save Lorenz.
There are no physicians among their troops when they leave Garreg Mach for battle, only the healers whose magic is quick and dirty and saves lives. Guaranteeing the quality of these lives is the physicians’ work. Claude knows this is a necessary step to recovery, has been in Lorenz’s place more than once--though not with as severe a wound.
And yet Claude hates every second of it, manages not to interrupt the examination only by keeping himself anchored in place with a hand clutching the windowsill. It isn’t that Lorenz wails or whines--he had done neither when the wound was fresh and life-threatening--but the soothing murmur of the physicians’ voice along with Lorenz’s clipped answers to her questions about where and how it hurts the most raise something sour in Claude’s throat. The sharp breaths Lorenz can’t stop from leaving his throat somehow worse than if he screamed in pain.
It cannot be over soon enough. She says something about rest and physical therapy being needed to recover full mobility and function of the arm, and as Claude breathes relieved at the absence of infection Lorenz asks, “Repose for how long?” The physician’s best guess is about a month. It entirely depends on how well Lorenz takes care not to overexert his shoulder.
When she leaves after a couple of respectful bows Claude has to open and close his fist for some time until his fingers stop aching. “Good news, right?” he says.
Lorenz, bathed in the sunlight coming through the windows, hums absentmindedly. What little color his skin had gathered from the morning ride is gone from his face, now pale again--more than usual. He is working on the laces of his shirt one-handed, pulling with his non-dominant hand with increasing impatience that lends a deep etching between his brows.
“Here, let me,” Claude says before properly thinking about what he’s offering. Lorenz doesn’t reject him, so sitting next to him on the bed Claude faces him, turning his body to gather in his hands the laces hanging loose from the opening of Lorenz’s shirt--a triangle that reveals smooth skin Claude refrains from thinking about with more effort than is customary, because Lorenz in his shirtsleeves is a whole new sight which he hadn’t been allowed before; it crosses the line of general and leader, Alliance noble and Prince of Almyra--but then again, Lorenz had erased that line when he had thrown himself in front of a lance for Claude. And the private, helpless want in Claude scorns his desperate insistence that there is still the neat, unproblematic square of friendship where they can coexist together.
His fingers, quick and swift that nock arrows without thinking, feel sluggish, clumsy as he loops the fine cords through their eyelets; he cannot even breathe easily as the shirt begins to close, with Lorenz still impossibly near, the heat of him seeping from skin to skin uncaring of barriers or boundaries. Every time he brushes Lorenz's skin sensitivity spikes, like annoying pinpricks of sensation when blood flow returns to a numb limb, except oh they aren’t annoying, and how Claude wishes they were; they are addicting and revealing and not enough.
Claude is glad Lorenz doesn’t feel at the moment conversational, speaking which would come to him at will now escapes him no matter how many times he swallows to clear his dry throat.
The jacket presents an easier ordeal. He has only to fasten a couple of buttons and ignore Lorenz’s eyes intent on his face with something he can’t bring himself to want to decipher, instead making sure the jacket sits straight and smooth over his chest with an easier kind of interest in mind.
"Adequate,” Lorenz says after a moment of inspection, voice breathy. “You have my gratitude.” He also sounds tired and resigned underneath the careful net of his tone, as if unable to encompass a boundless thought or worry. His mouth has remained a downturned line since the physician left.
That is why Claude says, "I also have your not-diary. Although I must say, it looks so much like a diary to me." And reveals the little notebook bound in maroon that he took from Lorenz’s jacket, waving it in front of his face, which is etched in emotion now, no longer quiescent: bewilderment and indignation and then pure outrage pull at his brows and clench his jaw, suffuse his skin with warm blotches of anger; his mouth hangs open for a long time.
Before he can retrieve the notebook--and hurt himself in the process--Claude puts a hand in front of him and moves the notebook behind him. "Ah, ah, ah," Claude reprimands. "No sudden movements."
"Claude." Clenching his jaw.
"Just admit it is a diary and I will return it to you."
"Claude." Through gritted teeth.
“Lorenz?”
"Fine!" Lorenz bursts. "It is a journal. Now stop this childish endeavor."
With a triumphant--unbecoming, probably--grin, he gingerly returns it to Lorenz’s waiting hands. “See how nice I am? Not at all uncaring of your wishes like you said, and even though I volunteered my thoughts about our early acquaintance and you did not. But I will not insist! I have my pride. Instead I will retire to my quarters in the East Wing and feel dejected until lunchtime.”
“You will not let this go, will you?” Lorenz sighs, his fingers tracing the cover of the journal and straightening the elastic band keeping it closed. The fine bind shows the journal's age, spine cracked from use, but the quality leather has been properly nursed and holds the pages together without flinching. It is, as most things Lorenz's, diligently taken care of. Lorenz brushes invisible dust from the cover and says, “Fine, but you leave afterward. I must change before we eat.” Claude looks in silence as Lorenz flickers through the pages of the journal until he finds what he is searching for. He reads out loud after checking for Claude's attention, as if Claude would let an earthquake distract him now: “The Riegan heir arrived at court today, capturing the attention of every resident of Derdriu who has heard of the news. I only glanced at him from afar, for Father says he is not to be trusted and to keep my distance for the time being. To be fair, he maintained an impish smile on his face for as long as I saw him, which is absolutely unbecoming of the Alliance's future ruler.” Claude lets his gaze dart around Lorenz's face, taking him in; he follows the shape of the unsurprising words as they leave his lips. “He wore shades of ochre and olive--unaware this season’s colors are tones of blues.” Claude chuckles almost belatedly, still dumbfounded Lorenz is realizing his wishes. “But--” A not-quite-imperceptible hesitation “--those tints do suit his warm skin, as do they bring out his eyes: the color of the summer leaves of orange trees as the sun falls on them at dawn.”
Even though his complexion conceals the worst of it--unlike Lorenz and the soft-looking tint of red now coloring his cheeks--Claude is awfully aware of the heat rushing his face, of the little wellspring of joy inside him at Lorenz’s earnest words.
“Satisfied now?” Lorenz says, only looking at him when Claude is late to find speech. Sudden and bright, still slightly self-conscious too, he laughs at what he sees in Claude’s face. “Of course. I forgot you are allergic to compliments.”
Claude says, finding his footing again, “Am not. You can tell me how beautiful my eyes are any time you wish.”
“I never said beautiful--”
“And how sunlight falling upon my skin makes your heart sing--”
“I cannot believe how insufferable you are.” But as Lorenz shakes his head, the beginnings of a smile make his lips quiver, soft laughter shakes his shoulders.
It would be so simple, to lean in and capture Lorenz’s almost-curling lips in his; it hits him with the rib-crushing force of a grown wyvern, how much he wants to. But Lorenz doesn’t even know who Claude is, will not know it for some time; there is a war reluctant to be pushed to the background and a scale in Claude’s head that measures: what has he to give Lorenz? He will leave for Almyra after the war ends while Lorenz has always wanted a marriage that will improve his House’s position.
“Will you tell me anything else?” Claude asks. He knows Lorenz will likely throw him out of the room.
Lorenz sniffs. “Absolutely not. You leave now.”
“That’s fair,” Claude concedes, smiling. He allows his lips to curl for an unhurried moment of silence, gaze lost somewhere on the floor, aware of Lorenz's increasing bemusement at the uncharasteristic pause.
But Claude doesn't move.
There's a black horse right beside his feet, mane lustrous and eyes so bright it looks like someone captured a real animal and weaved it into the rug. He also notices a tear in the cuff of his jacket, a couple of loose threads that unravel when he loops them around a finger. "Lorenz?" he says. "Never do that again." It isn’t the voice of the leader he should at least try to be; it comes out pleading instead of commanding.
"Do what?" Confusion tends to make him sound haughty.
"Throw yourself in harm's way like that. For me. I've been trying to thank you when all I want to do is lock you up until this war is over so that I don't have to see you dying again."
After a long moment, "I did not die,” Lorenz says slowly. “And I do not wish for your gratitude."
"Well, good,” Claude says, unrepentant of the mulish set of his voice. “I just said you aren't getting it. This is the other part."
"I fail to see the jest," Lorenz says.
If he keeps pulling at the thread in his cuff he is going to have to throw the jacket away. Claude rises from the bed and lets his restless feet take him to the window where he can see the courtyard and watch the busy life of the keep at noon. "There aren’t any jokes,” he says. “For once, yes I know,” Claude adds before Lorenz can comment on the rarity of the occasion. “Will you not stay here to recover? There's plenty you can do. Keep an eye on your father, for instance. Command the Gloucester forces to protect the borders, get rid of the bandits, assure the safety of the nearby villages and distribute resources."
"You seem to have given this ample thought,” Lorenz says icily.
“You were unconscious for almost two days.” Two days during which he had sat useless by Lorenz’s side, in his tent when Lysithea had sent him away. Until Lorenz had opened his eyes and Claude had realized how close they were to being surrounded by the enemy. “That’s plenty of time to think.”
“I see,” Lorenz says. “But even if I cannot use a lance for some time, my magic is useful to our cause, I can still fight and--"
Claude snaps around to meet Lorenz’s wary eyes. He is standing now as well, fists clenched by his sides; the distance between them one that would cease with two long strides. “This isn't about being useful." Too sudden, too abrupt. "I know you can fight,” Claude adds, measured. “Still I’m asking you to stay here and be safe.”
With Lorenz’s eyes narrowed and a deep line between his brows, Claude realizes this isn’t going to be easy. Not that he thought Lorenz ever would. “Plenty of soldiers are injured in battle,” Lorenz says sharply. “You cannot afford to send all of them to do paperwork. Surely in all your pragmatism and endless plans you must see that.”
Claude takes a deep breath. “What I can’t afford is to have you throwing yourself recklessly in front of lances. My plans have never involved and never will you dying for me.”
“Reckless?” Lorenz spurns. Through gritted teeth says, "You were the one who jumped down from his wyvern in the midst of battle and endangered himself, vulnerable to every airborne soldier; you were the one who almost lost his head! And you can’t die. You are the Alliance’s ruler; we need you, I--" He halts abruptly; then, "Was I supposed to watch you get killed?"
“Yes!” Claude snaps. He can’t remember the last time he raised his voice, he’s never spoken to Lorenz in such a way, but he is so angry: at the imperial soldier for hurting Lorenz; at himself for being careless enough to lead Lorenz to cover him with his body; at Lorenz, somehow, for almost dying. He makes himself inhale slowly. “You’re one of the most level-headed people I know, Lorenz. You know this victory isn’t up to me but our numbers. Everybody can be replaced, myself included. We've had this conversation before, you could lead the Alliance just as--”
“Must you make me say it?” Lorenz cries, shaking his head. His eyes are wide and bright, and the next words escape him frantically: “Do not ask me to watch you die and do nothing for it would kill me in life!” It wrenches something from Lorenz, speaking it out loud: he closes his eyes, almost flinching away, and weakly takes a step back; raising a hand to cover his mouth he turns his back on Claude. “Just leave.” His voice reaches Claude’s ears, muffled.
The force of the words, that slumps Lorenz’s shoulders, locks the air in Claude’s chest as well, until, taking every last trace of anger from him, his breath bursts out of him--and it forms one name. “Lorenz,” he says, and again, walking toward him, “Lorenz.”
“Don’t,” Lorenz entreats. “I never wished you to know and I do not want to hear what you have to say.” He laughs in disbelief, almost angry. “You always find a way to achieve your goals, do you?” After Lorenz runs a hand through his hair, it parts to reveal a sliver of pale skin from the nape of his neck. "Fine, I will stay here while you leave for Garreg Mach and save us both the embarrassment.”
To Lorenz’s back, Claude asks, “What embarrassment?”
“My...feelings are not reciprocated, nor do I wish to impose my affections on you,” Lorenz says. “That embarrassment. Now, please go.”
“You’re either a fool”--and at this Lorenz turns around, indignant despite the red-rimmed eyes and the considerable blush on his face, “or the most selfish man I know. You do realize you almost subjected me to that fate, don’t you? I had to watch you bleed and hurt and fight death for two days. Do you have any idea how utterly useless and scared I felt?”
Lorenz blinks until the words sink in. “It’s not the same," he scoffs. "Did you hear what I said?”
“I did.” Claude takes one last step to close the space between them.
And Lorenz moves back, like the intolerable rigid distance between them is unmakeable. “You clearly did not. Or you are confused. I, I… Stop moving! I cannot think like this. Do you think this is a game?”
Claude plants his feet, anchors himself in place to avoid the urge to move. “No," Claude says. Still, this distance is closer than Lorenz usually allows; Claude could unthinkingly reach out, touch his face--there must be an alternate timeline where he's doing just that, his fingers tingle.
“Then don’t pretend," Lorenz says. "I do not want your half-hearted desires because you are unentertained. Do not lie.”
“I’m not," Claude says. "Do you think me that cruel? There’s so much you don’t know. And I wanted to tell you everything properly, once this war’s over, but I won’t let you think that I’m embarrassed or that I wish you far from me--what I want you is safe and alive. So don’t speak of imposing your affections, don’t speak of unrequited love as if I have not searched your side like a moth drawn to a flame.”
“Stop, stop talking.” Lorenz shakes his head, a strand of hair falling across his face. He remains frozen in place, barely breathing.
At this distance Claude needs to tilt his head back to look into his eyes and watch the convulsive thoughts running back and forth. “If I can’t move and I can’t talk then how do I convince you that I’m telling the truth?” asks Claude, quiet. He can't be surprised Lorenz does not believe him, not when Claude has spent so much time making sure everything the world perceives about him is distilled and measured. What will always shock and amaze him is Lorenz's innate capability for finding and bringing into the open one of the truest things Claude has ever felt.
And then, Lorenz’s gaze falls to his lips for a split second--unwilling, judging by the quick blink with which Lorenz looks away. Claude makes his reluctant throat work to say, hoarse, “I need to move to do that.” He feels light on his feet, tethered to this place in time as if by one of the harnesses used to keep balance on a wyvern’s back mid-flight. All he needs to do to fall is untie it.
Painstakingly slow, Lorenz starts bending his neck, like a beautiful swan tasting new waters, and as if Claude has the power to give him some wound no physician will ever treat, he closes his eyes and visibly steels himself.
Then, “There are things about you of which I am unaware, those can wait,” Lorenz murmurs looking into Claude's eyes carefully, “but do not dare be untruthful about this.” His breath ghosts over Claude’s lips, teasing the only air that exists between them as Lorenz steps closer.
“Never,” Claude answers, the lonely word uttered against Lorenz’s mouth because Lorenz is, finally, kissing him, hand cradling the back of his head and lips coaxing the truth from Claude with a tentative brush first, one which Claude hurries to respond to, a body-deep shudder loosening all the muscles of his back, but in deliberate offer, letting Lorenz take whatever he needs to believe him--he only strokes Lorenz’s hair back from his face, thumb resting over his cheekbone but doing his best not to guide their movements. Lorenz keeps him anchored in place with a cautious grip on the back of his neck and soon Claude feels his breath quickening to match Lorenz as the unhurried exploration continues. He had never thought it would prove as exhilarating, simply being kissed, not knowing and withholding any say about how it progresses. Every slight graze of lips, the insinuation of more when Lorenz's breath hitches--the strings keeping Claude from crashing tremble as they are plucked.
The soft touch of Lorenz’s lips still lingers, impossibly bare and tender over Claude’s, when unexpectedly Lorenz opens his mouth to deepen the kiss.
As much as he enjoyed, and would again, surrendering to Lorenz, Claude surges forward with the pent-up want of seconds and minutes, hours and days, and weeks and months, groaning at the feeling of Lorenz’s tongue sliding into his mouth, realizing that what meager arguments he used to convince himself not to kiss Lorenz fail and drip between his fingers for the future is unpredictable and war unforgiving and meanwhile they can offer each other this--and then not realizing anything as Lorenz welcomes his helpless input by readily licking into his mouth, unguarded, digging his fingers in Claude’s hair with the selfsame impulse born from too much hopeless waiting.
Claude lets his hands wander, mapping the lines of the steady shoulders to tease Lorenz's jaw with his fingertips, tilt his head in a way that lets him press closer, then tightening his grip around the narrow waist to forsake the space separating them, tangling Lorenz's slender legs with his own. Lorenz, though one-handed--the hand of his injured arm gripping Claude's hip firmly--could be said to know exactly where to touch, but it is more the fact that it’s Lorenz doing the touching that renders Claude breathless; hand splaying Claude's jacket open to slide closer to skin, slender fingers stroking feather-light the sensitive curve of his neck, the pulse hammering under his skin. The promise those fingers write on him drags heat from Claude's singing blood; it spreads throughout his body and from limb to limb.
Lorenz’s hair keeps brushing, soft, with tickling persistence, against Claude’s cheeks--a smile threatens to interrupt the kiss; Claude feels it building, curving his lips. Lorenz follows Claude’s mouth when he settles back on his feet and sighing, he presses one last kiss to the corner of Claude’s mouth before straightening.
“Stop grinning,” Lorenz says though he too is unable to stop the smile that unfurls on his lips, shy but bright. Looking at Lorenz, lovely skin flushed, his lips thoroughly kissed and his hair mussed where Claude has put his hands, only stretches Claude’s smile further.
After gaining some modicum of control over the muscles of his face, he takes the hand Lorenz has on his chest and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips over the knuckles. “Do you believe me now?” he asks.
“Do I?” Lorenz says, smile softer than before. “I would say I am taking your actions under consideration, yes.”
“Under consideration?” Claude says, raising an eyebrow. “We can’t have that.” Turning Lorenz’s hand in his Claude kisses his palm, lets his mouth linger, feeling the places Lorenz's lance digs into his skin when he fights. “What about now?” he asks looking up, not surrendering his hold on Lorenz yet.
Lorenz’s pulse beats, frantic, against the pads of Claude’s fingers that hold his wrist. “That--may be helping your claim.” Voice breathier than before.
Another kiss, this time to the fine skin of Lorenz’s wrist usually kept hidden by his cuffed jackets. And Lorenz closes his eyes and inhales a trembling breath, expression bare to Claude's avid eyes. After Lorenz shudders, Claude kisses his wrist again; and again. “Further decisive evidence may need to wait until you’re healed,” Claude says, watching Lorenz’s face to not miss the eyes widening in surprise first, before darkening considerably.
But then, “Not the entire month,” Lorenz says, horrified, and Claude tips his head back and laughs. He uses their tangled hands to bring Lorenz forward until he can settle his hands on Lorenz’s waist. Kissing seems to mollify Lorenz some: he hums, pleased, when Claude, enthralled by the simplicity of it, meets his lips, as uncomplicated as rising to the tips of his boots now that he knows Lorenz’s wishes--and now that Lorenz knows Claude's, which is maybe rarer, perhaps slightly frightening.
When they part again, this time not bothering to move further than giving each other space to talk, Lorenz asks, “How long have you known?”
“I suspected some weeks after we came back to Garreg Mach,” says Claude. “But I didn’t know.” He cocks his head and adds with what he knows is a self-satisfied smirk, “I thought you were smarter than that.”
Lorenz rolls his eyes, but also chuckles. “So did I.” Then: “So you knew, and you felt the same.” A sigh. “And you did nothing?”
“I didn’t know, I suspected,” Claude corrects him. “But yes. I wanted to wait until I could tell you everything I have to say, yet in the end…”
“ But at my back I always hear, time’s winged chariot hurrying near?” Lorenz recites with a cocked eyebrow, wearing an understanding smile Claude cannot believe he deserves to receive.
“I’m already yours,” Claude says, “no need to woo me with poetry,” to hear Lorenz laugh.
Which Lorenz does, blushing a bit.
And then:
“Lorenz?” Claude says. “Never do that again.” He closes his eyes, rests his forehead on Lorenz’s jaw to focus on the solidity of his body and the warmth of his skin.
“You have already asked that,” Lorenz reminds him in a gentle voice, fingers wound in the hair at the nape of Claude’s neck.
“And you didn’t provide a satisfactory answer,” says Claude, tightening his arms around Lorenz’s chest, conscious of his injury.
Lorenz swallows and breathes deeply. “I promise to be careful,” is all he concedes to say. “But I am going back with you to Garreg Mach, and to Enbarr, and to win this war.”
Claude moves his head, ready to object despite how everything in him rebels at the thought of not seeing Lorenz for months, especially now that he gets to have him in his arms, but Lorenz, quick to learn, has found the perfect way to shut him up. “Lorenz--” he tries to mutter against Lorenz’s insistent lips, not truly resisting because he can’t bring himself to step away from him.
“We are going to be called to lunch soon,” Lorenz says. “Stop babbling and kiss me.”
And Claude, for the time being, obeys with enthusiasm. He cannot think of any other response to that request than to eagerly comply.