Work Text:
Is there so much hate for the ones we love?
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?
You, you and me.
It's you and me, we won't be unhappy.
i.
If you ask him, he’s got it done in a science trying to figure out when and where to move, in what conditions, and with how much risk across the board. Twenty minutes into his brief and he’s lost Dimitri, he knows, the way his eye doesn’t focus anymore on the slide but instead on memories elsewhere, and to be fair, it’s been a long fucking day of them mapping the terrain of the Tailtean plains and Sylvain’s only on phase one of their operation explaining to him where they ought to be. Sylvain sighs.
“Do you want a break, sir?”
Dimitri’s brow furrows at the question. Realizing he can’t lie to him as easily as he would to anyone else, he nods. “We’ll resume in five.”
All the maps are left on the desk and Dimitri pushes off the chair from the floor, a terrible screech that resounds in the office which makes Sylvain wince as Dimitri murmurs an apology. He stretches his limbs. He makes his way out of the room with a sigh, the lack of windows in the room presenting a challenge to his eye as he comes out, fluorescent lighting substituting for light until he makes his way out of the compound and into the rain.
Sylvain joins him right behind him. They make their way to the smoke pit, and Sylvain offers him a smoke out of propriety. Dimitri refuses it, as he always does, leaning against the corrugated siding of the mod as he watches the rain down the grass.
“Heard a rumour lately,” Sylvain says as he puffs smoke.
“What kind?”
“Not very good,” Sylvain says. “Eagles took in a new officer. Junior transfer, finished his training recently but with a previous trade under his belt. Put in charge of the reconnaissance troops south of Tailtean.”
Dimitri looks at him, an eyebrow raised at his response. “That wasn’t in your report.”
“I’m not going to put ‘rumoured intelligence’ as part of my daily brief, come on. I’m not that stupid.”
“But you believe this to be accurate?”
“Eighty percent from a reliable source.”
Eighty percent isn’t zero, as well as Dimitri knows, but that is also a lot higher than what he’s able to get from their sensors on the ground on anything related to the Tailtean plains. The smog, the rain, the dreadful conditions have forced them to rely more on ground troops to conduct surveillance and it’s been a hell of a problem. A bigger footprint allows them to become more prominent targets, and he’s lost quite a few people already trying to scale the terrain. And somehow Sylvain has managed to get this one bit of information at a higher rate than anything else they’ve been trying to figure out in the Tailtean, which means –
“I told you to stop being in contact with Arnault.”
“It’s strictly business.”
“Strictly speaking, Gautier, I can’t protect you from being charged if you keep flirting with the enemy. Even if it leads to intelligence, treason is still treason.” Dimitri sighs. “What’s up with Felix’s platoon?”
“They’re mining the terrain.”
No shit. And Dimitri knows exactly how he got good at that considering he was his instructor, several moons ago, can still see him in his uniform, bright eyed, tracking his every movement like a cat. He had gloried in the attention until it was destroyed in his hands, like every single fragile thing he’d ever held in his hands. Sylvain calls it a risk hazard. Dedue calls it limited terms of service. Dimitri just wishes he was more capable as a human being.
Don’t treat me like one of your men, Felix had spat out at him one evening and that was the end of it.
“Get me ISR, Gautier,” Dimitri says carefully. “Anything that would put me ahead instead of just rumours and regrets.”
“Way ahead of you – that’s why Ashe can’t join us. He’s grinding all the Corporals to dust as we speak.”
Five minutes has turned into ten. Dimitri sighs. He puts on his beret to go the other side of the building, back to his office as Sylvain crushes the cigarette on the side and disposes of the filter in the pocket. “Let’s get back to work.”
In his younger years he had been foolish enough to admire his father’s legacy, Combat Arms, following the tide of war as the Kingdom moved against Adrestia. He, being the monarch-representative, has to pretend being an officer when the reality was that he was exempted considering his royal status. He had insisted anyway, and had his identity hidden from his instructors in order to be treated equally, with only a few in his cohort knowing who he was: Dedue, in logistics, and Sylvain, in intelligence. When he graduated, he graduated top of his class without anyone understanding who he was underneath a different name. He had taken the regent’s surname, which is common enough given the influence of the royal family to be overlooked.
Shortly after his graduation from basic training he moved to his first posting up north, learning how to become a proper Staff officer under his own name, his papers consolidated in order to become who he was. He got posted after that to a series of expansions and rebellions up in Sreng, and several besides to the East with the Alliance to help with the Almyran menace, building up a repertoire for being thorough and actually knowing how to do his job without having to rely on the silver spoon in his mouth to get things done. Anyway sometimes that got in the way of things more than anything else: technically speaking he outranked his officers, which caused no end of friction regarding power and authority everywhere he went. To add to that, he was always flanked by heirs of other prominent houses who had also followed his footsteps during this war: Gautier had sent their notorious heir, Sylvain, whose skills in human intelligence made him a formidable interrogator, and Dedue, who, despite being of Duscur, excelled in his somewhat normal position of a logistics officer. Although he was nowhere notable as the illustrious names that are commonly associated with Dimitri, he shared the glory of the royal family that outshone his work ethic.
And then there was Felix. The young heir of Fraldarius, who had signed up as a naval warfare officer until he met Dimitri, enamoured by him during an errant course he’d taught in the academy that inspired him to transfer to the Kingdom’s army in the hopes to get closer to him. Dimitri doesn’t doubt that he’d used his last name to make it; it’s not like it’s uncommon. When the war broke out and Dimitri’s face was front and centre in his rage, along with the Archbishop rallying the Kingdom against Adrestian forces, it’s not until half a decade later that Dimitri would come to regret every single word that he’d said on national television that lead boys like Felix to sign up and die under his name. And when Felix deserted his platoon, and joined the side of the Eagles’ notorious strike force out of disillusionment, Dimitri took the gesture not as a betrayal but as absolution: at least, this time around, Felix would die on his own terms, and not because, once upon a time, he had chanced upon the idea of love and seized upon it like a disease. There are some blessings one must be thankful for, even if the end result of it is treason.
He thinks about all of these things, lets the memories wash through him before he even steps foot into the dark office, lights dimmed in preparation of Sylvain’s lengthy brief. He opens his eye, and feels himself turn into something less human, more efficient, waking up with the smell of coffee that Sylvain prepares for him as he seats himself across the screen. The coffee tastes like shit, as always, but he’s glad that they’ve got coffee in the first place.
Sylvain turns on the projector.
“Sergeant, start with your most dangerous course of action.”
“Yes, sir.” Sylvain flips through the slide. “For the most dangerous course of action – here the intent of the Adrestian empire is to occupy western Faerghus and install a puppet government, while the rest of their army retains their positions in the borders of our country as they prepare for a protracted war. We can see this playing out in four phases – ”
Dimitri eats late, missing dinner as he goes through report after report of movement in the Tailtean. Dedue had finished his targeting brief and had given it to him almost end of day, which was another struggle for him to get through considering how little sleep he’s running on. Sylvain picks him up after and clicks his tongue. “I’m forcing you to rack out,” he says evenly. “I’m gonna strap you into your cot if that’s what it takes. You’ve got three hours.”
“You’ve gotten a lot better at bossing me around.”
“Gotta learn sometime,” Sylvain says. “I got you a boxed lunch that’s still viable.”
“Boxed lunch,” Dimitri says carefully. “Do you want me sent to the medics?”
“It’s either that or our IMPs. Look, the sandwich is still okay. You’ll thank me later.”
He east in his quarters, which is really just half of a tent with some privacy afforded given his rank. Dedue sleeps outside, or is supposed to anyway but he’s on shift right now as duty officer. Sylvain’s with him instead, watching him eat to make sure he actually finishes his food instead of just nibbling on parts of it like a rabbit. He sits on his barrack box cleaning his rifle while Dimitri eats an egg sandwich, his hands slick with gun oil as he wipes each part with a blackened rag.
“Did you hear anything else?” Dimitri asks as he finishes his sandwich.
“Regarding what?”
“Our person of interest.”
“No.”
Dimitri opens a yogurt cup. “Your 72 hour estimate?”
“I can’t see that far, your highness.”
“24 hour, then.”
“He’s probably cleaning his rifle and thinking about how to crack your skull.”
“That’s not an assessment, that’s a fact.” Dimitri points at him with his spoon, and Sylvain grins. “You’re getting sloppy, Gautier.”
“Sir, conventional warfare thrives on predictability. Maintenance is a regular part of the cycle.”
“A likely tale.” Dimitri sighs. “When will this rain stop, I wonder.”
“Who knows. Weather’s always shit this time of the year.” Sylvain assembles his rifle. Cocks it, dry fires on the side of his tent. It goes off smoothly and without a hitch. “I keep everything in working condition in case he gets distracted.”
“What do you mean?”
Sylvain smiles serenely at him.
Dimitri finds himself lacking the appetite for anything and sets his box aside. “I hate you,” he says conversationally, though he means it to Sylvain and Sylvain knows that he does. Affectionately. “I hate you and I’m kicking you out of my tent.”
“Promise me you’re going to sleep.”
“I can’t promise you anything.”
“I’ll get you valium.”
“I shouldn’t be on any drugs – ”
“What do you need? And don’t say his name. I’m not a miracle worker.”
“Depends,” Dimitri says as he takes off his tunic and changes his shirt to a cleaner one. “What’s your risk tolerance?”
Sylvain gives him a once-over, and says, “high.”
“We have to change that.”
“Not good enough for you?”
“It makes room for too many variables.”
“I rather thought adaptability was one of my stronger suits.”
“It is,” Dimitri says, his voice low as he unbuckles his belt. “That’s the problem.”
“Now you want guarantees?”
“I have always wanted the best of everything you can offer, Gautier.”
“Sure. But you never put it on my evaluation. It never reflects the quality of my work.”
“What should I even put in there? That you’re operating well above your rank? That you boost morale? I put that every year and every year they tell me they can only promote so many Sergeants, you know this.”
“That I’m a good cocksucker, Sir.”
Sylvain kneels. Dimitri spreads his legs and sighs.
“If this doesn’t put me to sleep, Gautier ...”
“Like I said, I’m no miracle worker. Forgive me for not swallowing this time around, I’m not gonna do that when we’ve been on rations.”
“It’s the best Dedue can get us.”
“Tell him it’s harshing your cum.”
“Stop.”
“Alright, I’ll shut up. I’ll get to work.”
Dimitri doesn’t fall asleep. He loses hours of sleep after because he’s greedy and he wants to fuck him, and he can’t because unlike him, Sylvain actually has a job to do and doesn’t have hours to spare. To be rendered impotent with every move, each a gesture of waiting and undoing – very similar to this entire war, and not for the first time, Dimitri, staring at his ceiling weighted down by the rain, wonders why the fuck did he even think it prudent to start a war.
ii.
He meets Dedue at the wash station in the morning, Dedue who has a basin in front of him shaving himself as he stares at a grimy mirror. Dimitri’s barely awake as he splashes his face with ice-cold water. His hands feel stiff and aching afterwards even as he tries to dry them with his towel. There are heaters overhead, but none of that is much help against the weather. The mud is caking the side of his boots. He shaves, because if he’s not careful his troops might actually be treated by the ghost of his father gone years ago before he even manages to die and have anyone acknowledge him as their prince, their king. The Kingdom runs on ghosts, nothing exorcised after each death.
“Good morning,” Dedue says.
“Good morning,” Dimitri says around a mouthful of toothpaste as he spits it out on his basin. He rinses it with more cold water, sighs, and starts birdwashing. “How did your shift go?”
“Quiet,” Dedue says, frowning. “I’m a little worried.”
“Specifically?”
“Sylvain will have a full report for you.”
That’s another thirty minute timesink, and Dimitri realizes he has to move his entire schedule to make room for it if he wants to make room for questions and discussion. Today, he also has a phone call with the Archbishop that he has to enter the SCIF for. No time for nostalgia at all.
“Alright. I’m on my way there anyway.” Dimitri sighs.
Dedue glances at him, and refills his basin with water. “Some hot water was boiled earlier, if you wish to have it.”
“It’s fine. I’m almost done. The troops can have it instead.”
Dedue sighs. Most of the troops are just waking up, slowly coming towards wash stations for the morning. The benefit of being an officer and being staff is that they have their own area separate from the troops, which is only good for having talks they shouldn’t be having. “Sylvain tells me he’s given you terrible intelligence.”
“What, regarding a person of interest?”
“Is that what we’re calling him now?”
“Better than what Sylvain used to call him.”
“Dare I ask?”
Dimitri sighs. “High payoff target.”
Dedue looks amused, though he doesn’t smile. It’s in the wrinkles around his eyes, even as he shakes his head. “He always has a way with words.”
He’d never gotten the full story about Sylvain and Felix from Sylvain. What he knows of it are rumours from Ingrid, before she transferred to the Alliance side and way back when they were just recruits: it’s the whole Glenn thing, she explains, implying that Sylvain has some kind of thing about his brother. But that elucidates absolutely nothing for Dimitri, because that’s almost similar in saying Sylvain is cheating and fucking his way through every single officer in the Kingdom. And look, that latter bit is true, and in all honesty he’s done more to boost his morale than anything else that Dimitri is considering promoting him on that point just because, but he’s not going to abuse his authority. It’s tempting, though.
Things he’s thinking about as he makes his way towards the SCIF with the rain relentless as he trudges through the mud: maybe he’s being ungracious with his relationship with Sylvain, which has started because he can’t handle being alone anymore, five years of war has taught him nothing more than the fact that he’s finding it more difficult to become a civilian rumour instead of just wartime general. Maybe in the future when he pulls right out of this he should just consider the idea of having a house, and making room for Sylvain there, should he wish to be with him, every day a morning where he can actually look at him first thing in the morning, talk to him like a regular person, like how lovers do to each other and not in terms of intent, phases, main effort, end state. This is kind of unsustainable. Charitably speaking, however, this is also kind of optimistic since he’s assuming there’s a future to be had here. He’s always been bad at risk management.
Can the Archbishop sense this in him whenever he’s talking with her? Debatable. The Archbishop, crisp and cold across the terrible screen and terrible connection that they have, always seems to be able to gaze into his soul, or whatever remains of it. Sometimes Dimitri imagines that she can see through his head as he sits across her and tells him, in that delicate voice of hers made for war, “you’re fired, your highness.” UNSAT all the way around. He’d thank her for it.
“What’s a future you want for yourself?”
Dedue frowns. “After the war?”
“Sure,” Dimitri says during lunch. “Short-term prospects.”
Dedue sips his tetra pack of juice for a bit, mulling his question. Finally, he says, “I’d like to own a bit of land and become a farmer.”
“Oh, that sounds wonderful. What kind?”
“Well, wheat and other crops. And perhaps some livestock. Horse and cattle.”
In other words, everything that’s opposite of this war, and Dimitri understands. He thinks about the last time he asked Felix this question and he stared at him like he hadn’t understood what he was asking, like there was a life outside of this, other than the constant pursuit of war – thirty or fifty years in the service, same as his father has done for different reasons, only satisfied by glory and revenge. More the latter than the former. He thinks that Felix laughed at him, and finds that he struggles to remember his laugh, his smiles. Father, forgive me, he thinks to himself. I have sinned.
Sylvain is struggling to cut his steak – too tough, doused in gravy – with plastic cutlery. “Dedue,” he says calmly. “Far be it for me to tell you how to do your job, but have you considered that cutting steak with plastic cutlery is completely degrading?”
“I can tell you a lot about what’s degrading, starting with a grievance a certain Corporal filed against you.”
“Please.” Dimitri puts down his cutlery, shaking his head. “I can’t do this anymore. We can’t do this again, Sylvain.”
“I’m going to resolve it,” Sylvain says hotly. “You just tell her to stay damn put.”
“You can’t keep hurting people and thinking that the war will make them too busy to comprehend pain,” Dedue says. “And if I’m being generous, that goes for all your relationships as well.”
“You’re on a roll.”
“Don’t complain about rations anymore, Gautier.”
“Noted. Actually, I enjoy cutting my steak with plastic cutlery. Reminds me of family picnics.”
Dedue drinks his coffee as Dimitri feels miserable beside them. “Good to hear.”
“You didn’t ask me, but would you like to know what kind of future I want, Sir?”
“No.”
“Too bad, I’ll tell you anyway.”
Sylvain’s future is like this: traveling to Derdriu, having fun, and then running away from his responsibilities in the Kingdom, in Sreng, to Almyra where he’s going to meet his exotic lover Claude. Dimitri glares at him. “Claude doesn’t exist.”
“Yes he does.”
“Sylvain! You have been bragging about this Claude for decades and we have never seen a shadow of this man. I think it’s time to stop lying about this man.”
“Okay, just because he can’t make it across the border because he’s a very important person doesn’t mean that he doesn’t exist, alright.”
“You don’t even have photos of him!”
“He’s shy.”
“That’s not a reason for him to avoid any and all inquiries we have on our shop – ”
“Are you kidding me, you actually spied on him?”
“Out of curiousity. And besides, it’s my prerogative as your officer. The fact remains that we have come up empty based on signifiers you’ve revealed to us – ”
“If he was your lover he would likely not appreciate being called exotic,” Dedue says. “Also, I do not believe he exists. I don’t know of anyone generous enough to excuse your indiscretions, and I only know of the ones that make it through notices to grieve.”
The table is quiet after because nobody is looking at Dimitri. Dimitri, realizing that he’s the target here, turns red and glares at Sylvain, since he can’t get mad at Dedue. “I should grieve you.”
“Grieve me for what?”
“Subpar cocksucking.”
Dedue sighs and stands up. “I have work to do, good day.”
The thing is, the thing that upsets him about the entire thing, is that nothing that Sylvain even mentioned of what he wants for the future aligns with how he saw himself with Sylvain, and now there is this issue of his Almyran lover who may or may not be real. In the smoke pit that afternoon, long before the two of them have to go in again for another briefing neither of them want to be in, Dimitri confronts him. “I hate what you said on the table.”
“Alright, I got a bit too casual, and I’m sorry.”
“That’s not it.” Dimitri shoves his hands in his pockets. Sylvain purses his lips to a thin line of disapproval at the gesture but doesn’t tell him off. “I had thought of something different.”
“With me?”
“With you.”
“All three of us?” Sylvain asks dryly, making room for an invisible third as he blows out smoke. They glare at each other. Sylvain shrugs. “I’m just being realistic here.”
“The two of us, actually.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Dimitri wishes he smoked. He finds that he’s embarrassed of having thought of such a thing with the two of them and wishes he never brought up the conversation again, but Sylvain is staring at him, waiting expectantly, even as he refuses to talk. Finally, Sylvain breaks the silence by saying, “you realize you’re the boss, right? I don’t move until you do.”
“We have got to stop talking like this.”
“I’m speaking more in a professional context, but it’s true.”
“I had dreamt, Sylvain, of being with you in a house of our own.” Dimitri says, gritting his teeth as he says it. “Looking at you first thing in the morning. Making breakfast with you. Talking in a plainer language and not the way we do now. Kissing you before going to work.”
Sylvain doesn’t say anything. He smokes his cigarette to the filter and pinches it off to kill the ember, and lights another one, blowing smoke in the haze as he does. The air is thick with the promise of a storm. Dark and humid, the kind of heat that stifles and clings to the skin, and their uniforms only make it even more unbearable. Finally, he says, “I have never thought of such a thing for us at all.”
“Do you not believe it to be possible?”
“I do, just not in this lifetime.”
Dimitri stares at him. Sylvain smiles grimly.
“My duty and my service are to you,” he tells Dimitri calmly. “And whatever it is that I do for you, I don’t regret it at all. Where you send me, there my heart will lie and be at peace.”
Dimitri clenches his fist.
“Sylvain – ”
“Mission first, boss.”
“I had dreamt of you dying, and you would insult me by insisting on making it come true.”
“Hey, if I’m dead, at least you can put a medal on me.”
“That’s not funny.”
“If it’s from your hand, I’ll take it.”
“Sylvain!”
“That’s enough depressing talk, I guess.” Sylvain laughs. “Come on. Let’s get to work.”
He hates him. He feels himself running ragged, his body not being able to take any more death, any more distance, craving warmth and intimacy denied to him. All he can get close to is the scent of those awful cigarettes Sylvain keeps smoking, his hands perpetually dry and scarred from his work, from the oil he uses on his rifle, kept closer than anything Dimitri has ever done for him, and yet he gives him a loyalty so absolute he can’t do anything with it. I just want us to be happy, he wants to tell him, but he doesn’t because he’s afraid Sylvain will tell him, it’s too late and he might end up crying, anyway. Officers don’t cry.
He feels his bones drag him heavy as he makes his way back to his cot, an entire afternoon of PT doing nothing for his strength but only to remind him that he’s past his prime, and he hasn’t even hit his fourties. He feels exhausted running after ghosts, running after people, running after victories. Scope after scope rendered unmanageable. The reports today were harrowing: another task force lost to IEDs out in the forest. The enemy is learning their habits, they're becoming more predictable, becoming fodder. Sylvain, he hasn’t seen since the latest mission report, disappearing into his own office as he revises plans with his teams. Countless hours of mission planning to the drain as map after map is revised. They’re running out of time. Dimitri likes to think that he’s gotten a lot better at begging to the Archbishop, who is reluctant to give him any of the faithful because it doesn’t match up with the perception of the people. The population no longer has the appetite for war, she tells him, and Dimitri wants to snarl neither do I and yet nothing we ever do is enough. Surrendering is not an option. They want him dead, they can have him dead, but the Kingdom, what remains of it, how could he give that over? And yet Edelgard quietly presses against his borders, using Felix effectively because she knows an opportunity if anything else, hitting them right where it hurts because she knows even the slightest moment of hesitation is vital. Or maybe that’s Hubert, he doesn’t know. Can’t tell. Who’s crueler? He should ask Sylvain to give him an assessment. File it endlessly in the crevices of his mind as disappointment after disappointment considering how much blood is in his hands. He can’t stop now.
He’s in their makeshift range wasting bullets as he fired, remembering his teacher, quiet as she stares at him and adjusts his posture with her hands, Byleth patient and strict in equal measures. Dimitri, you are too hasty. Move quietly, and with purpose. Move with integrity. And then she washed her hands off the lions and moved to Adrestia, to this day guiding their armies with the precision of a hot knife going through butter. Her every touch apparent in each death. It takes Sylvain’s team a full week to be able to catch up to her – and that’s the best he can do. Previously they were always behind and he’s only now able to narrow that gap, the most impressive scheme of his yet, and even then, it’s still not enough.
He should send a letter to Felix. A single missive, delivered across enemy lines, a message saying let’s stop this. Let’s talk it over. I’m sorry. I never meant for things to get this bad. I know you can’t forgive me, but I at least want you to understand how tired I am. If you want my life, here I am, but leave the Kingdom, leave everyone be. For the sake of what past we had, leave everyone be. He imagines Felix taking this message and only honing his skills further, a quiet reply as he saves a bullet for him in his rifle the way Sylvain always does for him out of loyalty and out of love: like this, I can forgive you. Animals can sense death, animals have more respect for the threat of danger than humans do, and Dimitri, despite all the years that have passed, can never forgive himself for having forgotten how to be an animal when it counts. It’d be easier that way.
iii.
One of his memories with Sylvain: in the dreadful heat of Aielell as recruits, Sylvain carried him on his back as he almost passed out in the heat, struggling under his weight even as he moved slowly. Dimitri’s arms are almost loose around him and he can vaguely remember Sylvain saying, easy there, Dimitri. I’m here. Everything’s going to be alright.
It was the only time he’d called him by his actual name. All the rest of it had always been variations on that superficial sir like that was his first and last name. But he remembered this one moment when Sylvain whispered his name to him like an elegy and Dimitri, feverish on his back, wished that he was sick more often so he can hear Sylvain call him like that often, and in that tone, followed by an easy lie: everything’s going to be alright. He never promised it, he spoke it with such an authority that made Dimitri believe nothing else but the possibility of it. Hope so strong he had fervently wanted him to be true, and for a second believed it to be so: that no matter how terrible the rest of the day will be, he can handle it, because the worst was far over. Everything else will be alright.
He’s too old to believe in such things now, and Sylvain too cynical to even joke about such a thing in his presence. But sometimes he wishes he would forget himself just once and say it anyway. Sometimes he dreams of begging him for it until Sylvain says it with full confidence the way he lies easily to other people and tells them I love you and sounds like he means it. Dimitri won’t be so arrogant to demand such a thing, but if he has to, he would demand the reassurance once more like Sisyphus on the ground.
That morning, he asks Sylvain: “which one of your indicators predicted this?”
“What, the Eagles attacking us at three in the morning?”
“No. The complete incompatibility of the future, alongside the possibility of us.”
“Three of us.”
“Two.”
Sylvain feels exhausted. “There’re several problems with that picture.”
“You’re usually the smart one, Sylvain.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m telling you.”
“I don’t want you to die not thinking I’m serious.”
“I have never contemplated you as anything but serious. That’s why – ”
“Sylvain – ”
“We are way past a decision point.”
Dimitri clicks his tongue. “I could die today and we’d still be arguing about semantics long after death.”
“It’s fine with me.”
“It’s not.”
“Risk management goes both ways.”
“You call this risk management?”
“It’s better than what it can be.”
“Which is?”
“A liability.”
He looks angrily at Sylvain, who does nothing but reflect his anger with an impassive face. Carefully curated indifference, covered up with his blowing a smoke into the morning air. Dimitri feels like a burning ship, every breaking beam leaking emotion where he stood. He had never been good with deception, and he has never been good at hiding himself from Sylvain, who wears an oil slick of faces, even now.
Sylvain presses forward and tilts his jaw to face him. He briefly brushes his thumb over his lips, dry and pale, and then withholds his touch. In the time he has had this affair, this arrangement with Sylvain, he has never once kissed him, and he resents the lack of emotional connection, this separation, even now. Dimitri, his voice low in anger, snarls at him: “you’re a coward.”
Sylvain smiles.
“Tell me you love me,” Dimitri says with authority. Wielding his name like gravity, inevitable in the way he charges him with his power. And still, even as he says it, the pause between his words and the way Sylvain looks at him makes him falter. Was he right to say it? Was he right to demand it? It should not come as a surprise to anyone that he has resorted to abusing his power, and yet for all of his sins it is by far the lightest of his crimes.
Sylvain says it, eventually. Who is he to defy him? He closes the gulf between them and he says it between the space of their mouths, and Dimitri closes his eyes. What he saw reminded him that he was a man, and for now, that was enough. It’ll have to do.
end.