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Dorothea meets Petra on move-in day, which is perhaps the worst day to meet anyone.
For starters, she’s hot and sweaty (and not in the good, sexy way), her hair a wild mess thrown into a haphazard ponytail. Dorothea had requested early move-in specifically for this reason; she came to Garreg Mach University to schmooze and secure her future. Looking human is not how she would achieve that.
Petra is the only other person moving in today—right next door, in fact. And it’s just Dorothea’s luck, too, meeting a pretty girl on the day she’s least presentable.
“Goddess, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there,” Dorothea says, when they run into each other in the hall. Literally. She had been on her way to collect another box from her pile in the hallway when she collided with a body passing by. And then, when she actually looks, “I’ve never seen you around here before. New student?”
“Yes, I am transferring here from Enbarr Central.”
Dorothea’s eyes skirt to the room next door, slightly open. “Petra?” she reads from the sign. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name’s Dorothea.”
“I am having much joy to be meeting you as well,” Petra says, with a small smile on her face. “Are you needing help with these boxes?”
“Oh no, I couldn’t. Besides,” Dorothea says, waving Petra off as she reaches for a box, “I’m almost done. Let’s talk tonight, though? We can keep each other company in this empty dorm.”
Not that the house is actually empty. Dorothea’s pretty sure Edelgard never moves out between terms, which means Hubert never moves out.
Of course, that doesn’t mean Dorothea wants to spend time with Adrestia’s oldest money and her shadow a whole week before the term even starts. It’s not like she doesn’t like Edelgard; she just values every second she has before she has to slip on her sycophant skin.
And while Dorothea isn’t one to brag about her eyesight, she had spotted a conspicuous lack of “von” in Petra’s name.
Dorothea may have only applied to live in the Black Eagles house to increase her chances of meeting a rich potential spouse, but the idea of having another normal person nearby is refreshing. Frankly, the Eagles could use more like her and Petra.
“That would give me much happiness. And perhaps you could be showing me where the hall for dining is,” Petra says.
Dorothea sends her a wink. “It’s a date.”
--
With a week to burn before the rest of the house moves in, Dorothea sees a lot of her new next-door neighbor.
Not that Dorothea is complaining—Petra is even sweeter than her first impression implied and eager to make a friend on a new campus. If anything, Dorothea regrets that they hadn’t met sooner, what with the year Petra spent at Enbarr Central instead.
But everyone in Fódlan (and even Brigid, apparently) knows that if you want to study government or theology—or, Goddess forbid, some unholy combination of the two—Garreg Mach is really the only option, which is why Petra, an international relations major, is here now.
Really, Dorothea the music major, is the odd one out here. But Petra doesn’t ask any prying questions about why she chose Garreg Mach of all schools to attend, and Dorothea isn’t about to offer any answers to questions she hasn’t been asked.
Despite that, Dorothea and Petra establish a refreshing frankness in their new friendship.
Living in a dorm most notorious for its long history attracting Fódlan’s richest students means Dorothea spends most of her time censoring her more honest thoughts and sucking up to people who should be her peers. Petra’s different, though, and not just because she’s still learning the language. Her humbleness—the likes of which Garreg Mach’s likely never seen before—cloaks her genuine affability and sponge-like mind, ready to soak up knowledge from any source.
And, perhaps most importantly, Petra lacks any of the overinflated sense of self-worth that plagues the Black Eagles house. Amongst a crowd of people told their whole lives they will inherit the world, Dorothea and Petra stand as the few ready to work to prove their worth instead of expecting it out of hand.
Curiously Petra and Edelgard seem to know each other even before Dorothea gets the chance to introduce them (so she may be hogging her new friend—who could blame her?), but Dorothea quickly shrugs it off as RA business. Or maybe Hubert business.
There probably isn’t a single person on campus who Hubert doesn’t have a damn dossier on.
More curiously, however, is how Petra clams up when Dorothea idly brings it up, the day before the new first year class is set to move in.
Dorothea finds Petra sitting on the lawn of the old Officers’ Academy—from the days when Garreg Mach was more a military school than an institution of higher education—watching the various orientation staff goof around and call it “training”. Despite the balmy weather, Petra’s dressed in a sweater like it may as well be late fall and sat in a spot full in the sun.
“Keep a close eye on them,” Dorothea quips as she drops to the ground a few inches to Petra’s left and, critically, in the shade, “they’ll be making you follow along with their bullshit in a day or two once orientation starts. How has the afternoon been on your end? I hope it wasn’t too boring without me around to keep you entertained.”
Petra chuckles, and Dorothea feels accomplished for having produced it. “Hubert was checking in on me. He was wanting to make sure I am going to be ready for the semester.”
“Hubert? Not Edelgard?”
Petra mutters under her breath at that, a sharp sound that Dorothea can only guess is some Brigid curse. “Edelgard was being busy, so she was sending Hubert.”
Normally, Dorothea would be happy to believe Edelgard was off sending Hubert to handle whatever tasks she didn’t have time to do herself, but she has an aching suspicion there’s more to it than that.
Call it a woman’s intuition.
“You’re transferring here from ECU, but where did you go to high school?” Dorothea asks. “Somewhere in Brigid?”
Eyes scanning the lawn as though she’s looking for the nearest exit but apparently realizing that this is a question she won’t be able to avoid, especially during orientation, Petra straightens up and replies, “The Imperial Academy of Arts and Sciences.”
Well that wasn’t the answer Dorothea was expecting. “For real? Goddess, Petra, that’s amazing! That’s the best damn high school in Adrestia. So you probably knew Edie and Hubie before coming here, then?”
Petra deflates immediately at that, though the line of her shoulders reads relieved. “We were meeting a few times before, yes. I would not be calling us friends, though.”
“I’ve been living across the hall from Edie for a whole year now, and I’m not sure if I could call us friends,” Dorothea says, laughing slightly. “Hell, in the few days I’ve known you, I’ve probably gotten closer to you than Edie will ever let me.”
“I am not knowing why that would be,” Petra replies. “You are a great friend, Dorothea.”
Dorothea must have taken the walk from the cathedral too quickly in this weather, because there’s a heat sitting around her collar and behind her ears, and it intensifies when Petra shoots her a toothy grin. “We’ve only just met, dear,” she says, the words feeling syrupy in her mouth with the haze that’s settled around her head. “Give me some more time, and I’ll show you just how great a friend I can be.”
--
Garreg Mach—being a religious institution, of course—requires all its students to take a year’s worth of theology courses. Most students take the intro course sometime in their first year to get it over with, but a certain subset of students—the procrastinators who dread taking more than a couple gen eds a semester, the overachievers who took too many courses to fit more than a couple gen eds a semester into their schedule, and the transfer students who came from secular universities -- have the joy of taking Garreg Mach’s most foundational course as sophomores or older.
In Dorothea’s case, this means she gets the especially rare joy of taking Theology I with both Edelgard and Petra. And as an extra bonus, they get randomly assigned to the class taught by the university president herself, Rhea.
It’s clear from the first day that this class will be the most entertaining gen ed she’ll take at Garreg Mach when—having sat herself between Edelgard and Petra—Edelgard sucks her teeth louder for each section of the syllabus and Petra sends her a bewildered look when Rhea passes out the thin manual on Saint Seiros’ teachings that makes up the bulk of their required reading.
The hour goes from good to great, however, when Rhea’s TA walks in to introduce herself, and Edelgard quietly chokes on the self-righteous air she had sucked in while tutting about the class.
“Eisner’s not too bad on the eyes, huh,” Dorothea whispers to her left, chuckling to herself when Edelgard shoots her a glare in response. “Try not to blow your chances by arguing with her too much.”
Edelgard rolls her eyes. “There are no chances to blow. She’s our TA.”
“Only for the semester,” Dorothea shoots back. “Oh wait, do you think she’s related to the head of campus security? Nevermind, you’re right; you don’t have a chance.”
Edelgard doesn’t bother to respond, instead shaking her head and pretending to take a note on her syllabus. Just in time too, because on Dorothea’s other side, Petra tugs on her sleeve.
“Are you having experience with Fódlan’s religion?” Petra asks under her breath. “May I be asking you to help me with this material?”
“Of course, Petra, I’d be happy to,” Dorothea replies without a second thought. She may not be an expert in the Church of Seiros, but she has plenty of offhand knowledge from years of attending services and choir rehearsals.
Petra sends her a grateful smile, so bright and genuine, Dorothea’s heart skips a beat at the sight of it.
Dorothea matches the expression—maybe putting off her theology credit until this year was worth it after all.
--
“Dorothea, if you are not minding me to be asking,” Petra starts one day, when the dining hall is strangely empty—just the two of them, a Blue Lions girl Dorothea knows from choir and a friend she seems to be attached to the hip with at all other times, and someone she thinks might live in the Golden Deer dorm—“I have noticed that you are often eating with different men on the weekends.”
Dorothea bites back a wince as she pushes around what’s left of her turnip salad. If she’s being honest with herself, she’s been waiting for this conversation for a while now, and to have put it off this long is something of a blessing.
“Yes, well, someone like me with no connections who got into Garreg Mach by the skin of her teeth needs to start planning for the future, doesn’t she?”
Petra shakes her head, her stir-fry forgotten. “Do not be misunderstanding; I am not having judgement. But am I not getting in the way when I am asking you to be eating with me like this?”
“Oh, Petra, don’t you worry about that,” Dorothea says. “If I didn’t want to eat with you, I wouldn’t be eating with you. Besides, you make a much better dinner partner than pretty much any of those guys I go out with.”
“But you are continuing to accept their invitations?”
“They’re my ticket to a better life, unfortunately. I’m not rich like, well, pretty much everyone in our dorm,” Dorothea explains, “and I’m not smart like you. Going to a good school doesn’t guarantee a poor kid like me success, so I’m trying to guarantee it the only way I know how.”
“I think I have understanding,” Petra says, after a moment. “You are working the net. My grandfather was telling me to do the same before I was coming to Fódlan.”
Dorothea can’t help but smile. Leave it to Petra to find the exact perfect thing to say.
“I wouldn’t exactly call what I’m doing and what your grandfather wants you to do the same thing, but I guess they are similar in a way,” Dorothea agrees. She skewers a turnip but decides against it, letting her fork drop back to her plate. “I wish it were as simple as networking. But even getting a good job doesn’t guarantee a comfortable life.”
“So you are…” Petra pauses, fingers fidgeting with her fork, “hoping to begin a relationship with them?”
“Ultimately, yes. If I could find someone worth dating, that is.”
Petra shovels a forkful of stir fry into her mouth. “I am thinking you are already having all the talent and ability you need to be successful, but if that is what you want to be doing, then I will be supporting you.”
"What is someone like you even doing here?" Dorothea blurts out in response, a strange nervousness settling in the pit of her stomach. It feels like her first time performing on stage all over again. "Not that I don't like you or think you don't belong here-- well, I do think you don't belong here, but that's a compliment in my book."
Petra nods politely. Goddess, Dorothea must be making such a fool of herself, talking a mile a minute.
"Really, the only people who belong here are pretentious bastards like Ferdinand or Lorenz," Dorothea continues, in a desperate bid to save herself—before she realizes the words that just tumbled freely from her mouth. "Please do not make me explain what those words mean."
Instead Petra just smiles gently. "Dorothea, I am not understanding why you are having nerves. We are friends, yes?"
Leave it to Petra to be just the sweetest thing ever. She's one undeserved family fortune away from being the perfect woman.
Well, more perfect.
“Yes, Petra,” Dorothea confirms, returning the smile, “we’re friends. The best, I like to think.”
--
Despite her track record in the “find a nice, rich, intellectually-stimulating husband” plan, Dorothea does have a knack for making connections at Garreg Mach. And that means getting invited to nearly every party being thrown on any given weekend.
And that means having the honor of taking Petra on her first Garreg Mach night out.
First on the docket is Caspar’s room a few minutes after eight (there’s never any harm in being fashionably late) for his standing Friday night pre-game. Then, they drop by the house owned by the awful “social club” Sylvain is a member of.
There, Dorothea gives Petra a rundown on the types of alcohol she can expect at a typical party, hiding a laugh behind her hand when Petra takes a shot and immediately pulls a face.
“This is what you are drinking in Fódlan?” Petra asks, coughing slightly at the burn.
Dorothea can’t wipe the smile off of her face as she pushes a plastic cup into Petra’s hands. “Chaser,” she explains at Petra’s wary look. “And we only drink that straight when we’re in a hurry to get drunk.”
Petra takes a hesitant sip from the cup, shoulders visibly relaxing when the liquid meets her lips. “What were you calling that again?”
“Whisky. Probably the most common hard liquor you’ll find around these parts. You should try to remember what everything is if you want to survive the party scene around here.”
“I am not sure I am wanting to go to many of these parties unless you are with me, Dorothea.”
Heat blossoms in Dorothea’s cheeks at those words, an unguarded admission aided by the shot of whisky. Or, at least, that’s what it must be.
Dorothea can’t let herself consider it might be anything else.
She doesn’t have much time to dwell on it however, because Sylvain approaches them with a wide grin and two cups in his hands, and that’s when Dorothea decides they should probably move on for the night. Before Petra has a chance to affirm an impression that Dorothea is nothing more than a simple flirt.
The last destination for the night is the Golden Deer house. Dorothea enjoys their parties the most, even on nights when she expects people like Sylvain to be there, as the house has a positive energy unlike anywhere else on campus.
Tonight Claude has queued up some slower songs, matching the almost lethargic atmosphere in the common room. Dorothea pulls Petra through the throngs of chatting partygoers, straight to the drink table set up near the kitchen.
“Any requests?” Dorothea asks, hefting a large handle of budget whisky.
Petra eyes bottle in Dorothea’s hand. “Anything but that.”
A laugh spills out of Dorothea’s mouth before she can stop it, loosened by the drinks she had at the last house. “Take a scoop from the cooler there,” she says, offering Petra a new plastic cup. “The Deer make the best jungle juice.”
“‘Jungle juice’?” Petra repeats but does as she’s told. She sniffs her cupful before bringing to her lips, eyebrows shooting up her forehead at the taste. “This is tasting much better than the last drink!”
“Just be careful not to have too much, dear. There’s probably as much alcohol in that as there is on this whole table.”
Armed with their drinks, Dorothea and Petra head back into the thick of the party, to where Caspar’s animatedly telling a story and Linhardt’s settled—asleep—on a couch. They take a pair of seats on the ground, near Linhardt’s makeshift bed but a good distance away from Caspar’s waving arms.
And then, sending a bolt through Dorothea’s heart, Petra drops her head to Dorothea’s shoulder.
Petra’s skin is warm, a pleasant feeling against Dorothea’s exposed shoulder. “I should be thanking you for taking me out tonight. I was… I had fun.”
Dorothea tries not to focus too much on the warmth radiating into her side. “Anytime.”
--
There are plenty of reasons that Dorothea chose to attend Garreg Mach, but the only one unique to Garreg Mach is one Manuela Casablanca.
Manuela had retired from the stage shortly after Dorothea started her short stint in the Mittelfrank Theater company, and hearing that her childhood hero had moved on to teaching at a university gave her the motivation to think beyond the small burst of fame she received from starring in a few Mittelfrank musicals.
The jury’s still out on whether coming to Garreg Mach was worth the trouble. Reuniting with Manuela, however, was easily one of the best things to happen to Dorothea.
“Dorothea, dear, I know I agreed to hire you as the choir manager, I don’t remember giving you permission to use my office as your personal lounge.”
“You say that, but we both know that if I didn’t study in here, no one would ever clean the place,” Dorothea shoots back. “Or let you in when you’ve forgotten your key at home.”
Manuela sighs, though Dorothea can see the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “What is it today? Early modern literature? Diatonic harmony?”
“Scripture and Seiros. I’m in Rhea’s section.”
Manuela whistles, a commiserative sound. “I told you you should have taken Faith in a Modern World.”
Dorothea frowns. She had been registered for the other intro theology class—at Manuela’s recommendation (“Alois is a pushover if you know how to get on his good side,” Manuela had said with a wink last Harpstring Moon. “I’ll buy him a drink or two and talk you up, and he’ll give you an A without even realizing what he's doing.”)—but when she and Petra had been comparing class schedules before the semester started, Dorothea noticed intro theology was their only overlap. And rather than having Petra go through the trouble of switching courses (or explaining why Dorothea had picked Modern Faith in the first place), Dorothea willingly signed up for Garreg Mach’s most notorious class.
“Wait,” Manuela says after a moment, as she finally settles into the chair behind her desk, “you didn’t do this to chase after some boy did you? I swear, Dorothea, just because we’re similar in some good ways doesn’t mean we have to be alike in the worst-”
“Goddess! No, I didn’t change my class schedule because of a boy! I did it to help out a transfer in the dorm.”
Manuela raises an eyebrow. “Stuck in Rhea’s section, for a transfer? A rich transfer, with a big bank account and a bigger,” Manuela coughs politely, “endowment, I assume?”
Dorothea laughs, despite herself. “Petra’s a simple commoner like us, I’m afraid. From Brigid, so the most I’ll get from knowing her is an insider’s vacation. She’s just a sweet girl; I couldn’t help but want to… help her, I guess.”
Manuela hums in the back of her throat, the sound chiming, somehow, despite how dismissive it is. "'You guess', indeed. Dorothea, my dear, there's no harm in having a little fun in college."
"I wouldn't do that to Petra, even if she were interested," Dorothea shoots back. And then at Manuela's skeptical look, "I'm serious! She's shaping up to be a lifelong friend, and I'm not going to ruin that for some hookup because she's attractive."
"So you admit you find her attractive."
Dorothea rolls her eyes. "Anyone who can see would find her attractive."
And how, Dorothea's mind treacherously adds on, reminding her of the time Petra invited her to the gym. The damn woman has abs tucked away under all those layers of clothes.
Dorothea's never so hated Garreg Mach's chill and breezy climate as she did the moment she watched Petra, sweat lazily rolling over her skin like it wanted to savor its time there, throw a hoodie and a large, puffy jacket on over her crop top to protect herself from the cold as they exited the building.
Pulling herself from the memory, Dorothea finds Manuela pinning her with a discerning look, long and lingering to the point of being uncomfortable, before eventually collapsing back into her desk chair and propping her feet up on the only spot on her desk not stacked with papers. "If you say so, dear. I just don't want you to regret anything later."
Dorothea tucks her feet underneath her in her own chair, trying to make herself as small as she feels all of sudden. "Trust me, Manuela. That's what I'm trying to do."
--
It's too simplistic to say Dorothea hates herself. It ignores the nuance, the fleeting ups, catastrophic downs, the colorless middles that stretch so long Dorothea doubts her capacity to feel again; the times when her solo has just ended, before the spotlight has swung around to someone else, when the adrenaline is still fresh in her veins, the sound of applause still ringing in her ears, and she thinks there's no one in the world who could do what she does.
But on normal days—going to class and parties and dates, and carving chunks of herself away so she can be everyone's favorite person-
What's even left of herself to hate?
In a way, finding some rich jerk to marry is taking the easy way out. As many an internet sage has repeated: how can you love someone if you can’t love yourself? And with Dorothea in no position to start loving herself soon, finding someone to marry that she’s in no danger to fall in love with takes the pressure off.
It sounds cliché, but spending time with Petra really does make Dorothea forget how miserable she is. Her friendship with Petra is her first relationship at Garreg Mach without pretense, her only relationship where Dorothea doesn’t feel the need to play some kind of character or fit some kind of role to make the other person happy.
Even with Manuela—as much as Dorothea loves and looks up to her—there are times when Dorothea still feels compelled to be the scared girl pulled in off the streets for having a golden voice, and she knows Manuela feels it too. She’s seen the way Manuela hides her hangovers and dodges questions about the odd calls and texts she gets during office hours, the way Manuela still wants to be the perfect mentor she had been when Dorothea was a wide-eyed teenager and Manuela was everything Dorothea wanted to be when she grew up.
There’s something about Petra that’s different, though. How she takes everything in without judgement, for starters—the absolute opposite of Dorothea. Or how she willingly puts up with Dorothea’s drunken rants on nights when some frat boy hasn’t done the bare minimum for Dorothea to allow a hookup, usually about the frat boys she’s hooked up with.
All of Dorothea’s other friends have tried to discourage her from her life goal of marrying rich—the girls typically in oblique ways like talking about “women’s empowerment” and how capable Dorothea is, and the boys by outright telling her she’ll be miserable for the rest of her life (if only they knew)—but by and large they come from well-off families. Even Leonie, who’s here on scholarship and works three work study jobs and maybe at least one off-campus job and thrifts all her clothing, doesn’t know what it’s like to be homeless.
But Petra understands, somehow, that even if Petra doesn’t understand, this is important to Dorothea. That Dorothea can make these choices for herself, even if Petra wouldn’t make the same.
And that’s exactly what Dorothea needs. Not someone to tell her that she’s valuable as her own person or to remind her she needs to love herself. Just someone who accepts her as the broken mess she is.
Being in college can bring out the worst in Dorothea, though, and having someone beside her so readily accepting as Petra is a dangerous drug.
The first mistake was going to Sylvain’s stupid frat party in the first place. Dorothea can generally only tolerate the thick smell of overpriced cologne and thicker air of posturing and male insecurity for as long as it takes to get drunk enough to ignore how much cheaper the alcohol will be at every subsequent party. But while she’s developed a bit of a sixth sense for dodging horny frat boys who like their chances better after a girl’s got a shot or two in her, not every girl walks into these parties with their metaphorical fists up.
And for better or worse, Petra is one of those girls.
Dorothea isn’t sure what comes over her, but there’s something about watching one of Sylvain’s sleazy ilk hover over Petra, push into her personal space like he has some kind of right to it, that sets her off. She drops her full shot glass—Sylvain had challenged her to match him shot for shot, and she could stand to embarrass him in front of his friends before moving onto the next party—to the table and stomps over to the pair, slipping her index fingers into Petra belt loops to pull her close.
“Are you having fun, dear?” Dorothea asks, her face so close to Petra’s, she can feel Petra’s breath on her lips.
Petra doesn’t respond, instead her eyes scanning around Dorothea’s face before they settle on Dorothea’s mouth. That’s all the permission Dorothea needs, and before long she’s using her leverage to close the gap and seal their lips together.
There must be some kind of uproar around them, but all Dorothea can hear is the rushing of blood in her ears. A heat builds in the pit of her stomach, igniting into a fire when Petra wraps her arms around Dorothea’s shoulders, pulling her in deeper.
Releasing Petra’s belt loops, Dorothea slides her hands around Petra’s hips until she can dip them into her back pockets. Petra shivers at the touch, her hands clawing at Dorothea’s back, and Dorothea, more than happy to give Petra what she wants, slides her tongue into Petra’s mouth.
At this point, the whooping gets too loud to ignore, so Dorothea breaks the kiss, taking a moment to swipe the smeared lipstick from Petra’s lips after she pulls away.
“Let’s get out of here, shall we?” Dorothea asks, loud enough that she’s sure the people around them can hear her.
Petra lets Dorothea lead her out of the frat house, past the crowd of gawking partygoers, before she says, “What was that?”
“I just hate it when those fuckboys think we’re there for anything other than the free alcohol,” Dorothea replies with a scoff. “Thought a little show might remind them we’re so far off the market, they shouldn’t even consider it. I didn’t overstep, did I?”
Petra’s still looking at Dorothea like she’s been knocked in the back of the head with a brick, but she shakes her head all the same.
“That’s good. And we don’t have to keep coming to these parties if you don’t want,” Dorothea says, readjusting her hold on Petra’s hand so she can intertwine their fingers. “I mostly go still as a favor to Ingrid, so I can make sure Sylvain isn’t pickling his liver before he hits twenty-five, but if you’re uncomfortable at all, we can skip them.”
“I am wanting to go where you are,” Petra tells her.
Dorothea’s heart wells at the statement, and tugging Petra closer with their joined hands, she wraps an arm around Petra’s shoulder, tucking Petra under her chin. In the mid-autumn night, Petra is warm and cozy, and that’s the only reason Dorothea holds her close.
What other reason could there be?
--
The worst part of school is, well, school.
It’s not even that Dorothea’s doing particularly poorly in her classes—the one benefit of choosing a major she enjoys over something that will make her money in the future—but most young adults, given the choice between something fun and studying, will choose the fun thing. Hell, many students will even choose decidedly not fun things to get out of a class or two.
Dorothea is no different here.
Having class with friends makes it better, but the degree to which that’s true varies wildly depending on the closeness of the friendship. Dorothea had had high hopes for Scripture and Seiros on that first day when she spotted Edelgard and Petra sitting a familiar distance from each other in the classroom, but the reality is turning out a bit more frustrating than imagined.
“I do not have understanding. If Nemesis was being the hero to the people of Fódlan, why was Seiros needing to fight him?”
“I explained this already: the Church has incentive to establish a false narrative to maintain its power over Fódlan. The Church maintains that Nemesis became corrupt and needed to be kept in check, but given the rate of Seiros’ rise to power—based on contemporary accounts—it’s much more likely that Seiros eliminated him because he was a threat to her ability to establish unilateral control over the continent. Dorothea, are you even paying attention?”
At the mention of her name, Dorothea’s eyes focus from where they had previously been watching Petra’s lips form around her words as she spoke, and she sits up quickly. “Of course. We’ve been going over the formal establishment of the Church at Talitean for hours.” All this, for a term paper.
Edelgard fixes Dorothea with a hard stare, as though trying to get her to buckle. “What are your thoughts on verses ten through thirteen?”
“It’s all myth, clearly,” Dorothea says, lightly. “I mean, if the whole book is to be believed, Seiros lived, what, one hundred thirty years? Nemesis is meant to be a metaphor for the general corruption and loss of high-minded ideals during the period that the Church was founded, and Seiros is his foil; pure, godly, righteous.”
“An interesting interpretation,” Edelgard concedes, “though one that would have you excommunicated, I’m sure.”
“No more than yours,” Dorothea shoots back.
That seems to satisfy Edelgard enough that she directs her attention back to Petra and their literalist interpretations of the text, which means Dorothea’s safe to direct her attention back to Petra.
No one in their right minds should ever argue this strongly about the Book of Seiros of all things, but here they are, Petra, asking the sorts of questions only an adult being first exposed to something people in Fódlan are raised with and usually never give a second thought about would, and Edelgard, getting more and more heated now that she finally has someone to validate her more radical ideas.
But Dorothea is too lost in her own thoughts to be the moderating force in the room—specifically those of how good Petra looks in that oversized sweater she’s wearing today. There’s not even anything particularly fancy about it, but it looks soft and warm and like Dorothea could bury herself-
“Dorothea, what do you think?”
Dorothea’s eyes snap from where they had absolutely not been fixed on Petra’s chest to Edelgard’s frown. “Pardon?”
“You clearly favor a metaphorical take on the scripture, and that’s a valuable perspective for Petra to consider as someone new to the Church’s teachings,” Edelgard says, explaining everything and somehow nothing at the same time.
“Right.” Dorothea picks up her reader and glances back at Petra, who has moved on to taking notes on whatever anti-Church propaganda Edelgard likely just fed her, her tongue poking out between her lips, and for the briefest of moments, Dorothea wonders what would happen if she climbed across the table to straddle Petra’s lap.
But then Petra looks up, apparently concerned that Dorothea’s yet to say anything of substance, and Dorothea’s reminded that she’s in the middle of a study session. With friends. For theology class.
“Right, sorry, which verses were we on?”
“Chapter four, verses twenty through twenty-two,” Edelgard supplies, eyeing her suspiciously.
Shit, she missed a lot while she was staring at Petra’s… sweater. “Um, let’s see-”
“No, that’s fine,” Edelgard cuts in. “We’ve probably done enough for today, and you’ve clearly been distracted, so it’s probably best to stop here.”
Part of Dorothea wants to object, but more than that, she isn’t about to take an out for granted, so she sits back while Edelgard quickly and efficiently packs her things, checking her phone as she leaves.
“Sorry I cut our study group short,” Dorothea eventually musters, once Petra starts to follow suit.
“Do not be apologizing,” Petra shoots back, “I was feeling much tiredness as well. If it is being alright with you, may I be asking you more questions later about the differences on how people are interpreting Fódlan religion? We are not having so much debate about such things in Brigid.”
“Of course. And I’ll try to be a bit more… present then. Not sure what got into me today.”
But Petra just sends Dorothea a smile. “You are always working too hard. Are you sure you are not… what’s the phrase…?”
“I’m not burnt out, at least not yet,” Dorothea says, chuckling slightly. “It’ll take a bit more than this to burn me out, though Byleth’s really trying with these weekly discussion posts.”
“I am having much relief to be hearing that, but please be telling me if I can be helping you with anything.”
“How about getting dinner with me tonight?”
Despite herself, Dorothea’s heart flutters a little bit at the way Petra’s smile widens.
--
If there’s anything college has taught Dorothea, it’s that the best conversations happen late at night, usually somewhere between a reasonable hour to go to sleep and the ass-crack of dawn.
Petra, clearly, shares in this philosophy, because shortly after Dorothea convinces her to stop studying for the night and she climbs into bed (tangling their legs together in a way that makes Dorothea’s heart pound a double-time rhythm), she mutters something that Dorothea feels more than she hears, what with Petra’s face so thoroughly pressed into the crook of her neck.
“What was that, dear? Dorothea asks, giggling from the vibrations of Petra’s words.
“Dorothea, I am having a confession to make,” Petra repeats, pulling back just enough that Dorothea can trace the movement of Petra’s lips against her throat. “I am not who you are thinking I am.”
“And who do I think you are?” Dorothea shoots back.
Petra breathes out, a puff of air raising goosebumps along Dorothea’s entire body. “Someone who is having to work for their future... Someone like you.”
Dorothea scoffs. “Please. You’re the hardest-working person I know.”
“This is not the same,” Petra says, lips still brushing against Dorothea’s neck, and Dorothea tries not to shiver. “You are working hard now because when we are leaving here, your position is not secure. You have not been guaranteed your future after Garreg Mach, but I am working hard because I have.”
“Petra, dear… I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”
“You are understanding that I am from Brigid, correct?”
Dorothea frowns. “Yes, but I don’t see why that matters right now.”
“Brigid is a monarchy,” Petra continues, as though Dorothea’s answer was limited to a simple affirmative. “After I am leaving here, I am having the duty to return home and fulfill my responsibilities to the people of Brigid as their princess.”
For a brief moment, the air is sucked straight out of the room, and Dorothea finds it hard not to choke on the revelation.
“You’re… what?” she asks, once she’s recalled how to breathe.
“The princess of Brigid,” Petra repeats, and the words sound no more real than the first time she spoke them.
“You’re a princess? How is that even possible? You’re so… so normal.”
Petra chuckles, thankfully taking the comment as a compliment. “Brigid is not a strong country, and we are having many worries about the safety of the royal family. After I was coming to Fódlan, there was… an attempt on my life.”
Dorothea gasps, pulling away from their close embrace to take Petra’s face in her hands. “Petra! That wasn’t why you transferred, was it?”
“No, it was happening a few years ago now, but afterwards, I was told to be keeping my identity as the princess secret while I am here.”
“Is it alright for you to tell me?”
Petra grins, a shy thing that has every inch of Dorothea’s skin tingling. “I am wanting you to know. I… trust you, Dorothea.”
A sudden, almost uncontrollably strong urge to take the face between her hands and pull it towards her until their lips meet comes over Dorothea, not for the first time since she and Petra have met. Her fingers flex slightly at the way the desire overtakes her, her nails scraping against Petra’s cheeks.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Dorothea promises.
“I am already knowing that. But… thank you.”
Dorothea’s hands tremble, the warmth against her palms radiating trust and safety while her heart has been gripped with the sudden and almost uncontrollable urge to flee. “So what does a princess do?”
“Too much and not enough,” Petra says with a laugh. “Right now, my only responsibility is receiving an education and learning how things are operating in Fódlan.”
“Is it alright that you spend so much time with me?” Dorothea asks, reminded of that time Petra had asked her an achingly similar question. To think that Petra had been worried about taking up Dorothea’s time, when she’s the infinitely more important person. “I don’t want to get in the way when you should be sucking up to Edie or Ferdie.”
“It is true that is what my grandfather is wanting me to be doing,” Petra confirms, her lips still pulled into that stupidly attractive smile, “but I am finding the time I am spending with you to be the most treasured moments I am having at Garreg Mach.”
I think I’m in love with you, Dorothea wants to respond, the words half-formed on her tongue before she can swallow them. “I feel the same,” she says instead, cursing her sudden bout of cowardice. “You’ve quickly become my favorite thing about this school.”
“And you are mine,” Petra shoots back, before burying her face in the crook of Dorothea’s neck again.
Dorothea swallows thickly and prays that Petra won’t feel the way her pulse races.
--
Keeping Petra’s secret is easy, unfortunately—Dorothea’s always been great at keeping things close to her chest, slipping on her mask, and lying through her teeth when it’s necessary. Hell, she still hasn’t told Ferdinand about that time they (kinda) met as kids.
But that’s also the problem.
There’s no one Dorothea’s better at deceiving than herself, and for the past few months, she’s been desperately telling herself she doesn’t have feelings for Petra. A self-preservation measure for when she knows she needs to focus on men who can secure her future, no matter how much Dorothea’s heart tugs her towards Petra’s smile and warmth and kindness.
Now that Dorothea knows that Petra has status, however, that paradigm has shifted. A title, country, wealth beyond anything these sorry excuses she wastes her weekend dinners with could have put together…
The lie Dorothea tells herself slips. And a tidal wave of self-loathing rushes in to fill the gap.
Even putting their statuses aside, Petra deserves better than Dorothea. She’s always deserved better than Dorothea, always deserved someone who could at least muster a positive feeling about themselves sometime other than the fleeting moments when crowds of people heap praise on them, but at the very least, Petra deserves someone who doesn’t need to hear Petra’s a literal princess to admit their feelings to themselves.
The worst part is how appreciative Petra is, how Petra walks Dorothea to class and eats lunch with her then follows her to Dorothea’s room and lays in Dorothea’s bed like nothing’s changed and sends her a smile that says “thank you for treating me the same as always”.
As though Dorothea could treat her any differently if she tried. As though Petra isn’t the most lovable person on the planet, and Dorothea would be a fool to do anything that might drive her away.
It would have been better if Petra had never told Dorothea the truth in the first place, a thought Dorothea would be appalled had crossed her mind if she wasn’t slowly going insane. After all, she lives for a good secret, loved hearing before anyone else that Ferdinand and Hubert are dating, nearly shot to the moon that time Edelgard grudgingly admitted to her that she and Hilda had a messy break-up.
But this is damn near unbearable. And it’s all Dorothea’s stupid fault.
“You’re holding up the line,” Hubert hisses, the jaunty angle of his Holy Roast visor only serving to cast an ominous shadow over his face. “If you’re only going to order your usual, then I would appreciate it if you stopped looking at the menu board like you want to order something different.”
“O-oh, Hubie,” Dorothea says, trying to regain her mental footing. “You know my usual wouldn’t taste the same without you spitting in my drink.”
Hubert sneers, the look on his face saying he’s actually considering it.
“Don’t worry! I’m making it,” Ferdinand calls from behind the espresso machine.
“That’ll be five sixty-eight,” Hubert deadpans. “Step aside now.”
Dorothea retreats to the milk counter and pulls out her phone by muscle memory, but rather than look at it, she leans against the side of the counter and sulks.
She doesn’t get much time alone with her thoughts, luckily, before a new voice interrupts them. “This is rare for you. I thought you only stopped by Roast to give Ferdinand and Hubert a hard time.”
“Ingrid,” Dorothea says, a smile tugging on her lips despite her mood. “If you asked Hubert, he’d tell you I already did that.”
Ingrid laughs, the sound bright and cheerful but even that can’t seem to make Dorothea feel better. “I’m pretty sure Hubert thinks everyone is giving him a hard time just by being here. He’s not exactly made for customer service. But really, what’s got you down?”
Dorothea gnaws her bottom lip. This isn’t exactly the sort of conversation she wants to have in public, if at all. And with Ingrid, no less.
It's not like Dorothea has anything against Ingrid. She values her as much—probably more—than most of her friends in the Black Eagles. But there was a time, back when they first met, that Dorothea was more than ready to delay her plans on finding her future spouse if it meant Ingrid was interested in going out with her.
But Ingrid had her own hang-ups at the time: those childhood friends of hers and their drinking problems, to start with, and something with her family Dorothea’s never felt fully comfortable pressing her to open up about. Regardless, the timing never worked out, and their first year fizzled out with Dorothea flirting and Ingrid blushing and looking equally flattered and unsure of what to do with herself, and then Dorothea met Petra.
And so her thoughts come full circle.
“It’s complicated,” Dorothea says, eventually. Slowly, each syllable measured.
“I’m here if you need an ear,” Ingrid replies, clearly not getting the hint. “I just got out of a macro midterm, and I could use a good kind of brain-melt, honestly.”
Dorothea glances around the coffeeshop, determining whether there’s anyone in earshot she should avoid. Then, throwing caution to the wind and hoping it will be swallowed by the sound of Ferdinand grinding beans, “Have you ever caught feelings for someone you really, really didn’t want to?
Ingrid’s eyes light up like Dorothea’s just told her she’s won the lottery. “Goddess, Dorothea, you have a crush on someone? Who is it? Do I know them?”
“That’s not important. What matters is I can’t like them.”
“And why not?”
“That’s the complicated part,” Dorothea says, opting to look anywhere other than meet Ingrid’s eyes. “She’s too good for me.”
Ingrid’s eyebrows twitch, and Dorothea swallows a curse. She’s said too much, which is exactly why she usually doesn’t say anything at all. Or rather, says a lot, but keeps it strictly vapid, sugary fluff.
“That’s odd,” Ingrid muses, taking a pause to grab both of their coffees when Ferdinand places them on the pick-up counter, “usually you’re wasting your time on people who are leagues below you.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Dorothea says with none of her usual playful lilt, as she accepts her drink from Ingrid. It doesn’t feel right, now of all times, for Ingrid to try to prop her up.
“I’m being honest. You’re always bouncing off bottom of the barrel guys just because they have money and shitty personalities so you won’t have to worry about falling in love with them.”
Dorothea feels like she’s just been slapped. And she must show it because Ingrid shrugs and sips her coffee.
“I don’t- that’s not…” Dorothea scoffs, objections ricocheting around her brain but nothing sticking long enough to form a coherent thought. Eventually she musters, “I don’t think you’re in any position to say that to me.”
“And there’s the defensive insult. Dorothea, I think you’re forgetting we were this,” Ingrid holds up her free hand, her index and thumb pinched together with a hair’s width of space between them, “close to fucking and still managed to stay friends. I know you better than you want to admit.”
Ingrid’s right, regrettably. Like she usually is.
This must be how Sylvain feels, Dorothea thinks briefly, before being so thoroughly disappointed in herself for having hit Sylvain’s level, that she nearly coughs up her coffee.
“Now are you going to tell me who this lucky girl is, or should I guess?”
Dorothea grimaces. “You must have an idea already, or you wouldn’t be asking.”
Ingrid chuckles, and just like that, the tension breaks. “Then maybe you’ll trust me when I say you should tell her how you feel. I think she’s interested, too.”
--
Well.
Dorothea hadn’t even thought that far, to be honest. Hadn’t even considered the possibility.
It sounds wrong, on its face, the mere notion that Petra could want a relationship other than what she currently has with Dorothea. But the more Dorothea thinks about it, the more she realizes she’s really never paid much attention to Petra’s romantic prospects.
Petra studies, she attends more classes than Dorothea thought humanly possible, she eats lunch with Dorothea on days when their schedules line up and Bernie on days when Petra can successfully goad Bernie to go to the dining hall, she spends more time in the Golden Deer common room than the Black Eagles because Leonie was her orientation advisor and she adopted Petra on sight, she goes to Brigid Student Association and field hockey parties when she wants to let loose and teaches Dorothea how to braid her hair in traditional Brigid methods on lowkey weekends.
But never once in all these months has Dorothea seen Petra go on a date or even heard her talk about a crush.
There are plenty of people who would be interested besides Dorothea—or at least should be. Ignatz, the Golden Deer boy in Petra’s history section, for starters, but Dorothea’s also caught her hanging around some mild-mannered kid from the Blue Lions dorm and going to the gym with Caspar on the weekends. It’s more likely Petra’s never mentioned a romantic entanglement not because there were none, but because Dorothea’s been sucking all the air out of the room with her bad dates and worse hookups for Petra to get a word in edgewise.
“I think she’s interested, too,” Ingrid had said, and the thought carries Dorothea all the way back to the Black Eagles dorm.
No matter how she slices it, it seems impossible. Dorothea’s flirted with Petra endlessly—in a friendly way, of course, because all of Dorothea’s flirting is friendly unless the other party wants it to be serious or to stop—but Petra never responded.
They have weekly sleepovers, for Sothis’ sake, and Dorothea’s never caught an errant glance or blush. If anything, Petra’s been too comfortable with changing in the same room and sleeping in the same bed, wrapping her arms around Dorothea’s waist, pulling their bodies flush together, and—
Dorothea stops in front of her room, drops her face to her hands, and groans. These memories were certainly easier to manage when she was in denial.
But what if Petra does like her?
Maybe all this time Dorothea’s flirting has been landing like one of Professor Rangeld’s jokes, and Petra just hasn’t gotten it. Goddess damn it, what if it’s because of the language barrier?
“Yo, Dorothea, you alright?”
The voice breaks her out of her thoughts long enough for Dorothea to unlock her door and slip inside, closing the door behind her without bothering to check who asked the question. She drops her bag by the door before immediately trudging to her bed and dropping to it unceremoniously.
At least it’s the weekend, Dorothea decides, groaning into her pillow. She’s skipped class for a lot of reasons but being a gay idiot seems like the stupidest so far.
--
By some twist of fate, they finally end up talking at a party.
Dorothea made Petra promise last week she would attend the Crest Tones party being held at one of the senior’s houses, but Petra has an international relations midterm next week and spent the afternoon and early evening in the library studying.
At the time, Dorothea was thankful when Petra told her she’d be busy the whole day, but after her conversation with Ingrid and subsequent spiral, Dorothea isn’t sure how to feel about seeing Petra at the party. Part of her mind is still in line at the Holy Roast, stuck on the fear that being in love with Petra is doing Petra a disservice, but another part of her—small but growing with each passing moment—just wants to bask in Petra’s presence. Wants to drink in her appearance and overanalyze their interactions on the off chance Petra might reciprocate Dorothea’s affections.
Of course, the advantage to being at a party is the alcohol, and Dorothea’s going to need lots of it if she wants to make it through tonight.
However this is a Crest Tones party, and as the Crest Tones most notable member, Dorothea gets pulled in every direction possible from the moment she enters the door—except in the direction of the alcohol table.
She ends up stumbling on Petra without intending to and well before she’s prepared herself for their encounter. But Petra just greets her like normal, looks legitimately excited to see Dorothea.
“I was not having many expectations before coming to this party,” Petra says, leaning in close to Dorothea’s ear so she can be heard over the music, “but I have not been seeing any other parties with this much singing!”
“Yes, well there aren’t many other parties with this many washed-up musical theater kids,” Dorothea responds, trying to laugh off the way Petra’s breath made her skin tingle pleasantly. “If it gets to be too much for you, just let me know, and I can find somewhere quiet for you to go hide.”
“I am liking it the most here,” Petra says, and Dorothea tries—how she tries—not to read too much into that statement.
“Can I get you something to drink? I could use something myself, actually.”
But Petra shakes her head. “I am feeling much… flaming out. I would be liking greatly to just be spending time with you tonight.”
“It’s ‘burnt out’,” Dorothea corrects, absentmindedly. That certainly throws a wrench in her plans. Not that she needs Petra to be drunk to have a damn conversation with her, but Dorothea certainly isn’t going to be the only one getting messy and (potentially) spilling her innermost thoughts like vomit on the floor. “In that case, why don’t we find someplace a little more quiet? You’re probably tired from studying all day.”
“Only if you are wanting to do that,” Petra says, looking around the living room and fidgeting like she’s trying not to look too eager.
Or maybe Dorothea’s reading too much into it. Damn it, this is all Ingrid’s fault for planting the damn seed of hope in the first place, and now Dorothea can’t seem to let go of it.
They weave through the increasingly rowdy crowd of partygoers, past the game of flip cup and at least two couples who didn’t bother to find a room before they started to get hot and heavy, until they hit the mud room near the back door. At this time of the year, it’s too cold to enjoy the porch or backyard until people are too drunk to realize they shouldn’t be out in freezing temperatures without their coats on, which means for at least the next hour, this will be the most private part of the house.
Petra settles into the back corner, taking a seat on the built-in shoe rack, but Dorothea stays standing. It’s better for pacing, and she has plenty of nervous energy to burn right now and no drink to burn it on.
“Dorothea, are you feeling not well? You should be taking a seat also,” Petra says, reaching out a hand to pull Dorothea onto the shoe rack beside her, but once Petra’s hand grasps hers, the dam breaks.
“I like you,” Dorothea blurts out, already feeling the heat travel from their joined hands all the way up to her face. Her cheeks must be incandescent.
But Petra just sends her a smile. “I am having much fondness for you as well.”
It would be so easy to turn back now, to let Petra think Dorothea brought her to a secluded corner of the house just to tell her how much Dorothea values their friendship. But mostly, Dorothea feels in too deep, the blood that rushed to her head seconds ago clouding her judgement and goading her to keep pushing.
“That’s not quite what I meant. I like you. I’m in love with you.”
Petra gapes at her, her mouth opening and closing silently for a few beats, before she looks at the far wall. “I… um… me… too,” Petra says, dumbly.
The words are soft, but they take all the strength out of Dorothea’s legs. Collapsing onto the shoe rack next to Petra, she brings their joined hands into her lap and covers them with her other hand.
“Yeah?”
“I have been liking you greatly since we met,” Petra confesses, a dusting of pink—faint against her bronze skin, but present—on her cheeks, “but I was telling you before, Brigid is not strong. I am not having wealth or power like the people you are having dates with.”
Dorothea wants to cry, just a little bit, for her own stupidity having affected Petra at all, let alone to this extent. “I’m embarrassed,” Dorothea says instead. “Not just because I made you think that should matter to you, but because it did matter to me, more than it should have. The truth is, I’ve liked you since we met as well, but it took you telling me who you are for me to admit it to myself.”
Petra, ever patient and understanding, squeezes Dorothea’s hand but waits for her to continue.
“I’m sorry. I should have been more honest with myself from the start, and it would have saved us both a lot of trouble.”
“Do not be apologizing,” Petra says, giving Dorothea a gentle smile. “I was having fear that you would be rejecting me, so I was not being honest towards you either. In Brigid, the royal family’s position is having much weakness, and there are many people who are wanting us gone. I was not thinking that being the princess could be making me a better marriage partner; I was hoping that it would not be scaring you away.”
Eyes burning, Dorothea pulls Petra into a hug. “Oh, Petra, I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through that. Alone, no less. And my stupid ass was over there worrying about whether it was okay for someone like me to love you.”
Petra tightens the hug, her arms wrapping around Dorothea’s waist naturally, and nuzzles her face into Dorothea’s neck. “It is always being okay for you to be loving me. I am wanting you to.”
Dorothea laughs, the sound wet with her tears but happy. Light, unrestrained. “I want you to love me, too.”
“Then is it okay for me to be kissing you?” Petra asks, pulling away. “I am having much confusion about courting here in Fódlan. I was trying to be following what the boys you are going on dates with are doing, but there is still much I am not understanding.”
Dorothea rolls her eyes, barely holding in a groan. “Please, Petra, there’s no need to copy them. You’re perfect just as you are. And as for kissing…”
Leaning in slowly, Dorothea watches as Petra’s eyes slip closed before her own follow suit. Unlike the first time Dorothea and Petra kissed, this kiss starts soft, but the moment they make contact, Petra presses in harder, using the arms she still has around Dorothea’s waist to pull Dorothea in closer. Dorothea gasps at the movement, and Petra takes the opportunity to seal their lips together tighter, her tongue finding Dorothea’s with ease.
To be honest, Dorothea had been a bit drunk the first time she kissed Petra. Or a lot drunk. Either way, her memories of the moment are hazy, more a vague recollection that it happened than anything distinct. And while Dorothea certainly isn’t one to regret a sloppy make-out at a party, she does wish she was a bit more in the right mind when that one happened, because maybe then she would be a bit more prepared for the sheer experience of kissing Petra.
For example, Petra runs warm—that’s something Dorothea’s known from months of sitting too close on couches and cuddling during their weekly sleepovers. But knowing Petra’s warmth through her clothes is different than feeling Petra’s hand on her stomach, after Petra’s slipped it under her shirt. And knowing the warmth of Petra’s hand is different than knowing the heat of Petra’s tongue in her mouth, knowing the coals it would stoke in the pit of her stomach, knowing the haze that would settle over her head.
When they break apart, Dorothea can feel the way her pupils must be blown, and to her surprise, she finds herself straddling Petra’s lap, Petra with one hand down the back of her jeans and the other so high up her shirt, it’s a wonder she hasn’t hit Dorothea’s bra.
“We certainly didn’t waste a second making up for lost time,” Dorothea quips, as she takes in their position.
“Should we be leaving here for somewhere more private?” Petra asks. She doesn’t seem in any hurry to move, but then again, neither is Dorothea. Petra’s lap is quite comfortable.
They should be, really, but at the same time, they don’t need to be. They’ve done the hard part already, and they have as much time as they want to enjoy everything that comes next. And frankly, Dorothea is excited by the prospect of savoring a relationship.
“Let’s not,” Dorothea says as she stands, smiling when Petra doesn’t seem hurt that she’s not jumping into bed with her. But who is she kidding? This is Petra—if there was anyone in all of Fódlan Dorothea would expect to understand, it’s the woman she just spent the last five minutes making out with.
“Then are you having interest in a game of beer pong? Ferdinand was telling me he is undefeated at Crest Tones parties.”
Dorothea laughs, though the sound comes out more like a scoff, and offers Petra a hand up. “Ferdie is a damn liar, that’s what he is. We’ll kick his ass.”
Petra lets Dorothea heave her up, using the momentum to propel her into pressing a quick peck to Dorothea’s lips.
Dorothea must be blushing. To think, under that sweet girl with her wide, innocent eyes and kind, understanding smile, hid a damn ladykiller. And Dorothea wasted weeks being caught up in her own dumb feelings when she could have been experiencing more of this.
Wrapping an arm around Petra’s waist, Dorothea slips her hand into Petra’s front pocket, pulling their bodies flush together. “Shall we?”
Petra’s eyes glint, clearly picking up on Dorothea’s challenge, and she nods her head towards the rest of the party, motioning for them to start moving.
Making up for lost time, indeed.
--
As it turns out, absolutely no one is surprised when Dorothea tells them she and Petra are officially dating.
Ingrid gives her a knowing smile and tells her she’s happy for them; Edelgard stares at her blankly as though she’s waiting for the news, then coughs into her fist when she realizes that was the news. Ferdinand gives her the dossier of double date spots he needled Hubert into compiling for him—as though Dorothea has any intention of ever using it (Hubert can thank her later); Caspar groans “Finally!” around his brunch taco, before nearly choking on it and needing Lindhardt to give him a few good, hard smacks on the back.
Dorothea isn’t sure how to feel about it at first, that all her friends were watching her disaster of a love life unfold before them like some kind of reality show they had front row tickets to, but in the end she settles on warm—happy that she’s managed to find this many people who are looking out for her and caring about how she’s doing.
Plus, it certainly eases what bad feelings Dorothea may have to be able to wake up on weekends and roll over to find Petra still curled into her side, trying to fit in as well as she can on the dorm’s standard issue twin bed.
It’s one of those lazy mornings, shortly after they’ve both woken up but before their growling stomachs have forced them out of each other’s embrace that the thought occurs to Dorothea: “Am I the only one here who knows you’re a princess?”
“Others in the Black Eagles are having the knowledge, but not many,” Petra replies, voice still thick with sleep, but sounding more lucid by the word. “They were knowing before I was transferring here.”
“Can you tell me?”
“You are probably already knowing,” Petra says, grinning in a way Dorothea’s only seen her direct towards Dorothea. “You are always knowing more than people are expecting of you.”
It’s probably Edelgard, then. Edelgard, Hubert, and maybe Ferdinand.
“Do you want to tell anyone else?” Dorothea asks, instead of fishing for confirmation. “Would you even be allowed to?”
“Someday. My grandfather is not wanting me to tell people yet, but I can not be keeping it from everyone always. They will be learning the truth eventually, and I am wanting them to be hearing it from me.”
Dorothea takes Petra’s face in her hands and pulls her in for a kiss. This is the woman she fell in love with, before she learned of Petra’s status and before she considered Petra could love her back. A woman so singularly good Dorothea couldn’t help but be drawn to her.
“Dorothea, I am having a request,” Petra says, when they finally break apart.
“Anything, dear.”
“I am having to go to Brigid when the school year is ending. I am wanting you to go with me.”
“Of course I’ll go. I’ll go anywhere with you,” Dorothea says, unable to hold in a laugh when Petra surges forward for another kiss.
For now, though, Dorothea is more than happy to stay right where she is, wrapped up in her covers with her legs tangled up in Petra’s, while Petra smothers her face in kisses. It would be naive to say all of her problems are resolved just because she got the girl—she and Petra have been too lost in the honeymoon phase to even start talking about the future, for starters—but there’s something to be said about enjoying the moment.
And this moment, Dorothea will enjoy as long as she can.