Archive of Our Own

The night of the White Heron Cup comes with more fanfare than Dimitri would like. Word had spread seemingly from the moment Professor Byleth had chosen him to represent the Blue Lions in the competition, and ever since that moment Dimitri’s life had felt like one constant reminder of that one unhappy fact. At every pass, someone had seemed to bring it up to him, whether it was taunts from opposing house members (“My condolences for your loss, Dimitri, but there’s no way you’re going to beat Hilda – and no way Hilda is going to beat Dorothea, but don’t tell her I said that.” This, from Claude; and from Ferdinand, “I would have liked to face off with you on the dance floor, Prince Dimitri – but it looks as though this time, fortune favours neither of us.”), Professor Byleth’s almost-smiles when they would reassure him he would do well, or words of encouragement from his own classmates. It very nearly made Dimitri grateful that Felix had continued to ignore him as usual. 

And it really had been the encouragement that stung the most. Whether it was genuinely, cheerfully meant as from Annette and Mercedes, or practice lessons offered by Ingrid out of a misplaced sense of competition, all they had accomplished was filling him with a sense of upcoming dread. But those words, too, had been tolerable when compared to the specific brand of encouragement Sylvain had offered. 

To say he had leered when the rumour mill had reached him at last would not be entirely correct, but there had been a certain sort of smile on his face when he’d heard the news, one that was kept carefully blank despite the lurid joy lurking in Sylvain’s eyes. “Congratulations, Your Highness,” he had said, with the sort of laugh that should have been mocking, but had come out just a touch too dry. “I’m looking forward to seeing you all decked out in dancer’s garb. You must have quite the hidden repertoire of moves if the professor chose you to lead us here, too.” 

At first, Dimitri had thought it just a strange sort of bitterness, or envy. Sylvain was prone to showing off, after all, and if Dimitri recalled, he had always been quite the dancer. The more he’d complimented Dimitri on his dancing, though, the more Dimitri had become convinced it was something else. The lingering hands on his shoulders, the gentle trace of fingertips down his sides as hands had sought out his waist, the closeness of their bodies – closer than even Ingrid dared to dance with him – all pointed in a much different direction. 

And it hadn’t been as though Dimitri was unaware of Sylvain’s feelings for him before then. He had seen the way Sylvain looked at him – had watched his eyes roam over his body as he trained. To make matters worse, he had caught Sylvain, on more than one occasion, bringing women back to his room, all of them with light blonde hair (usually short) or bright blue eyes. Sometimes both, and on those occasions, Sylvain would flash him a private, knowing little smile. 

Dimitri had always hated those smiles. He still hates them now.

Now that the night of the ball has come, though, Sylvain hardly pays him any attention at all – at least from what Dimitri has seen. Occasionally, he’s caught his old friend watching him from the dance floor, as he spins another girl around his arms or sweeps her into a dip; but for the most part, his attention is occupied by the flocks of girls surrounding him. For that, Dimitri is quietly grateful; he feels exposed enough in his dancers’ garb without Sylvain’s eyes piercing through it.

He looks out across the dance floor. The competition will begin soon, he thinks; towards the stage, Professor Manuela speaks with Dorothea and gestures with her, no doubt getting some last-minute practice and pep talk in. Professor Hanneman is there too, looking around the room and most likely seeking Hilda, who is standing with Claude by the punch bowl, one hand on his elbow while the two of them nearly double over in laughter. The moment his eyes fall on them, though, Claude looks up, and when he does, he straightens his posture and waves Dimitri over. 

Without thinking, Dimitri begins to walk in their direction, but then, for reasons he can’t explain to even himself, he hesitates. He looks back out over the dance floor, and finds the bright head of red-orange hair he has been subconsciously looking for: Sylvain is dancing with a girl, his arm around her back and her hand held gently in his. She has blonde hair, the colour of straw, cropped short in the back and a little longer in the front. It looks well cared-for – and that, somehow, puts Dimitri's mind a little more at ease. 

He catches Sylvain glance up, and quickly averts his gaze before hurrying over to Claude. 

“There you are, Your Princeliness,” the leader of the Golden Deer greets, his smile wide and, surprisingly, more genuine than usual. He’s got a cup in his hand, but he sets it down to pick up another and fill it for him. “You look… well, no offense, but you look as wound up as ever. Maybe even worse than usual, if I’m being honest.” 

Dimitri attempts a laugh, though it comes out as awkward to his ears as it feels in his throat. “Yes, well, I can’t say I quite relish the fact that soon I will be standing in front of everyone and…” He shudders, completely unintentionally. “Dancing.” 

“Aw, come on, Dimitri, dancing is fun!” Hilda chips in. She laughs, and Claude rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t seem to be in poor humour. 

“Be nice, Hilda. Can’t you see the poor man is stressed to the eternal flames and back?” He grins, though, and offers Dimitri the cup he had just filled. Dimitri takes it, nodding his thanks. “Not everyone loves the spotlight like you do.” 

Hilda sighs, her shoulders rising and falling dramatically with it, but she relents. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” she says. It’s then that she casts a look over to Professor Hanneman – who has now been joined by Professor Byleth – and shakes her head. “Speaking of which… Looks like we gotta go, Dimitri.” Then, straightening her back and puffing out her chest haughtily, she holds up her glass and smiles at him. “Shall we toast to beating Dorothea?” 

Dimitri smiles blithely. “I would be glad simply to not humiliate myself.”

“Then to not humiliating yourselves,” Claude says. He lifts his drink, and Dimitri follows suit. All three of them clink their glasses together and down the punch on one go.

“Cheers!” Hilda says, and with that, she’s off, prancing toward the stage. Dimitri follows at a far less enthusiastic pace, and when he walks along the edge of the dance floor, he feels a hot, honey-amber gaze fix onto his back.

The performance ends. Dimitri listens to the crowd clap and cheer as Dorothea is announced as the winner, and he smiles to himself, chest still heaving from exertion, when she steps forward to accept her prize. Her figure is blurry against the lights, and she sways from side to side, no

doubt showing off why she was the winner – but that is fine. Good, even. She deserves it.

Dimitri is not surprised at the result, and nor is he disappointed by it. Surprisingly, he feels… good. As though he has just completed a long, lengthy workout. Being on stage had been dizzying, yes, but not unpleasantly so; his body had moved without tension, loose and fluid in a way he hadn’t ever been during practice, and in a way he hadn’t expected to feel during the competition itself. And that fluidity had paid off, apparently: he had even managed to beat out Hilda, though just barely. The judges claimed it was because she took too many liberties with the choreography (though in Dimitri’s opinion, that wasn’t a bad thing – she looked like she was having fun, and it had filled him with a sort of envy he was nearly ashamed of), and she had lost some points for that. He supposes it hardly matters, though; results are results, and he is in too good a mood to consider arguing them.

When the applause finally fade away, the three competitors depart the stage to be met by their classmates. The Golden Deer flock to Hilda, shouting their indignance; the Black Eagles are subdued in their celebration (except for Caspar, naturally), but the sense of triumph radiating from them is palpable; for Dimitri’s part, his fellow Blue Lions surround him with cheers of both surprise and pride. For all their faith, they apparently had not believed he could achieve second place, either. 

To his own surprise, though, Sylvain is not among those congratulating him. Dimitri looks around, but does not see him anywhere—

“Congratulations, Your Highness.” 

“Gah!” Dimitri jumps and spins around. Sylvain is behind him, smiling that typically cheerful smile of his, and holding two glasses in his hands. He laughs, nearly spilling them both, and then catches himself and offers one to Dimitri.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“It is… quite all right,” Dimitri says. He doesn’t know if it is. He feels strangely unbalanced, all of a sudden. Disoriented. 

“Is it?” Sylvain asks, and for a moment, he looks genuinely concerned. “Because you don’t look so good, Your Highness.” 

Dimitri shakes his head. “I’m fine. Just… the anticipation of the competition hasn’t entirely worn off yet, I think.” 

Sylvain nods. “I get that. And that’s why I brought you this.” 

He holds out the punch again, more insistently this time. Dimitri takes it, and when he looks back up at Sylvain, his grin has widened.

“Thank you, Sylvain,” Dimitri says, and takes a sip. 

“No problem.” Sylvain mirrors him, taking a long gulp of his own drink. When it comes away, he sighs in appreciation. “I figured you’d be pretty… thirsty, after that performance.”

Dimitri nods. He supposes he is, a little bit, so he takes another drink.

Sylvain’s smile softens. “Really, though,” he begins, swirling his own glass and looking into the contents of it. “You were amazing up there. I didn’t know you could move like that, Your Highness.” 

Dimitri swallows down a gulp of punch. It feels heavy and obtrusive in his throat. “I’m… not sure what you mean,” he says, though he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t really want to hear the answer. 

“Just that you’re usually so…” Sylvain hesitates. He steps closer, eyes moving down Dimitri’s body, lingering on his shoulder where the collar of his shirt has slipped down a fraction. He reaches for it to tug it back up, and this time, when Dimitri swallows, it’s not to get rid of a mouthful of punch. “Tense.”

Dimitri tries to laugh, just as he had with Claude and Hilda, but it comes out even less assuring than it had with them. “Yes, well…” 

“I’m serious, Your Highness,” Sylvain continues, as though Dimitri hadn’t spoken at all. “Up there, on stage, watching you dance… you seemed so…” He grins. His hand falls away, though not without the backs of Sylvain’s fingers trailing down his chest. “So free. So loose.” 

Dimitri doesn’t like how he says that. He averts his gaze and, not knowing quite what to say in response, lifts his cup to his mouth to drain the last of his punch.

His face feels warm. Too warm.

Sylvain laughs, and then once again, he touches Dimitri’s shoulder, this time to clap it encouragingly. 

“Sorry! Didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” he says. Dimitri nods and lowers his glass, stepping out of Sylvain’s hold to wipe his mouth with the back of his arm. Sylvain follows him, though, and holds out his own glass of punch. “Here, have mine too,” he says. “You look like you could use it.” 

Dimitri frowns. “Oh, no, Sylvain, that’s quite all right…” 

“Really?” He steps in a little bit closer, closing that distance anew, grin widening and eyes narrowing as his eyes travel down Dimitri’s body again. “I dunno, Dimitri. You seem pretty overheated to me. Look at how much you’re… sweating.” 

“I – I suppose,” Dimitri says. And then, before he knows it, Sylvain is taking his glass and handing him his own, so smoothly that Dimitri almost doesn’t realize they’ve traded until Sylvain turns to set the empty cup down on the table behind him. “There you go,” he says. “Drink up.”

Dimitri doesn’t really want to. But Sylvain is watching him, staring at him expectantly, so he does. He takes a gulp, and it’s strangely bitter on his tongue despite the fact that he cannot taste it. Sylvain seems pleased enough, though, and his expression returns to normal, eyes no longer narrowed and piercing. 

“It’s good, huh?” he asks, cheerful as ever, leaving Dimitri dizzy again with how quickly his demeanor had changed. He wonders if this isn’t what it feels like to experience whiplash, but he nods – a mistake, since that just makes his head spin worse – and tries to focus on what Sylvain had said rather than the way the ballroom sways. He catches sight of a flash of teeth and the sound of familiar laughter, and he smiles to himself too, thinking that he’s done something right. 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Sylvain continues. “I saw you drinking with Claude and Hilda earlier. You sure seemed to enjoy it.”

“Oh – yes,” Dimitri says, nodding again. The swaying has stopped, at least momentarily. “The two of them can be quite good company, when they aren’t playing their usual tricks.” 

“Usual tricks, huh?” Something in Sylvain’s smile sharpens, then, becomes just that bit more artificial. It almost makes Dimitri laugh, because he can’t begin to fathom why. “I guess that’s one way to put it.” And then, as abruptly as the fake smile had appeared, it vanishes again. Sylvain puts a hand on Dimitri’s back (on the small of it, and it’s then that he realizes just how much he really is sweating, after all, because he can feel the fabric of his costume stick to his skin when Sylvain presses just a little bit too firmly). He begins to lead Dimitri away from their spot and over to the refreshment table. “Come on, Your Highness. You really are looking flushed; we should get you something to eat.” 

He pushes. Dimitri doesn’t quite know what to say, so he drowns his wavering tongue in another swig of punch. 

The food is… fine, Dimitri supposes, once he’s had a plate of crackers and bread and cured meats and cheeses, all supplied by Sylvain under the excuse that he looked a little unsteady (“Seriously, Your Highness, did the performance take that much out of you?”). His mouth is dry as the ground in Ailell by the fourth bite and stinging from the salt, so he washes it down with another cup of punch. He can’t taste any of it, but the ice from the punch is cool and pleasant on his tongue. 

More concerning than his salt-dry mouth, however, is the fact that Sylvian has not left him alone for a single moment since the competition. A fair share of girls have approached them both since – to both their discomforts, Dimitri had noticed with surprise – but Sylvain had turned each and every one of them away, whether they were courting him or not.

“You know you don’t… You do not have to refuse dances on my behalf, Sylvain,” Dimitri says when his friend waves off the third potential suitress of the night. “I am perfectly capable of…” 

Sylvain cuts him off with a laugh. “Come on, really? Not to disrespect you, of course, Your Highness, but you hate saying no. Having to refuse these poor girls would break your heart more than it would theirs.” 

Dimitri’s face heats. He can’t exactly deny the accusation. “Even so…”

“Besides,” Sylvain continues, saving him from having to make up an excuse, “I can see it in your face that you’re not really interested in dancing with any girls tonight.” 

And again, to Dimitri’s dismay, he’s right. He’s had more than his fair share of dancing already – not just for the night, but perhaps for the entire year to come. He smiles sheepishly and takes another drink, just so he doesn’t have to answer, and Sylvain chuckles at his expense. But it’s then, as he lowers the cup from his lips, that he realizes something. 

“But what about you?” Dimitri asks. Sylvain blinks. 

“What about me?” 

“You’ve been refusing dances all night, too.” Dimitri frowns. “Are you tired as well?” 

Sylvain hums. He shrugs, that easy smile on his face, and fixes his amber eyes on Dimitri. In this light, they almost seem to glimmer gold. “Oh, no, I think I’ve got another dance or two in me,” he says. Dimitri doesn’t like the sharp, wolflike grin that peels across his lips, nor the way he holds out his hand in offering. “If you would do me the honours…?”

Dimitri nearly chokes on his punch. He manages to swallow it down, though, despite how it scratches and burns on the way down. “I – I’m sorry, Sylvain, but—” 

“Oh, man.” Sylvain takes the hand he’s held out and slaps it to his own forehead, his grin loosening into something mirthful. It’s much better look on him, even if his laughter comes, again, at Dimitri’s expense. “You should see the look on your face right now!” 

“Sylvain!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He doesn’t seem sorry at all. “I don’t mean to laugh. Actually, I’m kind of relieved. I was kidding about wanting to dance some more, you know. I think I’ve had my fill of girls for the night.” He winks. “Sometimes even I get tired from all the attention.” 

Dimitri nods. The table before him sways, and he puts a hand out to steady it. “Yes, I… I suppose… if we were to dance, that would…” 

He closes his mouth. It feels as though he’s going to be sick, all of a sudden, and not just because he’s uncomfortable with the idea of all eyes on him – him and Sylvain, dancing together in the middle of the ballroom, close enough to press together. The room lurches again, spinning beneath his feet, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from falling over in a heap.

“Hey, Your Highness?” Sylvain asks, putting a hand out on Dimitri’s shoulder, then on his forehead. “Hey – hey! Stay with me, Dimitri. Are you okay?” 

For some reason, the concern makes him laugh, and it comes out as a loose and tinkling giggle, the sound so silly from him it makes him laugh even harder. “You… you called me by my name,” he says, instead of answering the question. 

And at that, Sylvain’s pupils widen. Funny how Dimitri can see them so clearly in front of him when everything else is a blur. “I did, huh…?” 

He straightens up, then, curling an arm around Dimitri’s back and pulling him up along with him. “Sylvain…” 

“You really do look unwell, Your Highness,” Sylvain says, and there’s something deep and breathless in his voice that makes Dimitri’s stomach sink in a way that has nothing to do with this sudden bout of vertigo. “Here, let me take you back to your room.”

Dimitri closes his eyes and lets out a breath of relief. “Yes,” he says, because it’s the best idea he thinks he’s heard since the start of this wretched month. “Thank you, Sylvain. That sounds… nice.” 

Sylvain leads Dimitri up the stairs carefully, taking them one at a time, and guides him along the hallway towards his dorm. Usually Dimitri likes the walk, because the few more steps he has to take to get to his room at the end of the hall means he can get just that little bit more exercise in before another sleepless night. Tonight, though, he hates it; he wants nothing more than to be in his own room, in the dark, away from bright lights and piercing eyes and music he does not want to dance to. 

But Sylvain does not take him to his room. He walks right past it, as though he’s forgotten where it is. 

“Sylvain,” Dimitri says, once they’re a step past his door. “Sylvain, we passed…”

“I know,” Sylvain says. He doesn’t look at Dimitri. He takes a key out of his pocket instead, and drags Dimitri the last few steps to the entrance of his own dorm room.

“Sylvain—” 

“I want to keep an eye on you,” he says, inserting the key into his door and twisting it until it opens. “Best way to do that is to have you sleep here tonight.” 

“I’m… ‘M fine, Sylvain, really…”

“No, you’re not.” Sylvain drags him into his bedroom and closes the door behind him. Dimitri staggers a little, and puts his hands out to steady himself against the nearby desk chair. He takes a deep breath, not looking at Sylvain, and hears the click of a lock.

“Really, Dimitri,” Sylvain says, coming up close behind him. He traces fingertips over his spine, highlighting how sticky his back still is. “You’re looking a little… hot.”

Dimitri swallows. “Wh-what?” 

“Feverish, I mean,” Sylvain clarifies. He smiles, forced, in the edges of Dimitri’s vision. “Your face is all red. Actually, it’s kind of cute.” 

He presses a palm to the base of Dimitri’s neck and squeezes. Dimitri swallows down a sudden surge in his throat. “Sylvain…” 

“Relax, Dimitri,” he says, expressionless. “I’m joking.”

Dimitri takes a breath. He closes his eyes, trying to will the room to stop spinning – and when he opens them, he straightens up. “Then why…” he starts, looking directly at Sylvain. “Why did you lock the door?”

And just like that, all pretense melts away. Sylvain’s face splits open in a wide, fanged smile, and he pulls Dimitri to him, spinning the two of them around until Dimitri’s back is to the door and Sylvain can slam him up against it. He hits it hard enough to nearly knock the breath from him, and in the time it takes him to reorient himself, Sylvain, still smiling, forces their mouths together and steals Dimitri’s breath in a brutal, claiming kiss.

Dimitri gasps, trying to force air into his lungs. He has to. He can’t breathe at all. But Sylvain takes that opportunity, driving his tongue into his mouth and forcing it towards the back of his throat. It reminds Dimitri, somehow, of a time when he was a child and had fallen backwards into a river. He had tried to breathe in too soon after going under, and hadn’t broken the surface yet; and though he hadn’t drowned – hadn’t even come close to it – he had coughed and coughed when he did come up, and his throat had burned for hours after. 

He tries to push Sylvain off himself, to break free of the surface of that river, but he can’t. He’s dizzy and disoriented, and the lack of breath is making it even harder to move. He tries to bite Sylvain instead, tries to force his tongue out of his mouth by pushing his own against it, but he only succeeds in making Sylvain push back harder. 

And then, all of a sudden, Sylvain pulls away. Their mouths break apart, a harsh, rasping laugh dampening the space between them, and the hands forcing him against the wall lighten just a fraction. 

“Sorry,” Sylvain says, licking the corner of his mouth. Dimitri cannot tell if he is trying to lick up a stray trail of saliva, or if he is simply savouring the kiss. “I just couldn’t help myself. You look so good in that outfit, you know?” 

Dimitri’s face heats. No, his entire body does. He can feel the flush spreading over him. It doesn’t help him form words at all. If anything, it makes it harder. He opens his mouth, though, trying to stutter out a rebuttal, a rejection – but nothing comes out, and Sylvain fills the silence with another kiss. 

He’s gentler this time, slower, working his way up to slipping his tongue between Dimitri’s lips and licking at his teeth. It doesn’t make it any better. Dimitri tries to protest, tries to pull away far enough to tell Sylvain to stop, but it comes out as nothing but a formless sound in his throat. 

“Ohh,” Sylvain sighs, breaking the kiss and shuddering against Dimitri’s body. “Oh, that was good. See, Dimitri? I knew you liked it too.”

His grins softens, but there’s still that smug edge to it, that sense that Sylvain is toying with him. A wolf with his prey, a fox outwitting a predator. He slides his hands from Dimitri’s shoulders to his front, palms flush to his chest. Sylvain traces over every curve and ridge of it, squeezing Dimitri’s pectorals and working his way back up to dig his nails into his collarbones though his shirt. He licks his lips, a hum rolling in his throat, and his eyes trail down, following the path of his hands as they crawl back toward his waist. 

“You know, Your Highness,” he starts, his voice so deep, so low that Dimitri almost doesn’t hear him (and still, he wishes it was lower, that it wasn’t present at all). “I could barely contain myself when I saw you in this outfit. You just looked so… unlike yourself.” His eyes burn; his hands seize Dimitri by the waist. “You’re always so prim-and-proper, so covered up. Like you’ve got something you’re trying to hide.” 

His nails dig in. And then, suddenly, Sylvain pulls Dimitri forward, so forcefully and so quickly that Dimitri nearly falls from the inertia of it. He goes limp in Sylvain’s arms, not by any choice of his own, and Sylvain turns him around, pressing a palm between his shoulder blades and shoving him roughly forward. It’s all Dimitri can do to catch himself on the wall, hands pressed firmly against it – and even then, he’s still nearly bent in half, with Sylvain’s chest up against his back and his hips – oh, goddess, he’s hard, Sylvain is so hard – pressed to the curve of his rear.

He doesn’t turn around. He closes his eyes and sucks a breath in through his teeth, shuddering when he feels Sylvain’s lips caress behind the jut of his jawline. “You want to know the real reason I kept turning girls away from you?” he asks. His teeth are sharp on Dimitri’s ear, his breath unfathomably hot. “It’s because I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else getting to touch you.” 

He smiles. Dimitri’s hands curl against the wall, nearly scratching lines into it. “Sylvain,” he starts, lowering his own voice to an unintentional growl. “What did you do to me?” 

“Who, me?” Sylvain pulls back, just a bit, with a laugh. Not far enough to free Dimitri, but enough that he’s no longer pressing up against his back. “I didn’t do a thing. Claude was the one who spiked the punch.” 

Dimitri clicks his tongue. “Don’t try to…” put this all on him, he tries to say; it wasn’t Claude who kept offering him a new glass of punch before he’d even finished the one in his hands. But Sylvain cuts him off with a thrust of his hips, forcing Dimitri to lurch forward and nearly spill the alcohol-laden contents of his stomach on the floor.

“Shh. Just relax, Your Highness. You’re drunk.” Another laugh behind him, and the hand at his shoulders slides down his back, to slip beneath the flap of his robe. “And no wonder. You really went at it. I thought for sure you’d have figured me out by the third glass – Claude wasn’t exactly subtle with the flavour.”

Dimitri grits his teeth. He wants to say something, anything – to accuse Sylvain of taking advantage of him, to ask him what sort of friend would do this – but any words he might have formed are cut off when the hand under his robe picks at the hem of his shorts and tugs it up, over one leg, to expose Dimitri’s rear.

“No,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. He tries to suppress a shudder as he feels Sylvain’s fingers trace up the curve of his rear from beneath, but can’t. 

And then that hand is gone, and there’s a shuffling sound behind him. Dimitri doesn’t dare to look. He doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to – his body feels frozen, all of a sudden, rooted to the spot and anchored by his hands on the wall and feet on the floor. Even the sound of a cork unstopping doesn’t prompt any movement; the only thing that does the sensation of a cool, slick finger pressing to his rim. 

“No,” he repeats, louder this time. “Sylvain, stop—” 

“Sorry, Your Highness,” Sylvain says. “I said I’d keep an eye on you, remember? And you’re way too drunk to know what you want right now.” 

He presses his finger in. A high-pitched, strangled noise tangles and twists in Dimitri’s throat and he shifts forward, trying to get away from the intrusion – but Sylvain grabs him by the thigh and pulls him back. “I told you to relax,” he says, pushing his finger in deeper. “It’ll feel much better if you do. Trust me.” 

But he can’t relax. Dimitri doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to relax again. His body no longer feels pleasantly loose, as it had after the competition; it feels tight and heavy, like his limbs are working at half their usual speed. He wants, so badly, to fight back.

But he doesn’t trust himself to try. 

Another finger slides in. The two of them move together in sync, pushing in and out of Dimitri slowly at first, and then faster. Strangely, and with some distance between himself and the thought, Dimitri realizes that it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t quite feel good either, though; it is simply strange. 

He hangs his head, a breath escaping him as he closes his eyes and tries to adjust to the fingers thrusting in and out of him. He can hear Sylvain hum behind him, and he imagines a soft, amused smile that doesn’t make him feel any better at all.

“There, just like that,” Sylvain breathes. “I’m going to make it so good for you, Dimitri, I promise.” 

Dimitri says nothing. He simply waits. Sylvain takes it as a sign of assent, and then gradually, after spreading his fingers apart inside him, adds another digit. It doesn’t feel like anything. Dimitri almost doesn’t notice it. All he notices is the way Sylvain’s hand moves, slowly stretching him open, second after second and then minute after minute, until he finally pulls away and leaves Dimitri empty. 

“Are you satisfied?” Dimitri asks dully. He doesn’t know why. He already knows the answer. 

“Oh, almost,” Sylvain says. “But I want it to feel good for me too. You understand, of course.” 

He backs away, and again, the sound of shuffling clothes reaches Dimitri’s ears. When he returns, there is no barrier of fabric separating their thighs, no hint of the dress pants Sylvain had worn to the ball. He can feel the brush of something hot against his rim, and he braces himself for it to press inside. 

It doesn’t, though. Sylvain pauses, humming to himself, and grabs a handful of Dimitri’s ass to spread his cheeks apart. “I changed my mind,” he says, and Dimitri’s breath catches, hope sparking unbidden in his chest. 

“Sylvain…?” 

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to fuck you,” Sylvain answers. “But as good as you look in this outfit, and as tempting as it would be to fuck you in it…" Sylvain smirks; Dimitri can hear it in his voice, and when he turns to look at him over his shoulder, he sees it, clear as he had imagined: lips peeled up at one corner, teeth peeking through. "I've always dreamed about seeing you with nothing on."

He slips the sash of Dimitri’s robe from his shoulder. The end of it falls to the floor, crumpling in on itself. It's still cinched around his waist, but Sylvain doesn't seem to mind; he slides his hands under Dimitri's loose shirt instead, coaxing it up over his abs and letting the palms of his hands dance over the newly-revealed skin. He sighs in something like reverence, and then he pulls Dimitri from the wall, one hand hooked around his chest, so he can tug the offending garment up over his head and toss it aside. 

The belt comes next, and the rest of the blue part of his robe with it; both garments pool on the floor at Dimitri's feet, and then Sylvain tugs at his shorts. He opens his mouth to protest, but all that comes out is another weak, broken whine. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, too loose and out of his control to form any proper words. 

"Hey, it's okay, Your Highness," Sylvain says as he exposes Dimitri's rear. "I promised I'd make it good for you, remember?" And then, once the shorts are off, he leans in close, bending over to press his chest to Dimitri's back and drag his teeth over the shell of his ear. "After all, what are friends for?" 

He takes Dimitri by the hand. Slowly, Sylvain steps back. He pulls Dimitri along with him, leading him towards the bed, smiling the entire way. Dimitri is very nearly helpless to resist him; he still has half the mind to, though, even despite the fact that he can feel his his body will not cooperate. And then, with a dull, muted sense of horror, he realizes that he’s hard, too – and because he is, he knows that if he tries to protest any of this, Sylvain will just use it against him. And perhaps that imaginary argument is right; surely, if he wasn’t enjoying this, his body would not be so excited. 

And it is excited. That, too, Dimitri realizes slowly. The way his blood burns in him now is the same way it does before a fight, when he knows he’ll be able to vent his anger and his hatred and his rage and tear an enemy apart. It’s something he doesn’t like about himself, and something he tells himself that he shouldn’t like, though he knows that deep down a part of him relishes in that violence.

Perhaps that part of him will enjoy this, too. 

He lets Sylvain lay him on his back. Sylvain grins and climbs onto the mattress after him, spreading Dimitri’s legs with hands on his knees and crawling between them. He shuffles up close, reaching down to grip the base of his own cock, and slowly, torturously slowly, presses it back to Dimitri’s rim. 

“Remember to relax,” he says, and buries himself inside.

Dimitri grunts as the head of Sylvain’s cock presses up against his inner walls. Just like his fingers before, at first, it feels… strange. Strange to be opened up like this, to be stretched out on a part of another human being. But again, it doesn’t feel bad – and unlike with Sylvain’s fingers, this is… almost pleasant, because he can almost feel it burn.

And by the time Sylvain bottoms out inside him and begins to move, it’s almost begun to feel good. 

“Oh, Dimitri,” Sylvain breathes, leaning down to hover over him and brush their lips together. “You feel so…” 

He doesn’t finish the thought. He kisses Dimitri instead, moaning into his mouth and coaxing his lips apart with his tongue. Dimitri doesn’t kiss him back, not quite, but he’s learned the motions by now: a slide of the tongue, a caress of it over teeth, a press of lips to follow Sylvain parting them further. It seems to satisfy Sylvain enough to break away to breathe, and he rolls his hips forward, thrusting as deep into Dimitri he can go. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Sylvain says. And when Dimitri looks up into his eyes, they are shining with something like joy. 

He looks beautiful like this. He appears, in the moment, to be every bit as charming as all the girls say he is, and as handsome as he’s always claimed to be.

Dimitri blinks. He'd never really thought of Sylvain as handsome before. He'd known it to be true, objectively, in the same way he knew that he himself was handsome: it was something people said about him, rather than anything he felt some specific way about. But now, with Sylvain hovering over him like this, smiling without that hint of anger behind his gaze, he thinks he can believe it. Of course Sylvain is handsome. If he wasn't, none of those women would ever flock to him, Crest or no. If he wasn't handsome, Dimitri wouldn't be here right now, underneath him, surrounded by him inside and out. 

"Sylvain," he breathes, though he doesn't know what he wants to say. Maybe it's a good thing that Sylvain leans down and kisses the words he doesn't have from his mouth. 

The world swims after that. The bed lurches beneath him like waves thrashing against a boat, and Sylvain swims in and out of clarity with every movement he makes. His hair is almost like a beacon, like a lighthouse in a storm, and Dimitri reaches for it, clinging to it with hands and eyes both as a means to steady himself. He hears – feels – Sylvain moan against him, the vibrations in his throat rumbling against Dimitri's neck and seeping into his skin. He shivers and exhales a ragged breath, trying to clear his lungs – and then he gasps, sharp and choked-off and ragged, trying to fill them again when Sylvain thrusts in sharply. 

And then, all of a sudden, the tempest wanes, ebbing into something gentler, more pleasurable. It starts to feel good in a way Dimitri had never once been able to fathom, and his laboured breaths slowly melt into quiet moans and long, drawn-out sighs to reflect it. 

"That's it," Sylvain whispers, lips trailing from neck to ear, "I told you I'd make it good for you, didn’t I? Just relax, Your Highness. Keep yourself nice and loose and open for me."

He rolls his hips. His cock pushes into Dimitri and recedes, the movements rhythmic, almost gentle. It’s hard to tell if it’s because Sylvain is tired, or if it’s because his sense of urgency has simply dissipated. Dimitri does not know what it is, but he does not quite have the presence of mind to question it. He thinks he likes it, regardless. He is pleasantly warm, and the dizziness has faded, leaving only a pleasant sort of haze behind to linger in the corners of his consciousness. He hums, the sound growing into a moan, when the head of Sylvain’s cock tugs against his rim without quite pulling out, and he closes his eyes, smiling on a sigh as he is rocked soothingly back against the bed.

His hands begin to loosen in Sylvain’s hair, not of their own accord, but rather because he does not think he can hold on any longer. Another sigh escapes Dimitri, and he feels lips press against his own. He tries, so hard, to open his eyes, to verify that Sylvain is indeed kissing him, if that tongue sliding against the roof of his mouth is not just his imagination, but he can’t. He can’t kiss back, either. His body feels out of his control again, his lips numb, his limbs heavy and weak…

“Hey.” 

Sylvain pulls away. Dimitri does open his eyes a crack, then, simply out of surprise, but they widen further when he feels the sharp, stinging impact of a palm against his cheek.

“Sylv—”

“Eyes on me, Your Highness.” 

Dimitri turns his head – Sylvain had hit him hard enough to force it to move to the side – and he obeys the command without thinking, his eyes still wide and face still stricken with shock. He opens his mouth, but can't find any words; this time, Sylvain does not kiss them away before they can form, but cuts them off at the head with a laugh. 

“I can’t believe you’d be so rude, Your Highness!” Sylvain says. He’s smiling, but it looks unreal on him, devoid of joy. Like a beast had donned his skin and was trying to learn how to behave like a man. He laughs again, though, and leans in close, almost kissing Dimitri with his teeth as he whispers against his lips, “If you’re not going to remember any of this tomorrow, then at least have the decency to look at me now.” 

He pulls back, and Dimitri looks. He stares up at Sylvain, even as he clamps a hand around his neck, edges of his fingers pressing up beneath his jaw. He doesn’t press hard enough to choke, but there’s still a sense of threat behind the hold, the slightest bit of pressure to make it difficult for Dimitri to breathe. He reaches up instinctively, arm still heavy, and curls his fingers around Sylvain’s wrist; but Sylvain merely laughs him off, and rears back to thrust in harder. 

No more words are spoken after that. There is no more attempt at gentility, either. Sylvain fucks Dimitri ruthlessly, using him as nothing more than a toy. He chases his own pleasure, though he is at least mindful enough to keep his earlier promise: he wraps his other hand around Dimitri’s cock and strokes, every shift of fingers bringing with them another wave of ill-begotten ecstasy. 

And then it becomes too much. Dimitri’s moans grow louder, turn into rough, uncontrollable cries that Sylvain silences with his mouth. He grunts and groans into him instead, body moving on its own to seek more of that wonderful, rhythmic pressure, both in and around his body. Sylvain obliges him, thrusting in so hard it stings when skin meets skin, and with one last catch of teeth against his lips Dimitri convulses around him. His body rolls with brilliant, undulating pleasure, his throat erupts in a cry, and his cock pulses and throbs between his legs. He feels something hot and wet and sticky splash between himself and Sylvain, staining their bodies and smearing between them.

Dimitri thinks to pull away from the kiss, to see what it is that’s happened – though somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows – but Sylvain beats him to it, as if reading the thought before it’s formed. 

He lifts himself away from Dimitri, staring down at him with something like reverence. Sweat glistens on his forehead and at his temples, dampening his fiery hair and matting it to his skin, and his face is such a strangely splotchy red – but even so, Dimitri again finds himself thinking Sylvain is handsome, even for how wild he appears right now. 

“Fuck,” Sylvain breathes, gazing down at Dimitri’s chest and stomach. His eyes burn as they rove over his body, drinking in the details; his hand lowers from Dimitri’s neck to trail through the mess he’d left behind. His fingers hardly make it more than an inch, though, before Sylvain’s body seizes, too, and he curls in on himself, hurriedly pulling out and positioning himself to hover above Dimitri. 

“Fuck, Dimitri – fuck!” he hisses through gritted teeth, reaching down to his own cock and stroking it wildly as it twitches in his hand. Thick, white ropes of fluid burst out from the tip, covering Dimitri’s chest and adding to what’s already there. He looks down at himself as it happens, and then back up at Sylvain, watching as his eyebrows pinch and waver, and then as they relax and a deep, gutturally satisfied sigh escapes through his parted lips. 

“Fuck,” he says again, opening his eyes. They’re softer, now, pupils dilated enough to nearly swallow the flashing amber-gold they had been before.

Sylvain falls to his knees, and then rolls onto his side to lie next to Dimitri, hand still smearing through the mess on his front. 

It takes him a moment to compose himself, to do anything but run his hand up and down Dimitri’s body. Dimitri can’t blame him; he himself doesn’t feel like moving anymore. He thinks he could, if he wanted to, but the thought of simply lying here and letting sleep try to overtake him sounds infinitely more appealing. If only it would. 

But at last, Sylvain moves. He sits up, hand remaining where it is, and smiles down at Dimitri. “You look beautiful with my cum all over you like that,” he whispers. Dimitri does not respond; he merely turns his head to take in the fondness of Sylvain’s expression. Like this, it’s hard to believe he had just done what he did. It’s hard to believe he could be so selfish, so demanding, so desperate to have what he could not obtain on his own. 

Dimitri closes his eyes. He hears Sylvain laugh, and then feels a hand in his hair. It’s sticky. “Yeah, good call,” Sylvain says. “You must be tired after all that.” 

“I am,” Dimitri says, his voice tapering off into a murmur. Sylvain pulls the sheets up over him, then lies down once again, pulling their bodies together. 

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s okay. You can sleep now, Your Highness. I’ll take good care of you, okay?” He presses his nose to Dimitri’s neck, and Dimitri thinks he can feel him smile. “When you wake up tomorrow, we’ll go to the baths and I’ll clean you up. Then we can go for breakfast together, okay? I’ll take you on a proper date. And—” His smile bares teeth. “—if you feel like it, maybe we can even go again.”

He closes his eyes. Dimitri feels his lashes against his neck. He waits for Sylvain’s breathing to slow down and even out, and though it takes what feels like hours, it finally does, and Sylvain falls asleep.

And then, for the first time that night, Dimitri laughs. 

“If you treat all your girlfriends like this,” Dimitri murmurs to himself, “then I can see why they keep coming back for more.”