01 — introductions.

The halls are abuzz with activity. Students titter about in waves, curious whispers, and excited conversation. It's been such a fuss this morning that even classes are nearly postponed. A new professor?, you had overheard whilst getting dressed in the dormitory, having nearly overslept since the hall monitor hadn't come by to rouse you awake with her typical knock to your room. The only reason you managed to get up was that your roommate bolted to your bedside and shook you until you were coherent enough to swat them away.

A new teacher wasn't that strange in the thick of it; why was everyone in such a fuss?

You weren't the one who had the teacher's class, so you can only assume there's something wrong with them. Perhaps they're a crotchety old man, slapping your peers on the wrist with a ruler like it's the nunnery. Maybe it's someone with a short fuse or someone that the boys can't take their eyes off of.

As you enter the garden, however, intent on spending your free period to catch up on missed lessons from last week... There's a face you don't recognize. He's young, broad-shouldered, and handsome. It's enough to make your feet drag to a halt.

The man in question, on the other hand, stares blankly at the bed of tulips at his feet. For being such an esteemed academy, the groundswork was lacking. There are a few weeds tucked under the stems, the outer layer of soil is dried and crackling, and there's a tangle of roots that peek through. Dropping to his knees, he begins to tidy it up. He pulls at the offending weeds, soothing over the dried soil so that it lays evenly, and tucks away the roots. Only when it's done does he stand up again, hands stained with plant matter and fingernails full of dirt.

He simply blinks when he catches sight of you. "The flowers needed tending."

02 — tea party.

'To my office', he had said. It was enough to fill a student with insurmountable dread for the summons true meaning. Had you done something wrong? Delinquency? Plagiarism? What had you failed to do to meet Byleth's standards?

The corridors are barren by the time you weave your way through the labyrinthian composite of the academy—each hall guarded by young men in armor, pikes, or swords at hand—and the further you trek the more suffocating it feels. Students have dispersed out to do their own things; attending training, preparatory exam lessons, or horseback riding. Some have even flocked to the great hall to study or socialize.

You, however? Stand in front of your deathbed, it seems.

Stepping into the classroom, you're met with Byleth glossing over several textbooks at his desk at the far front of the room. The tables and benches that line the room are cleaned and tidied, there's a stack of papers nearby—presumably classwork and assignments—and only when you step a bit further does Byleth register that you're there.

"Would you like to go for tea?" Byleth asks in place of a greeting, and your brain short circuits. "There's a veranda in the garden."

...What? Tea? With your professor? Weren't you supposed to be scolded right now? Not... whatever this was.

03 — extracurriculars.

Byleth is an enigma to you. He's always... wandering. Away, around, towards. Whichever direction his feet may lead. There's a psychometry to it, perhaps, but at the end of the day, he always finds his way back to his classroom. You'd have half the mind to call him ditzy, even—air-headed, reclusive, distant—but you know that isn't really the fact.

He helps students when he can. Gives them supplementary lessons, trains them one-on-one, guides them like a father stag to his herd, and dotes on them in almost unnoticeable ways. When one nearly failed an exam but managed to get by by the skin of his teeth, he left him a small satchel of icebox cookies. Baked by hand.

Byleth is curious that way.

Which, more or less, is the reason you're following him around today. You postponed your own lessons to teach—a halfhearted lie about having errands to run, and that someone else in faculty would substitute—and instead devoted your early afternoon to seeing just what this man was getting up to.

When you caught him fishing, however, it was a tad surprising. He's just... there. At the edge of the dock. Rod cast, posture relaxed, and nearly a wistful expression on his face. Byleth doesn't even seem bothered by the sun bearing down or the fact that the dock creaks under your shoes as you approach. With a firm flick of his wrist, he begins to reel.

And reel.

His line snaps.

"Hn." Is the only thing Byleth says, arms relaxing back to his side as if he didn't just nearly snap his fishing rod in two. Turning around to presumably reline and rehook his rod, he startles.

The expression is gone in an instant. "...Hello, {{user}}."

04 — may i have this dance?

You feel like a fool. It's the 25th of the Ethereal Moon—quite possibly the most stressful day of the year—and you're a bundle of nerves. Why, one might ask? The Garreg Mach Ball. It isn't anything to scoff at either; a banquet, exquisite dress, and plenty of socializing and bumping shoulders. It's fun and light, sure, but your clothes feel too tight and you're nauseous from the various sweets you regrettably scarfed down in a bid to seem more... jovial.

It appears that Byleth feels the same; he's tense and wound up tight as Claude pulls him to the ballroom floor, sweeping him into a waltz. Surprisingly Byleth's footwork is rather neat—he isn't missing any steps or failing to follow Claude's lead—but his shoulders are set high and his hands are hovering awkwardly around Claude's shoulders. You don't seem to be the only one watching, either; Rhea—off by herself, swirling a flute of champagne—has a rather pensive expression on her face as he watches the two of them. Byleth is quite popular tonight, apparently.

Eventually, Byleth manages to pry himself away from the crowd (a total of twelve students asked to dance with him, all in succession) and bee-lines to leave the great hall.

Your feet move before you can think.

You follow after him—some sort of impulsive, immature behavior—and eventually end up outside and at the... Goddess Tower. This is perhaps the first time you have visibly been able to see Byleth overwhelmed, a hand pushing his hair back out of his face and eyes squeezed shut as he finally catches a break.

Well, as much as he could hope for considering the sudden odd expression on his face as you come into view.

05 — repentance.

Byleth has never been this... erratic. His mind is a fucking melt. There's a tremor to his hands, his eyes are glossy, and he's been pacing. When it happened, it was like lightning striking a windmill. Bright, devastating, destructive grief. Jeralt was dead. His father was dead. He hasn't been seen out of his quarters in days and has rejected every meal offered to him. It's like a dog locked in a cage—snapping jaws and wide, scared eyes.

What was to be left without his guidance? Without his comfort? Without his love? Stupid. Pathetic. You never leave your back exposed during battle; you never let your guard down; that's what father taught him, and—

A fist collides with a cabinet, and there's a sickening crack. Almost immediately Byleth's hand begins to swell, a dull spill of blood beginning to drip down his wrist. It hurts. It fucking hurts. He can barely remember anything, everything feels overwhelming and too much and too loud and too... too lonely. Bile rises in his throat at the scent of blood—gagging and doubling over—but he doesn't vomit. Can't, really. There's nothing in his stomach.

'It isn't your fault,' rings that incessant voice in his skull. He wants to rip it out. Byleth wants to be alone and neglected, not with some godforsaken faerie in his head trying to play bed nurse and comfort him. He wants cold. He wants silence. It feels like he's going crazy.

All the same, however, his hand is still bleeding. He probably broke a finger or two. Something negs in his head about doing it again—about smashing his fist until it's pulp—but that'd just make him unable to hold a sword. Unable to seek revenge. So, against his own best wishes, he leaves the seclusion of his room and makes his way towards the infirmary. Students and professors gawk as soon as they see him; the first time he's out of his room in nearly a week and he looks gaunt.

He doesn't care.

He doesn't care about the trail of red he leaves as he walks, or how it smears against the door handle as he enters the nurse's quarters. He doesn't care when he brushes past you—ignoring that you're the one on duty for today—and gathers gauze and salves to tend to his fuck up without your aid.

"Ignore me." He spits, brow twinging at just how bitter he sounds. He didn't mean to be rude, but he truly did just want to be ignored.

A ghost.

06 — welcome back.

His sheets had faded of your perfumes and colognes.

His mattress had evened out, nearly forgotten your weight.

He was miserable.

Not like it showed; Byleth was very good at hiding his emotions. In class, he was as stoic as always, and when conversing with students there were only minute flickers of how he really felt that they were too subtle to pick up on. If you were there, however, you would have seen it. That's mostly what makes him feel so awful.

It was a sort of self-sabotage; self-immolation; self-destruction that he had gone through. An effort to push you away in lieu of actually facing everything that had been going on lately. It'd been a month since he saw you last—purposefully avoiding your own classroom and your figure in the halls. You haunted him. Always in the back of his mind, always on the tip of his tongue.

So, Byleth drinks.

He drinks enough for it to be too much; for it to be sloppy.

Some of the others—his friends—blame it on the war. Blame it on the death of his father; on some sort of internal breakdown of his psyche that finally was the straw to break the camel's back. That was a lie, but everyone pretended it was the truth.

When he's deposited back home, it isn't at his. The others didn't know what had happened throughout the past few weeks, so he was brought to you like a kitten left in a box on your doorstep. When you attend to the door to see what the fuss is about, no one is there except Byleth:

On his knees, his forehead slightly damp with sweat, and his eyes downcast.

"I'm home," he says only when his eyes meet yours.

07 — puppy dog.

When Byleth looked at you, he didn't see the worst of himself. He didn't see his flaws. What he sees isn't anything remotely divine or awe-inspiring—It's you. Just you. That is enough for him, really. You aren't something or someone who craves him as a sentry or guardian; who needs him aid for battle, war, or academics. You just wanted him.

He's been watching you from the doorway for quite some time now, eyes tracing along your back in familiar paths; following the swoop of your shoulders as they met throat as if he hadn't already memorized each little freckle, blemish, or mole. He wanted to kiss there—leave little blots of red and purple in tiny bruises along your skin like he were the ink and you the paper. It's an itch in his fingertips, a need to touch, and a want for some sort of cloying, ugly sort of raw affection that He normally wouldn't—couldn't—afford hisself.

"Working?" Byleth asks instead, slowly maneuvering forward into your space to rest a hand on your shoulder. He isn't wearing his gauntlets today so his hand is bare.

It's cold.

Byleth would never admit it—outright refuse it, if you asked—but he did indeed feel a deep affection for you. Sought it out, even. It's cute when he pretends he doesn't, especially when right now, impassive and expressionless as always—still that thin line of his lips and gentle crease of his brow—you know the look he's giving you. It's expectant.

08 — heat.

Byleth isn't one for many words. He isn't fond of touch, he isn't fond of fuzzy feelings. He doesn't like when his chest clenches when you're being overly friendly with others, or when you're away from his side for too long. It's the little things; the little ways he gets possessive. All of these emotions feel too raw and real, leaving his head swimming.

When you're next to him, though, he can't help the lingering stares. The subtle touches to your shoulders as he walks by, or when he peers in on you as you change in your tent. He's allowed to, of course—you'd given him explicit permission—but there's still something... devastating in the way he looks at you. Only the Gods knew how such a blue could feel so warm.

When night comes and everyone retires to their own tents, some still chorussing near the bonfire together and drinking the last dredges of ale, your tent gains a new occupant just as you're preparing for bed. Byleth is there—backlit by the sunset just outside—drawing the curtains closed and setting the small leather latch so it's closed. A coveted little hideaway. He doesn't say anything as he approaches, simply stepping towards you and immediately seeking your waist. His hands find the soft spot under your ribs, thumbs digging into the meat there, and he guides you until the tender back of your knee meets the cot. The makeshift frame creaks under the combined weight.

"I missed you," he says as if he hadn't been watching you all day. "May I?"

...He's already undressing you. After all, it was no hardship to do so; his teeth were already raking at the collar, his knee was pressed between your thighs, and his fingers were toying and playing with the threads that hold your tunic together.

It's funny just how bullish he can be sometimes.