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scorchieart · 1 year

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Home Sweet Homesick | AO3

Characters: Clavis Lelouch, Chevalier Michel

Genre: Angst, Comfort.

Summary: Two brothers. One month. The final autumn before Bloodstained Rose Day.

Word Count: 5.8k (grab a mug of your preferred warm beverage, friends)

A/N: It has come to my attention that I have never written a fic with these two interacting. Yes, I am shocked, too. This is a franken-fall-fic for the following challenges, many warm hugs to the awesome writers who set them up!

Prompts:

Getting warm in their sweater - Cozytober hosted by @randonauticrap

"Your hands are cold." - Pumpkins & Fireplaces 2022 hosted by @chaosangel767

Treats - Fall Fluff & Autumn Angst CCC hosted by @aquagirl1978 & @violettduchess

Warnings: Mentions of death, grief, mild descriptions of injuries and pain (no blood), mild Clavis route spoilers.

“Recent activity west constitutes a growing concern, however full-blown mobilization of troops would be premature at this juncture—”

“Yaaaawn!”

“—No significant changes to report. Although such an extended pause may suggest possibility of attack—”

“Sn-ore!”

“—Our swiftest horse and rider are prepared to head out on-call with detailed instructions, should any perturbing developments arise—”

“Some perturbing development better arise in the next five seconds before I die of boredom!”

Tent flaps crack as a sharp gust bursts in unannounced, causing the stacks of paper and envelopes piled on top of our makeshift oakwood desk to flutter longingly underneath the stones I arrested them with. Three of the four candles illuminating my side blow out instantly, but the last one manages to hold on to its wicker as the mini tempest fades out as quickly as it started. It flickers feebly before bouncing back to its previous height, as though the wind was but a slight inconvenience.

I want nothing more than to grab that candlestick and plunge it straight into the desk.

But I don’t do that. I straighten my back, brush the windswept hair out of my face, and assess the damage. Luckily I had the foresight to restopper the ink bottle, because it was rolling halfway across the table by the time I spotted it. I manage to snatch it and my quill before they tumble over the edge and lay them atop the slightly wrinkled letter I was penning. Oh well, wrinkled doesn’t mean illegible, and I would know that better than anyone. Besides, the thing will get folded and stuffed into an envelope anyway. What’s one more crease in its cap?

I lightly tap the last word I wrote and lift my finger. No stains. Amazing how some good came from that nimble nimbus, considering all the damage its friends did to our tent. A large dollop of water trickles through a rip in the top and drops onto my hair, a casual reminder of the rainstorm that bucketed our camp this afternoon. I shake my head and peek through the still-swaying tent flaps to the citadel stationed at the bottom of the hill.

Golden fireplaces and candelabras illuminate the dozens of windows scattered across the fortress walls. Up here they look like tiny fireflies waiting to be captured.

I would like to go down there and catch them.

But I am technically still on duty. Yes, being a scribe is a duty of mine, and one I take rather seriously, despite what some nosy naysaying ministers may claim. Despite the fact that I prefer to be buried beneath a stack of dry blankets than wet letters, next to one of those shimmering fireflies. Despite the fact that our shabby little tent is one gust away from flying off to oblivion.

I mean Obsidian.

Either? Both? Beyond?

I do not like our shabby little tent.

But it doesn’t matter what I like because Chevalier likes it. Or rather, he likes its location. High above the tallest hill, the perfect vantage point overlooking both Rhodolite and Obsidian’s movements. Close enough to the citadel to relay any new perturbing developments as soon as they occur. Far enough from the border to dispel any accusations of militaristic intent.

Were this hilltop not the size of my closet, I bet Chevalier would move here permanently.

I wish Chevalier would move here permanently.

“Though it would be ardent to begin preparations at present, for the tides may turn mere moments after this letter leaves our base—”

“Now hold on, I haven’t caught up yet!” I say, quickly picking up my quill again. Did he say “preparations for presents”? I didn’t realize we were throwing a party. Yves’s birthday was a few weeks ago, but he’s back at the castle.

This makes no sense. And “tummies may turn”? Jin would sooner swear off women than Chevalier utter the word tummy in any context. Though mine has been spinning in circles since we started nearly two hours ago. It is long past midnight now, and I’d really like to lie down. But if Chevalier isn’t tired, neither am I.

I’ll just write down my best guess.

Like the candle, Chevalier only paused for a moment then instantly resumed his blathering as soon as the wind ceased. It doesn’t surprise me, honestly. I’ve seen my brother cut his dinner with a steak knife, stab an assassin with said knife, and chew his brisket all in the same breath.

And people say I’m the batty one.

Keeping my head hanging low over the paper, I steal a peek at Chevalier at the other end of the tent. He twirls a red stone figurine of a soldier in his left hand as he studies the large map laid out on the table, his back towards me. Not even his hair looks disturbed by the wind, and for some reason that angers me more than his refusal to slow down enough for me to catch up.

“Stop that,” he snaps, plunking the red soldier on the map with a sharp thwack.

“Stop what? Writing for your lazy behind?” I say.

“That nettlesome tapping. It is disrupting my thoughts.”

I unconsciously halt tapping the quill. Now do you understand what a blessing it is that I am still sane, dear reader?

“Well, you’re disrupting my process with your ugly mug,” I say, resuming the tapping, louder this time. I wish I could see his face right now. His eye is probably twitching like it does when I interrupt his reading, and that always makes it worth the mental trudge it takes to see him.

I will not be rewarded for my efforts tonight, it seems.

“You’re welcome to pick up where I left off if my way bothers you so much,” I say.

Chevalier hums and reaches for another figurine from a box. This time he pulls out a black one.

“And what would you do then to occupy yourself?” he asks, flicking the tip of the soldier’s miniature sword with his finger. “Tap your quill? Twiddle your thumbs? Sleep? When you’ve hardly managed to catch a wink this past month?”

And whose fault is that? I want to say, but I force my lips into a tight grin instead. A gentleman does not complain when faced with adversity. He powers through with grace and dignity and an unyielding smile.

But my cheeks are seriously starting to bear the toll of weeks upon weeks of these fake smiles. And my eyes have long since run out of tears following all those late-night jumpscares whenever I do manage to fall asleep. And my limbs are screaming from the grueling daily training rounds from dawn to dusk. Even if the days are getting shorter, they’re getting colder as well.

And I haven’t told Chevalier this, but earlier today I sprained my wrist while sword training. It really isn’t that big of a deal, to be honest. I was only squeezing in some extra swings before training officially began because a nasty nightmare woke me up too soon again. I figured I’d practice on the ancient oak tree we secured our tent to, and maybe set up a scenario where I’d “accidentally” sever the ropes and let the thing collapse on top of snoozing Chevalier, but I ended up tripping over one of the massive roots in the dark and tumbling down the hill.

He just had to choose the tallest hill.

“You are thinking of something asinine again,” says Chevalier.

“Definitely not,” I say, turning back to the letter. He is very lucky I injured my illegible hand.

I stuff said hand into my pocket and slowly stretch my fingers one by one, starting from the thumb, but my index finger only makes it halfway up before I have to muffle a grunt from the pain. I masterfully mask it by coughing into the crook of my good arm.

Another thwack of a figure placement, and Chevalier is back to reciting his correspondence. If he is upset that I just coughed on his sweater, he doesn’t make an effort to show it.

Yes, this is Chevalier’s sweater I am wearing. My shirt is all in tatters now after a certain fall down a hill (that I cannot believe I am bringing up twice in the same sitting). And my backup shirt is currently hanging outside, still dripping with this afternoon’s downpour. Chevalier took one look at me after I returned from practice and tossed me the sweater before I could get even one foot in the tent.

How very considerate of him, forcing his exhausted and sopping younger brother to change outdoors after sunset in October so his precious maps and documents wouldn’t get drenched.

I think I’ll leave a great big sneeze in the collar next, just to show how much I appreciate his prospective.

But I’d end up inhaling more wool than medically recommended before Chevalier would ever bother to tell me to stop.

I’m actually still in shock to even be wearing it, to tell the truth. I figured it was buried at the bottom of his closet half-eaten by moths. It had been years since I’d last seen the thing, when his grandfather gave it to him at his mother’s funeral. One of those events I figured Chevalier deemed not worth remembering.

But I remember.

I remember the way Chevalier stood in front of her grave after they buried her, pale and stiff and dry-eyed, like a flawless stone figurine. I remember how the Lord Michel walked up beside him and almost put his hand on his shoulder, but pulled away at the last second when Chevalier turned to look at him. And I remember how he looked back. How he shakily drew the folded sweater from his other arm and trembled as he presented it to his grandson, a boy not half his size.

“She’d want you to keep warm,” he’d said. I remember how cold his words sounded that day.

I remember how cold my mother’s hand was, too.

“Ow!”

The quill clatters on the desk as I furiously rub at my temple. When I open my eyes, a black knight lays atop my letter, shimmering dully in the single candlelight.

“What was that for?” I growl.

“You misspelled ‘accommodate’.”

“What?” I push the knight aside and count the letters of the last word I wrote. Two c’s and one m stare back at me in glossy ebony ink. I glance back at Chevalier. His hand is rummaging through the box again, but his eyes never lift from the map.

I pick up the quill and start to squeeze a mini m by the first when a second figure bounces off my head.

“Stop that!” I yell.

“Start over.”

“No way, it’s just a tiny fix. And I was almost done!” I hold the nearly-filled page up to him, but he still refuses to look.

“Then you should have been more attentive.”

“Who cares? It’s just going to Leon.”

“With my signature.” He slams another figure on the map with finality.

But I’m not finished.

“You rewrite it then.”

No response.

My seat flies back as I stand, but my cheek is pressed against the dirt before it reaches the ground.

My wrists are trapped and suspended in the air, but this time I can’t hide my roars of pain. They’d be louder I’m sure, but the knee jabbing into my back limits the airflow into my lungs.

My vision spins. I bite the inside of my cheek and force myself to breathe deeply through my nose. Wet, molding tent mixed with the unwashed stench of two teenage boys who haven’t bathed in weeks burns my nostrils, but years of experience taught me this is the fastest way to calm my nerves in these situations. Years and years and years of experience. My head is still going fuzzy though, and I can’t tell if it’s from the pain or the exhaustion.

I pry my stinging eyes open and focus on the closest thing to me. The candlestick rolls a few inches away, the shape of my clenched fingers imprinted in the wax column, its flame still burning.

I must look positively feral, but no more feral than the beast pinning me down.

“I expected more,” says Chevalier.

His fingers dig under the sleeves and into my wrists as he yanks, pulling my face a few inches off the ground. I gasp like I’ve just resurfaced from a lake, and crane my neck as far back as I can to meet his piercing stare. He’s waiting for an explanation.

His palms are like ice, and my teeth chatter as I bite back the urge to scream.

“Your hands are c-cold.”

That’s it? One month of endless belittling, cold-shoulders, and sleeping outdoors. My fingers are brittle from writing dozens of letters. My elbows and knees bruised from constant repairs to this tent. My hand drips with searing wax from my latest failed payback attempt. And the best I can come up with is your hands are cold?

I expected more, too.

He stares a bit more, longer than he has all day, before finally releasing me. I fall back to the ground and bury my face in my collar —Chevalier’s sweater collar— heaving breaths in and out my nose until my head stops spinning. It takes me a few minutes, but I eventually push myself onto my knees and inspect the damage. I had grabbed the candlestick with my good hand without thinking, and my palm is now almost entirely covered in the waxy sticky stuff. At least it’s quickly solidifying in this cold, but I don’t dare peel it off yet. I might end up pulling off skin, too.

My injured wrist, on the other hand, looks even darker than it did this morning, with splotches of blue and purple climbing up my forearm. I hold my breath and nudge it with a finger, but to my surprise, I don’t feel any pain. In fact, I don’t feel anything, except for the sensation of frigid digits tapping my skin.

“Get that checked and be back by noon,” Chevalier calls. Another surprise, he’s not at his map but at my desk corner, chair back upright, scratching away with my quill at blinding speed.

“Noon?” I repeat. “You mean tomorrow?”

“I mean six hours from now. The numbness will wear off soon, and you’ll hassle the medics with your obnoxious blubbering if you do not hurry.” As if on cue, the first specs of dawn trickle in through the tent flaps.

“I’m not missing training,” I say. “If you’re going, so am I.”

“There is nothing more foolish than a dying man demanding poison over cure.”

“I’m not dying!” I march over and pull my good arm sleeve up to my elbow. “See? You’re just being dramatic.”

Again he refuses to look my way, instead focusing on folding the paper he was writing on into thirds. He retrieves the fallen candlestick, elegantly prepares a stamp, and, as soon as the seal cools, stacks it and the other letters I prepared onto my outstretched hand.

“You will deliver the post and return in time to memorize this new battle formation before afternoon practice commences. With the correct hand bandaged,” he warns, pushing past me to his maps. “Do not fall short of my expectations again.” He picks a red soldier from the box and resumes his planning.

I push through the flaps before the thwack reaches my ears.

Even though the tent is meager at best, it still mostly protects us from the harsh winds that pound every night. The approach of dawn hampers the air, but a brisk rush still uncomfortably tickles down my spine as I approach the edge of the hill. The numbness in my hand starts to fade as I stare down at those jagged rocks, almost goading me to trip again, and I back up until my boot bumps the oak tree.

Chevalier did say I have six hours.

I stuff the letters in my armpit and start climbing the tree, slowly as it is still quite dark out and my hands aren’t exactly in best form. I also try to keep quiet, in case Chevalier won’t approve of my little recess.

Once I reach the highest branch that can support my weight, I throw my legs over the edge and lean my cheek against the trunk. It is cool and covered in morning frost; a welcoming sensation to my welting face. Not so much to my tense thighs, but if I learned one thing on this trip it is to hold on to any good happenstances because they are rare to come by. Or last long.

I pull the letters out again and straighten them. Leon’s is first, a tiny detailed rose drawn directly underneath his perfectly-penned name. That’s the code we came up with for documents that need to be read with high urgency. Chevalier likes his papers to be ordered by importance, both outgoing and incoming, and as I leaf through the rest I see he’s arranged the next one to Sariel, followed by Jin, and then to various nobles and ministers back at the capitol.

I sometimes wonder, if I wasn’t Chevalier’s shadow, could my letters top his piles?

My skin prickles with envy. He isn’t even the king, so why must everything be under his thumb? The land, the people, and now the words. Why not let these papers be picked up by autumn winds, like the golden leaves of the oak, with no drive or direction other than away from here? Embarking on a journey unknown, a glorious adventure beyond the confines of their pages, full of twists and turns and loop de loops never before scrivened by man. In the infinite realms of possibility, there exists a universe where they all land exactly where intended. But equally likely, they also may end up at the most inopportune destination.

I spread the envelopes like a hand of cards toward the Obsidianite border, a gentle wind growing from behind.

It’s really not so different from Rhodolite. We each have rocks and grass and bushes. Storms hound us both, the rising sun does not discriminate, and we both settle at night under the same starry blanket sky. This little sample of land shows even more, with our matching fortresses and battle posts, and there’s a high hilltop mirroring our own. It even has its own matching oak tree, though while mine still brims with flittering leaves of reds and browns, theirs stands thin and bare. So bare, it is impossible to miss the dark figure seated on the top branch.

Frostbite stabbing my thighs jumpstarts my senses, and I manage to hook my leg onto a knot in the trunk before the shock sends me tumbling down. I hug the letters and straighten my shoulders, looking back at my tree twin. How long has he been there? Has he been watching me? There’s quite a bit of foliage surrounding me. Does he even know I'm here?

I tentatively stretch my free leg, both to see if he’d respond and to encourage blood flow in case I need to make a hasty exit. A minute passes with nothing, but as soon as I start to lower my leg, a shadowy appendage protrudes from the figure.

So he can see me.

I raise my arm. This time the figure waves back almost instantly. Could I interpret that as neighborly? I don’t want to raise my voice in case Chevalier investigates. Instead I shrug my shoulders and wag my head from side to side. My neck is still sore from Chevalier’s little “rebuttal” earlier, but I hope the message is still understandable.

What do you want?

Another unresponsive minute goes by before the figure raises both arms. The first points a finger at me. The second beckons in his direction.

I look over my shoulder as though I expect someone else to be there. This can’t be serious, is he asking me to cross the border? The Obsidianite border? When we are at the cusp of war? Does this guy even know who I am?

I don’t have the time to conjure a reply before I hear my name called from below.

“Well met, Prince Clavis!”

So much for that last question. And for keeping Chevalier in the dark.

I scan my surroundings and locate a horseman at the base of the hill, waving a scarlet flag with a rose up at me. The postman has arrived.

For the first time on this trip, apart from the daily workouts, my palms pool with sweat. But this is a different kind of perspiration. Chevalier could pop out any minute, and my head whirs with what to say back to the stranger across the border before he does. Er—sign. Sorry, now’s not a good time? I’ll think about it? Can we talk later?

Do I even want to continue this conversation? I jerk my head back toward Obsidian, but the branch is just as bare as the rest of the tree.

“Is everything alright, my prince?” the postman calls, turning the direction I’m facing. “Is something happening across the border?”

“No, no. Everything’s fit as a fiddle! Just watching the sunrise,” I say, fumbling out of the tree. No light emerges from the tent, and I quickly poke my head in to confirm Chevalier’s sleeping form settled in a chair by his desk of maps. He lets out a long snore, and I let out a long sigh of relief.

After a slow descent of the hillside (I will not fall for the same fault twice in a row), the postman and I greet each other and exchange our stacks.

“I am very glad I ran into you, Prince Clavis!” His voice is cheery, despite the fact that he no doubt traveled the entire night. He isn’t originally from the capitol, I have everyone’s names and faces memorized there, but the flag he bears is reserved only for envoys from the royal palace. He looks about my age, with modest build and eyes not yet marred by the horrors of the battlefield. If I was to hazard a guess, I would say this is his first mission this close to the border.

“You are glad?” I ask.

“Indeed! I was instructed to hand-deliver those letters to Prince Chevalier. I feared it would be a great impertinence on my part to address His Highness personally, so I attempted to leave the letters with the general. However I was shocked to hear that you two were not staying at the fort! I was told your location was classified, but I really wanted to make sure I completed my first delivery. I never would have imagined royalty sleeping in a tent mid-autumn, of all places!”

Called it, but all I say is, “You and I both, lad.”

“But this could not be more perfect! I can trust you to pass these off to Prince Chevalier, then? Master Sariel said it is extremely important that he reads his letter as soon as humanly possible.”

I see now. This could not be more perfect because he ran into Chevalier’s middle man instead of the man himself. I stretch my cheeks into that wide grin and give him a polite nod. The boy looks pleased with himself as he bows and marches to his horse, and I take advantage of his turned back to drop my smile and peek at who’s top-pile today.

The deep purple seal pops in the faint light of dawn, rays sliding up and down the swerving curves of the embossed serpent like ethereal liquid, but it is the text on the other side of the envelope that locks my attention. Chevalier’s full name is elegantly printed in bold black. Below it, scripted in an equally flawless hand, are two roses.

My breath catches in my throat as I grip the paper tighter. The ink on the petals is slightly smudged, as though it was handed off seconds after drawn. Never before have I seen two roses, neither sent nor received, and the thought of what news they bear freezes the blood in my veins even quicker than the weather. Are we officially at war with Obsidian? Was a meeting held while we were away? Has Jade or Benitoite made a move, too? Or is it something domestic? Have the people finally started to revolt against this endless back and forth? Has something happened to the king? Has something happened to my brothers?

That last thought drives a final icicle through my chest. My eyesight blurs and my legs start to give way, but both are locked back in place as something large is shoved into my arms. It is still too dark to make out what it is, but I immediately register the residual heat it dissipates.

“And here’s the final package!” the boy says. I blink several times before I can make out the shape of the wooden crate. It is about the size of my torso, light as a practice sword, and feels like a tiny oven pressed against my chest. “It’s the other extremely important cargo piece.” He ends with a wink, mounts his horse, and departs before I have the chance to ask anything else.

My first instinct is there’s something alive in there, and I slowly lower the crate to the ground to not startle (or infuriate) it. It may be asleep, but there are no abrupt movements as I observe the box from all angles. If whatever it is was alive, it is highly suspect that it could survive the trip from the palace with only three tiny breathing holes. And the soury-sweet smell wafting out from them could not belong to a carcass.

There is no identification on the box, and I pull out the stack of letters again to solve this mystery. Sariel’s letter deadpans me with a scowl, almost like its author would, and I shuffle it to the bottom. It won’t make a difference if Chevalier reads it right this second or after I’ve figured out what’s in this crate. Each successive letter is from some general or marquess or duke, no doubt begging Chevalier for some fatuous favor because none are marked with roses, and I nearly resolve to just prying the crate open myself when a glint of pale pink catches my eye.

I grasp the final envelope in both hands and hold it up to the steadily rising sun, but my eyes are not playing tricks as the delicate figure of a cat shines back.

Why would Yves write to Chevalier?

Again, no roses adorn this letter, but I pull out my pocket knife and carefully lift the seal from the paper. I can practically hear Sariel squalling at me through the mouth of the discarded purple serpent, but I ignore it. This is a matter between brothers. Sariel could never understand.

My heart pounds in my ears as I unfold the letter to reveal Yves’s gossamer script, and I press one palm against the side of my head to steady it as I read.

Gladdest tidings, Prince Chevalier.

Thank you ever so much for taking the time out of your busy schedule to write to me. It brought me the greatest joy to receive your letter on my birthday, I could not stop myself from shaking with excitement upon reading it.

Shaking with fear sounds more like it. That answers why Yves sent this, but drops a new more important question: Why did Chevalier send Yves a letter? Surely not just to wish him a happy birthday.

While your sentiments are more than enough, I truly wished you and Prince Clavis could have been present for the celebration. It was a small affair, as usual, but it was a welcome respite from the turbulence of the court since your departure. I am sorry to say our people are not pleased that your two-day inspection of the citadel has turned into a month-long station at the border, and many nobles are demanding your return to the palace posthaste. They fear your decision to remain may anger Obsidian and incite retaliation, but they only speak their minds so freely knowing you are so far away. I have no doubt you will have received letters from them asking for your return, but I beseech your understanding of their apprehension in your responses.

I scoff, the cooled breath materializing before me. Leave it to Yves to think the best of the people’s intentions, but he hasn’t read the novels of resentment Chevalier receives each week. And he hasn’t penned the curt, cold-blooded replies.

Then it hits me, Chevalier sent a letter to Yves that I didn’t write. The paper wrinkles as my grip tightens, and I have to squint to make out the next lines.

Ah, but I am getting off topic. I am sure you tire from talk of military and government, Sariel is currently drafting a lengthy report to you on both as I write this, so I shall make this as brief as I can.

It will please you to hear that despite the political climate, the seasonal climate has been rather generous. The harvest has been bountiful this year, and while the people’s spirits are not at their highest, their bellies are full and they are thankful. It took some help from the other princes, but we even managed to prepare the extra set of treats you requested. I must admit, I worried I would not be able to bake and pack the lot in time for the post. I had wanted the delivery to arrive as fresh as possible, and it was only with their assistance that we prevailed. Even with their pilfering hands snatching ingredients left and right, I ask that you thank them as well when you sit down to enjoy the sweets.

The tart aroma hits my nostrils again, and I have to hold back from clawing the sides of the crate apart. I limit myself to prying off two boards from the top, and am rewarded with a waft of warmth and a cornucopia of baked goodies. My mouth waters as I stick my face through the opening, letting the heat and the smell envelope my senses.

Home. It really is a piece of home right in front of me. So close I can touch it, smell it, taste it… but I hold off on the last one for now. What if Chevalier sent a specific numbered order? I pull my head out and rest my chin on the top as I read the last part.

And speaking of the others, it will also please you to hear that they are all well. Prince Leon and Prince Jin have placated the citizens for now, and while it is fortunate they are a team of two, I fear their efforts will not last much longer. I have spotted Prince Nokto speaking to nobles as well, and despite his age he harbors a magnetic quality that calms even the tensest of brows. Prince Licht and I have been handling paperwork in the background, and we have learned much about our kingdom and its operations in the process.

Furthermore, I know you did not ask, but father is in good health as well. Though he seldom leaves his room these days and only speaks with Sariel. I fear his spirits are lowest of all.

I have a little space left on this page, so please allow me to use it to ask of my brother. You mentioned he has not taken well to the extended stay, I hope he is at least keeping himself entertained. Even with the disquiet of complaints, the halls never felt so still in his absence. But I believe he can keep up with you, we all do.

Lastly, I do hope you are both keeping warm. The previous postman reported the weather is much colder near the mountains where you are. It was a bout of good fortune Prince Jin managed to hand you your sweater before you left, was it not? But as you said, a decorated mantle does nothing to light the hearth, so please enjoy the treats while they are still hot.

Take care of one another, and I pray for your safe return before the first winter snow.

Yves Kloss

The hand reaching for the crate is automatic. It takes a couple chews before I realize I have bitten into an apple strudel. It takes a few more before I realize I am crying.

Hot tears stream down my cheeks and smudge Yves’s words as I hug them and the pastry to my chest. Weeks… months… years of what I could never put into words rock my body as I scream into the crate.

I don’t want to go to war. I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again. I don’t want to keep hurting myself climbing to catch Chevalier, because I know I will never make it. I just want to go home. Home where these treats were made. Home where these treats were shared. Home where these treats never fathomed a life outside their oven.

The sun is mostly up when the final cries exit my system. My body weighs like it ran to the palace and back, and I cannot even raise an arm to shield myself from the blinding rays or the chilling winds of early morning. The only thing I can do is bury my face in the collar of my sweater. Chevalier’s sweater.

Chevalier’s sweater is warm.

I wrap my fingers around the half-eaten strudel. It is warm, too.

Warm, like Yves’s hands when he pulls them out of the oven. Warm, like Licht’s cheeks as he stands tip-toed at the edge of the table and watches his brother set them down. Warm, like Nokto’s hugs when he ambushes his brother from behind, both in thanks and in distraction. Warm, like Jin’s ears as he swipes the top pastry and it disappears into his mouth. Warm, like Leon’s laughter as he prepares to pacify the situation.

Warm, like Sariel’s gaze as he watches the scene unfold. Warm, like my mother’s kisses that linger to this day. Warm, like Chevalier’s…

A sharp crack turns my attention back up the hill. The top of the tent rips and flutters in the breeze, waiting for me to patch it up again. Chevalier must be cold.

Pain throbs in my wrist. I peel the wax off my hand. I look back and forth between the citadel and the hill. Then between the border and the sun. I have many paths before me, and a good four hours left.

I stuff the rest of the pastry in my cheeks and collect the letters, careful to reseal Yves’s the way it was and return Sariel’s to the top. I grab the crate under one arm and start back up the hill. It is a long climb, yes, but one I know I can make.

*Nudges Yves* Get in there, Evie! You're the hero of this story! And uh, you can just stay where you are, Gilbert.

Tagging:@atelieredux @queengiuliettafirstlady @violettduchess @venulus

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#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #clavis lelouch #chevalier michel #ikepri clavis #ikepri chevalier #cozytober #pumpkins & fireplaces #fall fluff autumn angst ccc #scorchie writes #tw: mentions of death #tw: grief #tw: injury #tw: pain

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