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notnctu · 3 years

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push & pull | kim doyoung

❀ slytherin!doyoung x hufflepuff!femreader ❀ genre - SLOW BURN, smut, fluff, a bit of humor (idk not rlly) ❀ details - hogwarts!au, fwb to lovers?, y/n is a player lol, jealous doyoung, mutual pining, doyoung is a lil mean ❀ word count - 9.7k ❀ warnings - explicit language, possessiveness (a concept of marking), dom!doyoung, angry sex?, slight dirty talk, penetration, fingering, praise kink ❀ synopsis - in which a prideful slytherin and an oblivious hufflepuff play a clueless emotion game of tug of war.

❝I thought Hufflepuffs are to be loyal, so why do you sleep with other men?❞

❝People say Slytherins are ambitious, so why didn’t you pursue me?❞ ❀ a/n - i changed the plot a little bit as i was writing lol but hopefully it still fits everything! i said this in the teaser, but i want to preface and say that the magic/marking is not canon to harry potter, and that the only thing im using are the sectional houses/subjects. besides that, everything is made up LMAO also pls b lenient with me, i read hogwarts!au but writing it is very out of my comfort zone and am very bad at creating anything magical

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Kim Doyoung, the Slytherin boy of your dreams, mindlessly and imperfectly steals glances your way across the dining tables and under several hundred floating lit candles. He sits huddled with his few posh friends that wear the same green and silver tie situated so tightly underneath their necks. And you, just looking as dazzling as ever, with your yellow and black tie hanging loose and a few buttons undone from your dress shirt.

He hates how easily you catch his attention and his ability to spot your figure in a dense crowd. You barely even look his way in public now, often distracted by a broad Gryffindor that tries to make flirtatious advantages at you. And when he thinks it can’t get any worse, it does… as you’re flashing your bright beautiful smile back at him and the shift in your body language.

“You’re staring again.” Yuta flickers between his friend and the subject of his focus.

Doyoung clears his throat, smooths his tie and physically turns his body away from the horrendous scene. “It’s very hard not to stare when she’s flirting with other men in front of me.”

“Does she do it on purpose?” The silver haired boy raises a questionable eyebrow and Doyoung reacts before he can speak.

He perks up and narrows his eyes at Yuta. “Purpose? Like to make me jealous?” Doyoung scoffs, laughs almost at the ridiculous thought. “The answer is no. We’re not exclusive, we’re nothing.”

“If you two are nothing, then why are you acting like you two are something? Get a grip, it’s practically sickening watching you fume over a ditzy Hufflepuff.” As Yuta prepares to bite into his delicious soft bread roll, it flies out of his grip, down the long table and onto another person’s plate.

Both boys are quick to stand to their feet and face each other chest to chest. Neither one of them is intimidated by the other, but their other friends around them are rather shocked by the sudden discrepancy.

Doyoung forcibly brushes off an imaginary dust off his good friend’s shoulders and draws a perfectly strained fake smile, knowing that others may be watching and he is a Prefect after all. But most importantly, you could be watching. “Call her that again, and your dinner won’t be the only thing that’s thrown across the table.” His threat is loud enough solely for Yuta to hear.

Yuta, with glaring eyes, picks up his dinner tray and walks off with his chin held high and a brisk in his stride. Doyoung clears his throat in the midst of the brief silence and out of habit, fixes his tie back in place. He takes a seat back down and the chatter at the table resumes, but he’s beyond embarrassed and disappointed at his loss of temper that everything drowns out.

Almost everything. He feels a light tap on his shoulder and out of annoyance, he spins around hastily and sharply snarls, “what?” But his eyes land on your fearful wide eyes and the slight cower in your stance, knowing that you caught onto his bad mood. And he’s half in disbelief that you’re approaching him right in the center of the Great Hall, that you’re standing so beautiful a foot away from him.

Instant regret and guilt fills his chest, his sharp eyes soften at your pout and the concerned furrow in between your brows. Nonetheless, he doesn’t have any words to say… he can’t get himself to apologize for his behavior.

“Do you want to walk to Herbology with me?” The quiver in your voice made you seem so small, so desperate for him, that he can hear the reactions of his friends. They’re laughing, at him, at you, at the whole scene that’s unfolding. He feels mocked, being a laughing stock isn’t something he’s very fond of.

His lips form a tight line, and in a snarky tone, “you don’t know your own way, Puff? Mind you ask your own Prefect to guide you.” Fuck. He tried to find the nicest way possible to brush you off, but his friends laugh a bit louder and intensely. And you didn’t like that one bit.

Your lips part slightly in a frown, an eyebrow raised and a hand on your hip. You look as if you’re ready to attack him, to jinx him, to probably pinch at his skin. But he knows you, and you’d do none of the above. Instead, you say the one threat that causes his heart to sink into the pit of his stomach, “don’t talk to me in class.” You’re slipping away from him as you pick up your pace, exiting all the commotion in the Great Hall.

He tries to hide the disappointment that stems from his chest, and his heart beats with an inexplicable dull pain. All he can think about is the twist of your expression and he’s gathering his things rather quickly to follow after you, without even a bid goodbye to his clique.

Without any knowledge of what you two do behind closed doors and the complex history that you two share, one may view your relationship as practically nonexistent; you two are strangers, barely passing acquaintances.

Doyoung does not approach you in the halls, in anywhere that necessarily has many witnesses. You smile at him, maybe even a wave depending on your mood, but no one questions it … as you wave at almost everyone who passes by you.

Classmates might see interaction during the one class you two share, if they pay attention close enough. However, you and Doyoung are much more to each other than passing acquaintances. Although he’s starting to see himself as another name on your list of individuals you sleep with, you are much more to him than you could ever know.

He’ll never forget the first time you two met. He was patrolling the halls for anyone lurking past curfew with his nose dug deep in his heavy book on magical creatures, when you walked right into him and caused the both of you to fall to the granite.

He was beyond ready to dock off points for whoever the rule breaker may be, but you took his breath away when you hovered above him and clasped your palm over his mouth before he can scold anyone. You looked a bit frazzled as your hair was all over the place and he noticed your minimal amount of clothing in the middle of a cold winter night.

He saw the signature Hufflepuff badge on your thin sweater and the sound of your voice completely threw him off his tracks.

“I’m so sorry.” You whisper at the stunned Prefect underneath you, whose body feels warm against your own. But your eyes remain frantically on the lookout for anyone else passing, despite the lack of light in the cobblestone hallway. You most definitely do not belong in this wing of the castle and knocking down a Prefect caused more of a problem in your escape route.

Quickly standing up, you lend your hand out for him to take. His long fingers accept your hold as he pulls himself up and dusts the dirt off his robe. His green emblem glows in the dim light and you’re internally screaming at the mess you just made for yourself. But you recognize his features: the sharpness in his eyes, the small curves of the corners of his lips, his neatly parted black hair.

“You’re in some deep---”

“---Kim Doyoung.” The boy freezes at the sound of his name and he blinks at you, curious as to where you know of him. Being a Prefect has its small perks of popularity, but he didn’t expect for it to go this far. “Y/N, we had brooms together.”

As he repeats your name and examines your pretty features, a light bulb goes off in his head. “The clumsy Hufflepuff that fell off her broom in the highest altitude?”

“If that’s how you remember me by.” You smile proudly, and he scoffs at how someone could possibly hold pride in something so silly. “It’s nice to see you around, you’re a Prefect! Wow! That’s incredible.”

“And you’re still as clumsy as you were a year ago. Falling all over the place.”

“Unfortunately, some things don’t change! But you certainly have.” Doyoung looks at you with hooded eyes and a cautious gaze, but you’re so outlandishly bold despite swaying with your hands behind your back. “Please, don’t take that the wrong way. I meant it as a compliment! I used to have a tiny crush on you, baseless, but you helped me catch my broomstick and I’ll never be able to forget that.”

Doyoung, unknowingly, lights up at your shameless confession and takes another good look at you. You're much more mature now, and if he stared into your alluring gaze any longer, he’d be completely mesmerized without the need of a love potion. “So you liked me over a meaningless chivalrous act?”

“I liked you because you were charming and yes, perhaps I am someone who finds attractiveness in men who are chivalrous. There’s nothing wrong with that.” You bat your sweet eyelashes at him so endearingly, and he’s a blushing mess all over the place.

Doyoung has had anonymous love letters passed on from his friends, but they were all Slytherins who yearned greedily to be associated with his status. So knowing that a Hufflepuff, with an innocent youthful approach to love, festered some form of infatuation with him does flatter him quite well. “I’ll let you go.”

You’re about to exhale an exasperated sigh of relief until Doyoung continues, “under one condition.”

“Okay, I’ll do anything.” Your gleaming eyes sparkle like stars paired with the night sky.

He rolls his eyes at you, “don’t be so quick to jump at conditions without hearing them first.” Doyoung groans and you passively brush off his comment.

“If it’s harmless, I’ll do it.”

And in the dead of the night, where only you two stand in the middle of an empty cobblestone hallway, Doyoung requests, “I want to see you again.”

Although that night marked the beginning of your friendship, public interactions were still scarce and this was mainly on the fault of Doyoung. The times you met were late nights past curfew where he was stationed at and he grew to enjoy your wondrous personality. This boy grew up in a Slytherin bubble his whole life, no one outside of his house ever dared approached him … at least, not with the warmest smile as yours.

You were everything he was not, but he liked it so much. You were a half that completed his whole, and there were growing pains he couldn’t confide in anyone else. Surprisingly, you knew his imperfections more than he did himself and yet, you still wanted to be around him to encourage him. Not to mention, you had a sudden growth in other parts of your body and formed into your features very beautifully.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed, as there were more male counterparts who smiled at you, talked about you, fawned over you. And he felt something heighten inside of him along with his existing romantic feelings, and that he began seeing you in a new light.

With you experiencing new things, like hand holding and being showered by love letters on Valentine’s Day, it was wrong of him to fester such envy over the ones who publicly adorned you. He was so blinded by his hot headed rage that he completely missed the fact that you never accepted anyone who confessed, maybe the hand holding, but everyone else was a complete rejection.

All this time, you had been waiting for him and when you two shared your first kiss together, you had an assumption that Doyoung was going to finally confess that he felt the same way. But he never did. You two did, however, further your relationship into something more intimate and taking each other’s virginities opened a whole pathway of possibilities --- none being one where you two end up officially together.

He was the first to sleep with someone else, that was his first of many mistakes that he was going to make in his relationship with you. It also became the drop of the needle for you to start seeing other people as well, to explore what Doyoung couldn’t offer, to rid yourself of the feelings you had for a boy that didn’t seem like he wanted anything more.

Chivalry was dead and Doyoung believed that the innocent youthful Hufflepuff love had disappeared from within you.

As his present day runs after you, you’re abruptly stopped by a Ravenclaw for a small chat. Damn you Hufflepuffs for being friendly and social. So, he rushes past the two of you and into the classroom to await for your arrival. The quick shade of green flashes by your side and you’re fuming incredibly at how Doyoung continues to play you like a harp.

When you slide into your assigned seat next to him, he goes off like a canon. Doyoung starts spewing backhanded excuses and endless shameless rambles about his behavior. “I told you. Don’t talk to me during class or I will jinx you. Won’t be able to talk with your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.”

“You’re not going to jinx me.” With a subtle flick of his wrist, your chair is pulled closer to his. “And if you were to do so, you wouldn’t do something so cynical.” Yelping at the abrupt usage of his magic, you’re irritably pressing your ink into your journal with a newfound annoyance.

“You’re right. I’d turn you into a duck, so at least, you’re still cute to look at.” The mindless scribbles on the paper make no sense in your head, as you’re primarily zoned in on the disrupted energy you have about your Slytherin companion. These ill feelings make you almost sick, wanting to shut out any bad replay of the moments before and forgetting about the attention you seek so much from Doyoung.

“For you to successfully cast a jinx on me, you must make eye contact first.” His finger lifts your chin and you’re eye to eye with his lustful dark stare. Doyoung licks his lips, a shine shimmers from his saliva, and he’s tempted to bring you into his chambers for an intimacy he’s been craving. “My, oh my. You’re looking very charmed today.” A grin curves up and taunts you, and you’re blinking away down at the table.

“Doyoung, we’re in class. Please, focus.” Your desperate whisper turns into a whine once his cold hand slyly smooths over your bare knee.

“Are you free later tonight?” Doyoung peers over at your side profile and your skin feels soft at his fingertips. He’s imagining your intoxicating scent mixing with his sheets, your light playful kisses along his neck, and gripping onto every naked part of you. For a whole minute, he’s forgotten that he’s in class with other no name individuals and a boring professor. He has tunnel vision whenever he’s with you.

“I have an arrangement.” The grip on your knee tightens at your quiet answer. An arrangement.

“The Gryffindor who had leafy greens in between his teeth?” Doyoung treads lightly, because you’re both well aware he’s made harsher insults than that. He retrieves his hand and picks up his pen as if he’s never touched you.

He sees your head shake out of the corner of his eye, you’re rolling your lips together sheepishly. There’s something odd about your stance and he’s growing a bit more curious…. A bit more spiteful at how closed off you are being. There’s something you’re hiding from him. “Then, who?”

“Is there something you’d like to discuss with the class, Mr. Kim? If not, I’d like for everyone to head over to the greenhouse.” As the class slightly snickers and the classroom empties, you and Doyoung are stopped by your professor.

Professor Sprout, wearing her worn out Dragon hide gloves and a thin lined smile, shoves a potted plant into Doyoung’s hands, “behave, you two. Your conversations are never very secret when spoken aloud.” She gives both of you a warning before proceeding out along with the rest of the class.

Doyoung scoffs at the absurd encounter and rolls his eyes. “Ah, you’re getting me in trouble with you now.”

“I’m sorry, Doyoung. It’s better that you don’t know.” You say this every time, when will you realize that keeping your hookups a secret only causes him more agony? He catches your wrist as you both exit the corridors, he barely ever has you alone now. And to say the least, he fucking misses you.

“Spare me some of your time after class.” He’s disgusted by himself, knowing that his eyes are begging for you to say yes. Him, a highly admired Slytherin, has settled for scraps and if anyone knew, they’d never let him live.

Your hand gently clasps over his and when you look up with your starry eyes, something inside him feels at peace. “Did you miss me?” He gulps at your question and blinks at you like a deer in headlights. If said by anyone else, he would not hesitate to snap his fingers into a malicious spell. But you ask the million dollar question so sweetly, there’s no taunt… there’s no mockery in your tone. It’s full of genuine curiosity.

So, he answers you with part of his heart that you know too well. “Unfortunately.” His body falls slightly in defeat, and suddenly the potted plant is alive in his hands. It’s wailing a dangerous and annoying loud cry, completely ruining the moment.

Doyoung quizzically ponders the monstrous green plant and its magical capabilities puzzle him, possibly reminding him to pay more attention to the actual curriculum than on your unbuttoned shirt.

Moreover, your giggle surprisingly calms him in this stressful situation and you lightly pat his hand that’s still gripping your wrist. “I’m all yours after class.”

Taking the wretched plant, you hurry off toward the greenhouse to find someone to diffuse the crying creature. Doyoung laughs in disbelief at your comical animated figure running around with a pot over your head and shouting for any student to help you. So you’re not paying attention in class either?

Doyoung takes you to your favorite place, despite the rule that you’re not allowed access to it. The Prefect Bathroom remains spotlessly clean and fresh paired with an immediate scent of rosewater and wild honeysuckle. The white polished marble gleams prettily under the twinkling diamond chandeliers and you’re twirling enthusiastically in the center of the large undressing area.

He observes and smiles widely to himself at the sight of your happiness and cute giggles. It’s always a risk to have you use their bathroom, but he is always abusing his privilege to seek your enjoyment that he truly doesn’t care about anything else. Your morality has beaten him enough and he’s heard plenty about his wrongdoings, yet here you are… sweetly dancing in the one place that’s absolutely wrong. Perhaps, you two have rubbed off a little too much on one another.

“I can never get sick of this place.” As you plead to Doyoung to cast a bubble bath, you’re already stripping out of your skirt. He shields his eyes to give you some privacy and recites the charm to run hot dazzling water in the ginormous pool. A nice soothing bath is exactly what you two need after a stressful day playing in the dirt.

“This is your favorite place.” says Doyoung with a matter of fact edge to this tone.

“It’s my favorite place because I only get to come here with you.” You jump on his back and he hoists you up by your thighs. His heart skips a happy tune. “I refuse for you to tell me the password, even if you do wish for me to enjoy the simple pleasures of a bubble bath.”

“You and your right and wrongs.” With eager hands, you’re loosening his tie from around his neck. “You stripped so fast that you’re going to get a cold.”

“It’s going to get steamy really soon. Plus, I know you like me best without any clothes on.” Your hot breath tickles the shell of his ear and a blush scatters across Doyoung’s cheek. Button after button, his open shirt exposes his toned build. He sets you on the edge of the elevated step before the bath.

Doyoung smirks at your nakedness and your hot lustful expression. Leaning in until he’s practically breathing against your lips, he stares straight into your eyes. “My Puff knows me best.” And dives into you with all his soul. Fruitful drags of his lips along yours, his long tongue enters your mouth. His large hand carefully caresses your cheek to pull you further into the kiss, noses pressing into skin and with a desire to never part.

His heart swells lovingly, kissing you feels like the best thing in the world. There are no tricks, no spells, no recited charms, but you are more than magical. The same surge of energy runs through his veins, but unlike his impressive ability as a notable wizard, he can’t control it. You make him lose control. As meticulous and cautious as he is, you’re the first thing he doesn’t think through.

Your needy hands push off his dress shirt and he hurriedly unbuckles his belt. When you break the kiss, he automatically pouts and pulls you back in for one more lingering peck. “Are you going to scrub my back for me?” You smile, dragging him closer to the overflowing bathtub.

Large puffs of white bubbles spill from the rims and disappear with your every step. It reminds you of sea foam that washes upon the shore, with a floral fragrant that fills your lungs. “That’s quite an intimate gesture, but yes.”

After removing all his garments, he joins you in the large pool of glossy bubbles and the clouds of steam that rises from the water suffocates him warmly. He sits with his back against the wall and eyes unwavering on your alluring expression.

The bubbles do a great job at covering your breasts, but his sneaky hands snake under the water to grip them. Doyoung grabs a full tit and thumbs over your erect nipple, all while he holds the most sensual gaze with you. Slowly, you naturally end up in his hold and your wet back relaxes against his chest.

The beating of his heart is too loud and surely, you can feel the way it jumps out of his chest. Doyoung attaches his lips on your skin and as you’re melting at his harsh suckling. However, you perk up and snap out of your dazed arousal at the realization of his purposeful licks. “You’re trying to mark me?”

His hand continues to rub and twist your aching nipples. The sensation stimulating the growth of pleasure to sprout below and your mind to wander.

“Possibly.”

A lovers’ mark is the ultimate testament of mutual love. Engraving the skin with your beloved’s Patronus, wherever the giver chooses to mark. Love emblems are meant to be something sacred to the couple, a way to make someone completely untouchable to everyone else. Not only does the symbol glow with an iridescent shine whenever love is felt, it also numbs any romantic feelings for all others besides the partner.

Besides the use of possessiveness, it’s a beautiful way to discover one true love since the engraving of their Patronus shows up on the skin under the conditions that both individuals must be madly in love with one another. And if it doesn’t end up forming, the receiver is left with a bright, sparkling star hue in its place before fading away completely. If it does appear, it fades when both fall out of love.

“Doyoung--” His name falls from your lips as a moan and he’s running down to explore the beauty between your legs. “--can’t do that unless you actually want to commit to me.”

“I am committed to you.” The more your neck cranes off to the side and exposed to him, the more he wishes to etch the symbol of his love for everyone to see. A hand is hooked under your thigh to keep your legs spread open and you’re gasping at the slight pressure from the water.

“Romantically committed to me.” You remind him, but your train of thought is cut fairly short as Doyoung begins rubbing circles on your needy clit.

“You’re afraid of it showing up?” He’s lathering your breasts with bubbles and dragging his long finger along your slit. His greediness overtakes him and with wandering hands, he’s gripping every part of you that they can reach. Doyoung’s guilty pleasure is always going to any form of physical affection from you specifically. When he finally gets ahold of you, it’s hard for him to let go.

Your warm skin is delicate and smooth beneath the very tips of his fingers and every exploration of your terrain makes him feel inexplicable explosions of fondness. Perhaps, you’ve captivated him and although he believed it would take something as extreme as the Amortentia to have him falling for someone, you did it as easily as being yourself. His better half.

So, he’s impressed by your genuineness and how he’s willing to give up parts of his reputation to unapologetically be himself around you. No one else matters, nothing else matters, but why must it be so difficult to tell you that?

“I’m afraid of it not showing up.” You’re more than convinced that Doyoung has confused his strong sense of lust with love and there would be no possible way his Patronus would appear. It’s better to save the embarrassment for the both of you.

Spinning in his arms, the water twirls to the curves of your body and he’s admiring parts that expose above the surface. He’s matched with your beauty before him, resemblance to the stained glass window that situates above the large bathroom.

However, the doubt in your statement finally reaches his ears and he’s grabbing your ass as you settle over his thighs again. His furrowed eyebrows bring together a rather upset expression --- lip pout and all.

“Why wouldn’t it show up?” Doyoung puzzles, bringing your arms to wrap around his neck. Leaning into him, your pruney fingers trace his smooth chin and he notices your quick flicker between his eyes and his lips.

While your gentle kiss reassures him of your subtle endearment, your next words do the opposite. “You tell me.” All you do is push him away with your vague doubtfulness, like you’re constantly testing him and using his poor guessing skills to your own advantage. He can pull you close after any altercation he wants, but you push him away in any emotionally romantic sense.

“You’re rather mischievous and mysterious today,” Doyoung squeezes your ass and smacks it lightly, causing ripples in the water. “I liked it better when you told me everything you felt.”

Suddenly, his fingers poke at your entrance and his other hand drops in between your legs again. Your mouth opens in shock when his long fingers enter slowly and he enjoys the pleasurable contour of your reactions. “Like this, for example.” The pad of his fingers working rapid flicks against your sensitive bud. “How does this feel?” His whisper dances across your shoulder, landing a kiss at the end of his question.

Your moans echo in the lavish bathroom, bouncing off the marble walls and encouraging Doyoung to keep a steady pace. There’s no worry about how loud you may be, Doyoung charms every room before every lustful encounter. This allows you to let go, let free, let him know how he makes you feel.

He curves his fingers into you, pumping and dragging into your tightness until you’re practically screaming. He only has one thought, as his eyes trail down your intoxicated needy figure, how beautiful you are as a moaning mess under his control. Your head is thrown back, eyes are squeezed shut and opening them to see nothing but tiny yellow starlight.

Dainty kisses line your exposed neck line and his ego swells with so much pride. Doyoung has mastered every flick of his wrist to have you under his trance, spewing nonsensical words and forgetting anyone else that exists. He gives your erect nipples harsh licks and with a faint drag of teeth, the sensation pushes you to your end.

Sporadic pleasurable convulsions cause your legs to close around Doyoung’s hands, but the strength of his knee keeps them apart. “Doyoung… I’m going to free fall.”

Leave it up to you to beautifully announce your climax. He snickers, applying more pressure on your clit and a rubbing motion against your walls. “I’ll catch you.”

Moon crescents embed into his skin as you’re holding onto him with your whole life. As your scream hits every octave, the massive collection of bubbles that cover the surface of the bath fly and splatter every corner of the pristine room.

White and wet bubbles drip down from the walls, falling from the diamond chandeliers, and coating every steamy mirror. Doyoung’s eyes light up from the chaos, making sure you’re riding out your high for as long as he can provide.

Your body trembles with euphoria, falling forward into Doyoung’s chest and squeezing around his lazily pumping fingers. For a brief second, your mind is wiped and nothing in the world feels better than being in this perfect moment with the one person who’s Patronus you hoped would etch your skin.

If one possesses feelings that are practically unbearable to contain, one should confess… right? For all your life, you’ve lived by this statement. Friends do not hear the end of it and most surely, one should follow their own advice… right?

So why do you yearn for Doyoung in your gaze as he stands across the Great Hall as if he doesn’t know of your existence? As if he wasn’t kissing you in the Prefect bathroom a few days prior?

It’s not an understatement to say that you catch the attention of almost every person in the room, but the one head that refuses to turn your way… the one who’s looks you wish to steal… is the one person who looks right through you.

Feelings have become a nuisance ever since the first time you confessed to him and it was worse than landing on cobblestone after falling off your broom. The reason why you’ve buried them deeper than any chamber is that you’re positive that the prized Slytherin would rather be with another, preferably one from his own house.

While you try to remain optimistic and playful for the time being, you’re simply replaceable to him. He can barely care to acknowledge you in public when Gryffindors boast about you in their arms like winning a trophy. You’ve kept good relations with every Ravenclaw you’ve slept with. You’ve kindly rejected every romantic gesture another Hufflepuff has offered.

But if there is one thing you’ve learned about him is that he’s lived in his Slytherin circle for as long as he lives. And it will stay that way. You’re his sweet Hufflepuff that he’ll push away at no cost, then pull you back in secrecy.

Now if one feels as if they’re wasting their time, one should leave… right? Wrong. Kim Doyoung has skewed with your morality… and your feelings remain loyal to him since the day he confessed to see you again.

“Lemon-drop, I’ve been looking all over for you.” An arm slings around your shoulders and the notable red and gold tie is the first thing you see. Jung Jaehyun, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, flashes his deep dimples at you. “Walk with me.”

He extends his palm out for you to take and your friends painfully elbow your sides to wake you from your hesitation. Taking his hand, you get up from the dining table and follow him out the Great Hall.

Doyoung sees the scene unfold before him and rolls his eyes at how Jaehyun’s dimples are all it takes to have you wandering off with him. Despite every wicked intent to follow you two, he heads out in the direction of the dormitories to fume in his room.

“It’s such a nice and sunny day today.” Jaehyun runs a hand through his luscious brown locks. You both exit into the front courtyard as other students are scattered on the lawns mingling with one another. When you peer up at the sky, the sun is barely seen past the layers of clouds.

“Jaehyun, is there something you needed to speak with me about?” His laughter roars, full of hefty song and amusement.

“Listen, lemon-drop. I like you and I have a feeling you feel the same way. I want to mark you if you’d let me.” Jaehyun smirks and just as he brings your hand up for a kiss, you gently let go. “Am I coming off too strong? We don’t have to do it today, I just wanted to see if it would show.”

“Jaehyun, you’re going to find an extravagant person one day. A person who is going to know all your favorite castle balconies to swing from and how you like to be kissed on the nose.” His ears grow a bright red and for once, his gaze drops to the ground. “I am, unfortunately, not that person for you so I must kindly reject your confession.”

As you turn on your toes, Jaehyun lightly holds your wrist to stop you. “But, you know all those things about me. Is there anything I can do to prove that we belong together?”

“I know them because I care enough to remember things you tell me, not because I loved you enough to observe these things about you. I give you my word that there is nothing you can do to prove me otherwise.” The corners of his lips dip downward and you’re running to the one person that will erase this sad rejection from your memory.

When you’re scanning the Great Hall for any sign of him, he’s not there and it leads you to his only hiding place. Doyoung loves to shut himself out from the rest of the school whenever he gets the chance. However, a lost Hufflepuff wandering outside the entrance of the Slytherin dormitories is rather an odd sight to see and you haven’t had the chance to form many connections from this house.

The sparse amount of Slytherins you know aren’t going to be passing by, unless with some stroke of luck, someone will be kind enough to open the door for you. Every person passes by you with questionable stares until a silver haired boy blinks at you with wide eyes.

“Who is it that you’re trying to see?” He asks abrasively, but softens his tone when he realizes that you mean no harm.

You bid him a small grin, “your Prefect.”

“And what for?”

“There is an urgent matter that involves him and he’s practically unreachable when he’s hiding away in his private room.” The boy narrows his eyes at you, but beckons you to follow him down to the Slytherin dungeon.

Excitedly, you hurry behind him and whisper over his shoulder, “what’s your name?”

“Nakamoto Yuta. No need to tell me yours, I’ll doubt he’d want me to know.” He spits and then, mutters the enchanted password to reveal the large green common room. “Come this way.” He leads up the boys’ dorms and walks briskly. Although you never mentioned a name, Yuta seems to already know who you’re here to see and it makes you wonder how he must know.

“Open up.” Yuta stops and knocks at the wooden door, Kim Doyoung written in a fancy penmanship on the center. “You have a guest.” He looks your way before rolling his eyes at Doyoung’s irritated tone through the other side.

“Tell them to leave.”

“He wants you to leave.” Yuta repeats, mostly to satisfy Doyoung’s nag.

“That’s fine. Thank you for bring---” The door swings open abruptly and Yuta almost loses his balance. Doyoung frantically turns his head side to side to comprehend what he is seeing. His ears felt deceived, hearing your voice through the door, he had to make sure it wasn’t you.

But you stand before him and Yuta. Here you are approaching him whenever he least expects it. “What are you doing here?”

“I came by to see you. I’ve been here plenty of times.”

“What are you doing bringing her in?” scolds Doyoung and the other boy shrugs carelessly.

“What was I supposed to do? Let her bat puppy eyes at several other Slytherins and have her telling everyone who passes her that she came here to see our Prefect? It was also getting cold out.” Yuta mumbles, but finds great entertainment at seeing how frazzled Doyoung has gotten by your presence.

“It was a bit chilly.” You admit and Doyoung groans, pulling you into his room and shutting the door on Yuta. “Thank you, Yuta.” You whisper through the crack between the door frame.

“It’s too risky for you to be searching for me around other Slytherins.” Doyoung paces the room and you notice his tie is loose and shirt is unbuttoned around his neck. “Why are you here?”

“A Gryffindor blew me off. I thought I’d come and see you with all the free time I can get.” Taking a seat at the end of his neatly made bed, your legs swing adorably and Doyoung almost doesn’t hear you.

“Jaehyun? Does he think he’s too good for you or something? That cocky dimple Gryffindor, with the draw of my wand---” Doyoung whips out his intricately customized Dragon Heartstring, and you’re on your feet to calm his temper down.

“Will you put that thing away? I’m here for you.” Your giggle warms his tight chest and puts out the fueling flame for anyone who dares to hurt you in any way. “It’s not a big deal and it’s not the first time it has happened.”

Doyoung uncomfortably clears his throat and withdraws his wand. Buttoning up his shirt, he fixes his tie back in place. To say the least, your words erupted his festering jealousy and this may have been a small tipping point.

Before you had entered, he was so frustrated with himself and you. You can just walk away with another man without a second thought, in front of him too. He remembered the soft feeling of your body and how he’s not the only one who’s needy hands ran their course over you. That may be the one pain he can never get rid of.

“I never understood why you give other men the time of your day when they just brush you off undeservingly.” He stings and you’re slightly surprised at his sudden attack. When you respond in silence, he continues.“I thought Hufflepuffs are to be loyal, so why do you sleep with other men?”

Crossing your arms, your weight is barred on your left leg and there is a shift in your overall mood. With an eyebrow raised, you sass him back, “People say Slytherins are ambitious, so why didn’t you chase after me?”

Doyoung swallows hard and blinks at you speechless. A clammy hand runs through his black strands as he tries to find any possible explanation without confessing his feelings. If he had a plan to confess, it would never be in the middle of an inquisition with you.

“I guess you didn’t think before acting on your desires.” And how he hated how correct that statement is. He doesn’t ever think whenever he’s around you. All his actions are conducted with his emotions and the feelings that overtake him.

Doyoung scoffs, rolling his eyes at your rash comment. “Aren’t you supposed to have the strongest morality among all the houses?”

“Sleeping with multiple men isn’t morally wrong. There’s nothing wrong with it…” The slight hurt from his question is difficult to ignore, but you must remember one thing if you want to protect your heart on your sleeve. This is nothing serious to be bickering over. You two aren’t anything serious, so why feel the need to squabble over nonsense? “... it would only be wrong if someone liked me and wished to commit to me.”

Your eyes meet and Doyoung blinks at you with wide eyes. His Adam’s Apple bobs as he gulps again, completely whiplashed at how the conversation has turned. “And if that’s the case and you like me, would that make you jealous, Doyoung? That’s why you’re trying to poorly attack my character?” He’s never heard such a strong taunt in your tone and he’s baffled by it, slightly aroused, but shocked.

“I don’t like you.” His voice is small and he pouts his lips at you. Doyoung crosses his arms and perhaps, his sad expression reveals a little more than it should have. Your heart softens at his ridiculously cute response, had you expected something much more angry and vindictive.

“Then this conversation is over, right? I’ll be on my way now. I have herbology.”

“We have the same class.” He grumbles, grabbing his robe from his desk chair.

You open the door to make your exit, “but since you don’t want to be seen with a Hufflepuff, I’ll go ahead first.” When you stumble out into the hallway, a recognizable face brightens at your appearance.

“Haechan! Hello, I haven’t seen you in a while.” You’re cheering and Doyoung chews the inside of his cheek. His pride is left at the door and along with all the things that hold him back from you, he doesn’t want to push you away anymore.

“My favorite Hufflepuff, are you just leaving?” Haechan walks up to open his arms, wishing to embrace you in the longest hug. However, Doyoung quickly takes you by your hand and rushes past him.

“She came to walk with me to class. Bye Haechan.” And Haechan is left standing in the middle of the hallway, confused and watching your backs as you’re both briskly walking out the common room.

Doyoung looks back at you, “you think I’m going to let you walk out of my room and have another Slytherin walk you to class? Don’t be so foolish.”

But you are foolish. Your heart beats foolishly and loudly for Kim Doyoung. And may you be foolish enough to wonder if his heart does the same for you.

And it does. Foolishly. Loudly. Lovingly.

You both wonder if this vicious cycle will ever meet its end. Doyoung pushes you away by ignoring your existing relationship, but pulls you back into his embrace as if it never happened. You push him away by running off with other men, but come back to him as if he’s the one person you’re loyal to.

But on this particular night, after mass circulation of rumors reaches the ears of the lovesick Slytherin, Doyoung is pulling you away from your huddled group of friends in the middle of the long corridor hallways. Without any greeting, any spoken words, he’s dragging you to his room right in front of everyone to see. His hand around yours like it was two days prior, but with an expression so grave on his sullen face.

The silence between you two brings no comfort, but you don’t dare say the first words. Doyoung, finally, approached you first in public and it is possibly for a greater reason. Perhaps you’ve done something horribly wrong, and the moment you two step into his room that you’ll hear a mouthful.

However when he closes the door to his room, your hand immediately drops from his embrace and he turns to face you. There is a darkness in his eyes, one that light cannot touch, and his lips are tight in a line.

There is an eerie silence that fills the dark room and the murky windows paint the area an ominous green. Doyoung focuses on your confused, yet adorable expression. “Why did you lie to me?”

The door catches your slight stumble and you’re blinking cluelessly at him. “About what?”

“Jaehyun.” He breathes the name in spite and aggressively loosens his tie. “He didn’t blow you off. You rejected him and he’s telling everyone it's because you’re in love with someone else.”

You scorn at such a ridiculous rumor and for the fact that it’s even made its way around to Doyoung. Another realization hits you. All it took for him to approach you in public is a meaningless rumor.

So in response, you laugh and it mocks him further. “This is not a laughing matter, y/n.”

“I’m sorry, but why are you so upset at that? Fine. I did lie to you, but I never told Jaehyun I was in love with anyone else.”

“Are you in love with someone else?” Doyoung says with balled fists at his side. There is a mixture of anger and sadness running through his veins and he’s so sick of feeling this way.

Your hesitation speaks for you, “It’s better that you don’t know.”

“You say this every time and it does nothing to ease my conscience.” Doyoung throws his hands in the air and stares at you with sharp eyes. “Is that why you were afraid that my emblem wouldn’t show up? Because your heart belongs to another. Yeah, I heard Jaehyun wanted to mark you too.”

Men and their constant want to prove something to themselves with their marks. Everyone has a twisted reality of markings now. There have been many others who have tried to mark you, feeling as if lust would be enough to suffice its appearance. As one's Patronus is special to their own protection, a beloved’s Patronus mark holds the same value.

You’re quite at a loss for words, “I was afraid that it wouldn’t show up, not because of myself, but because of you.”

Doyoung points at himself in disbelief. Him? He loves you more than anyone he’s ever encountered, even if you didn’t know it. “I wouldn’t have almost tried it if I wasn’t sure of myself.”

“You don’t love me, Doyoung. I don’t even know if I can even say you romantically like me.” Those words hurt the both of you and it lingers in the room for longer than you’d like.

“Do you think I fuck you meaninglessly like all those other losers you sleep with?” Doyoung steps forward, pulling you into his chest and admiring everything he’s fallen in love with. A pain spreads across his heart as he thinks of you with another person, of someone else kissing you, of someone else making you happy.

“You really don’t feel it in the way I kiss you?” He asks once more and your own stare drops to his shoulder, a bit ashamed to maintain eye contact with such pained eyes.

“And if I did? How would you explain that? That you are actually in love with me?” Your questions pelt him like rocks. As he pushes you on his bed, you pull him down with his tie.

Doyoung drinks you up like fresh water, a crisp and refreshing love that encourages him to reach heights. His hand cups your face and his feather touches reminds you of his gentleness. Your lips taste like sweet honey, dripping and coating him with a sticky sugar.

He’s happier with you and he’s the happiest kissing you. Perhaps, it’s hard for him to express with words, but he’d always hope his actions speak louder. So, his lips press against yours with a whirl of passion and every good feeling that grows in his chest.

The collar of his shirt is wrinkled in your fist and you’re holding him as if you’re afraid of him letting go. Doyoung runs a hand down your torso and lifts the end of your skirt up. A warm hand pushes your legs apart and a finger presses your clit through your cotton panties.

Your mouth opens into a moan and he takes this opportunity to shove his long tongue inside, lapping with your own. As a wet spot forms on your panties, he pulls them to the side and gathers the slick to gently rub your erect clit. His name is lost and muffled in the kiss, but you tap at his chest.

When he breaks away and halts all movement, he looks down over you with a fire burning in his dark orbs. And a confession falls from his swollen lips, “may I mark you?”

“And if it doesn’t show up?” Though, you’re wishing to the most powerful wizards that it does or else your heart would shatter into a million pieces beyond repair.

He bites his lip and every possible outcome scatters his thoughts. It’s too hard to concentrate, so he doesn’t at all. He focuses on your pretty lips and the way you look at him like he’s the only person that matters. “Then, we’ll deal with the consequences later.”

With your quick nod, Doyoung attaches his lips to your neck and harshly sucks at your skin. For the most part, it’s a pleasurable feeling and sends a shiver down your spine. So, he licks and nibbles until he can barely breathe. Your faint scent of patchouli and ginger intoxicates him, wraps him up in a fuzzy coziness that is unmatched.

Your hands unbutton his shirt and a final gentle bite seals his mark. If the love is reciprocated, the emblem would take a moment to form. Doyoung is rather hopeful and excited, as he’s never seen his Patronus before. “You look beautiful.”

“And you look dazed as if someone charmed you.” You giggle and kiss his red lips.

“You’re quite the powerful one, my Puff.” He smiles against your jaw before proceeding to your mess down below. He gives your aching clit a few licks, which cause your body to twist and turn at the sensitive sensation.

“Please, I haven’t felt you in so long.” Whining and tugging at his hair, Doyoung leaves a lasting kiss and gets up to remove his pants.

“Did you miss me?” Doyoung raises a suggestive eyebrow and cocks his head to the side in mockery, a smirk growing on his face.

You reply with a silly response that only he knows and causes him to chuckle, “unfortunately.” And he’s finding every way not to confess his endearments for you.

His dick stands tall and proud against his abdomen, giving it a few jerks as he watches you strip out of your own clothes. You turn around and sit on your knees, with a slight tilt forward and the arch in your back to accentuate your ass.

Doyoung rolls on the protection as quickly as he can. His hands lightly smack your cheeks and slowly enters your dripping hole. His hands grip your hips as he slides deeper into you, both being moaning messes at the delicious feeling.

“Have you always been this big?” You look back at him and to which he devilishly smiles at you.

“You know just the way to fuel my ego,” when his length is fully buried inside of your tight walls, he wraps an arm around your waist and a hand on your tit. “After all the times you’ve been fucked, your pussy is still as tight as ever.”

Doyoung slams hard into you, showing no mercy and causing you to jolt up. He takes every frustration, every feeling of anger, every ounce of jealousy into his thrusts. “But you take me so well, darling. I’ve never seen someone as pretty as you.”

His compliments cause your heart to soar, despite the soreness you’re beginning to feel in your pussy. He’s relentless, bottoming out until his tip is practically in your guts. “Just like that, baby. You’re the only one who fucks me this good.”

He blushes under the low light and leans forward to kiss the top of your head. “My Puff, you’re so sweet to me.” The loud squelch of your tight pussy gripping his dick fills the hot room, “and so wet.”

You’re shamelessly dripping on his green velvet blanket and Doyoung picks up his speed. Your knees give out as you fall face forward into the mattress, hands in fists from the incredible pleasure of every hit. Your ass now in his full view and every tingle of magic lights up in his veins.

Your throat is raw from screaming and moaning, Doyoung holds your hips steady to thrust into a new angle. Automatically, your body twitches as his tip hits your special spot and he’s well aware that you’re close to releasing.

And with his fast thrusts, he asks you an intimate question that is fueled by envy and rage. “If I fuck you the best, then why do you sleep with other men?”

There are no thoughts in your mind to even give him a white lie, to mask the truth of your actions. He’s fucking you into an oblivion that it’s hard to even focus on anything besides pleasure. The books on his shelf begin to tremble as you’re crying out, “I- I don’t know! Fuck, please… ! I’m tipping over.”

“Answer the question or I will stop.” He’s absolutely cynical and you have every reason to believe his threat. Doyoung lifts your limp body upright, against his torso and an arm secured around your middle as before. His hand snakes to your clit, rubbing feathering circles over the neglected bud.

Nonetheless, his single action paired with his tip grazing harshly against the particular spot causes your legs to tremble. “Do you want me to stop?” His threat rings in your ears when you still left him without an answer.

You’re so close, you’re starting to see white. So, you say what your heart tells you and the truth falls from your lips in a loud confession. “Because I wanted you to love me instead! I fucked them to forget about my love for you… fuck, I’m--”

“I’ve got you. Let go of yourself, baby.” Doyoung slows his hips when your walls squeeze around him sporadically. Every book flies out and hits the opposite wall, clattering the floor with heavy academia. However, he repeats your proclamation endlessly in his mind and his heart surges with the most intense romantic desires.

“I do love you, y/n.” He whispers, cumming into his rubber and simply holding you tightly. He lets go of every prideful arrogance in his body, tossing the lame reputation he always tried to hold onto. He didn’t need that if it meant losing you. Doyoung chuckles to himself for being an obvious cliché, announcing one’s love in the midst of a lustful act. He pulls out and gently tucks you into the covers.

Breathless, you’re finally realizing his confession. “You do? Are you sure?” Any subtle movements has your aching lower half in pain, so you settle with resting on his plush pillows and await for him to join you in bed.

All this time, from beginning to now, you’ve been oblivious to his yearning looks across the Great Hall. The intensity of his kisses had been lost upon you completely as you had convinced yourself that he was incompatibly of loving you back. Even now, as you lay in slight doubt, you’re wondering how you managed to have everything fly over your head.

When he discards his used protection and with a quick flick of his wrist, every book finds its original place on the shelf again, he enters the warm covers. Your arms wrap around his neck and you’re admiring each other’s expressions in the low light. He spots the notable twinkle in your eyes and his thumb lightly rubs your cheek.

“If the symbol of my Patronus doesn’t show, I promise to love you harder until it does.” Doyoung leaves the softest, most loving kiss on your lips. He’s more than thankful for the lack of light as he’s bashfully red all over his cheeks.

“Usually, people just give up.” Your voice is harsh, possibly from the deafening screaming of pleasure prior.

Doyoung shakes his head. He’s made too many mistakes in this relationship with you. Sleeping with another. Ignoring your existence. Being too prideful to be seen with another house. All these incidents have made him feel nothing but ugliness and distraught, and pushed you away further than how much he is able to pull you back.

He loves you. He’s in love with you. He’s fallen for you recklessly as you did off your broom the first encounter. You’re everything he’s never been and never will be, yet you don’t care. You’re by his side, despite his spitefulness and you never miss a beat. That innocent youth approach to love, oh how he wishes it never faded, and though he thought it did, it didn’t. You remain true to your character when he fights with himself internally.

“That would be a mistake and I can’t afford to keep making them.” A glossy sheen over Doyoung’s regretful eyes, but you pull him closer and you refuse to let his eyes wander.

A tired harmless sigh escapes your lips and a dreamy haze overcomes you. Besides the reminder of needing to use the bathroom flashing in your mind, there is nothing else you want to dissect. Feelings are too complex to discuss at the moment and the resolve has already passed.

Regardless of the marks appearing, you’re content with the night and for the rest of your days. Kim Doyoung, the Slytherin boy of your dreams, loves you back and the power of that alone beats any spell in those dusty old textbooks.

“Why can’t we lay here forever?” Your heavy eyelids fall slowly and your voice grows small.

Doyoung kisses your shoulder, then your neck. “That’s impossible. I can’t give you forever.” He mumbles against your skin, sending vibrations across your throat.

“You are my forever.” Doyoung halts and is left speechless as a white glowing entity catches his eye. And the absolute perfect outline of his Patronus sits underneath your jaw, brightly shining with iridescent brilliance --- he makes out the outline: a White Swan, representing his love for you. Doyoung smiles to himself and hopes for it to never fade. Perhaps, he can give you forever.

some fun critical questions to think about hehe -

why do you think y/n lied to doyoung about jaehyun confessing? why do you think yuta helped y/n enter the Slytherin dormitories? what is the meaning behind the White Swan Patronus? Why do you think y/n continued to like doyoung after all this time?

there are no right or wrong answers, just something fun to have you thinking a little more about the fic haha if you want, you can send me an ask about it :) but overall, no pressure and thank you for reading! please leave me some feedback if you can! happy new year!

Also read on AO3!

“If, after the war, I were to go somewhere. Somewhere far away... If you never saw me again... Would you be angry? Would you be able to forgive me for abandoning you?”

“...Yes. I would.”

Xander had never expected Laslow to stay with him forever, had been prepared to lose him someday.

“Oh? Truly?”

“It is not your company I require. Only that you continue to draw breath. I just want you to ensure you live. Whatever your true name or appearance.”

What he had not prepared for was losing Laslow, not to a happy life in another world, but to a lonely death of the fields of battle.

Xander had long since become inured to the thought of killing, even killing people who in all likelihood had done nothing but wrong except being in an army that wasn’t Nohr’s. It was part of his job as a prince and a warrior, and he found neither delight not sorrow in the deaths of the men and women he struck down with his sword.

He barely registered the bite of his sword into flesh until he came upon the sniper who may or may not have killed Laslow. Before he brings Seigfried down, Xander makes eye contact with the man, who looks small and powerless under Xander’s imposing figure. He sees terror in the man’s eyes, but behind the fear he is sure he sees recognition, which Xander takes as acknowledgement that this is the man who, with one arrow, cut off his right hand and a piece of his heart.

It’s very possible that this is not the man who shot Laslow, that the fearful recognition in his eyes is simply terror at facing the man who has been fighting as if possessed, following in the wake of a woman who is all the more dangerous because she is not possessed.

But there is no doubt in Xander’s mind that this is the man, or at least there would be no doubt if there was anything in Xander’s mind other than waves of wordless emotions, raw and overwhelming.

The sniper had only shot Laslow once, but Xander strikes him, two, three, ten times, every thunk of blade into the already-dead man’s flesh a cry of rage.

He keeps stabbing, hacking, slashing until he feels a hand on his shoulder and Camilla’s voice.

“Xander. It’s over. He’s dead.” Xander is not sure if she’s talking about Laslow or the sniper but either way she is right, he is the prince of Nohr and right now he is covered in blood and…oh, is he crying? With a note of curiosity as if this mourning prince is someone other than himself, Xander realizes that he is weeping.

The news has obviously spread to the rest of the group. Peri is bawling, the type of tears that are loud and uncomfortable for both the cryer and everyone around them. Corrin looks pained; he has worked so hard thus far to keep from losing a single member of their army and now…now they’ve lost one, and even though it’s not Corrin’s fault, the burden lays heavily on him. It’s frankly miraculous that it’s taken this long for them to see their first casualty. It was only a matter of time, but Xander wishes that Laslow had not been the one taken.

Elise throws herself at him, clinging to him as her tears mix with the blood on his armor. Laslow had been well-loved by most of the group, in spite of-or perhaps because of-his incessant flirting.

Everything since Laslow fell has seemed like a bad dream, but what drives it home that this is his reality is seeing Odin standing frozen, looking shell-shocked and for the first time ever, completely silent.

Several other members of the army are clustered into groups, crying or murmuring and looking nervously at Xander, uncomfortable with his lack of composure.

Elise’s clinging arms bring him back to earth, ground him in the reality that he is there even if Laslow is not and there is an army of people who look to him for guidance.

Xander takes a deep breath, tightens his arm around Elise, and speaks.

“Remember,” he says, voice frustratingly hoarse. “We are still at war, and in war, sacrifices are inevitable. Laslow is not the first soldier, retainer, or friend that I have lost.”

Xander’s voice breaks, along with his heart, but he soldiers on. “He is not the first, but gods willing, he will be the last. Laslow fought for the same reason we all fight: for peace in Nohr, in Hoshido, in Cyrkensia, in Valla, in every corner of the continent. I for one will be fighting all the harder to honor Laslow’s sacrifice, and I hope you all will do the same.”

Xander inhales, a deep, shuddering breath. “There will be time later,” he exhales, breath flowing out of him like tears, “for grieving. But for now, we must continue on, and right now, we need to make camp so everyone can sleep.”

Xander feels exhaustion seeping into his bones and he casts a pleading glance at Corrin and Ryoma. Luckily they understand, and they start to gather everyone up, Ryoma rallying the Hoshidans and Corrin rallying everyone else as Xander tries his hardest to remain upright.

As they set up camp, more somberly than they ever have before, Ryoma comes over and clasps him on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” He says, kind without being overly emotional in the way that Xander hates. “I did not know Laslow well, but I know that if I lost one of my retainers, I would be beside myself.”

“Well, it’s not my first time losing a retainer, I’m almost an expert by now.” Xander smiles mirthless my. “I hope it is not something you ever have to experience.”

“And I hope this is the last time for you.” Ryoma squeezes his shoulder and leaves, and Xander is thankful, both for the comfort and for the fact that Ryoma did not try to linger.

Xander retreats to his tent and shuts the door. He had Laslow’s personal belongings brought to him; right now, they’re sitting in the corner of the tent, calling to him.

But still, he hesitates. Laslow claimed to wear his hear on his sleeve, but he kept his secrets close and had a surprising number of them. Even though Xander longed to know exactly where Laslow came from, why he had a unique accent and even more unique style of swordplay, he did not ask. Laslow’s job was to support him, protect him, and stay by his side; unlike some royals, Xander had no illusions that his retainers belonged to him, body and mind.

If he looked through Laslow’s belongings, it would feel final; Laslow would truly be gone. But that was only irrational sentimentality. Death is already final, and Laslow is not here to be angry with him.

Compared to his comparisons, Laslow has very few belongings. Odin is a hoarder, of weapons and assorted miscellany; he names everything and once it is named, he refuses to part with it. Selena is a compulsive shopper, spending her entire salary on clothes and knick-knacks from every tiny town and major city they pass through.

(“I have to buy it.” She insists. “I need a souvenir to remember this place by.”

“My darling, you don’t need to buy half the continent. If you’re that worried about forgetting, I’ll bring you back here after this dreadful war is over.” Camilla promises, laughing.

“Oh, yes…” Selena’s face suddenly darkens. “After the war…”)

Laslow’s cloths are the first thing he finds, and well, if he thought this was going to be quick, he was dead wrong. Every piece of clothing smells like Laslow, who always smells of the cologne he wears too much of-rich, spicy, and entirely too aggressive for Nohrian tastes. Xander had always told him that he needed to wear less because he smelled like the inside of a soothsayer’s tent, but now he buries his face in the shirt in his hands and closes his eyes, tries to clear his mind enough that for a moment, he can pretend that Laslow isn’t gone.

A small bottle falls out of the shirt he’s holding, and Xander can’t help laughing. Laslow always brought small bottles of cologne and hair gel with him, even on long military missions.

(“A ladies man must always be prepared, milord.” Laslow had said in response to Xander’s incredulous look at his packed belongings. “As with any skill, flirting must be practiced constantly. Do you know what it would do for my reputation if I were to be caught looking ungroomed?”

“I wish you put half as much energy into training as you do into flirting.” Xander sighed, knowing this was an argument he would never win. “It doesn’t matter how nice you look if you die in battle.”

“I have no intention of dying, in battle or otherwise.” Laslow assures him. “I would never break the hearts of the lovely ladies of Nohr by dying.”

“Or me, Laslow.” Xander reminds him. “Strange as you are, I would be very upset if you were to die.”

“Of course, milord.” Laslow replies, voice almost imperceptibly rougher. “I have no desire to break your heart either.”

It does not sound like a joke and Xander does not treat it as one. “Then don’t, Laslow.”)

Xander dabs a bit of what he thinks is Laslow’s cologne on his wrist, furrows his brow when it stains his skin grey.

He inspects the bottle and sniffs his wrist, concluding that this is most definitely not cologne, but the color of grey is familiar somehow. Suddenly a familiar picture of Laslow laughing at him, too merry to be truly insolent, pops into his head and he realizes why the color is familiar.

“Hair dye.” He breathes. “Laslow, you fiend. What else were you hiding from me?”

He’s always suspected that Laslow had woven his personality together from a combination of innocuous truths, necessary lies, and half-lies that later turned into truths. Laslow is a terrible liar, but a fantastic secret keeper. Xander could always tell when Laslow is lying, but could never intimidate, wheedle, or pry the truth out of him.

Going through Laslow’s things suddenly becomes much more urgent, and Xander resolves to devote his whole evening to it. And if he happens to cry a little, in an entirely unprincely fashion, well, at least no one will be around to see it.

Laslow’s clothes are almost as colorful as Laslow himself, and it takes a long time to go through them because everything Xander picks up overwhelms him with memories.

This is Laslow’s favorite shirt, the one looks like a puffy quilt strapped around the body with two leather strips.

(“I just don’t understand it.” Xander says, staring at Laslow’s shirt like its a puzzle to solve.

“I’m disappointed, milord.” Laslow feigns shock. “I was told that you were fashionable for a crown prince, but you don’t even appreciate the style of shirt that’s all the rage in my hometown.”

“I’m not saying it’s not fashionable, I’m saying it makes you look like a puff pastry.”

Laslow smiles crookedly, cocks one eyebrow. “Milord, are you saying that I look…delectable?”

Xander snorts, “If that is the kind of line you use on the village ladies, I can see why you get rejected so often.”)

And this is the formal shirt in Nohrian style that Xander had given him to wear to formal functions. Why Laslow brought it with him to Valla is beyond him, since Laslow always complained about having to wear it.

(“Do I really have to wear this?” Laslow looks personally offended by the garment in his hand.

“Only for meetings with the King, formal dinners, things like that.” Laslow looks like he’s about to protest, but Xander cuts him off. “You already barely act like a proper royal retainer and I usually don’t make so. Could you please do this one thing for me?”

Laslow sighs, grudgingly acquiescing. “But it’s so dowdy! What will it to to my reputation as a ladykiller?”

“Trust me, that shirt could not hurt your reputation any more than your pickup lines already have. Stop being such a dandy.”

“Says the man who wears a frilly cravat into battle.” Laslow retorts.)

And this is…an outfit that Xander has never seen before. It’s made of light gauzy fabric and looks vaguely similar to a Cyrkensian dancer’s outfit, if they made Cyrkensian dancers outfits for men. The clothes themselves are simple; light, loose black pants mad of silky, almost translucent material and a black vest with intricate gold embroidery around the edges. Packed in a box underneath are a number of accessories, all in gold: wristbands and anklets, a slender belt, a pair of hoops with large spikes running along the edge connected by a length of fabric, a heavy looking necklace, and a single hoop earring.

Xander tries to picture Laslow wearing the outfit, but cannot get a clear picture in his mind. If he focuses, he can imagine the pieces: the vest, the belt, the wristbands. But when he tries to put everything together, the image slips away, and a fresh wave of grief hits him when he realizes that Laslow is gone and he will never get the chance to piece together the full image.

He quickly packs everything away, except for the hoop earring, which he tucks into his breast pocket. Xander had told Ryoma that he was almost an expert at losing retainers, and while it wasn’t quite at that level, he had developed a few rituals to honor his fallen retainers, one of which was wearing a token of theirs on a cord around his neck.

At present, he only had two; a ring, and a charm.

The ring was the family crest of one of his first retainers, who had been the only child of a prominent family. His family had hoped his appointment as Xander’s retainer would ensure the legacy of their family name; instead, the line had ended with him on a barren field just shy of the Hoshidan border. Xander feels the weight of it always, lying flush on the skin above his heart, heavy with the weight of generations that will never be born.

The charm is a small flat stone, washed smooth by the river where his second retainer had collected it when she was a child. She had etched symbols into both sides, symbols for protection and longevity that she had been taught by her grandmother, who had been a mystic and a healer. The charm had not done its job, had not protected her, and Xander wears it now, not for protection, but for remembrance.

Tomorrow, he resolves, he will find a string somewhere around camp, and Laslow’s earring will join the other tokens, the third and, gods willing, the last tribute necklace that Xander has to make.

Heart heavy and eyes damp, he continues to look through Laslow’s things, taking time to run his hands over every object, as if he can soak up any residual traces of Laslow left from the last time he touched them. It is painful, and he considers putting Laslow’s belongings aside, but the prospect of not having a task to focus his attention on is terrifying, so he does not.

As he continues his inspection, Xander turns away several visitors: first Camilla with her smothering comfort, then Corrin with his quiet pity. He sends Elise away as well, but eats the food she brings because he has no wish to make her cry any more today. Leo, bless him, seems to understand that Xander wants to be alone because he does not come try to comfort him. Peri, Elise tells him, insisted on joining the hunting party that caught their dinner and is now insisting on personally butchering all the animals that will be their breakfast.

The day passes without him noticing, and evening finds him thumbing through a leather notebook filled with words in Laslow’s handwriting but in a script that Xander has never seen before when he hears someone calling “Knock knock!” from behind the flap of his tent. Knocking before entering is a Nohrian custom, but it only works if there is a door to knock on. At tents, most normal people simply announce themselves and ask to be let in.

He yanks the flap back, ready to snap at whoever it is, because his heartstrings are pulled taught like a bowstring and tear ducts are sore from overexertion and he has already been interrupted too many times by people who don’t understand that he’s too proud to be vulnerable around other people so he’d rather grieve alone.

Xander is surprised enough to see Odin there that he forgets to yell at him, although in retrospect, it explains the strange greeting. Odin is quite a sight, hair wild and eyes red, holding a bottle of liquor in one hand and wearing what appears to be Niles’ cloak.

“Ah, Milord! Pardon the interruption, but I have spent the afternoon grieving my fallen comrade and after my eyes had run dry of manly tears, I realized that as Laslow’s liege, your sense of loss may be overwhelming. As Laslow’s bosom companion, I have come offering companionship.” Odin says, never one to speak briefly when a speech is possible.

Odin’s voice, like his appearance, is slightly off. “And liquor!” He adds, raising the bottle and his voice. “Let us drown our sorrows in the sweet embrace of intoxication!”

Xander pulls him inside, suspecting that Odin may already be in the embrace of intoxication. Normally he would send him back to Leo to deal with, but Odin is probably the only other person who feels the loss of Laslow as keenly as he does, if not more.

Odin collapses ungracefully to the floor by Xander’s hearthstone and sheds his cloak to reveal yet another cloak, one that looks a lot like one of his brother’s.

“Odin, is that Leo’s cloak?”

Odin inspects the cloak as if he is surprised to find himself wearing it. “Ah, indeed it is! Milord Leo is such a noble master, the only one that the great Odin Dark could ever call his liege. He insisted that I wear it, so I don’t 'Catch my death wandering around half naked in the cold like the idiot that I am.’”

“Yes, that sounds like Leo.” Xander sighs. “Well, alright then. Let me join you in...the bosom of lady liquor, or whatever it is you said.”

“Milord, there’s hope for you yet as a wordsmith!” Odin passes him the bottle and Xander drinks deeply. In general, he prefers wine or not to drink at all, but the burn of the liquor feels appropriate.

Odin, meanwhile, is inspecting the cloak that he took off when he first entered the tent, looking confused. “When did I get two cloaks?”

“You came in wearing them both.” Xander reminds him.

“Ah yes!” Odin exclaims, remembering. “Niles made me take his cloak as well because we’ve already lost one retainer today and he doesn’t feel like losing another to something as banal as the cold. A noble gesture, but today Odin Dark’s heart is so cold from grief that the freezing wind cannot make it any colder.”

“I didn’t take Niles for the caretaking type.” Xander comments, deliberately putting off talking about Laslow until he is a little drunker.

“Most people don’t, but I have discovered his hidden potential! Behind his wicked tongue beats a chivalrous and noble heart.” Odin reaches for the bottle, takes a long swig, and returns it to Xander. “Although that is not to say that his wicked tongue does not have it’s uses.”

Xander does not drink very often, and his head is starting to feel slightly light, which he thinks it is time to bring up Laslow.

“Not that I am not grateful for...Lady Liquor here, Odin, but I am curious why you came to me. Why not seek the comfort of Leo and Niles, whom I understand you have an...intimate relationship with?” Xander finds himself asking.

Ok, perhaps it is almost time to bring up Laslow. He wants desperately to talk about Laslow, but is also desperately scared, and Odin’s strange relationships are a much safer topic.

“My bond with Milord Leo and Niles is indeed a bond for the ages, a bond that the bards will surely sing about for eons to come, a bond that is consummated in spirit, mind, and yes, in body.” Odin flushes a deeper red. “But how did you come to know about our bond?”

“Laslow read your diary.” Xander replies easily, seeing no reason to lie as Laslow is not here to get angry with him.

“Laslow, you dastard!” Odin exclaims, much louder than is appropriate. “You beautiful, noble dastard.” Odin’s breath hitches as he chokes back a sob. “I cannot believe that he is gone.”

“I cannot either.” Xander says.

They sit in silence for several moments, passing the bottle back and forth until Xander finds it empty. He peers inside it, as if he can will more drink into being with his gaze, and Odin pulls another bottle out of his robe.

“I chose to come to you,” Odin says, passing Xander the fresh bottle. “Because you are the only other person in this world who loved Laslow as much as I did.”

“Mmm.” Xander says nothing, because he has never thought of it in those terms, but he supposes that it is true.

They drink in silence, passing the bottle back and forth until it is almost empty. Xander feels lightheaded, feels sleepy, feels like he’s not quite here, which is preferable to being here, because Laslow is not here. He picks up the handwritten notebook he was looking at earlier and flips through it idly, staring at the words he cannot read.

Odin’s eyes flicker towards the movement of Xander’s hands, grow wide when they land upon the book that Xander is holding.

“Is that Inigo’s diary?” He exclaims, speech just on the edge of slurring.

“Who is Inigo?” Xander asks in reply, confused.

Odin face morphs into a look of panic. “Oh, Inigo is...Inigo is a character in a book! The book is called...Inigo’s Diary! It was Laslow’s favorite book from our childhood.”

It’s a truly terrible lie, but Odin looks pleased.

“Odin.” Xander says, not having any of it. “Was Laslow’s real name Inigo?”

Odin’s pleased expression falls away, face pale. “Why would you ask that?”

“Laslow once told me that he bears a false name and a false appearance.” Xander fixes Odin with the stern look he adopts when he’s acting as Xander, Prince of Nohr and he wants to be obeyed. “I’ll ask again. Is Inigo Laslow’s true name?”

The look seems to work, because Odin sighs and gives in. “Yes.”

“Inigo.” Xander repeats, testing the name out, feeling it on his tongue. “Inigo. Laslow. Inigo.”

The name is strange to his ears and on his lips, but it feels true, and another piece slots into place in the puzzle that is Laslow.

“Inigo of the Indigo Skies.” Odin says, voice sounding far away. “The false name thing really messed me up. Laslow of the Indigo Skies really doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

“You could try Laslow of the Azure Skies.” Xander suggests, lightheaded from the alcohol and the revelations.

“I did.” Odin laughs bitterly. “But he didn’t like it. Said he preferred Indigo Skies.”

“Wait, did Laslow-” Xander stops himself, confused over which name to use, “Did Inigo really change his appearance when he came here?”

Odin snorts. “Inigo is a silver-tongued scoundrel. His claims of a false appearance are greatly over-exaggerated. All he did was dye his hair.”

“I know,” Xander says. “I found his hair dye.”

“Of course you did. I can tell that you found his cologne as well.”

Xander flushes. He may have dabbed a little bit of Laslow’s cologne on his neck earlier, after making sure that this time, it was really cologne. He also may have teared up a little bit when the scent first his his nose, but Odin didn’t need to know that.

“So what color was Laslow’s hair originally?” Xander asks, changing the subject.

“I’m not sure I should tell you.” Odin says.

“What if I ordered you to tell me as the Crown Prince of Nohr?”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a citizen of Nohr.”

“No, but you are fucking the younger prince of Nohr, and I think that makes you close enough.”

Odin’s mouth, already open for a retort, snaps shut, teeth clicking audibly. “I think,” He says, swaying gently. “I think you’ve had enough to drink.”

“I think we both have.” Xander agrees, trying not to slur his words. “Anyway, I think I’ve lost the bottle.”

“It’s gone?” Odin exclaims. “How can it be gone when it was just here moments ago?”

Xander thinks that he could say the same thing about Laslow, and when he meets Odin’s eyes, he knows that they’re thinking about the same person.

“Pink.” Odin says. “Inigo’s hair was pink, like his mother’s.”

“That would suit him.” Xander says, trying to picture it.

“It did.”

“Odin, would you tell me more about Laslow? About Inigo?” Xander asks.

“I would be honored to share that information with you, milord. But only,” Odin shakes his finger at Xander. “On one condition.”

“What is that?” Xander asks, looking at Odin’s finger rather than his eyes.

“Entrust to me the care and keeping of the sacred keepsake that you hold in your princely hands.” When Xander looks confused, Odin adds, “Give me Inigo’s diary. You can’t read it anyway, it’s in our native language.”

Xander considers the offer. “If I give it to you, will you tell me what he wrote in it?”

"Odin Dark can make no promises as to that. I cannot betray the confidence of a man who was closer to me than a brother.” Odin says. “However, I will share my stories of the exploits of Odin Dark and Inigo of the Indigo Skies.”

Xander considers arguing, but thinks better of it, passes the book to Odin. Laslow had his secrets in life, and he deserves to have them in death. Besides, Odin is right; he cannot read the diary and keeping the knowledge from Odin, who could read it, would be cruel.

Odin’s face light up when Xander gives him the book, and he immediately begins flipping through it, glancing at page after page. His face is nothing but raw emotion, pain and love and nostalgia wrapped up into one.

“No matter what world we were in, or what evils we faced.” Odin says quietly, looking at the book. “Inigo was the one person who was always by my side.”

Xander does not know how to respond to that, but he is saved from thinking of a response by a voice outside his tent.

“Brother.” He hears Leo saying, voice weary. “I’ve come to collect my retainer. I hope he hasn’t been a bother to you.”

Xander opens the tent flap to find Leo and Niles, standing outside.

“Not at all, Leo.” Xander assures him. “In fact, he’s been quite a comfort. We’ve been...bonding.”

“If by bonding you mean drinking, then I can tell.” Niles remarks, looking past Xander.

Leo give Niles a look and Niles clarifies, “I’m talking about Odin, not about your noble brother.”

As if on cue, Odin all but throws himself at Leo, who looks embarrassed at the fact that his older brother is seeing such a display of affection.

Xander, for his part, finds it sweet, although it does send a pang of loneliness through him to see his brother together with his two retainers when Xander himself has had that privilege wrenched away from him.

“Odin, didn’t you have two cloaks when you left?” Niles asks Odin.

“Odin Dark does not remember such trivial things as the whereabouts of garments!”

“Of course you wouldn’t, you barely wear clothes anyway.” Niles mutters. “Prince Xander, could I trouble you to look for an extra cloak in your tent? It happens to be mine, and this wretch is obviously not going to return it to me.”

“Of course.” Xander retrieves the cloak for Niles, who, for all his grumbling, immediately wraps Odin in it. Xander has never quite understood Niles, never understood his personality or why on earth his straitlaced brother had chosen a petty thief as his retainer, but Niles’ devotion to Leo had convinced Xander of the soundness of his morals, and his tenderness towards Odin only confirmed his impression.

“Thank you for keeping me company, Odin Dark.” Xander says. “I hope that we can do this again in better circumstances.”

Odin gives a vague hand wave of affirmation, either drunker than Xander realized or acting drunker in the company of Leo and Niles. “Likewise, Prince Xander.” Odin says, slurring his words significantly more than he had minutes earlier.

“I think we need to get him to bed.” Leo says, looking at Odin with exasperation and barely concealed fondness before turning a concerned gaze to Xander. “Will you be alright being alone, Xander?”

“Yes.” Xander says, and he hopes that it is the truth. “Thank you, brother. Goodnight.”

He closes the door before Leo can insist that he needs company, and listens to their footsteps as they walk away. He can hear their voices mingling, Odin’s loud and emphatic, Niles’ smooth and dryly amused, Leo’s warm and level. Images of himself listening indulgently to Peri and Laslow’s chatter spring unbidden into his mind, and he can feel the tug of longing in his chest like a physical pain. He has never given much thought to his siblings’ retainers before beyond observing them to ensure that they will do their job adequately, but he hopes now that Leo appreciates what a gift it is to have both Odin and Niles by his side.

Xander finds the bottle he’d hidden from Odin, downs the rest of it in three gulps, and falls asleep in his clothes.

His sleep is restless and his dreams are chilling. He finds himself on the edge of a cliff, with Laslow hanging on to the edge, about to fall if not for the grip of his fingertips.

“Laslow, take my hand!” Dream-Xander calls, voice desperate, hand outstretched.

Dream-Laslow looks at him, amazingly unafraid for someone about to fall off a cliff.

“That’s not my name.” He says, and lets go, disappearing into the void.

Xander wakes with a start, covered in sweat. He’s had these dreams before, about Laslow or Peri or one of his siblings dying, but this one is worse because when he wakes up, Laslow is still gone, this time for good.

It is still dark outside and will be for many hours, but Xander does not go back to sleep.

Xander has lost retainers before, but it does not mean he is good at dealing with grief. After the loss of his first retainers, he had sworn to never lose another retainer in a fit of naive passion, and his grief at the loss of Laslow intermingles with anger at himself for letting it happen.

His earlier losses did teach him that a prince does not have the luxury of experiencing grief in slow, healthy stages that lead to healing, and he does not try. Rather, he experiences all of the stages at once and his grief settles into his bones and festers like an open wound throughout the rest of the war.

Frankly, Xander does not remember many specifics from the rest of their struggle against Anankos. He knows that they won, and he knows that they won partially because of him, and partially in spite of him. As Leo tells it, he and Peri tended to clear half a battlefield in a matter of moments, and then the rest of the army had to catch up to them before they were overwhelmed by the other half of the enemy forces. Xander is not proud of his actions or of the fact that his rashness endangered his family and comrades, but the rush of battle drowned out everything else, drowned out his pain and grief and his guilt, as well as any curiosity about the revelations that they uncovered along the way.

Off the battlefield, Corrin assures him, he carried himself with dignity and led as well as he could be expected to, considering the circumstances. Xander reflects that they are lucky that being a leader had been beaten into him from a young age enough that he could do it on autopilot, and if he faltered he had Ryoma and Corrin to step up and support him.

In the moment, every day had been a struggle, but looking back, he does not recall almost any moment between Laslow’s death and his own coronation with any sort of clarity. It is a shameful admission, but grief had made him remiss in his duty, his focus brought back only by the cold weight of his father’s crown on his head. It is ugly and ill-fitting, but it reminds him that he has a country to lead and cannot continue to limp through life like a wounded dog.

Bit by bit, Xander returns to the world of the living. Being the king is strange, although it is a role he has been preparing for since birth. And it keeps him busy; there are political advisers to meet, citizen requests to hear, diplomats to impress, soldiers to lead, and that is just the beginning. He thought that he was prepared, but suddenly every single person in the country of Nohr is depending on him, and he feels the responsibility keenly.

On occasions he is not surprised that his father went crazy after years on the throne.

Xander is well suited for the role, but he cannot say that he enjoys it. As a child Xander had resented the restrictions that being a prince had put on his life and freedom, but that was nothing compared to the life of a king. The sudden war and even more sudden peace with Hoshido in addition to Garon’s death had destabilized Nohr. Within less than a year of assuming the throne, he finds ihimself facing countless attacks on his character and right to the throne, two assassination attempts, one attempted coup, three small and one not-so-small peasant uprisings, and several small raids by their neighbors to the north.

At times, Xander longs to return to the time before Corrin was kidnapped by Nohr, before it had become evident that his father was not his father (but not too much earlier, not before Laslow, Odin, and Selena had appeared at court). But these times always pass, eclipsed by fifty different pressing issues, and Xander bears his burden stoicly and patiently.

“Xander, you’re too stressed.” Camilla tells him. “You’re strong, but even strong men have their limits. You need an outlet or I’m afraid you’re going to explode.”

“It’s fine, Camilla. I have an outlet.”

Camilla looks at him skeptically. “Who?” She asks, voice dripping with disbelief.

“What? No one.” Xander furrows his brow. “Wait, when you said outlet, you meant…sexually?”

Camilla looks at him like he is the stupidest person she’s ever met. To be fair, he might be. “Of course. I have Beruka and- I have Beruka. Leo has both his retainers. You had Laslow.”

“Laslow? No, Laslow wasn’t…we weren’t…” Xander struggles to find the words, unable to give voice to what she is implying. “Laslow liked women.”

Camilla rolls her eyes. “So does Leo, and he’s fucking both his retainers.”

“Does everybody know about that?”

“Everyone who’s looking. So not many. Don’t change the subject Xander, I’m even more concerned now. You’re under more stress than ever before and you have nowhere to release it.” She pats his shoulder like she used to do when they were children. “Think about it, brother.”

Xander does think about it, thinks about it and dismisses it. Sex just seems unappealing, and from a political standpoint, dangerous. A king is expected to have mistresses, but he is also expected to have a wife first, and although being king of Nohr has dictated every part of his life, he is not willing to give it that.

It is different for Leo and Camilla because they were not the king. Besides, their lovers are also their retainers, whose loyalty is first to them, then to Nohr, even if it was supposed to be the other way around. Perhaps if he had wanted to take Peri to bed, it would be acceptable, but neither he nor Peri found that idea appealing, Xander uninterested in women and Peri uninterested in activities that did not end in death.

If Laslow were still alive, then perhaps…

The thought occurrs to him often, and every time he pushes it aside. There is no use speculating about what might have been. Besides, he would not have been satisfied with having Laslow as an illicit lover, would want him as a partner in all things, and with Xander’s kingship and Laslow’s plans to return home to another world, that simply could not happen.

Xander may not have a lover to help him release his tension, but he has adapted to constantly being tense, and he copes in other ways.

When there are no military operations for him to head, he trains with Peri, using real weapons and real force until someone draws blood, at which point he knocks her sword to the ground in order to save them both. Peri has always fought like a woman possessed, and after she draws blood, she cannot be held responsible for following through to its logical conclusion.

Xander has no desire to die at her hands, so as soon as someone bleeds they trade their real weapons for wooden practice swords and alternate sparring and decimating training dummies until their muscles ache.

Sometimes after training, Peri will cry and Xander will hold her, her tears mingling with their sweat and occasionally, blood.

“It’s not fair!” She blubbers, and Xander understands who she is talking about, agrees wholeheartedly.

Xander never asks Peri to be quiet or to stop crying, simply lets her wail until she has no more tears to cry. He himself does not cry around others, only in his own rooms and even then rarely. It is not that he does not want to cry, but rather that he feels that he is wound so tightly that if he lets himself go, even just a little bit, he may unravel completely, falling to the floor in teardop-shaped pieces until all that is left is a puddle.

When he feels like crying, over Laslow or over the stress of his position or both, he invites Odin to his chambers and they drink together and talk about Laslow. Xander calls him Laslow and Odin calls him Inigo, and they share stories of his exploits and laugh instead of crying.

Before Laslow’s death, Xander and Odin had not been close, but their shared loss had created a strong bond between them. It grows stronger when one day Selena disappears from court and does not return, even after Camilla and Beruka take to the skies to try to retrieve her. Camilla is inconsolable and Beruka is silent as always, but her silence is one of sadness and rage.

Odin is not angry, but Selena’s departure gives rise to new lines along his forehead and around his eyes, evidence of brows furrowed in worry or discontent.

“The passage to this world was opened to us by a powerful sage from our world.” Odin explains, too tired for flowery speech. “He said that the process was taxing for him, and he could only do it twice. Once for us to leave, and once to return. He gave us a charm that would let us signal him to let him know when to reopen the portal. Selena kept it, because she did not trust us. Whether she didn’t trust us not to use it to leave her behind or not to die and lose it, she never said.”

“Yesterday, she told me that she was going home, asked if I was coming with her. I told her that I was not ready, asked her to wait.” Odin continues, pursing his lips. “She refused, told me that she was not going to wait until one of us is killed in this world like Laslow was. There were...harsh words exchanged, and it appears that she chose to leave without me.”

“Where is she going?” Xander asks. He does not want Odin to leave him too, but he cannot wish anyone trapped in a world they did not chose. “Could you catch up to her before she returns?”

“The place where the portal will open is a long way from here, but she had a head start.” Odin shakes his head. “Besides, I think we both knew that I didn’t really want to leave.”

Selena’s departure has a ripple effect, and for a time Camilla and Leo barely speak, Camilla unable to forgive Leo for Selena leaving her while Odin stayed. Odin, for his part, visits Xander even more often. With Selena gone and Laslow dead, Xander is the only person who Odin can talk to about his homeland.

“Selena and I were never bosom companions,” Odin says, resentment tinging his voice. “However, she was the only living soul who shares the firsthand knowledge of the glorious land of our birth.”

Odin begins to tell Xander more about Ylisse, although most of his stories involve Laslow. Odin tells him stories from their childhood together, from their adolescence, of their escape from a fallen world, of reuniting with versions of their parents who were not yet their parents. It is almost unbelievable, but Odin is a good storyteller, and Xander cannot help but be drawn in.

Xander notices that all of Odin’s stories conveniently omit Selena, but he does not bring it up.

On Laslow’s birthday, the first since his death, Odin and Xander shirk their duties for a full evening and pay tribute to Laslow in the ways of their homeland. In Nohr, it is customary to pour ale on the ground to honor fallen comrades who have returned to the earth, and Odin and Xander do so, pouring Laslow’s favorite ale from a nearby tavern into the earth in the far corner of the Nohrian gardens, where Odin tells him Laslow used to go to practice dancing.

In Ylisse, Odin tells him, every region has their own customs, but in the dark timeline that he and Laslow had been born into, he and his friends had created their own traditions to honor their dead parents, writing wishes and memories of the deceased on paper and setting it aflame. Odin invites Xander to join in, and Xander writes I’m sorry you did not get the chance to grow old. and I hope that you are smiling, wherever you are. Odin writes something in his native language and does not offer to translate.

They cast their slips into the fireplace in Xander’s chambers, and as the papers curl up and burn, Odin chants something softly in a language that Xander does not understand.

Afterwards, Odin translates an entry from Laslow’s diary for him. Odin rarely shares anything that Laslow wrote, but this is a special occasion, and he makes an exception, reading part of the entry that Laslow had written on his birthday the year prior.

It is so interesting to celebrate birthdays the Nohrian way. I feel as if I have grown quite accustomed (perhaps a bit too much so) to the Nohrian way of life, but celebrations always remind me of my past. It was very funny to see Odin confuse the lyrics to the Nohrian birthday song! We don’t sing any songs to celebrate birthdays in Ylisse, so of course he wouldn’t know them. Luckily, the Nohrians all think Odin is strange anyway, so he can get away with much more than I can and no one will think twice about it.

Even though I feel quite homesick thinking about the pastries mother used to make on my birthday back home, the day was quite nice overall. Xander gave me the day off from my duties, although the free time came with the stipulation that I spend it with him rather than going off to the tavern to “terrorize the local ladies,” in his words. He seemed rather awkward about it, which is endearing. I do not mind having to spend the day with him; in fact, it is a privilege. I can get rejected by women any time, but I do not often get the chance to spend time with my liege in that manner.

It appears that Xander did not think about what to do beyond spending time together, and he looked quite embarrassed when I brought it up. He is so proper and composed all the time, so it is quite rewarding to see him flustered! I have often wondered what he would look like if I tried one of my pick-up lines on him-as a joke, of course. But alas, as much as I long to see him blush, I do not think that would be a good idea.

But I am getting distracted. Since Xander seemed to have no plans, I asked him to teach me how to play chess. He seemed amazed that I did not know how, but I couldn’t tell him that we don’t have chess in my homeworld. Instead, I claimed that I don’t have a head for games and never learned, which is true. I am terrible at games, unlike Odin, the lucky bastard. Chess is not entirely dissimilar to some games we play back home, but I have always been abysmal at those too. I cannot say that I will ever be good at chess, but seeing Xander try to maintain his patience in the face of my ineptitude was quite touching.

After we played, Xander gave me some small gifts. My favorite among them is an earring that looks like the horn of an animal. Very few Nohrian men have pierced ears, so most of the earrings they sell here are very feminine. I can’t imagine how Xander came to acquire this one, because I’ve never seen anything like it. It is simple, but obviously high quality, and not to flatter myself, but I think it suits me quite well.

Xander also gave me another one of those hideous shirts that he claims are fashionable here in Nohr. If those are fashionable, then Nohr does not understand what fashion is. Of course I will wear it because it is a gift from my lord, but I may choose to wear it at a time when not many ladies are there to see me. I swear, sometimes I wonder if milord does not want me to have any success with the women of Nohr...

The only bad thing about the day is that it reminded me of how increasingly torn I have become. I miss my mother and father dearly, as well as my friends and companions back in Ylisse, but I feel more and more reluctant at the idea of parting with Nohr, and I must admit it is because I serve a fine liege. I suspect Odin and Selena feels the same way, although we have never discussed it. Well, I suspect Selena feels the same way; I know Odin does, given the intimate nature of his relationship with his liege and his fellow retainer.

Ha. It is funny that despite the nature of Odin’s relationship with his liege, I am still reluctant to let him know of the deep and growing fondness that I have for my own...

Odin closes the book and there are a million questions that Xander wants to ask, but he is afraid of some of the answers, so he chooses a safe one.

“Did Laslow refer to you as Odin even in his journal?”

“No,” Odin says. “But since I am relaying the tale, I have the right to call myself what I please. When I entered this world, I shed my old name and became Odin Dark, because I am consumed by the darkness inside my soul!”

“Sounds about right.” Xander says. “Does the darkness in your soul also command you to wear almost no clothes?”

"You are lucky that you are the king of Nohr. Most who dare to mock Odin Dark do not live to tell the tale!”

Xander laughs, and Odin joins in, and for a moment Xander almost imagines he can hear Laslow laughing with them.

That night Xander dreams of Laslow, and for once it is a good dream. Usually his dreams of Laslow are wrong somehow; if he looks like he did in life, his voice is unfamiliar. If his voice is familiar, his hair or his eyes are a different color. If everything else is right, then the way that dream-Laslow moves will be subtly wrong. Xander thinks that perhaps hearing Odin tell him things about Inigo may confuse him, every new piece of information revealing more about Inigo while obscuring something about Laslow. They are the same person, but sometimes it is hard to remember how they fit together. Xander finds that he is beginning to find it hard to picture Laslow as he was in life, and he fears that someday he will not be able to call up a memory of Laslow, will be left only with Odin’s stories.

But that night, that night Xander dreams of Laslow, wearing the shirt that Xander gave him, playing chess badly and laughing about it. In this dream Laslow does not die, and Xander does not want to wake up.

As months go by, Xander begins to finally adjust to being king of Nohr. His position no longer fits him loosely like his father’s coat did when he was a child playing dress-up; rather, it fits him as snugly as his armor and he wears it with as much confidence. It may not thrill him like the heat of battle, or fulfill him like leading his men into battle can, but he was born the crown prince of Nohr and with that came sacrifices that he did not choose to make; as with justice, he has come to terms with the realization that fulfillment is not for him.

The only part of kingship that does not eventually click into place is the fact that he only has one retainer. Xander had always anticipated that when he became king, it would be with Peri to his left and Laslow to his right. He feels Laslow’s loss as keenly as he felt his presence, and it knocks him off balance. When they first placed the crown on his head, the weight of it almost brought him to his knees.

When Xander first began to study swordplay at the tender young age of six, his teacher was a grizzled knight who was a veteran of one war and countless smaller skirmishes. He had lost his dominant right hand years ago, and rather than retiring he learned how to fight with his left and went on to defeat hundreds of men who had the advantage of two hands.

Xander, still too young to fully understand social conventions about what was acceptable to ask, had immediately peppered him with questions about what it was like to lose a limb.

“Does it hurt?” Xander asked, eyes wide. “Can I see the stump? Did you see the bone when it got cut off?”

“You ask too many questions, kid-...I mean, Prince.” The man had replied, gruff but patient, holding out his right arm to show Xander.

It was not much too look at, just skin and a long scar where they had sewn the wound together. Xander could not articulate why, but it made him uneasy, more because of what was not there than because of what was.

“To answer your other question, no, it doesn’t hurt much nowadays. Although it hurt like a b-...hurt like a dog when it happened.” He told Xander, shaking his head slightly. “But sometimes, when I first wake up or when I forget that it happened, I can feel my hand as if it’s still there. I can flex my fingers, I can make a fist, I can feel the cool morning air. It feels so real that sometimes I don’t remember that it’s gone until I try to pick something up. It hurts then, sometimes, but that may just be disappointment.”

It’s unsettling to see the distant look in the older man’s eyes, and Xander almost regrets asking.

He hadn’t been able to fully comprehend what the man was talking about back then, but now he thinks he understands. Sometimes when his mind is caught up elsewhere and too busy to feel the Laslow-shaped hold in his life, he forgets that Laslow is gone. He’ll find himself walking towards Laslow’s old chambers, a story that he wants to tell him fresh on his mind.

Of course, when he opens the doors, Laslow is not there. No one is there, because the rooms are meant for one of Xander’s retainers and Xander has not chosen a replacement, refuses to choose another retainer to fight and die for him.

Phantom limb pain is what his swordplay teacher had called the sensation he had described. Physically, Xander has all of his limbs, but he cannot shake the feeling of phantom Laslow pain.

He invokes the same comparison when Leo advises him to choose another retainer.

“Brother, I know that you still mourn Laslow, but you should take another retainer.” Leo tells him, eminently practical. “You’re the king of Nohr now, and it is customary to have two retainers, not to mention safer.”

“I appreciate your concern Leo, but this is not your choice to make.” He has only been king for a matter of weeks, but he has already perfected his royal decree voice, reasonable and utterly firm. “If Odin or Niles died, would you be able to replace them?”

“That is irrelevant, as they aren’t dead and I am not the king of Nohr. ” Leo sounds as indifferent as ever, but he looks unsettled. “Unless they are relevant to our kingdom, I do not deal in hypotheticals.”

Leo has never been able to admit that he is wrong, so Xander does not make him.

“If a person loses their right hand, the stump may heal but the hand never grows back.” Xander says. “Thank you for looking out for me, but I know what I am doing.”

Leo nods, and turns to go. Before he reaches the door, he hesitates, turns back to face Xander.

“Xander.” Leo starts, choosing his words carefully. “I hope you know that I am here for you, not as a prince supporting a king, but as a brother supporting a brother.”

Xander crosses the distance between them and embraces him. Leo tenses for a moment before returning the embrace and Xander realizes that it has been years since they last hugged.

Six months after the war, Xander receives an invitation delivered personally by Kaze to Ryoma’s wedding to Orochi. Xander knows marriages are supposed to be happy occasions, but he can’t help feeling like he should offer his condolences.

The wedding is big news in Hoshido, Kaze tells them, smile slightly pinched, and Ryoma hopes they they can all attend.

“That’s strange.” Camilla says as soon as Kaze leaves the room. “I’m almost certain that Orochi and Kagero are lovers. Or at least they were when we were fighting together.”

“It’s a political marriage.” Leo says. “Obviously.”

“Orochi is only the former retainer of his stepmother. What political benefit does marrying her have?” Camilla wonders.

“Ryoma is young and somewhat impulsive.” Xander reasons. “Orochi was Queen Mikoto’s retainer, and she was a much loved ruler. Perhaps the people of Hoshido feel that Orochi’s experience at court can help Ryoma mature and rule with wisdom.”

“Or maybe it’s just a cover-up for some illicit relationship that would ruin Ryoma if it got out.” Leo adds.

“Don’t be so cynical!” Elise scolds. “Maybe they’re in love. Marriage is a beautiful thing and we should celebrate that our friend is getting married.”

“Speaking of which, dear brother,” Camilla turns to Xander. “Have you considered when you are going to marry?”

“Never.” Xander says, voice surer than he feels.

Leo looks concerned. “Good luck with that, brother.” He says, halfway between skepticism and sincerity.

Political marriages are nothing unusual in Hoshido or Nohr, but Xander holds out the tiniest bit of hope that Ryoma is marrying for love. He and Orochi make a strange pair, but he desperately wants Ryoma to defy the everpresent specter of marriage as a political tool that’s been hanging over him since childhood.

The marriage is surprisingly soon, which only adds to Xander’s curiosity about the reason for their marriage. They have just enough time to arrange for adequate security both in Nohr and with the Nohrian siblings. Technically, they shouldn’t all leave Nohr at the same time, but none of them are willing to miss the wedding. (“Are you excited to see Takumi?” Elise asks Leo. “I anticipate that we will bicker constantly.” Leo smiles, wickedly. “I am looking forward to it immensely.”)

Traditionally, they should leave at least one of their retainers in Nohr in their stead, but none of the retainers really inspire confidence in the Nohrian people, so instead they Leave Gunter and an army of political advisors in charge and hope for the best.

It is strange to be back in Hoshido for the first time since Ryoma’s coronation. The country appears to be thriving, and Xander feels yet another pang of guilt about the devastation his father’s actions and his own compliance had wreaked upon Hoshido and its people.

Although he and Ryoma are very different people, they bonded during the war over their similar feelings of duty and pride as crown princes of their respective country, and Ryoma invites Xander to dine with him privately the night that they arrive.

They eat a simple meal in Ryoma’s quarters, which are spacious and painfully messy. They talk about life at their respective courts, commiserate about the boring political events they are forced to endure, and compare assassination attempts. Xander does not broach the topic of Ryoma’s impending marriage, waiting for Ryoma to bring it up, but Ryoma ever does.

Instead, Ryoma hits on the one topic that Xander does not want to discuss.

“Have you chosen another retainer yet?”

“No.” Xander says, hoping that will shut down the conversation.

It doesn’t.

“How are you coping with your loss? I cannot imagine running Hoshido without both Saizo and Kagero, without either of them I would be dead twice over.”

“So, are you looking forward to married life?” Xander changes the subject abruptly.

Ryoma looks uncomfortable. “Of course. Orochi is a fine woman and she will be a fine queen.”

Luckily, the awkward atmosphere is interrupted by Saizo entering.

“Milord,” He says, not sparing a single glance at Xander. “I apologize for interrupting, but the new archduke of Izumo has just arrived and is asking for you.”

“Thank you Saizo.” Ryoma glances at Xander apologetically. “I am sorry that our dinner must be cut short, and I hope that we can continue this conversation later. Saizo, could you bring me my gloves?”

“I already did, milord.”

Saizo procures the gloves, but instead of handing them to Ryoma, he puts them on Ryoma’s hands himself, handling them with a tenderness Xander did not think Saizo was capable of. Just before Saizo draws his hands away, Ryoma clasps them in his own, briefly, and Xander feels suddenly like he is intruding upon an intimate moment.

“Your marriage is a sham.” He finds himself saying.

Ryoma and Saizo tense as one, suddenly very aware that Xander is still in the room. Xander thinks that it must be his imagination, but he thinks he sees sparks crackling along Saizo’s skin.

Ryoma raises a hand, and Saizo steps back, crackling in the air subsiding.

“I thought that you, of all people, would understand.” Ryoma says, words hard.

“I thought that I would as well.” Xander replies. “Perhaps if Laslow were still alive, I would have.”

They stare at each other for several moments, no one moving.

Finally Xander breaks the silence. “I’m sorry, my friend. That was uncalled for. There is no shame in what you are doing, and it is not my place to judge. I let me personal injuries cloud my judgement.”

Ryoma relaxes, although Saizo remains taut as a bowstring. “Saizo, tell the archduke that I will be with him shortly.”

“Milord.” Saizo bows and disappears, but not before sharing an intense look with Ryoma.

“You’re right. My marriage is a sham, but what can I do?” Ryoma says. “Hoshido is in a more tenuous position than it has been for years, and many people still doubt my ability to rule. If I were to publicly take my retainer as a lover, it would throw the country into chaos. Hoshido is still a conservative country in many way.”

“I understand.” Xander begins, but Ryoma holds up a hand, silencing him.

“I feel the need to explain myself. Please.” He says. “Orochi is a close friend good choice for the queen due to her ties to Mikoto and her experience in court. She is also Kagero’s lover. I do not know how the castle is laid out in Nohr, but my retainers have chambers adjoining to mine. In public Orochi and I will be King and Queen, but in private we can return to our true partners.”

“Your statement cut me because it rang true. This marriage is a political arrangement, and I feel guilty for it because Saizo, Orochi, and Kagero are all making sacrifices for me.”

“And what of you?” Xander asks. “What of the sacrifice that you are making?”

“I never had a choice about whether to make that sacrifice.” Ryoma answers. “But the three of them did, and they chose to do so for me. I must honor their sacrifice by ruling Hoshido well, without resentment for my situation.”

“My friend,” Xander says. “I think you may have eclipsed me in wisdom.”

Ryoma laughs. “I wouldn’t go that far. Now, I must go speak with the archduke, but I hope to speak with you again later. Maybe we can steal some time to spar. I miss sparring against partners of your caliber.”

Xander smiles. “I look forward to it.”

Although Xander is now a king, he still finds his outlet on the battlefield. Logically speaking, the king of Nohr should not ride on the front lines with his men; to be sure, Garon never did. But Xander rationalizes that a good kind leads his men by example, on the battlefield and in the capitol. Besides, as long as at least one of the Nohrian siblings remain safely at court, there shouldn’t be a problem. He has three siblings for a reason, and if he did not get to swing his sword in a real battle from time to time, he might explode.

Battles are the only time that Xander can pretend that he is simply Xander and not the king of Nohr, and he treasures them accordingly. To be fair, he is conflicted about the fact that he feels the most at ease when his actions are taking the lives of others, but at this point, he has so much baggage that he could unpack but chooses not to that adding a little bit more is no big deal.

This time it is a group of mercenaries who have been trying to incite a peasant rebellion in the south of Nohr. Xander dislikes peasant rebellions the most, because more often than not the rebels have a reason for their discontent, and he feels guilty for striking them down. He has tried diplomacy several times, but every time it has failed. Perhaps it is Garon’s legacy haunting him, as Garon had given the common people no cause to trust the word of a king, or perhaps it is Xander’s own failings. Regardless, the fact remains that words had failed and they had chosen to resort to raising their weapons against their own people.

Even in a battle like this, where Xander knows their cause is unjust, he cannot help but feel as if he can think more clearly than he can at any other time. The mercenary group is strong, and fighting them is a worthy challenge. If Xander frees his mind from the circumstances of their battle, it is simply exhilarating. It is an art form, leaving your cares behind, and Xander has worked to perfect it. As he rides, he narrows his focus, until only his sword, his horse, and his target remain in his view. And it works; he is a terror on the battlefield, not because he is the king of Nohr, but because he is a skilled swordsman in his own right, and much more fearless than he has any right to be. He cuts a swathe through their ranks, Peri carving out a parallel line, gleeful in her bloodlust.

Suddenly, Xander sees a ghost.

Most of the mercenaries have fallen or fled, but one of the ones who remain fights in a familiar style, light glinting off a sword he thought he’d never see again.

Xander’s brain continues to operate on autopilot, but rather than bear down on this man with his sword, he finds himself lowering Seigfried as he races towards the man, dismounting to get a closer look.

The man’s eyes widen as Xander rushes towards him and he barely has time to lower his sword before Xander is upon him, crushing him in a hard embrace. The point of Laslow’s sword nicks his thigh, and Xander welcomes the pain because it means that he is not dreaming.

“Laslow!” Xander exclaims, voice hoarse. “I thought you were dead.”

Still shocked, Laslow tentatively puts his arms around Xander in return. “For a while, I thought I was too.”

Xander pulls back, hands on Laslow’s arms, inspecting his face to ensure that it is real. “Laslow, Inigo, how did you survive? What are you doing now? Why didn’t you come back to me? I mean, back to the capital”

Laslow answers with a question of his own. “What did you just call me?”

Xander is confused for a moment. He has become so used to Laslow being dead, of calling him Laslow and Inigo and speaking freely about him because he is not there to object that he did not realize that he had used two names. “What?”

“Milord. You called me Inigo.” Laslow grips Xander’s biceps hard, scared without knowing exactly why.

“Oh. So I did. I apologize Laslow, I was just so shocked to see you...alive.” Xander pauses for a moment, caught up in staring at Laslow’s face, feeling his skin under his hands, warm and very much alive. “We can talk about everything back in the capital.”

Laslow would like nothing more than to return with Xander, to never leave Xander’s side, but he finds himself saying. “Milord, I am under contract.”

“With this mercenary group?” When Laslow nods, Xander chuckles darkly. “Laslow, I believe that Peri is releasing you from your contract right now.”

Laslow looks around, suddenly aware of the bloodshed happening around their reunion. Almost all of mercenaries are dead or gone, the few remaining about to be dispatched by the Nohrian forces. Laslow should feel grief at the deaths of his recent travelling companions, but all he can do is sag into Xander’s arms.

Xander holds him upright, arms tightening around him in concern. “Laslow, are you alright?”

Laslow nods weakly, into Xander’s chest. “I am now, milord.”

Xander’s brain is a mess and his heart is threatening to jump out of his chest, but he manages to get himself and Laslow onto his horse and return to the rest of the Nohrian forces. Laslow appears to be almost in shock, and Xander feels almost the same, still not entirely convinced that this is not an apparition.

“You’re not dead.” He finds himself repeating. “You’re not dead, Laslow.”

“No,” Laslow says. “At least, not last time I checked.”

When they reach the main forces, they are quickly surrounded by Nohrian soldiers who are confused about why their king dismounted and embraced an enemy soldier. Many of them recognize Laslow, and murmurs of shock and confusion run through the ranks.

“Enough.” Xander says, raising his voice and using his most regal tone. “Now is not the time for gossip. Now is the time to set up camp, and tomorrow we will return to the palace.”

His men quickly set about erecting tents and unpacking supplies, but the air of curiosity remains. Xander keeps Laslow by his side as he oversees their work, hand resting lightly on his back as if to reassure himself that Laslow will not disappear.

When Xander’s tent is set up, he pulls Laslow inside and sets about lighting a fire, struggling to light the kindling as he struggles to figure out what to say. He’s spent over a year now talking to and about Laslow in his head, and yet now with Laslow here, he feels as if he is talking to a stranger.

The kindling catches and Xander seats himself on the ground next to Laslow. He tries to start a sentence three times, before finally managing a, “How?”

“Well,” Laslow begins, and the voice is so familiar that Xander almost cries. “It turns out that the bottomless canyon is not the only canyon that does not kill the people who fall into it. I still don’t know exactly what happened when I fell, only that I came to in a strange and distant part of Valla, badly injured and completely lost.”

“I probably would have died of blood loss if a travelling merchant had not happened to find me. He took me back to his village and I spent months there recovering. It seems that the arrow that hit me had some sort of poison on it. I did not die, but I was wracked with fever for weeks and very weak for weeks after that. I spent days on a cot, hallucinating and, it appeared to the Vallites, speaking in tongues.” Laslow pauses. “You called me Inigo, so I’m assuming that you know that I’m originally from somewhere much further than I claimed, and we speak a different language there.”

Xander nods. “Odin told me.”

“I guessed as much. I suppose I’m glad, because that means I don’t have to figure out how to tell you I’m from another world.” Laslow continues his story. “I spent several more months in Valla, working as a mercenary to repay my debt to the family who took care of me when I was sick and to save money to journey back to Nohr. Unfortunately, most Vallites don’t know how to leave Valla, and it took quite some effort to figure out how to return. I eventually found my way back aboveground, but at a place very far away from the Nohrian capital, so I joined up with this mercenary group to earn money and travel in the right direction. I was trying to make my way back to you, milord, but I did not expect that our meeting would be on the battlefield.”

“Neither did I, Laslow.” Xander says, unconsciously moving closer to Laslow. “But I also did not expect to meet you at all.”

“I hope that it was a good surprise?” Laslow’s voice is teasing, but also just the slightest bit uncertain, as if he is unsure how to behave around Xander.

“Of course it is, it’s just...” Xander pauses, trying to think of how to say what he is thinking. “You don’t know how long I have grieved for you, Laslow. I do not blame you for it, but I wish that I had been spared that grief.”

“I’m sorry.” Laslow says. “I wish you had been as well.”

“There is nothing that you need to apologize for.” Xander says. “As long as you do not die on me again now that I have you back.”

“I don’t plan on it.” Laslow says. “So tell me, milord. What has happened in my absence?”

“Well, obviously, I am the king of Nohr. The kingdom is at peace, relatively speaking. Odin and I are friends now, and he’s told me several embarrassing stories about your childhood. Selena has disappeared and Camilla has not chosen another retainer.” Xander looks at Laslow. “I have not chosen a new retainer either.”

“Milord, are...” Laslow hesitates. “Are you married?”

“No.” Xander says. “I remain entirely unmarried.”

“Good.” Laslow says.

Xander raises an eyebrow and Laslow trips over his words. “I mean, it would be strange if you were married because that would be a big difference! I am glad to see the world has only changed but so much in my absence.”

Xander thinks, but does not say, that his world had changed, but it has changed around Laslow’s absence, the future reshaping itself around the hole in his life that Laslow had occupied.

They have an extra tent, several extra tents, but Xander does not mention them and Laslow does not ask. Laslow sleeps in Xander’s bedroll and Xander lies in the extra bedroll, not sleeping because he feels too full, and is halfway convinced that if he falls asleep Laslow will not be there when he wakes up.

Laslow is there when he wakes up. He is there to say good morning and there when they eat a quick breakfast together, there to help Xander pack up his tent. Evidence would suggest that he is not, in fact, going to disappear again, but Xander is not taking any chances.

“I don’t think you’ve let Laslow out of your sight since he came back.” Peri tells them, still ecstatic about his reappearance.

“Had I?” Xander says, ignoring Laslow’s curious look. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He had noticed, and he does not plan to let Laslow out of his sight. Luckily, Laslow seems to have the same idea, and he trails Xander like a shadow, does not protest when Xander suggests they share a horse on the ride back to the castle.

As they ride, Xander is torn between wanting to say everything and not knowing what to say, and he falls somewhere in the middle, asking questions seemingly out of nowhere.

“Laslow.” He says, trying to sound casual despite the thick tension that has been in the air since he first saw Laslow. “Why did you come back?”

“At first,” Laslow sighs, and Xander feels it where Laslow’s back is pressed against his chest. “I was not sure that I would. I always knew I had to choose between who would mourn my loss: my family in Ylisse or my comrades in Nohr. My apparent death seemed to make that decision for me, as you were already under the assumption that I was dead.”

“When I finally left Valla, I traveled first to the place where Odin, Selena, and I planned to meet to return to our world. As luck would have it, I ran into Selena.”

“How was she?” Xander asks. “Did she realize that she broke my sister’s heart?”

Laslow nods. “She knows, and it broke her own heart as well.”

“Then why did she leave?” Xander has never understood Selena, and he does not expect that he will start now, but he owes it to Camilla to ask.

“Selena is...complicated. She felt that it was her duty to return home, and sacrificing her own feelings to do so would prove her worth. I think she also believed that if she stayed, Camilla would have eventually gotten tired of her, but if she leaved, Camilla would never forget her.” Laslow shakes his head. “Selena has always had strange ideas about the workings of the human heart.”

“Odin told me that he and Selena fought before she left, because he refused to go with her.”

“Yes. She was angry because he made the choice that she wished she could make, and in doing so, left her to bear the burden of returning with bad news alone. But by the time I found her, her anger had burned itself out.”

“And you,” Xander pauses, presses on. “you planned to go with her?”

“Yes.” Laslow says. “If I was already presumed dead in Nohr, I thought it would be simpler, and that I would not have to make the choice that weighed so heavily on Selena and Odin. But then Selena told me how deeply my death had affected you. She said that you had not chosen a new retainer, and although you were a good king, it seemed as if some part of you had been taken away.”

Laslow sounds tentative, afraid that Xander is going to deny it.

Xander does not. “She spoke truly.”

“Well,” Laslow pauses to gather his thoughts. “faced with the final chance to make my own decision, I found myself unable to go, unable to...leave you.”

Xander says nothing, tightens his arms around Laslow’s waist.

“Selena agreed to tell Odin’s and my parents that we were alive and well, working in the service of noble masters. And I turned away from one home and headed towards another.”

“Thank you.” Xander says, not specifying what he is thanking Laslow for because there are too many things.

The tension leaves Laslow’s shoulders and they ride in silence the rest of the way.

When they return, his siblings are waiting to welcome him home with their retainers. They have barely ridden into view when they hear a great booming shout and see a figure racing towards him.

“Odin!” Laslow shouts in return, and Xander urges the horse forward to meet them.

As soon as Laslow dismounts, Odin flies at him, knocking him to the ground in a fierce embrace.

“In- Laslow of the indigo skies!” Odin exclaims, “I have always thought I was the chosen one, but it is you who have returned from the cold embrace of death! You are truly the chosen one!”

In a quieter voice, he adds, “I missed you, buddy.”

“I missed you too, Odin.” Laslow says, smiling so wide it looks like his face might break.

Murmurs of astonishment and excitement come from the onlookers, and Xander looks up just in time to see Camilla’s eyes flash as she turns away and walks into the castle, Beruka on her heels.

It stings, but Xander does not blame her. He has regained a retainer he thought he had lost, and she had lost a retainer she thought she would always have. As with all wounds, it will heal with time.

The rest of the day is a whirlwind of excitement and joyous reunions. Elise cajoles the chefs into cooking an impromptu feast in Laslow’s honor, and Xander only just manages to talk her out of holding an impromptu ball.

The majority of the castle gets incredibly drunk at dinner, and just as Odin begins another one of his stories of valor and achievement, Laslow tugs on Xander’s sleeve and asks if they can slip away. Xander, relieved, agrees.

The combination of the readily flowing alcohol and Odin’s antics mean that almost no one notices them leave, save Leo, who nods his approval.

They return to Xander’s chambers and Xander is suddenly very aware that he has no plan and is no idea what is going on. He is saved from having to figure it out when he notices Laslow staring at the corner of his room that has been devoted to Laslow’s belongings since his “death.”

“You kept my things.” Laslow says, looking surprised.

“I did.” Xander says, embarrassed. “Although I thought you were dead, but I could not bear to dispose of your belongings, so I kept them in my chambers. I apologize for the invasion of your privacy.”

“There is nothing to apologize for, Milord.” Laslow says, smiling. “As long as I can have them back now that I am alive again.”

“Of course.”

Laslow walks over to inspect his things, sifting through the clothing and trinkets.

“Milord,” Laslow says, concerned. “Did there happen to be a book with my belongings?”

“Ah.” Xander replies, reluctant to give him the answer. “Yes. I may have given that to Odin. I could not read it anyway and he was very insistent.”

Laslow peers at him, assessing whether he is telling the truth. “Very well, I will have to take it up with him in that case. Did he happen to translate any of it for you?”

“Almost none.” Xander reassures him. “Only a small part about how ugly the shirt I gave you for your birthday was.”

Laslow flushes. “Ah, well. I may have been exaggerating slightly. It’s a very nice shirt.”

“Nohrians are not known for their fashion sense, Laslow.” Xander says, amused. “I am not offended.”

Laslow continues to take stock of his belongings, comes upon the half-empty bottle of cologne. “Milord, do you know why my cologne appears to have been used?”

“I have no idea.” Xander lies, utterly unconvincing.

Laslow laughs merrily, pulls out something black and shimmery.

“Oh.” He gasps. “You have my dancer’s outfit.”

“Yes.” Xander says. “To be honest, I did not realize it was yours at first, but Odin told me it was typical for male dancers in your homeland. He said that he has never seen you wear it though, and has never seen you dance.”

“Nobody in this world has ever seen me dance, and very few in my home world.” Laslow says, staring transfixed at the fabric.

“May I see?” The words are out of Xander’s mouth before he can think them through, and he immediately wishes he could take them back.

Laslow jerks his gaze from the clothes to Xander’s face, shocked. “What?”

“I’m sorry Laslow, I know that dancing is very personal to you, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable by asking you to share that with me.” Xander desperately tries to backpedal. “I apologize for the request; it was rash, and you may disregard it.”

“No.” Laslow shakes his head, suddenly determined. “No, I want to show you. Wait here.”

Laslow disappears into Xander’s washroom and Xander is suddenly filled with anticipation, excitement, fear, and a feeling that he cannot name.

After a few minutes, Laslow emerges, hands twitching as if it is an effort not to cover himself and Xander drinks him in. He is a beautiful sight; the softness of the outfit accentuates his slender lines without taking away from his strength. The fact that the outfit is revealing highlights the tones muscles of his arms and chest, and Xander is utterly transfixed.

“There was an earring that went with it.” Laslow says, fidgeting. “But I couldn’t find it.”

Xander is not sure he remembers what an earring is, his entire mind filled with nothing but Laslow. “Even without it, you look...” He pauses, searching for the right word. “ravishing.” He finishes, and Laslow’s blush spreads from his cheeks down to his neck.

“Thank you, milord.” Laslow says. “Ummm, I usually dance without music, if that is alright with you?”

Xander sits on the edge of his bed, unable to take his eyes off Laslow. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.”

“Well, I’d be most comfortable if you closed your eyes, but I suppose that would defeat the purpose.” Laslow laughs nervously. “Ok. Here I go.”

He starts moving slowly, the only sound his footfalls on Xander’s floor and the swishing of the fabric. His style of dancing is unlike any dancers Xander has seen from Nohr, Cyrkensia, Hoshido, or anywhere else on the continent. He barely notices that there is no music, mesmerized by every spin and twirl.

Like his costume, Laslow’s dancing combines his softness and his strength, and as he watches, Xander feels like he is seeing Laslow clearly for the first time, all the things he knows and has learned about Laslow and Inigo falling into place with every flick of Laslow’s wrists. As Laslow dances, he feels a fierce surge of protectiveness and pride and love for the man in front of him, strong enough to take his breath away.

Laslow finishes his dance, standing in his final pose in the middle of Xander’s floor, breathing hard and utterly vulnerable as the confidence he had while dancing flows out of him, replaced by nervous hope.

“What,” Laslow stops, catches his breath. “What did you think?”

As if he is not in full possession of his own body, Xander rises, crosses the distance between them in two large steps, cups Laslow’s cheeks with his hands, feeling the heat of his blush under his palms.

“You,” Xander says, voice rough and low. “are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on.”

Laslow’s breath hitches, any reply he might have given silenced as Xander kisses him with all the force of a tidal wave.

Laslow kisses back, clinging to Xander like he is a lifeline, like he is afraid that this is a dream that he is about to wake up from.

“Why me?” Laslow manages between kisses, as Xander pulls him back onto the bed.

“Because,” Xander starts, pauses to kiss Laslow again, long and deep. “Losing you showed me that you are the one person I cannot bear to lose.”

“You never will.” Laslow promises, rashly and earnestly, and kisses him again.

Xander does not know how long they kiss, because there is too much kissing to do to waste time with thinking. He kisses Laslow’s forehead, his nose, his neck, and when Laslow laughs at how that tickles, he kisses the dimples that appear before moving back to his lips. Xander thinks, recklessly, that he could kiss Laslow for hundreds of years, one year for every day that he thought Laslow was dead, and still not grow tired of it.

Laslow’s hands reach for his shirt buttons and he asks, “May I?”

Xander nods permission and Laslow divests him of his shirt in record time, running his hands over Xander’s chest and abs with an air of almost reverence.

In their questing, Laslow’s hands find Xander’s necklaces. “Is this my earring?” He whispers in Xander’s ear, lips brushing his ear with every word.

“Yes,” Xander says, too giddy to be embarrassed, helping Laslow shrug off his vest. “I wore it to keep your memory close to my heart. Do you want it back?”

“No,” Laslow says, running his finger over the earring and the skin underneath, cool metal contrasting with warm flesh. “I like the thought of you keeping me close.”

“I fully intend to keep you,” Xander pulls Laslow down so he is lying on top of him, steals another kiss, “incredibly close from this point on. And when I do give you a ring, I want it to be special, not me returning your own earring to you.”

Laslow props himself up with his arms, looking down at Xander. “Milord, you take my breath away.”

Laslow’s bangs fall into his eyes and Xander reaches up, gently pushes them back. “Call me Xander, Laslow.”

“Xander,” Laslow breathes softly. “You take my breath away.”

Laslow leans down to kiss him again and Xander flips him onto his back, kisses a line down his chest and loses himself in Laslow’s quiet gasps and soft hands tangled in his hair.

Later, when they are lying together, naked and satiated, Laslow nestled in the crook of Xander’s arm, Laslow asks, in a small voice. “Do you want me to leave now? I can go back to my own chambers.”

Xander looks at Laslow in disbelief, pull him closer. “Laslow, I do not want you to leave ever.”

“Oh? Truly?” Laslow’s hair is a mess, voice hoarse and pupils blown, and he is the most beautiful thing Xander has ever laid eyes on.

“I told you once that it is not your company I require. Only that you continue to draw breath.” Xander says. “I still do not require your company, but I must admit that selfishly, my greatest desire is that you never leave my side again.”

“In that case,” Laslow says, lazily curling his fingers around the earring lying on Xander’s chest. “I assure you that I never will.”

#xanlow exchange 2017 #xanlow #xanlas #fire emblem #fire emblem fates #fe fates #fe fic #my fic #xander #laslow

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