Archive of Our Own

Prince Dimitri, Claude noticed, kept a very regular schedule.

Claude made no particularly conscious effort to discover this– though he would’ve, had he been given the chance. He was curious about most things, for good reason, and the habits of the Crown Prince of the oh-so-Holy Kingdom of Faerghus were something that he had been eager to pin down even before he had arrived at Garreg Mach. He’d felt the same about Edelgard, of course. As such important individuals that could likely create a massive impact on his future, it would go against Claude’s nature to not scope them out. But while Claude felt as though Edelgard was about as predictable as a pegasus in a china shop, the Golden Deer leader didn’t even need to try to figure out Dimitri… the prince simply ran like clockwork.

It was deep into summer now, several months into their time at the academy, and it seemed that the only thing that could shift Dimitri from his strict routine was if the sky suddenly started falling. If he wasn’t training away endlessly at the training grounds, he was doing so at the Knight’s Hall– and if he wasn’t there either, he was fervently pouring over books in the library, sifting through document after document, only half of them actually pertaining to his studies. Claude had to wonder just what was so interesting about Church donation records– Claude would know, he’d already read those records himself in the obscenely early hours of the morning– but Dimitri would never answer his probing questions, instead choosing to smile cheekily and ask Claude about his own equally suspicious reading material.

So, perhaps His Royalness wasn’t entirely predictable after all.

Regardless, it was always easy to find the prince, once he knew where to look. And unless it was the dead of night, Dedue was always nearby, never to be seen away from Dimitri’s side.

But on this day, late into the Blue Sea Moon, Claude spotted Dedue in the greenhouse, tending to the flowers and listening quietly as Ashe chatted away to him. Dimitri was nowhere in sight. That was the first clue that something was strange.

Of course, Claude had no problem with Dedue seemingly spending time away from Dimitri. He seemed at ease (as far Claude could tell, at least– Dedue had a pretty good poker face), so Claude doubted any sort of argument had driven them apart for the day. It was the first time that Claude had ever seen him without the prince, so it was nice to see Dedue spend some time on his own preferred hobbies for a change. It was likely that Dimitri thought the same, as he was often overheard encouraging his friend to do just that. So, while unusual, Claude didn’t think much of it.

That was before it became clear that the prince was nowhere to be found.

The training grounds, the Knight’s Hall, even the library. Claude had happened to visit each of those places already today, only to discover that Dimitri was not there. 

Now, Claude was not a very anxious person by nature. Perhaps he could consider himself… just a little paranoid, maybe, but he was not one to work himself up over nothing. It was important to stay alert of course, but it was more important to appear affable and laid-back to those around him. Ironically, the benefits of being underestimated were themselves extremely underrated by most, and he didn’t want to appear as the only person in a panic over nothing. Heck, even Dedue clearly wasn’t worried. (Yet.)

Maybe it was the knowledge that Dimitri was a prince, that suddenly wasn’t in any of the places that he would normally choose to be, that was putting Claude maybe, just slightly, ill at ease. He wasn’t terribly close to Dimitri, and had never been one to seek him out without any real motive, but this situation felt uncomfortably familiar to him, hitting a little too close to home.

It wasn’t like he was worried or anything, though. Dimitri was just a… very important figure, and as it currently stood, the stability of a good chunk of Fódlan rested entirely on the teen’s shoulders. It would be catastrophic for Faerghus if anything were to happen to him, a total collapse in one of the pillars that kept Fódlan from crashing down. Furthermore, there was value in human life beyond that of power and status. Claude was not heartless. As far as he knew, Dimitri was a good person, and it would be a terrible shame if something were to happen to him.

Claude didn’t think it was his right to say what kind of person deserved to live a good life, but he certainly held no grievances against Dimitri. There was no telling what the prince was like behind closed doors, but, in Claude’s personal experience with the teen, he seemed pretty genuine. Like, weirdly so. His constant compliments, though in writing would appear as mere flattery, always sounded like nothing less than absolute truth when it came from his lips. His smiles never failed to reach his eyes, even when something darker lingered underneath. He clearly had his secrets, but that didn’t change the fact that he was nothing but sincere to those around him. Even to Claude, who purposefully hadn’t been trying to make the best first impression, Dimitri regularly acted as if Claude’s presence was enough to brighten his whole day. 

It was… kind of nice.

And Claude definitely wasn’t worried about him. Nope. Not at all.

To appear just as unworried as he was, Claude chose not to ask around, instead choosing to look for the prince himself. The monastery was a big place after all, and Dimitri didn’t have to stick to the same three sections (except that he always, always did). Despite his searching, however, there were no flowing blue capes to be found in the cathedral, nor any bright heads of blond hair at the marketplace. All of the House classrooms were empty, as classes had already ended for the day, though Claude made sure to check. The entrance hall was similarly clear of any princes.

Claude was just about ready to jump into the ominously murky depths of the fishing pond when he suddenly heard the most horrid shriek of metal, followed by distant hissing. Twirling instantly on the spot, Claude almost felt like smacking himself upside the head when he realised where the sound had come from.

Of course– why didn’t he think to check the dining hall first? Wow, he was an idiot.

Peeking his head through the doorway, Claude felt his heart momentarily sink at the sight of several completely empty tables. But to his immense relief, there was a familiar blue cape hung up on a rack just outside of the kitchen. Another ear-splitting shriek of metal pierced through the air, and Claude quickly understood why students and faculty alike had all cleared from the area. There was more frustrated hissing, now accompanied by muttering so quiet that it was nearly indecipherable where Claude stood.

“...deepest apologies… disgrace of a son… running out of time… perhaps… salvageable…”

Gazing forlornly at a warped looking sheet of metal that may have been a mixing bowl once upon a time, Dimitri stood in the kitchen, mostly turned away from Claude, a notably clean apron tied around his torso. Considering the unspeakable horrors he had inflicted upon the mixing bowl, Claude was almost impressed that Dimitri hadn’t made a mess of himself in any way. Though, Claude couldn’t seem to see any ingredients on the kitchen counters either… Had Dimitri broken something before he’d even started cooking?!

As tempting as it was to sit back and watch the prince struggle (and maybe eavesdrop just a tiny little bit as well), Claude found that the nonsensical anxiety-driven part of his brain was not satisfied with simply seeing Dimitri unharmed, nor was it happy with that terribly miserable look on his face. Did His Princeliness realise that he had the most effective puppy dog eyes known to man? Were Claude not so iron-willed, he would’ve fallen right at the prince’s feet! Such a powerful tool, he had to give credit where it was due (and no, he was not jealous).

Before Claude was entirely aware of what he was doing, his heels were clicking across the dining hall floor, the sound intentionally announcing his presence. Despite this, the prince continued to mutter to himself, ignoring the noise completely. Claude felt his eyebrows climb his forehead– did Dimitri simply not care that he wasn’t alone, or was he just that oblivious to his surroundings?

Surely, it couldn’t be the latter.

Confident, Claude raised a hand in greeting, his signature smile stretching across his face as he crossed the threshold from the dining hall into the kitchen.

“So, Your Princeliness, what potions are we concocting today?”

If the earlier sounds had been deafening, this abrupt cacophony of noise could be described as nothing less than hellish, and Claude was suddenly a first-hand witness to Dimitri ripping the metal bowl in half, the prince jumping nearly half a foot in the air as he whirled around to face him, the sad remains of the mixing bowl mutilated in his two separate hands.

“C-Claude!” Dimitri yelped, his mouth opening and closing like that of a blubbering fish. Claude would’ve considered it funny, had his head not been wiped clean of everything but the image of Dimitri tearing through metal as if it were wet paper. Was it hot in here? The kitchen was very warm all of a sudden– it was probably, no, definitely the oven. Nothing else.

Dimitri started to stammer like a child caught with their hand in the biscuit tin. What was with the guilty look? “W-what are you– I thought you’d be– I mean–” The prince paused, making a noise that had probably been intended to clear his throat, but only served to make him sound akin to a dying whale– “good afternoon, Claude. I am attempting to, ah, bake.”

Claude thought he was normally pretty good at not letting most of his emotions show on his face, but in that moment, he could barely keep himself from openly gaping. Taking a short, calming breath to collect himself– just how strong was Dimitri to pull off such a stunt entirely by accident?! Claude could only imagine what else he could do with that strength of his– Claude allowed himself a moment to kick his brain back into working order and come up with a witty, intellectual remark that was sure to sweep Dimitri right off of his feet as payback for doing so to Claude .

Claude attempted his signature smooth smile, though he could feel that his eyes were still wide with surprise.

“Bake?” he squeaked.

Ah yes, very suave.

“An attempt to, yes.” The prince’s words hardly registered with Claude, the Golden Deer leader’s eyes flicking down to the twisted scraps still held in Dimitri’s hands (which, he noticed, weren’t wearing gauntlets for once). It was a stupidly obvious glance that Dimitri quickly noticed, those hands darting behind his back much too late to hide the evidence of the murder of the mixing bowl, a mortified flush darkening the prince’s cheeks. “My deepest apologies for disturbing you, Claude,” he said, as if Claude hadn’t been the one to disturb him. “It was not my intention to wreak such havoc upon the kitchen, though that is no excuse. I… fear I may have underestimated the task ahead of me.”

Really? You don’t say? A small, slightly hysterical laugh punched itself out of Claude’s chest, leaving him feeling strangely winded. Oh, how Dimitri never failed to entertain him.

The laugh seemed to loosen something in his chest, and suddenly Claude felt like he could breathe again– and that was kind of unsettling, how breathless he’d become without even realizing it– his heart hammering at a fast but tolerable rhythm. Gathering his bearings, Claude finally managed to pinpoint quite a number of oddities surrounding this situation (why was Dimitri trying to bake, of all things? Why had Dimitri been so surprised to see Claude? Who had allowed this walking disaster to use the kitchen unsupervised? ), but decided to hold off on his interrogation for just a little while longer.

“This might come as a shock to you, Your Princeliness,” Claude leaned forward curiously, trying to peer around Dimitri’s frame to see the mess behind him, grinning when Dimitri moved with him to block his view, “but baking can be pretty difficult. Especially when you’re on your own, with absolutely no clue what you’re doing.” The prince made an interestingly guilty yet sour face at that statement, making the edges of Claude’s grin curl higher. “You do know what you’re doing, right?”

Dimitri huffed, his mouth opening to retort– likely something along the lines of yes, of course I do, Claude – before seemingly coming to an embarrassing realisation, his mouth clicking shut and his eyes looking anywhere but at Claude. 

“...In theory, yes.”

Claude couldn’t help but snort. “And in practice?”

Dimitri’s heavy blush answered that question. “I had attempted to simply follow the recipe book, however, working in the kitchen environment came with its own set of challenges that I had not anticipated. That was foolish of me, I know now. It has been a valuable experience in its own right, however, I would have preferred it not come at the expense of monastery property.” Dimitri bowed to Claude, confusingly. “I vow to replace it as soon as I’m able.”

“Whoa, whoa, calm down,” Claude laughed, lifting up placating hands. “I’m sure they won’t mind, they’ve probably got loads of extra bowls to work with. And you definitely don’t need to apologise to me, anyway!” He scratched the back of his neck, his mouth running wild before his mind could catch up. “I mean, I certainly didn’t mind seeing that, and I wouldn’t mind seeing it again, honestly–” he coughed abruptly, swiftly changing gears– “uh, ha! Haha, what I mean is, why are you trying to do this on your own? Wouldn't it be easier if you asked somebody to help you out?”

Dimitri froze, before shaking his head vigorously. “No! I must do this on my own, that is of utmost importance. No one is to know what I am doing here.” Dimitri paused, a grimace pulling at his lips. “Or, at least, that had been the plan…”

Claude cocked a brow. With all the noise Dimitri had been making, he highly doubted that no one else knew about what he was doing, but the prince looked sad enough that Claude decided to keep that part to himself.

“A secret baking session, huh?” Claude leaned forward again, revelling in the way the prince bit his lip, only a small push away from spilling all the juicy information. “Whatever for? A surprise, maybe? For who? A friend? No, a lover?” He gave an exaggerated gasp. “Or a crush?”

Dimitri started, his face flushed a dark red. “Claude!”

Oh, he was getting somewhere, alright. He winked at the prince. “Wow, a confession from Prince Charming, himself? This mystery crush has hit the jackpot with you!”

“Enough, already!” Dimitri turned away, though Claude could still see his flush staining his ears and the back of his neck. “If all you wish to do is spout baseless conjecture, then please do so somewhere else! I’m afraid I am quite preoccupied.” He sounded pretty annoyed, maybe it’d be best to tread lightly.

Claude sighed whimsically, hoping for his change in approach to be audible to Dimitri as he was turned away. “Alright, alright. I see this is important to you. But are you sure you wanna do this alone? You look like you’re having trouble.”

Dimitri glanced back at him, a confused and slightly miffed notch to his brow. “I’ve already told you, this task is mine and mine alone.” Claude couldn’t help but notice that he never denied having trouble.

How strange. Of all the houses at Garreg Mach, it was obvious that it was several members of the Blue Lions that were likely the most skilled in the kitchen (though he wouldn’t count out what the Golden Deer could achieve if they really put their minds to it). With so many people to turn to– including Dedue, who, before now, Claude had never seen away from Dimitri’s side before late evening– why did the prince insist on doing this alone? This whole situation was way too interesting to just walk away from, and his curiosity couldn’t leave these secrets uncovered in good conscience.

Yes, secrets. That was why he was rooted to the spot, the feeling not at all related to the resigned, dejected look in those blue eyes, practically begging Claude to help him. His decision to stay had been made with logic, and had certainly not been affected by any kind of soft… fuzziness that hovered over his brain whenever Dimitri decided to turn his attention to him in particular. Nope. Never.

Claude was familiar with following a recipe, his experience mostly derived from the little… science projects he conducted in his room. Surely, baking couldn’t be that different?

Right?

“Tell you what,” Claude grinned, suddenly excited for no particular reason, “let me in on this. I can help you out! I already know all about your little plan, and I promise I can keep a secret.” He winked for good measure, and had to bite back a laugh as Dimitri swivelled around to face him immediately, a dumbfounded look on his face.

“You– oh!” Dimitri floundered, wringing his hands. The scraps of metal gave yet another awful screech as they warped with his movements. “I– no, I cannot ask that of you, of all people, no– I can’t, not on good conscience, I…”

Claude took a gamble and reached out, taking the broken bowl from Dimitri’s iron grip, watching with interest as the prince’s hands swiftly relaxed as Claude’s own drew closer, as if it were a trained reflex. “It’s not a bother, really. Could be fun, you know? And it’s not like I’ll get nothing out of it – you can owe me a favour.” He tossed the broken parts away, easily landing them in the bin across the room. The impressed glint in Dimitri’s eye at the action was maybe more than a little satisfying to him. “So, whaddya say?”

The prince gaped for a moment, clearly stuck on what to say. Several emotions flashed across his face in quick succession– apprehension, guilt, and desperation were all there as he was clearly considering his options. For good measure, Claude gave his best smile, and watched the prince’s resolve crumble before his very eyes.

A small sigh. “If… it is truly alright with you, I would very much appreciate your help.” The prince gave a small, grateful smile, the kind that could shatter through the hardest of shells. “And, indeed, your company as well.”

Claude stubbornly ignored the stuttering in his chest.

He winked, his smile feeling easier than usual. “Let’s get baking then!”

In hindsight, perhaps Claude should have mentioned to Dimitri that he, too, had never touched an oven before in his entire life. Nor was he familiar with many of the other tools that were similarly necessary for the task at hand. 

“Ouch!”

He also just wasn’t used to being in the kitchen in general.

“Whoops, my bad!” Claude chuckled sheepishly, trying to act like he hadn’t died a little inside after smacking Dimitri in the head with the cupboard door. For the third time. “Sorry about that. I just needed one more for good luck.” Claude leaned on the counter that the both of them had been hunched over, trying to get a good look at the prince’s poor, thrice-abused forehead. It didn’t look like it was bruising at least. “Have I killed you yet, Your Princeliness?”

Dimitri blinked vacantly, staring at Claude with an odd sense of wonder that was as flattering as it was alarming, perhaps the exact opposite kind of reaction one would normally have to being smacked in the head with a door. 

“Ah…” Dimitri made a vague noise.

Oh gods, had Claude actually killed him? That had only been a joke!

“You okay there?” He cocked his head to the side and reached up his hand, gently touching the sore spot with his fingertips. He couldn’t feel any swelling, but with the way Dimitri immediately tensed, blood rushing to his face, it probably hurt. His pupils were very dilated as well, which was a really bad sign. Claude bit his lip. “Need to sit down or anything? I can try to find you some ice–”

“Ah, no!” Dimitri shook his head, turning away swiftly from Claude’s hand. “I’m fine! Just fine!” 

Claude inwardly winced at how quickly Dimitri moved his head, but if the prince truly had a concussion, he’d probably be falling over after a move like that. Still, though… “You sure you’re–?”

“My apologies for getting in the way– please, allow me to retrieve what you were looking for!” Dimitri quickly cut in, ignoring his concern entirely. He swung open the offending cupboard door so furiously that Claude feared he would break it. Thankfully the door held firm, though Claude wasn’t sure if it could withstand much more abuse. 

A polite but strained smile stretched across the prince’s face as he peered at the contents of the cupboard, an overzealous– and perhaps, slightly crazed– gleam in his eye. “What was it you needed?” Dimitri asked, his eyes trained firmly on the cupboard, refusing to glance over at Claude. “Flour, I presume?” 

Claude pursed his lips, eyeing the prince warily. He was acting weird, had Claude done something to set him off? With how roughly he’d handled the door, he did not trust Dimitri to handle the flour right now. 

A chilling vision flashed before Claude’s eyes: the prince grabbing the bag of flour with benign intent, completely defenseless against the bomb he would unwittingly detonate, a cloud of white powder destroying their clothes and the entire kitchen, forcing them both to quit before they’d even started baking. It would be an absolute disaster.  

Dimitri’s other hand was already reaching for the bag– quick, he had to say something, derail him somehow! 

“Flowers?” Claude winked. “For me? Aw, thanks, Your Princeliness.”

Dimitri’s hand froze in the air, halted on its quest towards certain death for the bag of flour, a relieving sight to the Golden Deer leader. Aha! Mission accomplished!

His relief was immediately swept away, however, when Dimitri’s hand, still clasped onto the cupboard’s door handle, tore the unfortunate thing straight off its squealing hinges, the door thudding onto the kitchen floor as the prince yelped, his face as red as a tomato.

Oh. Whoops.

“A cup? How much is a cup? What happened to grams, teaspoons, tablespoons?!”

Dimitri smiled demurely in the face of Claude’s ire, looking at the recipe book again. He’d seemingly learned his lesson from the now deceased cupboard door, and handled the pages of the recipe book with only the gentlest of touches. “‘One cup of sugar, one and a half cups of flour’ is what it says.” Dimitri flicked through the book, careful not to lose track of the page with the recipe. “It does not give any information as to what kind of cup should be used.”

“Geez, how helpful.” Claude had never before in his life read a recipe so vague! Was this normal for cookbooks? “Hey, Your Highness, you know where they keep the cups in here?”

“I believe I see one over there.”

Claude looked over to where Dimitri was pointing, where a large, unused tankard was sitting on the counter. 

“Yeah, that should probably do.”

“It says that we must beat the butter and the sugar together.”

“Huh?” Claude stared at Dimitri, once again confused. Quite a lot of butter and sugar were sitting in a brand new wooden mixing bowl that they’d managed to find in one of the cupboards. The recipe had called for another ‘cup’ of softened butter to be added to the sugar, but they couldn’t find enough butter to fill the entirety of the tankard. The whole bar of butter that they had found had been almost enough, though, so they tossed it into the bowl containing a flagon’s worth of sugar, and watched the bar sink into the sugar like a damaged ship being swallowed up by a white sea.

“Beat it?” Claude echoed. “Does it really say that?”

“‘Beat until fluffy,’ it says.” Dimitri’s brow furrowed. “We are to use something called a ‘whisk.’ Do you happen to know which tool that would be?”

“Oh. Yeah, it’s, uh, this thing.” Claude grabbed the twig whisk from where it hung on its rack, mindlessly passing it to Dimitri as he turned over the instructions in his head. ‘Beat the mixture’ was a phrase he was vaguely familiar with, but didn’t that apply to liquids? This was a solid bar of butter sitting in a similarly solid pile of sugar, just how were they supposed to beat them together? Shit, they must’ve made a mistake somewhere–

Claude’s thought process was promptly interrupted by the sight of Dimitri raising the whisk over his head before he smacked the contents of the bowl with the strength of a contempted god’s wrath, all of the twigs of the whisk immediately snapping and the new wooden mixing bowl cracking like an eggshell as a disgusting blend of sugary butter splattered all over the prince’s apron and face. 

Claude gaped at the prince, the man in question frozen with a mangled whisk in hand, staring at the mess he’d created in utter dismay.

“...Did I beat it too hard?”

Mixing bowl #2 was thrown away into the same bin as the first, but the whisk thankfully hadn’t been rendered entirely useless (though still much less efficient than it had been before). They salvaged as much of the destroyed butter as they could from the mess left on the counter, as they didn’t know where else to find butter– they’d used the whole bar. Dimitri had made an attempt to clean the butter off of himself, the walls, and the floors, though he hadn’t quite managed to get rid of it all. This whole baking thing was shaping up to be a greater challenge than Claude had anticipated, but if the Golden Deer leader were to be totally honest with himself…

He was thoroughly enjoying it, bizarrely. But perhaps more in the way that a pyromaniac might enjoy setting their belongings on fire, rather than harbouring any personal love for the craft.

Claude watched Dimitri skid across the greased, buttery floor with a new, new bowl in hand, careful not to drop it. The prince was surprisingly graceful on the slippery floor– likely a testament to his experience with ice in Faerghus– but Claude was just waiting for another accident to happen. It was as inevitable as it was entertaining.

Claude must have been unearthing some sort of sadistic tendencies; he hadn’t realised just how amusing it would be to watch the prince attempt to crack open an egg.

The evidence of three previous attempts had been thrown away, the eggs obliterated beyond salvation. The recipe only called for a single egg– which wasn’t a lot in comparison to how much of the other ingredients they were using? He supposed the egg probably wasn’t that important– but Dimitri’s hands only shook more dangerously with each egg that he annihilated, his embarrassed and frustrated flush spreading further down his neck with every accident.

“Don’t worry, Your Butteriness, fourth time’s a charm.”

The prince didn’t bother looking at Claude, too afraid to look away from the delicate morsel in his shaking hand, instead choosing to glare at the egg as if it had offended him. “While I do appreciate it, Claude, I don’t believe that’s how the saying goes.”

Claude grinned, feeling evil. It was always fun to annoy Dimitri. His reactions were consistently entertaining, some predictable, some not. Maybe it was time for a little test– just how prideful was the prince?

“You could always let me do it, you know.” Claude tried, his tone purposefully smug.

At his words, the prince finally looked over at him, a defeated look upon his face. Claude was surprised, was Dimitri actually agreeing with him? He’d expected Dimitri to refuse, as most people (especially nobles) would rise up against the provocation. 

“Ah, yes,” Dimitri smiled sheepishly, “perhaps that would be for the best. I have wasted enough good food as it is.”

Claude felt his smile freeze in the face of Dimitri’s quiet shame, guilt smacking into him like a wyvern in a hurricane. Why did the prince have to be so earnest, teasing him felt like kicking a puppy!

“Nah,” Claude quickly cut in, his tone much less condescending, “the monastery has got plenty of food, the Church can spare a few eggs.” Claude pretended not to notice Dimitri’s attempt to argue, the prince’s gaze turned pointedly towards the half-cleaned buttery mess on the counter. “Why don’t you have one more shot at it? You might get it this time! I promise I’ll take over if it doesn’t go well.”

Dimitri frowned, before staring down at the egg. “Oh, well, if you’re sure. Fourth time’s a charm, as they say.”

Slowly, and ever so delicately, the prince lowered the egg down to the edge of the bowl, giving it the gentlest tap he could muster.

It immediately exploded.

“Claude, are you quite sure that we are supposed to fill these baking tins to the brim?”

“I mean, yeah? The recipe says that we’re only supposed to use two, and we’ve got so much batter. We clearly have to fill them all the way.”

“I suppose I cannot argue with your logic. We really do have a lot of batter left over, it seems like such a waste…”

“Now I’m gonna have to stop you right there, Your Princeliness. The leftovers aren’t a waste, they’re the best part!”

“Hm? I’m afraid I don’t understa– Claude? What are you doing?”

“Come on, say ‘ah.’”

“C-Claude, that is not cooked, surely– mmph!”

“So, Your Princeliness? What do you think? Tasty, huh?”

“...It’s delicious.”

There was a slightly splintered, detached cupboard door that had been ripped from its cabinet, its poor surviving remains placed to lie against the wall as the cupboard itself remained exposed and doorless. Butter was smeared on the counter, floor, and wall. Several kitchen tools had been thrown into the trash. Egg splatterings could be found in strange places, a lot of it from Dimitri accidentally smashing some, but also from Claude dropping one after slipping on the greasy floor (which, embarrassingly, had been after he’d declared that he would save Dimitri from wasting anymore eggs).

In the middle of it all sat one terribly misshapen spongecake, its two layers held together by a ludicrous amount of jam, the edges of it malformed and slightly burnt from overflowing out of the baking tins while it had been in the oven.

“...I don’t think it looks all that bad,” Claude tried.

The prince’s hands were covering his face, as if he couldn’t bear to look at the monstrosity before him. His voice was small and utterly dejected, muffled behind his hands.

“You don’t mean that.”

Claude pursed his lips, regarding the teen beside him. In all honesty, if Claude had been an outsider that had happened upon the two of them mourning over a deformed cake in the middle of a destroyed kitchen, he probably would’ve thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. But Claude had been there to see just how hard Dimitri had tried, and seen how much it had meant to him even if he hadn’t explained what it was for. 

“Hey.”

Claude saw Dimitri diligently lower his hands from his face at the seriousness in Claude’s voice, too polite to ignore him when he had something to say.

“Whatever you were gonna use this for,” Claude assured, “whoever you were gonna give it to, I’m sure they’re gonna love it. Because they’ll know that you made it just for them. In the end, the cake doesn’t matter, but the fact that you put in the effort.”

Claude smiled as Dimitri’s eyes widened with every word, and decided to try one last remark, despite how he wanted to keep it to himself.

“Besides,” he continued, “even if they don’t like the cake, I do. So, at least somebody likes it.” Claude winced as soon as the words left his mouth. What the hell was he saying? That wasn’t comforting at all!

Dimitri only stared at Claude silently, surprise clearly outlined in every corner of his face.

“You… you like it? Truly?”

Claude blinked. Wow, that actually worked? 

“Absolutely!” He winked for good measure, watching the prince’s face expression fill with a strange, reverent awe. “Do you think you could save me a slice?”

Claude watched with rapt attention how the beginnings of a smile spread across Dimitri’s face, before it suddenly stopped in its tracks as a thought seemed to occur to the prince.

“Oh.” Dimitri lifted a hand to his chin, contemplative. “But the cake’s not finished yet.”

“...It’s not?” Gods, what more were they going to put this kitchen through?

“We haven’t iced it.” Dimitri stared at the cake, considering. “But I wouldn’t trust myself to make any icing…”

Claude winced. Yeah, he didn’t think icing would be a very good idea either. But maybe…

“Would it be so bad to use jam?” Claude offered, holding up the knife covered in jam.

Had Dimitri been anyone else, he likely would’ve said ‘yes, it would be very bad’, but the prince merely beamed at him as if Claude hadn’t presented the most heinous solution. “What a brilliant idea, Claude! That might just work.”

Dimitri plucked the knife from Claude’s hand, and it quickly became clear from the prince’s finicky movements that he was writing something in jam on the cake. Curious, Claude attempted to peek over the prince’s shoulder, but Dimitri was quick to block his view. Ah, again with the secrets! At least he would soon see the finished product.

Claude watched Dimitri slowly put the knife down, his shoulders tense. Silently, the prince stepped to the side, looking anywhere but at the Golden Deer leader. Claude felt his interest spike at the nervous atmosphere, and he approached the cake with a crafty grin.

His jaw dropped.

Happy Birthday, Claude.

“I had been told that no one else knew about it,” came Dimitri’s voice, sounding vaguely distant but also the only thing in the world worth listening to, “and that you might wish to keep it that way. But I was upset by the idea that you would not get any cake on your birthday.”

Claude could hear the blood rushing through his ears, his face ridiculously warm. All this– Dimitri had done this for him? It was his birthday?! Claude felt like smacking himself. He’d completely forgotten the date!

“T-This cake is for me?” Claude turned to the prince, and watched as the prince only grew redder, though he met his gaze steadily. He could hear his heart thudding in his ears. “You made this for me?”

Surprisingly, Dimitri tutted at him, disapproving. “Do not sell yourself so short, Claude,” he rebuked. “You had a far greater hand in this cake’s creation than I. Everything I contributed only ended in disaster!” The prince frowned, appearing forlorn. “I apologise for dragging you into making your own cake. I feel like I have swindled you.”

Claude gaped at the prince, a small laugh bubbling out of him. “If this is what it feels like to be swindled, then you can fool me any day!” Dimitri had– somehow– discovered that it was his birthday, and his first instinct was to bake him a cake? Without any help or previous experience?! Another chuckle bubbled out of his throat, and suddenly he was leaning on the prince for support as he cackled like a madman, doubling over with the force of his laughter.

He felt a steadying hand on his shoulder as he slowly tired himself out, Dimitri watching him with an odd smile on his face that could only be described as fond. When he eventually calmed down, the prince spoke, a familiar, teasing tone that Claude never tired of hearing.

“I take it you are not too upset by these turn of events?”

Claude felt himself grin, the action strangely natural to him, different from the smiles that he wore every day. This guy.

“Oh, quite the contrary. Now I know that I’m getting the first slice!”

There was a deep chuckle, the kind that made Claude’s head turn fuzzy, and he watched as Dimitri diligently picked up the cake knife, cutting a large slice. It looked very compact, warped, slightly charred, and absolutely smothered with jam. And it was just perfect.

“Of course. Anything for the birthday boy.”