Chapter Text
“Annette!” a voice calls across the courtyard. Class just let out, and she’s setting off on the deeply familiar trek from the Blue Lions classroom to the library. The cold of winter is setting in, and even though she’s used to the chilly temperatures of Faerghus, today in particular is windy enough to put some pep in her step so she can get back inside. “Hey, Annette!”
She’s still not used to hearing anyone outside her close friends call her that, and it takes her a moment to register that yes, people other than Ashe and Mercedes and Professor Hanneman do know her real name now. Hilda’s running after her from the Golden Deer classroom, coat held tight around her, and Annette pauses to let her catch up.
“Phew, you walk fast for someone with such short legs,” she teases.
“Can’t afford to be left behind. What’s up?”
“Okay, I know your whole thing is being busy and studying and doing chores around the clock, which I so don’t get, but do you have any free time tomorrow?”
Tomorrow is Saturday, so in theory, the answer is yes. She’s got a certification exam coming up, though, and she was hoping she’d be able to squeeze in some extra studying time. Best to hedge her bets. “Depends.”
“A bunch of the other girls and I are going dress shopping, thought I’d extend the invitation. I know it’s short notice, but,” she giggles. “Didn’t know you were a girl until recently.”
Butterflies dance in her stomach at the invitation, warmth blossoming despite the cold. “You’re sure I wouldn’t be intruding?”
“Of course not. And if someone does has a problem, well… I’m stronger than I look,” she winks.
“Really hope that’s not necessary,” she mumbles.
“I promise it won’t be. I’m just having some fun. Besides, it’d help to have some more experienced dress-wearers around, right? This stuff’s not easy.”
“I guess it would be,” she admits. It doesn’t feel quite real, which she has to admit is kind of silly. To Hilda, getting invited to go shopping with the girls is a totally mundane thing. But it’s the first time it’s ever happened to her, and she can’t stop herself from smiling when she accepts the invitation.
Hilda smiles back at her. “Great! Meet us in the main hall at 11, alright?”
# # #
“Good evening, Dorothea,” Ferdinand says, sliding into place next to her on the bridge. “You’re looking positively lovely today.” Every flattering word of his makes her want to glare at him, give him that same withering look of raw disgust on his face she remembers so clearly.
But she can’t afford to get a reputation for turning away suitors, and right now she just wants to enjoy the sunset.
“Good evening, Ferdie,” she says, keeping that obnoxiously polite tone in her voice that she’s had many years to practice. She’s mostly known for her singing voice, but it’s not as if she could get by on or off-stage without being able to act. “Come to beg me for my spot in the white heron cup again?”
“No, no,” he sighs. “Professor Manuela made her decision, I’ll just have to make my peace with it. I did have something to ask of you, though.”
There’s gray clouds to the west, and the setting sun paints their undersides a brilliant pink against the dimming sky. She realizes she’s experiencing most of a romantic fantasy that seemed unattainable as a child– somewhere far away from the streets that tried to crush her, a beautiful sight before her. The knowledge that she has a warm bed waiting robbing the chill of its terrifying power, leaving only the potential for snow and warm beverages around a fireplace. All that’s missing is the actual partner, someone to wrap an arm around her to keep her warm, someone she doesn’t have to flirt with or lead on so they can drink in the view in comfortable silence.
“And what might that be?”
“Nothing awful, I promise. Just save a dance for me, at the ball. I may not have your stage experience, but I promise not to step on your toes.”
“Oh? Didn’t you just say nothing awful?” There’s a smile on her face, despite the scowl that longs to break through her mask. She’s not looking for a fight, only a way out.
“You wield your words as brutally as any weapon,” he returns. “I suppose it’s true what they say about roses and thorns.”
“I’m a rose, then?” She raises an eyebrow. “I suppose that’s apt, since I’ve always thought of you like a bee.”
“A bee?” He frowns. “I don’t understand.”
A gust of chilly air blows over the bridge, and she draws her arms close around her. “Well, you’re an ‘industrious young noble’. I’m sure you can figure it out.”
She turns to leave, then pauses mid-step when she sees someone stalking in their direction. It’s professor Byleth, but her face is set with anger Dorothea’s never seen on her. Her cloak billows behind her, and her fists are clenched at her sides to create the image of an angry spirit gliding over the bridge. The golden deer students reported seeing rare flashes of emotion during battle, and that only facing down against the death knight had gotten her truly, terrifyingly angry.
“Professor?” Dorothea asks. If it took a murderous reaper to finally bring an emotion beyond “content” and “mildly frustrated” across her face, Dorothea isn’t sure she wants to know what could have brought this on.
Ferdinand tries to get her attention as well, but she doesn’t acknowledge them. Her blue hair almost blends into the navy sky as she walks past, and even in the low light the determination in her eyes is apparent.
“Seiros,” he blasphemes once she’s out of earshot. “I don’t envy whoever ass she’s about to kick.”
# # #
“Seteth!” Byleth’s voice echoes across the high cathedral ceiling, startling a handful of churchgoers. Evening worship won’t be starting for another half an hour, but Seteth and Rhea are always there early. The two of them are standing in the back near the pulpit, Flayn listening in to their conversation– or she was, before Byleth’s interruption.
“Professor, I’m certain you don’t need me to tell you to keep your voice down,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What seems to be the trouble?” Rhea asks, stepping to meet her. Byleth comes to a stop right in front of them, but she’s so full of energy she has to fight the urge to pace around.
“I would like an explanation,” she says, voice unnaturally even. “As to why several of my students informed me they were to under no circumstances attend the Establishment Day ball?”
Seteth stares at her. “Professor, your class may have an inordinately large amount of slackers and troublemakers, but I assure you none of the golden deer have done anything to warrant such an extreme reaction. Who told you this, exactly?”
“Yuri Leclerc.” She’d been in abyss to return something he left in her classroom, and made a comment about hoping to see him at the dance. Admittedly, it had largely been so she could ensure he didn’t take the opportunity to get in trouble while most of the staff was otherwise occupied, but he sounded surprisingly disappointed when he told her not to hold her breath. “And Hapi confirmed that all four of the former Ashen Wolves students had been directly ordered by someone up top that they were to remain in Abyss for the entire night.”
The memory almost sets her trembling. Yuri was bitter, spurned again by the academy. Hapi tried to feign indifference, but Byleth could tell she was upset. Why wouldn’t she be?
“Professor, these students are down there for a reason,” Seteth says, tone dangerously close to condescension. “Mr. Leclerc is a criminal, and Mr. Albrecht has bounty hunters after him. Allowing them to attend your classes was already a massive concession. For the safety of our students—”
“ They are our students,” she says, voice rising again. “They attend my classes, they do my homework, they come with us on our missions.”
“They helped save me and Miss Ochs from the Death Knight,” Flayn chimes in. Byleth feels immense gratitude towards her student just then.
“Flayn,” Seteth tries to protest, then sighs. “I appreciate you going out of your way to try and set these delinquents on the right path, but my decision is final.”
“I’ll duel you over it,” she offers.
“First of all, that is a barbaric method of conflict resolution and one we will absolutely not be modeling for our students. Second, I would win.”
Byleth crosses her arms. “Would not.”
“You’re being childish,” he says. “Archbishop Rhea, do you have—”
She waves him off, looking faintly amused. “You seem to have this well in hand.” A vein bulges on Seteth’s temple.
“Brother, I think the professor may be in the right here,” Flayn says, keeping her voice gentle. “They’ve all been re-enrolled as students, and have been engaged and well-behaved participants in the classroom setting. Even putting aside my personal gratitude toward them and the rest of the golden deer class, it feels wrong to exclude them from an event all other students are invited to.”
“Mister Leclerc was expelled not even a year ago—”
“And has since been re-enrolled and maintained a perfect disciplinary record,” Byleth reminds him. She chooses not to mention he hasn’t become more well-behaved, simply better at hiding it. As far as the academy is concerned, it’s essentially the same thing. “All of my students are going to the ball, and I’m not leaving here until I have your assurance that will be the case.”
She stares up at him. He stares coolly down at her. His jaw twitches. She very badly wants to glance over at Rhea or Flayn.
“Fine,” he snaps. “But if any incident occurs because of it, you’re going to have a lot of answering to do.”
Byleth relaxes back, letting her even expression settle back across her face. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
# # #
Hilda knocks on her girlfriend’s door out of pure courtesy, slipping inside before she gets a response. Marianne is still in bed, blanket pulled up over her, head of blue hair peeking out from the covers. She opens her eyes just long enough to confirm it’s Hilda– because no one else is discourteous enough to barge right into her room– before shutting them again.
“Mari,” she whispers. She hates whispering it, that even her name has to be a secret. “Sure you don’t want to come with us?”
“It’s girls only,” she mumbles.
Not rolling her eyes is a herculean effort. “You’re literally—”
“They don’t know that.” She shifts to bury her head further into her pillow.
“If you’re not ready to tell them, I could just say I’m dragging you along.”
“I’d just be imposing.” Absolute misery rides her words. “It’s better for everyone if I stay here.”
Her impulse is to say It’s not better for me , but she’s learned by now it just comes across as guilting her. Instead, she just settles down on the mattress and runs her fingers through Marianne’s hair. “We’ll do something later, okay?” she asks. She gets a nod. “I’m gonna hold you to that. Lazy Saturdays are good for me, but we need to get you up and at ‘em.”
# # #
A similar interaction happens down on the first floor, where Bernadetta is currently trying to wait out someone who won’t stop knocking on her door. Edelgard usually comes to drag her out of her room when she can’t bring herself to get to class, but it’s a Saturday, and whoever’s at her door has a much gentler knock.
She waits a few seconds after the third round of knocking, hoping her silence finally gets the message across. Then the fourth round comes, and she finally has to accept that someone knows she’s here and won’t be satisfied until she’s up.
“Who is it?” she calls, and cringes at the sound of her voice. She knows she’s not supposed to talk until her warm-ups, her voice could be one of her most obvious giveaways. Stupid Bernie, stupid useless—
“It’s Dorothea.” If there was a problem with her voice, she doesn’t act like she heard anything, but that doesn’t mean she’s off the hook. She could just be pretending, making a little note of it like she’s collecting evidence and waiting until she has a case. “We’re heading out soon, the girls sent me to grab you.”
Ohh no no no. No . She is most certainly not spending her day around people much more experienced at being women than her, letting them scrutinize her and gossip about how obviously she’s faking. “I’m not going,” she insists. Is her voice under control? It’s so hard to tell.
“Come on, Bern, you promised.” She’s sure she’s pouting, her words have that simpering quality she’s so good at.
“That promise was made under duress!” The more Dorothea tries to convince her to go, the more certain she is that she’s plotting something. No one would want to spend time with her unless they wanted something. Besides, if it somehow got back to her father that she was spending time with someone of common birth… “Just go away!”
“Please, Bern? It’s gonna be fun.”
For her, of course it would be. Dresses are made for her body type. Bernadetta doubts she’s ever had any trouble finding something that looked good on her, that she was ever on the verge of tears trying to shove herself into something that was too tight around her shoulders and too loose around her chest. She doesn’t answer, stubbornly refusing to budge from her mattress.
“Bern?”
Her silence holds as she wills Dorothea to go away. After a few seconds of waiting, she finally hears retreating footsteps and lets herself relax.
# # #
Annette can’t help but feel a little nervous, even as she assures herself she’s around friends. Mercie’s with her, just as at-ease as ever as she chats with Hilda. Hilda obviously wants her here, but Petra’s giving her the occasional look. It doesn’t seem angry or judgmental, almost curious, and if she has something to say Annette wishes she’d just say it.
She looks down, smoothing out the plain skirt she’d bought just a week ago. Underneath are thick tights to help keep the cold out, and she thinks she made the right choice coming out in winter. Showing her legs might take some getting used to.
Lysithea comes in next, carrying a book under her arm that she opens as soon as she’s seated near the rest of the group. The two of them had been friendly over the past few months, but not quite friends, and Annette isn’t quite sure where they stand now. She wishes she could assume nothing would change, but the uncertainty lingers in her gut.
Relax, Annie , she reminds herself. Her classmates are good people. Hilda assured her there wasn’t going to be a problem. Mercie’s right here with her. Maybe there would be an adjustment period, but there’s no need to prepare for the worst around friends.
Dorothea’s the last to show up, gliding across the hall until she stops at their table. “Doesn’t look like Bern’s going to be coming along. Unless Petra here wants to pick her up and carry her along with us.”
Petra grins, and flexes her muscles. The impact is lessened a bit by her thick coat. “I could be doing that! But I am not thinking it would give her happiness.”
“Let her rest,” Mercedes puts a stop to that line of conversation. “I think this is everyone, right?”
They come to the conclusion that it is, in fact, everyone. Leonie responded to their invitation with a resounding “not interested”, Seteth would have a conniption of they tried to take Flayn out of the monastery, and Edelgard has been out on an errand with Hubert for most of the week.
“Still think we should’ve tried dragging Ingrid along,” Dorothea muses as the group stands to leave. Annette is certain Ingrid would have no interest in dress shopping, but she might have enjoyed Dorothea and Mercedes trying to convince her.
It’s not as bitingly cold as it was yesterday, the wind having left Garreg Mach behind and leaving a gentle chill. Gentle by Faerghus standards, at least– Petra doesn’t look all that comfortable, but considering where she’s from, Annette thinks she’s faring surprisingly well.
She winds up falling into step next to Lysithea, who’s still carrying her book under her arm. They don’t say anything for a moment, and Annette can’t tell if it’s normal “I don’t feel like talking” quiet or “I don’t want to talk to you” silence.
No point speculating. “You know, you didn’t strike me as the type to go out dress shopping.”
Lysithea gives her a wry smile. “This coming from the girl who wore the boy’s uniform for the past few months.”
“You have a point,” she concedes, returning the smile.
“But it has been brought to my attention that, at the time of the dance, I may be in a position in which it wouldn’t… not be prudent to dress nicely.”
The words come out forced, and it takes Annette a moment to process them. Once she does, though, she breaks into a grin. “You like someone!”
“I most certainly do not,” she hisses. “And I would appreciate you keeping your voice down.”
“Too late,” Dorothea calls over her shoulder. Lysithea huffs.
“Come on, who is it?” Annette prods. “Someone in your class?” Hilda and Dorothea thoroughly fail at appearing subtle, while Mercedes at least pretends she’s not listening in.
She makes a show of rolling her eyes. “You’re being very immature. Can we talk about anything else?”
Before anyone can suggest a worse topic of conversation, Petra mentions how different the dancing conventions of Brigid are, which seems to be a more than tempting enough distraction for Mercedes and Dorothea. Hilda falls back into step with the other two, officially segregating the group into short girls and comparatively taller girls.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook yet,” Hilda winks. “I’ll find out who it is.”
“You may consider putting some of that effort into your studies.”
“Considered and decided against.”
Dorothea leads the group through the town and into a larger building, its inside so bursting with color that Annette needs a moment to adjust after seeing mostly gray clouds and bare trees on the way over. The others glide easily across the shop, dispersing into the aisles before Annette can even figure out how everything is organized. Entirely uncertain as to where to start, she takes to following Mercedes like a lost puppy.
Being Mercedes, she’s slow to notice Annette’s hovering presence but quick to find the problem once she does. “You look overwhelmed.” She keeps her voice quiet, not trying to project Annette’s issues to the world. “Everything okay?”
“I don’t know where to start,” she admits. “Think this is the kind of thing most girls had a mom or sister to teach them.” It’s moments like these she’s very aware of what a late start she’s having.
Then Mercedes gives her that reassuring smile of hers that feels like she’s wrapping her in a hug without even touching her. “You can be my little sister today then, alright? I’m not an expert, but I can show you what I know.”
The uncertainty in her heart thaws in a burst of warmth. “Thanks, Mercie.”
They work through what she doesn’t want first. Too short is a no-go, as is anything open-backed or low cut. Styles are ruled out one at a time, Mercedes patiently leading her down the aisles. Cutting down the overwhelming number of dresses to a smaller number of candidates makes the task seem much more manageable. She sees Hilda and Dorothea helping out Lysithea and Petra as they weave through the store, which helps her feel less insecure about her own lack of knowledge.
“Hmm.” Mercedes tilts her head at a rack of dresses. Annette looks at it as well, the fabric blending together into an disorganized rainbow. “Dorothea, what color do you think would be good for her?”
Dorothea, on the other end of the aisle, looks from her to the dresses as she walks over. Petra follows close behind, a few dresses folded neatly over her arm. “Let’s see… something cream-colored maybe, it could fit that understated look you’re going for. Or maybe a light green?” She looks again at the dresses, and again at Annette. “Or maybe not.”
Petra, meanwhile, stares intently at her. Her narrowed, curious eyes make her feel like she’s being scrutinized, before her expression lifts and she reaches into the rack. “Might this be working?” She pulls out a navy dress that looks like it would be about floor length on her, with a white pattern around the waist and near the hem. “It is looking like your eyes, and… contrasting?” She glances over at Dorothea, who nods encouragingly. “Contrasting with your hair.”
“She’s such a quick learner,” Dorothea beams.
Annette examines the dress, and thanks Petra as she takes it from her. It’s beautiful, and she spends the walk over to the dressing rooms in the corner hoping it’ll fit. Petra follows along with her, and they step into adjacent stalls to change.
“Do you have anything like this in Brigid?”
“Nothing similar to this. But on certain days, we are having grand festivals to honor the spirits. The streets are filled with food and music and dancing, and we decorate our hair and clothing to sparkle in the light.” Annette can hear how happy the memory must be making her, and it makes her smile.
“That sounds incredible! And a little overwhelming, maybe.”
Petra laughs. “Overly whelming, yes. But it is part of the excitement.”
The dress is a little tight over her shoulders, but a few test motions show that as long as she doesn’t try fighting anyone wearing it, she’ll manage just fine.
“Actually…” the levity suddenly feels drained from her voice, and Annette can feel its absence. “They will be having a celebration during this month. It will end a day before the ball.”
“Oh,” she says, pausing in the middle of adjusting the fabric to rest comfortably on her frame. “I guess you’ll be missing a few of them. That sucks.”
“Very much,” she agrees. “But because of it, I will have to be celebrating even harder once I am returning home.” She regains her hopeful tone as she speaks.
“That’s the spirit!”
Dorothea and Hilda both aim their attention at Annette as she leaves the stall, examining how the dress fits and doesn’t fit. It’s the right length, ending just above her ankles, but feels loose around her hips. Fabric intended to follow the curve of her breasts finds nothing to brace against and sits limply against her chest.
“Is it workable?” They don’t look as enthusiastic as she hoped, and she fears the worst.
“Oh, definitely,” Hilda says.
Dorothea nods in confirmation. “Could get some extra fabric to tie the waist in, that’d look cute.”
“Maybe for this bit up here, we fold it like this…” She takes the loose bust region of her dress in nicely manicured fingers and folds it over itself, making it comfortably tight over her chest. “Perfect.”
“It’s kind of noticeable like that.”
Annette looks down. She thinks Dorothea is probably right, but doesn’t think she’d have ever realized that on their own.
“Hmm… oh! We’ll just do two of them right at the edge of her chest, that’ll look way more natural.” She demonstrates this as well.
“I don’t know how to do that,” Annette admits, feeling sheepish. Having Hilda so close to her, hands on her dress’s neckline, feels unfamiliar but not uncomfortable. She can easily imagine her doing the same for Lysithea, and she thinks she’d like getting used to it.
“Well, yeah, but I’m a total ace at this stuff.” The dress falls back against her as Hilda lets go, and she instantly misses the feeling of it fitting properly. “I could take care of this pretty quick. If you don’t mind doing some of my chores in exchange, of course,” she winks.
“Or she could stick some padding in there,” Dorothea shrugs.
“Huh?” Annette asks. Before she gets an answer, Petra calls out from her stall.
“Dorothea? Could you be helping me?”
She gives Annette one last smile as she walks over. “Just something to consider. Unless you’d rather get stuck with greenhouse duty, of course.”
# # #
Hilda’s never been great with horses. Try as she might, she can’t put her finger on exactly why , but growing up she always did her best to avoid them.
One would have a hard time knowing that, though, based on how often she’s in the stables these days. She’d ensured she wouldn’t be placed there during chore rotation, but as Marianne is oftentimes assigned to taking care of the horses, Hilda is oftentimes seen hanging in there with her.
“Hey, Mari,” she says, shutting the door behind her. Sunday morning brought with it strong winds that haven’t yet moved on, turning her nose and cheeks a bright pink that matches her windswept hair.
Marianne almost jumps when she hears her name, stopping mid-brush to glance around. “You shouldn’t be calling me that.” She keeps her voice low as she turns her focus back to the horse.
“Come on, there’s no one here.” The stables aren’t exactly insulated, so with the exception of a lovestruck student looking for her girlfriend, there’s no reason for anyone without business here to be hanging around.
“You don’t need to be calling me anything.” There’s an undercurrent of quiet self-loathing to her words that Hilda hopes she’s imagining, because she absolutely hates it.
“Yeah, but it’s a pretty name and I like saying it.”
She admires how Marianne brushes the horse’s coat. Admittedly she doesn’t know the first thing about horses, but it’s easy to see the love and care in each purposeful movement. It makes her look relaxed, and Hilda’s not sure if it’s from the monotonous action or the presence of her favorite horse.
The thought of Marianne brushing Hilda’s hair like that pops into her head, and the very familiar sensation of gay yearning bubbles up in her. She kinda hoped the yearning feeling would subside now that she actually has a girlfriend, but if anything, it’s only become more potent.
“So,” she changes the subject, the lack of response making it clear that the first line of conversation isn’t going anywhere. “I think we still haven’t decided what we’re doing for the ball.”
She tries not to grimace as Marianne’s face falls. “Right. You want to go.”
“Really badly,” she admits. “More specifically, I want to go with you.”
“You’d have a lot more fun without me,” she says, keeping her eyes trained firmly away from Hilda. “I’d bring down the mood.”
“Okay, let me pretend that’s true for a second.” She makes a show of pretending to think, then says, “Nope, I want you there anyway.”
Consciously, she knows Marianne isn’t trying to get out of the dance because she doesn’t want to go with Hilda, but emotionally, it still hurts when the prospect makes her look actively miserable.
“If it’s going to make you uncomfortable, I won’t push it.” The concession feels like opening up the door and blasting herself with cold air. “But do you think you could come for just the first hour or two? And if you hate it, we can go back to one of our rooms and spend the night alone, okay?”
Her shoulders loosen, which is an improvement even if she still doesn’t look completely relaxed. “I think I can do that.”
It’s something , Hilda reminds herself. She doesn’t know if it’s the weather or the early sunsets, but Marianne’s mood seemed to be getting worse and worse over the past month or so. Hilda does her best, but as Byleth, Claude, and sometimes even Flayn are quick to remind her, she can’t make herself responsible for someone else’s happiness.
But Goddess, she wishes she could. She hoped that after Annette came out, Marianne might be happier, less alone. Maybe she’d even feel safe to come out as herself, finally get to be Marianne to someone other than Hilda, and their classmates would show her that she doesn’t have anything to worry about. If anything, though, it only seemed to make her more miserable. So Hilda puts on her brave face and tries to act as her rock, what feels like the only thing she can actually do for her.
# # #
Felix’s lessons are normally after class on Mondays, but with the dance lessons the professors are offering this week, both his tutors requested they move to Sunday. It doesn’t much matter to him, he can do his lessons today and his solo training while everyone else is off killing time. His friends have already made it abundantly clear that he’s going to the ball whether he wants to or not, the least he can do is make sure it doesn’t encroach on more of his time than it has to.
“Afternoon!” A chipper voice greets him as he walks into the training grounds. It’s rarely busy on Sunday, so the handful of students and knights doing drills around them makes for a much more lively atmosphere than he’s used to.
He gives Annette a small wave in greeting. Her mage robes are different than the ones she wears on the battlefield, decorated with visible wards that limit how much power she can pull in but dampen any magic that hits her. They look like they belong on her, he notices, while his own robes make him feel exceptionally goofy.
“You been doing your drills?” Even after the past week in class, in which she kept up her habit of answering every question posed by Professor Hanneman, he still has a hard time recognizing her new voice as hers. He supposes that’s the idea.
“Course I’ve been doing my drills,” he scoffs. Largely unsuccessfully, sure, but every evening like clockwork he came out and at least tried to summon lightning from his fingers.
“Let’s see it, then!” She leads him over to one of the scorch-covered training dummies, a few yards away from where Byleth leads Petra in advanced sword drills.
He takes a deep breath as he plants his feet on the ground, feeling his body prepare to cast. His focus narrows, the world falling away until all that’s left is him and the training dummy. Pins and needles shoot up and down his arm, but he keeps his hand perfectly steady as he envisions the arc the bolt will follow as it strikes the dummy.
“Ow, fuck !” Sparks shower from his fingers and fall harmlessly to the floor, and he shakes his hand in a vain effort to restore feeling. It doesn’t feel quite like an actual electric shock, more like the tactile equivalent of a ringing in the ears that radiates up through his forearm.
“You alright?” she asks, wearing concern plainly on her face. It’s annoying. Of course he’s alright, just like he’s been alright the last two dozen times this happened.
“M’fine,” he insists, turning his gaze away. “How do I fix this?”
“First, I think your breathing is wrong.”
He raises an eyebrow. “My breathing is wrong?”
“Trust me, it makes a big difference. Follow my lead.”
# # #
He groans at what feels like his 20th consecutive failure, which in turn only bothers him more. It’s frustrating, sure, but nothing that should make him this overtly irritated. Annette stays optimistic and upbeat the whole time, which only gets under his skin. He remembers Glenn’s intense tutelage, always demanding the best out of him, and Annette’s compassionate demeanor seems overly soft in comparison.
“It’s just a timing thing,” she assures him, leaving out the part about how that would be life or death on the battlefield. “Let me show you.”
His arm is half-numb by now, but he still feels the nerves light up as magic flows into them. To his surprise, she takes his wrist in her hand– a bold move, considering the sparks that are sure to go flying in just a moment– and holds him in place as he charges up.
“Aaaaand,” she says, expression not wavering even as a bright current jumps from his thumb to his index finger. “There.”
She moves his arm forward in a graceful motion, and lightning bursts from his hands and arcs cleanly at the dummy with a satisfying sizzle. He stares at it, the afterimage burned into his eyes, and it takes him a moment to realize the lingering pins and needles feeling has evaporated.
“You did it!” Annette cheers, beaming.
“Think that was mostly you,” he mumbles.
“Nope!” She shakes her head. “I just helped with the timing. You’re the one who did all the work.”
Before he can respond, the clock bells ring and mark the end of the hour.
“Crap, that’s my cue. I agreed to help Hilda in the library today.” She picks up her things from the floor as she moves to leave. “Keep working on timing, okay? Don’t be afraid to hold it longer than you think.”
“Got it.” He still feels trancelike, as if the cast was an episode of wishful thinking, but the smell of ozone and the new scorch on the dummy affirm it’s very real.
“Good luck!” She barely turns back as she races away, full of energy as ever.
“Nice work today,” Byleth says, coming up behind him.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“You made progress.”
He stretches his muscles one by one, limbering up. “Barely. Thought you were watching me more closely than usual. What’s your deal?”
She retrieves a sparring sword from the nearby rack, passing it over before answering. It’s the perfect weight for him, as usual. “Your classmate put herself in a very vulnerable position,” she says, keeping her voice even and professional in a very un-Byleth manner. “The other faculty and I thought it prudent to ensure none of the students gave her a hard time.”
“So you’re babying her.”
He meant it to get a rise out of her, but none comes as she settles into a combat stance, raising her own sword at his. “I wouldn’t say so. We’re doing our job as professors.”
They cross blades, the crack of wood on wood ringing out as the impact reverberates down his arms. Everything about fighting in mage robes feels off, from how exposed they make him feel to how they drag through the air when he moves his arms. Being undefended leaves him vulnerable but flexible, which is completely out of his element “You’re not even our professor.”
That gets him a wry smile. “I don’t teach your class, no. But I’m a professor to every student here.”
“Whatever.” He’s not taking full advantage of his new range of movement, and he knows it. Byleth, wearing similar warded robes to Annette, can practically dance out of the way of blows in a way he never learned. “You know why I agreed to let Annette train me?”
“Why’s that?” She lunges forward, sword catching on his, and disarms him in a neat maneuver. He switches gears before it can hit the ground, backpedaling to avoid another blow as he calls lightning to his fingers. Another strike barely misses, but he’s losing ground, and her next connects hard with his side. Sparks fall from his fingers, feedback grinding unpleasantly through his muscles.
He curses under his breath.
Byleth slides her boot under the blade and kicks it up into her hand. Show off. “I assume I don’t need to tell you what to try next time?”
“Bite me.”
She hands him back his sword, and they resume dueling posture. “Out of all the students here, there’s three people who can beat me in a fair fight. Lysithea, Hubert, and Annette.” Each name is punctuated by an attempted swipe at Byleth, none of which land. “If I want to be the best, I need to fight on their level.”
“You give yourself a lot of credit.”
“I give myself exactly as much credit as I’ve earned.” She goes for another disarm, and he steps out of the way this time.
“Better,” she nods. “What’s your point?”
“She’s one of the strongest mages in our year. I wouldn’t be wasting my time learning from her otherwise. And that’s with whatever she’s been going through this past year.” His focus is split between the spar and his words, but they come easily enough regardless. “Have you heard her? I doubt that happened overnight.”
“You sound impressed.” He can’t tell if she’s goading him or not.
“My point is, if her effort was split before now, I don’t want to think about how far ahead of the pack she’ll get after this.” He lunges, and she leaps back with little effort. “She can handle herself. It’s disrespectful.”
Byleth knocks the sword out of his hand, but doesn’t make an effort to follow up. Several of students have described the uncanny habit she has of staring through people, and Felix is not a fan of being on the receiving end of it. The faintly pleased expression on her face only makes it feel stranger.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
# # #
It’s too damn early for this, Yuri thinks as he takes long strides across the courtyard. The sun is barely up, his coat doing little to protect him from the wintry air, and he buries his face in his scarf as a gust of wind hits him head-on. He’s used to staying up late to conduct his business at night, sometimes operating on only a few hours of sleep between jobs, but waking up at the crack of dawn is nothing like staying up until then. It doesn’t help that now he has to worry about classes, and the professor who for some saints-forsaken reason he actually wants to impress .
Still, though, he’s got an important job ahead of him, and one he can’t pass off to one of his gang. He keeps that thought at the forefront of his mind as he jogs up the stairs to the dining hall, trying not to think about how this will throw off his schedule.
“Morning, sunshine,” he greets as he slides into the doorway, trying to keep a yawn off his voice.
Bernadetta, the sunshine in question, makes a strangled screeching noise as she recoils away, almost dropping her breakfast. Yuri flinches at the sound. If the cold wasn’t enough to wake him up, that definitely was.
“What do you want?” she stammers out, backpedaling.
“For you to never make that sound again, for one.” He grimaces as he rubs his temples. “But mostly, I want to talk.”
“N-now?” Her eyes are wide and her body is coiled as if it’s ready to flee.
“That was the idea, yes.” He gestures to a nearby table.
“Oh, I knew this was coming.” Her voice quavers as, to Yuri’s surprise, she drags herself over to sit down. He glides around the table to take a seat across from her. She neither speaks nor eats her food.
“Alright, I won’t bother beating around the bush here.” She half-flinches, and something burns deep in Yuri’s heart. “Nothing like that. I just want to know why you keep running away from me. It’s getting tiresome.” He had hoped that telling her he was her friend growing up would make her less afraid of him, but it only seemed to make her panic more.
“Don’t toy with me,” she pleads. “You already have me trapped, we both know it! Why—”
“I assure you we don’t both know it. Can you please enlighten me? I don’t enjoy begging.”
That seems to be the word choice, because she gasps and tenses up. Her words come out in a torrent, almost tripping over each other. “I know you want revenge for what my father did to you.”
Ah. That . “That’s quite an assumption to make. If I wanted revenge, I’d take it out on your father.” She makes another one of those strangled cries, fortunately much less abrasive this time. “ If . I have no intention of making any type of move against your family. I only mean that if I did, I’d leave you out of it. That clear things up?”
She hesitates, then nods.
“Good. Can you stop running away whenever you see me?”
She shakes her head so hard Yuri’s worried it might come loose. He tries not to groan.
“And why’s that?”
“You knew me back then,” she hisses, trying not to let all three people in the dining hall this early overhear. “That means you know my secret.”
“Secret?” he asks. “What the hell do I care about that?”
“Because you can tell everyone!”
He sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. He wishes his job this morning involved a brutal bar fight, or maybe a long slog through a half-frozen swamp. “Why in Fodlan would I do that?”
Her eyes narrow at him. “Why wouldn’t you?”
He gapes at her in return. She cannot be for real right now. “Aside from the fact I have quite literally no reason to?”
“It’s blackmail material,” she says, as if she has any idea the kind of thing Yuri actually uses to blackmail people.
“Didn’t we just go over this? I don’t have any reason to blackmail you.” Not to mention it would make terrible blackmail material. Without any proof, it would just come across as a poor-taste rumor. “Besides, ‘don’t make the snipers mad at you’ is one of the golden rules in my line of work.”
“I’m not letting you lull me into a false sense of security.” She tries to sound tough, but her voice still shakes. His annoyance gives way to a wish that there was something he could do to comfort her.
“Fine,” he says. “Maybe this will help. You know about my band of rogues, yeah?” She tenses up again. “I’m not threatening you with them, just listen, okay? One of my best swordsmen is a guy who ran away from home because his father would only raise him as a daughter. I have a healer who’s sometimes a man and sometimes a woman. We recently picked up a rookie who doesn’t have a gender at all.” She still looks on edge, but not quite as ready to bolt as she was before. “My rogues are like family to me. Tossing around your secret like that would be like spitting in their faces.”
Her eyes are wide, and for a second he thinks he might have convinced her. Then she shakes her head. “Nope, nuh-uh. Not buying it.”
He groans, unable to hold back. “Alright, fine. If you’re that dedicated to hating me, there’s nothing I can do to change your mind. But for the record, I don’t think there’s anything to be scared of. Far as I can tell, no one’s given Annette any shit, and—”
“Who the hell is Annette?”
That stops him mid-rant, and he stares at her for a moment. She stares back. “Annette Dominic? In the Blue Lions class?” She stares back at him. “Did you not hear?”
“No, hear what?”
“That she’s trans.” She blinks at him. “It was a whole thing.”
“When did this happen?”
“Last week, it…” He marvels at her, unable to believe that somehow she didn’t hear. “Do you really hide in your room that much?”
“That’s not important.” She crosses her arms. “I-I have to go!”
He watches her grab her food and run, pushing past another early entry into the dining hall.
“This girl is unreal,” he says to himself, shaking his head as he gets up to grab his own breakfast. It’s a shame, too. Lots of their classmates seemed genuinely happy for Annette, and he wonders what Bernadetta would have thought if she let herself see it.
# # #
The dancing lesson is even more lively than Dorothea expected, with students trickling in throughout the afternoon. Fortunately the professors anticipated this, and recruited a handful of students to help give one on one lessons. After an hour and a half of being one of those volunteers, she’s equal parts exhausted and exhilarated.
“Well well,” a jovial speaker approaches from behind. She turns to see Sylvain and a handful of Blue Lions students coming over to say hello. “I was hoping I’d find a talented dance instructor to help me brush up on my skills.” He winks.
“That so? You’re just in time, it looks like Professor Hanneman is open.”
Ingrid laughs at seeing Sylvain thrown off balance, which in turn makes Dorothea feel bubbly inside. Her gaze lingers on her as she leads Sylvain over to their professor, before turning back to the rest of the group.
“Are you on a break?” Annette asks. “Was hoping for a quick lesson, but it looks like everyone’s full right now.”
“Nope!” she assures her with a shake of her head. “Had a few guys who were being creepy, so I’m adopting a strict ‘no boys allowed’ policy for at least the rest of the hour.” She holds her hand out and, after a moment of hesitation, Annette takes it and lets her guide her out to the floor.
“My parents taught me how to dance, but…” Dorothea waits patiently for her to find the words as they get into position. “I only know how to lead, not follow.”
“Ahh,” she nods, then gives her a reassuring smile. “Should be easy enough. Let me show you.”
# # #
Hapi lurks off to the side of the hall, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. The worst part about joining the professor’s class mid-year is that everyone knows each other already. Some of her fellow Deers (a title which annoys her irrationally) are friendly enough to her– Hilda makes an effort to chat before class even if the blue haired one she hangs around seems to make an active effort to hide– but the cliques are already formed and not looking for newcomers. Living underground doesn’t do her any favors either.
“A-ha! I was wondering where you ran off to.”
Constance settles in next to her, watching the dancing students. Hapi rolls her eyes. “I told you where I was going, Coco. At least twice.”
“You told me you were going to be attending dance lessons, not skulking off to the side.” Hapi’s entirely sure she’s making up that justification on the spot, but doesn’t push it.
“All the instructors are busy. I’m just waiting my turn.”
“You could take a hint from everyone else around and enjoy yourself.” She gestures dramatically around at the rest of the room, where their fellow students are chatting or dancing around. “Or! I could be the one to teach you.”
“You think you can?”
“I’m certain of it!”
Hapi shrugs, and follows her out onto the floor. “I’m a total beginner, so you’re gonna need to show me the basics.”
“Everyone’s a beginner at some point, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I… wasn’t, but thanks.”
She shows Hapi where to put her hands, using the students dancing around them as guidance, then leads her in an awkward step that’s mostly in time with the music.
“This doesn’t feel right,” Hapi says, glancing around at the much more orderly pairs.
“Give yourself time, you’ll settle in.”
Her assurance is undercut by her stepping on Hapi’s toes.
“Ow! Do you even know how to dance?”
Her expression turns indignant. “I am a noble!”
Hapi groans loudly. “Ugh! Coco, you can’t just…” She trails off as she notices the people around them have stopped dancing and turned to stare at her. A couple of them are backing away, but one student in particular who abandoned subtlety and decided to simply bolt catches her attention.
“Oh, relax!” Constance shouts, derision dripping off her words. It only draws more attention to them. “That wasn’t a sigh.”
The circle around her expands wider and wider, leaving her at the center of accusing gazes that make her defensive and scared expressions that break her heart.
She doesn’t say anything as she stalks out, shoving past a black eagles student she only vaguely recognizes. It sounds like Constance is following her, but she doesn’t bother looking back to make sure.
It feels harshly cold outside, especially compared to the body heat and camaraderie that warmed the hall. She left her coat inside but there’s no way in hell she’s going back for it now, even if her thin clothes do little to protect her from the biting wind. The sun is half under the horizon, casting long shadows over the courtyard.
“Hapi.” A hand appears on her shoulder, and she can tell the voice doesn’t belong to Constance. She turns to see professor Byleth’s steadying gaze turned on her. “Are you okay?”
In the distance behind her, students speedwalk out of the hall and back towards the dorms. A few of them huddle together in a group to keep safe.
“No.” She shrugs off Byleth’s hand and strides off towards abyss. Her only interruption is Constance, who drapes Hapi’s retrieved coat over her shoulders and falls into step next to her.
# # #
“You two,” Byleth addresses Dorothea and Ferdinand. “Going anywhere?”
“Don’t intend to,” Dorothea says, voice more bitter than she expected. Watching a bunch of so-called “nobles” staring at that girl stirred something in her heart, killing the good mood dancing had cultivated.
“Certainly not,” Ferdinand scowls. “That was a downright shameful display.”
Hypocrite.
“Agreed.” Byleth looks around the room and sighs. “Although it looks like we might not need as many volunteers now.”
Maybe half of the students stuck around, leaving a sparse dozen and a half people milling about. None of them look much interested in dancing.
“I could do with some brushing up.” Ingrid steps forward, immediately lightening Dorothea’s mood. “Dancing’s not much my thing, I’m sure I’ve gotten rusty.”
“I’d be happy to help.” She holds out her hand before Byleth or Ferdinand can volunteer.
Ingrid’s fingers are cool against Dorothea’s warm hand as she leads her out to the floor, and they settle into a rhythm. Fortunately, no one in the quartet of musicians providing music had joined the exodus.
“Nervous?” Ingrid asks as they start to move together.
“What about?”
She rolls her eyes, but maintains her smile. “The white heron cup?”
“Oh, certainly not.” Despite her concerns about getting rusty, dancing with Ingrid is nearly as smooth and easy as dancing with Manuela. “I don’t want to sound conceited, but I am a fantastic dancer.”
“I can tell.”
She makes no effort to hide her beaming smile. “Who did your class decide on? Don’t think I heard.”
“Dimitri.”
That almost makes her stumble, but she catches herself. “Dimitri?”
“He’s actually a really good dancer. Even Felix had to give him the vote.”
“Good enough to win against me?” She twirls Ingrid around, watching how her golden braid arcs behind her.
“Probably not, but don’t tell him I told you that.” The next few steps feel like dancing on clouds. Her routine of finding noble students to flirt with and pretend to enjoy how they reciprocate has gotten exhausting. Putting on a persona she can’t stand to get through dates feels worse each time. Having someone she actually likes that she can make such easy banter with is more than a breath of fresh air. It feels like coming up from underwater.
The song ends, and the two of them come to a stop. Ingrid lets go of her, and Dorothea’s sad to see her go.
“I’m totally clueless about this stuff,” Ingrid admits. “Is ‘save me a dance’ a thing?”
“Even if it’s not, I’ll save you as many as you’d like,” Dorothea winks.
# # #
Bernadetta stands with the rest of the students as Flayn, Dimitri, and Dorothea dance before the judges. As much as Dimitri’s large frame and surprisingly graceful movements want to dominate her field of vision, she finds herself staring enviously at Dorothea. The feeling burns and coils in her gut as she picks apart every trait and feature her classmate has that she lacks, from her slender frame to the confidence that radiates from her as she glides across the stage.
She’s still staring as the judges call the results, announcing Dorothea the winner. Her thoughts are so loud she hardly realizes the competition is over.
“You alright?” a voice startles her out of her reverie. “You look kinda upset. Bet against your own house or something?”
“What?” she sputters, reality racing in. “Of course I didn’t do that! Why would I do that?”
“Just a joke. You sure you’re alright?”
She meets the speaker’s blue-gray eyes, trying to remember who they belong to. “I’m fine,” she assures her, before she remembers what Yuri told her the other morning. “Annette?”
“Yeah?”
Thoughts race through her head, so many things she wants to ask and tell her. “I…” Have people been nice to you? How did you find the confidence? What did you say? You look really pretty. Neither of us are alone.
“N-nevermind!” She bolts back to her room, heart trying to pound out through her throat.