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The Church of Seiros spares no expense in their worship, their military, or their celebration of Garreg Mach Establishment Day. Though the sun has long since set, days shorter and colder with every wane of the Ethereal Moon, the Reception Hall glows without it, the center of the monastery’s universe, if only for a night.
As leader of his house, Claude drags every member onto the dance floor for a turn around the room. Despite half-hearted protests, he starts with Teach in the hopes that their silly romp will ease the jittery tension from his shyer classmates, awkward amongst the impeccable noble poise of Dimitri’s and Edelgard’s more presentable factions. As always, Teach proves an admirable accomplice: he trips over his own feet, all confidence from the battlefield absent in the face of Claude and his goofy, haphazard cavorting. By the time Manuela swoops in to sweep the unsuspecting mercenary into a Morfis tango, Edelgard has already begun to scoff and Dimitri turns a frown Claude’s way. Not that Claude gives two gold for their opinion, disapproving or not. He’s never put much stock in the superiority of upbringing that royalty wears along with their wealth— not after living his life as a prince with a price on his head.
In fact, he delights in flouting convention, and tugs a bashful Marianne into an over-exaggerated waltz to do just that. Nose high and shoulders back in a perfect mockery, he cajoles a sweet smile from out behind her usual reserve. It widens considerably when Hilda cuts in, throwing her arms around Marianne with a friendly shooing motion at Claude. He waves them on and retreats to the dancefloor's edge, searching the crowd. He's so occupied trying to pinpoint a particular overbearingly noble head from where it's surely towering over their classmates that he yelps as he's lifted from his feet by two truly massive arms— Raphael, come to his aid now that his dance partner has been stolen to exchange saccharine smiles in a candy-colored whirl.
Claude is a rag doll in his grappling clutch, swinging around the floor without his feet ever touching the ground. Leonie and Ignatz, beside them, fall into each other with laughter. They spare him no pity, nor a thought for the condescension of onlookers. Even giddy and offbeat, they manage the bare bones of a common jig, falling out of step only when Claude’s flying foot comes too close to landing a blow on one of their heads.
He’s a little dizzy once Raph finally relinquishes him in favor of the refreshment table, but he recovers as he seeks out his next target. Every classmate crossed off brings him closer to the ultimate, elusive prize.
Lysithea makes it easy. He finds her lurking at the edges of the dance floor behind a gaggle of older students, subtly listening in on their conversation while looking both desperate to be included, and eager to seem entirely above it all.
“O fair Lysithea,” he greets, hand out. “I have come to whisk ye away for a dance.”
She wrinkles her nose at him, glancing down at his upturned palm like a moldy fruit. “No thanks.”
As if pierced by an arrow straight through his heart, Claude clutches his chest and sighs dramatically. “The sting of rejection! It will be the end of me, one of these days.”
“Not likely,” Lysithea says, raising an eyebrow at a huddle of girls looking their way and giggling behind their hands.
He thinks back to the sneers at his earring followed by insincere inquiry; the fawning over his hair as he dodges invasive hands; the murmur of gossip always just out of earshot. “Oh, kid,” he smiles. “You have no idea.”
“I’m not a kid!” she explodes, her sore spot sparing him from further introspection. “You and Lorenz keep trying to baby me, as if I need your help. Have you ever given thought that perhaps it is you who could use mine?”
Claude huffs a chuckle at her outburst, casual as ever despite the flutter in his chest at the mere mention of that name. Too clever by half, that one. Perceptive enough to keep him mindful of his balancing act; he can sense her at his back, ready to shove at the slightest provocation. “Old Lorenz asked you to dance too? Was he also turned away to nurse the torment of his noble wounds?”
Lysithea frowns. “No, he hasn’t, actually.” She glances around, as does Claude— but there’s no sign of that vibrant violet hair anywhere, not even amidst the gaggles of well-to-do girls grouped together along the edges of the ballroom, waiting for a dance. “He’s always hovering around me like a mother hen. It’s actually rather strange he wasn’t the first to insist.”
“Strange indeed,” Claude agrees, something sour curdling in his gut. It bubbles there, a poison of his own making, though he never raised a hand to brew it. A natural toxin and all the more deadly for it, it burns the back of his throat-- not a death knell, but a warning. He’d been so busy goofing around with their classmates that he hadn’t even noticed Lorenz slip away. Had he found a beautiful, high-born lady willing to follow him to the Goddess Tower for a late night rendezvous?
But no— Lorenz, with his high standards of decorum and proper behavior, would never seduce a lady into relinquishing favors before their bond could be properly sealed in front of his father and the goddess. Claude rather thinks that Lorenz is incapable of seduction at all— himself being an unfortunate, special case. There is no other explanation for how helplessly enchanted he is by the graceful movements of his hands when he speaks, a conductor of his own dignified bearing and gentle demeanor. Even the smug tilt of Lorenz’s head when he says something he is particularly confident in kindles a warmth in Claude’s chest and at the curling corners of Claude’s mouth.
When he drags his gaze away from the crowd, Lysithea is already peering at him with a calculating look. “Perhaps you should find him,” she says. “You know, if you want to.”
“And leave you alone to wait while Cyril gathers the courage to venture over? I couldn’t possibly,” he laughs easily.
She has a fist out quicker than he can blink. Claude wonders why Teach hasn’t honed her temper into a brawler's strength as he jumps back, hands up in surrender. “Hey, now—”
“I’m not waiting for Cyril! Or anybody!” she snaps. For all she's several inches shorter, she scowls down at him. “Dancing is stupid, anyway. It's just a silly waste of time and resources that would be better off allocated to research or— or relief aid for towns plagued by monsters. As a matter of fact, I can’t stand to spend another moment watching you people—who are supposed to be older than me—prance around like idiots.”
She cleaves a path to the door, unsuspecting students dodging the static of magic frothing from her crest and leaping with the jabs of her angry elbows. Claude blinks at her lingering vehemence, the tang of it electric in the air while their peers whisper behind their hands. If he had the freedom to express regret and embarrassment without his capability being questioned, he would be rather sheepish right now. But he's never had that luxury, and instead forces a laugh, effortlessly slipping into their perception of him. Then he jogs after Lysithea, out into the hallways and away from the party.
He can hear the quick patter of her boots on the polished floor as she storms away, but right as he turns the corner that diverts from the reception hall rather than circle back around to it, he hears her exclaim a quiet “Oh!” followed by Cyril's familiar reassuring frankness.
He’ll let her apologize later, he grins to himself. He turns back to return to the party. Hands idle in his pockets, he wonders if he even should go back; the library is as empty as it will ever get, as are most other secure parts of the church. His steps slow, contemplating it. Maybe he—
A teary sniffle derails his thoughts. “Huh?” he murmurs, stopping his progress completely to listen. For a moment it’s like he imagined the sound, the halls silent save the faint lilt of music and laughter as the other students make merry around the corner— until the sniffle comes again, this time louder, a little more ungainly, and unbearably sad.
Claude follows it into an empty room, bigger than a closet but removed of its purpose beyond storage for the ball. There are boxes and cleaning supplies and prayer books strewn about between several of the benches and long tables, disassembled and stacked on top of one another. Behind a tall stack of dusty crates, the plaintive noises intensify. Claude keeps light on his toes, careful not to startle them.
“Hey there,” he says, gently as he can.
But his efforts spiral in vain, startling first a yelp, then a loud bang as they hit something. Their hiding place crashes to the side before either of them can stop it. Dust rises between them and the wreckage, and Claude sees the unmistakeable silhouette of none other than Lorenz Hellman Gloucester.
Lorenz has his back to him, head bent and arms tightly wrapped around his knees. All Claude can make out is the sad hunch of his shoulders and the twist of his pale neck, longer locks fallen forward and hiding his face even as they bare the soft, close crop at his nape.
“Naturally you are off s-slinking about when you should be front and center of the merriment," Lorenz admonishes, despite how his voice wobbles. "As a representative of the Alliance and its future leadership, I must insist you return at once, l-lest the good name of our house be tarnished."
“Oh, well then,” Claude says agreeably, letting him cling to his usual stern lecturing in the wake of this unexpected vulnerability. “By that logic, you should come with me. You know, for the good of our house’s reputation. Or are we not going to be members of the Roundtable together?”
“Of course we are,” Lorenz snaps, and Claude doesn’t bother to hide his smile when he knows Lorenz isn’t looking. “B-but I am otherwise occupied. It is of no interest to you, so you are free to fulfill the obligation for the both of us.”
On the battlefield and in the sparring ring, Lorenz sweats and bleeds like any man with a pulse; but here, in the halls of the monastery, the noble mantle of the Gloucester lineage gleams about him like a crystalline case sheltering a delicate rose, made for observation and opulence, a treasure to display but never touch. These transparent boundaries, their carefully crafted isolation only make Claude itch to free him, to lift the lid and let him breathe. “No interest? Come on, Lorenz, you know me better than that. I’m interested in everything, and now you’ve gone and piqued my curiosity.”
Eager as ever, Claude’s nimble fingers tap the glass and test for weakness. But Lorenz is all angles, every one of them compromised. Even the lightest touch is one too many, and his shield shatters into sparkling powder at Claude’s fingertips; the line between freedom and protection fractures, taking Lorenz and his voice—which sounds suspiciously wet—with it. “Your curiosity is of no consequence. I demand you leave me to my privacy!”
Claude rears back. Unlike Lysithea’s childish lashing out, there is real pain in the sag of his head as he cushions his cheek against his knees, curled up on the dusty floor in his finest clothes while a grand celebration fills the rafters a room away.
But as he does most days, Claude ignores Lorenz’s protests, too skilled in deceit to be put on by such unconvincing attempts at avoidance. He clambers through the mess and drops down next to him, one knee up to prop his arm against it. His hand dangles loosely with it, despite the urge to reach up and tuck the sharp angle of hair obscuring Lorenz’s face behind his ear. “I’m not a big fan of ultimatums, but the way I see it, either we both go to ball, or neither of us do. I put the power in your capable hands.”
“I don’t have a choice, you fool,” Lorenz shoves away and pushes to his feet, turning on him with a devastated snarl. “Look at me,” he says quieter, hands covering his face and hiding his woeful, red-rimmed eyes. “I cannot go back there. I would s-shame my father, and if he found out, he…”
Lorenz draws in a shaky breath, and the ache Claude feels in his chest for this miserable boy is far from pity. If he’s honest with himself, which he hates despite being the one person he can trust with his truths, it is an ache of recognition: his own experiences distorted through a stained-glass window, but familiar from their failure, their exclusion, their shame.
An unsightly red splatter has dried all along the front of Lorenz’s beautiful jacket and the white shirtsleeves underneath, the gold brocade wrinkled into an unsightly orange. Some has splashed his throat and colored it, same as a sunburn. Even the soft fabric rose, the one Lorenz wears every day without fail, has crumpled from the stain, splotched and wilting. What’s more, there’s no saving the jacket at the very least, and Lorenz will likely have to write home and ask for a replacement. Claude does not mention that, if the mere thought of his father finding out is enough to shake his shoulders in unspoken anxiety.
“I won’t say it’s not that bad,” Claude says honestly, “because it’s pretty bad. What happened?” He knows for a fact that Lorenz is not prone to bouts of clumsiness. The possibility that he’d spill his drink all over himself is unthinkable.
Lorenz drags his ruined sleeve against his running nose with a loud, dejected sniff that brings a smile to Claude’s face— one he’s quick to banish, lest Lorenz catch it and jump to the wrong conclusion, as usual. “I was speaking with a young lady about her family’s territory in Adrestia, and when I asked her to dance, h-her— a friend of hers tapped my shoulder. When I turned back, she upended the entirety of her glass onto me.”
Claude winces. “An accident, then?”
Lorenz looks away, but it doesn’t hide the tear that slips out and traces the curve of his sharp, pale cheek. “Their laughter implied otherwise.”
Before Claude can respond—and before he can ruminate on the weakness that has just been handed to him to use at will—Lorenz clears his throat and wipes at his cheek as surreptitiously as possible. His shoulders are thrown back with manifest confidence: torn down and hastily rebuilt, presentable but transient, its pillars mismatched and foundation unstable because its construction focused on all the wrong things. “In any case,” he says, “she need not have wasted her breath rejecting my offer, for any woman who conducts herself in such an unseemly fashion is not fit for polite company, let alone to marry into the Gloucester name.”
“Yeah, she sounds like a real piece of work. You’ll have to point her out sometime— for completely innocent reasons of course.” Finally, a smile cracks the corner of Lorenz’s downcast, haughty mask. Claude pretends not to relish the unspoken victory and heaves himself to his feet, careful not to upset any of the perilously stacked objects around them. “Well, we should get you cleaned up so you can dive back in and find a girl actually worth your fine manners. You are the winner of the White Heron Cup, after all. Any number of fine ladies will be dying to see your skills firsthand.”
Even with the subtle fanning of his ego, Lorenz doesn’t share his enthusiasm. “Do you not understand? If I leave this room, I’ll be seen. I’ll be even more of a laughingstock than I already am. And when my father hears what happened—”
Lorenz stops, and all color drains from his pale face. The red of the juice stands out all the more starkly with the horror rising in his eyes and his open mouth, like someone was cut down before him and left him awash in gore. “My father,” he repeats. His throat works, as if he wants to say more, but can’t.
Claude doesn’t know what changed between the first time he mentioned his father and now, but whatever it is has Lorenz rattled. “Woah, hey,” he soothes. “Okay, I get it. We’ll just have to go the back way, then.”
“The back way?” Lorenz blinks.
“Fortunately, your scolding has never actually deterred me from digging my way around the monastery. I know a passage that will take us right outside the Reception Hall, just down this hallway. You can make it that far, can’t you?”
The challenge baits Lorenz without a hitch, and he straightens his shoulders to their usual perfect posture. “Leave it to you to bend your way out of a corner at a moment’s notice,” he huffs.
Claude grins at him and takes it as the compliment it would be if only Lorenz, with all his fancy words and poems, knew how to express himself. “Just one of my many talents. Though if you want to get technical, I’m bending you out of a corner. Perhaps the noble thing to do would be to express a little more gratitude.”
“O-oh. Yes. Obviously I am appreciative of this gesture of goodwill between us.”
“It’s not a ‘gesture of goodwill,’ Lorenz, or anything so lofty as that,” he says. “You’re my friend. Of course I’d help you.”
The room is big but the clutter makes it small. What Lorenz expects from Claude and what he actually feels tangle together to make it even smaller, the distance between them tense with how easy it would be to cross. “…Well, regardless, you have my thanks.”
“Remember that next time Teach puts us on stable duty, and we’ll call it even,” Claude winks. A fine flush blooms in Lorenz’s cheeks, a much better look on him than the red around his eyes.
Claude clears his throat and grabs Lorenz’s wrist before he can protest. He drags him through the mess, weaving through the stacks and hazards fast enough that he can hear an objection on the tip of his tongue as he almost slips. Once they reach the door, Claude hauls him back. He puts a finger to Lorenz's lips for silence.
Forced up against Claude’s chest, his superior height makes his eyes cross as he stares down at the offending finger. “What in the name of Seiros—” he begins, muffled, before Claude rolls his eyes and slaps his whole hand over Lorenz’s mouth.
“You don’t want to be seen, right?” Lorenz nods, brow drawn. “Then follow my lead.”
The blush on Lorenz’s cheeks gets even redder, and it’s hard for Claude to not get distracted when Lorenz looks like that and his stern, noble mouth is soft against the cup of his palm.
No sooner has that thought settled low in his belly than he drops his hand and yanks Lorenz into the hall. They run along the corridor, the trill of music ringing behind and around them until Claude finds the dip he’s looking for, and forcibly shoves Lorenz into it. He lets out a high-pitched squeak and falls against the stone.
“I never—” he begins loudly, and flames, it’s like he wants to get caught.
“You will today,” Claude says, and traces the shape of his crest above a chip in the wall. The stone slides away into a dark passage, only a faint breeze hinting at where it might lead.
Claude slips inside. When he doesn’t hear Lorenz’s footsteps echoing behind him, he turns around.
Lorenz is silhouetted in the dim light of the hallway. The curve of his slender shoulders curl inward as he wrings his hands together, face angled to glance back at the safe humiliation the reception hall promises rather than onward to the underground uncertainty Claude has to offer. Look at me, Claude wants to say. He will gladly be his confidence until Lorenz can build it up into something sturdy and more substantial, something that can support him better than bravado.
“If you’re afraid of the dark, you can hold my hand,” he says, knowing Lorenz will think he’s being flippant.
On cue, Lorenz’s mouth puckers and his hands stop wringing to fist at his sides. “I am not afraid of the dark,” he announces, casting a small fire spell in the palm of his hand. The heat radiates like a toy sun and draws long shadows over his face, his cheekbones. A reflection of the orange spark flares in the dark part of his eyes, lighting him up from within like a house warmed by its blazing fireplace. He strides forward, past Claude, shoulders back. “If you are so desperate for a hand to hold that you wish to goad me into asking first, you will find yourself sorely disappointed.”
Claude hastens slightly to catch up with his lengthy strides. As one hand is held aloft to guide their steps, Claude slips his into the other, free at Lorenz’s side. He holds back a chuckle when Lorenz looks askance at him as well as he can while still keeping his head facing determinedly forward. Hoping to convey his good intentions, or at the very least his lack of guile, Claude beams up at him.
“Very well, then,” Lorenz murmurs, and his soft hand—careful and steadfast and delightfully free of callouses despite his hard work—tightens around Claude’s as he slows his pace to something more easy for Claude to keep up with.
The times Claude has used these secret passages and side tunnels to traverse the monastery, he’s only had a torch, a quill, and parchment to decipher the twists and turns of its labyrinthine maze. Unlike Lorenz’s assumption, the dark has never put him off; but it is nice, for once, to have someone with him. Claude has long come to terms with walking his path alone, but every passing day at the academy someone new makes him wonder if his dream of unity really isn’t so far off. Will Lorenz still want to be at his side when he sets his plans in motion for a better Fódlan? Or is he so tangled in his father’s web that these small moments—hand in hand, guiding each other through the shadows, Claude sure of the course while Lorenz lights the way—will not be enough for him to shed his shackles.
Claude would figure out how to help him pick the locks, if he wanted. And, thinking back to the despair dripping from him as he fretted over the stern Count Gloucester’s reaction to the evening’s mishap, he more than wants that— he craves it.
It’s a terrible thing, to grow up where no one accepts you for what you are. Perhaps—Claude rubs his thumb against Lorenz’s knuckle and steadfastly ignores how Lorenz tries to subtly peer down at their hands, though he does not pull away—perhaps, he has more in common with Lorenz than either of them is comfortable admitting.
“There will be a fork coming up,” Claude says conversationally, as if he can’t feel the pounding of Lorenz’s pulse where their wrists are pressed together. “The right will take us outside the hall. From there it’s a quick cross of the courtyard to the dormitories.”
Lorenz nods primly, spine suddenly stiff. “Perfect. You can return to the ball, and I can retreat to my room in peace.”
“I thought I’d go with you.” Claude gives his palm a squeeze, which Lorenz pointedly does not return, despite the telling rosiness crawling up his neck like yet another splash of punch, and just as humiliating. The fork comes and goes, and they follow it easily, hand-in-hand, both of them sure in their steps as they make their way even as a strange tension settles over them.
“I certainly have no need of your company,” Lorenz says then, entirely too dismissive to be sincere.
“Well it’s yours, anyway,” Claude tells him patiently. “If you want it.”
Lorenz’s hand goes limp in his, as if he can no longer summon the strength to curl it around Claude’s. Claude lets go, and in an instant Lorenz has it pulled protectively to his chest. He does want it, his company; Claude can tell. But whether or not he’ll permit himself to have it is open to question.
Claude has always resented the Almyran perception that Fódlaners are cowards, but in a way, they are right: the strict ideals that shape the Empire, the Kingdom, the Alliance— they are all so different, yet all exist to keep their subjects stuck and safely conformed to a rigid standard, consequences too great to break from what is accepted and preventing them from seizing that which they desire the most. But even then, in Lorenz, he does not see any cowardice. No, Lorenz is brave, so brave for continuing to survive a system built to strip him of his kind and gentle heart. Maybe if Claude shows him that he doesn’t have to survive it or be broken, if he can show him that the system can be broken in his stead, Lorenz will join him. Lorenz has come sniffing around once or twice already, interest hidden beneath criticism and wary disdain— but Claude can’t take it personally when he understands having so much to lose. Lorenz has to carefully gather the proof he needs to place his trust in Claude, and Claude will continue to do his best to demonstrate, to be a man worthy of the cause he must champion… someone Lorenz can throw his noble passion behind, and dedicate himself to fully.
The passage comes to an end, and with a press of his hand, the wall swings outward, opening up onto the portico outside of the reception hall. As they escape into the chilly night air, their breath puffs around them. The wall slides closed again with a rap of Claude’s knuckles, but Lorenz’s eyes aren’t on him. He remains carefully in the shadows, riveted with longing at where the merriment can be seen through the golden light of the windows, the strains of the music loud enough to seep through the walls like punch on plush cotton, and just as devastating.
Lorenz’s gaze dallies with a revealing envy on the other boys in the overcrowded room. Dedue maintains vigil at the party’s edge, Ashe gesturing and giggling at his side; Sylvain twirls a puzzled Dimitri around in circles as their classmates cheer them on. Caspar buoys Linhardt by the punch table, and even the dreaded Hubert is present, albeit bickering with an impassioned Ferdinand. Lorenz watches it all, entranced by shoulders and forearms and intimacies, and it makes Claude burn with a fierceness, wanting Lorenz’s eyes on him and only him— strange for someone who usually does all he can to evade the lingering attention of others.
Maybe it is the yearning, naked on his face? Claude cannot imagine being so open with what he wants, what he craves. It’s better to hide it and keep for himself, nurse it in privacy so it can never be used against him. He can only allow himself small tastes, like holding a boy’s hand, alone in the dark, until one of them pulls away.
“The distance should be manageable alone, under the cover of night,” Lorenz says then, turning his back on the merry temptation inside. It is a hushed, thoughtful observation: a painstaking avoidance of expressing what he wants, as if Claude couldn’t see it just a moment ago, clear as day. “Besides, it would be rather pointless of you to waste any more of your time walking with me when I have no plans to return.”
Upended, Claude blinks. Busy as he is reading between the lines, he’d forgotten the words waiting for him on the page. “But what about the ball?”
“I have my mage certification at the end of the week, and instruction with our professor tomorrow to prepare.” His chin dips, tilted toward the tips of his impressively shined boots. “I find myself growing weary, anyway. It’s best I retire early.”
Claude considers himself well-versed in the art of deception, and as such, he can see straight through people who aren’t very good at it. It’s something he quite likes about Lorenz: his passionate honesty, artless and well-intentioned, even when mistaken or oblivious. The scripts society provides for him, a gift of his noble lineage, provide a frame from which he frequently deviates, tossing them aside when they no longer apply. He is polite, but never false. In fact, Claude has yet to hear a proper shot at a lie from him, but this discreet avoidance of the truth is his most admirable attempt so far. He probably shouldn’t be as endeared by it as he is, not when it forces him to suss out the truth of Lorenz’s feelings.
“I thought you were excited for the ball,” Claude says. When Lorenz betrays nothing, not even a single twitch of the mouth, he switches tactics as easy as switching hands. “And you’re the winner of the White Heron Cup! The dance floor would be empty without you to grace it."
“Claude,” he chastises, and he sounds so, so tired. “It would be quite impossible to grace the dance floor without a willing partner.”
A stifled clamor rises up from the entrance hall as everyone recognizes the next song.
“Well, if that’s all,” Claude slides one foot backward, drawing his fist to his chest as he bends at the waist in a grand bow. “Ser Lorenz Hellman Gloucester,” he says in his most pompous tones, “would you do me the honor of granting me a dance?”
When he straightens, Lorenz’s cheeks are mottled with a flush, and his eyes, narrowed beneath the rigid furrow of his easily outraged brow, catch the light in such a way that exposes a suspicious shine. His mouth presses together thinly, but it cannot stop how his chin trembles. “Do not mock me,” he says lowly, a wounded fox ready to snarl at anyone gets too close, regardless of whether or not their intention is to help. Claude thinks that if it were not for Lorenz’s high-born restraint, he might have the stern reproach of a slap to the cheek right now— not everyone would be so subdued in the face of a perceived insult. “Not tonight.”
“Lorenz, I swear I’m not,” he says, foolishly drawing closer. And, given how flayed Lorenz looks, he can’t help but reveal something better kept close to his chest. “I already planned on asking you, before I’d noticed you’d left.”
“You truly expect me to believe that?” Lorenz laughs, brittle and disbelieving. He withers for lack of affection; if only Claude had not selfishly dissembled his respectable boundaries, assuming he knew better. “Please,” he says. “Do not tease me. Not like this.”
“Isn’t it obvious when I’m teasing you? Isn’t it obvious that’s not what this is?”
“Nothing is obvious with you, Claude, if you’ll deign to believe it! You spin threads around all of us with deft fingers, leaving us to untangle ourselves while you single-mindedly pursue your goals. The only thing I know for certain is that you are brilliant, frustratingly so. Everything else is shrouded in mystery and speculation. I often find myself casting doubt on what little I have observed, unsure of the line between artifice and sincerity.”
Claude stares at him. If this is the alternative, he would have preferred to be slapped.
Of course he knows that Lorenz has been keeping a close eye on him, but to have this raw reflection of himself bared before him, he is at a loss. To think he considered those around him simple, unable to pin him down as he dodged their questions and hid his intentions; to think he considered Lorenz one of them. And even if he did, Lorenz was never supposed to know.
Unfortunately, he takes advantage of Claude’s shock and continues, gaze lowered, cast aside, lonely: “I can weather your jabs at my foolishness, but I cannot bear to be taunted by the mask you wear over your sincerity. Even I can only be humbled so much.”
The pain that steeps Lorenz’s words mirrors his own at this false perception of himself, worse for how carefully he has cultivated it. It makes him bitter, knowing how many times he has risked shards of honesty with Lorenz only to have cut them both. “For someone who loves to look down his nose at people, you sure have a hard time seeing what’s in front of it.”
“Excuse me—”
Claude grabs the clenched fists at his sides and pulls them between their chests. Lorenz stares at him, wordlessly cajoled to spread them open and fit their hands together like they were taught in class. “Lorenz,” he says. His voice is deep with intent, all his calculating courtesies cast over the edge of good sense and still falling, falling, falling as he waits on the precipice to see if he will be forced to tumble after them. “Dance with me.”
The music from inside the hall is loud for all it’s dimmed by windows and walls, like they’re still inside but have covered their ears, distant but every note still impeccably clear. Lorenz and his wide eyes ignite within him an ethereal buzz, rising not unlike the moon. It starts low in his stomach, fizzing and fumbling until his hands are moving along with his feet, along with the wavy melody of an Adrestian waltz.
Claude spins Lorenz out in an unsteady twirl. It takes him by surprise as they hold apart, linked only where Claude is grasping his hand tight. They stay there, frozen in the flourish, until Claude feels Lorenz’s fingers curl back around his: acceptance. Then Claude flashes his teeth and yanks Lorenz back in. He stumbles as he trips back against Claude’s chest.
Lorenz’s laugh, high and loud and ungentlemanly, splits the charged air between them. Claude doesn’t think he’s ever heard him so carefree; it makes him want to coax it forth again and again until Lorenz is gasping, teary and radiant, wrung dry of all feeling but joy. His stomach knots heavily at the image, and he feels a ripple of heat rush through him all the way to his fingertips. So, he does what he does best. He deflects.
This time Claude allows Lorenz to disentangle himself, still catching his breath on his chuckles. When they make eye contact again, Lorenz is smiling. It is genuine and open, if small— something both dangerous, and to be protected. “Can you truly waltz, or was your plan to spin me silly and hope that would suffice?” he teases, and it has no edge, nothing sharp Claude could cut himself on.
“Oh no,” Claude grins. “I’ve been found out.”
Rather than indulge him, Lorenz levels his shoulders and raises his hands to guide Claude’s into the correct positions. “Fear not, I am more than capable of leading you successfully.”
Claude laughs. “Your generosity continues to know no bounds.”
Then, as Lorenz takes his hands in his, Claude deftly maneuvers Lorenz into the following position. His violet brow strains with confusion at the sudden change, but there’s no time for him to ponder or protest when Claude is sweeping him across the portico in a one-two-three rhythm in perfect time with the music.
Perfect little noble that he is, Lorenz keeps step with him effortlessly. He bends with Claude like bamboo in a breeze, frame never faltering. His height doesn’t hinder him or his footwork, either; he is lithe and light on his toes while Claude twirls them down the length of the reception hall, daring to flit through the gleam of the windows and around the columns and risk discovery. When the music crescendos, Claude’s mouth quirks and Lorenz only has a split-second to gather his meaning before his hands slide down to wrap around that ridiculously tapered waist and lift, Lorenz wavering for the first time as he stiffly braces himself on Claude’s shoulders with a squawk.
Lorenz only regains his feet once he slides down the length of Claude’s torso, hands on his chest, just shy of his collarbone. The waltz melts away into something faster, and their pulses pick up pace with it. The students inside cheer on the new selection, but Claude ignores the familiar Eastern twang in favor of the melody of Lorenz’s unsteady breaths filling his ears.
“I— I am not familiar with this one,” Lorenz admits at length, tugging at Claude’s hold and breaking the flurry of his thoughts. He releases him easily, never one to keep a thing caged. Then he listens, really listens, and the hearty jig ignites his body. “I am,” Claude says, grinning, and twists away from Lorenz to leap. He spins in the air and lands nimble on feet that find their placement easily, shifting into the swift, upbeat step from celebrations and bonfires. His shoulders pulse with the beat until it crests, and his arms rise and fall with his knees. When he spins again, he pauses, chest heaving, mouth smiling, utterly artless.
Lorenz gapes, and pride surges within Claude— for once, Lorenz is looking, not for a weakness, but to see him, and for once, Claude lets him take his fill, wholly and free of facade.
“Where did you learn that?” Lorenz asks, and usually it would be laced with suspicion. Here, now, there is only awe.
“Not in a fancy Fódlan ballroom,” Claude answers truthfully. Hilda would know it, living on the border as she does— as would many Leicester commoners. Unlike Fódlan’s Throat, cultural barriers are not so steep; Claude himself is evidence of that. “Would you like me to show you?”
Hesitant, Lorenz nods. “My efforts may prove lackluster next to yours,” he warns, but Claude has nothing but confidence in him, lit anew by being able to share something, some small part of his culture with someone, with a friend, and not have it automatically looked upon with derision. He wants to share this with Lorenz. He would share so much with him, if he could.
“You’ll be fine, White Heron Cup Champion,” Claude assures him, and sets his feet.
He claps and the sound is like Thoron, like the thundering in his heart. After studying his position attentively, Lorenz mimics it and claps as well. He curves around Lorenz, standing shoulder-to-shoulder but facing opposite ways, and puts his hand boldly at his hip, much lower than Fódlan would consider appropriate, even for a scandalous waltz. It isn’t common in Almyra, either; but Lorenz doesn’t know, and Claude isn’t telling.
Those pale cheeks color again, but Lorenz follows his lead without complaint, and Claude walks them in a circle once. But Lorenz fumbles out of position, stiff with dismay as Claude rolls his shoulders and swings his arms out on a fluid pop of his chest.
“I— I cannot do that,” he stutters. Claude laughs, but Lorenz continues. “Truly, even with my daily training and stretches, I’m certain body cannot move that way.”
“You don’t know that,” Claude tells him, falling out of position as well to grab Lorenz’s shoulders and shake them loose. Lorenz scowls at the indecency. “Give ‘em a shimmy and try.”
“A— a shimmy,” Lorenz repeats. “I will look even more absurd than I already do. With my disarray, do you fancy me a jester, Claude?”
I fancy you many things and many ways, Claude thinks. But never that.
Hands on his hips, Claude pouts at him. “If you would just relax—”
Exasperated, Lorenz throws his hands in the air. “Fine,” he snaps, and shakes his shoulders. It’s ridiculous, and nothing like Claude showed him. His arms shake like puppet with loose strings, and it has none of the rhythm of his fine ballroom dancing. Claude’s heart feels like it might burst in his chest; he doesn’t think he’s ever been so terribly fond.
“Close,” he says warmly.
Suddenly, a door opens. A pillar of gold splits across the stone portico, ominous like a hunter nocking their bow. Lorenz stares at Claude, face hopelessly drawn in horror, and a low simmer of authority surges inside him like a flame catching oil. With ease—because for all Lorenz is several inches taller and wider, he is still malleable like a green leaf, and light as one—Claude swings Lorenz away from the windows, away from the door, cornering him against a column at an angle that has his boots sliding between Claude’s and his hands clutching at the breast of Claude’s uniform to keep from losing balance completely. It obscures not only Lorenz’s dishevelment, but also his distinct hair, shielding him from prying eyes.
There’s hardly a sound from the intruder, though that may be, in part, due to how Claude is pressed so close to Lorenz that he can both see and feel every puff of breath as his chest rapidly rises and falls. It’s all he can hear, too, the desperate release of air ringing in his ears when Lorenz, trying to stay still, can’t hold it in anymore.
“Claude?” Byleth says, and Claude slumps in relief. Keeping Lorenz pinned to the column with one palm at his waist and the other spread against the stone, he slants his head to look back. “Hey Teach!”
Byleth peers curiously at him, but stays where he’s stopped, door hanging open behind him. “Is everything alright?”
“Oh, yeah! Just needed a little privacy,” Claude says, trying not to laugh as Lorenz makes an outraged choking noise at the insinuation. He winks at him, somehow making it worse, if the exasperated snort that follows means anything.
When he looks back at their professor, Claude finds him with a rare, indulgent smile on his face. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Byleth says. “But try not to get Lorenz into too much trouble, Claude. He has an appointment with me before lunch tomorrow.” And, with no more consideration, the man is on his way, own plans in mind.
Once he’s out of sight, Lorenz smothers a horrified groan. The stilted sound has Claude snickering, so relieved that he almost forgets himself and reaches up to tuck a stray lock of hair, stuck to Lorenz’s cheek in the scuffle to hide, behind his ear. No small effort keeps his hands to himself, at least as much as he can when he’s the only thing holding Lorenz up on his feet. “You heard the man,” he smiles, private and open all at once. “We better get you back.”
“If you insist,” Lorenz demurs as gracefully as he can, tucking his chin into his chest and turning his face away.
It’s a Herculean effort to step back, Claude’s fingers dragging every last moment of touch before Lorenz regains his feet and he has to pull them away. They memorize the rich fabric of his ruined jacket; the slender body curving so delicately to fit his palm underneath; the emptiness as it’s no longer his to hold.
Set to rights, Lorenz stands his standard few inches above him. This close, Claude tilts his head back to smile up at him, same as he does most nights, alone, at the friendly, twinkling stars.
Lorenz wrinkles his nose under the scrutiny and moves away, brushing down the front of his jacket and trousers. His mouth flattens ruefully when he feels the stiff, ruined fabric of the stains— a reminder that no smoothing of wrinkles or invisible dust will repair it. For someone as meticulous as Lorenz, Claude considers it a great compliment he was able to convince him to forget appearances, if only for a few minutes.
“Shall we?” Claude offers an arm, bent at the elbow like a dandy offering a debutante a traipse around the garden rather than a classmate accompanying his rival to the privacy of their dorms. When Lorenz rolls his eyes, Claude almost drops his arm, sure he’ll refuse to take it; but then Lorenz’s fingers alight on his bicep and elbow with all the weight of a butterfly, stealing every last doubt like sweet nectar.
Like their dance, Claude cuts their path with surety and Lorenz matches him, never hesitating. He grins at Lorenz, who has gone quiet. There’s a speculative twist to his mouth, a touch of melancholy at the corners. “Something bothering you? There’s no need to fear for your reputation, you know,” Claude says. “Nothing untoward about a little moonlit stroll. Not that I’d tell anyone about it, anyway.”
Lorenz huffs with good humor, lashes lowering. Under the moon, his lavender eyes glow, sparkling like polished amethyst. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
Lorenz doesn’t look up. “Try as I might, I can’t seem fathom what you have to gain from being kind to me.”
“Well, I already told you. And to that end, the answer is pretty selfish.”
Lorenz hums, confused.
“Your friendship, Lorenz,” he says, and if he had nothing else, Claude would still be content.
Neither his answer or its significance gives Lorenz such satisfaction, and he objects, prudent as ever. “But what could you possibly want with that, when I’ve been nothing but a thorn in your side these past months?”
Claude has to chuckle, then. What could he want, indeed; certainly not the sweet arch of his brow, the smug cant of his mouth, the resilient set of his shoulders filling his days, weeks, months, moons until he cannot imagine existing without them. “Every rose has thorns. Who would I be to deny them their only line of protection?”
Lorenz’s hands, looped through his arm, go slack as if they might let go, but Claude covers them with one of his to hold them in place.
At length, they reach the stairs of their dormitory; then Lorenz’s door, and Lorenz finally speaks. “I have erred against you most grievously, no matter your platitudes. You have my apology, for all it’s worth.” And because he is not one for empty words, he unlocks the door and allows Claude inside.
Lorenz’s room is put-together and precise, much like he is any day other than this. Not a single item is out of place, not even a missing sock strewn about the floor. An abundance of flowers bloom prettily in a vase next to the dainty tea set. Tucked on the shelves are several styling tools, jars of perfumes, and tubs of ointment. Claude’s eyes dart to their shared wall, where his own bed is a tangle of sheets and texts that end up digging their spines into his when he rolls the wrong way.
Speaking of, Claude alights with interest on the books stacked on Lorenz’s desk. What might the titles and subjects reveal about their prim and proper owner?
Before he can get close enough to read the spines, Lorenz lets out a low whimper of despair. He stares at his reflection in the long mirror, plucking uselessly at the soiled fabric. “What a mess I am!” He catches Claude observing, and points at him accusingly. “How could you not say anything? The chance to ridicule me was served up on polished silver and you turned it away!”
“What would I get out of something like that? A laugh at your expense?” The patience Claude feels in the face of Lorenz and his confusion is unreal; he refuses to think about what it means. “Doesn’t sound like much fun to me.”
Lorenz frowns, and Claude can’t stand the vulnerability he unwittingly reveals with it. “Come on, then,” Claude says, crossing his arms and leaning against the desk. “Get those clothes off.”
With a gasp, Lorenz whirls on him in a panicked fury. “I cannot undress in front of you,” he objects, red as the stain on his coat. “It is completely improper, not to mention presumptuous of you to ask, and—”
“Lorenz,” Claude cuts him off, laughing. “Keep your pants on. Literally. I just meant the damaged goods.” He wanders over to pluck at an epaulette, splashed with red juice, curling and crusty. “It can’t be comfortable.”
A beat of silence, and Lorenz’s fingers hover in front of the buttons on his coat. “It is, ah—” his fingertips brush the top button, “rather sticky.”
Deftly he digs into each button, squeezing them through their respective holes until the tips of his fingers are as red as the stain. When the jacket parts and falls from his shoulders, he folds it neatly and sets it down on the desk. The white shirtsleeves beneath are a soft, transparent pink everywhere the juice has laid claim, and a hollow ache fills Claude’s stomach as he feasts on the tease of skin through cloth, wishing he could claim it too.
Pale arms, slender—but toned, if the clinging fabric is any indication—cross firmly over Lorenz’s chest, impeding his vision. “Some privacy, please?” Lorenz chides, his perfect posture almost imperceptibly hunched, as if that will cover up his indecency.
“Of course!” Claude agrees easily. Of course, he says, and Lorenz would be right to be skeptical, but his naïve trust has him stripping the shirt without complaint and granting Claude a peek of skin, rosy from the both the cold and embarrassment, and looking every inch as soft as his virtuous hands.
The sound of dripping water as it’s wrung from a towel breaks the silence, thankfully, and not the sound of Claude’s heavy breaths, ready to burst from him like a cutting gale. He devours the sight of Lorenz’s eyes fluttering closed, of the towel’s slow drag over where the sticky juice still holds fast to his throat.
When the cloth dips past his neck to swipe at the mess made on his chest, Claude snaps back to the wooden wall in front of him lest he prove his own downfall with his drifting eyes.
Maybe staying was a mistake, because after several minutes of silence, thorough ablutions, and Claude’s horribly wandering thoughts, he hears Lorenz sigh. It wreaks havoc inside him, the butterfly touch from earlier a contagion that has apparently seeped beneath his skin and spread to his heart, threatening to destroy him from inside. “You good?” he asks, and at Lorenz’s noncommittal hum, he turns around.
Instead of a half-naked porcelain statue dripping with allure, he finds Lorenz covered from chin to toe with an ivory roll-neck sweater, lavender flannel pants, and warm socks. He looks cozy, and seasonally appropriate, for all the sleepwear is several sizes too big for his lithe frame. He also looks wretched with sorrow, crouched on the ground before the wilted silk of his woven rose, fallen from his jacket. With the gentlest of fingers, he lifts the drooping, ruined blossom up like a gardener guiding his sprouts to the sun.
Claude crouches down next to him, flicking between the rose and the Lorenz’s mournful countenance. “Hilda is pretty talented at that sort of thing,” he says, inclining his head towards the pitiful accessory. “I bet she’d gladly make you a new one. Y’know, if you do her chores for her, or something.”
Lorenz sighs again, a subdued sound, and this time there are no butterflies, gone dormant in the wake of such heartache. “Unfortunately, it cannot be replaced.”
Claude waits, and waits, and waits— his thighs strain from crouching and their muscles begin to burn, but he can’t move, he can’t disturb this fragile truce, can’t risk Lorenz hiding from him again now that he’s finally let him in.
With a sniff, Lorenz gathers the rose in both hands and stands, brisk and business-like, to deposit it on top of the ruined jacket and shirt. “It was a gift from my mother, and she is no longer with us,” he says, matter-of-fact, scooping the pile up into his arms. He drops them into the waste bin with no ceremony and returns to the wash basin, where he rings out the towel and hangs it to dry.
Claude springs to his feet. “But— you’re going to just throw it away? All of it?”
“There is no laundress in the province that can save a stain of that magnitude. I will simply have to write my father tomorrow and throw myself upon his mercy. Hopefully he is not too disappointed with me.” A slight tremor plagues the hands that grip the sides of the basin, despite how Lorenz tries to hold himself with poise.
“Is it not worth trying to save it?” Claude asks, unable to shake the vision of a shorter, skinnier Lorenz, one with round cheeks and bright eyes, blinking adoringly up at his mother while she masterfully threads together layers of red silk.
“A flower is only as good as its petals,” Lorenz says, clipped, keeping his back to Claude. It brooks no argument, and Claude finds himself once again pricked by thorns. “Now if you don’t mind, I do need my rest. You’ll recall that I have instruction with the professor tomorrow and it would not do to be late.”
“Indeed,” Claude intones pompously, eyes narrowing. “I bow to your superior understanding of such things.”
“Claude—”
And to Claude’s surprise, this time, Lorenz reaches out to him first. His fingers circle his wrist, holding him still. It is low, and stuttered, but Claude feels it deep in his chest when Lorenz utters a soft, “Thank you.”
He smiles, contrite, and twists his wrist in Lorenz’s hand so that he is holding it, instead. Like a proper Von Riegan heir, he bows over Lorenz’s knuckles, tempted to forsake propriety and bring them to his lips— but he respects Lorenz too much to flout so flagrantly one of the few things he holds dear, and perhaps has already bared too much of himself tonight. He straightens, and lets go.
“Goodnight, Lorenz,” he says, opening the door.
“Goodnight,” Lorenz echoes back faintly, and Claude closes the door behind him.
Several hours later, after sneaking into the room Lorenz hadn’t locked before he slept—Claude can't imagine being so trusting of their classmates—Claude has the fallen rose rescued from the waste and wrapped in a plain box and paper, wherein it blossoms anew.
It is with some relief he finds the door locked now, returning to it prize in hand; Lorenz isn’t fully a lost cause, then. Fortunately, picking the lock is the easiest part of the task, much easier than coaxing a hungover Manuela from her rooms to help him salvage the delicate bloom; her flagrant departure from appropriate behavior for a teacher an asset this once, her many drunken escapades making her a professional not only at the opera, but at restoring ruined garments. He is now in her debt, but in times such as these, a small sacrifice is worth it.
Once the mechanism clicks and the door swings open, he quickly deposits the gift—more aptly called proof of last night’s truce—on Lorenz’s neatly made bed, propping the note to accompany it next to it on the pillow. Lorenz is still with the professor, giving Claude ample time to make his getaway.
Sincerity is new for him, but his steps feel lighter already, like a new dawn has awoken to carry him forth toward his dream. He rather thinks he likes it.
~
“Thank you for the privilege of a dance, last evening. Hopefully this conveys my gratitude in an appropriately noble fashion.
Yours Sincerely,
C. v. R.”