[He's always been cold. He was born in it, raised in it, shelled himself in ice even now. What warmth he gives to others is incidental. Selfish, or so he led himself to believe. Taking, and taking twice over, with little emotional attachment.
But that was never really true when it came to those he actually held dear, was it? Dimitri and Felix and Ingrid were allowed in, before he walled himself away. Byleth and Mercedes and, later, Dorothea saw right through him, but unlike others, they didn't let him push back, push them away.
Even so... it's too much. He should push away - as if he could even do such a thing, now, with Dimitri holding him tight - should leave, should pretend he'd never opened up, never said something so stupid.
The sharpness in Dimitri's voice roots him in place, makes him pull his head back as well to look at him - really, truly look at him.
There's intensity in his gaze, and sincerity, and though he still wants to protest - that he'd done so little, that he should have been there, should have given him more, everything, that he's terrible, that he doesn't deserve what he's asking of him... - he can't. He's awful. Worthless. Less than worthless, here, where his crest doesn't matter, but even so, Dimitri sees something of value in him. He won't - can't - cast that aside.
He's never noticed before that Dimitri had grown taller than him, with how he's so often hunched in on himself under the weight of his armor and his furs and his grief. He notices now, when Dimitri draws up to his full height, when he threads fingers in his hair, when he makes him lean up into a kiss he still doesn't feel as though he deserves.
He returns it anyway, and there's an intensity in it from him in the longing in it, almost desperate. He reaches up, too, lets his hands slide over Dimitri's chest until he can drape his arms over his shoulders, around his neck, holding on, now, instead of poised to push away.
He can't even tease Dimitri for the blush on his face when he finally breaks it, because he can feel that there's one on his own cheeks as well.]
Goddess... I... Dimitri, I don't know what to say...
[Maybe that's for the best. His first impulse, even after all that, was to apologize for making Dimitri feel as though he had to do that, say that. Or for even coming between him and Byleth this much - as though he knew what would and would not be contentious. His second impulse was to insist that they stop, that Dimitri see what Byleth was comfortable with him doing, here, before they went further... and then to backpedal again, because that would be presuming they would.
But either of those would be throwing everything Dimitri had just told him, everything he'd just done, back in his face. He can't do that. He won't do that.
What he can do, what he's always done, that comes as easy as breathing, is trust him.]
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But that was never really true when it came to those he actually held dear, was it? Dimitri and Felix and Ingrid were allowed in, before he walled himself away. Byleth and Mercedes and, later, Dorothea saw right through him, but unlike others, they didn't let him push back, push them away.
Even so... it's too much. He should push away - as if he could even do such a thing, now, with Dimitri holding him tight - should leave, should pretend he'd never opened up, never said something so stupid.
The sharpness in Dimitri's voice roots him in place, makes him pull his head back as well to look at him - really, truly look at him.
There's intensity in his gaze, and sincerity, and though he still wants to protest - that he'd done so little, that he should have been there, should have given him more, everything, that he's terrible, that he doesn't deserve what he's asking of him... - he can't. He's awful. Worthless. Less than worthless, here, where his crest doesn't matter, but even so, Dimitri sees something of value in him. He won't - can't - cast that aside.
He's never noticed before that Dimitri had grown taller than him, with how he's so often hunched in on himself under the weight of his armor and his furs and his grief. He notices now, when Dimitri draws up to his full height, when he threads fingers in his hair, when he makes him lean up into a kiss he still doesn't feel as though he deserves.
He returns it anyway, and there's an intensity in it from him in the longing in it, almost desperate. He reaches up, too, lets his hands slide over Dimitri's chest until he can drape his arms over his shoulders, around his neck, holding on, now, instead of poised to push away.
He can't even tease Dimitri for the blush on his face when he finally breaks it, because he can feel that there's one on his own cheeks as well.]
Goddess... I... Dimitri, I don't know what to say...
[Maybe that's for the best. His first impulse, even after all that, was to apologize for making Dimitri feel as though he had to do that, say that. Or for even coming between him and Byleth this much - as though he knew what would and would not be contentious. His second impulse was to insist that they stop, that Dimitri see what Byleth was comfortable with him doing, here, before they went further... and then to backpedal again, because that would be presuming they would.
But either of those would be throwing everything Dimitri had just told him, everything he'd just done, back in his face. He can't do that. He won't do that.
What he can do, what he's always done, that comes as easy as breathing, is trust him.]