Chapter Text
I am the sword and shield of His Highness. I must constantly work to improve.
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Though the innocence of the Duscur people was proven, prejudice against them still lingered in the Kingdom capital. Far this reason, Ashe refused a knighthood when it was offered to him, and choose instead to open an inn that specialized in Duscur cuisine. Dedue began to frequent the place on breaks from his duty as the king's vassal, and over time, imparted to Ashe his culinary wisdom. As the inn gained popularity, the people began to see the Duscur people in a positive light. This led to a reconciliation between the two cultures that came rather more quickly than expected.
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I do not come to this place often, but when I do, he is always waiting.
“Welcome back,” Ashe says as I enter the inn. His inn.
The smell that hits me nearly knocks me off my feet. It smells like spices I've almost forgotten, like dough rising, like flour from a place nearly lost forever. It smells like memories, like home. Like Duscur.
Ashe has flour on his hands and face. It spots his pale skin like freckles. He reaches out, stopping just before he touches me.
“Oh, sorry,” he says. “I didn't clean up.”
I grab him before he finishes speaking, pull him close, chase the scent of foods from my boyhood all the way to his lips. He laughs against me as I kiss him, wrapping his arms around my neck. He's on his tiptoes and lowers down to his heels as he draws back, though his hands linger on my shoulders.
He looks so radiant in this moment, covered in flour, tasting like home, the silver in his long hair darkened by time to gray, that I want to tell him in my own tongue how beautiful he is. I want to use the words constantly humming in the back of my head, constantly threatening to emerge first, before the tangled tongue of Fodlan, to tell him that he is a miracle, a second unlikely miracle in a life I'd almost given up on.
Instead, I just smile, the words echoing in my chest.
“Are you hungry?” Ashe says. “The bread is still baking but there's plenty of other food around. How long have you been on the road?”
“Not long,” I say.
He takes my hand, pulls me toward the kitchen at the back of his inn. The smell thickens like a blanket wrapping around me.
“How is Dimitri?” he says.
“He is well.”
His kitchen is messy. It is always messy. Like an artist's canvas when a painting is only just starting to take form, splashes of dough and stacks of raw materials like splotches of paint that only have shape and purpose in the artist's mind. I have known him so long that I can see some logic in it, some pattern.
I clean the dust from my hands and take up a task. We don't need to speak to work in concert. But part of me wishes I could, wishes I would. Wishes I knew how to speak just to speak.
It's not that the silence is uncomfortable or unpleasant. Not with Ashe. With Ashe, the silence is natural, safe and whole. Sometimes, as we work, he hums to himself, his voice hardly louder than the sound of our hands stirring and kneading.
I wish he'd hum more loudly. Or sing, if he liked. I still wish I'd speak, say the words swirling within me, old and seldom used, but never forgotten.
I don't. We finish the preparations. Leave the bread to rise, but take the stew with us, enjoying steaming bowls of hearty, warm chalho behind the inn. His garden is flourishing. Sitting in it with my meal, I can imagine how he tends it, on his knees in the dirt, seeing to each plant in turn.
“You look far away,” Ashe says.
I shake my head. “I apologize.” I set my stew aside and take his hand. “I am here now.”
He squeezes my hand. “I'm glad.”
The longing in that simple phrase clutches my heart. I know he wishes I was here more. I know he'd never ask. But at least it isn't just me anymore.
“How is Felix?”
Ashe's smile turns wistful. “Good, I think. I mean, as good as Felix can be.”
“He visits?”
Ashe nods. “More often than I feared. Maybe he's finally slowing down.”
We laugh at the obstinance of our old companion. Still stubborn as he was as a boy. Yet Felix's actions betray him. He returns over and over to stay with Ashe, to have a breath of comfort for himself. I can see from the smile lingering about Ashe's mouth that Ashe enjoys his company. And I am glad. Truly.
I cannot love Felix. Not like... Well, not like...
No, I cannot love Felix Fraldarius. But I do not begrudge him growth. And I do not begrudge Ashe some extra sliver of happiness and companionship.
The inn is busy tonight. It seems to be busy almost every night. I help in the kitchen, though Ashe insists I don't have to. In truth, it is a joy to help him. I've always expressed myself better through cooking, especially here in Fodlan.
Ashe flits around like a bird hopping from branch to branch. He visits every person who steps into the inn, delivers ale and food himself, slips back into the kitchen to aid with the cooking now and then. I feel exhausted watching him. I may be Dimitri's vassal, but I do not think I've worked this hard in many moons; Ashe does it every night.
I am glad of the woman who helps him, Matelin, I believe. She is young and vibrant, faster than us old men with our aching hands and backs. And she insists on Ashe taking a break, eating, resting his feet.
I smile. She is firm and gentle, guiding Ashe to a stool and setting a drink in his hands before hurrying off to some new task.
Then Matelin looks to me. A lifetime in Fodlan makes me want to turn away instinctively, but she smiles knowingly, gives me a little nod. I nod in response, a promise of sorts.
“I like her,” I say.
Ashe laughs. “Are you two conspiring against me already?”
I shrug.
Ashe sets aside the drink. That will have to be enough to content me and Matelin. He walks up to me, plucks at my shirt to draw me nearer, rises up to kiss me.
“I could be convinced to go to bed early, you know,” he says.
“I'd like that.”
We make one more lap through the inn. I still find it odd to see so many different people all congregating in this one place. No one looks at me strangely or makes snide remarks. A few sneak glances, but these are filled with something more akin to awe than hate. I am, to them, the king's vassal, a prestigious guest. There will be talk in the town after I leave, but not about Duscur.
What an odd place Ashe has built.
“You built it, too,” Ashe says when we retreat to his room. He tosses aside his apron and sinks onto his bed with a sigh.
I join him. “A little.” I pick out the tie holding his long hair back and start running the strands through my fingers. It's strange to see him with such long hair; part of me wishes he'd grown it out when we were younger. It's lovely on him.
“This place is yours, too,” he says. “No matter what happens, this place will always belong to you as much as to me. We made it together. I just keep it running.”
“No small task.”
“I know,” he says. “It's only because you have more important things to do. I think I'm better suited to something like this than to running a whole kingdom.”
I put a finger under his chin, turn his face toward mine. I wish I had more words to use. I wish I could phrase things elegantly and profoundly in the moment. All I have to offer is: “That is untrue. And unfair.”
He simply watches me.
“I know something of kings,” I say. “Your work is every bit as important and noble.”
His smile is shy. Ashe casts his eyes down, bashful. It's heart-breakingly beautiful. I tilt his chin back up, kiss him, try to press reassurance against his lips.
Perhaps I succeed. He relaxes against me, putting his arms around my neck.
I had to learn to dance, long ago, when it became clear Dimitri would keep me by his side. It was a matter of courtly decorum. That is how I know that there is a concept in dancing called “back leading.” It is when the one meant to follow leads instead, sneakily and silently, guiding the dance while making it look like their partner is in charge.
Ashe is a master of back leading. He knows how easily I might hesitate or sputter. And so even though he lays beneath me, he leads our dance this night, as he has on so many other nights. It is Ashe who removes my shirt, running his hands over my chest as though he's forgotten how it feels. And it is Ashe who turns us over so he might sit on me and trail down my body, licking and sucking as he goes.
I suspect it is a dance he must perform with Felix as well. I can't fathom the wandering swordsman letting down his guard even in a moment like this. Surely, Ashe must have to coax it out of him while making it seem like he's done nothing at all.
What burdensome guests he endures.
I make it easy for him. Or try to. I hope Felix does the same, at least after the initial front is torn down. Why either of us must still pretend with one such as Ashe, I cannot say. It is a strange thing to have in common.
“Hey,” Ashe says. “Stop that. You're thinking so hard I can practically hear your mind churning.”
I laugh, mostly at myself, and reach down to stroke his hair. “I'm sorry.”
“You should be,” he says with a grin. “I'm rather good at this, you know.”
“I do.”
His smile turns mischievous and he lowers his head again. This time, I dare not think about anything but him.
It is as he says. He is … quite good at certain things. My petting at his hair turns to grasping; my easy breaths turn to sighs.
Ashe does not relent, heedless of the pathetic noises I make. Or perhaps relishing them. His skillful mouth and tongue grow bolder, unravel me with practiced precision.
I am quivering when I drag him up, turn him over, get my mouth on him. Reciprocating does nothing to cool the fever he's started in my body. If anything, I ache more deeply as I use everything I've learned about him to get Ashe panting beneath me. He often remarks that I seem to have him memorized, but how could I forget? It would be like forgetting the ingredients of my favorite meal.
He pulls at my hair. I groan and shiver.
“Dedue,” he breaths, my name lovely when caressed by his voice.
I take us both in hand and start to stroke. It allows me to watch his face as he crests, his freckles swimming atop flushed cheeks, his eyes squeezed shut, his throat long from the way he arches his head back. I kiss at that pale, exposed skin. It always looked horribly fragile to me, the way it changes color so easily, the way it bruises from something as simple as a kiss. He was born with blemishes, these precious little spots splattered all over him.
Yet his hands are strong when he grips me. His legs are powerful when he plants his feet to push into my hand.
We writhe together. I keep my eyes open as long as I can, watching his pleasure. It is almost too beautiful to endure.
And then, just as suddenly, it is over. We are messy and exhausted and sighing, chests heaving together and apart, hearts pounding like they're trying to reach each other.
“Oa de--” The words come on their own, no longer a hum in the back of my mind, but trembling on my lips, threatening to leap out.
Ashe opens his eyes. “Hm? Did you say something?”
I pause, but my heart pulses, pushing those words back to the tip of my tongue, words I haven't spoken aloud in years, words I thought I never needed again, shouldn't bother remembering. And yet, they are the only words in any language that are exactly perfect for this moment. So I let them come.
“Oa de aleu,” I say.
And though they are as strange for Ashe to hear as they are for me to say, he understands.
“I love you, too,” he says.