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He pours himself another drink, a bottle from Derdriu, one they procured from their mission the previous month, and Dimitri wishes for a moment that he could taste the famed Leicester wine. It melds into his mind, in any case, a pleasant buzz.
Looking up at Failnaught displayed on the top shelf of his dusty desk, Dimitri raises his glass. It doesn’t glow, not anymore, not when it lacks his touch.
Dimitri could empathize with that.
The Blue Sea moon carries a gentle breeze through the window, and Dimitri almost swears he heard a particularly familiar laugh. He watches a wyvern rider making rounds outside, and then back at the legendary bow. Dimitri continues drinking.
‘Happy birthday, Claude.’
Is he celebrating it, wherever he is? Of course he must be, laughing over a drink, and a feast in his name. Dimitri is surprised he didn’t stay to celebrate their victory after he came to the alliance’s rescue. Claude loves this sort of thing.
Another sip, he closes his eye. Years ago, it was a warm day, just like this one. The Riegan heir had captivated him, and what they had at the time was a friendship, something like that, yes, he was a friend, a ‘rival,’ and someone that sometimes irked, but fascinated Dimitri. It’s hard to recall what they talked about, or what meal they shared, he can only imagine the way Claude might’ve smiled, maybe he did say something that day that Claude found witty, or maybe he was the one who laughed at something Claude said. The professor came up to them, he thinks they were sitting on a bench near the dorms, and Dimitri almost stood up, assuming the professor might’ve needed something from him. They ignored Dimitri, instead handing Claude flowers they brought out of their big coat, and inviting him to tea. “How did you know it’s my birthday, teach?” He was a little awkward, with an appreciative smile, and Dimitri felt an unpleasant squirming in his stomach.
“It’s your birthday?” He asked, caught off guard, and admittedly embarrassed. Dimitri was spending more, and more time with Claude, yet he didn’t know something like his birthday.
The professor just stared with their usual blank expression, holding some stuff in their arms. “It’s in your records.”
“Ah. Yes, that makes sense, I guess.”
Claude waved goodbye, and walked off with the professor, starting their own conversation. The professor always had tea with students on their birthday, it wasn’t anything special, but Dimitri had an ugly thing growing in him. He now recognizes it as jealousy. Claude was -is- a friend, he spent a lot of time with Dimitri, but jealousy is not a logical thing.
A few months before graduation, he kissed Claude, and it made him feel a little bit better about many things. It didn’t stop his wish to know all about Claude, and his secrets, but Dimitri didn’t push it.
On second thought, he’s not sure Claude would be celebrating his birthday. What a sad thought.
Maybe he didn’t understand Claude the way he thought he did, maybe he still doesn’t. He’s so… glittering. And yet, he doesn’t know as much as he’d like.
Maybe Claude didn’t love him any longer. To appear acting, and looking like that after years of silence, Dimitri doesn’t blame him for it.
Maybe the parting kiss he gave Dimitri before leaving him, and Failnaught was really a goodbye to a future they could’ve had.
Even so, Dimitri wishes Claude stayed, they could’ve been sharing this bottle right now, and the duke—former duke, he supposes? Claude left everything behind—would’ve gotten flushed cheeks, with slurred speech. Or maybe he would hold his drink just fine, and they’d try to out drink each other, and whoever gets drunk first, loses. Dimitri would win that one.
He takes a deep, tired breath, and Failnaught into his hands instead of a delicate glass. It is not heavy to carry, heavier than his own relic—made lighter in his grasp, the blood in his veins making it magic—but as hefty as any other relic he has the honor of touching. It lacks a glow, it lacks a power, not when it misses a Riegan touch. It’s very large, larger than most bows, but Claude always handled it with such ease. Dimitri pushes the chair a bit back, loosening his trousers, and starts wondering about what it’s like to have Claude’s hand on him.
A bow, or a lance, regardless of their differences, they leave the marks of violence in damaged hands. They’re both seasoned warriors. Then again, Claude took care of himself much better than Dimitri seemed to ever do. For the sake of a fantasy, he pretends it’s all the same. The door is locked, he can’t bother to recall, but no one is going to come in without at least knocking anyway.
Claude would kiss him again, not a goodbye, but to feel Dimitri against him. His lips are soft, and make Dimitri’s mind shut out all that is unnecessary. A rough hand full of calluses, and scars, enticing him into hardness. All the nicknames he gave Dimitri, and the times he called him by name, he can imagine it vividly, his voice, hushed, breathless, uttering his name. There’s no fear he’ll break something when his grip on Failnaught tightens.
How long has it been since he last sought relief? Dimitri’s legs start tensing, he shut his eye tightly as he lets his head hang back, he has no qualms about letting his voice slip. Grunts, huffs, and stuttered breaths. Would the Leicester wine taste better from Claude’s tongue? Claude’s sweet lips, Claude’s heavenly hand, Claude’s warm skin, Claude’s melodic voice, Claude’s entire being, blissful, Claude, Claude, Claude, dearest Claude.
With a moan, clear-white spatters all over Dimitri’s hand, his clothes, and even the sublime Failnaught. His chest raises, and falls, air is precious. Dimitri’s fingers are tainted, and he smears more on Failnaught. Not an entirely convincing pretend play, but Dimitri is sated. For now.
If he cared more, Dimitri would be appalled at his treatment of a legendary weapon, semen getting into the dents, and carvings of it. Generations have wielded it, a glorious bow that carries arrows like lightning, vanquish all enemies, thunderclap. In this summer late afternoon, it’s a poor substitute for a darling duke. Holy, always holy.
Less than half of the bottle remains, and Dimitri swigs it up. To the golden boy of his dreams, one he can only pray to see again.