"I'm not going to let you die. Not again."
i noticed the black sky and all those lights
quiet cloaks them for a short time. claude’s not so quick to call it strange, though he notes its static. so rarely do they fall victim to silence, save for the moments in which they communicate with anything but noise. it’s the line of his brother’s shoulders that claude catches in his peripheral that feels too-stiff, too-tightly wound. and how wound he must be, in the weeks that have followed incident after incident of fatal exchange.
claude remembers the violence that kissed his skin; his muscles remember the aches as they would when forced to run. he remembers the pain, but his brother must remember the sight. he couldn’t see himself then, unmade in a hopelessly desecrated tomb. rhea’s madness was an anchor that would have wrapped chains around his ankles and sunk him to the bottom of the sea. she would have had her devout knights dig him a cruel, early grave. she would have had claus carry his absence for the rest of his life. ( when they already carry so much, claude could imagine asking his brother of nothing more. the weight of the world’s new dawn is enough, isn’t it? how could she force one of them to shoulder the other’s gone-ness? it’s the marred horror of their every dream. )
he can only speak for them both because of all the time he’s spent feeling exactly as his brother does. as claus would. even now, they’re more connected than they’ve ever been. that says as much could possibly be said –– it is as though their veins connect to the same pulse –– not unlike they pump blood to the same soul.
in the face of their terrific loss, his brother took on a tremendous burden. the whims of the progenitor god had seeped through his brother’s head and into his, if only as an echo. he’s never wanted to be limited by the impossible, but all of what’s happened since –– byleth –– it’s been a little difficult to believe. still, to suspend his disbelief would be more difficult. there was nothing unreal about rhea’s conviction, or her will to be reunited with her mother. for once, claude struggles to empathize. there is nothing he would not do for claus, and yet, even he understands that the red she’s prepared to wring from the people of fódlan is ages too far. perhaps she is too far gone. perhaps some people always will be.
but there is nothing gone about him.
claude’s brows furrow. both their legs hang off the edge of claus’ mattress-side. ( so many days ended like this in almyra. didn’t they? they didn’t have to share everything, but so often they resorted to doing so anyway. there’s nothing to lose in the moments of closeness they’ve indulged in; there is everything to lose, now. that fact has never been more apparent than as of late. they’re each other’s strengths as much as they are each other’s greatest weakness. rhea knew that –– she saw an open wound and dug her fingers in. ) he tips his head and rests his temple against the jutting edge of claus’ shoulder. he stares at their boots as if they’re the most interesting, well-made things in the world.
in those seconds that his heart stopped, he can remember almost nothing. therein lies the kicker: almost. even worn down to nothing, unmoving, un-breathing, he could hear claus’ ragged breaths. looming over him, the strength and pull of his magics –– he could see it all behind his eyes. a vision from the goddess, maybe. or maybe not at all. maybe just them, a moment that only brothers who were connected before birth rather than by birth could share. maybe the miracle was the trust he felt when his eyes fluttered shut.
there was fear, yes. but he trusted, somehow. maybe that they wouldn’t be separate for long, wherever they were. and maybe that sothis wouldn’t really allow anything to happen to them. that claus wouldn’t let anything happen to him. ( and he was here, in the first place, to make sure of the same. claus –– the tremor on his voice –– it’s so unusual. they’re honest with each other, always, but this… it’s a cold unfamiliarity.
and claude wishes he didn’t have to know the pain in his brother’s voice. he doesn’t want claus to know this pain at all. but he does, they do, they do, they do. they know all things in the same breath and the same pulse. )
“be reasonable, would you? just for a second. level with me here.” he doesn’t look up at claus’ face. he can’t bear it just yet. “no one let anyone die. that’s too big a permission. and definitely too big a responsibility.” he doesn’t think about the hypocrisy. it’s weird, right? to want to always protect someone and to refuse to let them think it’s their obligation do to the same? “and you, least of all. what did you do, other than wake up and save the day, hm?” there’s a lilt to claude’s voice, but his expression goes steely. when he leans up and their eyes meet –– the same eyes, and somehow different now ( what sothis has left with claus, claude is sure will never leave him ) –– he means every word.
“i won’t let you be cruel to yourself. that’s my brother you’re talking about.”
maybe something could have gone differently. and truly, he’s sorry that it cost them sothis’ voice. but… right now, what more could he ask for?
“we can’t afford to let blame eat us alive. neither of us could hope to control the will of those aligned with the church. you know that.” loathe as he is to admit, that was more of byleth’s expertise. “we can only move forward the best way we know how: side by side. no part of what happened was something you allowed. we fought our way back. it’s what we do, remember?” he’s said those words at least ten times before.
they fight their way back. and they struggle all over again.
“i’m not dead. so… no more of that.” claude gets to his feet, firmly crossing his arms. he only ducks to head-butt claus’ forehead and stand straight up again. “the only thing you’ve ever let me do is eat too much stew. all right?”
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