𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨. @spirestar : sixteen, a kiss in the rain, from dorothea, to ferdinand.
𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻. places once sun - dappled and warm with the natural light filtering through the waxy leaves of old apple trees and big, tall windows, the sort that stretch from just off the floor to the arched ceilings, they all turn cold as a tomb. the ancient stone closes in on itself. there is a lid on garreg mach, and once the black clouds start to gather, it seals itself tightly shut with all those who reside trapped within. either in cascading sheets or fat droplets, the rain pelts the windows and casts uneasy shadows in the rooms of students, or across the stone floors of lecture halls, with their sun - bleached rugs and restless legs of future officers humming with energy below the long work tables. all sound is dampened. it is as though the goddess herself is urging her children to sleep.
ferdinand prefers to spend these days in common areas, either poring over assignments or personal reading in an overstuffed armchair or perched on one of the well - worn benches in the dining hall; or, more typically, momentarily abandoning his responsibilities in favor of attempting to whip edelgard into a frenzy, or beside petra, asking her all sorts of things; did she do her reason homework already, how has her hair fared with the recent cold snap, would she teach him how to sharpen blades the way she had been taught? today, he does neither. the heels of his boots strike the stone paths, slovenly wet with the downpour. moleskin is soaked through to the bone at his thighs and shins. being caught in the village at the foot of the monastery, outside, and out of his officer’s clothes, so profusely drenched now, when he really ought to be completing a report on alchemical warfare for the professorc he considers this to be karmic. there was no reason for leaving the grounds, not really. he was just, rather suddenly, quite restless.
too many nights have been spent with his nose in doctored accounts of funds transferred from sources with no traceable backgrounds to the von aegirs, and it’s started to show. there is a darkness under those bright eyes that seems out of place. the ambient light filtered through the storm clouds worsens rather than alleviates this pallor, and with his hair flattened and dyed several shades darker, ferdinand looks, more than ever, world - weary. seiros must have a cruel sense of humor; why else would he find himself face - to - face with the last classmate who should see him this way— or who wants to see him at all— upon rounding a corner, ducking under a narrow awning in a feeble attempt to get out of the rain. the eyes that peer back at him from behind smeared kohl are wide and bottomless.
she has never looked so small, he thinks. either from the rain slicking her hair down to a quarter of its size or how it’s left her rather scant dress below an oversized furred coat dark and limp, dorothea is little more than a sad splotch of muted color against the stone. “ dorothea— ! ” he sounds scandalized. he is quite good at that. for effect, those sun - warm eyes widen, and it almost looks like he’s pouting, the way his lower lip quivers. or, maybe he’s just shivering from the cold. “ what are you doing out here? and dressed like that? you will fall ill! and then edelgard will never let you hear the end of it, and neither will i. ” she doesn’t answer right away, which strikes ferdinand as strange. something about her looks guilty: the exact moment before she turns to becoming over - defensive, before she gathers herself up and licks her wounds that she will insist were not there to begin with.
the faded fabric overhead is saturated from the downpour, sagging in the middle and doing little to give them much respite. the pit - pat of rain hums around their shoulders. he could blame it on a trick of the light, that it made her eyes bigger, and her lips more plush. images of sirens and nymphs, long - haired and fair - skinned, come unbidden. during mass each week, he stares near - unblinkingly at dorothea’s lovely back, at the gentle slope of her shoulders and the delicately arranged curls that topple from them; he is, as always, hypnotized by her voice, even when singing hymnals of the goddess’s unconditional love or of lambs in spring fields; he imagines how she must look upon lacquered stages, painted and powdered and in the throes of loves unrequited or doomed. there has always been at the back of ferdinand’s mind a sense that he has heard her before. seen her, even. it could be this strange sort of nostalgia that keeps him rooted in place when he ought to be watching the pastor. and it could be what propels him now to hold her rain - slicked face between his palms and press a small, desperate kiss to her lips.
ferdinand pulls away fast as a colt, wincing, half - afraid that his cheek might be met with a slap. not that it would be undeserved. a flush burns high in his cheekbones. furiously, apologies tumble out between them, “ i— i apologize, i overstepped. no, worse than that. i do not know what came over me, truly, i know better than that— , ” hands that once held dorothea gently try to make themselves busy by pushing his sopping wet hair from his face, tucked behind red - tipped ears and then smoothing over his chest. swallowing thickly, he looks her square in the face, defeated. “ you may hit me, if that makes it better. really, you must. i insist. oh, dorothea, i am such a fool— ! ”
