It wasn't a big deal; you just ran across a strawberry bush on your way back from your latest mission and picked the three or four ripe ones to bring back home. Everyone else thought you were crazy. But to Frederic sometimes just coming back home is a big deal, and when he saw your present – your pathetic excuse for a present – his whole face lit up the same way it's doing now, settled down in your private rooms and savoring the very first of the fruits. He mentioned something about how it tastes like spring, and maybe that's true because it is spring out there beyond these old rock walls, but gods, it still doesn't seem to justify that look of sheer joy on his face. It's like there couldn't possibly be anything wrong with the world because as long as there is one good thing that makes everything else okay.

"You're a funny man, Chopin," you murmur, "you know that?"

"M-hmm." It's more a hum of pleasure and consent, and you smile as you run a hand up and down one of the legs that's tucked in between both of yours. He blinks his eyes open lazily from where they'd slid shut, and he smiles and it's like you're blinded. There's a part of you that will always feel a hint of pride at all the beautiful emotions you can get from such a quiet, stoic man. "Would you like one?"

He reaches out and plucks a strawberry from the bowl on the table, holding it up to your lips. You almost want to point out the sensuality of feeding each other like this, but he has this soft breathless look on his face that you don't want to mar so instead you just take an obedient little bite, grinning sheepishly as the juice drips down your face. They're not even that great, and you say as much as you swipe a sleeve across your chin–"Still a little bitter."

"We had a late frost."

"Yeah…" And he must be able to hear the apology in your voice because he holds the berry up to your mouth again a little more insistently, smearing the ruddiness across your lower lip. You take another bite and it's a little sweeter this time, the flavor a little stronger, but that might just be those eyes that are smiling at you from across the table, as though trying to show you the world as he sees it.

Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

"They're wonderful," he whispers, something in his voice that's almost bordering upon reverence. "Thank you."

You laugh slightly, fingers dancing up and down his thigh. "You're a strange, strange little man." He doesn't even come back with the expected quip about how you've never complained about his being little before, he's too busy relishing the last bit you didn't finish off. There's this swell of emotion in your chest when you see that same look on his face, that same enchantment, and the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. "I love you."

It's nothing more than a whisper but it stops him short, mouth still half open. You've never made that declaration before, neither of you have, but you know it's true. You knew as soon as the words were off your tongue that they were true, and maybe they've never been more true than they are right now with Frederic sitting across from you, beaming at you, teaching you what it means to live. It's amazing how gently he can teach you what it means to open your heart, to accept whatever the fuck life wants to give you with open arms – even if all life want to give you is a tiny harvest of barely-ripe strawberries and a quiet room to share them in.

"I love you."

And you reach across the table for him and tangle your fingers in dark curls, pulling him close, pulling his mouth to yours. You slide your tongue inside and he tastes like strawberries, like spring and warmth and sunshine and all those things you're down here fighting for, all those things that make it okay to bide your time underground the way you've been doing for as long as you can remember. He is everything you're fighting for, and you love him. You love who you are when you're around him. You love the way he can find all the beautiful things in a world that's bathed in blood and sex and cheap wine, the way he can look at a world of haters and murderers like it's still full of dreamers and musicians. Hell, maybe it is. Maybe you're just looking at it wrong.

Everybody gossips about him behind your back, wondering why he's here taking up space in an army city base when he couldn't wield a sword to save his life. They whisper about that blind spot of yours. But as he puts both hands on your shoulders and pulls back gasping for air, you start to think that this is just about as far from blindness as you could possibly get – this is revelation. This is the light at the end of a very long tunnel.

"I love you, too," he breathes, blunt fingernails digging into your back like he's afraid of going under, afraid of losing this moment to something more real. "I love you so much."

And then you're kissing again, and you have one leg up on the table just to get closer to him, careful not to knock the bowl of berries to the ground. The door's not locked; if anyone walks in on you right now you're going to have some explaining to do, but that's okay. You'll risk it. You can't stop yet, can't let go of the feel of cold fingers on the nape of your neck and a soft mouth covering yours, fragile bones of his jaw resting in the palm of your hand.

Fix me, you want to say, fix me, make me whole, make me see what you see the way you see it. But when he pulls away again and you finally find your voice, you don't say any of that. Instead you scrunch up your face and stick out your tongue and grumble, "Ugh, strawberries." And he throws his head back and laughs.