a/n: hey readers! i updated faster than i thought i would - i wrote this one mostly parallel to the installation just previous, so it came together pretty quickly. the end is rather... i won't say, but if there's enough interest in me resolving this plot line later, i might do so.
this 'shot marks the first one with shippy content, but it's only PG one sided (mostly) stuff so i'm sorry for not contributing to the smut archive or anything x)
warnings: this chapter contains m!robin/chrom at a PG level. you have been warned.
disclaimer: everything fire emblem: awakening related belongs to intelligent systems and/or nintendo, i own nothing but the sentence order.
as always, please enjoy!
in the interim iii -
It took an impressive amount of physical agility to manage to remain completely spotless as the tactician stormed through the camp, still rife here and there with muddy potholes that were the result of horses and supply carts mixed with the earlier heavy rain. Jubilations arose around the fuming young man, voices raised in cheer and song - the fall of Gangrel had come not hours earlier, and with no dead to tend, the soldiers had already fallen to opening the caskets - the less morbid kind.
However, merrymakers were quick to dart out of Robin's path, apparently not daring to cross the usually amiable strategist on his warpath. He had thought to pull up his hood to cover his face, but his coat itself was iconic enough that he stuck out as boldly as a pegasus among horses; when it had slipped down to expose snow-white locks, he paid the garb no attention, nimbly sidestepping the remnants of a shattered axle that had been almost swallowed by the waterlogged muck.
"Robin!" Vaike called loudly, raising a hand in greeting as he poked his head out of a tent twenty feet ahead. The mug of what was probably cheap ale sloshed as he swung it about, the two tankards in his other hand miraculously retaining their contents.
Unable to muster the calmness to offer a kind smile and return wave, he settled for nodding to the brawler as he passed. Apparently this was dissatisfactory, as Vaike cut him off by sliding into his way and waving a tankard under his nose.
"Why the long face, eh? We won! It's over! Come to the party - tell ya what, the Vaike'll drink you under the table. C'mon."
Lurching backward as a reflex to the sudden invasion of his space, Robin tried again to offer a friendly quirk of his lips, if nothing else. The expression contorted into a sort of half-grimace - the liquor smelled positively horrid, on top of his mood. "I'll have to pass this time," the tactician said quickly, slipping around the half-clothed, half-drunk warrior with agility. "But thank you!"
Vaike growled something unintelligible, more preoccupied with retaining a hold on his three tankards than on the strategist who had just escaped him.
Remembering the reason for his frustration, Robin continued onward, dodging the two cavaliers engaged in a friendly tussle to encouraging shouts (Stahl was putting up only a token resistance, obviously more than happy to let his new wife hand his ass to him). He drew the edges of his long coat closer to himself, shivering slightly in the autumn air.
Chrom's tent was pitched near the other side of the camp, denoted by a single panel of blue emblazoned with the Brand of the Exalt hanging on the side. Gritting his teeth, Robin shouldered his way into the entrance flap, ducking and tilting his head a few degrees to the left and using his arm to guide the flap away from his body.
The lord looked up with a jerk of his head, perched on his cot with a rag and Falchion in his lap, polishing the blade until it shone. "Ah, Robin," he said brightly, letting the rag fall to the sparse bed next to him. But at the sight of the dark look on his best friend's face, he froze. "What -"
"Why didn't you tell me?" Robin growled, his fists clenched, drowned in his large sleeves.
Not following, Chrom set Falchion aside and rose to his feet. "Has something happened?" he inquired, a thoughtful turn to his lips.
The tactician failed to meet his eyes. "I heard it from Frederick and Lissa. You know, I would have preferred for you to tell me -"
"Robin, you're not making any sense," Chrom interrupted, the declaration coming out somewhat harsher than intended; the Ylissean heir winced slightly even as his friend jolted. "What's happened?" he asked belatedly, tone turning apologetically soft.
"You know perfectly well what's happened!" Robin's voice cracked rather embarrassingly on the last word - an angry flush rose up under his skin, dyeing his cheeks a soft rose, but the nameless emotion present in russet eyes left the young lord feeling as if he were rooted to the ground, seeing that expression turned on him when the tactician finally met his eyes.
"Robin -" He had never, ever seen the strategist so emotional over something - and it was a painful sight, especially considering Chrom had absolutely no idea as to what could be amiss. (He had the beginnings of a suspicion that it wasn't related to the Shepherds as an entity, as Robin was perfectly capable of separating his rational and emotional sides in the event of a crisis: his levelheadedness under pressure was one of the larger reasons as to why he was such a valuable asset as a strategist.)
The shorter man's voice turned decidedly dark. "One should not," he began, articulating each word precisely, "learn of his best friend's engagement to the woman of his dreams from gossip in the barracks."
Chrom went very, very pale in a very, very short amount of time - the blood drained from his visage like an emptying basin in the face of Robin's (quite rational) irritation. "I'm -" the blue-haired man began, floundering for some words to save him because yes, Robin was entirely right, and he had no idea what he had been thinking and no, that's not something you forget to tell your tactician, but that same white-haired young man cut him off - miraculously.
"Chrom," Robin said, the name coming out sharper than intended; he paused and took a deep breath to calm himself before continuing, more steadily, "I know you're still hurting after Emm- your sister," he corrected himself for better tact. "We all are. But now isn't the time for rash decisions -"
A sudden flare of anger burned away Chrom's embarrassment. How dare he? "Don't bring Emm into this," he growled, squaring his shoulders instinctively. "And don't you dare suggest that I proposed to Sumia out of grief!"
Robin quailed under the aggressive turn to Chrom's voice, averting his eyes shamefully. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I shouldn't have said that. I just - I worry, Chrom. I wish we would have discussed -"
"There's nothing to discuss," the princeling said sharply. "Robin, your skill in military tactics is unparalleled, and I count you among my dearest friends, but matters of my heart have nothing to do with you -"
"I know that -"
"Then what does it matter?" The blue-haired man's voice was rough. "The circumstances of my engagement ought remain between Sumia and myself. Robin, I don't need a wet nurse meddling in my love life, and I fail to see how it matters to you!"
"That's exactly my point!" Robin responded, the timbre of his voice unexpectedly shrill - but he was beyond the point of caring. The fabric of his coat wrinkled in his tight grip, knuckles whitening as he tried to quell a desperate urge. "You're blind as a bat, and you don't understand." Unable to lock gazes with his closest friend, brown eyes dipped down as his head turned to the side. His jaw clenched, as if holding back something, keeping it buried within himself.
Chrom frowned lightly, comprehending that more was amiss than he had thought, and some of the fire of his outrage dimmed as he took in the tactician: Robin's shoulders hunched up defensively, mouth pressed into a thin white line, hanging back like a hunted animal.
"What is it that I don't understand?" he asked, plainly and with considerable intensity. There was indeed a piece that he found himself missing - but he wanted answers, and he would not settle for anything less than a complete explanation.
A beat passed. And then another. Gaze flicking once to Chrom and then back away, Robin's eyelids dropped for but a moment, squeezing tightly shut as he inhaled slowly and deeply, shoulders and chest expanding. He drew himself up, looking conflicted - but when russet met sapphire once more, something twisted, a deep emotion entering caramelized irises.
"This," he said with determination, stepping forward with his right foot and leaning up and in - his arm rose, the sleeve of his coat falling down slightly to expose his pale, ungloved, unmarred (left) hand, slipping and tangling naturally in azure locks, as he rose up onto the balls of his feet, closing the distance to press firm and dry lips against Chrom's mouth.
Caught off-guard by the unexpected movement, the Ylissean's hand drifted almost automatically to rest on Robin's hip, fingers catching on the folds of fabric and the belt holding his underclothing secure. For a few slow seconds, the situation remained unprocessed in the young lord's mind, leaving him acting more or less on physical autopilot - until he caught up with what was happening around him. His eyelids snapped open (when had they closed?) to snowy hair and a smooth, pale face, bearing no evidence of the harsh Plegian sun, and - oh gods, he was kissing Robin - his tactician, and another man to boot!
He tightened his grip to push the slighter man away, a bubble of... not quite panic rising and threatening to burst in his chest, but before he could extend his arm and drive both of their forms apart - Robin's head tilted slightly to the side, a minuscule parting of his lips against Chrom's allowing a warm sigh of a breath to be traded from one mouth to another; the sensation was unexpected, and it elicited a shiver on Chrom's part as more of Robin's weight came to rest upon him, and - oh, gods, he had gotten distracted again, and this entire situation was indisputably
(pleasant)
unusual, and he observed with lake-blue eyes as his tactician's lashes fluttered, much in the manner of the bird he was named for, eyelids opening gently to reexamine the world around him.
Upon reaching half-mast, they jerked open with sudden force, followed by a startled blink - then russet orbs cleared, and the alabaster-haired young man forced himself backward and out of Chrom's grip by splaying bare hands on the other man's front and pushing, flushing and retreating as he did his best not to stumble. "Chrom, I - forgive me -"
"H-how long?" the Ylissean interrupted, cursing himself for the stutter he had not been able to eliminate.
Trying to hold his gaze and ultimately failing, Robin licked his lips and looked away. "Since...after the tournament in Regna Ferox," he admitted, a subtle wince following the confession. A shadow of a moment later, a torrent of words tumbled out of his mouth. "Please forgive me. I wasn't thinking rationally, and I overstepped your boundaries in more ways than one. I swear it will never happen again -"
"Robin," Chrom cut in, long before he had any idea what to say in response; he only knew that the continuous stream of apology was wholly unnecessary (and frankly almost upsetting) because, within the mixed tangle of emotions that he was still attempting to comprehend, irritation and discomfort were certainly nowhere to be found.
The way shocked and almost frightened caramel eyes froze on his made something twist in Chrom's chest. "There's no need to apologize," he found himself saying, taken aback by how sincere the statement was.
The other young man was still tense, as if prepared to flee. The gradually fading rose tint to his visage drew Chrom's attention, and for what may very well be the first time, he noticed how truly striking the strategist's features were - somehow equal parts firm and soft at the same time.
He made as if to argue, but the frown etched into the face of the leader of the Shepherds bade his tactician pause. After another few seconds of sustained silence, he inhaled sharply through his nose - squared his shoulders and stood up straighter, shaking the tension out of his frame.
"It's for the best that I leave the Shepherds," Robin stated, overriding the objection that Chrom had already begun to form before he had even finished speaking. "I'm not - much use for anything but tactics, and now that the war is over -"
Azure eyebrows drew together into a tight V. "Robin..."
A few scattered shouts sounded just outside the tent as soldiers paraded past, drunk on excitement and cheap liquor; a boisterous call from past the outer tent flap was especially loud, given that they were both standing rather close together, Robin with his back to the entrance. The occurrence made both of them very aware of their surroundings - and their proximity.
"I - I need to think," Robin said, pointedly not looking at Chrom as he began to turn. "Excuse me."
He was halfway out when Chrom's strong hand gripped his wrist, catching his attention; the tactician looked back, startled, for the fraction of a heartbeat.
"Robin, wait -" the Ylissean managed to say, but the mixed expression on his friend's face brought him up short before the latter could school his visage back into commission.
At his commander's pause, the tactician looked down, pulled his arm from Chrom's grip, and left the tent in silence.
A few moments passed before Chrom let his arm drop to his side, eyes lingering on the flap as it gradually stilled, losing momentum. He then sighed, raising his hands to rub gently at his temples and sitting down on the edge of his cot, near Falchion.
He had thought his problems would have ceased with the fall of Gangrel.
... How wrong he had been.
