The front door opens and Byleth hears the tenants come in. Lying in bed, at her attic bedroom, she looks at her phone.
They stayed out longer than usual. Normally, they would come home around two o'clock, but now it is half past three. They stumble up the stairs and she hears soft laughter in slurred speeches. Doors open and close, the heated water pipe screeches and the toilet flushes. She is pretty sure Ashe walks into a closed door and Sylvain laughs.
After a while, all the doors shut and it gets deathly silent in the house once more, as its dwellers fall to a hungover sleep. She should stock up on rooibos tea and eggs for breakfast tomorrow. The landlady closes her eyes again, her concerns eased, and drifts off.
A loud thump wakes Byleth back up jumping. She opens her green eyes and try to listen where the sound came from. As it stands, a soft sound is coming from Dimitri's bedroom, right underneath her attic suite.
The landlady sighs and try to relax again. Dimitri probably dropped his book. It is not a rare sound, as the young man likes to read whenever he cannot sleep. She closes her eyes and try to fall back asleep. A few minutes pass and she finds that she is awake now and will not be able to lull herself back to her dreams so easily.
Sighing, she gets up and walk in the dark to her door. She opens it and, cautious not to trip and roll down the rickety staircase, she decides to go to the kitchen and have a head start on the first meal of the day.
As Byleth passes quietly through the hallway, there is still noise coming from Dimitri's room. Instead of going ahead for the kitchen, she opens her tenant's door with care. It is dark, the curtains are drawn and the man is moving heatedly in his bed. It is hot in the room, not due to the quietly humming radiator, but rather a damp, sweaty heat.
The landlady walks over to the blond and sits down on his bed. He keeps moving and squirming. Soft, moaning sounds are coming from his mouth and she understands what is going on. He is having a nightmare. He has them often, so she knows what to do.
Byleth turns off the radiator and carefully places her hand on Dimitri's forehead. His head is warm and sweaty. With her other hand, she throws the sheets off of him and folds them lower, at his hips, to preserve his modesty, should something has escaped with his twitching overnight. She, then, unbuttons his pyjama top, so his body has more of a breathing space.
Taking out a fan she had him keep on his nightstand, ostensibly so he could swat away pesky mosquitos that were common in Garreg Mach summers, she uses it to help him breathe and to cool his temperature down without bothering Sylvain, who shared a wall with him. It is not working as well as it always does, even as the blond man's heartbeat start to relax and the temperature in the dark chamber lowers significantly.
Fresh, cool air fills the room when she opens the window. She takes a deep breath and leave the curtains half open.
When she turns back to Dimitri, expecting him to sleep peacefully, she notices that even now, with the window open and his shirt off, he is still sweating and moving restlessly. Byleth sits back down on the side of his bed and try to take his hands, but he pulls them back with such great force that it throws her off the bed.
It is getting concerning, as the landlady begins to wreck her brain for a solution for their predicament. Normally, she amongst all tenants is able to calm the blond aristocrat down, awake or asleep, but nothing seems to work now.
"Dimitri, it's me, Byleth. Can you hear me? Calm down honey, we're at home, now." The woman tries to wake him up with soft conversation.
To no avail, however, as, no matter what she says, the man refuses to cooperate and wake up.
"Dimitri, please, wake up, dear. I'm here, you are safe, nobody is trying to hurt you." She coaxes.
She knows what the nightmare is about, of course. There was no-one in Fódlan who would be surprised by its contents, as they all remembered the gory slaughtering of Lambert Blaiddyd and family, on a politically motivated murder while he visited Duscur on an outreach mission. Dimitri was the sole survival.
Byleth remembers, particularly, when it came out on the news, on a grimy special report. She remembers the shocked faces of her parents', as Lambert and his wife were alums of their pension, how they raced to Fhirdiad, leaving her on the care of her teeth-grinding Uncle Seteth. She remembers particularly well how sorry she felt for the thirteen-year-old orphan, all alone in the world, so much so she wrote him a condolence letter.
Considering the recipient never responded, nor have he ever mentioned it once he moved into the guest-house, she supposed he did not receive it, or did not care much for it. It was a bit of a mess, in any case, just the mumbled feelings of an equally-confused and emotionally stunted sixteen-year-old, but it had been from the heart. In fact, Dimitri never mentioned the incident at all, the only indications it ever happened were the nightmares and the scars on his skin.
Hopelessly, and with no other ideas that did not involve leaving the man to his own even for a few minutes, Byleth runs her hand comfortingly through Dimitri's hair. She hates seeing him like this. He was a good man, she likes him, but often she has to see him in pain and there is nothing she can do about it.
She drops her head and stare at the man's exposed chest. Her eyes have gotten used to the dark and she can see the pink, yellow and silver scars on his otherwise alabaster skin. It still brings tears to her eyes looking at those, remembering the coverage on TV. She remembers the look on his face as he leaves the hospital, the restless and tireless media attention for Moons on end, the tragedy and the pain, physical and emotional alike.
Dimitri hates it when someone looks at his scars. Byleth can certainly understand that. He always wears sweaters, gloves and long-sleeved shirts, even in the height of Summer, in sights to hide them, but she has seen them countless times, in quick runs from the bathroom after a shower, when the smouldering heat made the use of coats a health hazard and, yes, in those instances that seemed to grow more and more common. She knows the pattern they make on his body.
She also knows that the man thinks no one will ever love him because of them, because he is messed up, damaged goods beyond love and happiness. The words "survivor's guilt" floated around generously amongst her parents and Rodrigue Fraldarius, Lambert's testament's executor. There were uncountable instances she stood by the foot of his bed, as he was awake or asleep, and she reassured him of his worth, of the great value of his life. Him and his scars. Sadly, this was not enough for him, even if it is enough for her.
In the darkness of dawn, alone in this room, the green-haired woman can admit her wish to be able to hold him forever, to be able to tell him she loves and cares for him, that she could take the pain away. She wants to be with him, but she knows Dimitri does not want her with him, not in the same way.
The aristocrat certainly sees her as an efficient servant, a kind landlady, a friend at best. Byleth had been in the service industry long enough to know that, as kind and well you treat your client, as much of a bond you cultivate, you are still their server, not their friend. Miklan and Cristophe's time at the guest-house comes to mind as examples.
One could argue that her caring for every batch of new tenants that came around every year might be lost labour, but it seems like her nature and she cannot help herself. This class in particular, for some reason, wormed their way into her heart, Dimitri most of all. This will be source of a lot of pain in a few Moons time.
As the clock's hands make their rounds, Byleth is losing any hope for a restful sleep for her loved one. Dimitri moans in pain and the tears he sheds wet the handkerchief she uses to wipe them away. She wants to help him, but she does not know how. Never the green-haired woman has seen Dimitri having a nightmare this bad.
Once again, the landlady tries to grab his hands. Now, for some reason, the man lets her, but his hands soon grab her wrists, twisting the joints and not letting her get away from the bed. She tugs on her arms, but the hold does not falter, as if he was drowning and she tried to pull him back to dry land.
There is an option, Byeth wagers, but there is no guarantee it will be any help, either for her predicament or his. Alas, it is better than doing nothing, so she decides to try. Carefully not to spook him and have his hold on her wrist tighten even more, the woman gets up and climbs over Dimitri, lying down at the empty, left side of his large bed.
The woman shifts ever so closer to the young man and slowly places her arm around him. She strokes his lower arm with her thumb. Fortunately, his body movements calm down and his flushing also diminishes, but the moaning gets louder and he starts to mumble.
No… Don't… Take me… Leave her… No…
The words are haunting. A chill runs down her spine as she considers what could he be dreaming for such desperate pleas to leave his lips. It is horrifying, to be completely honest.
Byleth lifts her upper body and start to stroke Dimitri's cheek. His eyes are moving rapidly under his closed eyelids. It is a bit of a funny sight, but she is not in a laughing mood right now. Her shoulders feel tense and her wrist, where the man still holds, aches.
Don't hurt her… Somebody help, please… Take me instead…
Her arms, toned as they are, fail to keep her up any longer and she rests her head on a cold pillow on the bed. She tries talking to him once again.
"Dimitri, calm down. You're here, in your bedroom. Nobody is hurting you. Nobody is taking…" She hesitates. Byleth has no clue who he is talking about. His stepmother? His stepsister? One of his friends? So, she opts for a more neutral pronoun. "Nobody is taking her from you. Dimitri, you are safe here. I am with you."
Dimitri moves at her soft whispering. He turns his body to her and buries his head in her neck. His hands firmly wrap around her waist and his fingers push in her skin. The woman can feel the raging heart beating through her pyjama shirt.
Soon, the fabric of her clothes is damp from the man's sweaty chest, it is uncomfortable and rather disgusting, but she still does not let go of him. He has stopped moaning and seems to be calmer. Finally, there is silence in the dark room. The wind from the window is blowing in her face and she feels the sleepiness returning to the forefront of her mind. She strokes a golden strand of hair out of his face and places a soft kiss on his forehead.
"Goodnight, honey. Sweet dreams."