A/N: A longer chapter this time. This one is not platonic.
Robin likes it when things are neat. He likes the quiet and he likes cloudy days; he likes books and his coat and black tea; and oddly enough, he likes Chrom.
"Waiting on me?" Chrom says jokingly, one night when he enters his tent and finds Robin sitting at Chrom's desk carefully poring through a large black book.
"I was not waiting on you," Robin says, turning a page. "I am in your tent because Vaike and Sully are arm wrestling in the mess tent and yelling about it, and I dislike noise. And Cordelia was teaching Stahl how to play the harp at the campfire, and he is loud but bad."
"Didn't have to choose my tent," Chrom points out.
"It was closest," Robin says shortly.
Earlier in their relationship Chrom would have taken Robin's words at face value. But months and months of working and marching alongside each other, months and months of fighting at each other's backs, had given Chrom a deep and appreciative understanding of the fastidious, azure-haired man in front of him.
"I bought you tea," Chrom offers instead of calling Robin's bluff. He holds the mug out like a peace offering. Robin glances up from his book, reaches out, and takes it with one slender hand.
"Thank you," he says, and takes a sip. Instead of refocusing on his book, he glances up at Chrom instead.
"You thought I might come here," he says. It is a statement, not a question.
He wants to know why I assumed he would be in my tent, Chrom thinks. He wants to know if I'm okay with it, if he's overstepped his boundaries.
Aloud he says, "I guessed. Not that you're unwelcome."
Some of the tension leaves Robin's shoulders. "Your prediction was right," he says, returning to his book. "You might have the makings of a tactician." By Robin's standards, it passes as a joke.
He thought I didn't want him here, Chrom realizes. Then he thinks: Idiot. Would I have brought you tea if I didn't want you here?
But he doesn't say that. Instead he kicks off his boots with a sigh of relief and sinks into a chair beside Robin. He doesn't read over his shoulder (Robin hates that) but pulls out a book of his own and starts to read. Or he tries to read, but keeps on glancing up at the candlelight playing off of Robin's blue, blue eyes.
Robin's eyes are relaxed and clear now, like still pools of water. But Chrom has seen them dim like doors slamming shut, shutting out everyone around him. Chrom has seen Robin distance himself thoroughly and completely, close up and in on himself until not even Chrom can reach him. Chrom has seen Robin stare at the brand of Grima on his hand until he shudders and has to look away.
And Chrom hates it. Sometimes he wants to grab Robin by the shoulders, shake him and shout, I know you I know you, don't be afraid I know you and I'm still here. I know that you like your tea with honey but not with milk, I know that you keep your hair trimmed so short because you hate it getting in your eyes and face, and I know that you pull away because you're afraid of the mark on your hand and the fact that you could lose yourself again one day. And it's okay, it's fine, I know all of this and much, much more and I still lo—
But he doesn't say that. Instead he says, "you need to light more candles, you'll go blind at this rate."
And Robin scoffs and says, "You criticize me but you refuse to eat carrots because they are orange," but he lights another candle anyways.
—
This is a fact: Robin reads books. Chrom reads people.
Robin likes facts. Facts are orderly and binary. They are right or they are not. No hovering in-between.
This is a fact: Some nights, Robin dreams of a man in dark robes, wreathed in purple light, and another time, another Chrom, a Chrom who dies with lightning through his chest and forgiveness on his lips.
This is a fact: Some nights, Robin wakes panting and covered in sweat, and has to leave his tent to stand by Chrom's tent and listen to the sound of Chrom's breathing to calm himself.
—
Robin writes everything down. Names, places, events. He makes lists of them in his many battered and worn notebooks; he scrawls down stray thoughts and boxes out data in neat little grids that he draws freehand. He keeps a diary that he stubbornly refers to as a logbook, a record of all their journeys and struggles and triumphs so far.
Once, Robin had been injured by a stray arrow that had lodged itself above his sternum. Chrom had carried him away from the battlefield and back to Ylisstol, to the infirmary. Chrom had been there when Robin had woken, disoriented and confused, in an unfamiliar room to the unfamiliar faces of the healers peering down at him.
"Where am I?" Robin had gasped, eyes wild. "I don't know—I don't understand."
Chrom had to reach out and grasp his arm, and say, "You're in Ylisstol, in the capital, with me."
And only then did Robin still.
Chrom understands why Robin would be so filled with fear when faced with an unknown place upon awakening, why he insists on keeping such meticulous records.
Any leader or commander fears losing the others in their care, but for Robin there is more.
Robin fears losing himself.
—
This is a fact: there is a list, circulated quietly by the Shepherds, of the few things Robin has shown any hint of a strong reaction to. So far the list includes: 1) Asymmetry or general untidiness, which would be discouraged by a pointed cough and a raised eyebrow; 2) Pegasus rides, which had led to Robin nearly throwing up; 3) Damaging or destroying a book, which had led nothing less than a tome to the face; and 4) Harming or injuring Chrom, which had led to an actual, real scream of anger from the normally silent and unflappable tactician, and a Thoron straight through the chest of the unfortunate Plegian soldier.
—
Emmeryn's death hits both of them hard. For Chrom, it's a heart-wrenching loss and a new burden, a burden he thought he would never have to bear—the burden of a crown.
For Robin, it's a harsh reminder that he can write and plan and pontificate all he wants—victory is, and never will be, assured. Nothing is certain.
The two of them stand in an empty courtyard and try to pull themselves together. Chrom has cried until he physically can't. Robin hasn't cried at all. He hasn't cried because he doesn't know how to feel, what to say, what to do. His age as a person is only measured in months at this point, and it shows.
"I should apologize," Robin says eventually. "I have failed as a tactician."
Chrom shakes his head. "Not your fault," he mutters. "You couldn't have—I couldn't—" and he buries his head in his hands, trembling.
"Chrom," Robin tries, and stops there. He doesn't know where to go from there and a strange, coiling feeling wells up in him, makes him feel almost ill.
Chrom suddenly grabs him with shaking hands and holds him in a fierce, desperate, embrace. Robin stiffens and Chrom pulls away.
"I'm sorry," he says, "I—I know you don't like being grabbed, I should have asked—"
Robin meets Chrom's eyes and simply nods.
Chrom pulls him in again and doesn't let go for a while.
—
This is a fact: One night, after Robin pierces through Chrom's with a blade of lightning in his dreams and wakes, gasping but not crying (definitely not crying) he goes to crouch outside Chrom's tent again, reaching desperately for the certainty he craves in this uncertain world of his.
This is a fact: That night, Chrom opens the tent flap and steps outside.
You don't have to go through this alone, he says. And he gently tugs Robin inside.
And Robin lets him in.
A/N: This was fun to write. It was also my first remotely romantic work ever. Feedback would be greatly appreciated! Idk how well I did.
