for brothered

[arnaults]

It's weird to be back on stage after... well, after everything. When the war had ended, it had seemed like nothing would ever go back to normal again. But slowly and surely, people had fallen into a new normal, and life continued. For her, that meant singing each night at the Mittelfrank, entertaining crowds of loud, drunken people just glad to be alive.

So was she, she supposed.

When she had been younger, she'd dreamed of walking out into the entrance foyer after her performances in silks and furs. Fans would crowd around her, and she'd shake their hands, press kisses to cheeks of the young boys in the crowd, wait for security to escort her out of the building. That's when her escort would pick her up, whisking her off to dinner at the finest restaurant, or the grandest afterparty, or to some handsome man's chalet for the night.

Tonight, she sneaks out of the backdoor, heels dangling from her fingers and more comfortable boots on her feet. Her face is still made up, but she has a heavy men's overcoat and hat over her dress and hair. Just to be sure she won't be recognized. She's used to the paths people don't frequent, knows the exact route away from the theater to avoid the crowds. Which is why she's plowing right ahead when she stumbles into someone.

Someone she recognizes. "Felix?" Her eyebrows can't possibly raise any higher. "What in the world are you doing here?"

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[brothered]

The war is won, the kingdom's position is (more or less) secure, but Felix instinctively tenses as Dorothea sweeps closer to take his arm—although maybe that has, ah, more to do with Dorothea herself than the potential threat she poses? He has his sword, after all. His magic, even if Dorothea's grasp of Reason has always been superior. Felix is always prepared to handle himself in a fight.

What he's less prepared for, however, is the lilt of her laugh, even if it comes at his own expense. The easy, familiar way she touches him, because aside from, like, Sylvain slinging an arm over his shoulder, or Ingrid fussily swiping something off his cheek, no one touches Felix Hugo Fraldarius. He deliberately keeps himself apart from people.

But here Dorothea is, pushing past his walls like it's nothing at all—and what is there to do, other than match her pace as she leads him right along? Crook his arm like the gentleman he was taught to be, even if the sideways look he shoots her is, ah, too sharp to be polite. The mood is—well, who knows what the mood is, but Felix knows better than to leap into an explanation of why, exactly, he's in Enbarr. Boring, and full of less-than-pleasant reminders of a less-than-pleasant time, so.

"My busy schedule wasn't as busy as it could be," he offers, short and somewhat stilted, because he's never been a good liar. "No long-winded meetings. I was told to take in the sights."

Never mind the fact that Felix rarely listens to anyone, as Dorothea surely remembers. And while he could throw in something about hearing her name, perhaps, without it being too awkward, Felix presses his lips together for a moment. Thinks, quite seriously, about what might just be the path of least resistance, before he adds:

"I don't dislike the opera."

[arnaults]

The thing about men is that they tend to be impolite. Dorothea knows this, has known this since she was a child, and then learned it once again as she spent her time growing into a woman on stage in front of an audience. Men leer, and loom, and pinch. They feel entitled to what they think is theirs, and far too often, she's been the object of their entitlement.

Felix is rude, no doubt. But his prickliness is translated in the sharpness of his gaze, the tense way he holds his body, the distance he keeps between them. It's not what Dorothea is used to. She cherishes it, just a little. It's nice to be the one dictating how physically close she is to another person for a change.

She knows he does important work for Dimitri now, and she doesn't want to pry into what it is. She left that life behind, and anyway, there's no one left to relay that information to now. It's a different sort of life she leads now, one where the only war councils she's in are mere sets, and the only people who value her words of wisdom are the sopranos hoping to take her place.

"Don't dislike the opera," she echoes, smiling almost to herself. "What a hearty recommendation of the best Enbarr has to offer. I'll take that compliment." She's only barely joking. She knows how expressive to expect Felix to be, knows to be happy with what he's said. And she's not egoistic enough to think for a second that he came for her.

"I hope I can provide sufficient entertainment for the night. Before you have to go back to your busy schedule." She looks up at him, considering, then says, "I was going to take us to a nice restaurant, but that seems more like a treat for me than for you. There's a stand in the market that makes amazing skewers. How does that sound?"