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brothered
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?"
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?"
never would tl;dr EVER be an issue, each word is a blessing
She remembers how they were at school, Dorothea always teasing him about the crease in his brow, him just scowling more fiercely at her. Remembers being on the opposite sides of a battlefield, seeing those familiar movements she'd grown to recognize from the training grounds cutting down her ranks, her people. Remembers sobbing the night after having to retreat, her hardest effort not being enough to best him.
Dorothea doesn't talk with her old classmates much. This is why.
It's not that she doesn't miss them. She just misses an older version of them - when they were carefree, when she was headstrong, when life seemed easy. Before Edelgard.
She'd always believed in Edelgard. But the show must go on.
She raises an eyebrow at Felix, looking him over as well. "So you came, tonight. That's nice of you." Not what she would've expected, but then again, Felix had started to surprise her, before they'd ended up as enemies by definition. "I'm afraid they'll be disappointed. I hope you're not looking for an autograph."
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Which is undoubtedly why she's still in Enbarr? Still standing despite everything she presumably lost, and Felix finds himself wondering, briefly, how heavily it all weighs on her. Not that he pities her, or that he'll ever apologize for the role he played, but—hmm. It's one thing to discuss the cost of war in council chambers; coming face-to-face with it in an alleyway is another thing entirely, and you know, it isn't an entirely pleasant way to round out his evening.
Felix, however, refuses to shy away from anything, and so Felix puffs out a quiet breath.
"No, thanks."
He brings a hand to his hip, studying her for a moment longer before glancing back toward the building they both escaped from.
"But the others are. Stay here long enough and they'll find you." A beat, and then, somewhat wryly: "You have quite the following."
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She hasn't seen Felix since that battle. She figured he'd be in some proper role, doing something important for Dimitri, the sort of thing she might have been doing for Edelgard in another world - but she'd never thought about it that much. On purpose, of course. It's hard enough living with so many tragedies in her past. If she dwelled on them, she'd never be able to rise from bed.
"So let's get out of here. Do you want to get dinner?" It's rare for her to get some human connection with someone who understands what they went through. But Felix knows - even if he was on the other side of things. He might refuse - but then again, Dorothea is giving him a Look. She hopes it communicates that she's daring him to disappoint her.
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...Well. No is right there on the tip of his tongue, although that has less to do with Dorothea and more to do his, like, terminally unsociable self. Turning down invitations is practically a reflex, at this point in time—but the only things waiting for him are the piles of paperwork sitting atop his messy, messy desk, and Goddess above, but the thought alone makes him antsy. He's never been very good at sitting still.
Another thing he's never been very good at: ignoring a clear challenge, which is why his expression quickly smooths over once more.
"I suppose I have time," is his oh-so smooth way of saying yes, because despite Felix's foray into politics, he's the same as he's ever been. "If you have somewhere in mind."
And he could leave it at that! Could wait to see what she throws back his way, or snidely ask if he's expected to foot the bill for this outing, but it isn't like he cares—and he's also been in Enbarr for a few weeks, now. The chefs here have been eager to serve him their, ah, many specialties, and as Felix is a Faerghus boy through and through, he can't help but to pull a slight face before he hastily adds:
"Just— no fruit and herring tarts."
Felix is a rude boy, but here it is: a crack in his cold armor, brought about by his distaste for fruit and fish.
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But being the star of the Mittelfrank Opera House gets her some perks. She should take the time to cash them in. Especially in scenarios like this - unexpected, perhaps once in a lifetime.
When Felix specifies the sort of food he's preferring, Dorothea laughs, big and loud. "I'm sure I can find somewhere to suit your Faerghan tongue." He was always prickly, she remembers - the war hadn't changed that about him. It's nice to see a bit of the boy she recalls in the man standing in front of her now. Maybe that's why she's so affectionate as she slips a hand around the crook of his elbow and drags him along down her path, steering him in the direction of the main street of restaurants in the city.
"What are you doing in town? More specifically, what were you doing at my show?" An odd question to ask someone she'd once tried to kill, maybe, but that was the past. Now, the joy of seeing a familiar face is overtaking any other concerns. And surely he isn't here to get rid of her now. Not when she barely has anything left.
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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."
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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?"