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?"

Comments

excuse my tl;dr

[brothered]

Avoiding people is Felix's specialty? His hobby, really, because he's never been fond of small talk, never cared to listen to the opinions of those he does not know—and people have so many opinions, these days. Too many opinions, and despite his ever-present scowl (and the fact that he helped bring about the fall of the Empire not so very long ago), it seems that everyone in Enbarr is eager to share them with him. Not that it's surprising; it is, he knows, the price he pays for being Duke Fraldarius, right-hand advisor to the Savior King. Win his favor, win his king's, people think. Simple.

Except that it isn't, given that Felix is Felix—and that Felix sits through meeting after meeting, day after day, listening to self-important nobles squabble over the stupidest things. He neither wants nor needs to listen to anyone else, especially when he manages to carve out a rare evening for himself. An ill-advised evening, truth be told; he has mountains of paperwork to sort through, a dozen letters he needs to write, but listen: some vapid noble just so happened to mention the Mittelfrank's star performer to Felix? Invited Felix along for an evening's performance in a clear attempt to curry favor, and while Felix flat-out refused their offer, Felix soon made arrangements of his own. He's always enjoyed the opera, after all. He's most comfortable in the midst of a fight, but there's just something about settling into an out-of-the-way seat, listening to the music swell around him...

And there's just something about Dorothea.

It's... good to see her again. Surprisingly so—and it's strange, the way it sticks with him well after the curtain falls, well after he takes one look at the crowd of nobles gathered in the foyer and follows a servant to the back of the building. The hood of his fine cloak is pulled over his head, and a sword is, as ever, strapped to his side; there's no need to worry about pick-pockets or whatever else a back alley has to offer, which means he's free to continue musing about... things. People. How long it's been since he's seen old classmates; how often (or how little) he's thought of old friendships; how war touches every aspect of someone's life, whether they're aware of it or not.

So it's little wonder, then, when his normally quick reflexes fail him, allowing someone to run smack-dab into him... or him to run smack-dab into them? Let it be known that he's piecing this together as he takes a step back, glancing sharply at the person before him just as that familiar voice reaches his ears. Ah. Well. To say this is unexpected would be an understatement, hence the widening of his eyes—but he's back in control of himself soon enough. Mostly.

"Dorothea," he says, somewhat stiffly—somewhat awkwardly—as he gives her the briefest of once-overs, taking in the clearly low-key attire. "I could ask the same of you. Your fans are waiting for you to make an appearance."

Implying that he was, you know. Inside the building, but details, details.