perfectteatime | When You're Gone

When You're Gone

And in the night, I could be helpless
I could be lonely, sleeping without you

The thing about living for a long time is that nothing is novel anymore. There are no surprises. You watch life go and the same mistakes and stories are repeated, over and over in an endless circle. Sure, the names change, the faces are fresh, but after a while even that blurs together. The beginning of the school year. Seven-hundred-and-eighty-two school beginnings, not counting those years he elected to take off from teaching.

Fhirdiad Community College left a lot to be desired. The parking lot was really just one giant pothole. Once upon a time, Byleth had a strange pride in being able to remember where every single one was, but time sucked the joy out of everything, so his car lurches and bounces as he pulls into his very mediocre spot. Or he would pull in, but someone has parked their shitty beater truck there. Probably a new student. He sucks in air through his teeth in mild irritation. It's not even worth calling the parking monitors. He just takes a spot next to it and drags himself into the building, shuffling through the halls, the beaten leather book bag tucked against the itchy argyle sweater vests that he had decided to own twenty of in only slightly varying colors. Dark blue hair pulled into a very messy excuse for a tiny ponytail, it doesn't stop it falling over his eyes, getting trapped behind the scuffed glasses perched on his nose.

A few people greet him, some of the older faculty, but most simply let him pass by. His reputation for being at best terribly dull and at worst outright unfriendly has the desired repelling effect. He slides into his lecture hall, dropping his bag at the desk in the same spot he has off and on for the past eighty years (off and on of course). The floor is visibly worn from it. He settles in, organizing the opening syllabus and paperwork as people shuffle in here and there. A drink of lukewarm tea in a cup that he's had for who knows how long. The bell rings, and he exhales willing himself not to simply walk out as he stands up, scrawling on the whiteboard with immaculate handwriting.

"I am Professor Eisner. Welcome to World History 200. Everything we will cover is in the syllabus but don't think that's an excuse to skip class. I will know if you pay someone to write your essays so don't waste your or my time." Another slow inhale, exhale.

The other thing about living for a long time is that you have to stop feeling things. It seemed like some kind of cosmic joke, that Byleth truly learned to feel but the whole purpose of that reformation seemed to really be only so he could feel pain. The formative years after his marriage had been amazing. He never knew anyone could be so happy. Sure, it was stressful, miserably busy, but he had everyone there to support him. He had Dimitri.

But Dimitri died young, ravaged by the damage done to his body, fell to sickness and slipped through Byleth's fingers. Just like that. The first hundred years after were no better. The worst part however, was not watching everyone grow old, wither and die while he stayed young as the day he emerged from that crevasse that had swallowed him. Perfect and beautiful. No, the worst part was having to remove himself from the world. To cease to exist. Guiding things from the shadows, watching but never able to touch. The children of his friends, and their children's children, thinning the bloodlines until crests were a myth. Until heritage didn't matter anymore. He knew that when the Church of Seiros sat as a lesson of the dangers of unchecked religious power in textbooks, he had done his job.

By that time, all the emotions he had worked so hard to cultivate and learn slowly faded into a sea of gray. Until things were meaningless again. Until he didn't have to hurt all the time anymore. It faded to a dull backdrop of low-level grief that he could tolerate outside of the days, months, years he couldn't get out of bed.

The dry erase marker clacks hard against the tray at the bottom of the board.

"Now. Who can tell me what countries were at the center of power before the Great War of 1207?"

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That's it, he thinks, as soon as that pistol shot cracks the air. He'd thrown away everything on a whim and would have nothing to show for it. Alexander would say his life flashes before his eyes but it doesn't. Instead, it's a- Dragon? The first thing that crosses his mind is how they aren't real. Perhaps they were once, like wyverns or griffons, but now? Now, they were just the stuff of myth. Yet, there was one standing right before him.

"Ah?" he starts, alarmed and questioning at once. Did he witness a dragon only to be eaten by it, instead? That would track, considering his luck in all of this. Although he is picked up in the beast's jaws, he's not consumed. In fact, aside from the uncomfortable point of those fangs there hardly feels to be any pressure put on him at all. Hm. Before he can question it, they're up and off into the cool early morning air.

Once he's deposited onto the dragon's back, he utters a small: "Thank you." Because, of course, he does. What else can he say? Can this creature even talk? Also, okay, wait- "Professor Eisner?" Just, you know

making sure.

The questioning voice earns a glance back from the dragon, who then swings his head back to face forward.

"Yes." The answer comes a moment later.

The flight has them entering a nature reserve. Once Byleth is satisfied with the distance he's put down, he lands near a rocky outcropping, choked by trees and thick vegetation. He lands heavy, stumbling a bit and growling as his body settles to lay down, let Alex off.

"Fucking guns." He hisses, regarding a bloody wound in one of his haunches. "Do you regret insisting on coming now?"

Yes, he says, and Alexander wishes that relieved him any. As it is, it just brings forth a whole new plethora of questions and concerns. Regardless, he lets the man hiss and inspect his injuries before he speaks again.

"No," he answers, surprisingly earnestly. "Actually, I..." Hm. It might seem a bit foolish, maybe, but it is how he feels about matters. "I'm more glad than ever I decided on this course now. Who else can say they've seen a real, live dragon?" While not trying to be insensitive, it's definitely something he finds fascinating.

"Where are you injured?" is his next inquiry, squinting in the low light at where Byleth had been shot. "I can help, if you let me. I... I originally started school in veterinary medicine but I, ah, wasn't... gentle enough, they said." Physically, anyway. He was a gentle giant in personality but physically? He'd likely unintentionally hurt more animals than he helped, as a sad as it was to say.

He makes the motion of rolling his eyes, but doesn't chide the man. Even in his time, Dragons were almost unheard of after all. The thing about vet medicine earns an audible scoff.

"Fine. Do what you will." There's no venom to his words though. Just tiredness. He grabs a log from nearby and drags it over, setting it alight with one quick plume of green. It burns from the inside out, and he lays his head down, ready to accept whatever help he can give.

The obvious wound is in his haunch, stiff and extended out, a wet steak of blood shining in the firelight.

"Don't strain yourself," Alexander offers as Byleth drags that log over. Despite his words, the man continues and lights it. Well, that is helpful. Still, the last thing he wants is for his wound to be worsened. Hm.

"Ah," he mutters, inspecting the wound. "Thankfully, I can fix this but... It won't be perfect without the proper supplies. Still, I can make do." And he does. Dimitri uses large leaves (with medicinal properties, he's pretty sure) to dress the wounds after removing the bullet and any shrapnel.

"Is that any better?"

It hurts, and Byleth growls deeply as the bullet is fished out. Though it's not particularly a threat, simply a complaint. And Dimitri is let to finish his work.

"It is." Byleth mumbles, at last laying his head down and heaving a sigh that sends the leaf litter scattering before his snout. He lifts a wing slightly. "Come. Rest. You'll freeze out here otherwise." A silent thank-you for the medical attention, despite how dour he is, he's not completely without his senses.

It does at the very least seem that he is guarding himself less now as well. Should Dimitri take the invitation, he will find himself blanketed by warm black feathers. Well insulated against the incredibly warm side of a dragon.

The growl doesn't actually deter him any. Alexander imagines that it is quite painful but still better to be removed than left to potentially get infected and cause further damage. Not that he doubts a dragon's healing capabilities if the legends are anything to go off of. Which, actually, it seems like they are since Byleth immediately gets sleepy; he'd read that dragons were known to slumber when injured and sometimes for eons.

"Good," he answers, small smile gracing his face. "And, ah, it's alright- I am more suited to the cold, really, but... Thank you." He isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth as it is. Alexander doubts he'd truly freeze but better safe than sorry. And, honestly, who else could ever say they'd gotten to sleep next to a dragon? Not that he imagines he'll have anyone to tell for quite some time, considering the situation they're now in.

He's satisfied in a strange way, to have Dimitri up against him. It's the inherent draconic instincts, he tells himself, the desire for ownership. The desire to have. It's enough though, to help him rest. The rest he needs to begin the healing process.

Usually, he's early to rise, but in the morning, Alexander will find him still sound asleep, and very, very naked, curled up against him. His form is so much smaller than his demeanor makes him seem.

The wound does appear to have healed quite a bit, though not entirely. When the man moves, he fusses and curls closer.

For all the ways that he is smaller, Byleth certainly carries himself like an eons-old immortal. Usually. In this moment, he looks no more than a man much older than Alexander himself. He looks peaceful, too, in the quiet of the morning that dawns over them both gradually.

The first thing the blond does is check that wound. Hm. Well, it seems fine. While still present, it's certainly nothing worth worrying about. His nudity doesn't bother Alexander any but he has to imagine that even with the sun rising it's cold. He drapes his university sweatshirt over the man without really thinking and lets him sleep for a bit.

Eventually though: "Prof- Byleth. I think we should probably get going," the boy says in a whispered tone as he nudges Byleth's shoulder gently.

"Mnnh..." He groans, rolling over, and then suddenly sitting bolt upright. A look of confusion, and then slowly, recognition settles in with him. He too, checks his wound. It's workable.

"Huhhgg... thank you. For the-" He clears his throat, handing the sweater back. It is horridly cold. Though thankfully, his own nudity does not last long. In a flash of green flame, the dragon stands before Dimitri again. In the sunlight, the reflection of his scales is slightly iridescent. Oilslick, like a crow.

Carefully, he lowers himself as much as he can.

"Come. Get comfortable. We have a long way to fly."

"You're welcome," he offers, knowing that it still seems... difficult for his former professor to show much gratitude. Alexander supposes that's the nature of being on your own for as long as he has been. It's still a lot to wrap his head around, honestly, that this Byleth is the Byleth and that it's been... eons since he was born. Changed. Living that long is bound to warp a person, of course, but even he's surprised by how this man is not quite like the text he's read of.

Especially the dragon part. Alexander blinks in surprise at the sudden transformation.

"Are you sure?" he asks, first, even if the wound is passable. It's still not something the man should be testing. Right? Then: "Where are we headed?" So far, the blond has been fine with following Byleth's lead but he's going to want to be filled in now if this is to be his chosen fate. Destiny? Life? Weird series of impulsive choices that most people might classify as a neurotic breakdown?

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When You're Gone

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me, forgetting the name I gave my own character in this AU!!! unforgivable

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