Hey. We weren't about to just sit by while the King of Faerghus got his head separated from his shoulders. And I guess you weren't, either, huh.

[Dedue's fingers are strong and thick. Worker's hands. Soldier's hands. The knuckles aren't calloused like Balthus's from years of being split and re-split, but the pads are rough and the crease of his palm is familiar with the grip of an axe.

He moves his fingers slightly. Fits them into the spaces between Dedue's. Curls, just a little, so he can feel the way they weave together.]

Does he know you love him? Did you ever tell him?