#And sorry in advance about tumblr's less than ideal formatting for longer fics

[coralhoneyrose]

Speak What Your Heart Wants You To - (m!Chrobin One-Shot)

Plot Synopsis: When Robin sacrificed himself to defeat Grima, Chrom never gave up hope that he would find him again. Now, reborn half a millennium later with no memories of his past life, Chrom may finally have his chance. Also known as: a Reincarnation AU in which Robin is a historian working as a museum curator, and Chrom has a *very* personal investment in learning more about the newest exhibit.

Originally posted on ao3 with f!Robin for Fire Emblem Awakening's 10th Anniversary. Tweaked to create an m!Chrobin version for anyone who prefers that iteration of the pairing.

Rating: Teen

Tags: Reincarnation, Modern AU, Flirting, Fluff, Humor

Words: 9,751

Chrom raises his coat collar to fend off the damp nipping at his skin. Along the streets, redbud trees and daffodils have conspired to coat the sidewalk in a thin crust of pollen, yet an uncharacteristic chill has sunk its teeth into Ylisstol—as if the city has forgotten that it’s already mid-spring. The hulking shadow cast by Ylisse’s National Heritage Museum does nothing to aid in chasing away the cold. Chrom waits against one of the granite pillars at its entrance, hands shoved deep in his pockets, removing them only to check his wristwatch for the fifth time in as many minutes.

When he first heard word of the new collection debuting at the museum, Chrom was ecstatic. ‘Ylisse’s Star-Crossed Lovers as You’ve Never Seen Them Before!’, the flier promised. He withdraws it from his pocket again, thumbs skimming over its many creases from all the folding and unfolding he has put it through. The collection boasts of newly uncovered love letters exchanged between Exalt Chrom and his husband, as well as their personal journal entries, and a never-before-seen sketch of the Exalt in his youth.

As far as Ylissean historical figures go, Chrom’s namesake is considered one of the greats. Remembered as both a fearsome general and progressive policy maker, artifacts detailing the Exalt's life would make for an interesting exhibit on those grounds alone. It is his love story, rather than his political achievements, however, that made him popular outside of academic circles.

Exalt Chrom and King Consort Robin’s relationship had all the makings of a beautiful tragedy—a chance meeting between fated enemies turned lovers; a desperate fight to save the world; a daring, heroic sacrifice; and the unfaltering hope they would one day meet again. The story is a favorite among the Ylissean people, and has been the subject of many modern retellings and theatrical performances in the centuries since. Chrom himself is enamored with the heart-rending mystery surrounding the two, though admittedly, his interests lay less with the ruler whose name he shares than with the brilliant tactician the man loved.

Chrom has never been able to put words to his interest in King Robin. The fascination is so out of line with his other interests, for things like fencing and swordplay—his passions have always been mired more in the physical than the academic. But something about Ylisse’s grandmaster is magnetic to him. His story plucks Chrom’s heartstrings and makes him ache—shoots him full of a sense of nostalgia for a life he never lived, where heroes fought dragons and maybe fell in love with them too.

It hadn’t been hard to learn all there was to know about the tactician: despite the king consort’s popularity, there was infuriatingly little known about his personal life. No portraits of him had survived, nor were there any known accounts of the time before he began serving the Shepherds. The majority of King Robin’s writing that had been uncovered was focused almost exclusively on military strategy, and while it was enough to prove him every bit deserving of his title as Ylisse’s High Deliverer, it did not divulge much about who he was as a person. 

For that, one had to turn to cursory mentions of the tactician in documents written by his contemporaries, and as dissonant as their portrayals of him could be, Chrom had still read them all. Reports from Plegian and Valmese war generals portrayed the tactician as callous, cunning and ruthless…but the diaries of Ylisse’s Shepherds spoke of his sunny nature, his vibrant curiosity, and his quiet compassion. The accounts all seemed to be at odds with each other, a point which many historians found vexing. He was calculating, he was selfless. He was secretive, he was loyal. Amongst these myriad facades, who was the true Robin of Ylisse?

Personally, Chrom liked to believe that none of the records were more accurate than the others. People were complicated, he reasoned. Why couldn’t these writings be a window into the many masks worn by a man who once had the fate of the world resting on his shoulders? Facets of a jewel whose luster was only achieved through ruinous pressure. Ultimately, though, Chrom’s perception of the tactician is just one theory among many—with as much claim to credence as any other. There is no way to know what Robin was really like...or at least there hadn’t been, until now.

When the new exhibit was announced, it stoked Chrom's hope into a frothy and frenetic thing—ignited a livewire curiosity within him. The collection promised personal letters and journal entries written by the tactician himself, afterall. It was the first opportunity the public would have to get a glimpse into the workings of the king’s heart, rather than his mind.

And so Chrom had pre-ordered a ticket for the exhibit’s grand-opening. He arrived early, and had packed a lunch in his satchel so that he could stay until closing, dissecting every stroke of the man’s quill. After years of admiring the tactician, finally, finally, he would get to know him. He's irrationally excited to have the chance.

Ylisstol’s clock tower chimes, the toll of the brassy bell sending a flock of pigeons skittering into the sky and tugging his eyes from the flier still gripped in his hands. It’s 10 o’clock.

On the other side of the glass doors, a security guard strides forward and turns a key, and just like that, the museum is open. Immediately, Chrom pulls open the door and fumbles his way to the ticket check counter. He was not the only one awaiting the museum’s opening, and behind him, a thin crowd of eager patrons push their way forward as well.

With his entry granted, he scurries between the arrowed signs pointing in the direction of the featured exhibit. His shoes clack against the tile with each step, echoing enormously beneath the vaulted ceiling. Without the brisk outdoor air, his palms grow clammy, half from nerves and half from excitement. What if the letters wind up proving that the version of Robin he’s spent all these years building in his head isn’t what he was like at all?

 …But what if he was even better?

Chrom rounds the final corner, only to freeze in the center of the archway leading into the display room, legs pinned in place. He blinks, scrunches his eyes closed, and blinks again.

There, centered on the exhibit wall for all eyes to see, hangs a highly detailed picture of his own naked body. 

His first thought is that he must be asleep. He’s having that awful nightmare where you show up to work, or the gym, and realize you forgot to put on any clothing. With how long he’s been nervously anticipating this exhibit, it’s within the realm of possibility for it to serve as the setting in one of his dreams. 

But no, that can’t be right, because the version of himself that came to the museum today is fully dressed. When he looks down at himself he can see his coat, his button down and his dark wash jeans. It’s just the Chrom in the picture on the wall that’s not wearing anything. 

It’s a drawing, he realizes a moment later, as his mortified mind struggles to make sense of the scene before him. More specifically, it’s a black ink figure drawing, the parchment discolored with age. It portrays him completely bare and hoisting a set of scales into the air. The only saving grace the drawing offers is the ancient sword clutched in his other hand—placed at such an angle to conveniently block anything especially unsavory from view. 

Chrom stumbles as more museum visitors arrive, pushing past him to make their way into the exhibit. Legs still jelly-like, he wobbles forward to get a closer look. A plaque inlaid beneath the poster reads: 

‘Estimated date ~995, War recruitment poster depicting Chrom of Ylisse, then the nation’s Crown Prince and military general, posed with the exalted blade, Falchion, and a set of scales. The poster is believed to have been commissioned by his faithful knight, Sir Frederick, in an effort to raise troop morale and increase public support of the war effort.’ 

Chrom’s throat constricts as he risks another peek at the poster. It’s not a drawing of him at all, then, but of the exalt he was named after. He’s seen portraits of Exalt Chrom from later in his life, and has received many a comment or jest about the similarities in their appearance. But the picture before him goes beyond a mere resemblance; they don’t just look alike, they look the same. It’s uncanny. No matter how he looks at it, that’s his face—his body. He knows because he sees them in the mirror every morning when he wakes up and every night before bed. They look back at him in the reflection of every window he passes. The only difference as far as Chrom can tell is that his own arm doesn’t bear the brand of the exalt.

His ears catch the sound of snickering and when he glances to the side, he sees two women pointing between him and the poster, breathless giggles spilling from behind their hands. Chrom’s face burns as he turns away, retreating into the high collar of his coat like a turtle into its shell. He’s not just flattering himself into thinking there is a resemblance, then. Clearly the people around him can see it too.

Nerves still in a frenzy, Chrom moves to the side of the room where he is less likely to draw attention and tries to catch his breath. He came to the museum with the intention of paying the poster little mind, but ignoring it now feels next to impossible. He just wanted to spend a peaceful day pouring over King Robin’s writing! At this very moment, his journal and letters are here, being viewed by other museum patrons who cannot possibly be as passionate about him as Chrom is. And yet here he is, cowering in a corner—too embarrassed by a 500 year old drawing to enjoy them properly.

Chrom squares his shoulders and tries to silence his shrieking modesty. If he can just keep it together long enough to snap a few pictures of the writings on display, then he can find a spot in the museum far away from that drawing to read them over in peace. With newfound determination, he edges his way around the room in search of the written documents.

His pulse hiccups with the first parchment leaves he comes to, but calms again when he sees the sign off at the bottom: ‘With all my love, Chrom’ —a letter written to Robin, rather than by him. It will no doubt make for an interesting read later, but for the moment it’s not Chrom’s priority—he yearns to see the words Robin wove together himself.

The next letter on display proves to be much the same. As does the one after that…and after that. He nearly gasps in relief when he finally spies the king consort's crabbed print and angular quill strokes across the double pages of a decrepit journal. Hastily, Chrom snaps a picture and continues his tour around the exhibit’s perimeter in search of more. 

Except that’s it. Everything else on display was written by the Exalt to his husband, rather than the other way around. Chrom loops through the exhibit a 2nd time to be sure, and then a third, ducking his head each time he passes the poster of Ylisse’s previous Crown Prince. But that’s all there is...just one journal entry, and no letters from Robin at all. His stomach tosses in disappointment.

Chrom thumbs the exhibit flier from his pocket again, running a nail beneath the text that proclaims that letters written by the famous lovers will be featured in the exhibit. Lovers plural. It doesn’t make sense—he’s certain the article he read detailing the initial discovery of the artifacts spoke of letters from the king consort as well. So where are they?

It’s possible that upon verification, those documents turned out to be illegitimate…but without a means of confirming that was the case, the question of why they’re not displayed is going to eat him alive. Someone must be able to tell him what happened to them.

Chrom’s eyes drift to the bottom of the flier, where a small line of print denotes the name of the museum staff member that curated the exhibit. He stifles a breathless chuckle, and wonders if it’s too fatalistic to believe the gods could be sending him a sign.

Their name is Robin.

۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵

Robin cracks his neck and stretches both arms overhead, chasing stiffness from his limbs. There are no windows in the museum’s archival room, and the fluorescent lighting is already starting to strain his eyes, but despite the complaints of his body, Robin’s mood couldn’t be more chipper.

It’s April 19th: the day marking the grand-opening of the new exhibit in Ylisse’s National Heritage Museum, and the first collection he has had the privilege to curate since receiving his promotion a few months prior. It had been a tremendous honor to be selected for the task by the museum board: the two lovers of Ylisse’s Golden Age were prominent in pop culture to this day, and any exhibit featuring them was likely to draw many visitors through their doors. He was flattered to have its curation entrusted to him.

And now the day that all his hard work culminated in had finally arrived.  No more overtime hours and scrounging to meet deadlines: he’s validated all the documents, ensured the displays will keep them protected and pristine, and written all the tour guide scripts. All that is left is to soak up the public’s ensuing praise and relish the role he was able to play in bringing these writings to them.

It fills him with a bittersweet sort of pride. For so many months, those quill strokes and ink blots existed as a very private part of his life—known only to Robin and the ghosts of Exalt Chrom and his husband.  Robin knows their words and their shape on the parchment like the veins that twist his body. He hopes that the people of Ylisse will love them as much as he has come to.

If he’s being completely honest, it is the poster of the Exalt whose presence in his office he will miss most. Robin is aware, intellectually, how ridiculous it is to harbor something akin to a crush on a deceased historical figure, but, well, he has eyes, doesn’t he? He can hardly be blamed for appreciating the Exalt’s assets. And Robin has spent enough time looking at that poster to know he has plenty.

Reading the man’s letters did nothing to efface those feelings, either. Gone was the stern, stoic facade the young king showed the rest of the world. Instead, the Exalt’s letters to his husband revealed a devotion that burned so ardently, one might think the quill strokes were char marks. His words to his lover were deeply intimate, but also surprising in their humor and levity. It was clear that for all the desperate passion they’d held for each other, their relationship had been built just as much on friendship. Robin can’t help but feel a little jealous.

Mostly, though, he is proud of his restoration efforts and of being able to bring a sample of the letters to the public. After so many years spent studying the reign of Exalt Chrom, having a personal hand in the exhibit has been nothing short of a dream.

A tap on Robin’s shoulder severs his line of thought. Miriel, another of the museum’s curators, stands beside his desk, adjusting her spectacles. Since Robin’s promotion, Miriel is no longer technically his superior, but the woman is still his senior, and Robin has yet to fully make the transition to thinking of her as a colleague rather than his boss.

“I’m afraid you’re not going to like this,” Miriel warns him, thin lips pressed into a tight line.

“Well, good morning to you too, Miriel,” Robin teases, unperturbed. “What exactly am I not going to like?”

“I’ve just received a call from the front desk,” Miriel tells him. “A man approached them saying he has concerns regarding the artifacts on display in the new collection. He asked to speak to you by name.”

“What?!” Robin rockets from his chair, and just like that all of his cheer is peeled away.

“But why?” he demands. “I’ve verified all the records; I’ve inspected every item a million times over. They’re authentic—everything checks out! What reason could he possibly have for us not to display them?”

“You needn’t tell me all of this,” Miriel assures him. “I’ve watched you prepare the exhibit myself—you’ve been exceedingly thorough. Whatever concerns this man has about the artifacts’ validity, I’m certain you’re more than equipped to address them.”

Robin purses his lips. Miriel’s praise is not easy to earn, and her endorsement of Robin’s competence soothes him considerably. It also twists the instinctive flood of worry he felt into annoyance instead.

“Why do I need to speak to him at all, then?” Robin counters. “It’s not my duty to entertain the doubts of every self-important ass who walks through our doors. And I don’t appreciate him casting doubt on my ability to do my job. Why should I give him the time of day?”

Miriel sighs. “Under normal circumstances, I’d be inclined to agree. Unfortunately, it would be imprudent for us to simply turn him away. His family is the museum’s top patron: thus, we’re obligated to at least make a perfunctory showing of listening to his complaints.”

Robin pauses a beat, surprised. “...This man is one of the Shepherds?” He mulls this over for a moment before deciding he’s unimpressed. “That just makes him a rich, self-important ass.”

“Philanthropic,” Miriel corrects pointedly. “Can I be secure in the assumption that I needn’t ask you to mind your language while meeting with such an esteemed guest?”

“I won’t be rude to him unprovoked,” Robin assures her blithely. Miriel raises an eyebrow, clearly aware of the danger lurking in that qualification.

“Hmm, right. Well, I shall leave you to gather whatever materials you may need in order to reassure this inquisitive patron of ours, but I would advise against keeping him waiting much longer. His is often the impatient sort.”

“Keeping him waiting?” Robin asks. Miriel nods.

“Upon hearing his name, the front desk took the liberty of sending him back.” She gestures towards the door leading out of the archival room and into the main hall. “He’s waiting out there now.”

“Shit,” Robin says, with feeling. Miriel’s responding smile is grimly sympathetic.

“Naga be with you,” she says, before picking her way to the back doorway and into one of the restoration workrooms further within.

Robin huffs out an incredulous laugh as he watches her go. Just his luck that one of the Shepherds would take issue with their newest exhibit. In all the years he’s worked there, he’s never heard of someone showing up unannounced and demanding to speak to a curator like this.

Grumbling, Robin rifles through the papers on his desk in search of the documentation he will need to prove the artifacts’ authenticity. Of course, now that the exhibit is open to the public, much of it has been filed away in the titanic archival shelving units. 

With an impatient huff, Robin hauls a footstool over to the shelves to retrieve the file. He skims over the names printed on the lip of each folder, and of course the one he needs is nestled on the very top shelf. Even with the boost from the stool, he still can’t quite reach.

Robin curses his short stature under his breath before straining onto his tiptoes. If he’d been born just two inches taller this wouldn’t be a problem. With his arm extended as high as he can reach, his fingertips just manage to brush the manila folder’s edge.

“Aha! Got it!” he declares triumphantly, yanking it free.

The motion shifts his weight too suddenly. Robin feels the stepping stool wobble beneath him, and his stomach lurches as he tips backwards and loses his balance. At the last second, he careens his body to the side, avoiding a disastrous collision with the shelf behind him. Instead, his back thumps heavily against the dusty linoleum floor, the papers from the folder flying up in a flurry around him.

“Ow!” Robin groans, rubbing at the back of his skull. “Gods, ow!”

The metallic squeal of a door hinge tears across the room.

“Is everything alright?” a deep voice calls out. His stomach sinks: that has to be the man Miriel warned him about.

Dimly, Robin thinks that this is the very last position he would like to be found in by someone who already doubts his competence. He makes a valiant attempt to sit up, but the back of his head pounds, and all he manages is to groan again.

“Gods, are you hurt?!” the voice calls. Footsteps reverberate through the room and then a man pokes his head into Robin’s field of vision. 

For a moment, he wonders if he hit his head harder than he realized and if he’s now having some sort of hallucination. How else is he meant to explain that he is staring up at a living, breathing version of the man on the poster? Because that’s him—it’s most certainly him. Robin knows because he spent the last several months staring at that face for hours every day...to validate the drawing’s authenticity, of course.

And yet he finds himself with the treasonous thought that the man before him is even more arresting than the drawing of the young exalt. The stark fluorescent lighting, which is supposed to be unflattering for everyone, drips angular shadows along the strong line of his jaw and the tendons of his neck—pools them in the cupid’s bow of his full lips. His hair is no longer the color of brittle parchment and sun-bleached pigment—it’s royal blue. And his eyes. They’re the azure of a midnight sky, riddled with stars—so bright and dark at once the room around him is tinged sepia by comparison.

“C-Chrom?” Robin asks, the name slipping out before his befuddled brain can think better of it.

“Oh! You—you know my name?” the man asks, sounding just as confused as Robin is.

“Uh…lucky guess,” he replies. The man’s lips pull up into a hesitant smile, and Robin forgets to breathe for a moment. That’s not something he’s ever seen the man on the poster do. It’s disarming. A moment later though, the man’s brows knit back together in concern, his smile sliding away.

“Are you alright down there?” he asks, and despite the pounding in Robin’s head and heart, he laughs a little at the absurdity of the question.

“Oh yeah, I’m great. I was just taking a nap.” 

The man (who really is named Chrom, apparently) rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I suppose that was probably a foolish thing to ask,” he admits with a chuckle. “Here, give me your hand.” 

He offers his own to Robin as he speaks and Robin takes it, letting Chrom haul him to his feet.

For one blistering moment Robin is standing much too close to him—close enough to see Chrom’s individual eyelashes—and then he’s scrambling backwards, putting space between them. Chrom seems impossibly unphased by this accidental violation of his personal space, peering at Robin with a curious sort of concern.

“Should I call for a healer?” he offers.

“No, no, don’t worry about it. I should be fine,” Robin dismisses quickly. It’s embarrassing enough that this man found him fallen flat on his back without making more of an event of it by summoning a healer.

“Are you sure? If you were hurt, then you should really—”

“I appreciate the concern, but really, I’m okay. It’s just a little bump,” Robin assures him, and it’s true—already his thoughts are coming clearly again. He presses a finger to the back of his head experimentally and the spot is tender, but only dully so.

“Alright, if you’re certain…” Chrom smiles tentatively at him again. “Err, I’m sorry. You know my name, but I’m afraid I don’t know yours.”

Robin pauses. Telling him who he is will mean he has no escape from whatever criticism he’s here to saddle Robin with. But the man is already in the archival room—at this point Robin can’t see any means of getting out of the conversation anyway.

“...I’m Robin,” he says finally. Realization passes unfiltered across Chrom’s face.

“Ah, Robin! Then you must be—”

“The exhibit curator, yes. That’s me,” he replies. Robin crosses his arms and pops a hip, trying to regain the air of confidence he had before tumbling off the stepstool. “I’m told you have some sort of issue with the new collection? I can assure you, I validated every artifact on display myself, but if you don’t believe me, then I’m happy to show you the, uh…documentation.”

He loses steam towards the end when he realizes that the documents in question are scattered on the floor around him—a fairy ring of papers with the two of them standing at the center. When he looks back to Chrom, however, he’s surprised to see his cheeks have gone pink.

“No, no! That won’t be necessary—it’s not that sort of an issue at all! I think you have the wrong idea.”

Robin frowns. “Then you didn’t want one of the artifacts taken down?”

Oddly, this question also seems to embarrass him. It’s amusing watching how quickly Chrom’s expression shifts—every emotion written plainly across his face in real time.

“Err, well…I mean, truthfully, I do want one of them taken down. B-but that’s not what I’m here about!” he insists quickly. “I actually wanted to ask you about some of the artifacts that aren’t on display in the collection, i-if that’s alright.”

Robin sifts over his words, recalibrating. Chrom’s uncanny resemblance to the drawing on the poster has thrown him off balance, and this confrontation is not going how he anticipated it would. Then again, it probably wasn't feasible for Robin to have predicted that the complaining museum patron who wanted to speak with him would look just like the drawing of Ylisse’s very hot exalt from 500 years ago.

But he does, and since it seems like he’s not actually here to be an ass to Robin about his ability to do his job, the least he can do is hear him out.

“Alright, sure,” he allows. “I’ll answer your questions if I can.”

“Ah, thank you, Robin.” Chrom says his name like it’s the easiest thing in the world—like he’s said it a hundred times before. It’s insufferably charming.

He stoops to help retrieve the papers from the ground before continuing. “I was wondering if there were more letters in the collection than just what I saw in the exhibit. I thought I remembered the excavation report saying that letters written by the king consort had been discovered as well, but…” he trails off uncertainly.

“You’re right,” Robin acknowledges, kneeling to gather the papers with him. “There were more letters found than just the ones on display. Quite a number of them, actually. Written by both the Exalt and the King Consort.”

Chrom’s head whips up to face him. “Really? What became of them, then?” Breathless enthusiasm shimmers in his gaze, like he’s clinging to Robin’s every word. “Were you unable to authenticate them?”

“Ah…no,” he laughs, “they were legitimate. The museum board just didn’t feel they would be appropriate for the exhibit.”

Chrom’s face pinches up, puzzled. “I…I don’t understand. If they’re real, then why wouldn’t they be appropriate to display? What was wrong with them?”

“Nothing was wrong with them, exactly…” Robin says with a shrug. “They’re just much too risqué to display in a museum that families and children visit.”

A whole range of emotions flit across Chrom’s features.

“Gods, you’re—you’re being serious, aren’t you?” he sputters, flushed to his ears. Robin tamps down a fast-budding laugh. He almost can’t believe this grown man could look so horrified at the prospect of adult content existing in letters between lovers.

“Completely serious,” he assures Chrom, his voice as even as he can manage. “I mean, it’s not that surprising, is it? Most of the letters were written when the two were secretly engaged but forced to spend time apart for diplomatic work. They had to express all those pent-up feelings somewhere.”

Chrom considers this for a moment as he hands the papers he gathered back—some of his initial alarm seems to have faded, though his cheeks remain insistently pink.

“I suppose when you put it that way, it makes sense,” he admits. “Still, it’s a shame the letters couldn’t be displayed because of it.” In a mutter Robin isn’t sure he is meant to hear, Chrom adds, “…I rather wish the poster had received that fate, instead.”

Robin shifts his weight—fixes Chrom in a narrowed gaze.

“What’s wrong with the poster?” he asks, a bit defensively.

“W-well, it’s just so…revealing!” Chrom groans. “I’d think that wouldn’t be appropriate for families to see, either.”

Robin huffs out a laugh, recalling Chrom’s words from earlier. “So that’s the artifact you’d like to see taken down, then? Plenty of famous artwork and sculptures depict naked bodies. Honestly, this one is tame, comparatively—you can’t even see his genitals.”

“I—I know that!” Chrom protests quickly. “It’s just that it’s—w-well…it’s embarrassing for me.”

Robin snorts, disbelieving even as he begins to understand. “Embarrassing? You mean because you look like him?”

“Ah, so you can see it too, then!” Chrom says, as if this settles the matter.

“There’s a resemblance, sure,” Robin acknowledges, and if that’s the understatement of the century he’s not going to admit it.  “But no matter how much you may look alike, it isn’t actually you. That poster is more than 500 years old. Something tells me you weren’t alive back then to pose for it.”

“But imagine for a moment that it was reversed,” Chrom presses. “If you walked into a museum and saw your own likeness up on the wall like that, wouldn’t you want it taken down?”

Robin mulls it over only a moment before answering. “Well, I do think I would be embarrassed at first, yes—”

“See?” Chrom declares, victoriously.

“—But ultimately, I would recognize that my embarrassment was unfounded and, frankly, ridiculous. And I certainly wouldn’t deprive the public of their right to view a priceless historic artifact solely to preserve my ego.”

Belatedly, Robin realizes he probably shouldn’t be so brusque to one of the museum’s top patrons while he’s on the job—even if everything he’s saying is true. But to his surprise, Chrom doesn't bluster or snap in response to his admonishment. Instead, his brows pull low in consideration.

“That’s—hmm,” he breaks off, shaking his head. “I…hadn’t thought about it that way, but perhaps you’re right. I suppose the way I’ve been approaching it is rather selfish.”

“Well, it’s an understandable initial reaction to have,” Robin allows. “But…yes, it is. So I’m glad you’re coming to see it my way.”

Chrom laughs, and it’s a low, rich rumble of a sound. “You don’t hesitate to speak your mind, do you, Robin?” he asks, a twinkle alight in his eyes.

“No, I don’t,” Robin acknowledges. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. I’m much the same way, myself," Chrom says. "If anything, I find your directness refreshing.”

Robin raises a brow. “Don’t think you can flatter me into taking the poster down,” he warns. Chrom laughs a second time and Robin wonders if a sound can be addictive—marvels at how he can see himself chasing after the chance to hear it again.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Chrom assures him. “Truly, that wasn’t even the reason I asked to speak with you in the first place.”

“Ah, that’s right. We’ve gotten off track haven’t we?” Robin muses, remembering Chrom’s initial question. Now that Robin has his bearings about him again, he takes a moment to brush the dust from his fall off his shirt and trousers, laying the stack of papers on his desk before turning back to face Chrom with a more analytical eye.

Chrom is, in some ways, the type of person Robin would expect himself to hate.

Even if he didn’t know that Chrom was one of the Shepherds it would be easy to guess he comes from money. He wears simple, well-tailored clothes—the kind that don’t have to do anything flashy to stand out because the quality speaks for itself. And with a face that sculptors would clamber to cut from marble, it would be easy to assume he’s used to having everything in life handed to him. Yet there is nothing pompous or entitled about the way he carries himself. Instead, Chrom exudes an air of approachability. Everything about his posture is warm, and open, and reassuring. There is nothing but sincerity in the soft set of his eyes.

Robin doesn’t know what to make of it. He wants to know more.

“Tell me something, Chrom,” he says, and he’s surprised by how naturally the name slips from his lips. “What made you come asking about the rest of the letters in the first place? You implied you’d looked through the excavation report on them—that’s not exactly light reading. Are you a historian yourself?”

“A historian? Gods, no,” he chuckles. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be cut out for that at all. It’s really just the one era of Ylisse’s history that interests me. Not even the whole era. Just one historical figure.”

Robin nods in understanding. “Right, I suppose it’s natural to be curious about the person you were named after.”

“Err, no, actually,” he says, scratching his head. “I’m more interested in King Robin.”

Robin blinks at him. “The Exalt’s husband?”

“Well, he wasn’t just his husband, he was also an amazing strategist and—” he catches Robin’s bemused expression and immediately breaks off, “Err, sorry, of course you would already know all that.” 

A laugh tumbles out of him. “I do, but it’s unusual to find someone so committed to singing the king consort’s praises—most people are a lot more interested in the Exalt. Information on King Robin is hard to come by, after all. And I suspect many people don’t care to try and take apart how complicated he was, either.”

“Then they’re missing out. The complications are what make him so interesting,” Chrom says, and Robin can see the way his whole body coils with excited energy—a magnetic sort of enthusiasm. “That’s why I was looking forward to this exhibit in the first place. Much of what we know about King Robin is so focused on his military tactics—and I like reading about those as well, but it’s not the same. I was hoping to finally have a chance to learn more about who he was as a person.” His eyes fall to his feet, a chink of vulnerability in his self-assured demeanor. “Er, sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble. Perhaps it’s odd for me to be so invested in it…”

Robin shakes his head. “You forget you’re speaking to a historian. That doesn’t sound odd to me.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Not at all,” he tells Chrom. “I think that’s what brings history to life, isn’t it? It’s one thing to think about these faceless dolls or toy soldiers acting out stories from our past. But it’s another to experience those stories when you feel like you know its players as people. It’s the little details—like that their favorite color was blue, and they had a bad habit of breaking training dummies—that’s what makes them real to us. And then you’re not just learning the story of a stranger, but a story about an old friend.”

Chrom beams at him. “That’s exactly what I mean. Though I couldn’t have said it so eloquently, myself.”

Robin considers him for a moment—his gentle smile, the earnesty burning in his impossibly blue eyes. At some point they must have gravitated nearer to each other without realizing it, because they’re standing much too close to each other for strangers. Yet Robin finds he has no desire at all to back away.

“...You know Chrom, you’re rather full of surprises,” he muses. “When my coworker told me that one of our patrons wanted to voice their concerns about the new exhibit, you were definitely not what I was expecting.”

Chrom grins at him roguishly. “No? What were you expecting?”

“Mmm, well—for you to be considerably more of an asshole, for one,” Robin says, and a laugh bursts its way out of Chrom in response.

Miriel’s voice surfaces in the back of Robin’s mind, nagging him about watching his language with their ‘esteemed patron’. He normally wouldn’t speak like this to a guest, or anyone he had just met for that matter. And yet somehow it feels like—

“W-well,” Chrom clears his throat. “I suppose I shouldn’t keep you from your work…”

“Oh. Right, of course,” Robin murmurs. “If I’ve answered all your questions then you’re welcome to be on your way.”

Chrom glances at the door, and Robin curses the corner of his heart that wistfully insists Chrom looks disappointed. 

“Right. Well…I guess I’ll be going then,” he says. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me, and…I, uh, well…” He shifts back and forth on his feet, bites his lip, runs a hand through his hair—a bundle of directionless energy. “I really enjoyed talking with you, Robin,” he finally manages.

It’s the sound of his name in Chrom’s voice again that snaps his resolve into place.

“Do you want to read the letters?” he blurts out. Chrom’s fidgeting stills very suddenly.

“The—the letters?” he asks. “You mean…the ones that aren’t on display in the exhibit?”

“Yes, I—I can’t let you handle the real ones obviously, since they require special clearance, but I have scans of them that I can print out if—if that would interest you.” The offer spills from his lips before he can stop himself.

“You would really be willing to do that?” Chrom asks, unguarded awe in his voice. Robin nods, then barely suppresses a gasp when Chrom bridges the scarce space between them, clasping their hands together.

“Thank you,” Chrom says, smiling effusively. “You’ll have to let me make it up to you. I’m not sure how, exactly, but—”

Robin’s eyes dart to their joined hands. “You could buy me a coffee…” he offers.

At his words, unfettered surprise splashes across Chrom’s face and panic promptly ribbons around Robin. Maybe he was misreading Chrom’s cues—for all he knows Chrom’s already seeing someone. Or maybe he’s this friendly and physical with everyone he meets.

“Er, that is—only if you want to,” Robin adds quickly. “I won’t withhold the letters from you if you say no.”

“N-no!” Chrom exclaims, “I mean—yes! I do want to. I’d…like to spend more time with you,” he says, and it kicks Robin’s heart into a gallop. “Should we go now?”

Robin laughs incredulously. “I’m in the middle of a work shift right now,” he reminds him.

Chrom deflates. “Ah, that’s right."

“—But I have my lunch break in about an hour. If you don’t mind hanging around in the area until then, we could—”

“Yes!” he says, instantly brightening. “I can look around the museum in the meantime.”

“Okay,” Robin agrees, failing stupendously to stop a grin from splitting across his face. “I’ll meet you in the lobby, then?”

“Yes, I’ll—great! This is great,” Chrom says. He squeezes Robin’s hand before releasing it, tossing a smile his way as he moves to the door. “I’ll see you then!” Chrom assures him, and Robin pretends not to notice how Chrom almost trips over his own feet on his way out.

It’s only when the door has clicked firmly behind him that Robin allows himself to collapse into his desk chair, face in his hands, heart in his throat, and an embarrassingly high-pitched noise escaping from behind his lips.

۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵

Chrom has never been a patient person, but he thinks this might be the longest hour of his life. He wanders around the first floor of the museum, hesitant to stray too far in case Robin arrives early. None of the exhibits he passes can hold his attention, though, and he soon gives up in favor of settling on the stone rim of a fountain in the atrium.

He intends to do a first pass through the journal entries he’d snapped pictures of earlier, but for the first time in his life, King Robin’s words can’t hold his interest either. Looking at them only makes him think of the Robin he just met. What are ink strokes, after all, when compared to the way this Robin’s eyes glimmered like fireflies, and lantern-light? How they had shimmered with his wisdom and wit?

And in an hour, they’re going to get coffee together.

‘No, he said I could buy him coffee…’  Chrom corrects himself, ‘and that means it’s a date, right?’ He hopes so, anyway.

Gods, he is out of his element.  

Though Chrom is not a complete stranger to romantic feelings, he would hardly consider himself an expert on them, either. The crushes he’s harbored in the past were warm burbles of shiny, carbonated feelings. They sparked up, briefly made a mess of his chest, and eventually sputtered out again. They had never been like this—where he met someone and immediately felt like he’d injected stardust in his veins. Like he’d doused himself in wildfire and now every breath burned with it.

As far as he can tell, there is no reason for Robin to be affecting him so strongly, but nothing in his body seems to care about the lack of logic to it: Chrom walked into that archival room, and when he helped Robin to his feet, the earth’s axis shifted underneath him.

Ultimately, Chrom passes the time until Robin’s lunch break pacing and tossing coins into the fountain—wishing on every one that this day will end with the promise that he can see him again.

When the clocktower tolls the hour, Chrom pauses his pacing just in time to discern the staccato of footsteps from down the main hall. Robin emerges from around the corner, bundled in an unusual, violet coat and wearing a crystalline smile that could take Chrom apart.

“Hi again,” Robin greets him, and Chrom doesn’t even bother to conceal his eagerness as he bounds over to him. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

“No, not at all!” Chrom assures him. Now that he’s near him, Chrom can see the rosiness to Robin’s cheeks—hear the breathlessness in his voice. His pulse flutters with the thought of Robin hurrying down the halls to find him—that he might have been looking forward to seeing Chrom again too.

Chrom half stumbles in an effort to get the door, and Robin offers a grateful grin as they make their way out into the crisp spring air. At the bottom of the steps, Robin lays a hand against his arm, gently leading him down the eastern-facing street.

“I take it you have somewhere in mind?” Chrom asks.

Robin nods. “There’s a café a few blocks over that I often stop at before work. I thought it would make for a nice destination, if you’re alright with a little walk.”

“Sounds good to me,” Chrom replies. Truthfully, he’d been too excited about the fact that he was going somewhere with Robin at all to have put much thought into the specifics of the location.

“Great!” says Robin, “The coffee is what I usually go there for, but they serve sandwiches too, if you’re hungry.”

“I actually packed a lunch, since I was planning to stay at the museum all day,” Chrom admits. “But I’d gladly go for something warm to drink.”

Robin’s eyes twinkle. “Packed a lunch, hm? And here I’m the one used to being the token, over-zealous history nerd.”

Chrom chuckles, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. “Ah, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. I’m really not usually this enthusiastic about these sorts of things.”

“Right, I remember. Just the one historical figure from the one era,” Robin recites. “What sorts of things are you typically interested in then?”

So, Chrom tells him. About his love of fencing, and his interest in medieval weaponry (“That’s history too,” Robin teases), and the volunteer work he’s taken to doing with the local fire department. Normally, he’d feel self-conscious rambling so much about himself, but Robin interjects with questions and encouraging smiles that make the words melt off his tongue like warm honey.

With the arrival of afternoon, the high-hanging sun has smudged out much of the morning chill. Tulips and violets lining the sidewalks stretch skyward, their dew-kissed petals winking as they pass, and Chrom wonders at how in just a few hours, the flowers have learned to bloom so much brighter.

After a few more blocks, Robin lays a hand on Chrom’s arm again, beckoning him towards a homey-looking café. Windchimes tinkle as they push through the door. 

“This is it!” he declares. 

Chrom spends a breath looking the place over. The floors, walls, and furniture are all eclectic shades of burnished, warm wood. It’s cozy, and lush: hanging plants and clusters of succulents adorn every open corner and counter, as if someone changed their mind halfway through designing the café and thought to make it an arboretum, instead. The likeness to a greenhouse is furthered by the large, street-facing windows which allow sunlight to seep in, draping everything within the cafe in a cast of soft gold. It's not hard for him to imagine why Robin would like it here.

“Hey there, Robin!” A barista calls from behind the counter. He looks right at home among the plants, a mellow smile stretched wide across his face and his messy, dark green hair blending seamlessly with the canopy of leaves. “This isn’t the usual time we see you.”

“Hi, Stahl!” Robin waves. “Yeah, I’m here for my lunch break today.”

“Looks like you brought a friend too!” the barista observes, aiming his easy smile Chrom’s way.

“Ah, hello,” Chrom says, reaching across the counter to shake the man’s hand, “I’m Chrom.”

“I’m Stahl! Nice to meet you, Chrom,” Stahl says amicably. He shoots Robin an amused look. “Hey, Robin, isn’t Chrom the name of your favorite history guy? You know, the one you’re always gushing about being so charming and handso—”

“Ha ha, very funny Stahl,” Robin interjects, his voice suddenly sharp. “Now, are you going to take our orders or not?” 

Stahl makes a placating gesture and gives a good-natured chuckle while Chrom glances between the two of them inquisitively. “Sure, sure,” he says, “What can I get for the two of you?”

Once they’ve secured their drinks and claimed a table, Robin hefts his satchel into his lap. 

“Let me give these to you before I forget,” he says, removing a neatly bound stack of papers from within. “I laminated them so you could mark them up if you want—that’s what I always do when reading historical documents for the first time.”

Chrom leans close, breathless as his eyes skim over King Robin’s familiar handwriting on the first page. His fingers graze Robin’s as he hands them off, and it’s only when Chrom hears his sharp inhale of breath that he thinks to become self-conscious about it. Rather than jumping away, he intentionally lets his hand linger there, prolonging the contact a moment more.

“Thank you, Robin,” he murmurs. “I truly appreciate this, and I can’t wait to read them.”

“It’s no trouble, really,” Robin assures him. “They’ll all be published in academic journals eventually, but this way at least you won’t have to wait a few more months. You know, since you’re evidentially so eager to do some sordid reading.”

Chrom blinks at him, then down at the stack of laminated letters. He’d almost forgotten the reason they couldn’t be displayed in the first place. Red claws its way across his cheeks when he thinks of Robin printing out such passages specifically to give to him.

“Err, w-when I said I couldn’t wait to read them, I didn’t mean—! I-it’s not because they’re—” he breaks off, taking stock of Robin’s growing grin, an expression he’s all too familiar with, though he’s used to seeing it on the faces of his family members.

“You’re teasing me!” he accuses incredulously.

“Maybe a little bit,” Robin admits through budding laughter.

“I don’t believe it.” Chrom shakes his head, fighting off a sheepish smile. “Am I truly so easy to get a rise out of?”

“Oh, very much so,” Robin assures him, “it’s great fun watching you get so flustered.”

“Is it, now? Then how am I to know that you’re not exaggerating the content in these letters for the sake of teasing me as well?”

The Exalt and King Consort always struck him as fairly serious people, after all. Surely, they wouldn’t have written anything as embarrassing as Robin implied. Bent on proving as much to himself, Chrom’s eyes skim over the front page in the stack and settle upon a sentence at random.

‘I miss you with all that I am, my love. Come nightfall, my hands rove over my skin—a feeble attempt to mimic your tender ministrations, while I muffle my cries in— '

His head snaps back up to find Robin smirking at him, openly amused.

“…O-okay,” he stammers, “I stand corrected.”

“I tried to warn you!” Robin laughs. “Though, it’s not all so sensual, just…a lot of it. But there are plenty of passages in there that are more lighthearted, too. Here, let me show you one of my favorites.”

They pass the next half hour like that, huddled over the pages together, exchanging impressions and eventually meandering into other topics, as well. Talking with Robin is effortless—but even more than it’s easy, it’s enrapturing. Robin is brilliant and witty and opinionated. Chrom could spend a lifetime just listening to him share his thoughts on everything from coffee beans to the monarchy.

After what feels like only minutes, Robin glances at his watch, the laugh on his lips dampening.

“Gods, is it already that late?” he murmurs. “We’ll have to start heading back.”

“Already?” Chrom asks. He takes a sip of his coffee, hoping to hide the disappointed tilt of his mouth with the mug. He’s been so busy talking to Robin that it’s still largely untouched and only lukewarm.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Robin says. His eyes settle on Chrom’s mostly full mug as he deposits it again on the table. “Ah, did you not like your drink?”

“No, I did!” Chrom assures him quickly. “I just liked talking to you more.”

The words slipped out before he could think better of them, and for a horrible second, Robin’s face is blank aside from a bright brush. Then he breaks into a breathtaking grin.

“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to do this again sometime,” he says. Chrom feels almost lightheaded with relief. “Come on, let’s get going.” 

Their easy banter from the café continues on the walk back to the museum, but it’s tinged with a heaviness that wasn’t there before. Chrom knows the return journey will be too short, just like every other stage of the outing has been. As they approach the steps that lead up to the museum doors, he tries to make sense of the near apocalyptic pounding of his pulse.

They’ve already spoken loosely of intentions to see each other again—that’s as much as he’d dared allow himself to hope for. Yet the thought of allowing Robin to walk away from him at all tangles his stomach in knots and shakes him to his bone marrow. It feels like a cataclysmic mistake.

The two of them dither at the bottom of the stairs, huddled close to keep from impeding the path of other passersby.

“…I suppose it’s probably about time for me to head back in,” Robin says, scuffing a boot against the ground. He looks almost as hesitant as Chrom feels.

“R-right, I suppose so,” he echoes, straining to keep his tone casual. “Thank you again for the letters, Robin. And—er, yes. Thank you.”

“Of course. I’m glad I could help,” he replies, offering a tremulous half smile. “…Well, I guess I’ll see you around, then. Goodbye, Chrom.”

Robin turns towards the museum door.

Something about the scene before Chrom—Robin’s face angled away; wind-tousled, white hair and a violet coat; the word ‘goodbye’ in his voice—it all sends a frantic panic lancing through him. Chrom can’t understand it; can’t understand why all of his instincts are warring so hard against letting the other man go. But before he can think better of it, he’s darting forward to catch Robin's hand.

“Robin, wait—!”

He freezes immediately, and turns back to Chrom, bearing no trace of surprise—like he’d been waiting for Chrom to stop him.

“Y-yes?” he prompts, and it’s hope, definitely hope, that colors his tone. “What is it, Chrom?”

“I—” Chrom’s thoughts spin and trip over themselves, clumsy in their desperation. “C-can I kiss you?” he blurts out.

Now Robin looks surprised. A flush crawls into his cheeks; his eyes widen into two perfect pools of gold. And gods, what if Chrom just ruined any chance he might have with him by rushing things? What if this scares him off? What if—

Robin laughs and steps closer. His hand dances up to trace the curve of Chrom’s cheek and his mind goes blissfully blank.

“I…wouldn’t usually do this,” Robin admits, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his unbearably enticing mouth.

“Neither would I,” Chrom breathes.

He stoops and softly presses their lips together, all the same. 

It was just supposed to be a kiss. Just the fleeting meeting of lips to see him off.

It wasn’t supposed to be the ground opening beneath him and a split in Chrom’s mind that could swallow him whole. It wasn’t supposed to be the flood of a thousand memories—a whole lifetime pushing its way back into his bones.

But it is. Because he remembers.

He remembers plucking Robin from golden-green grasses—helping him to his feet beneath a brittle spring sky.

He remembers Robin’s sword at his side. Lightning in his eyes and at his fingertips. Shucking blood from his own blade and always, always knowing he’d be safe so long as Robin was the one watching his back.

He remembers quiet nights tangled in each other’s arms—and less quiet ones too, when the softness of their hands and mouths coaxed plaintive sighs from love-bitten throats.  

He remembers their daughter swaddled tight against Robin’s chest. The blown-glass butterflies tinkling along to the lullaby Chrom would listen to him sing every night.

Chrom remembers everything.

He remembers Robin’s silhouette against the burning dawn—his outline flickering and turning to violet ashes in the wind. How he had clasped Robin’s hand to his heart and clung to it until there was nothing of him left to hold…

…And he remembers the 45 years of aching and searching and praying that followed. 

“R-Robin!” Chrom gasps. That single word, his name, is the same one that he spoke earlier, but now it means something different. Now it means everything.

“C-Chrom?” he whispers, and Chrom can hear it in his voice—knows that Robin remembers too. “Chrom—is this—?”

“It’s real,” he assures him, “Gods…this is real.”

Relief and belonging and the feeling of being absolutely complete all surge up within him as he clutches Robin near, holds him to his heart, kisses his tear-tracks. “Robin,” his voice breaks, “my love.”

Robin croaks out a tear-choked laugh and flings his arms around Chrom’s neck.

It’s too much. A whole lifetime of loving and longing is coursing through him, and his legs buckle with it. They both sink to the ground, still wrapped up in each other—struggling to find space to breathe between the laughs and sobs and kisses.

“I never stopped looking,” Chrom tells him, pressing his lips to each of Robin’s fingertips in turn. “Robin, even in this life, I—I think I was still looking for you. I just didn’t know it.”

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long, my love,” he replies, and before Chrom can answer, Robin kisses him again, hard enough to make his head spin.

“It’s okay,” Chrom whispers, when Robin has finally freed his lips. The words are a promise to himself as much as to him. “Everything is okay now. I don’t know exactly what we’re meant to do from here, but I know we'll figure it out now that we’re together.” Chrom chuckles despite himself. “Gods…it turned out just how you said, didn’t it?”

“And how’s that?” Robin asks softly.

Chrom smiles at him, tirelessly tender. “We met again in a better life.”

Robin’s response is his lips sealed to Chrom’s again, the kiss salty with the taste of their tears. When they break apart, Robin leaves their foreheads pressed together, fingers tracing down Chrom’s cheek, re-learning the shape of him.

“I may have been right about that, but it seems I was wrong about what I said earlier today,” he admits with a grin. “That poster really was a drawing of you. No wonder you were so embarrassed.”

A laugh thunders through Chrom’s chest—he almost can’t believe the absurdity of it all. To think that ridiculous naked poster Frederick commissioned so many years ago would be what helped lead him back to his other half. That after decades of searching, and centuries apart, his knight’s misguided attempts at boosting troop morale would bring them together again. Though truthfully, Chrom supposes, it isn’t just the poster he has to thank for that. It’s also—

“Gods,” Chrom gasps in horror as realization dawns on him. “Oh gods, this is a disaster…"

“Chrom?” Robin tenses, hands clutching him tight. “You’re scaring me, what’s wrong?”

Chrom takes his hands tightly in his own, squeezing each of them as his face warps into a grimace.

“Robin…forget the poster,” he says. “We need to burn those letters.”

#Chrobin #m!chrobin #chrom x robin #chrom fire emblem #robin fire emblem #m!robin #fe13 #fe: awakening #ao3 fanfic #I didn't have anything new to post for Awakening's anniversary this year but #I'd been meaning to get around to gender swapping this one for a while so #here it finally is :) #It was also the first one-shot I ever wrote #And sorry in advance about tumblr's less than ideal formatting for longer fics #my fics #One-shot