He should probably be embarrassed by how genuinely fucking happy he is to hear those words--like, if he had a tail, it would absolutely be going a mile a minute. Since he doesn't have a tail, he can only bask in the warm, gentle glow that this moment provides, even as the chill from outside still clings at them like so many little fingers. He doesn't care? Felix is hugging him--because isn't that what this is?? Can it be called anything else?
Sources say... no!! So he will absolutely enjoy this hug for all it's worth, phantom tail be damned--unnnnntil Felix decides to speak up again, anyway.
"Hey, now."
It starts off light enough? But when he thinks of all of those times, alone in his room, when he'd started to write... stopped writing... gone through how much paper in just a few short moons for the sake of letters, all unfinished and all unsent. If he'd had any idea of what to say, or any indication that Felix had even wanted to hear from him again at all after... well, after that! Which, apparently, he did?? So like, excuse him for getting a little frustrated at the mild accusation in Felix's tone here.
"You didn't write me, either," he retorts, and if he sounds, like... a little bit defensive, he really doesn't mean it. After all: it's not as if he expects the king's advisor to have time to sit down and write a personal letter to him on a whim! But surely, he thinks, surely... his best friend would have found the time, if only he'd wanted to. "You know I..."
A pause--just long enough for guilt to cut the wind from his sails as quickly as it had come, because isn't it just the same for himself? When he continues, it's with a soft sigh, just above Felix's ear.
"...I would have written back," he says, and he kind of hates how much it sounds like an excuse.
[How did Felix expect Sylvain to respond? What was he hoping for? Hell if he knows. It isn't as though his tipsy self fails to recognize the, ah, blatant hypocrisy here, but—well, it all comes down to a twisted sort of logic. He'd kissed Sylvain so suddenly, so recklessly, and he'd felt as though... the least he owed his best friend was the same space he'd so thoroughly ignored in the moment. He would let Sylvain reach out to him, if he wanted to. If he forgave Felix.
And even now, it's all so—mmph. I would have written back, Sylvain says, and even as that sigh sends a shiver racing through him, Felix's shoulders drop just a hair. Writing to him isn't... it shouldn't be an obligation. Felix would have cherished each and every response, yes, but is it so terrible to want Sylvain to want to write him of his own accord? Maybe it is. It certainly isn't something he should be indignant about, but there is something to be said, perhaps, for the shame Felix feels. He's never been so needy, so hungry—desperate—for someone's smallest attentions.]
I would have, too, [he fires back, rocking on his heels a bit as he debates pulling away or remaining precisely where he is. And he's, mmm, never been good at writing letters? They know this? Why send paragraphs when you can sum everything up in three sentences, etc etc, and yet he's still heated enough about this to huff.] Dimitri isn't—
[Well! When it comes right down it, Dimitri isn't a lot of things—but above all else, Dimitri isn't Sylvain. There are things Felix can only confide in the person who knows him better than anyone? Lines only said person can read between, and hey, guess what? Felix is drunk enough to admit a smidgen of that... albeit in his typically rude fashion, so:]
Ah... Yep. There it is. That awful sense that he's said something wrong--and that's... fair, honestly? Like, he hadn't exactly felt great about his answer or anything, but it's one thing to kind of vaguely assume he would've been better off keeping his mouth shut... It's a whole other to watch as his best friend--the same best friend that he's pretty sure he's in love with--starts to put even the slightest bit of unconscious distance back between them. And it's not obvious, perhaps, but it's obvious for Felix, which means it's like, doubly obvious to Sylvain, which does a pretty good job of squashing the last of that frustration in favor of the subtle guilt stabbing him in the gut.
Because that means that, all that time, Felix had been wanting him to write... which is an incredibly warming thought? Felix had wanted him to write; Felix had missed him, even with Dimitri here, just as he'd wanted Sylvain to write to him, and not to both of them.
It's why Dimitri's name sort of startles him for a moment, because Dimitri isn't what...? Does he want to ask? Probably... not, given that the arm around his waist holds firmer than ever, and the hand at his nape slips all the way around to Felix's shoulder instead, just to keep him held so tightly against him, even for just a moment more. And it's selfish, yes... extremely so, because it looks like he'd been right after all when he'd suspected he wouldn't want to let Felix go once he had him in his arms. Not if the last thing on his mind is Dimitri, but--
...But then, it isn't, is it? He isn't.
But Sylvain is. And Goddess, how selfish can he be if this still isn't enough...?
"That's all?"
He forces himself to pull back enough to hold Felix at a half-arm's length, just so he can examine his face before he just... like, leans over... and scoops him right up into his arms... He's clearly still too drunk to make it to his own room if he's admitting things like this, so! Hi, Felix. Don't squirm around too much while Sylvain gains his bearings.
"Just my letters...?" Really? "I'll have to ask His Majesty if an audience is really necessary, then, if only my letters will suffice."
It's a long ride down to Fhirdiad, after all!! Let the man be dramatic. (But also: be nice!!)
[Sylvain pulling away from him is objectively, mmm... very rude! Felix was so comfortable, muttering into Sylvain's chest and pretending that absolutely nothing about that was odd—but then Sylvain is looking down at him, expression somehow both bemused and amused. What? Why? All that Felix can offer is a (weak) scowl in return as he fumbles for his sharpest words—
—and lets out a very, ah, undignified yelp as the world suddenly tips up around him.
Listen: It isn't as though this is the first time Sylvain has carried Felix. When they were younger—much younger—Felix thought nothing of wrapping his arms around Sylvain's neck, sitting atop the older boy's arm as he was carried to and fro. There were piggyback rides, too, of course. There was even a piggyback ride back in their Academy days, when Felix twisted an ankle during some mission or another and the Professor ordered Sylvain to carry him back to Mercedes. A trust exercise, they'd responded, blandly, when Felix had raised as many objections as he could think. An exercise in humility, more like it. Sylvain carried him back to camp as easily as anything, chattering about his latest conquests while Felix did his best to focus on everything but the back of Sylvain's neck.
Being carried like this, however? An arm beneath his knees, an arm pressed high along his back? He feels as though he's about to be dropped any moment—and yet he also knows that's, ah, patently untrue, because the person holding him like this is none other than the person he trusts most in the world:]
Sylvain!
[Shocked and sharp as his hands scrabble for purchase at Sylvain's shoulders. He isn't moving... too much? He's cognizant enough to realize that toppling Sylvain over will end poorly for them both—and that Sylvain is, you know. Strong enough to carry him (which is a most intrusive thought) but not strong enough to deal with him thrashing about, so.]
Put me down or I'll run you through, [he all but snarls, stupidly, because it isn't as though he brought his swords with him to a tavern in Fhirdiad. Look at him! An idiot, which is why he soon sputters out the slightly better:] I'll burn every letter you send. I'm not a child!
[He's just a drunk loser whose face is growing redder by the second? Especially when he's forced to loop his arms about Sylvain's neck, because ah, this is... a most vulnerable position...]
It's impressive though, how easy it is for something so simple to make him forget he's ever felt anything but this comfortable sort of contentment that rises slow and steady in his chest. Trouble? Nah, no trouble... How could he ever be troubled when that voice is his favorite sound, and the focus of the man it belongs to is on him, only on him, exactly as he so desperately wants it to be? Like, what could possibly be enough to dull this fond amusement so bright in his eyes as Felix reaches out to him for balance?
Or to quiet the laughter it brings with it, for that matter; he manages to restrain himself well enough, all things considered, up until Felix corrects his initial threat, at which point he's just a little too smitten and has a little too much alcohol still in his system to continue to hold himself back. And it's definitely Too Late in the evening for two grownass men to come in and immediately start bickering and laughing at non-whispering levels, but hey! It's a big castle. And yeah, sound carries along old, stone walls, but Sylvain's thoughts are on just the right side of fuzzy for him to decide that's that is completely irrelevant information as he sets off without any further preamble.
"Obviously." He tightens his hold on him just a bit as he aims a grin down at him. Maybe tell him to keep his eyes forward, so they don't go crashing into some poor waitstaff? "If you were, you wouldn't be complaining even half this much."
He considers all the times in the past he's carried Felix and wonders, idly: had he always been this aware of how close they've been...? It's distracting enough, he thinks, feeling as the lingering outside chill fades from the layers of clothing between them until it's impossible to not think of the warm weight of him resting in his arms. But it's almost... startling, in a way? To realize how impossibly close he is like this to the heat of that blush on Felix's face, and the fact that it only makes him wish he was closer, still.
"You used to love when I carried you around," he points out, instead of asking the dozens of questions buzzing through his head that, frankly, he isn't sure he wants to ask. "And it'll be faster this way, too."
Even though it... definitely will not, considering the pace he's keeping. He just wants a little more time with him, that's all.
[Sylvain "negative attention is better than no attention" Gautier strikes again! Not that the glare Felix shoots him is all that terrifying. It is surprisingly difficult to seem truly angry when one is being held like this? Or, well. It is not-so-surprisingly difficult to seem anything more than, like, childishly huffy, and Felix is somewhat aware of it. With both feet on the ground, he could straighten his back, put a hand on his hip, allow the tenseness of his shoulders to dare Sylvain to say a god damn thing; pulled this close to Sylvain's chest, however, Felix can only sink an inch or so lower, settling even further into the other man's grip as he turns his head. To face forward, at first. To see where they're going as Sylvain speaks, but as he's soon all too aware of Sylvain's eyes on his face...
...Hmm. Better, then, to turn his head the opposite direction, chin settling atop the arm he's been forced to throw over Sylvain's shoulder. This, too, is childish. How fitting, considering that he's soon forced to remember the many, many times he'd begged his older, bigger friend to carry him from one place to another. He was always getting left behind, somehow? Not that Dimitri and Ingrid meant to leave him behind; it was just that, whenever Glenn came into the picture, they couldn't help but to be drawn into his orbit, so starry-eyed as they followed closely on his heels.
But not Sylvain. Never Sylvain. He'd always been there when the others left, picking Felix up without complaint—and Felix loved him fiercely.]
That was different, [he mutters, petulantly, as the arms around Sylvain's neck tighten ever so slightly.] Everything was.
[There'd been no need to question his feelings? No need to hide anything from anyone—and just like that, his righteous indignation gives way to something quieter. Tireder. Being a child had been so easy, and he hadn't even known to appreciate it! A shame! Felix thinks of what a fool he'd (unknowingly) been, and suddenly his head feels far too heavy; time, then, to press his cheek against his arm, blinking at the side of Sylvain's neck for a moment—kissable, he thinks—before he breathes out a quiet sigh.]
...It was simple.
[Loving Sylvain. Knowing that he was loved by Sylvain. Things he won't—can't—say.]
It wasn't that different, he wants to say, but... hmm. What a selfish thing to think, really, when so many more things were different for Felix back then.
In a sense, Sylvain's always known how to jump before the floor drops from under him. He's gotten pretty good at predicting when it'll happen; he knows that cutting his hands against a lifeline made from his own broken pieces is better than falling, falling, falling, uncertain of how long he has until he hits the bitter cold of the surface beneath, where it eagerly waits to drown him. So for Sylvain, the biggest change he'd had to endure was the sudden, inexplicable shift among his friends, and the sickening sense of failure that came with it.
For the others--for Felix--that 'change' was a point of no return. Felix had lost so much more than Sylvain ever had, and then lost more, still... And it should be enough, he thinks, to simply stay as they are, if only so Felix won't have to feel any different, and Sylvain won't be anything but what he is, and always has been, and always will be, so long as it means he can still stay by his side.
But when Felix continues, he sounds so far away--and Sylvain holds him a bit closer to his chest, as if it might be enough to keep him here, or maybe as if he's the missing piece responsible for this bone-deep ache in his chest.
"...It still can be," he says, still just as easy, just as bright, only somewhat quieter now. He's forced his eyes forward, albeit reluctantly, though he still doesn't loosen his hold on him. "You can pretend you still like this kind of thing... Just for tonight; I won't say a word."
[Despite everything, it... is nice, to be pulled even closer? And maybe Sylvain only does so because he doesn't want to drop him, sure, but Felix (selfishly) enjoys the warmth, and the closeness, and the fact that, if he closes his eyes, he can feel Sylvain speaking. The quiet rumble of his voice, somehow echoing in Felix's chest...
...Hmm. Sylvain is wrong, Felix thinks. Nothing about them can be as simple as it was—and that is both good and bad, now that he ponders it, but it's also an exceedingly complicated thing for his drunk brain to process. Goodness gracious! All he wants to do... is enjoy this moment for what it is. Nothing more, nothing less.
And yet. He cracks his eyes open, once again staring at the smooth skin of Sylvain's neck, because he should... speak? He should speak. If he doesn't, he's fairly certain he'll fall asleep like this, tucked so snuggly against Sylvain's chest, and he's determined to savor every second.]
I'm not good at pretending, [is how he chooses to begin.] Or lying. I'm not like you.
[He's never been very good at telling people what they want to hear? Never wanted to be good at such a thing. He says exactly what's on his mind because he's blunt, blunt, blunt, and Sylvain knows that—but for whatever reason, it feels important to remind Sylvain of that before he continues, softly, with:]
I don't hate this.
[Because it's Sylvain, of course. And in his hazy mind, now Sylvain can't doubt that he means what he says.]
Sylvain's pretty well-used to Felix's bluntness by now? He likes to think he can take it better than anyone else, because he's learned this language as well as if it were his own. He can decipher the truths hidden beneath all those barbs and tangles, knows how to brush them away and extract their meaning without ever feeling the sharp sting of those fangs biting into his skin, but...!
...But. Very, very rarely, something sharp still snags against him before he even sees it coming--and more often than not, it isn't even the fact that he'd said it that hurts, but rather the fact that, in some way or another, it's true.
This... is one of those moments, he thinks. The alcohol still in his system makes it hard for him to hold his expression steady, or maybe just hard to make himself want to hold it steady, because isn't that exactly the point...? If he keeps up a fake smile, won't that just be lying to him after all? It's bad enough that he's been acting like there's nothing unusual between them; like they hadn't kissed, like he doesn't still want to kiss him, like his winding thoughts aren't weaving themselves into what might happen if he were to stop, right now, and admit to everything, if only it would make Felix think any better of him.
He doesn't deserve anything else, though, and in the end he only looks somewhat troubled for a moment (maybe it can pass for offended, but he isn't paying close enough attention to notice) as his steps stutter--but before he can convince himself to do or say anything, Felix continues, and it's... well.
It doesn't stop the ache, but it does ease it, just a bit.
"...Good."
He sounds... thoughtful? Distant, almost, in a way that even he can hear. He hates that he can hear it, hates that it means Felix can hear it--but as they reach like... a staircase? Castle interiors are stupid, bedrooms and offices and such can be upstairs because I say so, so! As they reach a staircase, and he glances back down, it's easy to imagine Felix might be the thing that grounds him.
"I don't hate this, either." Because of course he believes Felix? Of course he does, and if not hating something is the closest he can get to Felix actually enjoying being this close to him... well then, so be it. "I'll still do it anytime you want me to."
Is that weird to offer...? It might be weird to offer... He's just gonna climb these stairs, so maybe don't think too hard about it.
[Luckily for Sylvain, Felix is too comfortable—and too tipsy, it's true—to lift his head? All he can see, once the silence prompts him to shift his attention a bit higher than Sylvain's (still enticingly kissable) neck, is Sylvain's profile, too far above him to tell him anything at all.
So it all comes down to Sylvain's voice, then, which? Hmm. Sylvain's voice is undoubtedly Felix's favorite voice, although he's loath to admit it. He's spent years listening to its rise and fall, paying attention to—memorizing—the little things others often overlook; he instantly knows that something is off, even when Sylvain, as Sylvain is wont to do, soldiers right along. Surely it wasn't something he said. He'd only said...
...Well. The truth, which he knows is a bitter pill for some to swallow—and while he didn't mean for it to sting, it's clear that it did. How does one fix that? Another memory springs to mind, unbidden, as tries not to think about how all this jostling about on the stairs is making his stomach slosh about: Sylvain swiping a thumb beneath his eye, gently catching each tear before they rolled down his cheek.
Maybe it's a bad idea to do this when Sylvain is, you know. Focusing on safely making it up these stairs. Maybe it's a bad idea, period, but Felix only needs to keep one arm—the one his cheek is still pressed against—looped about Sylvain's neck; he's free to carefully wriggle the other free, all so he can bring his hand up to the side of Sylvain's face that he can't see. There are no tears, of course; he can't remember the last time he's seen Sylvain cry, but he hums thoughtfully, fingers finding the familiar jut of Sylvain's cheekbone.]
Sylvain—
[How does one offer comfort that may or may not be needed? Felix doesn't know. Felix has always been terrible with such things, but as he presses his hand closer, remembering the last time he touched Sylvain's face in such an intimate way:]
Maybe. If you visit Fhirdiad more often.
[Felix rarely asks for anything, rarely says please, and maybe that's... because he doesn't need to.]
The stairs aren't too difficult on their own. Sylvain's step is still steady despite the drinks he'd had (although admittedly, deciding to carry himself plus an entire other grown man is still probably like, a questionable choice at best) and so he doesn't really have as much trouble with them as he could! And that's a pretty solid victory, considering the fact that he had been drinking not that long ago, and also the fact that he hasn't had to keep up with his training as diligently ("""diligently""") as he had during the war.
That hand lifting towards him, though... now that's something that threatens to set him off balance. He has to watch his step like this, of course, but he still has enough of his attention on Felix that he can sort of see it coming, even if he hadn't been able to feel him shift to begin with--and it's not that he flinches? He has no reason to, hasn't ever associated Felix's touch with pain, but he has associated this gesture in particular with the natural way they'd seemed to fit together that night, the warm press of his palms against his face and his lips against his own, unfamiliar and unpracticed and so, so perfect, even so.
So again: it's not that he flinches, but there is a distinct moment just before he registers the feeling of those fingers against his cheek in which Sylvain sort of... hmm, braces himself...? It's something like a sudden, subtle inhale, and a split second in which his own fingers twitch tighter wherever his hold presses them against Felix.
And then the warmth of it does register, and honestly, it's a miracle he doesn't end up dumping the both of them down the stairs after all. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this--how much he even could miss something after experiencing it so, so fleetingly--but now that that hand against him is back, he can't help wonder what he would need to do to keep it there...? How can he put voice to the burning, clawing sort of ache in his chest that sparks to life with something as simple as this, and how can he silence his imagination before it runs rampant, wishing to know what it would feel like if that hand were to boldly slip around and tug his head down and into a kiss that stops their progress entirely, or if it knotted itself into his hair while he pressed him up against the side of the stairwell, which is objectively a terrible idea, and yet...
On the other hand, he also can't help but wonder what it would feel like if he were to tilt his head just so, to press his lips to those fingertips, to his palm--he wonders if Felix might blush even darker than he had earlier in the day, and what sort of reactions he might get from kissing up to his wrist, or lacing their fingers together and kissing each one individually. Arguably, these thoughts catch him more off guard than the first, all sort of collecting into one vague and dizzying collage that makes it impossible to not tilt his head just a bit into the touch before he can make the conscious decision to or not--but not impossible to offer something in response, thankfully.
"Whenever I can," is his reply, without hesitation and spoken soft like a promise, or maybe like he's hoping to will the words into reality and shape his future accordingly. "Wherever you are. As long as you want me to be there."
Saying so sort of stokes that ache a bit more than he expects it to...? Especially once they reach the second floor and he catches a telltale glimpse of light down the hall, but... well!! It's fine. He's fine! They can definitely make it down this hallway without any incident whatsoever!
[And here is the true trouble with touching Sylvain: Felix doesn't want to stop. Felix's fingers follow his cheekbone all the way to his ear—and then slip over it, fingertips brushing against that soft, soft hair as his palm settles snugly atop Sylvain's cheek. Smooth, warm skin, except for the bit of stubble tickling the heel of his hand... and that is, for whatever reason, a detail that sticks? That Felix focuses on, because if this is what it feels like now, what would it feel like in the morning? Rubbing against his cheek, his chest, the inside of a thigh...
Hmm. Dangerous thoughts that send his pulse spiking, and yet he doesn't—can't—pull his hand away. Sylvain leaned into his touch; he felt it, or thought he felt it, and thus that's all the excuse he needs to remain exactly as he is while Sylvain effectively rends his heart in two. To hear Sylvain say such a thing is—it's cruel, really. It's Sylvain treating him like everyone else, telling him exactly what he wants to hear, when they both know that Sylvain doesn't mean it. How could he? Felix is Sylvain's best friend; it is... enough, he supposes, but it will never be more, and it hurts to be reminded of it so acutely.
Or: Duty pulls them apart now, but one day? One day, someone will pull Sylvain even further away from him, and Felix, as selfish as it is, squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly unable to bear the thought.]
Don't, [he murmurs, a pained, pathetic attempt to stop something that he, mmm, isn't quite sure of.] I'm not—you can't say things you don't mean. Not to me.
[Because he always wants Sylvain by his side. Always. He's so sure that Sylvain knows this.]
Sylvain can't say he's really seen Felix drink to a point of drunkenness often enough over the years to have a Consistent Expectation for how he should or should not act, but as that hand settles more surely against the side of his face, he can't help but pull up the few fragmented, fuzzy memories he has to compare all the same. And it's... endearing, really, to imagine that Felix might be a touchy drunk? They'd been drinking that night as well--the night he'd kissed him, and held his face in his hands not unlike how he is now with only one--so it's not as if it would be an unreasonable assumption.
It's cute. It's just a little bit heartbreaking, too--because whether it bears any significance or not, the connection is undeniably there, and suddenly Sylvain can't decide if it would be worse to imagine Felix like this with anyone else, or to wonder if this, too, might end up driving further distance between them as another drunken regret.
He knows he should probably, like... turn his head away...? Discourage this, somehow, before he ends up making this so much worse, but... man. He never has been happy with what he has, has he? He's always wanted more when he already has so much more than he could ever deserve. This, he supposes, is no different, and so although the welling of guilt is familiar, a sharp and sickening twist and tug in his chest that threatens to choke him, this fragment of something warm, something precious, is something he stupidly, selfishly refuses to give up.
Selfish, selfish, selfish--and even more so, still, because Felix doesn't want him to go on, but the thought of him believing for even a second that Sylvain doesn't mean every word hurts worse than any weapon he's gone up against ever could.
"Felix..."
He pauses, collecting himself just long enough to push past this reality of his own making, in which the one person he's ever promised his forever to in complete and total honesty... doesn't actually want to hear it at all. It's a damned bitter pill to swallow.
"I do mean it. We promised... remember?" If he quiets his voice, it's surely so their conversation won't travel far enough to reach the open door ahead. "We'll stick together..."
He'd meant it then, too. How could he doubt him now?
—until we die together, [he finishes, almost automatically, as he keeps his eyes closed and considers what the words they spoke so very long ago mean here and now.
Here's the thing: Their promise means more to Felix than Felix can ever express; it is, without a doubt, the most important promise he's ever made, but this... isn't about that. It can't be, because it's one thing for Sylvain to come riding back from battle because he's, mmm, obligated to—but it's another thing for Sylvain to come to him because he's obligated to. Felix doesn't want that. Felix wants Sylvain to choose to come to his side, over and over and over again, because that's precisely where he wants to be.
Expressing that, however, is a tricky, tricky thing.]
...You can't die without me, [he says, firmly,] but you can live without me, Sylvain.
[Hmm. There's far too much starting and stopping for his liking, but what can he do? He wants to tell Sylvain that he isn't a child any longer; he knows it's selfish of him to lord a promise over Sylvain's head, as though he has any sort of claim to him, but finding the right words for that is impossible. He settles, then, for slowly sliding his hand down the side of Sylvain's face, memorizing every dip and divot before his fingers come to rest along the line of the other man's jaw. Like he wants to pull his hand away, but he can't convince himself to do so...
...Because he absolutely can't, even as he wills himself to open his eyes, to swallow a sigh. He will allow himself this small selfishness, all while he attempts to be as selfless as he believes he needs to be. For Sylvain. Sylvain deserves to be happy, and so, quietly, honestly:]
He can't live without him... He can't--and he knows he can't--and that's exactly why, for all of a few seconds that pass a little more like an eternity, those words manage to knock the air right out of him.
Sylvain thinks of years spent at war. Of countless battles; countless enemies; countless lives, ended by his lance in exchange for his own. He thinks of all the times he'd been so worn down from all the fighting, when the weight of his armor and his weapon and his conscience grew to be too much and the world around him was nothing but cold heat and silent noise. He wonders if he would have found the strength to grit his teeth and push forward even still if he hadn't thought, then, of what it would mean to leave Felix behind before they'd seen the other side of their victory.
He thinks of the years he'd spent before Garreg Mach, too, when his world had been little more than the stretch of snow that connected Gautier and Fraldarius. The way his parents had loved him--or... at least the way they'd said they loved him, when they'd said they loved him--and the way Miklan had hated him and the way no one else had even known he was there. He thinks of how people had only ever liked his smiles and his laughs, and how he'd taught himself to never, ever show them anything else, even as he felt the bitter burn of resentment building in him. He wonders if he might have ended up like his brother, too, a ticking timebomb just waiting to tear everything down along with him, if Felix hadn't snuck his way past all of that to see him in a way no one else ever has--and probably ever will.
...He can't think of a way to say any of this, of course. He has words for everything except for what matters, and so:
"Hey," he laughs. Somehow, he laughs, and he's actually kind of impressed in the worst sort of way at how convincing he still sounds? You know, considering the fact that it feels like coughing up a thousand shards of glass on its way out. "Isn't that supposed to be my line...?"
He can't imagine a time when Felix has ever done anything but pull him forward, even when he's so certain he can't take another step.
"I'm the good-for-nothing here... You should be more worried about yourself, right? I mean, I did keep you from your work tonight." And... he could leave it at that? He probably should leave it at that--but he hears himself continue without pause instead, hearing himself seamlessly adding: "I'm sure His Majesty's been beside himself without you around."
[Ah. Deflection. Felix shouldn't be disappointed by that—by Sylvain's laugh—but he feels something sink within him all the same. What did he expect? Did he want Sylvain to look down at him and once again say things he knows can't possibly be true?
No. He absolutely didn't want to hear that, just like he absolutely doesn't want to hear about, think about, Dimitri. Hearing Sylvain speak that title aloud is all that it takes to send Felix tensing, to prompt the hand lingering against Sylvain's face to suddenly drop, because it's not—it isn't fair! It isn't fair that Felix has given so, so much to Dimitri, and yet, even when Dimitri isn't present, Dimitri still manages to take from him. He's inescapable, and you know, Felix both was and was not prepared for it? Knew, when he accepted his father's title, that his life was irrevocably tied to that of his king, but he'd thought (foolishly, so foolishly) that he'd have something all to himself. Someone. A safe haven, because isn't that what Sylvain has always been...
But no, no. Of course that wasn't—isn't—to be, and now Felix thinks of Dimitri right before he'd left him for the night: tall and tired and trying to smile. You deserve a respite, he'd said. A break from him—no, from the weight of him, and yet here he is, anyway. Still bearing down on Felix. Sometimes it feels as though he can barely breathe.]
Why does it matter?
[A quiet question that slips out before he can really think about it, and once again he sounds, mmm... bitter. Very much so, actually, because he knows that it is really he.]
Dimitri can do as he pleases, [he grumbles, suddenly wishing he were standing on his own two feet.] He's hardly my responsibility. I'm tired of everyone assuming that he is.
[And why do so many people assume that? Like, why does Ingrid write to him for updates, when she's complained about his brief letters time and time again? Because she knows, just like Felix knows, that Dimitri is his responsibility—that he's made Dimitri his responsibility. This is his burden to bear.
But it isn't Sylvain's, and so Felix huffs out a short breath. Tries to once again focus on nothing but Sylvain, Sylvain, Sylvain, even as Dimitri's weight remains heavy on his shoulders.]
...I should make you help sort all the paperwork I've missed.
Ah... see, he knew he should've kept quiet? He just... y'know. Forgets his filter sometimes. But anyway: he misses that hand as soon as it's gone, even as light as it had been. And for it to drop so quickly, too... Sylvain chances a proper look at Felix's face, step slowing to a steady sort of crawl just in case this new tension means he'll want Sylvain to put him down--and yet he shows no signs that he intends to let him go, his arms still holding firm where they're supporting the other man.
It... hurts? Like, knowing that he'd said something to make Felix sound like that, let alone that he could to begin with. Some small, terrible part of him thinks of the open door up ahead and hopes that somehow, impossibly, Dimitri might have heard him.
But, no. They're certainly too far away yet, which means it serves no purpose except to twist like knives within him, a reminder of how cruel, how selfish Sylvain can be without even thinking. After all, hadn't he brought Felix out to help him forget all of this...? Of course Dimitri needs him... if anyone knows that, it would be Felix himself: ever diligent and ever loyal, trailing after the rest of them and working twice as hard as anyone Sylvain has ever known, even (or especially) after losing so, so much, in the hope that he might not lose more.
And since when did they all start relying so heavily on the youngest of them, anyway...? Isn't it supposed to be their job--Sylvain's job--to take care of him? He'd never wanted Felix to have to grow up as fast as he had, and yet here they are now, years later, and Felix is probably the most grown up out of the three of them... and Sylvain isn't helping!!
"...I--" he starts after a moment, the 'm sorry part of it caught in his throat as Felix soldiers on forward, and that's... fine? He can always make it up to him later, anyway, but--
Wait.
"Hold on... Help?" he repeats, incredulous. It's... actually funny enough to shock some of the shadows from his eyes as they widen, ever so slightly. "Felix... I've seen you sort paperwork before. I'll be the only one doing any actual sorting!"
Spoken as if he does, in fact, intend to help him... because honestly? If Felix really does want his help, he'll be there in a heartbeat.
"How much could you have missed in one night, anyway?"
[Amazing, really, how Felix can feel both sad and annoyed at the same time? Because it isn't as though everything they've talked about up until this point has just, like, disappeared; it's all sitting very solidly in the back of Felix's mind, just waiting until he's alone to crash right back into the forefront. Thrilling.
But for now—for now—Sylvain is still with him, warm and solid, and Felix isn't eager to sour the moment any more than he already has. He just wants... well? He wants Sylvain to be happy, of course. Sylvain deserves to be happy. There is, however, the selfish desire to make Sylvain happy just to see Sylvain smile, because that's the image Felix wants to fix in his brain before he passes out for the night.]
Enough, [he huffs, shifting a bit in Sylvain's arms as he wills himself to once again relax.] Nobles are annoyingly persistent.
[Meeting request after meeting request! Damn! Some people just can't take a hint—and maybe that's because, ah, Felix tends to throw away things he deems to be useless, ie personal requests from other nobles. It be like that because he be like that, but as he considers his overflowing wastebasket, he sniffs. Haughtily.]
And my desk is organized. [Mmm, well—] Mostly.
[Do not @ him? Especially as, after a second's consideration, he brings his free hand to press against Sylvain's chest. Ostensibly to that he can steady himself as he once again shifts about, but does he pull his hand away when he settles... no...]
Hey, it's not much better on this side of things! Even now, those words echo in his head: you can live without me, he'd said, as if any life without him would be worth living at all. As if Sylvain wouldn't--hasn't--thrown himself on an enemy's sword in an instant if it meant keeping Felix safe, because he would rather break the promise that's held all of his own broken pieces together all these years than let Felix ever fall first. Just some fun thoughts to consider!!
But hey, Sylvain is nothing if not used to forcing feelings down so he doesn't have to face them, right? He ignores it as best he can for the time being, in favor of humming a wordless note that translates roughly to, 'The only times your desks have ever been organized are when you first get them or immediately after I clear them for you but go off I guess.'
"Mostly," he repeats, and it's neither a question nor an agreement. It's just a statement like any other, said in the light, amused-yet-exasperated tone of a mother giving her son a second chance to tell her if he'd cleaned his room before she opens the door.
And speaking of open doors... Sylvain regards the one just ahead with the same sort of subtle tension as he had Dimitri those few moons ago, a wary sort of consideration just barely there in the slightest crease of his brow. The chances of Dimitri being inside... are unfortunately very, very high, he thinks, and unless the man has no interest in whether Felix would make it back safely (unlikely) or fallen asleep at his desk (somehow, even less likely), there's no way the two of them won't be seen. And that's... a bad thing, he thinks.
But...
...Well, is it, though? He remembers Dimitri with Felix's hands held in his; Dimitri with Felix blushing at his side--and you know? Maybe this is what Dimitri deserves, for trying to take Felix away from him to begin with.
He glances back down to the man in his arms as they get close (tries not to think about that hand at his chest, whether his heart might give him away or how Felix could possibly think that it isn't wholly his) and then:
"Hold on," he murmurs, pausing very, very briefly to readjust his hold, careful to keep Felix close--but, briefly or no, it's just enough time for brown and blue to catch against one another as he spares one quick, subtle glance into the office.
Dimitri, to his credit, keeps quiet... but from here, Sylvain can see the way sudden tension ebbs into silent resignation, as if the sharp edge of his glare were enough to cut some of the invisible strings that had keep him from sinking in on himself. And Sylvain hates the flash of something white hot and jagged that shoots through him? Hates that he likes showing off that, while Dimitri had only held Felix's hands, Sylvain is allowed to hold all of him... And it only lasts a second, really? But he knows it's gonna follow him down the rest of this damn hall--and likely for the rest of his stay here, too.
"How about this: I'll help you with your paperwork tomorrow," he offers, eyes darting back to Felix as he slips seamlessly back into their conversation, as if nothing had ever happened. "And, in exchange... you come out with me again. Deal?"
[Yes, Sylvain! Mostly. There are neat, organized stacks of parchment sitting atop his desk—along with some haphazard piles of parchment, but Felix is making an effort, and thus Felix shoots Sylvain a mild Look.
Which is, as it turns out, a colossal mistake, because Sylvain glances down at him just before coming to a stop—and ah, but those eyes. Those eyes. They only meet Felix's for a second, and yet it's enough to render him momentarily winded; all he can do, he finds, is blink up even as Sylvain looks away, remaining perfectly still as Sylvain lifts him as easily as anything. It's—? Hmm. This is another thing that, for whatever reason, sticks in Felix's mind: warm, brown eyes, locked on his from above, and what if they followed him as he worked his way down, down, down...
...Mmph. An interesting thought, one that prompts a light shiver as Sylvain's gaze slips back down to him—and that prompts Felix to look away, hurriedly peering back over Sylvain's shoulder. His heart is racing. So is Sylvain's, interestingly enough, but... it's nothing, Felix thinks. It makes sense, given the weight the man's been carrying for who knows how long, and so Felix ignores it, thinks instead about going out with Sylvain yet again. Should he, when he knows his desire to spend time with Sylvain is far more complicated than it has any right to be? When a single, simple look sparks thoughts about Felix using Sylvain, just as so many people have used him before?]
Eager to see me embarrass myself again? [A snort.] No, thanks.
[Being carried is... both good and bad, really. He isn't eager to repeat this experience any time soon, or to entertain thoughts that are unfair to his closest friend—but as Felix looks back down the hallway, idly studying the one open door (at this hour?) he finds himself unable to resist adding:]
Unless I choose where we go.
[There's a new opera in town, you see. One that comes highly recommended by Dorothea herself, and Felix had briefly entertained the idea of attending its opening... with Dimitri, given that Dimitri never, ever takes a break. But if Felix were to drag Sylvain along, instead, well... would it be so bad? It isn't as though he's asked Dimitri about—
—ah. Dimitri. Felix's fingers curl into the fabric of Sylvain's shirt, holding on so tightly, because as Felix watches that open doorway grow smaller and smaller, Felix suddenly knows where, exactly, it leads. So that makes this... the long way to his quarters? Which would be forgivable, given how long it's been since Sylvain has walked these halls, but... hmm. Hmm.]
No, he's about to say, just eager to see you again in general. But Felix continues too quickly for him to do any more than take in the breath with which to say it, and...
"Oh?"
Just... oh, just one simple word carefully layered with intrigue and a fond sort of amusement that masks an undercurrent of quiet hope--and beneath that, a bitter hot satisfaction that buoys the rest up a little too easily for something that he half expects to wind up exactly as it had when they'd been at the monastery.
It would make sense if Felix were itching for his sword, cooped up in the castle like this? He'd never been one to settle. He was always on the move and determined to improve in any and every way possible. He's more relaxed now than he'd been in his youth, sure, and he certainly seems... you know, used to this quieter sort of life, now... But would it be really be so surprising if Felix 'While you developed terrible coping mechanism, I studied the blade' Fraldarius were to bring him to--of all fucking places, while he's visiting the literal capital city--the castle training grounds?
...That said. Would it be so terrible, really...? He already feels out of practice, the Lance of Ruin well on its way to becoming a relic in definition and purpose, so he can only imagine the earful he'd get for his sloppy... ah, everything--but his thoughts stray to a certain Incident, memories flickering to life of the wall at his back and a sword at his throat, as he'd yielded to the sharp, unwavering confidence in Felix's eyes, and hands, and voice... hmm. Well, it could just be worth the risk.
"Done, then," he says, before Felix can take it back. He would go with him into the eternal flames if he asked him to... but he decides to tone it down a bit, offering a quick wink and an earnest, "You just name a time and a place; I'll be there."
[Sorry, Sylvain, but that wink is for naught. Felix is still focused on that rapidly shrinking doorway, too busy thinking about Dimitri-related things to offer up anything more than a quiet, distracted hum. It feels as though... he's missing something? Like he has all the pieces of a puzzle, but he can't quite figure out how they all fit together. The alcohol's influence, he's sure, and yet some niggling voice within tells him that maybe, just maybe, it isn't so simple...
...Hmm. He's almost relieved when Sylvain comes to a stop before the door to his quarters, because standing on his own two feet eliminates the distraction that is Sylvain's... everything. It is, quite simply, easier for Felix to think when he isn't aware of every breath Sylvain takes, even if tilting his head back to look his friend in the eye as he bids him good night is—well. It's that same feeling as when Sylvain glanced down at him a few minutes ago, really. A sort of bludgeoning force to the chest, and it takes a surprising amount of self-restraint to keep himself upright, to keep himself from reaching out to pull Sylvain down to him—and back with him. His bed is so close, and his bed is so cold, and he still desperately, desperately, wants to trail his fingers along the line of Sylvain's jaw come the morning.
But no, no. Sylvain makes another quip about Felix's messy desk; Felix gathers enough of himself to tell him the place and the (absurdly early) time; Sylvain lingers for a moment, almost as though he's waiting—hoping?—for something, before heading down the hallway, leaving Felix to crawl into bed alone.
Ah. Yes. It is definitely, miserably cold.
Felix, however, is out before he can feel too grumpy about it—and then he's waking up what seems like a few short minutes later, grumbling incoherently as a servant sets his morning tea on a table before pulling back his curtains. Well, shit. A quick bath helps; three or so cups of tea help even more, and by the time he sweeps into his office, he feels... human again, more or less. He hopes that he at least looks human. There are surely dark bags under his eyes, and he knows that his hair is pulled back into an even more messy ponytail than usual, but what can he do? He doesn't care about his hair on the best of days; on a morning like this, he would happily cut it all off without so much as a second thought. What matters are the stacks of parchment on his desk.
...Goddess above, but there's so much parchment. He's glaring down at it all when he hears the door open somewhere off to his side, wondering why he thought his desk was so much cleaner than it actually is. It's chaos! ...Organized chaos. He has three inkwells sitting to the side, and two of them are bone dry, thanks to his habit of leaving the lid unscrewed. Great. He knows what the man approaching him is going to say about that, and so, despite the way his heart speeds up, he continues focusing on his desk as he snipes:]
You always did like sleeping in.
[Good morning, sunshine. Sylvain is probably-definitely right on time, and Felix is................... is grumpy.]
There's one distinct moment, as Sylvain notes Felix's distraction--and immediately thereafter, the direction of said distraction--in which he feels... caught, somehow? It's something akin to guilt, in a sense, though it's swiftly eclipsed by the familiar frustration that bubbles to the surface when he realizes the likelihood of Felix's thoughts drifting back to Dimitri anyway, even still. And that... stings, though by all rights he knows it shouldn't.
It follows him all the way to Felix's door, in fact, at which point he (reluctantly) sets him on his feet. If his hands linger just a little longer than necessary... well. He can't have Felix tipping over now, can he? Not after all that. He's just... steadying him. That's all.
And then he's stepping back and taking a slow breath to steady himself, fingers curling in against his palms, because the urge to close that distance between them is suddenly so impossibly strong that it's damn near tangible. An actual, physical pull to drag him in--and for just a moment, he entertains the thought that Felix (with that expression, those eyes that stare at him like he can see right through him and still believe that whatever he finds there is something real, and human, and worth anything at all) might feel it, too. What it might be like, if Felix were to catch his wrist, or his arm; his lips, as he pulls him into a kiss and his room all at once. He'd get drunk on him faster than he could with any drink, he thinks, if the spark of heat in his veins is any indication, but--
...But. If one drunken kiss is enough to spark weeks and weeks of suffocating silence, then he can't say he's willing to risk two--let alone anything more than that. So he doesn't pursue anything, and neither does Felix, and although Sylvain knows it's for the best, the sound of the door clicking shut behind him once he's finally torn himself away sounds an awful lot like regret.
It's a feeling that lingers all the way to his own room... and to some extent, through 'til morning, although the early hour certainly contributes its fair share in that respect. The things he does for this man, honestly? The trials he suffers through.
Or, in other words: yes, when Sylvain cracks the door to Felix's office open, he is probably-definitely exactly on time--and, despite the fact he is decidedly not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, he does at least appear like, more-than-reasonably put together? Neatly dressed, hair somehow the same artful mess it always is. It's a little unfair? But it's also Sylvain, so... artfully disheveled is kind of his style. Something, something, it's all natural, baby!! But appearances aside, as the door closes behind him, he visibly relaxes, breathing an inaudible sigh. He is... tired!! And Felix's office is...
Well! Felix's office is Felix's office. We can't all be perfect.
"Good morning, Felix," he replies, pointed but without any heat, as he forces his eyes away from the catastrophe waiting and up to Felix himself, which...
Ah. Have this, like, exasperated huff of a laugh.
"You look..." Hmm. Does he trail off because he can't think of a word? Or because he knows if he says it, it'll be his last? Honestly, it's a little bit of both, so let him just... walk over, while he eyes that ponytail in particular. "Well... you look like you could've used some sleeping in. And," he nods at the other man's hair, "if you leave it like that, you're going to hate when it gets stuck in the band."
[Felix's desk is so incredibly interesting! Who knew! Or: Felix focuses on his messy, messy workspace as Sylvain approaches, very much aware of the rapidly shrinking distance between them... but determined to pretend as though it doesn't matter in the slightest. It shouldn't.
But it very much does, especially when Felix finally deigns to glance over toward his approaching friend. Ah. Of course he looks as impossibly handsome as ever, even after spending a night drinking; he's probably used to carousing about until the break of dawn, after their Academy days, but Felix still finds himself studying Sylvain with something akin to wonder. How? Why? Obviously ordering him ("ordering" him) to come help with paperwork was a mistake, because how in the Goddess' name is Felix supposed to concentrate on anything when all he wants is...
Well! Well. He does his best to give Sylvain a Look, like he's totally not tired—and like his hair is totally not a mess, thank you. He brushed it! ...Quickly!]
I thought you were here to organize paperwork, [he fires back, sans heat.] My hair is fine.
[As is he, even though he's clearly... so tired. This is your fault, Sylvain. Take responsibility.]
Sylvain's long since perfected the skill of waking up exhausted after a night of, ah, Various Activities without letting it show on his face. It's still there if one looks closely enough: in the subtle pauses framing his movements that edge dangerously near reluctance, or the slow, thoughtful drag of his eyes.
"I'll get around to that!" He's currently trying to not look at the tragedy scattered in front of him, and the only reason he succeeds is because it's Felix he's looking at instead. "Don't worry. But I came to help, you know."
He shrugs, bringing one hand to his hip while he regards Felix with a careful eye. He wants to help!! He wouldn't even mind if this became something of a routine for them, really--and isn't it so perfectly, comfortably, dangerously domestic, to think of what it might be like to live in a world like that? One where he would wake to Felix, his hair spilling loose over his shoulders and his eyes still softened by sleep, wordlessly offering a hair tie and his back in turn as he knelt before him... He imagines combing his fingers through long, dark strands, loosening any lingering snags or tangles. Something so, so simple--enough so, in fact, that he doesn't expect it to inspire as harsh of an ache in his chest as it really does.
"I'm not gonna force you, Felix. But..." Let him, like... gently gesture with a nod and one hand outstretched, to indicate that Felix should be the one to come closer... if he wants to, anyway. "Let me help...? I'll do anything you want me to."
You know... paperwork, hair styling, kissing, entertaining any particular fantasies that he may or may not have... normal friend stuff! Definitely normal political stuff, too. Just the expected relationship between a Margrave and a Duke.
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Sources say... no!! So he will absolutely enjoy this hug for all it's worth, phantom tail be damned--unnnnntil Felix decides to speak up again, anyway.
"Hey, now."
It starts off light enough? But when he thinks of all of those times, alone in his room, when he'd started to write... stopped writing... gone through how much paper in just a few short moons for the sake of letters, all unfinished and all unsent. If he'd had any idea of what to say, or any indication that Felix had even wanted to hear from him again at all after... well, after that! Which, apparently, he did?? So like, excuse him for getting a little frustrated at the mild accusation in Felix's tone here.
"You didn't write me, either," he retorts, and if he sounds, like... a little bit defensive, he really doesn't mean it. After all: it's not as if he expects the king's advisor to have time to sit down and write a personal letter to him on a whim! But surely, he thinks, surely... his best friend would have found the time, if only he'd wanted to. "You know I..."
A pause--just long enough for guilt to cut the wind from his sails as quickly as it had come, because isn't it just the same for himself? When he continues, it's with a soft sigh, just above Felix's ear.
"...I would have written back," he says, and he kind of hates how much it sounds like an excuse.
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And even now, it's all so—mmph. I would have written back, Sylvain says, and even as that sigh sends a shiver racing through him, Felix's shoulders drop just a hair. Writing to him isn't... it shouldn't be an obligation. Felix would have cherished each and every response, yes, but is it so terrible to want Sylvain to want to write him of his own accord? Maybe it is. It certainly isn't something he should be indignant about, but there is something to be said, perhaps, for the shame Felix feels. He's never been so needy, so hungry—desperate—for someone's smallest attentions.]
I would have, too, [he fires back, rocking on his heels a bit as he debates pulling away or remaining precisely where he is. And he's, mmm, never been good at writing letters? They know this? Why send paragraphs when you can sum everything up in three sentences, etc etc, and yet he's still heated enough about this to huff.] Dimitri isn't—
[Well! When it comes right down it, Dimitri isn't a lot of things—but above all else, Dimitri isn't Sylvain. There are things Felix can only confide in the person who knows him better than anyone? Lines only said person can read between, and hey, guess what? Felix is drunk enough to admit a smidgen of that... albeit in his typically rude fashion, so:]
I missed your stupid letters. That's all.
[Nyeah!]
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Because that means that, all that time, Felix had been wanting him to write... which is an incredibly warming thought? Felix had wanted him to write; Felix had missed him, even with Dimitri here, just as he'd wanted Sylvain to write to him, and not to both of them.
It's why Dimitri's name sort of startles him for a moment, because Dimitri isn't what...? Does he want to ask? Probably... not, given that the arm around his waist holds firmer than ever, and the hand at his nape slips all the way around to Felix's shoulder instead, just to keep him held so tightly against him, even for just a moment more. And it's selfish, yes... extremely so, because it looks like he'd been right after all when he'd suspected he wouldn't want to let Felix go once he had him in his arms. Not if the last thing on his mind is Dimitri, but--
...But then, it isn't, is it? He isn't.
But Sylvain is. And Goddess, how selfish can he be if this still isn't enough...?
"That's all?"
He forces himself to pull back enough to hold Felix at a half-arm's length, just so he can examine his face before he just... like, leans over... and scoops him right up into his arms... He's clearly still too drunk to make it to his own room if he's admitting things like this, so! Hi, Felix. Don't squirm around too much while Sylvain gains his bearings.
"Just my letters...?" Really? "I'll have to ask His Majesty if an audience is really necessary, then, if only my letters will suffice."
It's a long ride down to Fhirdiad, after all!! Let the man be dramatic. (But also: be nice!!)
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—and lets out a very, ah, undignified yelp as the world suddenly tips up around him.
Listen: It isn't as though this is the first time Sylvain has carried Felix. When they were younger—much younger—Felix thought nothing of wrapping his arms around Sylvain's neck, sitting atop the older boy's arm as he was carried to and fro. There were piggyback rides, too, of course. There was even a piggyback ride back in their Academy days, when Felix twisted an ankle during some mission or another and the Professor ordered Sylvain to carry him back to Mercedes. A trust exercise, they'd responded, blandly, when Felix had raised as many objections as he could think. An exercise in humility, more like it. Sylvain carried him back to camp as easily as anything, chattering about his latest conquests while Felix did his best to focus on everything but the back of Sylvain's neck.
Being carried like this, however? An arm beneath his knees, an arm pressed high along his back? He feels as though he's about to be dropped any moment—and yet he also knows that's, ah, patently untrue, because the person holding him like this is none other than the person he trusts most in the world:]
Sylvain!
[Shocked and sharp as his hands scrabble for purchase at Sylvain's shoulders. He isn't moving... too much? He's cognizant enough to realize that toppling Sylvain over will end poorly for them both—and that Sylvain is, you know. Strong enough to carry him (which is a most intrusive thought) but not strong enough to deal with him thrashing about, so.]
Put me down or I'll run you through, [he all but snarls, stupidly, because it isn't as though he brought his swords with him to a tavern in Fhirdiad. Look at him! An idiot, which is why he soon sputters out the slightly better:] I'll burn every letter you send. I'm not a child!
[He's just a drunk loser whose face is growing redder by the second? Especially when he's forced to loop his arms about Sylvain's neck, because ah, this is... a most vulnerable position...]
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It's impressive though, how easy it is for something so simple to make him forget he's ever felt anything but this comfortable sort of contentment that rises slow and steady in his chest. Trouble? Nah, no trouble... How could he ever be troubled when that voice is his favorite sound, and the focus of the man it belongs to is on him, only on him, exactly as he so desperately wants it to be? Like, what could possibly be enough to dull this fond amusement so bright in his eyes as Felix reaches out to him for balance?
Or to quiet the laughter it brings with it, for that matter; he manages to restrain himself well enough, all things considered, up until Felix corrects his initial threat, at which point he's just a little too smitten and has a little too much alcohol still in his system to continue to hold himself back. And it's definitely Too Late in the evening for two grownass men to come in and immediately start bickering and laughing at non-whispering levels, but hey! It's a big castle. And yeah, sound carries along old, stone walls, but Sylvain's thoughts are on just the right side of fuzzy for him to decide that's that is completely irrelevant information as he sets off without any further preamble.
"Obviously." He tightens his hold on him just a bit as he aims a grin down at him. Maybe tell him to keep his eyes forward, so they don't go crashing into some poor waitstaff? "If you were, you wouldn't be complaining even half this much."
He considers all the times in the past he's carried Felix and wonders, idly: had he always been this aware of how close they've been...? It's distracting enough, he thinks, feeling as the lingering outside chill fades from the layers of clothing between them until it's impossible to not think of the warm weight of him resting in his arms. But it's almost... startling, in a way? To realize how impossibly close he is like this to the heat of that blush on Felix's face, and the fact that it only makes him wish he was closer, still.
"You used to love when I carried you around," he points out, instead of asking the dozens of questions buzzing through his head that, frankly, he isn't sure he wants to ask. "And it'll be faster this way, too."
Even though it... definitely will not, considering the pace he's keeping. He just wants a little more time with him, that's all.
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...Hmm. Better, then, to turn his head the opposite direction, chin settling atop the arm he's been forced to throw over Sylvain's shoulder. This, too, is childish. How fitting, considering that he's soon forced to remember the many, many times he'd begged his older, bigger friend to carry him from one place to another. He was always getting left behind, somehow? Not that Dimitri and Ingrid meant to leave him behind; it was just that, whenever Glenn came into the picture, they couldn't help but to be drawn into his orbit, so starry-eyed as they followed closely on his heels.
But not Sylvain. Never Sylvain. He'd always been there when the others left, picking Felix up without complaint—and Felix loved him fiercely.]
That was different, [he mutters, petulantly, as the arms around Sylvain's neck tighten ever so slightly.] Everything was.
[There'd been no need to question his feelings? No need to hide anything from anyone—and just like that, his righteous indignation gives way to something quieter. Tireder. Being a child had been so easy, and he hadn't even known to appreciate it! A shame! Felix thinks of what a fool he'd (unknowingly) been, and suddenly his head feels far too heavy; time, then, to press his cheek against his arm, blinking at the side of Sylvain's neck for a moment—kissable, he thinks—before he breathes out a quiet sigh.]
...It was simple.
[Loving Sylvain. Knowing that he was loved by Sylvain. Things he won't—can't—say.]
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In a sense, Sylvain's always known how to jump before the floor drops from under him. He's gotten pretty good at predicting when it'll happen; he knows that cutting his hands against a lifeline made from his own broken pieces is better than falling, falling, falling, uncertain of how long he has until he hits the bitter cold of the surface beneath, where it eagerly waits to drown him. So for Sylvain, the biggest change he'd had to endure was the sudden, inexplicable shift among his friends, and the sickening sense of failure that came with it.
For the others--for Felix--that 'change' was a point of no return. Felix had lost so much more than Sylvain ever had, and then lost more, still... And it should be enough, he thinks, to simply stay as they are, if only so Felix won't have to feel any different, and Sylvain won't be anything but what he is, and always has been, and always will be, so long as it means he can still stay by his side.
But when Felix continues, he sounds so far away--and Sylvain holds him a bit closer to his chest, as if it might be enough to keep him here, or maybe as if he's the missing piece responsible for this bone-deep ache in his chest.
"...It still can be," he says, still just as easy, just as bright, only somewhat quieter now. He's forced his eyes forward, albeit reluctantly, though he still doesn't loosen his hold on him. "You can pretend you still like this kind of thing... Just for tonight; I won't say a word."
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...Hmm. Sylvain is wrong, Felix thinks. Nothing about them can be as simple as it was—and that is both good and bad, now that he ponders it, but it's also an exceedingly complicated thing for his drunk brain to process. Goodness gracious! All he wants to do... is enjoy this moment for what it is. Nothing more, nothing less.
And yet. He cracks his eyes open, once again staring at the smooth skin of Sylvain's neck, because he should... speak? He should speak. If he doesn't, he's fairly certain he'll fall asleep like this, tucked so snuggly against Sylvain's chest, and he's determined to savor every second.]
I'm not good at pretending, [is how he chooses to begin.] Or lying. I'm not like you.
[He's never been very good at telling people what they want to hear? Never wanted to be good at such a thing. He says exactly what's on his mind because he's blunt, blunt, blunt, and Sylvain knows that—but for whatever reason, it feels important to remind Sylvain of that before he continues, softly, with:]
I don't hate this.
[Because it's Sylvain, of course. And in his hazy mind, now Sylvain can't doubt that he means what he says.]
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...But. Very, very rarely, something sharp still snags against him before he even sees it coming--and more often than not, it isn't even the fact that he'd said it that hurts, but rather the fact that, in some way or another, it's true.
This... is one of those moments, he thinks. The alcohol still in his system makes it hard for him to hold his expression steady, or maybe just hard to make himself want to hold it steady, because isn't that exactly the point...? If he keeps up a fake smile, won't that just be lying to him after all? It's bad enough that he's been acting like there's nothing unusual between them; like they hadn't kissed, like he doesn't still want to kiss him, like his winding thoughts aren't weaving themselves into what might happen if he were to stop, right now, and admit to everything, if only it would make Felix think any better of him.
He doesn't deserve anything else, though, and in the end he only looks somewhat troubled for a moment (maybe it can pass for offended, but he isn't paying close enough attention to notice) as his steps stutter--but before he can convince himself to do or say anything, Felix continues, and it's... well.
It doesn't stop the ache, but it does ease it, just a bit.
"...Good."
He sounds... thoughtful? Distant, almost, in a way that even he can hear. He hates that he can hear it, hates that it means Felix can hear it--but as they reach like... a staircase? Castle interiors are stupid, bedrooms and offices and such can be upstairs because I say so, so! As they reach a staircase, and he glances back down, it's easy to imagine Felix might be the thing that grounds him.
"I don't hate this, either." Because of course he believes Felix? Of course he does, and if not hating something is the closest he can get to Felix actually enjoying being this close to him... well then, so be it. "I'll still do it anytime you want me to."
Is that weird to offer...? It might be weird to offer... He's just gonna climb these stairs, so maybe don't think too hard about it.
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So it all comes down to Sylvain's voice, then, which? Hmm. Sylvain's voice is undoubtedly Felix's favorite voice, although he's loath to admit it. He's spent years listening to its rise and fall, paying attention to—memorizing—the little things others often overlook; he instantly knows that something is off, even when Sylvain, as Sylvain is wont to do, soldiers right along. Surely it wasn't something he said. He'd only said...
...Well. The truth, which he knows is a bitter pill for some to swallow—and while he didn't mean for it to sting, it's clear that it did. How does one fix that? Another memory springs to mind, unbidden, as tries not to think about how all this jostling about on the stairs is making his stomach slosh about: Sylvain swiping a thumb beneath his eye, gently catching each tear before they rolled down his cheek.
Maybe it's a bad idea to do this when Sylvain is, you know. Focusing on safely making it up these stairs. Maybe it's a bad idea, period, but Felix only needs to keep one arm—the one his cheek is still pressed against—looped about Sylvain's neck; he's free to carefully wriggle the other free, all so he can bring his hand up to the side of Sylvain's face that he can't see. There are no tears, of course; he can't remember the last time he's seen Sylvain cry, but he hums thoughtfully, fingers finding the familiar jut of Sylvain's cheekbone.]
Sylvain—
[How does one offer comfort that may or may not be needed? Felix doesn't know. Felix has always been terrible with such things, but as he presses his hand closer, remembering the last time he touched Sylvain's face in such an intimate way:]
Maybe. If you visit Fhirdiad more often.
[Felix rarely asks for anything, rarely says please, and maybe that's... because he doesn't need to.]
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That hand lifting towards him, though... now that's something that threatens to set him off balance. He has to watch his step like this, of course, but he still has enough of his attention on Felix that he can sort of see it coming, even if he hadn't been able to feel him shift to begin with--and it's not that he flinches? He has no reason to, hasn't ever associated Felix's touch with pain, but he has associated this gesture in particular with the natural way they'd seemed to fit together that night, the warm press of his palms against his face and his lips against his own, unfamiliar and unpracticed and so, so perfect, even so.
So again: it's not that he flinches, but there is a distinct moment just before he registers the feeling of those fingers against his cheek in which Sylvain sort of... hmm, braces himself...? It's something like a sudden, subtle inhale, and a split second in which his own fingers twitch tighter wherever his hold presses them against Felix.
And then the warmth of it does register, and honestly, it's a miracle he doesn't end up dumping the both of them down the stairs after all. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this--how much he even could miss something after experiencing it so, so fleetingly--but now that that hand against him is back, he can't help wonder what he would need to do to keep it there...? How can he put voice to the burning, clawing sort of ache in his chest that sparks to life with something as simple as this, and how can he silence his imagination before it runs rampant, wishing to know what it would feel like if that hand were to boldly slip around and tug his head down and into a kiss that stops their progress entirely, or if it knotted itself into his hair while he pressed him up against the side of the stairwell, which is objectively a terrible idea, and yet...
On the other hand, he also can't help but wonder what it would feel like if he were to tilt his head just so, to press his lips to those fingertips, to his palm--he wonders if Felix might blush even darker than he had earlier in the day, and what sort of reactions he might get from kissing up to his wrist, or lacing their fingers together and kissing each one individually. Arguably, these thoughts catch him more off guard than the first, all sort of collecting into one vague and dizzying collage that makes it impossible to not tilt his head just a bit into the touch before he can make the conscious decision to or not--but not impossible to offer something in response, thankfully.
"Whenever I can," is his reply, without hesitation and spoken soft like a promise, or maybe like he's hoping to will the words into reality and shape his future accordingly. "Wherever you are. As long as you want me to be there."
Saying so sort of stokes that ache a bit more than he expects it to...? Especially once they reach the second floor and he catches a telltale glimpse of light down the hall, but... well!! It's fine. He's fine! They can definitely make it down this hallway without any incident whatsoever!
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Hmm. Dangerous thoughts that send his pulse spiking, and yet he doesn't—can't—pull his hand away. Sylvain leaned into his touch; he felt it, or thought he felt it, and thus that's all the excuse he needs to remain exactly as he is while Sylvain effectively rends his heart in two. To hear Sylvain say such a thing is—it's cruel, really. It's Sylvain treating him like everyone else, telling him exactly what he wants to hear, when they both know that Sylvain doesn't mean it. How could he? Felix is Sylvain's best friend; it is... enough, he supposes, but it will never be more, and it hurts to be reminded of it so acutely.
Or: Duty pulls them apart now, but one day? One day, someone will pull Sylvain even further away from him, and Felix, as selfish as it is, squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly unable to bear the thought.]
Don't, [he murmurs, a pained, pathetic attempt to stop something that he, mmm, isn't quite sure of.] I'm not—you can't say things you don't mean. Not to me.
[Because he always wants Sylvain by his side. Always. He's so sure that Sylvain knows this.]
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It's cute. It's just a little bit heartbreaking, too--because whether it bears any significance or not, the connection is undeniably there, and suddenly Sylvain can't decide if it would be worse to imagine Felix like this with anyone else, or to wonder if this, too, might end up driving further distance between them as another drunken regret.
He knows he should probably, like... turn his head away...? Discourage this, somehow, before he ends up making this so much worse, but... man. He never has been happy with what he has, has he? He's always wanted more when he already has so much more than he could ever deserve. This, he supposes, is no different, and so although the welling of guilt is familiar, a sharp and sickening twist and tug in his chest that threatens to choke him, this fragment of something warm, something precious, is something he stupidly, selfishly refuses to give up.
Selfish, selfish, selfish--and even more so, still, because Felix doesn't want him to go on, but the thought of him believing for even a second that Sylvain doesn't mean every word hurts worse than any weapon he's gone up against ever could.
"Felix..."
He pauses, collecting himself just long enough to push past this reality of his own making, in which the one person he's ever promised his forever to in complete and total honesty... doesn't actually want to hear it at all. It's a damned bitter pill to swallow.
"I do mean it. We promised... remember?" If he quiets his voice, it's surely so their conversation won't travel far enough to reach the open door ahead. "We'll stick together..."
He'd meant it then, too. How could he doubt him now?
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Here's the thing: Their promise means more to Felix than Felix can ever express; it is, without a doubt, the most important promise he's ever made, but this... isn't about that. It can't be, because it's one thing for Sylvain to come riding back from battle because he's, mmm, obligated to—but it's another thing for Sylvain to come to him because he's obligated to. Felix doesn't want that. Felix wants Sylvain to choose to come to his side, over and over and over again, because that's precisely where he wants to be.
Expressing that, however, is a tricky, tricky thing.]
...You can't die without me, [he says, firmly,] but you can live without me, Sylvain.
[Hmm. There's far too much starting and stopping for his liking, but what can he do? He wants to tell Sylvain that he isn't a child any longer; he knows it's selfish of him to lord a promise over Sylvain's head, as though he has any sort of claim to him, but finding the right words for that is impossible. He settles, then, for slowly sliding his hand down the side of Sylvain's face, memorizing every dip and divot before his fingers come to rest along the line of the other man's jaw. Like he wants to pull his hand away, but he can't convince himself to do so...
...Because he absolutely can't, even as he wills himself to open his eyes, to swallow a sigh. He will allow himself this small selfishness, all while he attempts to be as selfless as he believes he needs to be. For Sylvain. Sylvain deserves to be happy, and so, quietly, honestly:]
I won't hold you back.
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He can't live without him... He can't--and he knows he can't--and that's exactly why, for all of a few seconds that pass a little more like an eternity, those words manage to knock the air right out of him.
Sylvain thinks of years spent at war. Of countless battles; countless enemies; countless lives, ended by his lance in exchange for his own. He thinks of all the times he'd been so worn down from all the fighting, when the weight of his armor and his weapon and his conscience grew to be too much and the world around him was nothing but cold heat and silent noise. He wonders if he would have found the strength to grit his teeth and push forward even still if he hadn't thought, then, of what it would mean to leave Felix behind before they'd seen the other side of their victory.
He thinks of the years he'd spent before Garreg Mach, too, when his world had been little more than the stretch of snow that connected Gautier and Fraldarius. The way his parents had loved him--or... at least the way they'd said they loved him, when they'd said they loved him--and the way Miklan had hated him and the way no one else had even known he was there. He thinks of how people had only ever liked his smiles and his laughs, and how he'd taught himself to never, ever show them anything else, even as he felt the bitter burn of resentment building in him. He wonders if he might have ended up like his brother, too, a ticking timebomb just waiting to tear everything down along with him, if Felix hadn't snuck his way past all of that to see him in a way no one else ever has--and probably ever will.
...He can't think of a way to say any of this, of course. He has words for everything except for what matters, and so:
"Hey," he laughs. Somehow, he laughs, and he's actually kind of impressed in the worst sort of way at how convincing he still sounds? You know, considering the fact that it feels like coughing up a thousand shards of glass on its way out. "Isn't that supposed to be my line...?"
He can't imagine a time when Felix has ever done anything but pull him forward, even when he's so certain he can't take another step.
"I'm the good-for-nothing here... You should be more worried about yourself, right? I mean, I did keep you from your work tonight." And... he could leave it at that? He probably should leave it at that--but he hears himself continue without pause instead, hearing himself seamlessly adding: "I'm sure His Majesty's been beside himself without you around."
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No. He absolutely didn't want to hear that, just like he absolutely doesn't want to hear about, think about, Dimitri. Hearing Sylvain speak that title aloud is all that it takes to send Felix tensing, to prompt the hand lingering against Sylvain's face to suddenly drop, because it's not—it isn't fair! It isn't fair that Felix has given so, so much to Dimitri, and yet, even when Dimitri isn't present, Dimitri still manages to take from him. He's inescapable, and you know, Felix both was and was not prepared for it? Knew, when he accepted his father's title, that his life was irrevocably tied to that of his king, but he'd thought (foolishly, so foolishly) that he'd have something all to himself. Someone. A safe haven, because isn't that what Sylvain has always been...
But no, no. Of course that wasn't—isn't—to be, and now Felix thinks of Dimitri right before he'd left him for the night: tall and tired and trying to smile. You deserve a respite, he'd said. A break from him—no, from the weight of him, and yet here he is, anyway. Still bearing down on Felix. Sometimes it feels as though he can barely breathe.]
Why does it matter?
[A quiet question that slips out before he can really think about it, and once again he sounds, mmm... bitter. Very much so, actually, because he knows that it is really he.]
Dimitri can do as he pleases, [he grumbles, suddenly wishing he were standing on his own two feet.] He's hardly my responsibility. I'm tired of everyone assuming that he is.
[And why do so many people assume that? Like, why does Ingrid write to him for updates, when she's complained about his brief letters time and time again? Because she knows, just like Felix knows, that Dimitri is his responsibility—that he's made Dimitri his responsibility. This is his burden to bear.
But it isn't Sylvain's, and so Felix huffs out a short breath. Tries to once again focus on nothing but Sylvain, Sylvain, Sylvain, even as Dimitri's weight remains heavy on his shoulders.]
...I should make you help sort all the paperwork I've missed.
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It... hurts? Like, knowing that he'd said something to make Felix sound like that, let alone that he could to begin with. Some small, terrible part of him thinks of the open door up ahead and hopes that somehow, impossibly, Dimitri might have heard him.
But, no. They're certainly too far away yet, which means it serves no purpose except to twist like knives within him, a reminder of how cruel, how selfish Sylvain can be without even thinking. After all, hadn't he brought Felix out to help him forget all of this...? Of course Dimitri needs him... if anyone knows that, it would be Felix himself: ever diligent and ever loyal, trailing after the rest of them and working twice as hard as anyone Sylvain has ever known, even (or especially) after losing so, so much, in the hope that he might not lose more.
And since when did they all start relying so heavily on the youngest of them, anyway...? Isn't it supposed to be their job--Sylvain's job--to take care of him? He'd never wanted Felix to have to grow up as fast as he had, and yet here they are now, years later, and Felix is probably the most grown up out of the three of them... and Sylvain isn't helping!!
"...I--" he starts after a moment, the 'm sorry part of it caught in his throat as Felix soldiers on forward, and that's... fine? He can always make it up to him later, anyway, but--
Wait.
"Hold on... Help?" he repeats, incredulous. It's... actually funny enough to shock some of the shadows from his eyes as they widen, ever so slightly. "Felix... I've seen you sort paperwork before. I'll be the only one doing any actual sorting!"
Spoken as if he does, in fact, intend to help him... because honestly? If Felix really does want his help, he'll be there in a heartbeat.
"How much could you have missed in one night, anyway?"
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But for now—for now—Sylvain is still with him, warm and solid, and Felix isn't eager to sour the moment any more than he already has. He just wants... well? He wants Sylvain to be happy, of course. Sylvain deserves to be happy. There is, however, the selfish desire to make Sylvain happy just to see Sylvain smile, because that's the image Felix wants to fix in his brain before he passes out for the night.]
Enough, [he huffs, shifting a bit in Sylvain's arms as he wills himself to once again relax.] Nobles are annoyingly persistent.
[Meeting request after meeting request! Damn! Some people just can't take a hint—and maybe that's because, ah, Felix tends to throw away things he deems to be useless, ie personal requests from other nobles. It be like that because he be like that, but as he considers his overflowing wastebasket, he sniffs. Haughtily.]
And my desk is organized. [Mmm, well—] Mostly.
[Do not @ him? Especially as, after a second's consideration, he brings his free hand to press against Sylvain's chest. Ostensibly to that he can steady himself as he once again shifts about, but does he pull his hand away when he settles... no...]
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But hey, Sylvain is nothing if not used to forcing feelings down so he doesn't have to face them, right? He ignores it as best he can for the time being, in favor of humming a wordless note that translates roughly to, 'The only times your desks have ever been organized are when you first get them or immediately after I clear them for you but go off I guess.'
"Mostly," he repeats, and it's neither a question nor an agreement. It's just a statement like any other, said in the light, amused-yet-exasperated tone of a mother giving her son a second chance to tell her if he'd cleaned his room before she opens the door.
And speaking of open doors... Sylvain regards the one just ahead with the same sort of subtle tension as he had Dimitri those few moons ago, a wary sort of consideration just barely there in the slightest crease of his brow. The chances of Dimitri being inside... are unfortunately very, very high, he thinks, and unless the man has no interest in whether Felix would make it back safely (unlikely) or fallen asleep at his desk (somehow, even less likely), there's no way the two of them won't be seen. And that's... a bad thing, he thinks.
But...
...Well, is it, though? He remembers Dimitri with Felix's hands held in his; Dimitri with Felix blushing at his side--and you know? Maybe this is what Dimitri deserves, for trying to take Felix away from him to begin with.
He glances back down to the man in his arms as they get close (tries not to think about that hand at his chest, whether his heart might give him away or how Felix could possibly think that it isn't wholly his) and then:
"Hold on," he murmurs, pausing very, very briefly to readjust his hold, careful to keep Felix close--but, briefly or no, it's just enough time for brown and blue to catch against one another as he spares one quick, subtle glance into the office.
Dimitri, to his credit, keeps quiet... but from here, Sylvain can see the way sudden tension ebbs into silent resignation, as if the sharp edge of his glare were enough to cut some of the invisible strings that had keep him from sinking in on himself. And Sylvain hates the flash of something white hot and jagged that shoots through him? Hates that he likes showing off that, while Dimitri had only held Felix's hands, Sylvain is allowed to hold all of him... And it only lasts a second, really? But he knows it's gonna follow him down the rest of this damn hall--and likely for the rest of his stay here, too.
"How about this: I'll help you with your paperwork tomorrow," he offers, eyes darting back to Felix as he slips seamlessly back into their conversation, as if nothing had ever happened. "And, in exchange... you come out with me again. Deal?"
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Which is, as it turns out, a colossal mistake, because Sylvain glances down at him just before coming to a stop—and ah, but those eyes. Those eyes. They only meet Felix's for a second, and yet it's enough to render him momentarily winded; all he can do, he finds, is blink up even as Sylvain looks away, remaining perfectly still as Sylvain lifts him as easily as anything. It's—? Hmm. This is another thing that, for whatever reason, sticks in Felix's mind: warm, brown eyes, locked on his from above, and what if they followed him as he worked his way down, down, down...
...Mmph. An interesting thought, one that prompts a light shiver as Sylvain's gaze slips back down to him—and that prompts Felix to look away, hurriedly peering back over Sylvain's shoulder. His heart is racing. So is Sylvain's, interestingly enough, but... it's nothing, Felix thinks. It makes sense, given the weight the man's been carrying for who knows how long, and so Felix ignores it, thinks instead about going out with Sylvain yet again. Should he, when he knows his desire to spend time with Sylvain is far more complicated than it has any right to be? When a single, simple look sparks thoughts about Felix using Sylvain, just as so many people have used him before?]
Eager to see me embarrass myself again? [A snort.] No, thanks.
[Being carried is... both good and bad, really. He isn't eager to repeat this experience any time soon, or to entertain thoughts that are unfair to his closest friend—but as Felix looks back down the hallway, idly studying the one open door (at this hour?) he finds himself unable to resist adding:]
Unless I choose where we go.
[There's a new opera in town, you see. One that comes highly recommended by Dorothea herself, and Felix had briefly entertained the idea of attending its opening... with Dimitri, given that Dimitri never, ever takes a break. But if Felix were to drag Sylvain along, instead, well... would it be so bad? It isn't as though he's asked Dimitri about—
—ah. Dimitri. Felix's fingers curl into the fabric of Sylvain's shirt, holding on so tightly, because as Felix watches that open doorway grow smaller and smaller, Felix suddenly knows where, exactly, it leads. So that makes this... the long way to his quarters? Which would be forgivable, given how long it's been since Sylvain has walked these halls, but... hmm. Hmm.]
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"Oh?"
Just... oh, just one simple word carefully layered with intrigue and a fond sort of amusement that masks an undercurrent of quiet hope--and beneath that, a bitter hot satisfaction that buoys the rest up a little too easily for something that he half expects to wind up exactly as it had when they'd been at the monastery.
It would make sense if Felix were itching for his sword, cooped up in the castle like this? He'd never been one to settle. He was always on the move and determined to improve in any and every way possible. He's more relaxed now than he'd been in his youth, sure, and he certainly seems... you know, used to this quieter sort of life, now... But would it be really be so surprising if Felix 'While you developed terrible coping mechanism, I studied the blade' Fraldarius were to bring him to--of all fucking places, while he's visiting the literal capital city--the castle training grounds?
...That said. Would it be so terrible, really...? He already feels out of practice, the Lance of Ruin well on its way to becoming a relic in definition and purpose, so he can only imagine the earful he'd get for his sloppy... ah, everything--but his thoughts stray to a certain Incident, memories flickering to life of the wall at his back and a sword at his throat, as he'd yielded to the sharp, unwavering confidence in Felix's eyes, and hands, and voice... hmm. Well, it could just be worth the risk.
"Done, then," he says, before Felix can take it back. He would go with him into the eternal flames if he asked him to... but he decides to tone it down a bit, offering a quick wink and an earnest, "You just name a time and a place; I'll be there."
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...Hmm. He's almost relieved when Sylvain comes to a stop before the door to his quarters, because standing on his own two feet eliminates the distraction that is Sylvain's... everything. It is, quite simply, easier for Felix to think when he isn't aware of every breath Sylvain takes, even if tilting his head back to look his friend in the eye as he bids him good night is—well. It's that same feeling as when Sylvain glanced down at him a few minutes ago, really. A sort of bludgeoning force to the chest, and it takes a surprising amount of self-restraint to keep himself upright, to keep himself from reaching out to pull Sylvain down to him—and back with him. His bed is so close, and his bed is so cold, and he still desperately, desperately, wants to trail his fingers along the line of Sylvain's jaw come the morning.
But no, no. Sylvain makes another quip about Felix's messy desk; Felix gathers enough of himself to tell him the place and the (absurdly early) time; Sylvain lingers for a moment, almost as though he's waiting—hoping?—for something, before heading down the hallway, leaving Felix to crawl into bed alone.
Ah. Yes. It is definitely, miserably cold.
Felix, however, is out before he can feel too grumpy about it—and then he's waking up what seems like a few short minutes later, grumbling incoherently as a servant sets his morning tea on a table before pulling back his curtains. Well, shit. A quick bath helps; three or so cups of tea help even more, and by the time he sweeps into his office, he feels... human again, more or less. He hopes that he at least looks human. There are surely dark bags under his eyes, and he knows that his hair is pulled back into an even more messy ponytail than usual, but what can he do? He doesn't care about his hair on the best of days; on a morning like this, he would happily cut it all off without so much as a second thought. What matters are the stacks of parchment on his desk.
...Goddess above, but there's so much parchment. He's glaring down at it all when he hears the door open somewhere off to his side, wondering why he thought his desk was so much cleaner than it actually is. It's chaos! ...Organized chaos. He has three inkwells sitting to the side, and two of them are bone dry, thanks to his habit of leaving the lid unscrewed. Great. He knows what the man approaching him is going to say about that, and so, despite the way his heart speeds up, he continues focusing on his desk as he snipes:]
You always did like sleeping in.
[Good morning, sunshine. Sylvain is probably-definitely right on time, and Felix is................... is grumpy.]
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It follows him all the way to Felix's door, in fact, at which point he (reluctantly) sets him on his feet. If his hands linger just a little longer than necessary... well. He can't have Felix tipping over now, can he? Not after all that. He's just... steadying him. That's all.
And then he's stepping back and taking a slow breath to steady himself, fingers curling in against his palms, because the urge to close that distance between them is suddenly so impossibly strong that it's damn near tangible. An actual, physical pull to drag him in--and for just a moment, he entertains the thought that Felix (with that expression, those eyes that stare at him like he can see right through him and still believe that whatever he finds there is something real, and human, and worth anything at all) might feel it, too. What it might be like, if Felix were to catch his wrist, or his arm; his lips, as he pulls him into a kiss and his room all at once. He'd get drunk on him faster than he could with any drink, he thinks, if the spark of heat in his veins is any indication, but--
...But. If one drunken kiss is enough to spark weeks and weeks of suffocating silence, then he can't say he's willing to risk two--let alone anything more than that. So he doesn't pursue anything, and neither does Felix, and although Sylvain knows it's for the best, the sound of the door clicking shut behind him once he's finally torn himself away sounds an awful lot like regret.
It's a feeling that lingers all the way to his own room... and to some extent, through 'til morning, although the early hour certainly contributes its fair share in that respect. The things he does for this man, honestly? The trials he suffers through.
Or, in other words: yes, when Sylvain cracks the door to Felix's office open, he is probably-definitely exactly on time--and, despite the fact he is decidedly not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, he does at least appear like, more-than-reasonably put together? Neatly dressed, hair somehow the same artful mess it always is. It's a little unfair? But it's also Sylvain, so... artfully disheveled is kind of his style. Something, something, it's all natural, baby!! But appearances aside, as the door closes behind him, he visibly relaxes, breathing an inaudible sigh. He is... tired!! And Felix's office is...
Well! Felix's office is Felix's office. We can't all be perfect.
"Good morning, Felix," he replies, pointed but without any heat, as he forces his eyes away from the catastrophe waiting and up to Felix himself, which...
Ah. Have this, like, exasperated huff of a laugh.
"You look..." Hmm. Does he trail off because he can't think of a word? Or because he knows if he says it, it'll be his last? Honestly, it's a little bit of both, so let him just... walk over, while he eyes that ponytail in particular. "Well... you look like you could've used some sleeping in. And," he nods at the other man's hair, "if you leave it like that, you're going to hate when it gets stuck in the band."
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But it very much does, especially when Felix finally deigns to glance over toward his approaching friend. Ah. Of course he looks as impossibly handsome as ever, even after spending a night drinking; he's probably used to carousing about until the break of dawn, after their Academy days, but Felix still finds himself studying Sylvain with something akin to wonder. How? Why? Obviously ordering him ("ordering" him) to come help with paperwork was a mistake, because how in the Goddess' name is Felix supposed to concentrate on anything when all he wants is...
Well! Well. He does his best to give Sylvain a Look, like he's totally not tired—and like his hair is totally not a mess, thank you. He brushed it! ...Quickly!]
I thought you were here to organize paperwork, [he fires back, sans heat.] My hair is fine.
[As is he, even though he's clearly... so tired. This is your fault, Sylvain. Take responsibility.]
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"I'll get around to that!" He's currently trying to not look at the tragedy scattered in front of him, and the only reason he succeeds is because it's Felix he's looking at instead. "Don't worry. But I came to help, you know."
He shrugs, bringing one hand to his hip while he regards Felix with a careful eye. He wants to help!! He wouldn't even mind if this became something of a routine for them, really--and isn't it so perfectly, comfortably, dangerously domestic, to think of what it might be like to live in a world like that? One where he would wake to Felix, his hair spilling loose over his shoulders and his eyes still softened by sleep, wordlessly offering a hair tie and his back in turn as he knelt before him... He imagines combing his fingers through long, dark strands, loosening any lingering snags or tangles. Something so, so simple--enough so, in fact, that he doesn't expect it to inspire as harsh of an ache in his chest as it really does.
"I'm not gonna force you, Felix. But..." Let him, like... gently gesture with a nod and one hand outstretched, to indicate that Felix should be the one to come closer... if he wants to, anyway. "Let me help...? I'll do anything you want me to."
You know... paperwork, hair styling, kissing, entertaining any particular fantasies that he may or may not have... normal friend stuff! Definitely normal political stuff, too. Just the expected relationship between a Margrave and a Duke.
"Just trust me, alright?"
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