[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.
[Saying that he'll do anything Felix wants him to is a dangerous, dangerous offer for Sylvain to make, even if it's, mmm, completely innocent in nature. Felix can suddenly think of fifty things he'd like Sylvain to do for him—and to him, honestly, but as he shifts his attention down to that outstretched hand, he does his best to pretend as though he's only, like, mildly interested in this offer. He isn't imagining Sylvain on his knees... or Sylvain's hand on his shoulder as he sinks to his knees, fingers fumbling with—
—hey? No?? He isn't allowed to feel such things, which is why he decides to deal with this head-on. It's only hair, after all. Such a small thing. His grumpy self even manages a small smirk.]
Like you could force me to do anything, [he huffs, affecting amusement even as he takes a cautious step closer (and does not, does not, imagine what it would be like for Sylvain to try).] Don't get carried away.
[Felix is as stubborn as they come, etc, etc. They both know it. Felix takes a good deal of pride in it, and yet, once his eyes flick back up to Sylvain's face, he feels that familiar rush of excitement tinged with wariness. Hmm.]
...But I suppose you'll be distracted, unless I allow you to deal with it.
[It's supposed to be a sarcastic drawl. It is a sarcastic drawl—but once his eyes meet Sylvain's? Once he decides to hold that gaze as he subtly tilts his head toward Sylvain's hand, giving him tacit approval to touch? Ah. This is something more than sarcasm; this is something... dangerous, he thinks, and yet he's powerless to stop it.]
IS it innocent in nature...? Like, can he really even pretend that it is, when that hint of a smirk re-summons the memory of training swords and his own racing pulse, half-formed and faded from the remnants of sleep still clinging to the edges of his mind, and yet with a startling sort of clarity even still...
Maybe not! Maybe not--and that's a thought that Felix all but confirms for him with every additional word spoken, because there's just something about that tone...? That challenge, dripping with a casual disinterest that drags desire through his veins in a way that maybe, probably, definitely shouldn't be as exciting as it is. He'd stand more of a chance here if that, when paired with this casual, comfortable closeness, didn't somehow manage to be exactly the kind of thing that sends a spark of interest buzzing all through him; as it stands, he's losing ground fast, and faster still, as he brings his hand in nearer to catch at some of the fallen strands near Felix's face.
Hmm... Suddenly, he doesn't really want to fix his hair for him after all.
"Very distracted," he agrees, and his tone is just that--but he'll hold Felix's eyes a moment longer before his attention lifts to his hair instead, as he steps in that last bit closer and reaches both hands carefully up and around to sort of just... try to slip the band from his hair entirely? Just for the sake of redoing it for him, of course! It has nothing at all to do with the fact his thoughts have taken a different turn entirely with this newfound lack of space between them, or the way he's all but holding his breath by the time he glances back down.
And, briefly, down farther, too--his eyes flicker down to Felix's lips for a moment, and despite the careful, almost hesitant movements of his hands, he sounds the very picture of confidence when he adds:
"Although... I could still be distracted by something else, you know."
Lots of things in this office to be distracted by, after all.
[How many people are allowed to touch Felix's hair? Ingrid can get away with straightening it mid-lecture, bossy (and well-loved) as she is, but other than that—well! Even Annette, who is, without a doubt, Felix's favorite person, isn't allowed to mess with it, no matter how many times she begs him to please, please, please let her braid it. It isn't a matter of vanity; it's just that Felix's hair is... his.
But of course that hasn't stopped Sylvain. Over the years, Sylvain has made a habit of affectionately ruffling Felix's hair, or tugging at Felix's ponytail, or any number of things that others are simply not permitted to do—and they've earned him nothing but sharp looks and even sharper-sounding cries of, "Sylvain!" Sylvain gets away with things others can only dream of, where Felix is concerned, and it's all because Felix trusts him implicitly.
It isn't merely trust, however, that keeps Felix rooted to the spot as Sylvain approaches. It's something more than trust that sends his heart hammering in his chest as Sylvain catches a few loose strands of hair, that sends him lifting his chin just a bit as Sylvain brings both hands to the back of his head. And you know, he's terrible at hiding it? It's like he told Sylvain last night, when they were halfway to his room: he isn't good at lying. The bright spots of color appearing on Felix's cheeks speak volumes as to his, ah, current state, but as he keeps his eyes glued to Sylvain's face, like hell he's about to back down from this.]
You don't have time to organize everything in my office.
[Obviously this ~something else~ that threatens to distract Sylvain is, like, the overstuffed bookshelf, or the table by the window covered in plans and half-written letters. It can't be Felix himself, even though Felix caught what, precisely, Sylvain's eyes dropped down to? Even though Felix feels those fingers in his hair, moving with such care, such purpose, and here's the thing: he isn't stupid. He feels the undeniable tension in the air, and this time he can't blame it on alcohol, or sheer loneliness, or any number of things. He knows his heart.
And he knows that these playful things come so easily to Sylvain. What if he doesn't mean any of this? What if this is a game he's unknowingly playing? Falling back on old habits would be simple... but Felix thinks of Sylvain's arms around him, of Sylvain nuzzling into his hair, of Sylvain's lips brushing along his knuckles, and Felix takes a tiny step closer.]
It's only hair, Sylvain, [he quietly says, aiming for impatient—and failing so, so miserably, because the tension between them is suddenly reflected in his voice? A barely there shake, even more prevalent as he (boldly?) adds:] I won't break.
The bookshelf and the table are, in fact, going to bring their very own challenges to the table once Sylvain can be bothered to tear his eyes away from that blush rising in Felix's cheeks, but for right now? They couldn't matter less. Because yeah, he's seen Felix blush before! He's seen his face flush for countless reasons over all their years spent together, be it tears or laughter or outrage, but this--
This is because of him, isn't it...? He can do this to him.
Not his words; just him.
It's something so small, really, but he gets the feeling that this is only a blush in the same way that it had only been a kiss, before: simple, innocent even, and yet downright fucking heady in its significance. And, as Felix takes that one extra step, Sylvain finds himself drawn closer even still as he leans in another unconscious inch in response.
"No," he agrees, pitched low like he's speaking more to himself than he is Felix. "But it's nice to take things slow, sometimes."
Something that Felix often forgets! And something that seems less important by the second considering the Here and Now, as Sylvain's hands drop any pretense of fixing anything in favor of letting the fingers of one thread through the hair at Felix's nape, while the other drifts down to trace the curve of his jaw. And this... is incredibly stupid? Incredibly risky, he knows--and maybe it's the lack of sleep talking, but it suddenly feels so, so crucial that he shows Felix how he feels? If Felix doesn't want him to, then he'll push him away, and Sylvain will apologize, and that'll be that.
But if he does want him to... if he's thought about that kiss even half as often as Sylvain has...
His eyes drop to Felix's lips again, and as he leans in that last bit closer, he only hesitates long enough to check Felix's expression for any sign of discomfort before he tilts his head to kiss him--first, softly at the corner of his mouth, and then one more properly to his lips, lingering long enough to just... test the waters a bit, before he tries for anything further.
[Felix has often thought of that foolish, reckless kiss? Has often wondered what Sylvain felt, in those moments before their lips met, but—ah. Sylvain's fingers brush along his skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and what if—what if—this is what Sylvain felt: an ache, a need, so deep it's practically paralyzing. How is he supposed to even breathe, when Sylvain is touching him so tenderly...
The answer, of course, is that Felix doesn't. His eyes drop to Sylvain's lips, watching them slowly, steadily, come closer—and then his eyes fall shut, lips parting ever so slightly the second he feels Sylvain's breath ghost against them. Is this what Sylvain felt? He hopes so. Goddess, he hopes so, because this is so exhilarating as to be terrifying. It doesn't matter that this isn't their first kiss; what matters is that this is the first kiss that Sylvain wants, even if he's being... careful about it. Considerate. Like he's giving Felix an opportunity to slip away.
...Ludicrous, Felix thinks, cracking open his eyes just enough to register that Sylvain is not, in fact, pulling away—because he isn't allowed to? Not now, not ever, which is why he brings his hands up, gripping the front of Sylvain's poor, poor shirt before he firmly presses his lips to Sylvain's. There! Now it's known that he wants this, too. He will gladly own up to this.
But while the urge to continue kissing Sylvain—to explore every inch of Sylvain's mouth, just to figure out what makes him gasp, makes him moan—is all but overwhelming... no, no. He keeps this kiss as chaste as Sylvain's first, enjoying it for what it is before he pulls back a scant inch or so. He doesn't want any more space between them than there absolutely has to be, but after he takes in a breath, wills the room to be still:]
Sylvain, [he murmurs, pausing for a moment when he's unable to find the right words. He wants to ask so many things, really, but so many of them boil down to one, simple thing.] ...Why now?
[Why not last night, when they were alone for hours and hours? Why not immediately after their first kiss, if that wasn't a mistake at all? Why not any time before now?]
Again: it's not a world-shattering kiss? It's simple, and chaste, and feels so fleeting that it takes an extra half-second after Felix pulls away for Sylvain's eyes to flutter open, like he expects those hands to tug him down after him anyway. But for what it is, it's still enough to make him ache for more--and so when he considers the question he's been asked, Sylvain doesn't hesitate for a moment before he replies with a quiet:
"Why not...?"
Objectively a terrible answer, if it can even be considered one at all, but... well? Why not now? Why not here, in Felix's messy office, with one hand tangled in his hair and the other brushing a thumb over his cheek like he can't believe he could ever be trusted to hold something so, so important? And Felix had kissed him back. He'd felt it--knows he'd felt it--so what, exactly, had made him pull away...?
"It beats cleaning," he teases, tone kept carefully light as if it might mask the way his heart pounds, frantic against his ribs. Because now's when he's supposed to tell him how he feels, isn't it...? When Sylvain admits to wanting more than what he already has and to wishing to be the most important person in Felix's life, the same way that he is in Sylvain's... but it was why now, that he'd asked. Not just why, or why him, but why now--and Sylvain can't help but think of the way Felix had looked at him when he'd kissed him before, his eyes turned watery in the dim-lit night. He thinks of the long, deafening silence that came after. The cold, distant greeting he'd been given on his arrival, and how caught off guard Felix had been when he'd all but ambushed him that following morning.
He thinks of Felix, surprisingly comfortable in his new life here in Fhirdiad; of Dimitri, holding his hand in the courtyard. And although the thought makes his stomach turn, he suddenly he wonders if, somewhere along the line, he might have forgotten how to read Felix after all.
"And... you want to," he adds, and it comes out twisted on the softest laugh--at himself, or at his uncertainty, he isn't sure, but he tilts his head and shrugs, like maybe if he acts indifferent, he won't wait so anxiously for Felix's answer. "...Don't you?"
[There are many good reasons not to do this, in Felix's opinion. So many reasons not to risk this bond of theirs, but as Felix studies Sylvain, brow furrowing, the most important reason is this: Sylvain's old habit of using casual intimacy as a sort of... weapon? As a defense mechanism, of sorts. Sylvain gives people what they want—what he thinks they want—so that he can land the first blow, because a clever fighter knows the value of such a move.
But while Felix does indeed want this, does indeed want Sylvain, Felix... doesn't want Sylvain to view this as that. Felix doesn't want Sylvain playing anything off with a laugh and a shrug, because it isn't as though Felix wants Sylvain for some stupid reason. A selfish reason, yes; like, he wants Sylvain all to himself, there's no excusing that, but it becomes a moot point when Sylvain feels the need to keep those walls up, up, up. Is he not taking this seriously, then? Is this a spot of fun, or a reluctant sacrifice, or a wary attempt to placate Felix, just so he can keep Felix at an arm's length for the foreseeable future...
...Hmm. The warmth within Felix fades; coal turns to ash, because of course he wants this. He does—but now he isn't sure if Sylvain does, and the thought of Sylvain viewing him as just another person in a long, long line of Users disgusts him. He would never take advantage of Sylvain. Never. It's why he stiffens, why his stomach flips, why his expression tightens before he manages to spit out:]
Do you?
[It sounds like a cop-out, but it... isn't? At least, it isn't meant to be. This is genuinely concerning to him.]
Does it count as a cop-out if it's enough to crack through the carefully crafted mask he'd thrown on--perhaps just a little bit too quickly...? Regardless, it isn't the kind of response Sylvain expects, to say the least... Which really only means that there's enough time for his expression to shift briefly into one of honest confusion, plain and simple, as he struggles to regain his bearings.
"What...?"
...Shouldn't that be obvious? Hasn't he been obvious? In seeking him out at any given chance, even in the few days he's been here? In selfishly taking as much of his time for himself as he possibly can--and still wishing for more, because he knows it won't ever be enough?
And sure, he'd asked Felix the same question... but still, how can he doubt him, when he's wanted to kiss him for so, so long, and wanted him--all of him, all for himself, forever, just like they'd promised--for longer than he even knows?
...Hmm. He should probably, like... give Felix some space, because they're too close, suddenly--just as much as they're not close enough, he thinks, have never been close enough--and yet something in Sylvain tells him that if he moves too far now, he might not be allowed back in again, and... more than anything, he doesn't want that. If he's here, he can fix things, even if only to mend them back to some semblance of what they'd been before; if he steps away, he'll be leaving too much behind (because what of him isn't Felix's, in the end?) to put even himself back together, let alone anything else. It's like a real, physical pain: twisting and tugging in his chest, and tightening with every wrong step he takes. So! He'll stay right where he is, for as long as he's allowed.
"Of course I do, Felix, I--" --think I love you, he nearly finishes, but...! Aha... he can't dive that deep just yet. He'll just, ah, try to lighten the mood instead. "I've wanted to... I mean, I kissed you this time, didn't I?"
So no more glaring, please! How can Felix stay upset with these puppy eyes?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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—hey? No?? He isn't allowed to feel such things, which is why he decides to deal with this head-on. It's only hair, after all. Such a small thing. His grumpy self even manages a small smirk.]
Like you could force me to do anything, [he huffs, affecting amusement even as he takes a cautious step closer (and does not, does not, imagine what it would be like for Sylvain to try).] Don't get carried away.
[Felix is as stubborn as they come, etc, etc. They both know it. Felix takes a good deal of pride in it, and yet, once his eyes flick back up to Sylvain's face, he feels that familiar rush of excitement tinged with wariness. Hmm.]
...But I suppose you'll be distracted, unless I allow you to deal with it.
[It's supposed to be a sarcastic drawl. It is a sarcastic drawl—but once his eyes meet Sylvain's? Once he decides to hold that gaze as he subtly tilts his head toward Sylvain's hand, giving him tacit approval to touch? Ah. This is something more than sarcasm; this is something... dangerous, he thinks, and yet he's powerless to stop it.]
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Maybe not! Maybe not--and that's a thought that Felix all but confirms for him with every additional word spoken, because there's just something about that tone...? That challenge, dripping with a casual disinterest that drags desire through his veins in a way that maybe, probably, definitely shouldn't be as exciting as it is. He'd stand more of a chance here if that, when paired with this casual, comfortable closeness, didn't somehow manage to be exactly the kind of thing that sends a spark of interest buzzing all through him; as it stands, he's losing ground fast, and faster still, as he brings his hand in nearer to catch at some of the fallen strands near Felix's face.
Hmm... Suddenly, he doesn't really want to fix his hair for him after all.
"Very distracted," he agrees, and his tone is just that--but he'll hold Felix's eyes a moment longer before his attention lifts to his hair instead, as he steps in that last bit closer and reaches both hands carefully up and around to sort of just... try to slip the band from his hair entirely? Just for the sake of redoing it for him, of course! It has nothing at all to do with the fact his thoughts have taken a different turn entirely with this newfound lack of space between them, or the way he's all but holding his breath by the time he glances back down.
And, briefly, down farther, too--his eyes flicker down to Felix's lips for a moment, and despite the careful, almost hesitant movements of his hands, he sounds the very picture of confidence when he adds:
"Although... I could still be distracted by something else, you know."
Lots of things in this office to be distracted by, after all.
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But of course that hasn't stopped Sylvain. Over the years, Sylvain has made a habit of affectionately ruffling Felix's hair, or tugging at Felix's ponytail, or any number of things that others are simply not permitted to do—and they've earned him nothing but sharp looks and even sharper-sounding cries of, "Sylvain!" Sylvain gets away with things others can only dream of, where Felix is concerned, and it's all because Felix trusts him implicitly.
It isn't merely trust, however, that keeps Felix rooted to the spot as Sylvain approaches. It's something more than trust that sends his heart hammering in his chest as Sylvain catches a few loose strands of hair, that sends him lifting his chin just a bit as Sylvain brings both hands to the back of his head. And you know, he's terrible at hiding it? It's like he told Sylvain last night, when they were halfway to his room: he isn't good at lying. The bright spots of color appearing on Felix's cheeks speak volumes as to his, ah, current state, but as he keeps his eyes glued to Sylvain's face, like hell he's about to back down from this.]
You don't have time to organize everything in my office.
[Obviously this ~something else~ that threatens to distract Sylvain is, like, the overstuffed bookshelf, or the table by the window covered in plans and half-written letters. It can't be Felix himself, even though Felix caught what, precisely, Sylvain's eyes dropped down to? Even though Felix feels those fingers in his hair, moving with such care, such purpose, and here's the thing: he isn't stupid. He feels the undeniable tension in the air, and this time he can't blame it on alcohol, or sheer loneliness, or any number of things. He knows his heart.
And he knows that these playful things come so easily to Sylvain. What if he doesn't mean any of this? What if this is a game he's unknowingly playing? Falling back on old habits would be simple... but Felix thinks of Sylvain's arms around him, of Sylvain nuzzling into his hair, of Sylvain's lips brushing along his knuckles, and Felix takes a tiny step closer.]
It's only hair, Sylvain, [he quietly says, aiming for impatient—and failing so, so miserably, because the tension between them is suddenly reflected in his voice? A barely there shake, even more prevalent as he (boldly?) adds:] I won't break.
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This is because of him, isn't it...? He can do this to him.
Not his words; just him.
It's something so small, really, but he gets the feeling that this is only a blush in the same way that it had only been a kiss, before: simple, innocent even, and yet downright fucking heady in its significance. And, as Felix takes that one extra step, Sylvain finds himself drawn closer even still as he leans in another unconscious inch in response.
"No," he agrees, pitched low like he's speaking more to himself than he is Felix. "But it's nice to take things slow, sometimes."
Something that Felix often forgets! And something that seems less important by the second considering the Here and Now, as Sylvain's hands drop any pretense of fixing anything in favor of letting the fingers of one thread through the hair at Felix's nape, while the other drifts down to trace the curve of his jaw. And this... is incredibly stupid? Incredibly risky, he knows--and maybe it's the lack of sleep talking, but it suddenly feels so, so crucial that he shows Felix how he feels? If Felix doesn't want him to, then he'll push him away, and Sylvain will apologize, and that'll be that.
But if he does want him to... if he's thought about that kiss even half as often as Sylvain has...
His eyes drop to Felix's lips again, and as he leans in that last bit closer, he only hesitates long enough to check Felix's expression for any sign of discomfort before he tilts his head to kiss him--first, softly at the corner of his mouth, and then one more properly to his lips, lingering long enough to just... test the waters a bit, before he tries for anything further.
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The answer, of course, is that Felix doesn't. His eyes drop to Sylvain's lips, watching them slowly, steadily, come closer—and then his eyes fall shut, lips parting ever so slightly the second he feels Sylvain's breath ghost against them. Is this what Sylvain felt? He hopes so. Goddess, he hopes so, because this is so exhilarating as to be terrifying. It doesn't matter that this isn't their first kiss; what matters is that this is the first kiss that Sylvain wants, even if he's being... careful about it. Considerate. Like he's giving Felix an opportunity to slip away.
...Ludicrous, Felix thinks, cracking open his eyes just enough to register that Sylvain is not, in fact, pulling away—because he isn't allowed to? Not now, not ever, which is why he brings his hands up, gripping the front of Sylvain's poor, poor shirt before he firmly presses his lips to Sylvain's. There! Now it's known that he wants this, too. He will gladly own up to this.
But while the urge to continue kissing Sylvain—to explore every inch of Sylvain's mouth, just to figure out what makes him gasp, makes him moan—is all but overwhelming... no, no. He keeps this kiss as chaste as Sylvain's first, enjoying it for what it is before he pulls back a scant inch or so. He doesn't want any more space between them than there absolutely has to be, but after he takes in a breath, wills the room to be still:]
Sylvain, [he murmurs, pausing for a moment when he's unable to find the right words. He wants to ask so many things, really, but so many of them boil down to one, simple thing.] ...Why now?
[Why not last night, when they were alone for hours and hours? Why not immediately after their first kiss, if that wasn't a mistake at all? Why not any time before now?]
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"Why not...?"
Objectively a terrible answer, if it can even be considered one at all, but... well? Why not now? Why not here, in Felix's messy office, with one hand tangled in his hair and the other brushing a thumb over his cheek like he can't believe he could ever be trusted to hold something so, so important? And Felix had kissed him back. He'd felt it--knows he'd felt it--so what, exactly, had made him pull away...?
"It beats cleaning," he teases, tone kept carefully light as if it might mask the way his heart pounds, frantic against his ribs. Because now's when he's supposed to tell him how he feels, isn't it...? When Sylvain admits to wanting more than what he already has and to wishing to be the most important person in Felix's life, the same way that he is in Sylvain's... but it was why now, that he'd asked. Not just why, or why him, but why now--and Sylvain can't help but think of the way Felix had looked at him when he'd kissed him before, his eyes turned watery in the dim-lit night. He thinks of the long, deafening silence that came after. The cold, distant greeting he'd been given on his arrival, and how caught off guard Felix had been when he'd all but ambushed him that following morning.
He thinks of Felix, surprisingly comfortable in his new life here in Fhirdiad; of Dimitri, holding his hand in the courtyard. And although the thought makes his stomach turn, he suddenly he wonders if, somewhere along the line, he might have forgotten how to read Felix after all.
"And... you want to," he adds, and it comes out twisted on the softest laugh--at himself, or at his uncertainty, he isn't sure, but he tilts his head and shrugs, like maybe if he acts indifferent, he won't wait so anxiously for Felix's answer. "...Don't you?"
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But while Felix does indeed want this, does indeed want Sylvain, Felix... doesn't want Sylvain to view this as that. Felix doesn't want Sylvain playing anything off with a laugh and a shrug, because it isn't as though Felix wants Sylvain for some stupid reason. A selfish reason, yes; like, he wants Sylvain all to himself, there's no excusing that, but it becomes a moot point when Sylvain feels the need to keep those walls up, up, up. Is he not taking this seriously, then? Is this a spot of fun, or a reluctant sacrifice, or a wary attempt to placate Felix, just so he can keep Felix at an arm's length for the foreseeable future...
...Hmm. The warmth within Felix fades; coal turns to ash, because of course he wants this. He does—but now he isn't sure if Sylvain does, and the thought of Sylvain viewing him as just another person in a long, long line of Users disgusts him. He would never take advantage of Sylvain. Never. It's why he stiffens, why his stomach flips, why his expression tightens before he manages to spit out:]
Do you?
[It sounds like a cop-out, but it... isn't? At least, it isn't meant to be. This is genuinely concerning to him.]
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"What...?"
...Shouldn't that be obvious? Hasn't he been obvious? In seeking him out at any given chance, even in the few days he's been here? In selfishly taking as much of his time for himself as he possibly can--and still wishing for more, because he knows it won't ever be enough?
And sure, he'd asked Felix the same question... but still, how can he doubt him, when he's wanted to kiss him for so, so long, and wanted him--all of him, all for himself, forever, just like they'd promised--for longer than he even knows?
...Hmm. He should probably, like... give Felix some space, because they're too close, suddenly--just as much as they're not close enough, he thinks, have never been close enough--and yet something in Sylvain tells him that if he moves too far now, he might not be allowed back in again, and... more than anything, he doesn't want that. If he's here, he can fix things, even if only to mend them back to some semblance of what they'd been before; if he steps away, he'll be leaving too much behind (because what of him isn't Felix's, in the end?) to put even himself back together, let alone anything else. It's like a real, physical pain: twisting and tugging in his chest, and tightening with every wrong step he takes. So! He'll stay right where he is, for as long as he's allowed.
"Of course I do, Felix, I--" --think I love you, he nearly finishes, but...! Aha... he can't dive that deep just yet. He'll just, ah, try to lighten the mood instead. "I've wanted to... I mean, I kissed you this time, didn't I?"
So no more glaring, please! How can Felix stay upset with these puppy eyes?