Like, objectively speaking, there had been nothing wrong with the way Dimitri lingered in the doorway of the infirmary, while he hovered as near as he could without disrupting the work of the healers. Felix had taken a bad hit from an enemy soldier--not that you'd know it from how firmly he'd tried to shoo him out--and granted, Sylvain would be the first to admit that his attention hadn't exactly been on their friend at the time? But even if he hadn't noticed the unwavering sort of focus in his eye, he'd have to be blind not to recognize the same relief mirrored back at him when they'd been assured (ironically, it felt like it was more for their sake than Felix's) that all he still needed was some bedrest and it would be like nothing had happened.
It wasn't until well-after Felix was back on his feet that Sylvain began connecting the dots. And you know... He likes to think he wouldn't have thought anything of Dimitri trying to rebuild some shaky bridge between himself and Felix, now that he's finally come back to them? He likes to think he'd be happy to see them smiling at each other the way they used to, because Sylvain has known from the very beginning how close they used to be, and because come hell or high water, they're his friends, too.
But see, here's the thing: time has a funny way of changing people, whether they're your friends or not. It's great at easing tensions, for one--and now that there's some tenuous sort of truce between the two of them, it becomes... increasingly obvious when Dimitri insists on redirecting conversation to Felix, no matter the company shared or topic.
...Or when his eye lingers just a little too long when he thinks no one's looking.
...Or when he just so happens to find his way into the training grounds when Felix is already there, and rarely ever else--and for all Sylvain would rather sit back and let his attention fall to Felix, Felix, Felix while he trains, he finds himself suggesting they train together more and more often to offset the increasingly inevitable, 'Oh, Felix. Were you in need of a partner?' before the acrid taste of the words, 'no, thanks, he already has one,' burns badly enough against his tongue that he's forced to finally spit them out.
This time... he thinks it was that Look he'd been giving him during their meeting, honestly, as if he was just waiting for the chance to talk to him one on one... Did half the discussion go completely over Sylvain's head because of this...? ...You know what, maybe so! But catch him practically shoving himself away from the table the second Felix gets up anyway, specifically so he can just... catch up and slide an arm around his shoulders as natural as can be as he falls into step alongside him, hello!! Don't... wander too far, please.
"So..." Thank the goddess he can manage to sound like he's trying to be suggestive when he's trying to act like he has a reason to hang off of him like this that doesn't involve explaining this irrational spike of irritation at their dear, old friend. "Did you have anything planned for tonight?"
[Felix once thought that his first friend was lost to him forever? Watched Dimitri pace about the cathedral night after night, a beast in the shape of a man, and felt his stomach drop, his heart clench. Dimitri had been everything to him, when they were younger. Felix had orbited around him like he was the sun itself.
And so it's good to have him back, even if things are, ah, rather rough about the edges. They rarely see eye-to-eye; their conversations halt and hitch, but at least they can speak now. Felix can look at him without feeling the distinct desire to retch, because enough of the old Dimitri—his Dimitri—is there. They're slowly inching closer to settling into something more... comfortable.
Too slowly for Dimitri, it sometimes seems. Not that he pushes for more than he's given, or demands more than he deserves, but there are times when Felix feels the weight of Dimitri's gaze upon him and he wants to whirl about and ask, what? What do you want, what do you expect, what do you need? He's already given so, so much to Dimitri over the years; it would be nice, Felix thinks, to keep what little is left. To give it freely, if and when he so chooses.
Only to one person, however. The person who's always beside him, expecting nothing aside from sharp insults and even sharper looks—but that's impossible, Felix knows. Sure, Sylvain has been spending more time at the training grounds lately, his willingness—eagerness?—to spar catching Felix by surprise; sure, he's been sticking closer to Felix's side than ever before, often the first and last person Felix sees in a day's time; sure, he slings an arm across Felix's shoulder like it belongs there, says things in such a syrupy way that Felix feels the tops of his ears catch fire.
But Sylvain is... Sylvain. Straightforward in some ways; infuriatingly confusing in others, which is why Felix's eyes narrow as he studies him, simultaneously enjoying and hating the weight of his arm. In the corner of his eye, he can see Dimitri watching them, doing a poor job of pretending to shuffle papers, and while Dimitri's opinion of this doesn't matter... ah. Well. Felix feels something tighten within, because Sylvain unknowingly playing with his emotions for all the world to see is a painful, painful thing.]
If you're planning to ask me to go into town with you, save your breath, [he all but snaps, hating that he can't quite convince himself to pull himself free.] I have training to catch up on.
[Something, something, they've had little free time after their last battle? He's feeling rusty... and testy... and girls have cooties...]
Called it! And he might not be able to feel smug over predicting a predictable response, but he certainly can when it comes to that faint flush of color against the dark of his hair. He can't help but wonder what sort of thought he might have invited; then, stupidly, he wonders what it would take to find out, and ah, but that's a dangerous path to tread, isn't it...? That's a path full of twists and turns and uncertainties, because it leads to questions like how dark he might blush if Sylvain were to make good on whatever he had imagined, or whether Sylvain trusts himself enough to risk such a thing to begin with.
"I wasn't! Honest," he insists, bringing his free hand up to his own chest as if to demonstrate the source of this apparent honesty. It actually almost startles him himself, if only because, in disagreeing, he realizes for probably the first time how long it's been since he'd last spent the night out like he'd used to. And he's... surprisingly fine with that? Wild. "But really, training? Again?"
The fact that Dimitri is absolutely listening to them sits like a bitter coil in his stomach. He doesn't have to look over to feel his eye on them--on Felix, especially--and... hm. Without thinking, that arm around him tightens.
"Not for nothing, Felix," he says, this time sort of ducking his head towards him so that he can lower his voice, "but when was the last time you took a break...? Come on, it's rare we get some time to ourselves like this!"
If he's lucky, maybe Felix will take the hint that he's not interested in broadcasting their potential whereabouts to any potential (and unnecessary) tagalongs... Or maybe he'll just get annoyed and push him away, but like, he figures he's got a pretty good 50/50 shot.
"At least let's go grab something to eat, first. Whatever you want, my treat." Because, you know? They haven't had a lot of free time since their last battle. That means this is the perfect time to make proper use of it.
[Training! Again. Until the war is won, Felix will give his training everything he has; like, he can always be stronger, be better, and one of the driving forces for this just so happens to be giving him (friendly) shit for it. Rankling enough to send Felix's eyes narrowing even further...
...Until he's tugged closer? Until Sylvain's face is suddenly much closer than it has any right to be, and there's a moment where Felix's eyes actually widen, his shoulders stiffening as he adjusts to the new, ah, state of things. It's stupid, really; Sylvain has always ignored his personal space, has always pushed past his bubble to do exactly the sort of thing he's doing now, but after everything... hmm. Felix's eyes drift down, down, down, watching Sylvain's lips form the words that make up his, ah, second invitation. And would it be so bad to eat, you know... would it be so bad to follow Sylvain to the dining hall, or to town...
Answer: No. Not really—but only because he's used to the pain? Not that Sylvain ever intentionally causes it, he thinks. Felix's thoughts regarding Sylvain are tightly kept secrets, so it isn't as though Sylvain leaning in close like this is anything malicious; it's just... Sylvain being Sylvain. That's all.
But the pain, however dull by this point in time, would still be there, and that's what sends Felix's eyes narrowing once more. Just because he can handle something doesn't mean he should—and Dimitri is still there in the background, watching them so intently, and Felix impulsively jabs his elbow into Sylvain's side.]
I'll eat when I'm hungry, [he definitely snaps this time, and for good measure, he punctuates it with a sharp:] Alone.
[Just in case the boar was getting any ideas. He'd rather not have company whenever he wanders to the dining hall, he decides, so here: let him twist and slip from Sylvain's grasp, spots of color still high on his cheekbones as he gives Sylvain a fierce Look.]
If you want to treat me, then take your training seriously.
[He's not even thinking of... now, really? It's just a harsh, yet true, Thing to say before he turns to stride toward the door. He's going to go destroy, like, soooo many training dummies. Bet on it.]
And Sylvain, close as he is, will take that hit. It's enough to make him flinch and loosen his hold, certainly, although a dramatic, "Ow, hey--!" is the only complaint made... until Felix goes and pulls free altogether, at which point Sylvain can think of nothing but complaints!! Funny how that works.
"Wait," he tries, ignoring the stab of disappointment that comes with the rejection--because for a second, he'd thought he might agree? He's seen that look a thousand times before... usually a little more flushed, and usually with a burst of bitterness between his teeth, easily swallowed down in favor of whatever flavor suggestion they would prefer. On anyone else, that look ought to mean he's made his way past whatever defenses they'd had to keep him at bay; on Felix, it could mean anything. "Felix, hold up!"
As if he'd even made it all that far to begin with? As if Sylvain can't catch up in like, half as many strides.
"Alright, okay! Training first, then." And then if Felix has his way, he's sure today's plans will lead to... more training... and then maybe some more training? And maybe more, still, after that... "I'll come, too. I mean, if you're not hungry yet, the least I can do is help you work up an appetite."
A wink, because the man lives to get into trouble. He won't put his arm back around Felix this time though, instead tossing them both behind his head as he spares a subtle glance behind them as they make their way to the hall. Dimitri's given up even the pretense of distraction, hands fallen still over the table as one wide eye follows them to the door. Sylvain's own narrow in comparison, his lips still quirked in a lazy sort of grin; when the other man's attention flickers briefly to him, he lifts one shoulder in a sympathetic shrug. Sorry, bud! Can't be helped, damn. Guess he'll have to talk to him some other time, when he's not otherwise occupied with someone else.
[Sylvain chasing after him is as natural as anything, really; like, Felix isn't the least bit surprised to hear the other man call his name before swiftly closing the distance between them, and it would be a lie to say that he's against it. A night spent watching Sylvain wink at women is one thing? It hurts to stand by and see Sylvain charm his way into all manner of trouble—but training is good. Training allows Felix to channel his emotions into something productive, and if he derives some, ah, selfish satisfaction from Sylvain's wincing and stumbling... well, you know. Surely he's allowed to be selfish, because surely Sylvain deserves it. Kind of.
And maybe, just maybe, Felix was too snippy with Sylvain? Not that he's guilty, per se, but he hates allowing his emotions to get the better of him; that makes him no better than the boar, really, and so he takes a breath as Sylvain carries on. It's fine. He's fine. As they reach the door, he can shoot Sylvain a quick, mild Look as he reaches out to grasp the handle. That wink, sir! Ugh.]
Hmph. Spoken as though you'll pose any sort of a challenge. How quickly did I beat you last time?
[Friendly teasing, Felix style. But while he catches Sylvain casting a quick glance back Dimitri's way—why?—he brushes it aside, refuses to look back to see if the boar is still watching. He doesn't mind Dimitri, these days, but that doesn't mean he's looking to extend any sort of invitation.
Out into the hallway indeed, where Sylvain will only allow himself to relax once the door closes firmly shut behind them--and stays that way. He hums to fill the short gap of silence in-between, as if he has to really think to remember it. (As if he doesn't remember most things, involving Felix.)
"That depends." He looks down to Felix from the corner of his eye. "Do you mean the last time we sparred the way we're supposed to? Or are we counting the day you came at me with your actual sword, because the training swords were 'too far away'"?"
He still sticks close to Felix, closer than he maybe should, but the subtle tension around his eyes and shoulders eases bit by bit... and then, once they round a corner, all at once. The monastery is quieter without countless students milling around, but where he might have once thought of it as boring... it's actually kind of nice? They don't have to weave through crowd after crowd to get to the training ground--and it's usually empty by the time they get there, so it's easy to fall into their comfortable norm of habitual banter and taunts. He gets to see Felix in his element, enjoying himself (if, perhaps, at Sylvain's expense) and maybe, maybe, maybe, he likes the fact that, even during just that short span of time, he knows that Felix's entire being is honed in on him, and nothing else.
(And maybe, maybe, maybe, he's found, he likes the weight of the Look Felix gives him after a fight well-fought. It's nice.)
[Things are always more comfortable when they're alone? Or so it seems, anyway. They've known one another for so long that, despite their many, many differences, they just fit together; like, Felix feels at ease when it's just the two of them, which is why the memory of that post-meeting unpleasantness fades a bit more with each step they take. It was nothing! Nothing important, he thinks, because how he may or may not feel about Sylvain has no bearing on this. Their friendship is what matters above all else, and so he looks up at Sylvain, shoots him one of his trademark frowns. Cheating, huh...]
Cheating is impossible, [he fires back, as he's done many a time before.] You should be prepared for anything.
[It's the correct way to live one's life, in Felix's opinion. Never let anything take you by surprise—and he holds Sylvain's gaze for a moment longer, just to (hopefully) drive his point him, before he faces forward once more. Pfft!]
Besides, it was your sloppy footwork that allowed me to win so quickly. I hope you've improved.
[In, like, five more minutes, because hey! Look at this RP Magic! They're strolling into the training grounds soon enough, and there is, as usual, no one else in sight; they have the entire floor to themselves, and Felix makes a beeline to the training swords, carefully picking over them as he searches for his preferred weapon. He has to swing a good, oh, three of them before he finds it, but once it's in his hand, he looks back Sylvain's way.]
'Cheating is impossible,' he says, and Sylvain makes a mental note to keep that in mind the next time they're like, playing some board game or something. But it's the second half of that statement--that he should be prepared for anything--that his thoughts linger on, perhaps longer than they should. Something about the way he says it, maybe, or the way he looks at him... it would be easy to push Felix against the wall here, or behind a pillar, or into a doorway, just to see if he's really as prepared as he seems to think.
A part of him knows it would be a stupid, stupid thing to do (Felix doesn't need a sword to down a man, and Sylvain Knows this) but the rest of him is caught up in wondering: what sort of expression would he make? Would the flush in his cheeks be from anger, embarrassment, or something else? Would he react differently for Sylvain than, say--
...Ah. But that's the wrong thought, again, isn't it? Because suddenly, Sylvain finds that he wants very badly to learn the answers to his questions; he's certain it's the only thing that might calm this new blaze bursting into his chest before it burns right through him. It would be so easy, he thinks again... He could pin him here, right now, backed against the brick just to feel the press of his body against his own, and Felix would be too distracted to even notice that Dimitri had tried to follow them after all, because just before he caught up to them, Sylvain would lean down and--
--whoops, wow, he totally didn't say a word to whatever follow-up comment Felix had. Something about improving...? And when the fuck did they get to the training grounds, that's fucking wild. Have this mildly dazed Sylvain trying to blink himself back to reality (and if he briefly places a hand over his mouth, high enough to cover the faintest hint of a blush, he's not too proud to laugh it off as nerves) while Felix picks his sword. Thank the Goddess he's so picky, honestly, because by the time he's decided, Sylvain thinks he's composed himself pretty damn well! He definitely wasn't just thinking about kissing his best friend? That's a normal thing to not think about.
Catch this fool pickin' up the first damn sword he can reach while he continues to Not Think...! He's great at it.
[Sylvain has a very, very gay thought—a series of gay thoughts, each one gayer than the last—and Felix is oblivious? Too busy thinking about weaponry to notice that anything is amiss, which—well! Par for the course, really. Even when he turns, noting both Sylvain's silence and, mmm, mostly normal expression, he tells himself it's probably Sylvain trying his hardest not to piss him off—or Sylvain coming up with some on-the-fly strategy, because that certainly is not a lance his friend reaches for. It is, in fact—]
A sword, [he flatly notes, unable to keep his eyebrows from raising as he takes in this rare sight.] Feeling confident? Or are you hoping I'll go easy on you?
[Something, something, some people might take pity on a partner wielding an unfamiliar weapon—but not Felix! Never Felix, which Sylvain is surely well aware of; Felix will, fact, come at him harder, just to prove a nonexistent point, but just in case Sylvain has forgotten this...
...Hmm. Felix eyes him for a moment longer, appraising him—before brushing right past him with the quietest of snorts.]
I won't.
[Watch him make his way to the other side of the floor, swinging his sword in a low, slow arc as he takes point. He knows Sylvain well enough to recognize that this isn't intended to be a slight, so that just makes this... Sylvain's funeral? Sylvain's funeral.]
A... sword! Yes, this is definitely a sword he's holding, which he seems to realize dimly at first, and then all at once, because ah?? This is a sword, when was the last time he even fucking picked UP a sword--and it's honestly a fucking miracle that he manages to maintain himself well enough that this internal crisis remains strictly internal, because any hope of like, impressing Felix (a feat in and of itself, really) with any new moves or strategies decidedly plummets straight into the dirt.
This is fine? This is still fine, he thinks, because at least he's still here, and at least Felix is still willing to train with him instead of like, shooing him off somewhere. It's salvageable.
"Ah..."
He corrects his grip as he coughs a laugh, shaking his arms out in some effort to adjust to its unfamiliar weight. He's used swords before? He's practiced with them in the event he should lose his own weapon in the midst of battle, because when every second matters, what you use to defend yourself doesn't. But when it comes right down to it? He's pretty sure the Professor would give him like, a solid D+. Maybe a C on a good day. So... yeah, it'll be his funeral all right.
"No. I guess you wouldn't, would you." It's not a question--and he very clearly doesn't expect an answer as he takes up his place opposite Felix, not bothering with Proper Techniques™ but rather using the approximation of what might be a proper stance, only modified to suit someone who blatantly ignores practicality in favor of a much flashier approach... Little Sylvain Things. "I could use the practice, anyway... Best two out of three?"
Does he really want to get his ass kicked twice? Not really. But it makes him look more confident, anyway.
[Every Faerghus noble learns to swing a sword? Fighting is the Faerghus way—but few reach Felix's level of proficiency, and he's keenly aware of it! Is proud of it, which is why he's, ah, torn as he watches Sylvain sink into that frankly ridiculous stance. On the one hand, he can already see three—no, four viable ways to start this spar; on the other hand, however, this is yet another reminder that Sylvain doesn't take things as seriously as some, and that will always, always annoy Felix.
But it's fine! This is fine. Teaching Sylvain a lesson is undoubtedly better than watching Sylvain, like, kiss some strange girl's hand, so if it's two bouts Sylvain wants...]
Why not, [he drawls, a hint of a smirk appearing on his face as he brings his sword up.] I'll make quick work of you.
[And that... is a line, albeit an entirely unintentional one—and it only hangs between them for a moment before Felix lunges forward, determined to keep his word.
Not that it's, mmm, a particularly difficult thing to do. Sylvain isn't wholly inexperienced, but he's wholly unprepared for Felix's swift movements; it's why the first bout ends a scant two minutes after it begins, when a solid sweep of Felix's sword sends Sylvain's clattering to the ground. Easy. Sylvain is clearly used to—dependent upon—the reach a lance provides.
And the second bout could easily go the way of the first, if Felix didn't feel the sudden urge to show off? To toy with his best friend, just a bit, because some part of him has always enjoyed impressing others with his skill—and impressing Sylvain seems, ah, particularly enticing. It's fun, hearing Sylvain curse when he attacks an apparent opening and catches nothing but air. There's a wicked sort of satisfaction to be felt as he pushes Sylvain back inch by inch, step by step, while the other man is too focused on deflecting blows to pay even the slightest attention to where his feet are taking him. Felix did warn him about his footwork... so foolish...
But as Sylvain nears the wall, Felix sees the perfect opportunity—and he takes it, dashing forward without any hesitation whatsoever and once again knocking Sylvain's sword from his hand. Again: it's easy. It's so, so easy, and Felix raises the blunted tip of his sword to Sylvain's throat, marches him back until his back is pressed against the cold, unforgiving stone. Nowhere to go, hmm? Sad.
Correction: sad... for Sylvain. Felix, on the other hand, looks rather like the cat that got the cream as he crowds in a tad closer, that hint of a smirk returning—and soon giving way to a true smirk. A smug smirk, all while he gently prods Sylvain's chin up. Hey. Hi. Guess what.]
Do you yield?
[Of course he does. He has to—but as Felix studies Sylvain, acutely aware of the bead of sweat rolling down the side of Sylvain's face, Felix wants to hear him say it.]
Every child in Faerghus has swung a sword, and every noble in Faerghus has learned how to do so properly, but hey? Listen. He's rusty, which is a term Sylvain himself would still consider generous--and besides, when has he ever done anything properly, really? Something, something, he and Felix both chafe against what's expected in their own respective ways.
Unfortunately, Sylvain's way seems to be actively working against him now, because he already has his work cut out for him when he spars with Felix... sparring with a weapon he isn't used to adds a completely unnecessary level of difficulty. It makes it harder to time his attacks, wide sweeps turning into clumsy dodges as he leaves opening after opening for Felix's precise, measured swings. Distance, too, becomes an obvious weakness, if not a vulnerability outright; more than once, he finds himself too far to take advantage of what precious few opportunities he's given, but more than that, he finds himself overcompensating, suddenly too near to do anything but stumble back and hope he can regain his bearings quickly enough.
(Spoilers: He does not.)
The second match at least allows him the chance to make use of what he'd learned from the first, the weight of his sword more comfortable in his hands, and that's... well. It's a blessing and a curse, he quickly learns, because on the one hand, his movements come more naturally, which allows him to focus on other things. On the other, however, he finds that it's, ah... a little too easy to focus on the wrong things. Like those boots!! Or the beautiful, deadly precision with which he moves! Or the way a few strands of hair slip from their tie and hang against Felix's face, flushed with exertion, and--it's that look, really, that does him in, in the end.
Does Sylvain think he would've stood a chance in hell no matter what might or might not have distracted him? No, but he's watched Felix spar before. He's sparred with him before, seen the satisfied gleam in his eye and that faintest quirk of his lips, but there's something especially distracting about the downright dangerous look on his face. Not anger, not derision, but something more akin to that of a predator toying with its prey... and that... well!! That, combined with Felix's natural prowess with swordplay, is undoubtedly the reason he finds himself suddenly caught in a frantic, seemingly neverending defense.
Until... he doesn't! Or rather: until he no longer can. His breath catches as his weapon is knocked away, but it's all but knocked out of him when his heel--and then his back--hits stone. Some part of him must apparently be convinced that the sword he's practically baring his throat to is real, or something, because a wave of adrenaline too belated to have anything at all to do with the fight hits him--hard--and as it sends a shiver straight through him, he finds himself suddenly very aware of himself, and of Felix, and of how short a distance is actually left between them. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and it takes a moment for him to make sense of what he's been asked, so like... hold on while the gears grind back to a crawl here.
"Come on," he manages, and he's still a little wide-eyed and breathless, but he'll try for an easy grin of his own. It probably looks about as fake as it feels. "You're not serious..."
[Winning is what matters, or so Felix has told himself time and time again—but there are, ah, certain perks, where Sylvain is concerned. Felix enjoys seeing that shiver? Felix thoroughly enjoys the wide-eyed way Sylvain watches him, and he can't help but to take half a step closer, ignoring the fact that he's close enough to feel the very real heat of Sylvain's body. It's dangerous, so dangerous... and it would be so easy to line himself up just so...
But this isn't that, because that is impossible; this is all about teaching Sylvain a lesson, and so Felix narrows his eyes. Lifts his chin, almost imperiously, as he forces Sylvain's a tad higher. A smidge. Sylvain needs to take this as seriously as he should take Felix.]
I don't joke,
[is his measured response, eyes drifting over to that one bead of sweat, down to the curve of the other man's lips. He could leave it at that, surely. He could stand here in silence and wait for whatever stupid thing Sylvain says next, but as his eyes flick back up to Sylvain's:]
...Aha. So this is... certainly a position Sylvain has found himself in... Like, Felix crowds in closer and the wall behind him suddenly feels that much more solid, the air between them somehow too thick and too thin for him to get a decent breath of air into his aching lungs, and when that sword forces his head back farther he swallows, any semblance of a grin falling from his face as quickly as the blood rushes from his head. It's a good damn thing the wall is so solid, he thinks, distantly, because standing on his own suddenly takes a whole lot more effort than he remembers.
He doesn't remember lifting his hands, but at some point he must have brought them up to either side of him, elbows still pressed to the wall but with palms loosely raised and forward in a placating gesture--or maybe just in surrender, plain and simple, because there's no give to Felix's tone, as steely and steady as Sylvain is not, and...
And this is just... a spar? This isn't anything more than that--there isn't anything to yield to, no reason for it to feel as weighty as it does, somehow. It's not as if he's too prideful to admit he's lost! If he yields here, life goes on. It's meaningless; he isn't really throwing his life to Felix's mercy here, and yet, when Felix demands it of him, it suddenly feels as if he might as well be.
Felix says yield, and Sylvain says, "Yes," in a voice too small, too breathy, too quick for it to mean anything less than what it is. Yes, he yields. Whatever Felix wants, he can have it--he can take it?? "I... I'll yield."
...Right?? Maybe?? Help the man before he dies here against the wall like a fool.
[Listen: Felix is prepared to stand here for the better part of an hour, even if he isn't, ah, completely aware of it. He's too focused on Sylvain to think about anything else, you see. Too busy holding Sylvain's gaze to realize that his lips part ever so slightly, that his breathing speeds up when it should slow down. This is nothing, nothing—and yet it's everything, because he can't have any of it.
...He can't have any of it. A sobering thought, even as the timbre of Sylvain's voice sends an electric current racing through him, makes Felix wonder if this is how Sylvain would possibly allow himself to sound, were someone to methodically take him apart. Would he let someone close enough to try?
Ah, well. It doesn't matter, really, because even if he would, that person would almost certainly not be Felix; it's why Felix remains where he is for a moment longer, selfishly memorizing Sylvain's expression... before he abruptly taking a step back, lowering his sword as he does so. What is there to say? There are so many things he could say, but.]
...Your footwork was even sloppier, [is what he (rudely) settles for, right before he turns on his heel.] Practice before you challenge me again.
[Which is what he's going to do, now that he's officially Won. It's time to hack a training dummy apart, all while some small, quiet part of him considers how sad it is, that Sylvain pays empty compliments to empty-headed people. Does he know how beautiful he looks? Does he know the caliber of compliments that he deserves to hear?
Well. Why worry about questions that he already knows the answers to! It isn't as though he has any intention of—any idea of how to—pay this fool a compliment, so. Training, training, training, until everything is dull.]
Now, admittedly, Sylvain... isn't completely sure what he wants, here... He isn't even sure what he expects, but then his ability to actually, ah, think any coherent thoughts to begin with also abandoned him about... oh, thirty seconds ago. Mostly, he's just lost in this sudden daze that these too-shallow breaths he's been taking certainly aren't helping with, but there's some part of him (a surprisingly loud part of him, loud enough to startle his heart into a different rhythm entirely) that directs his attention down to Felix's lips, the soft part of them, and for exactly one, dizzying moment, he wonders if he's going to kiss him.
...And then that moment passes, and instead of wondering, Sylvain finds himself faced with the dawning--or maybe damning--realization that he'd hoped he would. It crashes into him with all the force of a wyvern rider's axe, and although that sword has moved away from his throat, he remains where he is against the wall as Felix puts that distance back between them, whatever words he might have said stuck uselessly in his throat.
And you know, isn't it fitting, really? He knows what will earn someone's interest; he knows what will lose it, too. The people he knows nothing about and who know nothing about him beyond his name and his Crest, the people he couldn't give less of a damn about in the end--with them, he always knows exactly what to say. And yet Felix, the one person he knows better than anyone--who knows him better than anyone--is the one he finds himself at such a loss for. He's not sure he's ever been so disappointed to watch someone walk away.
Normally, he might find himself chasing after Felix, too. Tug at his elbow after he catches up, remind him that they were going to get something to eat after all this. But standing isn't any easier now than it was a moment ago, and the ache in his chest seems to have pitched his stomach sideways, too, so maybe he'll just... stay here, instead. At least until his heart stops racing... And when he trusts his legs enough to carry him to his room, he'll slip silently out so he can teach himself to carefully compartmentalize this like just about anything else.
[It is difficult for Felix to shift the, ah, training incident to the back of his mind? Impossible, really, because for the next week—the next moon—he finds even the tiniest details springing unbidden to his mind. Sylvain standing beside Felix reminds him of the warmth he felt when he was standing even closer; Sylvain murmuring a compliment to yet another girl reminds Felix of the breathless quality of his voice, when he'd agreed to yield; Sylvain slipping from his horse after a battle, covered in all manner of dirt and grime, reminds Felix, inexplicably, of that single bead of sweat slowly rolling down the side of his face.
...It's stupid. It's all so incredibly stupid, and thus Felix throws himself into his training, into battle, with an unmatched ferocity that sends people nodding approvingly. The Fraldarius heir, they whisper to one another as he passes. Doing everything he can, in his father's place. So devoted to the king! His childhood friend, you know.
So it goes.
Even Dimitri sees fit to pull him aside after one particularly hard-fought battle, awkwardly stumbling his way through praise as Felix just stands there, blinks tiredly back at him. Once, Dimitri—the real Dimitri—praising him would have meant everything? And it still means something, yes. Sends something tightening within him as Dimitri takes his hand in his, swipes his much larger thumb over bruised knuckles, but it's not—it doesn't mean what Dimitri wants it to mean. There's a hunger in Dimitri's eye as he looks down at Felix, a clear need, and Felix feels nothing but a wave of exhaustion so strong he's nearly sick.
But Felix pushes forward, as he always does. He focuses on each fight, tracking (Sylvain's) his allies' movements as he sweeps his way through line after line of enemies. He does what needs to be done—and so does everyone else, which is why it's really no surprise when, after so many miserable years, Faerghus forces finally march into Enbarr. A bloody, bloody battle, to be sure. Countless lives lost, on both sides, but what matters is this: Edelgard falls, and the Adrestian Empire falls with her.
There's a celebration, afterward. Faerghus soldiers spend the remaining daylight carrying corpses from the Imperial Palaces, and then, as night falls, crowd into an opulent ballroom, singing and dancing and drinking whatever they pillage from the palace's seemingly bottomless stores. It is... entirely too loud, for Felix's liking; he only comes because Annette begs him to, promises that she won't leave his side the entire night, and when can he ever refuse her? How can he ever hold anything against her. Even when she drinks too much champagne and allows Ashe to pull her to the dance floor, giggling all the while; even when Dimitri catches sight of him standing there, alone, and summons him, insists that he remain by his side, Felix merely sips whatever swill he's offered and watches his friends enjoy being alive. There is, at least, something enjoyable about that.
And there is something enjoyable about seeing Dimitri relax for the first time in moons? As much as he's able to, anyway. He frowns and he fidgets and Felix finds himself reminding him, time and time again, to focus on the celebration. "Let them see you smile, if you remember how," Felix gripes, and Dimitri sighs, gazes at him with such fondness Felix is forced to look away. Of course he remembers how to smile, he tells Felix. It is easy, so long as his oldest friend remains by his side.
It hits Felix, then, that the war is over—but this is not? This, in fact, is only beginning, because as Felix makes a grab for his mug, Felix realizes that his post-war plans do not involve him doing as he pleases. He will inherit a title; he will inherit a responsibility; he will, in a sense, inherit a king, and just as Felix can't hold anything against Annette, Felix finds that he can't hold this against Dimitri. He is needed; his wants do not matter.
Which is for the best, honestly, because the one thing he wants is impossible. Not that it prevents Felix from looking for a familiar thatch of red hair every time he scans the crowd. He looks, and, more often than not, he finds, catching sight of Sylvain teasing Ingrid, or speaking to strangers—and he's beautiful, Felix thinks. Heart-wrenchingly handsome in the candlelight, even as he offers everyone a fake smile.
Not that it's a bad smile. Not that it's small or pinched or anything of the sort—but it isn't right, in Felix's opinion, and so he watches him closely, his own frown deepening with every passing moment. They won, didn't they? Sylvain is free to do anything he wants, and yet there he is! So, so cold, beneath that warm veneer, and when Dimitri leans in, placing a hand on his forearm as he asks Felix what is wrong, that's all that it takes: Felix stands, allowing Dimitri's hand to fall away. Someone else, it would seem, has forgotten how to smile. Someone who shouldn't.
And thus Felix goes to him.
Thus Felix cuts through the crowd, ignoring the way everything seems so, mmm, soft about the edges as he tracks Sylvain into the shadows. It's fine; the only thing that matters is, as always:]
Sylvain.
[All the warning Sylvain gets as Felix sidles up to him, cheeks redder than they have any right to be—but his eyes, at least, are clear? So clear as he gazes up at his best friend, studying him so intently.]
What are you doing?
[A typically straightforward question, even if Sylvain will no doubt interpret it as Felix asking why he's here, tucked away in this quiet alcove.]
The Training Incident is, in fact, impossible for either of them to forget, much as Sylvain might try (and, he thinks, succeeds) to hide it. He's gotten a little too good at hiding how he really feels throughout the years, after all, and so what's one more emotion hidden, really? Like, what difference does it make whether he finds himself hoping--like a damn fool, again and again--that every future spar might end the same way, if only so he can do what he didn't then and pull him in close instead of letting him go, or if the women he dates stretch few and far between, because the compliments he offers them taste more and more bitter on his tongue, and the only ache he feels in his chest when he's with them is never for them, but rather for who they're not.
And all the while, of course, they fight, and it always goes the same. He keeps as close an eye on Felix as ever, carefully minding his position on the battlefield in case he finds himself outnumbered, or overextended, or in need of rescue. All admittedly rare, but he knows he'd never forgive himself if something happened and he hadn't been there to help. But it's because he keeps such a close eye on Felix that he gets to see the way Dimitri does the same, in his own way. They rarely fight together, but Dimitri seems to gravitate towards Felix in the same way that Sylvain does. In the way the others don't, no matter how much they may care about their friend's safety. Even Ingrid, up over all of them, keeps her attention spread evenly.
Sylvain still comes to his aid more often, in those rare times it's needed as well as when it's not. He makes sure to come to his aid more often, taking advantage of his mount's speed as often as Dimitri's hesitation in the event he finds himself farther off than the other.
And then, like every other war before it, it ends! The war ends, and they're still alive--he's still alive--and of course they celebrate? Of course they do, because it's over, and Dimitri will be their king, and all is right in the world...
...Except for him, apparently, because it's always been easy to find Felix at a party. He stands out by not standing out, so if he isn't standing out of the way along one wall, all you have to do is try another wall. Dimitri, on the other hand, stands out by... well, by standing out, like a sore fucking thumb. So it is immediately obvious, when Sylvain first tries to seek Felix out, that he's, ah. Occupied? And... every other time he seeks him out, actually, with Dimitri gazing at him with that big, dopey look in his eye, and Felix in a state of perpetual blush, and... ah. That's just it, isn't it? No matter how many times he made sure to be at Felix's side, Felix will be at Dimitri's now, won't he? Like he already is, and like he always will be.
So... you know. Things are fine. Things are good!! He throws himself into dances and conversation and drinks until he can blame the sick feeling in his stomach on too many of one or another. The company is decent enough, he finds. He's among friends and allies, and so it's easy to fall into a familiar pattern, easy to fall into distractions, but here's the thing:
The war is over. His friends are alive. His friends are happy, genuinely and rightfully so for the first time in years without risk of having it snatched away from them. But the more time he spends glancing over his shoulder, the more the sounds of merriment all around him sound like mocking, sound like taunts, sound like things he doesn't get to and shouldn't have, and it's harder and harder to pretend that this girl's jokes are funny, or that he doesn't mind how long that one has been leaning against his shoulder, or that he doesn't hate the fact that one of them--three of them--too many of them have asked whether he'd be looking to settle down now that the fighting is over, and he isn't sure why it's that question for the fucking nth time that feels like it could suffocate him, but he excuses himself as politely as ever after some flowery non-answer and it's only once he's slipped completely away that he can breathe more comfortably again.
And it lasts... oh, maybe about ten seconds before there's a familiar voice calling his name, and as he startles with a sharp curse, he's aware the surprise is only half of the reason his heart jumps right along with him.
"Felix!" He sighs, schooling his expression into something more controlled. What is he doing...? "Ah... it's funny, actually." Is it, really? What's really funny is the fact a lie like this slips so easily off his tongue. "I asked two girls to dance, and I guess they both decided to come over at the same time... Things were getting pretty heated, sooo I figured I'd duck out here... you know, until things calm down some."
[What was Felix expecting Sylvain to say? Everything and nothing, really, which is why this response should come as no surprise—and yet. It's one thing for Sylvain to lie, he thinks. Sylvain is always lying, always showering girls with flattery he does not mean; it's practically his hobby, as distasteful as Felix finds it.
It is, however, another thing for Sylvain to lie to him.
Oh, he surely has before. Sylvain is no saint—and neither is Felix, when you get right down to it, but they've never made a habit of lying to one another. What's the point? They know each other too well to get away with it; like, Felix knows almost every one of Sylvain's tells, and so he remains where he is for a moment, eyes narrowing the slightest bit as he continues studying Sylvain's face. Is he annoyed that Sylvain is trying this, or is he hurt that Sylvain is trying this, or is he...
...Hmm. A little of column A, a little of column B, but as he huffs out a breath, he realizes that there is also—well? It's not pity. Not precisely. It's just the thought that lying to so many people, again and again and again, must be absolutely exhausting, and Felix resists the urge to grab Sylvain's shirt and shake him. It doesn't have to be this way, idiot! Not with him, never with him.]
There were more than two girls, [is what he settles for, instead. Blunt facts. Easier for him to parse.] And none of them were angry.
[Crestfallen (aHA) when Sylvain walked away, yes, but not angry. There was no storm brewing—and Felix feels his stomach twist as he's reminded, again, that Sylvain feels the need to hide something from him. Time to drop his gaze! To turn ever so slightly, just so his eyes can drift over the crowd as he says, a touch quieter (but just as serious):]
It leaves a terrible taste in his mouth, that's for sure, and he regrets the words as soon as he speaks them. He doesn't like lying to Felix? Like, he isn't overly fond of it in general, but it is a useful, ah, tool? If he says what people want to hear--if he showers them in compliments and praise and flowery declarations--then it doesn't matter if it's true... and when it comes to those people, it never really matters at all, does it? They don't care that it's him speaking, wouldn't care if he were anyone else. But when it comes to Felix...
...Well. A lot of things are different when it comes to Felix, he's noticed. Like right now, where Sylvain knows that the reason for this type of lie is to wave someone off before they look too close--and yet, when he sees those eyes narrow and wonders if that really might be all it takes to shoo his friend away, the relief he might feel were it anyone else is mysteriously absent. He thought he could breathe easier out here, but with the way time slows to a terrible, damning crawl, it almost feels as if he's walked himself into the gallows, instead. His eyes wander away as he tries not to imagine the disgusted irritation that will surely be in Felix's eyes once he finds the nerve to actually meet them again, tries not to think about all the things he could have said instead, and then--uh?
Hey?? Catch this flicker of honest confusion for a second, like Sylvain's forgotten his own made-up story, because... the last thing he expected was for Felix to argue its validity! And somehow, the fact he'd seen through him so easily manages to make him feel even worse before he feels even the smallest spark of comfort.
"How..."
...did you know that, he almost asks, but when he looks back, he sees the way Felix has turned his attention away (and isn't that the problem, really?) and the words die in his throat. Instead, he swallows them down and corrects himself--lightens the uncertainty in his tone, seals the cracks in his expression, laughs, just once, and he thinks it's meant to match the mood he tries to set, but it feels more like it's directed inward, at his piss-poor attempt to cheapen the one relationship that means more to him than the world itself... than his entire life.
"Okay, so maybe there were more than two." It wouldn't be the first time, he thinks. There's no reason for Felix to doubt him--rather, he hasn't given him any reason to. "And maybe they weren't angry... yet. But, I figured I'd try and lay low for a while, anyway. After everything everyone's been through, I'd hate to ruin anyone's fun by having too much of my own... you know?"
Because he's been having so much fun, Felix!! He's loved every second of this party; he could almost wish it would never end.
[Felix watches couples spin about the middle of the room, doing their (laughing) best to keep up with the madcap pace of the current song—and that, he thinks, is what fun looks like? That is what Sylvain should be doing at this point in time. He's always been so, so good at moving through crowds, at charming those around him, and it isn't as though he has a king to mind. He's... well, he's not entirely free; Felix knows enough of the Gautier family to know what awaits Sylvain now that the war is won, but he's free enough in this moment. He should be happy. Felix wants him to be happy.
And Felix wants him to be honest, too, but what does he get? A sort of... half-truth, at best. Carefully chosen words that send him pressing his lips into a thin, thin line as he takes them in, because it doesn't matter how tipsy he may or may not be; he knows what he saw, and he knows Sylvain, and he knows that Sylvain is still keeping something from him.
It is... bitter. It tastes far worse than any of the alcohol that's been foisted upon him, and you know, it doesn't seem fair that Sylvain is foisting this upon him.]
Fun, [he repeats, allowing some of that bitterness to creep into his voice as he turns to fix Sylvain with a look. He could snap at Sylvain, just to point out that he's never cared about how his flirting impacts others; he could simply walk away from Sylvain, if this conversation is going to continue down this dishonest path, but instead, because Sylvain always gets away with things no one else can:] Are you having fun?
[It's a flat, weird question, coming from the person who a) is seemingly allergic to fun and b) never seems to care about these things, but? Felix is fully prepared to stand here, his gaze level, as he watches and waits for Sylvain's response. He knows the truth; he is steeling himself for yet another lie.]
No, he wants to say. Of course I'm not having fun. How could I, when he's had you at his side all night, and all the wrong people want to be at mine...? But even if he has the decency to lose some of that fake cheer in favor of a more subdued sort in the face of that Look--and even if that tone stings more than anything else so far, even if it adds a crack back into his mask by way of his brows drawing inward--he doesn't trust himself enough to say anything quite so honest. Instead, he tilts his head.
"Hey, come on!" Another laugh, and he hopes it doesn't sound as empty as it feels. "What kind of a question is that?"
How is it fair to ask him that, of all things...? How can Felix ask him to lie to like this, again, and again, and again, as if it doesn't twist the blade in his gut deeper and deeper each and every time? He can already feel his resolve faltering--and the worst part is that he can't even be sure if it's from the drinks, or from the guilt, or from the desperate wish that he wouldn't feel the need to lie at all.
Still, against all odds, he manages to hold his eyes. His grin has dropped into something smaller, wide but with no visible teeth, and he finds that for all he may be able to continue lying with a smile, he can't actually bring himself to lie outright for a third time.
"I mean... why wouldn't I be?" It's a non-answer, at best, and he quickly rushes to fill the silence before Felix can say as much. "We won, right? And now we get a party; there's no reason for anyone to not be having fun."
[It's a simple, honest question, which is precisely what makes it so difficult for Sylvain to answer. Felix knows this. It's why Felix is expecting a lie—but Sylvain is, of course, too clever to be trapped by Felix's forthrightness; he's used to dealing with it, after all these years, and thus Felix watches him attempt to weasel his way out of a proper answer. They won! Why wouldn't he be happy about that!
Except that's the thing, isn't it? He isn't happy, and for the life of him, Felix can't pinpoint why. Frustrating—and, mmm, somewhat guilt-inducing, because as Felix's eyes drift down to that not-at-all-sincere grin, Felix thinks of the many, many times Sylvain knew just how he felt, knew just what to do. Even after his father died, when so many people thought space was what he needed, Sylvain was the one to find him, again and again; Sylvain was the one to ignore every acerbic remark thrown his way and simply sit with him, a familiar, grounding presence for Felix to take silent comfort in. It was exactly what Felix needed, at the time, and Felix feels as though he should return the favor. He wants to.
...He needs to, because of all the things Sylvain is to him, and so:]
You're not.
[The blunt, blunt truth. Sylvain is not having fun, and Felix is staring at the evidence of it right now? This obviously fake grin that tugs at something within him. He hates it; he wants to watch it slide from Sylvain's face, just so another, more honest expression can take its place, but...
But. Saying that is so, so complicated; it's easier, somehow, to stretch a hand up to Sylvain's face before he can think better of it, to press his pointer finger lightly against the corner of Sylvain's mouth as he does his best to ignore the shock that travels right up his arm. This is about helping Sylvain. This is about letting Sylvain know that he's been seen for what he is at this very moment. This is, selfishly, about wiping this awful grin off the face Felix likes best.]
You're not, [he murmurs once more, brow furrowing like he's attempting to solve some sort of puzzle while he stares at this one particular spot,] and you won't tell me why.
It's not as if Sylvain expects to be let off the hook easily, by any means. Felix is nothing if not determined--not just in swordplay or in battle, but in anything he does--and so Sylvain knows to brace himself for whatever snappish rebuttal he'll inevitably throw his way. And it's... fine, really. Because in some sick, selfish way, wouldn't he rather have Felix frowning at him here than looking so content beside Dimitri? If he'd gone over and coaxed Felix away, would he have blushed so easily at the things Sylvain would have said to him, too? Would he still if he said them now, hidden away as they are from everyone else?
But the snappish rebuttal that comes isn't quite as snappish as Sylvain expects; he pushes back and rather than meet in the middle, he finds his hold on the situation slipping too far forward, caught off guard and off balance by the way that simple statement manages to strike right between his ribs with a deadly, pinpoint precision. Is it blunt... yes. Extremely so, and yet somehow he had nearly forgotten that someone still exists who can see him through his act? That Felix is--has always been--always will be that someone, and the reminder pierces through him in a way that little else can, anymore.
And it's interesting, really, how that hand at his face can feel like it's the only thing keeping him grounded here, and also like it's knocked the floor from under him entirely. He doesn't quite relax--he isn't sure he could, with Felix this close--but he can still feel it when his act does start to slip. His eyes soften, and for all his smile seems frozen to his face, it feels more like an apology; he can't tell what expression he's making anymore.
"Felix..."
Quiet, like a sigh, as he searches his friend's face for...? For... something. The last time they were so close, he'd wished he could have kissed him; he breathes out a slow, shaky exhale as he tries to understand the way his heart can become such a frantic, fragile thing when he realizes he feels the same, now.
He sounds unusually hesitant when he speaks again, uncertainty coloring his words:
"...What if I didn't know what to say?" he asks, and it feels like an admission of guilt.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
How many PSL threads will we start before we admit we have a Problem...
Like, objectively speaking, there had been nothing wrong with the way Dimitri lingered in the doorway of the infirmary, while he hovered as near as he could without disrupting the work of the healers. Felix had taken a bad hit from an enemy soldier--not that you'd know it from how firmly he'd tried to shoo him out--and granted, Sylvain would be the first to admit that his attention hadn't exactly been on their friend at the time? But even if he hadn't noticed the unwavering sort of focus in his eye, he'd have to be blind not to recognize the same relief mirrored back at him when they'd been assured (ironically, it felt like it was more for their sake than Felix's) that all he still needed was some bedrest and it would be like nothing had happened.
It wasn't until well-after Felix was back on his feet that Sylvain began connecting the dots. And you know... He likes to think he wouldn't have thought anything of Dimitri trying to rebuild some shaky bridge between himself and Felix, now that he's finally come back to them? He likes to think he'd be happy to see them smiling at each other the way they used to, because Sylvain has known from the very beginning how close they used to be, and because come hell or high water, they're his friends, too.
But see, here's the thing: time has a funny way of changing people, whether they're your friends or not. It's great at easing tensions, for one--and now that there's some tenuous sort of truce between the two of them, it becomes... increasingly obvious when Dimitri insists on redirecting conversation to Felix, no matter the company shared or topic.
...Or when his eye lingers just a little too long when he thinks no one's looking.
...Or when he just so happens to find his way into the training grounds when Felix is already there, and rarely ever else--and for all Sylvain would rather sit back and let his attention fall to Felix, Felix, Felix while he trains, he finds himself suggesting they train together more and more often to offset the increasingly inevitable, 'Oh, Felix. Were you in need of a partner?' before the acrid taste of the words, 'no, thanks, he already has one,' burns badly enough against his tongue that he's forced to finally spit them out.
This time... he thinks it was that Look he'd been giving him during their meeting, honestly, as if he was just waiting for the chance to talk to him one on one... Did half the discussion go completely over Sylvain's head because of this...? ...You know what, maybe so! But catch him practically shoving himself away from the table the second Felix gets up anyway, specifically so he can just... catch up and slide an arm around his shoulders as natural as can be as he falls into step alongside him, hello!! Don't... wander too far, please.
"So..." Thank the goddess he can manage to sound like he's trying to be suggestive when he's trying to act like he has a reason to hang off of him like this that doesn't involve explaining this irrational spike of irritation at their dear, old friend. "Did you have anything planned for tonight?"
Inb4 "Training, obviously."
we don't have a problem? we just have good ideas!
And so it's good to have him back, even if things are, ah, rather rough about the edges. They rarely see eye-to-eye; their conversations halt and hitch, but at least they can speak now. Felix can look at him without feeling the distinct desire to retch, because enough of the old Dimitri—his Dimitri—is there. They're slowly inching closer to settling into something more... comfortable.
Too slowly for Dimitri, it sometimes seems. Not that he pushes for more than he's given, or demands more than he deserves, but there are times when Felix feels the weight of Dimitri's gaze upon him and he wants to whirl about and ask, what? What do you want, what do you expect, what do you need? He's already given so, so much to Dimitri over the years; it would be nice, Felix thinks, to keep what little is left. To give it freely, if and when he so chooses.
Only to one person, however. The person who's always beside him, expecting nothing aside from sharp insults and even sharper looks—but that's impossible, Felix knows. Sure, Sylvain has been spending more time at the training grounds lately, his willingness—eagerness?—to spar catching Felix by surprise; sure, he's been sticking closer to Felix's side than ever before, often the first and last person Felix sees in a day's time; sure, he slings an arm across Felix's shoulder like it belongs there, says things in such a syrupy way that Felix feels the tops of his ears catch fire.
But Sylvain is... Sylvain. Straightforward in some ways; infuriatingly confusing in others, which is why Felix's eyes narrow as he studies him, simultaneously enjoying and hating the weight of his arm. In the corner of his eye, he can see Dimitri watching them, doing a poor job of pretending to shuffle papers, and while Dimitri's opinion of this doesn't matter... ah. Well. Felix feels something tighten within, because Sylvain unknowingly playing with his emotions for all the world to see is a painful, painful thing.]
If you're planning to ask me to go into town with you, save your breath, [he all but snaps, hating that he can't quite convince himself to pull himself free.] I have training to catch up on.
[Something, something, they've had little free time after their last battle? He's feeling rusty... and testy... and girls have cooties...]
Maybe we just have good problems! Food for thot!
"I wasn't! Honest," he insists, bringing his free hand up to his own chest as if to demonstrate the source of this apparent honesty. It actually almost startles him himself, if only because, in disagreeing, he realizes for probably the first time how long it's been since he'd last spent the night out like he'd used to. And he's... surprisingly fine with that? Wild. "But really, training? Again?"
The fact that Dimitri is absolutely listening to them sits like a bitter coil in his stomach. He doesn't have to look over to feel his eye on them--on Felix, especially--and... hm. Without thinking, that arm around him tightens.
"Not for nothing, Felix," he says, this time sort of ducking his head towards him so that he can lower his voice, "but when was the last time you took a break...? Come on, it's rare we get some time to ourselves like this!"
If he's lucky, maybe Felix will take the hint that he's not interested in broadcasting their potential whereabouts to any potential (and unnecessary) tagalongs... Or maybe he'll just get annoyed and push him away, but like, he figures he's got a pretty good 50/50 shot.
"At least let's go grab something to eat, first. Whatever you want, my treat." Because, you know? They haven't had a lot of free time since their last battle. That means this is the perfect time to make proper use of it.
food for thot... closes my EYES
...Until he's tugged closer? Until Sylvain's face is suddenly much closer than it has any right to be, and there's a moment where Felix's eyes actually widen, his shoulders stiffening as he adjusts to the new, ah, state of things. It's stupid, really; Sylvain has always ignored his personal space, has always pushed past his bubble to do exactly the sort of thing he's doing now, but after everything... hmm. Felix's eyes drift down, down, down, watching Sylvain's lips form the words that make up his, ah, second invitation. And would it be so bad to eat, you know... would it be so bad to follow Sylvain to the dining hall, or to town...
Answer: No. Not really—but only because he's used to the pain? Not that Sylvain ever intentionally causes it, he thinks. Felix's thoughts regarding Sylvain are tightly kept secrets, so it isn't as though Sylvain leaning in close like this is anything malicious; it's just... Sylvain being Sylvain. That's all.
But the pain, however dull by this point in time, would still be there, and that's what sends Felix's eyes narrowing once more. Just because he can handle something doesn't mean he should—and Dimitri is still there in the background, watching them so intently, and Felix impulsively jabs his elbow into Sylvain's side.]
I'll eat when I'm hungry, [he definitely snaps this time, and for good measure, he punctuates it with a sharp:] Alone.
[Just in case the boar was getting any ideas. He'd rather not have company whenever he wanders to the dining hall, he decides, so here: let him twist and slip from Sylvain's grasp, spots of color still high on his cheekbones as he gives Sylvain a fierce Look.]
If you want to treat me, then take your training seriously.
[He's not even thinking of... now, really? It's just a harsh, yet true, Thing to say before he turns to stride toward the door. He's going to go destroy, like, soooo many training dummies. Bet on it.]
no subject
"Wait," he tries, ignoring the stab of disappointment that comes with the rejection--because for a second, he'd thought he might agree? He's seen that look a thousand times before... usually a little more flushed, and usually with a burst of bitterness between his teeth, easily swallowed down in favor of whatever flavor suggestion they would prefer. On anyone else, that look ought to mean he's made his way past whatever defenses they'd had to keep him at bay; on Felix, it could mean anything. "Felix, hold up!"
As if he'd even made it all that far to begin with? As if Sylvain can't catch up in like, half as many strides.
"Alright, okay! Training first, then." And then if Felix has his way, he's sure today's plans will lead to... more training... and then maybe some more training? And maybe more, still, after that... "I'll come, too. I mean, if you're not hungry yet, the least I can do is help you work up an appetite."
A wink, because the man lives to get into trouble. He won't put his arm back around Felix this time though, instead tossing them both behind his head as he spares a subtle glance behind them as they make their way to the hall. Dimitri's given up even the pretense of distraction, hands fallen still over the table as one wide eye follows them to the door. Sylvain's own narrow in comparison, his lips still quirked in a lazy sort of grin; when the other man's attention flickers briefly to him, he lifts one shoulder in a sympathetic shrug. Sorry, bud! Can't be helped, damn. Guess he'll have to talk to him some other time, when he's not otherwise occupied with someone else.
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And maybe, just maybe, Felix was too snippy with Sylvain? Not that he's guilty, per se, but he hates allowing his emotions to get the better of him; that makes him no better than the boar, really, and so he takes a breath as Sylvain carries on. It's fine. He's fine. As they reach the door, he can shoot Sylvain a quick, mild Look as he reaches out to grasp the handle. That wink, sir! Ugh.]
Hmph. Spoken as though you'll pose any sort of a challenge. How quickly did I beat you last time?
[Friendly teasing, Felix style. But while he catches Sylvain casting a quick glance back Dimitri's way—why?—he brushes it aside, refuses to look back to see if the boar is still watching. He doesn't mind Dimitri, these days, but that doesn't mean he's looking to extend any sort of invitation.
So out into the hallway he goes!]
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"That depends." He looks down to Felix from the corner of his eye. "Do you mean the last time we sparred the way we're supposed to? Or are we counting the day you came at me with your actual sword, because the training swords were 'too far away'"?"
He still sticks close to Felix, closer than he maybe should, but the subtle tension around his eyes and shoulders eases bit by bit... and then, once they round a corner, all at once. The monastery is quieter without countless students milling around, but where he might have once thought of it as boring... it's actually kind of nice? They don't have to weave through crowd after crowd to get to the training ground--and it's usually empty by the time they get there, so it's easy to fall into their comfortable norm of habitual banter and taunts. He gets to see Felix in his element, enjoying himself (if, perhaps, at Sylvain's expense) and maybe, maybe, maybe, he likes the fact that, even during just that short span of time, he knows that Felix's entire being is honed in on him, and nothing else.
(And maybe, maybe, maybe, he's found, he likes the weight of the Look Felix gives him after a fight well-fought. It's nice.)
"In my defense, I'm pretty sure that's cheating."
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Cheating is impossible, [he fires back, as he's done many a time before.] You should be prepared for anything.
[It's the correct way to live one's life, in Felix's opinion. Never let anything take you by surprise—and he holds Sylvain's gaze for a moment longer, just to (hopefully) drive his point him, before he faces forward once more. Pfft!]
Besides, it was your sloppy footwork that allowed me to win so quickly. I hope you've improved.
[In, like, five more minutes, because hey! Look at this RP Magic! They're strolling into the training grounds soon enough, and there is, as usual, no one else in sight; they have the entire floor to themselves, and Felix makes a beeline to the training swords, carefully picking over them as he searches for his preferred weapon. He has to swing a good, oh, three of them before he finds it, but once it's in his hand, he looks back Sylvain's way.]
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A part of him knows it would be a stupid, stupid thing to do (Felix doesn't need a sword to down a man, and Sylvain Knows this) but the rest of him is caught up in wondering: what sort of expression would he make? Would the flush in his cheeks be from anger, embarrassment, or something else? Would he react differently for Sylvain than, say--
...Ah. But that's the wrong thought, again, isn't it? Because suddenly, Sylvain finds that he wants very badly to learn the answers to his questions; he's certain it's the only thing that might calm this new blaze bursting into his chest before it burns right through him. It would be so easy, he thinks again... He could pin him here, right now, backed against the brick just to feel the press of his body against his own, and Felix would be too distracted to even notice that Dimitri had tried to follow them after all, because just before he caught up to them, Sylvain would lean down and--
--whoops, wow, he totally didn't say a word to whatever follow-up comment Felix had. Something about improving...? And when the fuck did they get to the training grounds, that's fucking wild. Have this mildly dazed Sylvain trying to blink himself back to reality (and if he briefly places a hand over his mouth, high enough to cover the faintest hint of a blush, he's not too proud to laugh it off as nerves) while Felix picks his sword. Thank the Goddess he's so picky, honestly, because by the time he's decided, Sylvain thinks he's composed himself pretty damn well! He definitely wasn't just thinking about kissing his best friend? That's a normal thing to not think about.
Catch this fool pickin' up the first damn sword he can reach while he continues to Not Think...! He's great at it.
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A sword, [he flatly notes, unable to keep his eyebrows from raising as he takes in this rare sight.] Feeling confident? Or are you hoping I'll go easy on you?
[Something, something, some people might take pity on a partner wielding an unfamiliar weapon—but not Felix! Never Felix, which Sylvain is surely well aware of; Felix will, fact, come at him harder, just to prove a nonexistent point, but just in case Sylvain has forgotten this...
...Hmm. Felix eyes him for a moment longer, appraising him—before brushing right past him with the quietest of snorts.]
I won't.
[Watch him make his way to the other side of the floor, swinging his sword in a low, slow arc as he takes point. He knows Sylvain well enough to recognize that this isn't intended to be a slight, so that just makes this... Sylvain's funeral? Sylvain's funeral.]
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This is fine? This is still fine, he thinks, because at least he's still here, and at least Felix is still willing to train with him instead of like, shooing him off somewhere. It's salvageable.
"Ah..."
He corrects his grip as he coughs a laugh, shaking his arms out in some effort to adjust to its unfamiliar weight. He's used swords before? He's practiced with them in the event he should lose his own weapon in the midst of battle, because when every second matters, what you use to defend yourself doesn't. But when it comes right down to it? He's pretty sure the Professor would give him like, a solid D+. Maybe a C on a good day. So... yeah, it'll be his funeral all right.
"No. I guess you wouldn't, would you." It's not a question--and he very clearly doesn't expect an answer as he takes up his place opposite Felix, not bothering with Proper Techniques™ but rather using the approximation of what might be a proper stance, only modified to suit someone who blatantly ignores practicality in favor of a much flashier approach... Little Sylvain Things. "I could use the practice, anyway... Best two out of three?"
Does he really want to get his ass kicked twice? Not really. But it makes him look more confident, anyway.
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But it's fine! This is fine. Teaching Sylvain a lesson is undoubtedly better than watching Sylvain, like, kiss some strange girl's hand, so if it's two bouts Sylvain wants...]
Why not, [he drawls, a hint of a smirk appearing on his face as he brings his sword up.] I'll make quick work of you.
[And that... is a line, albeit an entirely unintentional one—and it only hangs between them for a moment before Felix lunges forward, determined to keep his word.
Not that it's, mmm, a particularly difficult thing to do. Sylvain isn't wholly inexperienced, but he's wholly unprepared for Felix's swift movements; it's why the first bout ends a scant two minutes after it begins, when a solid sweep of Felix's sword sends Sylvain's clattering to the ground. Easy. Sylvain is clearly used to—dependent upon—the reach a lance provides.
And the second bout could easily go the way of the first, if Felix didn't feel the sudden urge to show off? To toy with his best friend, just a bit, because some part of him has always enjoyed impressing others with his skill—and impressing Sylvain seems, ah, particularly enticing. It's fun, hearing Sylvain curse when he attacks an apparent opening and catches nothing but air. There's a wicked sort of satisfaction to be felt as he pushes Sylvain back inch by inch, step by step, while the other man is too focused on deflecting blows to pay even the slightest attention to where his feet are taking him. Felix did warn him about his footwork... so foolish...
But as Sylvain nears the wall, Felix sees the perfect opportunity—and he takes it, dashing forward without any hesitation whatsoever and once again knocking Sylvain's sword from his hand. Again: it's easy. It's so, so easy, and Felix raises the blunted tip of his sword to Sylvain's throat, marches him back until his back is pressed against the cold, unforgiving stone. Nowhere to go, hmm? Sad.
Correction: sad... for Sylvain. Felix, on the other hand, looks rather like the cat that got the cream as he crowds in a tad closer, that hint of a smirk returning—and soon giving way to a true smirk. A smug smirk, all while he gently prods Sylvain's chin up. Hey. Hi. Guess what.]
Do you yield?
[Of course he does. He has to—but as Felix studies Sylvain, acutely aware of the bead of sweat rolling down the side of Sylvain's face, Felix wants to hear him say it.]
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Unfortunately, Sylvain's way seems to be actively working against him now, because he already has his work cut out for him when he spars with Felix... sparring with a weapon he isn't used to adds a completely unnecessary level of difficulty. It makes it harder to time his attacks, wide sweeps turning into clumsy dodges as he leaves opening after opening for Felix's precise, measured swings. Distance, too, becomes an obvious weakness, if not a vulnerability outright; more than once, he finds himself too far to take advantage of what precious few opportunities he's given, but more than that, he finds himself overcompensating, suddenly too near to do anything but stumble back and hope he can regain his bearings quickly enough.
(Spoilers: He does not.)
The second match at least allows him the chance to make use of what he'd learned from the first, the weight of his sword more comfortable in his hands, and that's... well. It's a blessing and a curse, he quickly learns, because on the one hand, his movements come more naturally, which allows him to focus on other things. On the other, however, he finds that it's, ah... a little too easy to focus on the wrong things. Like those boots!! Or the beautiful, deadly precision with which he moves! Or the way a few strands of hair slip from their tie and hang against Felix's face, flushed with exertion, and--it's that look, really, that does him in, in the end.
Does Sylvain think he would've stood a chance in hell no matter what might or might not have distracted him? No, but he's watched Felix spar before. He's sparred with him before, seen the satisfied gleam in his eye and that faintest quirk of his lips, but there's something especially distracting about the downright dangerous look on his face. Not anger, not derision, but something more akin to that of a predator toying with its prey... and that... well!! That, combined with Felix's natural prowess with swordplay, is undoubtedly the reason he finds himself suddenly caught in a frantic, seemingly neverending defense.
Until... he doesn't! Or rather: until he no longer can. His breath catches as his weapon is knocked away, but it's all but knocked out of him when his heel--and then his back--hits stone. Some part of him must apparently be convinced that the sword he's practically baring his throat to is real, or something, because a wave of adrenaline too belated to have anything at all to do with the fight hits him--hard--and as it sends a shiver straight through him, he finds himself suddenly very aware of himself, and of Felix, and of how short a distance is actually left between them. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and it takes a moment for him to make sense of what he's been asked, so like... hold on while the gears grind back to a crawl here.
"Come on," he manages, and he's still a little wide-eyed and breathless, but he'll try for an easy grin of his own. It probably looks about as fake as it feels. "You're not serious..."
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But this isn't that, because that is impossible; this is all about teaching Sylvain a lesson, and so Felix narrows his eyes. Lifts his chin, almost imperiously, as he forces Sylvain's a tad higher. A smidge. Sylvain needs to take this as seriously as he should take Felix.]
I don't joke,
[is his measured response, eyes drifting over to that one bead of sweat, down to the curve of the other man's lips. He could leave it at that, surely. He could stand here in silence and wait for whatever stupid thing Sylvain says next, but as his eyes flick back up to Sylvain's:]
Yield.
[Well, now he's just being bossy.]
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...Aha. So this is... certainly a position Sylvain has found himself in... Like, Felix crowds in closer and the wall behind him suddenly feels that much more solid, the air between them somehow too thick and too thin for him to get a decent breath of air into his aching lungs, and when that sword forces his head back farther he swallows, any semblance of a grin falling from his face as quickly as the blood rushes from his head. It's a good damn thing the wall is so solid, he thinks, distantly, because standing on his own suddenly takes a whole lot more effort than he remembers.
He doesn't remember lifting his hands, but at some point he must have brought them up to either side of him, elbows still pressed to the wall but with palms loosely raised and forward in a placating gesture--or maybe just in surrender, plain and simple, because there's no give to Felix's tone, as steely and steady as Sylvain is not, and...
And this is just... a spar? This isn't anything more than that--there isn't anything to yield to, no reason for it to feel as weighty as it does, somehow. It's not as if he's too prideful to admit he's lost! If he yields here, life goes on. It's meaningless; he isn't really throwing his life to Felix's mercy here, and yet, when Felix demands it of him, it suddenly feels as if he might as well be.
Felix says yield, and Sylvain says, "Yes," in a voice too small, too breathy, too quick for it to mean anything less than what it is. Yes, he yields. Whatever Felix wants, he can have it--he can take it?? "I... I'll yield."
...Right?? Maybe?? Help the man before he dies here against the wall like a fool.
a cute icon... wao...
...He can't have any of it. A sobering thought, even as the timbre of Sylvain's voice sends an electric current racing through him, makes Felix wonder if this is how Sylvain would possibly allow himself to sound, were someone to methodically take him apart. Would he let someone close enough to try?
Ah, well. It doesn't matter, really, because even if he would, that person would almost certainly not be Felix; it's why Felix remains where he is for a moment longer, selfishly memorizing Sylvain's expression... before he abruptly taking a step back, lowering his sword as he does so. What is there to say? There are so many things he could say, but.]
...Your footwork was even sloppier, [is what he (rudely) settles for, right before he turns on his heel.] Practice before you challenge me again.
[Which is what he's going to do, now that he's officially Won. It's time to hack a training dummy apart, all while some small, quiet part of him considers how sad it is, that Sylvain pays empty compliments to empty-headed people. Does he know how beautiful he looks? Does he know the caliber of compliments that he deserves to hear?
Well. Why worry about questions that he already knows the answers to! It isn't as though he has any intention of—any idea of how to—pay this fool a compliment, so. Training, training, training, until everything is dull.]
My power grows by the minute...!
...And then that moment passes, and instead of wondering, Sylvain finds himself faced with the dawning--or maybe damning--realization that he'd hoped he would. It crashes into him with all the force of a wyvern rider's axe, and although that sword has moved away from his throat, he remains where he is against the wall as Felix puts that distance back between them, whatever words he might have said stuck uselessly in his throat.
And you know, isn't it fitting, really? He knows what will earn someone's interest; he knows what will lose it, too. The people he knows nothing about and who know nothing about him beyond his name and his Crest, the people he couldn't give less of a damn about in the end--with them, he always knows exactly what to say. And yet Felix, the one person he knows better than anyone--who knows him better than anyone--is the one he finds himself at such a loss for. He's not sure he's ever been so disappointed to watch someone walk away.
Normally, he might find himself chasing after Felix, too. Tug at his elbow after he catches up, remind him that they were going to get something to eat after all this. But standing isn't any easier now than it was a moment ago, and the ache in his chest seems to have pitched his stomach sideways, too, so maybe he'll just... stay here, instead. At least until his heart stops racing... And when he trusts his legs enough to carry him to his room, he'll slip silently out so he can teach himself to carefully compartmentalize this like just about anything else.
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...It's stupid. It's all so incredibly stupid, and thus Felix throws himself into his training, into battle, with an unmatched ferocity that sends people nodding approvingly. The Fraldarius heir, they whisper to one another as he passes. Doing everything he can, in his father's place. So devoted to the king! His childhood friend, you know.
So it goes.
Even Dimitri sees fit to pull him aside after one particularly hard-fought battle, awkwardly stumbling his way through praise as Felix just stands there, blinks tiredly back at him. Once, Dimitri—the real Dimitri—praising him would have meant everything? And it still means something, yes. Sends something tightening within him as Dimitri takes his hand in his, swipes his much larger thumb over bruised knuckles, but it's not—it doesn't mean what Dimitri wants it to mean. There's a hunger in Dimitri's eye as he looks down at Felix, a clear need, and Felix feels nothing but a wave of exhaustion so strong he's nearly sick.
But Felix pushes forward, as he always does. He focuses on each fight, tracking (Sylvain's) his allies' movements as he sweeps his way through line after line of enemies. He does what needs to be done—and so does everyone else, which is why it's really no surprise when, after so many miserable years, Faerghus forces finally march into Enbarr. A bloody, bloody battle, to be sure. Countless lives lost, on both sides, but what matters is this: Edelgard falls, and the Adrestian Empire falls with her.
There's a celebration, afterward. Faerghus soldiers spend the remaining daylight carrying corpses from the Imperial Palaces, and then, as night falls, crowd into an opulent ballroom, singing and dancing and drinking whatever they pillage from the palace's seemingly bottomless stores. It is... entirely too loud, for Felix's liking; he only comes because Annette begs him to, promises that she won't leave his side the entire night, and when can he ever refuse her? How can he ever hold anything against her. Even when she drinks too much champagne and allows Ashe to pull her to the dance floor, giggling all the while; even when Dimitri catches sight of him standing there, alone, and summons him, insists that he remain by his side, Felix merely sips whatever swill he's offered and watches his friends enjoy being alive. There is, at least, something enjoyable about that.
And there is something enjoyable about seeing Dimitri relax for the first time in moons? As much as he's able to, anyway. He frowns and he fidgets and Felix finds himself reminding him, time and time again, to focus on the celebration. "Let them see you smile, if you remember how," Felix gripes, and Dimitri sighs, gazes at him with such fondness Felix is forced to look away. Of course he remembers how to smile, he tells Felix. It is easy, so long as his oldest friend remains by his side.
It hits Felix, then, that the war is over—but this is not? This, in fact, is only beginning, because as Felix makes a grab for his mug, Felix realizes that his post-war plans do not involve him doing as he pleases. He will inherit a title; he will inherit a responsibility; he will, in a sense, inherit a king, and just as Felix can't hold anything against Annette, Felix finds that he can't hold this against Dimitri. He is needed; his wants do not matter.
Which is for the best, honestly, because the one thing he wants is impossible. Not that it prevents Felix from looking for a familiar thatch of red hair every time he scans the crowd. He looks, and, more often than not, he finds, catching sight of Sylvain teasing Ingrid, or speaking to strangers—and he's beautiful, Felix thinks. Heart-wrenchingly handsome in the candlelight, even as he offers everyone a fake smile.
Not that it's a bad smile. Not that it's small or pinched or anything of the sort—but it isn't right, in Felix's opinion, and so he watches him closely, his own frown deepening with every passing moment. They won, didn't they? Sylvain is free to do anything he wants, and yet there he is! So, so cold, beneath that warm veneer, and when Dimitri leans in, placing a hand on his forearm as he asks Felix what is wrong, that's all that it takes: Felix stands, allowing Dimitri's hand to fall away. Someone else, it would seem, has forgotten how to smile. Someone who shouldn't.
And thus Felix goes to him.
Thus Felix cuts through the crowd, ignoring the way everything seems so, mmm, soft about the edges as he tracks Sylvain into the shadows. It's fine; the only thing that matters is, as always:]
Sylvain.
[All the warning Sylvain gets as Felix sidles up to him, cheeks redder than they have any right to be—but his eyes, at least, are clear? So clear as he gazes up at his best friend, studying him so intently.]
What are you doing?
[A typically straightforward question, even if Sylvain will no doubt interpret it as Felix asking why he's here, tucked away in this quiet alcove.]
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And all the while, of course, they fight, and it always goes the same. He keeps as close an eye on Felix as ever, carefully minding his position on the battlefield in case he finds himself outnumbered, or overextended, or in need of rescue. All admittedly rare, but he knows he'd never forgive himself if something happened and he hadn't been there to help. But it's because he keeps such a close eye on Felix that he gets to see the way Dimitri does the same, in his own way. They rarely fight together, but Dimitri seems to gravitate towards Felix in the same way that Sylvain does. In the way the others don't, no matter how much they may care about their friend's safety. Even Ingrid, up over all of them, keeps her attention spread evenly.
Sylvain still comes to his aid more often, in those rare times it's needed as well as when it's not. He makes sure to come to his aid more often, taking advantage of his mount's speed as often as Dimitri's hesitation in the event he finds himself farther off than the other.
And then, like every other war before it, it ends! The war ends, and they're still alive--he's still alive--and of course they celebrate? Of course they do, because it's over, and Dimitri will be their king, and all is right in the world...
...Except for him, apparently, because it's always been easy to find Felix at a party. He stands out by not standing out, so if he isn't standing out of the way along one wall, all you have to do is try another wall. Dimitri, on the other hand, stands out by... well, by standing out, like a sore fucking thumb. So it is immediately obvious, when Sylvain first tries to seek Felix out, that he's, ah. Occupied? And... every other time he seeks him out, actually, with Dimitri gazing at him with that big, dopey look in his eye, and Felix in a state of perpetual blush, and... ah. That's just it, isn't it? No matter how many times he made sure to be at Felix's side, Felix will be at Dimitri's now, won't he? Like he already is, and like he always will be.
So... you know. Things are fine. Things are good!! He throws himself into dances and conversation and drinks until he can blame the sick feeling in his stomach on too many of one or another. The company is decent enough, he finds. He's among friends and allies, and so it's easy to fall into a familiar pattern, easy to fall into distractions, but here's the thing:
The war is over. His friends are alive. His friends are happy, genuinely and rightfully so for the first time in years without risk of having it snatched away from them. But the more time he spends glancing over his shoulder, the more the sounds of merriment all around him sound like mocking, sound like taunts, sound like things he doesn't get to and shouldn't have, and it's harder and harder to pretend that this girl's jokes are funny, or that he doesn't mind how long that one has been leaning against his shoulder, or that he doesn't hate the fact that one of them--three of them--too many of them have asked whether he'd be looking to settle down now that the fighting is over, and he isn't sure why it's that question for the fucking nth time that feels like it could suffocate him, but he excuses himself as politely as ever after some flowery non-answer and it's only once he's slipped completely away that he can breathe more comfortably again.
And it lasts... oh, maybe about ten seconds before there's a familiar voice calling his name, and as he startles with a sharp curse, he's aware the surprise is only half of the reason his heart jumps right along with him.
"Felix!" He sighs, schooling his expression into something more controlled. What is he doing...? "Ah... it's funny, actually." Is it, really? What's really funny is the fact a lie like this slips so easily off his tongue. "I asked two girls to dance, and I guess they both decided to come over at the same time... Things were getting pretty heated, sooo I figured I'd duck out here... you know, until things calm down some."
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It is, however, another thing for Sylvain to lie to him.
Oh, he surely has before. Sylvain is no saint—and neither is Felix, when you get right down to it, but they've never made a habit of lying to one another. What's the point? They know each other too well to get away with it; like, Felix knows almost every one of Sylvain's tells, and so he remains where he is for a moment, eyes narrowing the slightest bit as he continues studying Sylvain's face. Is he annoyed that Sylvain is trying this, or is he hurt that Sylvain is trying this, or is he...
...Hmm. A little of column A, a little of column B, but as he huffs out a breath, he realizes that there is also—well? It's not pity. Not precisely. It's just the thought that lying to so many people, again and again and again, must be absolutely exhausting, and Felix resists the urge to grab Sylvain's shirt and shake him. It doesn't have to be this way, idiot! Not with him, never with him.]
There were more than two girls, [is what he settles for, instead. Blunt facts. Easier for him to parse.] And none of them were angry.
[Crestfallen (aHA) when Sylvain walked away, yes, but not angry. There was no storm brewing—and Felix feels his stomach twist as he's reminded, again, that Sylvain feels the need to hide something from him. Time to drop his gaze! To turn ever so slightly, just so his eyes can drift over the crowd as he says, a touch quieter (but just as serious):]
You don't have to lie.
[Again: Not to HIM!]
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...Well. A lot of things are different when it comes to Felix, he's noticed. Like right now, where Sylvain knows that the reason for this type of lie is to wave someone off before they look too close--and yet, when he sees those eyes narrow and wonders if that really might be all it takes to shoo his friend away, the relief he might feel were it anyone else is mysteriously absent. He thought he could breathe easier out here, but with the way time slows to a terrible, damning crawl, it almost feels as if he's walked himself into the gallows, instead. His eyes wander away as he tries not to imagine the disgusted irritation that will surely be in Felix's eyes once he finds the nerve to actually meet them again, tries not to think about all the things he could have said instead, and then--uh?
Hey?? Catch this flicker of honest confusion for a second, like Sylvain's forgotten his own made-up story, because... the last thing he expected was for Felix to argue its validity! And somehow, the fact he'd seen through him so easily manages to make him feel even worse before he feels even the smallest spark of comfort.
"How..."
...did you know that, he almost asks, but when he looks back, he sees the way Felix has turned his attention away (and isn't that the problem, really?) and the words die in his throat. Instead, he swallows them down and corrects himself--lightens the uncertainty in his tone, seals the cracks in his expression, laughs, just once, and he thinks it's meant to match the mood he tries to set, but it feels more like it's directed inward, at his piss-poor attempt to cheapen the one relationship that means more to him than the world itself... than his entire life.
"Okay, so maybe there were more than two." It wouldn't be the first time, he thinks. There's no reason for Felix to doubt him--rather, he hasn't given him any reason to. "And maybe they weren't angry... yet. But, I figured I'd try and lay low for a while, anyway. After everything everyone's been through, I'd hate to ruin anyone's fun by having too much of my own... you know?"
Because he's been having so much fun, Felix!! He's loved every second of this party; he could almost wish it would never end.
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And Felix wants him to be honest, too, but what does he get? A sort of... half-truth, at best. Carefully chosen words that send him pressing his lips into a thin, thin line as he takes them in, because it doesn't matter how tipsy he may or may not be; he knows what he saw, and he knows Sylvain, and he knows that Sylvain is still keeping something from him.
It is... bitter. It tastes far worse than any of the alcohol that's been foisted upon him, and you know, it doesn't seem fair that Sylvain is foisting this upon him.]
Fun, [he repeats, allowing some of that bitterness to creep into his voice as he turns to fix Sylvain with a look. He could snap at Sylvain, just to point out that he's never cared about how his flirting impacts others; he could simply walk away from Sylvain, if this conversation is going to continue down this dishonest path, but instead, because Sylvain always gets away with things no one else can:] Are you having fun?
[It's a flat, weird question, coming from the person who a) is seemingly allergic to fun and b) never seems to care about these things, but? Felix is fully prepared to stand here, his gaze level, as he watches and waits for Sylvain's response. He knows the truth; he is steeling himself for yet another lie.]
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"Hey, come on!" Another laugh, and he hopes it doesn't sound as empty as it feels. "What kind of a question is that?"
How is it fair to ask him that, of all things...? How can Felix ask him to lie to like this, again, and again, and again, as if it doesn't twist the blade in his gut deeper and deeper each and every time? He can already feel his resolve faltering--and the worst part is that he can't even be sure if it's from the drinks, or from the guilt, or from the desperate wish that he wouldn't feel the need to lie at all.
Still, against all odds, he manages to hold his eyes. His grin has dropped into something smaller, wide but with no visible teeth, and he finds that for all he may be able to continue lying with a smile, he can't actually bring himself to lie outright for a third time.
"I mean... why wouldn't I be?" It's a non-answer, at best, and he quickly rushes to fill the silence before Felix can say as much. "We won, right? And now we get a party; there's no reason for anyone to not be having fun."
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Except that's the thing, isn't it? He isn't happy, and for the life of him, Felix can't pinpoint why. Frustrating—and, mmm, somewhat guilt-inducing, because as Felix's eyes drift down to that not-at-all-sincere grin, Felix thinks of the many, many times Sylvain knew just how he felt, knew just what to do. Even after his father died, when so many people thought space was what he needed, Sylvain was the one to find him, again and again; Sylvain was the one to ignore every acerbic remark thrown his way and simply sit with him, a familiar, grounding presence for Felix to take silent comfort in. It was exactly what Felix needed, at the time, and Felix feels as though he should return the favor. He wants to.
...He needs to, because of all the things Sylvain is to him, and so:]
You're not.
[The blunt, blunt truth. Sylvain is not having fun, and Felix is staring at the evidence of it right now? This obviously fake grin that tugs at something within him. He hates it; he wants to watch it slide from Sylvain's face, just so another, more honest expression can take its place, but...
But. Saying that is so, so complicated; it's easier, somehow, to stretch a hand up to Sylvain's face before he can think better of it, to press his pointer finger lightly against the corner of Sylvain's mouth as he does his best to ignore the shock that travels right up his arm. This is about helping Sylvain. This is about letting Sylvain know that he's been seen for what he is at this very moment. This is, selfishly, about wiping this awful grin off the face Felix likes best.]
You're not, [he murmurs once more, brow furrowing like he's attempting to solve some sort of puzzle while he stares at this one particular spot,] and you won't tell me why.
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But the snappish rebuttal that comes isn't quite as snappish as Sylvain expects; he pushes back and rather than meet in the middle, he finds his hold on the situation slipping too far forward, caught off guard and off balance by the way that simple statement manages to strike right between his ribs with a deadly, pinpoint precision. Is it blunt... yes. Extremely so, and yet somehow he had nearly forgotten that someone still exists who can see him through his act? That Felix is--has always been--always will be that someone, and the reminder pierces through him in a way that little else can, anymore.
And it's interesting, really, how that hand at his face can feel like it's the only thing keeping him grounded here, and also like it's knocked the floor from under him entirely. He doesn't quite relax--he isn't sure he could, with Felix this close--but he can still feel it when his act does start to slip. His eyes soften, and for all his smile seems frozen to his face, it feels more like an apology; he can't tell what expression he's making anymore.
"Felix..."
Quiet, like a sigh, as he searches his friend's face for...? For... something. The last time they were so close, he'd wished he could have kissed him; he breathes out a slow, shaky exhale as he tries to understand the way his heart can become such a frantic, fragile thing when he realizes he feels the same, now.
He sounds unusually hesitant when he speaks again, uncertainty coloring his words:
"...What if I didn't know what to say?" he asks, and it feels like an admission of guilt.
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Usin this icon again bc it's just the mood for this PSL honestly
title of this psl: gay panic
God but ain't that the fuckin' truth
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Just writes you an actual fucking novel ig, take this away from me
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How many times can I include the fact that Sylvain Hates Society in one thread?
sylvain: we live in a society..................
Sylvain: I'm not saying that I would willingly beat the shit out of every noble in Faerghus, but
felix cheers him on from the sidelines--jk felix is right there with him
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