[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.
[Felix is enthralled by the corner of Sylvain's mouth. Enamored with it, stupidly enough—but Sylvain says his name and his eyes immediately flick up, amber meeting warm, soft brown, and Felix feels a pang of longing so strong it nearly takes his breath away. This idiot. This idiot who lied to him is the idiot who means everything to him, and once again he finds himself moving without thinking, his hand slipping higher, fingers brushing over unfairly soft skin before he gently, carefully, cups Sylvain's cheek. He's never done anything like this before; he's never had a reason to, really, but what would normally feel awkward feels perfectly easy at this point in time. The alcohol, surely.
...Surely. It's the sort of dim knowledge that threatens to hurt, which is why Felix pointedly ignores it as he focuses solely on Sylvain.]
Idiot, [he breathes out, sounding almost sad despite the pinch of his brow.] You didn't have to lie.
[It's what Felix said at the very beginning—and while he normally hates repeating himself, it feels, mmm, necessary here. It feels important to remind Sylvain that there was no reason to do what he did, because Felix is here, Felix is always here, Felix will always be here, even when everything he's set to inherit threatens to pull him under. Felix can't give this up.
No. Felix can't. Felix will, in fact, hold onto this as long as he's able to, and so he brings his other hand to Sylvain's face, cups his other cheek just as gently. This is the face he likes best, and so, after a quiet sigh of his own, he says one last, simple thing:]
Smile.
[A real smile. Just one. For him.]
Edited 2020-02-14 06:15 (UTC)
Usin this icon again bc it's just the mood for this PSL honestly
Is it fair for Felix to be able to do this to him so easily...? There's none of the urgency this time, what with the way time slows to a crawl as it does, and yet it feels as if his pulse races just as quick now as it had then, and when Felix reaches higher, Sylvain's breath catches again, too.
It's stupid, really... It's not as if he's never touched someone this way before, been touched by someone even, but where he might normally have some clever thing to say or reach confidently out and pull them closer, he finds himself at a complete loss, as if anything he could say or do might be just what it takes to shatter the illusion. So here he is, stood stock still like a damn fool, as he wonders if he's ever felt so warmed by someone's touch before, or if those touches had even been warm at all.
The worst part is that he doesn't know--still doesn't know--and the uncertainty hangs awkward and uncomfortable off his shoulders like a sweater four sizes too big. But what he does know is that, somehow, Idiot sounds like home, only the way it's supposed to be; he wants nothing more than to let himself sink into the feeling of it. He could melt into these hands, he thinks, could drown feeling loved, seen, understood, and once again, he finds himself hoping, and letting himself hope, that Felix might kiss him, because he's not sure he's ever wanted anything more, or been so afraid to take it.
The rest of the night doesn't matter. Dimitri doesn't matter. (Sorry, Dimitri.) Only this, only Felix matters, so although he can't quite bring himself to offer anything extraordinary, when Felix asks for a smile, he doesn't even have to force his expression to soften the way it does.
"That's cheating, you know," he says, only just loud enough to be heard over the celebration still going strong in the distance. But it sounds fond, terribly so, and the small, apologetic smile he manages is certainly the first one he hasn't had to force all night.
[Felix doesn't want anything extraordinary? Felix wants exactly what he demanded: a smile. Nothing more, nothing less—or so he thinks, anyway, but as he watches Sylvain's expression soften, Sylvain's grin settle into something smaller and much more honest, he realizes: ah. Ah. This is not enough, even if this tiny smile is all Sylvain is willing—is able—to offer... him.
And maybe that's the problem! Maybe he's the problem. Maybe he isn't what Sylvain wants at this time, or what Sylvain needs at this time, and that's why Sylvain refuses to let him in. It's an unfortunate thought, especially when compared to the warmth of Sylvain's skin beneath his fingertips; it stings, really, but Felix tries to keep his focus on the face in his hands. At least this is better than that. At least it's only the two of them here. At least—
At least Felix has this, here and now, before the thing he's always hated tears him away from it forever. A very selfish thing to focus on, but as his duty to Dimitri springs unbidden to his mind, Felix takes a breath, tries to shift his mind back to other things. A memory: Sylvain against a wall. Sylvain, red-faced and breathless, as Felix's sword forces his chin up, up, up. Aha.]
Cheating is impossible.
[A simple thing to murmur before he pulls Sylvain down to him—and it's easy to pull Sylvain down to him, because hasn't Sylvain always given Felix whatever he's asked for? Stupid and selfless and so, so beautiful, Felix thinks, raising up on his toes as his eyes drift down to Sylvain's lips. They look as soft as his are chapped, and that's par for the course; like, Sylvain has always taken pride in his appearance, and Felix has never cared enough to bother—but in this moment, he wishes that he, too, were beautiful. Beautiful enough to catch Sylvain's eye and make Sylvain smile.
But he's not, he is not, and that won't change. All he can do is ignore the sudden tightness behind his eyes, squeeze them shut as he tilts his head back and clumsily presses his lips to Sylvain's. How long can he get away with this? He isn't sure; he's kissed so few people, after all, but he's never, ever kissed someone so very important to him.]
Cheating is absolutely possible, Sylvain thinks, simply, because Felix is doing it right now.
Cheating is the way Felix studies him, like if he just looks hard enough, he could see inside of him and find all the broken, dirty, rotten pieces he's tucked so deeply away that they've turned their edges in on himself instead of others; it's the warmth of Felix's hands as they guide him down, like a flower chasing the sun; it's the fact that Felix can cut through the armor he's done so well to craft with such ease, or maybe it's the fact that Felix is the only person who has ever asked him to... no, who has ever made him want to take it off.
Ultimately, cheating is the way Felix can somehow look so troubled when Sylvain can't find it in him to even breathe, let alone ask him why, but then Felix is leaning up, and...
...and, oh... So this is what it's like...
...In some quiet, far off part of his mind, Sylvain knows that it's not... a perfect kiss? It's not even a very impressive kiss. Like, he knows he's been kissed harder, deeper, hotter--and those have all been... good. He thinks. (He thought...?) Whereas this is... simple, and nervous, and it could certainly be better... and yet he can't think of even one that has ever managed to shake him to his very core the way that this one does with just a clumsy brush of lips.
He stands frozen there for all of a second before that warmth in his chest spreads ever so slowly outward, and he lets his eyes fall shut as he carefully--haltingly, the hesitance (in this of all things!) still a strange, foreign feeling to him--brings his arms up, daring to lift one hand to Felix's shoulder, while the fingers of the other skim lightly over the back of one of the hands at his face. Another half-second and he gathers himself enough to return that pressure, and this, at least, is easy. This is something familiar, just... sweeter, somehow, which is a thought that could almost make him laugh.
Still, it's easy to let himself lean into the kiss. To give in to the temptation of returning it with something a little less clumsy, chapped lips be damned, because how many times has he thought of this since then...? How many times has he wondered: if he kissed him as slowly, as softly as this, would Felix let him? Could he coax a (darker, he supposes) blush into his cheeks, and what kind of face would he make once he pulled away?
Or maybe the question he should ask is: what kind of face will he make once he pulls away? Something he'd never considered until now--because once they do separate, and he can finally make sense of the emotion with such a tight grip on his racing heart, he won't have a damn thing to say but you can bet he'll wear a smile that warms his whole face. Or maybe he's just blushing, too? Shut up. He's just busy letting all the pieces he's been holding this whole while slot into place--and surely, surely, he has like... a minute to gather his thoughts! Surely no one could possibly bother them out here, alone, away from literally any other human being...!
[There are so many reasons to kiss Sylvain at this particular point in time—but the moment their lips meet, all of the reasons fall to the wayside as Felix freezes. What, he dimly wonders, is he doing? He could be ruining their friendship right now. He could be—probably is—destroying this relationship they've spent years and years and years building, and he suddenly expects Sylvain to pull away, to give him a wary look as he says his name in an equally wary tone. People are always using Sylvain; it makes sense, really, for Sylvain to think that Felix is out to do the same.
But Sylvain doesn't pull away. Sylvain's fingers skirt over his own—and then Sylvain is kissing him back, so gently, so considerately, that the tightness behind Felix's eyes becomes impossible to ignore. This is Sylvain... what? Doing him a favor? No, no. This is Sylvain, selfless Sylvain, giving him as much as he can—and this is Felix, selfish Felix, taking it all, making a small, strangled noise in the back of his throat as he commits everything to memory.
Because while Felix would gladly kiss Sylvain for the remainder of the night—would happily sink against him, drown in him—such things only happen in those stupid, stupid stories Felix used to read. This, however, is reality, and Felix savors all that he can before he feels Sylvain begin to pull away. They have to breathe, yes. They probably should say... something about this, but for the first few seconds, Felix refuses to open his (burning) eyes; he merely stands there, painfully aware of every breath Sylvain takes as he steels himself for whatever it is he's about to see. Sylvain frowning. Sylvain giving him a pitying look. Sylvain offering him a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, which might just be the worst thing of all.
But Felix made his bed, didn't he? Now he has to lie in it, which is why he opens his eyes at last, blinking once, twice, through the tears that threaten to fall.
And Sylvain is smiling.
Sylvain is smiling, genuinely smiling, and Felix watches the hands on Sylvain's face—his hands, holy shit—slip down, just so thumbs can catch the corners of Sylvain's mouth.]
There, [he whispers, too far gone to care if Sylvain can even hear him.] It's real, this time.
[Why is it real, though? The kiss? The kiss that he took, greedily, without asking? It shouldn't be as complicated to piece together as it is. Blame that on both the alcohol and the strange way his heart flips in his chest, but as he stands there, staring up at Sylvain through watery eyes, progress is being made—
—until all of said progress is wiped clear when he hears Dimitri call his name.
It comes from somewhere behind him, he thinks. Not too close, but not too far away. Felix? Dimitri is searching for him, interrupting who knows how many quiet moments, and Felix feels the weight of—mmm. It's not responsibility, really? He isn't responsible for the grown man that is Dimitri, but he thinks of Dimitri fidgeting, frowning, unsure of what to do when he's left all alone, and Felix knows that he is needed.
...There's nothing to be done about it. There's no time to think about anything else, honestly, and so Felix pulls his hands from Sylvain's face, lets the hand on his shoulder fall away as he turns toward the heavy footsteps coming ever closer. And there, soon enough, is Dimitri, expression brightening when he sees Felix—and then dimming ever so slightly as he notes Sylvain standing there, so close, so intimate. Ah, he says, awkwardly. I did not intend to—
Felix huffs, loudly, cutting Dimitri off as easily as anything. He wishes that he could tell Dimitri that he is interrupting something! Something important—but Felix has done too much already, and he has no desire to put Sylvain on the spot like this. The best thing to do, in Felix's opinion, is to put as much distance between them as he possibly can, and thus: he moves. He brushes past Dimitri before Dimitri can see that his eyes are far glassier than they have any right to be. It's nothing, he mutters. Just shut up.
Dimitri will follow him. Surely. This is the least that Felix can do for Sylvain.]
Progress is being made... Like, arguably the most progress yet, at least on Sylvain's part?? Emotions are fake, love is conditional, and so the story of Sylvain's life goes--but for maybe the first time in a very, very long time, he finds himself questioning the things he'd seen as indisputable fact. Questioning Felix, and realizing all at once that he would give anything, anything, to keep him this close and to never let him go, because--
...Because oh, he thinks. Oh... This is what love is supposed to be. And it's a terrifying thing, really, when all he is is a good-for-nothing with his history spelled out in the pieces of all the hearts he's left broken behind him... Felix deserves more than that? Felix deserves anything but that, Felix deserves the world, and Sylvain... well, Sylvain doesn't deserve to be the one to offer it to him, but then he always has been selfish, really.
But before he can get too much further in his thoughts, as he finally comes back to himself enough to do something other than stare in some silent combination of wonder and adoration, three things happen in dizzying succession.
First: Felix whispers to him. The words are all but lost just to the space put back between them, and Sylvain tries to lean back down--to hear better, he tells himself. Only to listen... only for a moment, and if his eyes fall to his lips, it's only so he can match their movement to the sound. And Sylvain's never been self-conscious about his looks--it's the one thing everyone's always seemed to like about him, after all, so why would he ever doubt it?--but as those hands slip lower and those words register in his ears, he can feel the way his face must flare, and he thinks, absently, that it must not look as attractive on him as it does on Felix.
Second: Sylvain's eyes flick back up to Felix's, and he can't discern exactly what emotion it is behind them, but he can see the way they glisten, just slightly... It's been so long since he's seen these eyes, amber turned to whiskey in the dim light, but he would recognize them anywhere. They're the same eyes he'd given him when he'd been absolutely certain in the way children often are that his friendship with Dimitri was irrefutably, heartbreakingly over, as if he hadn't been the one to declare as much in the first place. Felix has no reason to look at him like he's caused some irreparable damage; those eyes have no place here, Sylvain thinks--Dimitri has no place here. Not now. Not when this is the happiest he's felt in years, but...
Third: Sylvain tries to speak, tries to bring one hand up to Felix's face to ask why, but stops short when Dimitri's voice cutting through the din turns all the warmth buzzing comfortably through his veins to ice, as hard and as sharp as the smile that freezes onto his face once again as their dear, beloved friend rounds the corner and has the gall--the audacity!!--to look him in the eye before he stammers out some apology to Felix that Sylvain knows he doesn't mean, because he knows he wouldn't mean it if he were in Dimitri's place.
Maybe it's some half-assed self-defense that keeps him from watching Felix as he walks away, or maybe it's the fact that staring Dimitri in the eye like this satisfies some baser need to know on an instinctual level that, although the other man is still stronger than him by a wide margin, he's also still wary enough of him as a rival to not risk looking away for long.
And it's!! Stupid!! He hates the anger that surges in him as he sees his old friend turn towards Felix as he brushes past, drawn to him as if by magnet. He hates the way it simmers and boils beneath his skin as he lets them leave with a wave but not a word; hates the way it sears so sharply into him that the urge to follow after them is so, so strong, hates that he comes so close to spitting the many, many reasons why Dimitri shouldn't get to take the one good thing Sylvain has, when he'd already had his chance and ruined it...
But, hey!! He's great at bottling that shit up. So, for the second time, he'll simply wait until he can trust himself not to lunge bodily at their new king (whether that's a joke or not is honestly up in the air at this point) before he slips out from the rest of the festivities with some polite excuse or another. It seems a little too depressing to stick around and drown himself in drink and the fondness in Dimitri's stare, when all he seems able to do now is wonder how long the memory of that kiss will linger still against his lips.
[The remainder of the night is, predictably, an unpleasant mess. Felix makes his way back to the main table, somehow managing to keep his temper in check as Dimitri falls in step beside him; Felix drinks his wine and watches the crowd, keeping his eyes peeled for a shock of red, red hair even as Dimitri, unknowingly or no, demands as much of his attention as he's able; Felix walks Dimitri to his room, rudely reminding him to sleep—and pointedly ignoring the way he stands there, watching him make his way to his own door. It's fine. This is how things are; this is how things have to be, and so Felix, in typical Felix fashion, will handle it. Alone.
(And if he spends the better part of the night lying in bed, sheets twisted around his feet as he presses fingers to his lips and tries to recall every detail of that kiss? No one needs to know.)
But here's the thing about winning the war: the work doesn't just stop. In fact, in so many ways, the work is only beginning—and Felix throws himself into it as fiercely as he'd thrown himself into battle, riding out to Fraldarius territory as soon as he's able. His uncle managed the land as best he could, Felix assumes, but that responsibility now falls to Felix; it's his job—his duty, though he's loath to refer to it as such—to take up the reins.
And once Fraldarius territory is once again running like a well-oiled machine, it's Felix's job—his duty—to ride to Fhirdiad. Dimitri, naturally, is thrilled to have him by his side, tells Felix as much twenty times a day, and Felix is—well. He resents Dimitri, at first. He snaps, pushes back in meetings when he has no real reason to, takes a certain amount of pleasure in pointing out every perceived flaw... but it isn't fair of him, he knows. Dimitri isn't even a bad king? And, most importantly of all, he never asks Felix for anything. They fuss and they fight and they meet first thing every morning, Dimitri brushing aside Felix's sarcasm and accepting whatever valid points Felix makes, and despite it all...
...It's impossible for Felix to hate Dimitri. Even when Dimitri was at his absolute lowest, Felix couldn't bring himself to hate him—and after two moons have passed, he finds that he can't even pretend to. Things are not perfect; their relationship is too tense, and Felix is too wary, but they reach an... equilibrium, of sorts. Felix works to keep his temper in check; Dimitri refrains from asking anything of Felix that Felix isn't willing to give; their evenings end with the two of them sitting in Dimitri's office, sipping tea before the fire while poring over plans. They are, in a sense, as comfortable as they've ever been. Friendly.
And yet something is missing? An obvious something, given the way Felix's heart races every time he reads the newest reports from Sreng. He's locked the memory of the kiss somewhere far, far away in his mind—but of course it's there, and of course it comes right back to the forefront of his mind one evening when Dimitri looks at him over the rim of his cup and casually mention that, ah, yes, Sylvain is due to arrive any day now to update the king in person. Won't it be good, Dimitri asks, to see him again?
Felix feels that eye watching, watching, as he hums in quiet agreement, pretending to continue skimming the report in his hands. Obviously it will be nice. Sylvain is their friend.
It's because that Sylvain is their friend that Felix is standing by Dimitri's side as Sylvain rides into Fhirdiad. It's an official-ish function, given Sylvain's status, and Felix normally avoids official-ish functions on principle—but he wants to be there, wants to see Sylvain slip from his horse and stand so, so tall, and oh, but he's every bit as beautiful as he was three moons ago. It's enough to take his breath away, really, and so he's more than glad when Dimitri steps forward, throws etiquette out the window as he pulls Sylvain into a quick embrace. Felix isn't sure what he would have said, had Sylvain walked straight to him. Perhaps he would have choked.
He's able to mutter a curt greeting when Sylvain finally does approach him—and then it's Felix hurrying from one meeting to another, Felix suffering through a crowded dinner to celebrate Sylvain's arrival, Felix allowing Dimitri to pull him into the nearby courtyard and hold his hand so, so gently in between his much larger ones. Felix, Dimitri murmurs, so affectionate as to make Felix's stomach twist itself into knots, and he finds himself staring at the ground as Dimitri thanks him for remaining by his side throughout the entire day. He can't seem to pull his hand away? Can't seem to listen to this stream of endearments—you are so kind, Felix, so patient, your presence means more to me than I can ever hope to express—without thinking of Sylvain, Sylvain, Sylvain. What would such things sound like, falling from his lips... would they make him feel as sick as he does now, or would it all be entirely different...
In the end, he supposes it doesn't matter. Another thought for him to bury—and by the next morning, as he makes his way to his first meeting, it is buried. He's thinking of nothing but taxes when he enters the antechamber, knowing he's too early—that so-and-so's audience with the king is still ongoing—but not caring in the slightest.
Until he sees Sylvain, that is. Until he sees Sylvain, tall and, as always, so devastatingly handsome, and it's been so long since they've been so close that it hits him far harder than it should.]
Ah,
[is all that he can think to say, brows lifting in surprise before he can even think to catch himself. All he can do for a solid five seconds is stare, stupidly—but okay, okay. It's only Sylvain. It's only Sylvain doing something, mmm, very un-Sylvain-like, hence Felix's first words:]
...You're early.
[Since when has he ever been in a rush for these things? Sylvain is the type to loiter, to mingle... but here he is! What is going on!]
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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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...Surely. It's the sort of dim knowledge that threatens to hurt, which is why Felix pointedly ignores it as he focuses solely on Sylvain.]
Idiot, [he breathes out, sounding almost sad despite the pinch of his brow.] You didn't have to lie.
[It's what Felix said at the very beginning—and while he normally hates repeating himself, it feels, mmm, necessary here. It feels important to remind Sylvain that there was no reason to do what he did, because Felix is here, Felix is always here, Felix will always be here, even when everything he's set to inherit threatens to pull him under. Felix can't give this up.
No. Felix can't. Felix will, in fact, hold onto this as long as he's able to, and so he brings his other hand to Sylvain's face, cups his other cheek just as gently. This is the face he likes best, and so, after a quiet sigh of his own, he says one last, simple thing:]
Smile.
[A real smile. Just one. For him.]
Usin this icon again bc it's just the mood for this PSL honestly
It's stupid, really... It's not as if he's never touched someone this way before, been touched by someone even, but where he might normally have some clever thing to say or reach confidently out and pull them closer, he finds himself at a complete loss, as if anything he could say or do might be just what it takes to shatter the illusion. So here he is, stood stock still like a damn fool, as he wonders if he's ever felt so warmed by someone's touch before, or if those touches had even been warm at all.
The worst part is that he doesn't know--still doesn't know--and the uncertainty hangs awkward and uncomfortable off his shoulders like a sweater four sizes too big. But what he does know is that, somehow, Idiot sounds like home, only the way it's supposed to be; he wants nothing more than to let himself sink into the feeling of it. He could melt into these hands, he thinks, could drown feeling loved, seen, understood, and once again, he finds himself hoping, and letting himself hope, that Felix might kiss him, because he's not sure he's ever wanted anything more, or been so afraid to take it.
The rest of the night doesn't matter. Dimitri doesn't matter. (Sorry, Dimitri.) Only this, only Felix matters, so although he can't quite bring himself to offer anything extraordinary, when Felix asks for a smile, he doesn't even have to force his expression to soften the way it does.
"That's cheating, you know," he says, only just loud enough to be heard over the celebration still going strong in the distance. But it sounds fond, terribly so, and the small, apologetic smile he manages is certainly the first one he hasn't had to force all night.
title of this psl: gay panic
And maybe that's the problem! Maybe he's the problem. Maybe he isn't what Sylvain wants at this time, or what Sylvain needs at this time, and that's why Sylvain refuses to let him in. It's an unfortunate thought, especially when compared to the warmth of Sylvain's skin beneath his fingertips; it stings, really, but Felix tries to keep his focus on the face in his hands. At least this is better than that. At least it's only the two of them here. At least—
At least Felix has this, here and now, before the thing he's always hated tears him away from it forever. A very selfish thing to focus on, but as his duty to Dimitri springs unbidden to his mind, Felix takes a breath, tries to shift his mind back to other things. A memory: Sylvain against a wall. Sylvain, red-faced and breathless, as Felix's sword forces his chin up, up, up. Aha.]
Cheating is impossible.
[A simple thing to murmur before he pulls Sylvain down to him—and it's easy to pull Sylvain down to him, because hasn't Sylvain always given Felix whatever he's asked for? Stupid and selfless and so, so beautiful, Felix thinks, raising up on his toes as his eyes drift down to Sylvain's lips. They look as soft as his are chapped, and that's par for the course; like, Sylvain has always taken pride in his appearance, and Felix has never cared enough to bother—but in this moment, he wishes that he, too, were beautiful. Beautiful enough to catch Sylvain's eye and make Sylvain smile.
But he's not, he is not, and that won't change. All he can do is ignore the sudden tightness behind his eyes, squeeze them shut as he tilts his head back and clumsily presses his lips to Sylvain's. How long can he get away with this? He isn't sure; he's kissed so few people, after all, but he's never, ever kissed someone so very important to him.]
God but ain't that the fuckin' truth
Cheating is the way Felix studies him, like if he just looks hard enough, he could see inside of him and find all the broken, dirty, rotten pieces he's tucked so deeply away that they've turned their edges in on himself instead of others; it's the warmth of Felix's hands as they guide him down, like a flower chasing the sun; it's the fact that Felix can cut through the armor he's done so well to craft with such ease, or maybe it's the fact that Felix is the only person who has ever asked him to... no, who has ever made him want to take it off.
Ultimately, cheating is the way Felix can somehow look so troubled when Sylvain can't find it in him to even breathe, let alone ask him why, but then Felix is leaning up, and...
...and, oh... So this is what it's like...
...In some quiet, far off part of his mind, Sylvain knows that it's not... a perfect kiss? It's not even a very impressive kiss. Like, he knows he's been kissed harder, deeper, hotter--and those have all been... good. He thinks. (He thought...?) Whereas this is... simple, and nervous, and it could certainly be better... and yet he can't think of even one that has ever managed to shake him to his very core the way that this one does with just a clumsy brush of lips.
He stands frozen there for all of a second before that warmth in his chest spreads ever so slowly outward, and he lets his eyes fall shut as he carefully--haltingly, the hesitance (in this of all things!) still a strange, foreign feeling to him--brings his arms up, daring to lift one hand to Felix's shoulder, while the fingers of the other skim lightly over the back of one of the hands at his face. Another half-second and he gathers himself enough to return that pressure, and this, at least, is easy. This is something familiar, just... sweeter, somehow, which is a thought that could almost make him laugh.
Still, it's easy to let himself lean into the kiss. To give in to the temptation of returning it with something a little less clumsy, chapped lips be damned, because how many times has he thought of this since then...? How many times has he wondered: if he kissed him as slowly, as softly as this, would Felix let him? Could he coax a (darker, he supposes) blush into his cheeks, and what kind of face would he make once he pulled away?
Or maybe the question he should ask is: what kind of face will he make once he pulls away? Something he'd never considered until now--because once they do separate, and he can finally make sense of the emotion with such a tight grip on his racing heart, he won't have a damn thing to say but you can bet he'll wear a smile that warms his whole face. Or maybe he's just blushing, too? Shut up. He's just busy letting all the pieces he's been holding this whole while slot into place--and surely, surely, he has like... a minute to gather his thoughts! Surely no one could possibly bother them out here, alone, away from literally any other human being...!
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But Sylvain doesn't pull away. Sylvain's fingers skirt over his own—and then Sylvain is kissing him back, so gently, so considerately, that the tightness behind Felix's eyes becomes impossible to ignore. This is Sylvain... what? Doing him a favor? No, no. This is Sylvain, selfless Sylvain, giving him as much as he can—and this is Felix, selfish Felix, taking it all, making a small, strangled noise in the back of his throat as he commits everything to memory.
Because while Felix would gladly kiss Sylvain for the remainder of the night—would happily sink against him, drown in him—such things only happen in those stupid, stupid stories Felix used to read. This, however, is reality, and Felix savors all that he can before he feels Sylvain begin to pull away. They have to breathe, yes. They probably should say... something about this, but for the first few seconds, Felix refuses to open his (burning) eyes; he merely stands there, painfully aware of every breath Sylvain takes as he steels himself for whatever it is he's about to see. Sylvain frowning. Sylvain giving him a pitying look. Sylvain offering him a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, which might just be the worst thing of all.
But Felix made his bed, didn't he? Now he has to lie in it, which is why he opens his eyes at last, blinking once, twice, through the tears that threaten to fall.
And Sylvain is smiling.
Sylvain is smiling, genuinely smiling, and Felix watches the hands on Sylvain's face—his hands, holy shit—slip down, just so thumbs can catch the corners of Sylvain's mouth.]
There, [he whispers, too far gone to care if Sylvain can even hear him.] It's real, this time.
[Why is it real, though? The kiss? The kiss that he took, greedily, without asking? It shouldn't be as complicated to piece together as it is. Blame that on both the alcohol and the strange way his heart flips in his chest, but as he stands there, staring up at Sylvain through watery eyes, progress is being made—
—until all of said progress is wiped clear when he hears Dimitri call his name.
It comes from somewhere behind him, he thinks. Not too close, but not too far away. Felix? Dimitri is searching for him, interrupting who knows how many quiet moments, and Felix feels the weight of—mmm. It's not responsibility, really? He isn't responsible for the grown man that is Dimitri, but he thinks of Dimitri fidgeting, frowning, unsure of what to do when he's left all alone, and Felix knows that he is needed.
...There's nothing to be done about it. There's no time to think about anything else, honestly, and so Felix pulls his hands from Sylvain's face, lets the hand on his shoulder fall away as he turns toward the heavy footsteps coming ever closer. And there, soon enough, is Dimitri, expression brightening when he sees Felix—and then dimming ever so slightly as he notes Sylvain standing there, so close, so intimate. Ah, he says, awkwardly. I did not intend to—
Felix huffs, loudly, cutting Dimitri off as easily as anything. He wishes that he could tell Dimitri that he is interrupting something! Something important—but Felix has done too much already, and he has no desire to put Sylvain on the spot like this. The best thing to do, in Felix's opinion, is to put as much distance between them as he possibly can, and thus: he moves. He brushes past Dimitri before Dimitri can see that his eyes are far glassier than they have any right to be. It's nothing, he mutters. Just shut up.
Dimitri will follow him. Surely. This is the least that Felix can do for Sylvain.]
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...Because oh, he thinks. Oh... This is what love is supposed to be. And it's a terrifying thing, really, when all he is is a good-for-nothing with his history spelled out in the pieces of all the hearts he's left broken behind him... Felix deserves more than that? Felix deserves anything but that, Felix deserves the world, and Sylvain... well, Sylvain doesn't deserve to be the one to offer it to him, but then he always has been selfish, really.
But before he can get too much further in his thoughts, as he finally comes back to himself enough to do something other than stare in some silent combination of wonder and adoration, three things happen in dizzying succession.
First: Felix whispers to him. The words are all but lost just to the space put back between them, and Sylvain tries to lean back down--to hear better, he tells himself. Only to listen... only for a moment, and if his eyes fall to his lips, it's only so he can match their movement to the sound. And Sylvain's never been self-conscious about his looks--it's the one thing everyone's always seemed to like about him, after all, so why would he ever doubt it?--but as those hands slip lower and those words register in his ears, he can feel the way his face must flare, and he thinks, absently, that it must not look as attractive on him as it does on Felix.
Second: Sylvain's eyes flick back up to Felix's, and he can't discern exactly what emotion it is behind them, but he can see the way they glisten, just slightly... It's been so long since he's seen these eyes, amber turned to whiskey in the dim light, but he would recognize them anywhere. They're the same eyes he'd given him when he'd been absolutely certain in the way children often are that his friendship with Dimitri was irrefutably, heartbreakingly over, as if he hadn't been the one to declare as much in the first place. Felix has no reason to look at him like he's caused some irreparable damage; those eyes have no place here, Sylvain thinks--Dimitri has no place here. Not now. Not when this is the happiest he's felt in years, but...
Third: Sylvain tries to speak, tries to bring one hand up to Felix's face to ask why, but stops short when Dimitri's voice cutting through the din turns all the warmth buzzing comfortably through his veins to ice, as hard and as sharp as the smile that freezes onto his face once again as their dear, beloved friend rounds the corner and has the gall--the audacity!!--to look him in the eye before he stammers out some apology to Felix that Sylvain knows he doesn't mean, because he knows he wouldn't mean it if he were in Dimitri's place.
Maybe it's some half-assed self-defense that keeps him from watching Felix as he walks away, or maybe it's the fact that staring Dimitri in the eye like this satisfies some baser need to know on an instinctual level that, although the other man is still stronger than him by a wide margin, he's also still wary enough of him as a rival to not risk looking away for long.
And it's!! Stupid!! He hates the anger that surges in him as he sees his old friend turn towards Felix as he brushes past, drawn to him as if by magnet. He hates the way it simmers and boils beneath his skin as he lets them leave with a wave but not a word; hates the way it sears so sharply into him that the urge to follow after them is so, so strong, hates that he comes so close to spitting the many, many reasons why Dimitri shouldn't get to take the one good thing Sylvain has, when he'd already had his chance and ruined it...
But, hey!! He's great at bottling that shit up. So, for the second time, he'll simply wait until he can trust himself not to lunge bodily at their new king (whether that's a joke or not is honestly up in the air at this point) before he slips out from the rest of the festivities with some polite excuse or another. It seems a little too depressing to stick around and drown himself in drink and the fondness in Dimitri's stare, when all he seems able to do now is wonder how long the memory of that kiss will linger still against his lips.
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(And if he spends the better part of the night lying in bed, sheets twisted around his feet as he presses fingers to his lips and tries to recall every detail of that kiss? No one needs to know.)
But here's the thing about winning the war: the work doesn't just stop. In fact, in so many ways, the work is only beginning—and Felix throws himself into it as fiercely as he'd thrown himself into battle, riding out to Fraldarius territory as soon as he's able. His uncle managed the land as best he could, Felix assumes, but that responsibility now falls to Felix; it's his job—his duty, though he's loath to refer to it as such—to take up the reins.
And once Fraldarius territory is once again running like a well-oiled machine, it's Felix's job—his duty—to ride to Fhirdiad. Dimitri, naturally, is thrilled to have him by his side, tells Felix as much twenty times a day, and Felix is—well. He resents Dimitri, at first. He snaps, pushes back in meetings when he has no real reason to, takes a certain amount of pleasure in pointing out every perceived flaw... but it isn't fair of him, he knows. Dimitri isn't even a bad king? And, most importantly of all, he never asks Felix for anything. They fuss and they fight and they meet first thing every morning, Dimitri brushing aside Felix's sarcasm and accepting whatever valid points Felix makes, and despite it all...
...It's impossible for Felix to hate Dimitri. Even when Dimitri was at his absolute lowest, Felix couldn't bring himself to hate him—and after two moons have passed, he finds that he can't even pretend to. Things are not perfect; their relationship is too tense, and Felix is too wary, but they reach an... equilibrium, of sorts. Felix works to keep his temper in check; Dimitri refrains from asking anything of Felix that Felix isn't willing to give; their evenings end with the two of them sitting in Dimitri's office, sipping tea before the fire while poring over plans. They are, in a sense, as comfortable as they've ever been. Friendly.
And yet something is missing? An obvious something, given the way Felix's heart races every time he reads the newest reports from Sreng. He's locked the memory of the kiss somewhere far, far away in his mind—but of course it's there, and of course it comes right back to the forefront of his mind one evening when Dimitri looks at him over the rim of his cup and casually mention that, ah, yes, Sylvain is due to arrive any day now to update the king in person. Won't it be good, Dimitri asks, to see him again?
Felix feels that eye watching, watching, as he hums in quiet agreement, pretending to continue skimming the report in his hands. Obviously it will be nice. Sylvain is their friend.
It's because that Sylvain is their friend that Felix is standing by Dimitri's side as Sylvain rides into Fhirdiad. It's an official-ish function, given Sylvain's status, and Felix normally avoids official-ish functions on principle—but he wants to be there, wants to see Sylvain slip from his horse and stand so, so tall, and oh, but he's every bit as beautiful as he was three moons ago. It's enough to take his breath away, really, and so he's more than glad when Dimitri steps forward, throws etiquette out the window as he pulls Sylvain into a quick embrace. Felix isn't sure what he would have said, had Sylvain walked straight to him. Perhaps he would have choked.
He's able to mutter a curt greeting when Sylvain finally does approach him—and then it's Felix hurrying from one meeting to another, Felix suffering through a crowded dinner to celebrate Sylvain's arrival, Felix allowing Dimitri to pull him into the nearby courtyard and hold his hand so, so gently in between his much larger ones. Felix, Dimitri murmurs, so affectionate as to make Felix's stomach twist itself into knots, and he finds himself staring at the ground as Dimitri thanks him for remaining by his side throughout the entire day. He can't seem to pull his hand away? Can't seem to listen to this stream of endearments—you are so kind, Felix, so patient, your presence means more to me than I can ever hope to express—without thinking of Sylvain, Sylvain, Sylvain. What would such things sound like, falling from his lips... would they make him feel as sick as he does now, or would it all be entirely different...
In the end, he supposes it doesn't matter. Another thought for him to bury—and by the next morning, as he makes his way to his first meeting, it is buried. He's thinking of nothing but taxes when he enters the antechamber, knowing he's too early—that so-and-so's audience with the king is still ongoing—but not caring in the slightest.
Until he sees Sylvain, that is. Until he sees Sylvain, tall and, as always, so devastatingly handsome, and it's been so long since they've been so close that it hits him far harder than it should.]
Ah,
[is all that he can think to say, brows lifting in surprise before he can even think to catch himself. All he can do for a solid five seconds is stare, stupidly—but okay, okay. It's only Sylvain. It's only Sylvain doing something, mmm, very un-Sylvain-like, hence Felix's first words:]
...You're early.
[Since when has he ever been in a rush for these things? Sylvain is the type to loiter, to mingle... but here he is! What is going on!]
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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