[In the grand scheme of things, they've only been apart for... four weeks? Nothing at all, compared to the weeks they spent apart during the first few years of the war—but everything is so different, now. They're different. Felix no longer bottles everything up, keeps everything inside, because he doesn't need to.
Until he does, thanks to their busy, busy lives, and it's fine! Mostly. After all, Felix has never been the disgustingly dependent sort—but there is, perhaps, something to be said about finally permitting himself to lean on someone. These past weeks of meetings, of disagreements, of returning to an empty room to silently sort through mountains of missives, have taken their toll; Felix was—is—tenser than he even realized, and now that he's back with the person he trusts above all others, it feels wonderful to let himself go? To be as noisy, as uninhibited, as he pleases.
...Because Sylvain has him. Because Sylvain, as strong and as steady as ever, is pulling him up, holding him close, stroking him in tandem with each snap of his hips, and all Felix can do is hold onto his shoulder as familiar pressure builds within. Goddess, it's so much? Too much. He both wants it and he doesn't, not yet, but Sylvain is nothing if not relentless, fuck, fuck, fuck—]
So close, [he slurs, the raw need in his voice rendering it practically unrecognizable to his own ears.] Sylvain, I'm—
[He's tensing, suddenly; he's tilting his head back; he's coming, back arching into a bow as a strangled cry escapes him.]
Four weeks away from Felix is four weeks away too long, thank you, because if Sylvain had things his way, he'd spend every day for the rest of his life (and not one less) waking up beside him. If Sreng weren't such a delicate balance of negotiations and concessions and recompense--if he believed in anyone more, or in what he's doing for his country and future generations to come any less--he knows he wouldn't hesitate to abandon his title and territory and all the responsibility that comes with them. Not if it meant he could have this instead.
Still... he's not so foolish to think of it as a real possibility. Not yet, anyway; not until he's done his part, and by then there will probably be more to be done, and so he'll take his fill of every moment he is allowed, greedily drinking in everything Felix deigns to give to him, as if he'll never get enough.
And it's true to some extent, isn't it? Because he does crave more of him. Always more, just a little more, until his breath grows ragged with it and his body burns with the need for him... But Goddess, he does need him. There's heat pooling low within him, distracting in its urgency even while quiet reassurance spills from his lips in little 'I know's and 'I've got you's when he feels that same tension rising in Felix, too. Then:
"Fuck," he gasps, stroking him through it when he comes; and it isn't long after that Sylvain's hold around him tightens and his hips stutter, words failing him until the only thing he can think is, "Felix, Felix--"
Against anyone's better judgement (which, in his defense, his own has long since abandoned him anyway) he sinks in deep before he stills, pulling Felix tightly against him. And he'll honestly stay like that until Felix pushes him off, or like, tells him otherwise, probably pressing lazy kisses wherever he can reach with a hushed, "I love you," or maybe several, because things are still a little hazy? And maybe they should've gone to Felix's room for this, actually, because he really, really just wants to hold him like this for a while, and the desk is like, increasingly inconvenient for that.
[He's drifting down from his own high when he hears his name—and then he's suddenly pulled so, so tightly against the other man, which prompts his blissed out, boneless self to whimper encouragingly. He's on the brink of overstimulation; another minute of this would send him hissing, begging for the briefest break, but—
...But. Sylvain's release comes as swiftly as his own, and Felix feels, mmm, stupidly smug as Sylvain sinks against him? Content as Sylvain showers him with slow, soft affection, because all is comfortable, all is right; he doesn't even mind the hoarseness of his own breathing, choosing instead to focus all of his (limited) attention on snaking the hand atop Sylvain's shoulder a bit higher up, fingers blindly smoothing down the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. Mine, he foggily thinks, warmth welling within. Exactly as it should be.
The afterglow, however, can't cover up everything. It only takes a minute for the comfortable weight of Sylvain to become an uncomfortable weight, all heat and, ah, uncomfortably sticky skin. Sweat and spend, drying between them—and isn't there more all over Sylvain's hand? The hand pressing somewhere against him, Goddess above. Even though he's been covered in worse things—thanks, battle—he can't keep himself from shifting, humming ever so quietly when he's reminded that Sylvain has yet to pull out. Another unfortunate realization: everything that's going to trickle down his thighs the moment he stands.
Ah, well. The things he suffers ("suffers") through for the man he continues to pet, even as he grumbles:]
You're disgusting.
[And so is he, he knows. What of it! He wouldn't be Felix if he didn't grumble about something the second he's back to himself—and besides, it's so fond, so full of obvious affection.]
Hey?? Sylvain is definitely the cleaner of the two here! Were that comment from anyone else, he might actually be offended... but, ah, it's pretty well-warranted here, isn't it? It's easy to let himself melt into Felix like this as tension eases into pleasantly loose limbs and fuzzy thoughts, easy to forget things like the edge of the desk digging against his skin as he leans into it, or the fact that his hand is definitely gross, or any of the other dozens of things that will slowly dawn on him piece by piece as the seconds pass.
Until then, he'll simply enjoy the feeling of that hand in his hair, and at least it's his not gross hand rubbing slow, absent circles at the center of the other man's back... Little victories, Felix.
"Mm." It's the vaguest noise possible, a hum that's set decidedly at the center overlap of affection, agreement, and amusement right against Felix's throat; he breathes in a deep, contented sigh as he nuzzles into the skin there. "You liked it... and you needed a bath, anyway."
He could've taken one earlier with him, but nooo, someone had to be responsible! And someone will have to be responsible still, because that shift is enough of a hint that he probably should, like... move... which brings its own set of inconveniences to his attention. Not just in the 'but he really still wants to cuddle' kind of ways, either, but rather the fact that when he moves to actually pull out, it is his gross hand that he presses to the surface of this poor, old desk... and all at once he comes back to himself enough to wince at the feeling of the wood beneath his touch.
He just cleaned this desk...? He just cleaned this desk...
...And he will clean it again, because the Goddess herself might as well smite him down before he asks any of the staff to do it (not because he's embarrassed, but because he just isn't that much of an asshole), but first, here: have this like, half-apologetic smile as he pushes back just enough to survey the damage? Which actually only lasts all of like, two seconds before it falters and turns into more of an appreciative once-over than intended, because... look. Look... Mess be damned, it's like Felix just stumbled right out of one of his goddamn fantasies, all messy hair and warm, lovebitten skin, lazy and spent atop the desk, all because of him...
Hm. Absolutely fucking tragic--looks like Sylvain's going to duck his face right back down to Felix's shoulder after all.
"Goddess, please let me go with you this time..." Don't judge him, just love him.
[Wow, Sylvain! Don't just assume that he enjoyed himself—even though he did? And rather, ah, vocally, at that, hence the noise he makes low in his throat as Sylvain nudges even closer. He's feeling too languid to be annoyed, too pleased to be embarrassed; better to think of a nice, hot bath in which he could possibly soak for a good, oh, ten minutes or so. Just enough time to feel well and truly clean before he burrows beneath the covers of his bed, tucks himself as close to Sylvain as he possibly can. Nights are cold in Faerghus, and Felix is always freezing. This is purely practical.
And just, you know. Nice to think about as Sylvain pulls away, because there's always that emptiness to contend with... which is ridiculous, really. They can't remain entwined together forever, and even if they could, it isn't as though Felix would want to—but there's still that brief sensation of loss, which he's made all the more aware of when Sylvain, like, gazes down at him for a moment. Just looks at him, as though he hasn't seen him in this state hundreds of times, and Felix feels his face heating up once more. Is there anything worse than being stared at! The cold air hitting the mess on his stomach, perhaps, but other than that...
Listen: Thank the Goddess Sylvain comes back down when he does. Felix isn't sure how long he could stand the softness of that stare, given how open, how vulnerable he still feels. He will gladly accept another thirty or so seconds of this.]
Disgusting and incorrigible, [Felix amends even as he noses into his hair, taking in the smell of him. Sex and sweat and Sylvain.] Although I suppose it's only fair you clean the mess you helped make.
[Yeah!! Suffer the very real consequences, which soon includes a gentle kiss pressed just above Sylvain's ear. Shh. Just enjoy this moment, please, until Felix winds up shifting yet again. He's never been very good at sitting still, so:]
Give me your shirt. [Mmm—] And my pants.
[Sylvain doesn't need his shirt, you see. Duh. Just listen to him.]
These consequences are honestly too much? How will he ever make it... But like, actually though, because he loves when Felix is sweet like this. He loves the way kisses like this one, wherever they land, spark into a slow, steady flame in his chest--not the flicker of wildfire, but... tamer, somehow. Gentler. Like the warm, familiar comfort of coming home to a well-tended hearth on a cold winter's night.
He loves when Felix is rough with him too, of course--probably more than he should. But when it comes down to it, he really just loves Felix, in every way he can have him, so... you know, forgive him if he responds by mumbling something about making an even bigger mess of him first, which is a threat just a little too ambitious after the long, long day they've each had, and he knows it. They BOTH know it?? But even that isn't enough to temper the quiet heat behind it anyway, because who would he even be otherwise.
But... ah. A shirt? His shirt, which--hey?? That's foul PLAY! Doesn't Sylvain have enough to tempt him! And yet here he is, pushing back again to see where it even ended up, because lord fucking knows I've forgotten by now pick it up off the floor beside him, because he isn't a heathen who throws his clothes around, unlike SOME.
"Do you need the pants?" As if that's any sort of question worth asking? As if Felix doesn't have like, at least two Very Obvious reasons to put pants on just at a glance, but even as Sylvain hands over the shirt and goes to pull his own pants back on, he doesn't sound like he's kidding. "The bath isn't that far..."
[That threat! Sylvain. Felix could—would—roll his eyes, were they not already closed as he continues enjoying this (mostly) quiet moment. It would be nice to be curled up together in bed, at this point in time; it will be amazing when they actually are, but for now, Felix contents himself with feeling the thrum of Sylvain's voice.
Until, you know. Sylvain pulls away, so rudely, and Felix is left with no choice but to drop to his feet with the quietest of huffs. The real world is a cold, cold place; the shirt he's soon handed promises a modicum of warmth (and the lingering scent of a wonderfully clean Sylvain), and yet he isn't desperate enough to put it on in his... current state. That, you see, is why Felix needs his pants, and that is why he shoots Sylvain a flat Look as he bends down to collect them. No, he isn't going to wear them—but between the two of them, they only have two functional pieces of clothing? These pants are unnecessary, and thus they are now... a towel. Watch him wordlessly scrub himself off, Sylvain.
And then watch him toss those pants atop the desk, just so he can swiftly slip this much-too-big shirt right over his head—and muss up his hair even more in the process. Ah, well. There are, in Felix's opinion, so many positives to Sylvain's size? Not that he thinks about them on the regular, but as he glances down at the sleeves hanging past his fingertips, considers that the hem hits just low enough to cover the, ah, important things...
Once, perhaps, it would have sent him straightening to his full height, trying his damnedest to seem more than he is; now, however, he's old enough to enjoy this for what it is, which is why he gives no thought to the open collar exposing his marked collar bones. There are better things to focus on, anyway? Like, say, a shirtless Sylvain. Hmm.]
It's far enough, [is his pointed—and delayed—response.] But your shirt will do.
[If he brazenly drags his eyes down Sylvain's torso when he falls silent? Well? He's tired, yes, but he's only human; let him live. Let him cant his head, savoring this sight even as he attempts to gauge Sylvain's reaction.]
Well?
[It's that impatient sort of well that implies he's ready to leave, but go ahead, Sylvain. Say something cheesy. He's honestly waiting for it, because while Felix isn't vain, Felix is well aware of the effect he has on one particular person.]
You know what? Sylvain wouldn't have given a thought to the wellbeing of his shirt, the longevity of its use to them, or how comfortable it might be, because when it comes down to it, 1. Both it and Felix can be washed, and 2. He only has one, single brain cell, and Felix paints a very distracting picture. So like, good on Felix for having some sense regarding that whole matter, and Sylvain will watch him, because the chances of Felix putting those on after that particular repurposing are blessedly slim, and he would kick himself for days if he didn't take advantage of every second he's allowed this kind of view.
Especially once his shirt settles loose against the other man's shoulders... He's always understood the appeal in theory, but the thought of it had never done anything but make his skin crawl, before; he'd known he would want to throw whatever shirt or jacket had been borrowed away, just so he'd never have to wear it again. But just like Felix is the exception in just about everything else, there is definitely something... mmm, enticing about seeing him like this. The marks over his collar put on display... the fact it only provides the absolute barest means of coverage, so little left to the imagination... the silent declaration, if perhaps only for his own sake, that Felix is his--paired with the knowledge of why he's wearing it in the first place, the memory still fresh and vivid in his mind. It's... oof. BIG fuckin' oof, and for the second time in this very, embarrassingly short period, Sylvain considers their odds or the night.
He doesn't even notice the way Felix looks him over, too busy doing the same damn thing in turn, but he does cross the short distance at that well. He lifts his hands to feign fixing the collar for him, only so he can lift his chin to steal a kiss; it's short, but it's definitely not chaste.
"You're making it really hard to want to go anywhere, you know." He is... a horny teenager! He will BE a horny teenager until he's 95. Felix, this is what you chose, and what you chose is someone who needs to be dragged to the damn tub before he really does have to sleep in the guest room.
[Their odds are good? Their odds are very good, so long as they don't fall asleep mid-cuddle—which will probably be a difficult thing to avoid, given that early mornings typically mean early evenings. Felix even finds himself searching Sylvain's face as he approaches, looking for any traces of weariness...
...And there are some, of course. Just as there are some to be found on Felix's face, but he brushes that from his mind as he allows Sylvain to tilt his head back, to kiss him so briefly, yet so thoroughly. He is... content, more or less. He will never get enough of Sylvain, he knows, but their encounter atop his (family's) desk sated his hunger—or so it seemed. This kiss, however, sparks that familiar heat low in his stomach, and though it's dull for now, he knows—knows—that it could light back up in a few short minutes. If they take it slow? Keep it soft.
Hmm. Something to consider, he supposes, as he cracks open his eyes, offers Sylvain a small smirk. It's fine. They have time.]
I'm not doing anything.
[Other than wear a shirt, he means, but far be it from him to point that out. It's easier to just reach up and curl his fingers around one of Sylvain's wrists, taking a moment to appreciate something as simple as touching Sylvain before he tries to turn them both toward the door.]
Besides, [he continues, so casually,] you found what I hid in this room.
[Felix doesn't like horses, but he knows that sometimes you just have to dangle a carrot in front of them if you want them to move? And even if they don't do anything else tonight, so help him, he is not climbing back on top of that desk.]
Early mornings and long rides in Faerghus weather are two very Real, Legitimate reasons for weariness between the two of them, and Sylvain is very, very aware of that fact. Sure, he had some downtime while he was waiting for Felix, but Felix more or less came home from Duke Duties to... this! So as Sylvain hovers close, he traces his thumb high over one cheekbone, mindful enough to be slow in the event he may be more tired than he lets on.
And it's a good thing that Felix turns to guide him when he does, really, because Sylvain very nearly points out that he doesn't have to be doing anything when he looks like this, but hey! If he wants to be doing something, then Sylvain will volunteer in a heartbeat.
Instead, he absolutely follows that carrot--because listen, it's a very tempting carrot, okay?--and trails after him, humming a vague noise in acknowledgement. He's going to look at every damn room with the most critical eye his entire stay now, just you wait.
"You really won't give me any hints, huh...?" Like... none none? "When did you even have the time?"
It's not important, and yet it is, because he knows how busy Felix is!! He knows how often he travels! This is not a simple plan, by any means, or even a relatively quick one... He has to at least ask!
[Duke duties... duketies, if you will... take up so much of Felix's time, it's true, but as he huffs out an amused breath:]
I made time.
[For Sylvain. Always—and that means that Sylvain can find the time to bang him in as many rooms as possible, The End. Anyway, though this is Felix's house! He is the lord and master of all that he sees—but does he slowly crack open the door? Does he peek his head out and make sure absolutely no one is in sight before finally dragging Sylvain out into the hallway? Yes. The last thing he needs is one of his servants seeing him wandering about half-naked, not because it's embarrassing but because they'd probably try to bring him, like, fifty unnecessary things. The rest of their night should be peaceful.
Their bath, at least, is... mostly peaceful. Sylvain definitely does The Most, as Sylvain is wont to do, but Felix is nothing if not disciplined; he ensures the focus is getting clean, scrubs both himself and Sylvain with ruthless efficiency even as Sylvain looks for any excuse to pull him closer. He's not opposed to affection, even after the afterglow really and truly fades, but! Time and place, you know... time and place.
And the time is now, and the place is Felix's bedroom. He's still wearing Sylvain's shirt when they enter, having put it back on the moment he was clean, and he makes no attempt to remove it; instead, he pads right over to the wide bed, pulls back the heavy furs, and slips beneath them, still damp enough from their bath to be chilled. Maybe Sylvain wants to, like, throw on a shirt, or exchange his pants for smallclothes? Felix doesn't know—but he still shoots Sylvain a Look over the covers, clearly impatient. It must be nice to be so warm all the time, sir! So nice.]
Of course he made time. That's a lot of what their relationship thus far has been, isn't it? Making time for each other during war, during peace, during work, and so on. Which, naturally, means that yes: Sylvain will, true to form, make the time to bang Felix in as many rooms as possible. That's love!!
And so is showing, like, at least a little restraint when it comes to the temptation that is bathing with the man he plans to bang in as many rooms as possible... A little. He said he would take responsibility for the mess he helped make, after all--and he does--but there's also something to be said about the calmness that moments like these bring with them. That glowing ember stuck right in-between his ribs, new sparks of fondness bursting within him with every grumbled complaint or exasperated sigh. His wandering hands eventually agree to compromise by busying themselves with Felix's hair instead, teasing through the strands until they're soft and smooth and easily gathered in one hand when he leaves careful kisses along the other man's nape.
In other words: by the time they reach Felix's room, the coil of heat in Sylvain's stomach has simmered into a tender sort of warmth that absolutely threatens to return full force at how unfairly fucking attractive this scene he's found himself in really is. So like, forgive him for taking an extra, like... five seconds to just take in the sight presented to him before he graces that order with a response.
"You could say please," he suggests, pleasantly, as if he isn't actively stripping down to join him even without. Honestly, he'll match whatever state of undress Felix is in, sans the shirt?? The man has no shame and is also a functional space heater in bed, so like, the fewer layers the better. But once he does climb under the covers, he won't waste any time before he's pressing up close, one arm sliding around Felix's waist to slip beneath his shirt--just to rest his palm flat against the skin beneath, nothing more and nothing less. "And you should definitely wear this more often."
Or like, any of his shirts, probably? This one is just convenient.
[Ask nicely? Why in the world would Felix ever do such a thing? Sylvain is as easygoing as Felix is not, and thus Felix remains exactly where he is, mouth hidden under the covers as he watches and waits. Maybe it's selfish to—no, no. It's definitely selfish to make demand after demand, but that's how things work with them. Sylvain is... too good to him by half, Felix sometimes thinks. Too selfless.
But in this moment, at least, it's perfect. Sylvain is perfect as he strips off his clothing, as he slips in beside him and easily pulls him just that much closer—and Felix is struck, as always, by how easily they seem to fit together. Even lying face-to-face like this isn't as awkward as it should be? He brings a hand to curl against Sylvain's bare chest, unable to keep himself from shivering as Sylvain's hand slithers beneath his (well, Sylvain's) shirt to press against his lower back. Warm, so warm. Absolutely everything about Sylvain is warm, including the expression on his face when Felix finally tilts his head just far enough back to look.]
Hm, [is all that he initially has to offer. A soft hum as his eyes skim Sylvain's face, as his fingers absently trace a scar that he remembers the story behind.] And yet you never leave them lying around. You're too neat.
[Is there a hint of a tease to be found in that sentence? Yes. Another difference between them: Felix is as messy as Sylvain is orderly, and thus his room is littered with hair ties, and half-empty bottles of sword oil, and various reports that he's allowed to pile up. Sylvain probably shakes his head about this every time he visits, but that's how Felix be, baybee.]
Fucking sword oil in the bedroom... lord. The reality of it is just that Sylvain tries Very Hard to not look too closely in any one direction, lest he be consumed by the overwhelming need to at least, like, straighten some things?? At least Felix is just messy and not dirty. There's only so much he can handle...
Anyway: Sylvain is also just immensely lucky that he has something--someone--so precious to keep his eye from wandering very far. Like, who cares about the abundance of scattered hair ties or papers when he can focus instead on the warm, gentle press of Felix's body against his own--comfortably cool in comparison to himself, but when have they ever not balanced each other out in just the right ways?--or when he can busy himself by tracing his eyes along the other man's features, strikingly beautiful in their familiarity.
"Is that all it'll take?" A small price to pay if this is what comes of it... but still a price nonetheless, in the end. He shifts to bring the arm not currently wrapped around Felix up, bent at the elbow near his head so he can trail his fingers down and not-so-subtly tug the shirt's collar to the side, better exposing the marks still lingering beneath. He looks them over with a low hum. "...I'll have to consider it, then."
As long as they don't get lost in all the mess Felix leaves behind!!
[He'll have to consider it, huh? Please. Felix huffs out a quiet breath, doing his best to look unimpressed even as the weight of Sylvain's gaze sends a blush creeping up the back of his neck. He knows that Sylvain is, ah, admiring his handiwork, and that's—it's fine, it's nothing new, and yet his heart still speeds up the slightest bit. It's one part Felix's dislike of being stared at, three parts Felix's very, very fresh memories of their office escapade...
...Hmm. It's lust, yes, but mostly love. A frankly overwhelming amount of love that would more than likely send his head spinning, were they not safely lying in bed.]
Did I say that was all?
[He did not. There's so much more to this than a certain someone leaving the occasional shirt draped over the back of a chair, and Felix considers it all as he slips a calf between Sylvain's.]
You'll need to visit more often, [he says, but not as archly as he intends; there is, in fact, a hint of a plea to be heard, and he hates it even as he continues on with:] Stay longer.
[Selfish, selfish, selfish—and almost impossible, until this Sreng business is sorted out, but? But. Felix wants what he wants, and what he wants... is Sylvain. Always.]
Hmm. That blush is definitely worth note, and were Sylvain a weaker man, he would give in to the urge to roll over him just to see what it would take for it to spread over his cheeks, down his chest... but Sylvain is not a weaker man, or at least he's no weaker to this than he always is, and so he settles for simply letting his hand slip from Felix's lower back, down to his ass instead. He brings his other hand up to Felix's face as well, brushing loose hair behind an ear with a feather-light touch as his eyes lift and linger at his lips.
He snorts a silent laugh at first, expecting some outlandish demand (cute) or a request more immediate (hot), but even as he pulls Felix in more tightly against him, what he does say... it gives him pause, as that hand at his face freezes where it is, because that request... that tone, subtle and yet so, so loud... Sylvain isn't sure he's ever been so aware of his heart before; he wonders if this is what it feels like when it bursts, or when it shatters.
"Felix..."
It's hardly more than a breath, tenuous and wavering and too full of emotion to condense into just a word. These visits are never long enough, haven't ever been long enough, and what he wouldn't give to stay... Sreng pulls him north, and Fhirdiad pulls Felix south, and responsibility chokes them both--but these fleeting trips are the breath of air their shared lungs ache for, time and time again.
And Felix knows how badly he wishes he could stay. They both know it isn't something so easily fixed. Sylvain knows, and Sylvain hates it, and yet with little else to be done--not now, not when Felix is here and warm in his arms--he can only let his hand relax against the side of Felix's face, looking with an open adoration and reverence that could suggest it's the world itself cradled against his palm. He leans in, not quite to close the distance between them, not yet, but significantly lessening it all the same as if he can't stand to leave it there at all.
"...Is that all?" he asks, quiet, because he will. He will until a day comes where he doesn't need to leave again at all, one way or another, and he'll promise that to Felix as many times as he needs to hear.
[It is... a childish request, at best. Felix understands this—even feels somewhat ashamed of himself, when Sylvain falls silent—but he can't help it? Once he thought he was better on his own; now he knows that is patently untrue, because he's better, at his best, when Sylvain is by his side.
And Faerghus is at its best when Sylvain is minding its border and Felix is minding its king. The things they do for the kingdom that took so much from them! Not that Felix allows himself to think about that; it is... so much better to savor the feeling of Sylvain's hands on his bare skin. The look Sylvain is giving him, as intense as it is.]
For now.
[He can't even pretend to be wholly unaffected. His walls are down, down, down, as they usually are when Sylvain is involved; all he can do is swallow, pull his hand away from Sylvain's chest just to curl his fingers around the wrist of the hand cupping his cheek. He wants this... to stay, please, as he takes a moment to consider his words.]
What I said in— [The office? The throes of passion? Take your pick, Sylvain, but—ah, there it is! There's the color finding its way to Felix's face at last, and Felix feels the heat as he holds Sylvain's stare for a few more (agonizing) seconds. It is, he supposes, the least he can do. The best way to prove he's being serious when he finally wills himself to say:] ...I meant it, you know. All of it.
[He would like... to duck his head, thanks! To press his face into Sylvain's chest as he waits for whatever response Sylvain will give him, but—no, no. He still has hold of Sylvain's wrist; it's easy to keep that hand in place as he turns his head to the side, just far enough for him to brush the lightest of kisses across Sylvain's lance-roughened palm. This is Payback (and totally not an excuse to look away before he combusts, thanks).]
If Felix wants his hand there, then he'll never take it back. If he ever truly asked him to stay--if there ever came a day where he chose a different path, regardless of why or where it might lead--then Sylvain could only ever follow. The rest of the world could come falling down around them, and he would be satisfied just as long as he could be at Felix's side until they breathed their very last. Being in love is a dangerous thing for a man like him, but then, he's always been a little bit reckless.
It's worth it to see that blush, honestly? To witness that pause (Sylvain's glad he was already smiling, although it does widen just a teensy bit as he tries not to laugh) and to hear that continuation--as if he had to clarify. As if Sylvain hadn't believed him.
Or, as he finally looks away: as if he's to embarrassed to say what he means properly. And like... the thing is, Sylvain knows Felix. He loves Felix. More than the world and life itself.
He just also loves to tease Felix. So, even if he remembers exactly what was said... and even if the reminder (of both the words and the context) has his heart skipping into a much faster pace than before... the soft look on his face only lasts a moment more before he hums, sliding his unoccupied hand lower still to the back of one thigh so he can hitch that leg up.
"I'm not sure I remember," he murmurs, pushed up just enough to like, almost lean over him as he shifts to tangle their legs more properly together. "Say it again for me...?"
[Listen: Felix isn't the least bit embarrassed by the many, many things that he feels, but expressing them? While Sylvain is staring at him? That is... difficult—and of course Sylvain has to go and make it more difficult by pulling him even closer. It's an onslaught and Felix is, mmm, unprepared, as evidenced by the way he attempts to use Sylvain's broad hand as a sort of shield. This level of contact is good; it's great, actually, thanks to the thigh slotting so easily between his own, but something, something, Felix's poor pride...]
I won't, [he grumbles, knowing full well that he will soon enough. It's why he presses Sylvain's hand back against his too-warm cheek.] I know that you remember.
[Because Sylvain was hanging onto Felix's every word, reacting to Felix's every move. More memories spring to mind, which is why Felix pointedly does not make eye contact with the man rudely hovering above him. Let him live!]
Sylvain will let Felix hide for a moment, if only because he finds himself floored, as always, by how cute he can be without even realizing it?? It is entirely unfair, pride be damned! Like the man didn't just disgrace his entire bloodline by bangin' on the family desk. Poor Rodrigue's probably rolling in his grave. But... hm. Have another hum.
"...Alright," he says as he drags his thumb lightly against Felix's cheek, conceding... perhaps a little too easily? He doesn't sound troubled by the fact, or even all that bothered that he's been called out on his obvious lie. "So maybe I do remember."
Maybe...! Direct translation: definitely--all the way down to the quietest hitch of breath, and it's... mm. It's enough as much as it isn't. As much as it always and never will be, and so:
"Tell me again anyway?" He's still wearing the same smirk, and using the same tone that suggests he's teasing, but there's a layer of sincerity beneath the words when he adds, "I like hearing you say it."
[He is Duke Fraldarius! He is the right-hand advisor to the king of Faerghus! He is as stubborn and as difficult as the day is long—and absolutely none of that matters when he's dealing with Sylvain. What won't he do for Sylvain? What won't he give to Sylvain? The answer to both is, of course, nothing, because nothing is ever a chore, where Sylvain is concerned.]
You're impossible.
[Yet another grumble as he finally releases his hold on Sylvain's wrist, accepting that hand will remain precisely where it is as he brings his own up to Sylvain's face. The angle is... a little awkward, perhaps, but he's able to rest his fingertips along the line of the other man's jaw—and that, unsurprisingly, is what he focuses on while he wills himself to say this sappy, selfish shit.]
...The other advisors drove me mad, [he begins, quiet and, mmm, a tad stilted. He's awful at finding the right words, but for Sylvain, he will try.] Dimitri drove me mad. Not that he meant to. And Fhirdiad is as loud as ever, and I thought— I thought of you every day.
[Of Sylvain's smile. Of Sylvain's laugh. Of Sylvain's arms wrapped around him. It's all perfectly ridiculous; like, this sounds like some drivel plucked right out of a cheap romance novel, and it's ensuring that his face remains bright red for the foreseeable future, but it's the honest truth—and so, as he hesitantly brings his fingers a touch higher, allows his eyes to drift up to Sylvain's:]
I missed you. [A beat, and then, a touch more fiercely:] I love you.
[And do not ask anything of him ever again, The End.]
Duke Fraldarius: stubborn and difficult, and Margrave Gautier: impossible and charismatic--or maybe just impossibly charismatic? Regardless: what a pair of sappy, selfish fools they must make, because Sylvain is very, very aware of how selfish it is to ask Felix to repeat any of this... He's never known Felix to be anything but direct, blunt, and honest in the things he says, but the things he chooses to say are always so... hmm. Carefully curated? Like, Sylvain has known plenty of people capable of flooding a conversation with every insignificant thought that comes to mind just for the sake of attracting attention, and in some ways, he's one of them; meaningful words get lost in the constant pour of loud, flowery, unfiltered noise, drowning beneath their own weight.
Felix, on the other hand, puts thought behind everything he says... He never says what he doesn't mean. Never says what he doesn't have to, and because of that, rather than fill the silence, his voice cuts through it, raw and honest and real. In comparison, one word from Felix is worth at least 10,000 of his own.
And when it comes to his 'I love you's, Sylvain knows he could offer everything that he is and everything he will ever be, and still never repay them in full, not even in a thousand lifetimes--but Felix chooses to give them to him, and what is Sylvain if not a selfish, lovesick fool? So here he is, all but holding his breath as that hand reaches up, patiently waiting while he finds his words... And you know, maybe it DOES sound ridiculous? Maybe it does sound like something from a romance novel, but Sylvain hangs onto every word of it still, as if this really is the first time he's heard anything like this from him--or possibly the last. And again, as always, he's struck by how damn lucky he really is to know what it feels like to love and be loved as completely as this.
So, once Felix has said his awkward, stilted, perfect piece, Sylvain pauses for only a moment, smiling softly down at him. Then, the hand still held ("""held""") hostage shifts slightly, fingers sliding gently back into still-damp hair as he leans the rest of the way in--first to kiss his forehead, and then to kiss his lips, both soft and chaste and fleeting, although he hovers close even after he pulls away.
"I love you, too," he whispers, still smiling. He kisses him again, same as before, and adds: "Thank you."
For repeating it for him. For thinking of him. For loving him, most of all, which is why when he closes the distance a third time, he kisses him slow, and soft--and this time, he doesn't pull away.
[Of course Sylvain would thank him. Of course he would. It prompts a disgruntled noise, even as Felix focuses on languidly returning this kiss in full. As if Felix really minded repeating how he feels! It was embarrassing, yes, and it took a bit of effort for his laconic self, but it was worth it because Sylvain is worth it. It costs nothing to love him; it's as free and as easy as anything, really, and maybe that's because some part of Felix has always loved him.
But Felix can only take so much softness at one time. The look, the words, the oh-so gentle kiss—it feels as though he could drown in all of this, honestly, which is why he can't resist pulling Sylvain's bottom lip between his teeth and giving it the lightest of nips. He is how he is! And how he is... is prickly.
In, like, a loving way, hence the way he swipes his tongue along the bite before pulling back. Sylvain is still half-hovering over him; Felix, therefore, rolls onto his back as far as he's able, the hand at Sylvain's jaw urging him to follow.]
Don't get carried away, [he halfheartedly gripes, expression too open—too tender—to make this a serious attempt at Being Rude.] You need sleep.
[And so does he, but he is a grown man who can and will do as he pleases. Let him show his affection by (barely) fussing.]
Sylvain would thank him even if he said it a thousand times? Especially if he said it a thousand times, in fact, because that would mean there were a thousand times that he'd thought to love him. So if it means having all of this, then the bite risk... mmm, worth it, he thinks. It probably shouldn't even be in the 'cons' category to begin with.
But loath as he is to let Felix pull away, the angle they're working with is... not the best, admittedly, and anyway it isn't as if Sylvain needs to be told to follow twice! He'll shift seamlessly with minimal prompting, sliding his one hand up from Felix's thigh to brace beside his hip instead as he settles over him more fully; he doesn't miss a beat, shifting one leg between Felix's as he hums some vague affirmative and lowers his mouth down to the other man's neck.
"And so do you," he murmurs, in between light, lingering kisses against the skin exposed by that open collar, and there's a gentle, teasing note to his voice, because he is also a grown man who can and will do as he pleases. He doesn't intend to get carried away, sure, but like... don't tell him what to do! "I'm helping you relax."
[Sylvain over top of him, slowly mouthing down his neck, could lead to so many things—but while Felix is always eager for more, more, more, there's no real sense of urgency? Like, the heat pooling low in his belly is... mellow, in a way. Satisfying. It sends his eyes falling shut as he tilts his head back; it sends him lazily running both hands down Sylvain's sides, blunt nails pressing into soft skin—but he's perfectly content to lie here and (greedily) enjoy this moment.
And part of enjoying this moment is continuing their brand of banter, because while Felix doesn't joke, he does tease those he cares for—and that means Sylvain catches the brunt of it. For better or for worse.]
So helpful. [It's as dry a tone as he can manage, given the current state of Him—and he follows it up with a quietly amused hm.] One of your better qualities.
[Implying there are... many! Or very few? Take your pick.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
uses this icon forever ig
Until he does, thanks to their busy, busy lives, and it's fine! Mostly. After all, Felix has never been the disgustingly dependent sort—but there is, perhaps, something to be said about finally permitting himself to lean on someone. These past weeks of meetings, of disagreements, of returning to an empty room to silently sort through mountains of missives, have taken their toll; Felix was—is—tenser than he even realized, and now that he's back with the person he trusts above all others, it feels wonderful to let himself go? To be as noisy, as uninhibited, as he pleases.
...Because Sylvain has him. Because Sylvain, as strong and as steady as ever, is pulling him up, holding him close, stroking him in tandem with each snap of his hips, and all Felix can do is hold onto his shoulder as familiar pressure builds within. Goddess, it's so much? Too much. He both wants it and he doesn't, not yet, but Sylvain is nothing if not relentless, fuck, fuck, fuck—]
So close, [he slurs, the raw need in his voice rendering it practically unrecognizable to his own ears.] Sylvain, I'm—
[He's tensing, suddenly; he's tilting his head back; he's coming, back arching into a bow as a strangled cry escapes him.]
How the turns have tabled!!
Still... he's not so foolish to think of it as a real possibility. Not yet, anyway; not until he's done his part, and by then there will probably be more to be done, and so he'll take his fill of every moment he is allowed, greedily drinking in everything Felix deigns to give to him, as if he'll never get enough.
And it's true to some extent, isn't it? Because he does crave more of him. Always more, just a little more, until his breath grows ragged with it and his body burns with the need for him... But Goddess, he does need him. There's heat pooling low within him, distracting in its urgency even while quiet reassurance spills from his lips in little 'I know's and 'I've got you's when he feels that same tension rising in Felix, too. Then:
"Fuck," he gasps, stroking him through it when he comes; and it isn't long after that Sylvain's hold around him tightens and his hips stutter, words failing him until the only thing he can think is, "Felix, Felix--"
Against anyone's better judgement (which, in his defense, his own has long since abandoned him anyway) he sinks in deep before he stills, pulling Felix tightly against him. And he'll honestly stay like that until Felix pushes him off, or like, tells him otherwise, probably pressing lazy kisses wherever he can reach with a hushed, "I love you," or maybe several, because things are still a little hazy? And maybe they should've gone to Felix's room for this, actually, because he really, really just wants to hold him like this for a while, and the desk is like, increasingly inconvenient for that.
make me more icons!!! i ask, nicely
...But. Sylvain's release comes as swiftly as his own, and Felix feels, mmm, stupidly smug as Sylvain sinks against him? Content as Sylvain showers him with slow, soft affection, because all is comfortable, all is right; he doesn't even mind the hoarseness of his own breathing, choosing instead to focus all of his (limited) attention on snaking the hand atop Sylvain's shoulder a bit higher up, fingers blindly smoothing down the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. Mine, he foggily thinks, warmth welling within. Exactly as it should be.
The afterglow, however, can't cover up everything. It only takes a minute for the comfortable weight of Sylvain to become an uncomfortable weight, all heat and, ah, uncomfortably sticky skin. Sweat and spend, drying between them—and isn't there more all over Sylvain's hand? The hand pressing somewhere against him, Goddess above. Even though he's been covered in worse things—thanks, battle—he can't keep himself from shifting, humming ever so quietly when he's reminded that Sylvain has yet to pull out. Another unfortunate realization: everything that's going to trickle down his thighs the moment he stands.
Ah, well. The things he suffers ("suffers") through for the man he continues to pet, even as he grumbles:]
You're disgusting.
[And so is he, he knows. What of it! He wouldn't be Felix if he didn't grumble about something the second he's back to himself—and besides, it's so fond, so full of obvious affection.]
Send me sources and I will!!
Until then, he'll simply enjoy the feeling of that hand in his hair, and at least it's his not gross hand rubbing slow, absent circles at the center of the other man's back... Little victories, Felix.
"Mm." It's the vaguest noise possible, a hum that's set decidedly at the center overlap of affection, agreement, and amusement right against Felix's throat; he breathes in a deep, contented sigh as he nuzzles into the skin there. "You liked it... and you needed a bath, anyway."
He could've taken one earlier with him, but nooo, someone had to be responsible! And someone will have to be responsible still, because that shift is enough of a hint that he probably should, like... move... which brings its own set of inconveniences to his attention. Not just in the 'but he really still wants to cuddle' kind of ways, either, but rather the fact that when he moves to actually pull out, it is his gross hand that he presses to the surface of this poor, old desk... and all at once he comes back to himself enough to wince at the feeling of the wood beneath his touch.
He just cleaned this desk...? He just cleaned this desk...
...And he will clean it again, because the Goddess herself might as well smite him down before he asks any of the staff to do it (not because he's embarrassed, but because he just isn't that much of an asshole), but first, here: have this like, half-apologetic smile as he pushes back just enough to survey the damage? Which actually only lasts all of like, two seconds before it falters and turns into more of an appreciative once-over than intended, because... look. Look... Mess be damned, it's like Felix just stumbled right out of one of his goddamn fantasies, all messy hair and warm, lovebitten skin, lazy and spent atop the desk, all because of him...
Hm. Absolutely fucking tragic--looks like Sylvain's going to duck his face right back down to Felix's shoulder after all.
"Goddess, please let me go with you this time..." Don't judge him, just love him.
no subject
And just, you know. Nice to think about as Sylvain pulls away, because there's always that emptiness to contend with... which is ridiculous, really. They can't remain entwined together forever, and even if they could, it isn't as though Felix would want to—but there's still that brief sensation of loss, which he's made all the more aware of when Sylvain, like, gazes down at him for a moment. Just looks at him, as though he hasn't seen him in this state hundreds of times, and Felix feels his face heating up once more. Is there anything worse than being stared at! The cold air hitting the mess on his stomach, perhaps, but other than that...
Listen: Thank the Goddess Sylvain comes back down when he does. Felix isn't sure how long he could stand the softness of that stare, given how open, how vulnerable he still feels. He will gladly accept another thirty or so seconds of this.]
Disgusting and incorrigible, [Felix amends even as he noses into his hair, taking in the smell of him. Sex and sweat and Sylvain.] Although I suppose it's only fair you clean the mess you helped make.
[Yeah!! Suffer the very real consequences, which soon includes a gentle kiss pressed just above Sylvain's ear. Shh. Just enjoy this moment, please, until Felix winds up shifting yet again. He's never been very good at sitting still, so:]
Give me your shirt. [Mmm—] And my pants.
[Sylvain doesn't need his shirt, you see. Duh. Just listen to him.]
no subject
He loves when Felix is rough with him too, of course--probably more than he should. But when it comes down to it, he really just loves Felix, in every way he can have him, so... you know, forgive him if he responds by mumbling something about making an even bigger mess of him first, which is a threat just a little too ambitious after the long, long day they've each had, and he knows it. They BOTH know it?? But even that isn't enough to temper the quiet heat behind it anyway, because who would he even be otherwise.
But... ah. A shirt? His shirt, which--hey?? That's foul PLAY! Doesn't Sylvain have enough to tempt him! And yet here he is, pushing back again to
see where it even ended up, because lord fucking knows I've forgotten by nowpick it up off the floor beside him, because he isn't a heathen who throws his clothes around, unlike SOME."Do you need the pants?" As if that's any sort of question worth asking? As if Felix doesn't have like, at least two Very Obvious reasons to put pants on just at a glance, but even as Sylvain hands over the shirt and goes to pull his own pants back on, he doesn't sound like he's kidding. "The bath isn't that far..."
no subject
Until, you know. Sylvain pulls away, so rudely, and Felix is left with no choice but to drop to his feet with the quietest of huffs. The real world is a cold, cold place; the shirt he's soon handed promises a modicum of warmth (and the lingering scent of a wonderfully clean Sylvain), and yet he isn't desperate enough to put it on in his... current state. That, you see, is why Felix needs his pants, and that is why he shoots Sylvain a flat Look as he bends down to collect them. No, he isn't going to wear them—but between the two of them, they only have two functional pieces of clothing? These pants are unnecessary, and thus they are now... a towel. Watch him wordlessly scrub himself off, Sylvain.
And then watch him toss those pants atop the desk, just so he can swiftly slip this much-too-big shirt right over his head—and muss up his hair even more in the process. Ah, well. There are, in Felix's opinion, so many positives to Sylvain's size? Not that he thinks about them on the regular, but as he glances down at the sleeves hanging past his fingertips, considers that the hem hits just low enough to cover the, ah, important things...
Once, perhaps, it would have sent him straightening to his full height, trying his damnedest to seem more than he is; now, however, he's old enough to enjoy this for what it is, which is why he gives no thought to the open collar exposing his marked collar bones. There are better things to focus on, anyway? Like, say, a shirtless Sylvain. Hmm.]
It's far enough, [is his pointed—and delayed—response.] But your shirt will do.
[If he brazenly drags his eyes down Sylvain's torso when he falls silent? Well? He's tired, yes, but he's only human; let him live. Let him cant his head, savoring this sight even as he attempts to gauge Sylvain's reaction.]
Well?
[It's that impatient sort of well that implies he's ready to leave, but go ahead, Sylvain. Say something cheesy. He's honestly waiting for it, because while Felix isn't vain, Felix is well aware of the effect he has on one particular person.]
no subject
Especially once his shirt settles loose against the other man's shoulders... He's always understood the appeal in theory, but the thought of it had never done anything but make his skin crawl, before; he'd known he would want to throw whatever shirt or jacket had been borrowed away, just so he'd never have to wear it again. But just like Felix is the exception in just about everything else, there is definitely something... mmm, enticing about seeing him like this. The marks over his collar put on display... the fact it only provides the absolute barest means of coverage, so little left to the imagination... the silent declaration, if perhaps only for his own sake, that Felix is his--paired with the knowledge of why he's wearing it in the first place, the memory still fresh and vivid in his mind. It's... oof. BIG fuckin' oof, and for the second time in this very, embarrassingly short period, Sylvain considers their odds or the night.
He doesn't even notice the way Felix looks him over, too busy doing the same damn thing in turn, but he does cross the short distance at that well. He lifts his hands to feign fixing the collar for him, only so he can lift his chin to steal a kiss; it's short, but it's definitely not chaste.
"You're making it really hard to want to go anywhere, you know." He is... a horny teenager! He will BE a horny teenager until he's 95. Felix, this is what you chose, and what you chose is someone who needs to be dragged to the damn tub before he really does have to sleep in the guest room.
no subject
...And there are some, of course. Just as there are some to be found on Felix's face, but he brushes that from his mind as he allows Sylvain to tilt his head back, to kiss him so briefly, yet so thoroughly. He is... content, more or less. He will never get enough of Sylvain, he knows, but their encounter atop his (family's) desk sated his hunger—or so it seemed. This kiss, however, sparks that familiar heat low in his stomach, and though it's dull for now, he knows—knows—that it could light back up in a few short minutes. If they take it slow? Keep it soft.
Hmm. Something to consider, he supposes, as he cracks open his eyes, offers Sylvain a small smirk. It's fine. They have time.]
I'm not doing anything.
[Other than wear a shirt, he means, but far be it from him to point that out. It's easier to just reach up and curl his fingers around one of Sylvain's wrists, taking a moment to appreciate something as simple as touching Sylvain before he tries to turn them both toward the door.]
Besides, [he continues, so casually,] you found what I hid in this room.
[Felix doesn't like horses, but he knows that sometimes you just have to dangle a carrot in front of them if you want them to move? And even if they don't do anything else tonight, so help him, he is not climbing back on top of that desk.]
no subject
And it's a good thing that Felix turns to guide him when he does, really, because Sylvain very nearly points out that he doesn't have to be doing anything when he looks like this, but hey! If he wants to be doing something, then Sylvain will volunteer in a heartbeat.
Instead, he absolutely follows that carrot--because listen, it's a very tempting carrot, okay?--and trails after him, humming a vague noise in acknowledgement. He's going to look at every damn room with the most critical eye his entire stay now, just you wait.
"You really won't give me any hints, huh...?" Like... none none? "When did you even have the time?"
It's not important, and yet it is, because he knows how busy Felix is!! He knows how often he travels! This is not a simple plan, by any means, or even a relatively quick one... He has to at least ask!
no subject
I made time.
[For Sylvain. Always—and that means that Sylvain can find the time to bang him in as many rooms as possible, The End. Anyway, though this is Felix's house! He is the lord and master of all that he sees—but does he slowly crack open the door? Does he peek his head out and make sure absolutely no one is in sight before finally dragging Sylvain out into the hallway? Yes. The last thing he needs is one of his servants seeing him wandering about half-naked, not because it's embarrassing but because they'd probably try to bring him, like, fifty unnecessary things. The rest of their night should be peaceful.
Their bath, at least, is... mostly peaceful. Sylvain definitely does The Most, as Sylvain is wont to do, but Felix is nothing if not disciplined; he ensures the focus is getting clean, scrubs both himself and Sylvain with ruthless efficiency even as Sylvain looks for any excuse to pull him closer. He's not opposed to affection, even after the afterglow really and truly fades, but! Time and place, you know... time and place.
And the time is now, and the place is Felix's bedroom. He's still wearing Sylvain's shirt when they enter, having put it back on the moment he was clean, and he makes no attempt to remove it; instead, he pads right over to the wide bed, pulls back the heavy furs, and slips beneath them, still damp enough from their bath to be chilled. Maybe Sylvain wants to, like, throw on a shirt, or exchange his pants for smallclothes? Felix doesn't know—but he still shoots Sylvain a Look over the covers, clearly impatient. It must be nice to be so warm all the time, sir! So nice.]
Hurry up.
[Him! COLD! And as bossy as ever.]
no subject
And so is showing, like, at least a little restraint when it comes to the temptation that is bathing with the man he plans to bang in as many rooms as possible... A little. He said he would take responsibility for the mess he helped make, after all--and he does--but there's also something to be said about the calmness that moments like these bring with them. That glowing ember stuck right in-between his ribs, new sparks of fondness bursting within him with every grumbled complaint or exasperated sigh. His wandering hands eventually agree to compromise by busying themselves with Felix's hair instead, teasing through the strands until they're soft and smooth and easily gathered in one hand when he leaves careful kisses along the other man's nape.
In other words: by the time they reach Felix's room, the coil of heat in Sylvain's stomach has simmered into a tender sort of warmth that absolutely threatens to return full force at how unfairly fucking attractive this scene he's found himself in really is. So like, forgive him for taking an extra, like... five seconds to just take in the sight presented to him before he graces that order with a response.
"You could say please," he suggests, pleasantly, as if he isn't actively stripping down to join him even without. Honestly, he'll match whatever state of undress Felix is in, sans the shirt?? The man has no shame and is also a functional space heater in bed, so like, the fewer layers the better. But once he does climb under the covers, he won't waste any time before he's pressing up close, one arm sliding around Felix's waist to slip beneath his shirt--just to rest his palm flat against the skin beneath, nothing more and nothing less. "And you should definitely wear this more often."
Or like, any of his shirts, probably? This one is just convenient.
no subject
But in this moment, at least, it's perfect. Sylvain is perfect as he strips off his clothing, as he slips in beside him and easily pulls him just that much closer—and Felix is struck, as always, by how easily they seem to fit together. Even lying face-to-face like this isn't as awkward as it should be? He brings a hand to curl against Sylvain's bare chest, unable to keep himself from shivering as Sylvain's hand slithers beneath his (well, Sylvain's) shirt to press against his lower back. Warm, so warm. Absolutely everything about Sylvain is warm, including the expression on his face when Felix finally tilts his head just far enough back to look.]
Hm, [is all that he initially has to offer. A soft hum as his eyes skim Sylvain's face, as his fingers absently trace a scar that he remembers the story behind.] And yet you never leave them lying around. You're too neat.
[Is there a hint of a tease to be found in that sentence? Yes. Another difference between them: Felix is as messy as Sylvain is orderly, and thus his room is littered with hair ties, and half-empty bottles of sword oil, and various reports that he's allowed to pile up. Sylvain probably shakes his head about this every time he visits, but that's how Felix be, baybee.]
no subject
Anyway: Sylvain is also just immensely lucky that he has something--someone--so precious to keep his eye from wandering very far. Like, who cares about the abundance of scattered hair ties or papers when he can focus instead on the warm, gentle press of Felix's body against his own--comfortably cool in comparison to himself, but when have they ever not balanced each other out in just the right ways?--or when he can busy himself by tracing his eyes along the other man's features, strikingly beautiful in their familiarity.
"Is that all it'll take?" A small price to pay if this is what comes of it... but still a price nonetheless, in the end. He shifts to bring the arm not currently wrapped around Felix up, bent at the elbow near his head so he can trail his fingers down and not-so-subtly tug the shirt's collar to the side, better exposing the marks still lingering beneath. He looks them over with a low hum. "...I'll have to consider it, then."
As long as they don't get lost in all the mess Felix leaves behind!!
no subject
...Hmm. It's lust, yes, but mostly love. A frankly overwhelming amount of love that would more than likely send his head spinning, were they not safely lying in bed.]
Did I say that was all?
[He did not. There's so much more to this than a certain someone leaving the occasional shirt draped over the back of a chair, and Felix considers it all as he slips a calf between Sylvain's.]
You'll need to visit more often, [he says, but not as archly as he intends; there is, in fact, a hint of a plea to be heard, and he hates it even as he continues on with:] Stay longer.
[Selfish, selfish, selfish—and almost impossible, until this Sreng business is sorted out, but? But. Felix wants what he wants, and what he wants... is Sylvain. Always.]
no subject
He snorts a silent laugh at first, expecting some outlandish demand (cute) or a request more immediate (hot), but even as he pulls Felix in more tightly against him, what he does say... it gives him pause, as that hand at his face freezes where it is, because that request... that tone, subtle and yet so, so loud... Sylvain isn't sure he's ever been so aware of his heart before; he wonders if this is what it feels like when it bursts, or when it shatters.
"Felix..."
It's hardly more than a breath, tenuous and wavering and too full of emotion to condense into just a word. These visits are never long enough, haven't ever been long enough, and what he wouldn't give to stay... Sreng pulls him north, and Fhirdiad pulls Felix south, and responsibility chokes them both--but these fleeting trips are the breath of air their shared lungs ache for, time and time again.
And Felix knows how badly he wishes he could stay. They both know it isn't something so easily fixed. Sylvain knows, and Sylvain hates it, and yet with little else to be done--not now, not when Felix is here and warm in his arms--he can only let his hand relax against the side of Felix's face, looking with an open adoration and reverence that could suggest it's the world itself cradled against his palm. He leans in, not quite to close the distance between them, not yet, but significantly lessening it all the same as if he can't stand to leave it there at all.
"...Is that all?" he asks, quiet, because he will. He will until a day comes where he doesn't need to leave again at all, one way or another, and he'll promise that to Felix as many times as he needs to hear.
no subject
And Faerghus is at its best when Sylvain is minding its border and Felix is minding its king. The things they do for the kingdom that took so much from them! Not that Felix allows himself to think about that; it is... so much better to savor the feeling of Sylvain's hands on his bare skin. The look Sylvain is giving him, as intense as it is.]
For now.
[He can't even pretend to be wholly unaffected. His walls are down, down, down, as they usually are when Sylvain is involved; all he can do is swallow, pull his hand away from Sylvain's chest just to curl his fingers around the wrist of the hand cupping his cheek. He wants this... to stay, please, as he takes a moment to consider his words.]
What I said in— [The office? The throes of passion? Take your pick, Sylvain, but—ah, there it is! There's the color finding its way to Felix's face at last, and Felix feels the heat as he holds Sylvain's stare for a few more (agonizing) seconds. It is, he supposes, the least he can do. The best way to prove he's being serious when he finally wills himself to say:] ...I meant it, you know. All of it.
[He would like... to duck his head, thanks! To press his face into Sylvain's chest as he waits for whatever response Sylvain will give him, but—no, no. He still has hold of Sylvain's wrist; it's easy to keep that hand in place as he turns his head to the side, just far enough for him to brush the lightest of kisses across Sylvain's lance-roughened palm. This is Payback (and totally not an excuse to look away before he combusts, thanks).]
no subject
It's worth it to see that blush, honestly? To witness that pause (Sylvain's glad he was already smiling, although it does widen just a teensy bit as he tries not to laugh) and to hear that continuation--as if he had to clarify. As if Sylvain hadn't believed him.
Or, as he finally looks away: as if he's to embarrassed to say what he means properly. And like... the thing is, Sylvain knows Felix. He loves Felix. More than the world and life itself.
He just also loves to tease Felix. So, even if he remembers exactly what was said... and even if the reminder (of both the words and the context) has his heart skipping into a much faster pace than before... the soft look on his face only lasts a moment more before he hums, sliding his unoccupied hand lower still to the back of one thigh so he can hitch that leg up.
"I'm not sure I remember," he murmurs, pushed up just enough to like, almost lean over him as he shifts to tangle their legs more properly together. "Say it again for me...?"
no subject
I won't, [he grumbles, knowing full well that he will soon enough. It's why he presses Sylvain's hand back against his too-warm cheek.] I know that you remember.
[Because Sylvain was hanging onto Felix's every word, reacting to Felix's every move. More memories spring to mind, which is why Felix pointedly does not make eye contact with the man rudely hovering above him. Let him live!]
no subject
"...Alright," he says as he drags his thumb lightly against Felix's cheek, conceding... perhaps a little too easily? He doesn't sound troubled by the fact, or even all that bothered that he's been called out on his obvious lie. "So maybe I do remember."
Maybe...! Direct translation: definitely--all the way down to the quietest hitch of breath, and it's... mm. It's enough as much as it isn't. As much as it always and never will be, and so:
"Tell me again anyway?" He's still wearing the same smirk, and using the same tone that suggests he's teasing, but there's a layer of sincerity beneath the words when he adds, "I like hearing you say it."
no subject
You're impossible.
[Yet another grumble as he finally releases his hold on Sylvain's wrist, accepting that hand will remain precisely where it is as he brings his own up to Sylvain's face. The angle is... a little awkward, perhaps, but he's able to rest his fingertips along the line of the other man's jaw—and that, unsurprisingly, is what he focuses on while he wills himself to say this sappy, selfish shit.]
...The other advisors drove me mad, [he begins, quiet and, mmm, a tad stilted. He's awful at finding the right words, but for Sylvain, he will try.] Dimitri drove me mad. Not that he meant to. And Fhirdiad is as loud as ever, and I thought— I thought of you every day.
[Of Sylvain's smile. Of Sylvain's laugh. Of Sylvain's arms wrapped around him. It's all perfectly ridiculous; like, this sounds like some drivel plucked right out of a cheap romance novel, and it's ensuring that his face remains bright red for the foreseeable future, but it's the honest truth—and so, as he hesitantly brings his fingers a touch higher, allows his eyes to drift up to Sylvain's:]
I missed you. [A beat, and then, a touch more fiercely:] I love you.
[And do not ask anything of him ever again, The End.]
no subject
Felix, on the other hand, puts thought behind everything he says... He never says what he doesn't mean. Never says what he doesn't have to, and because of that, rather than fill the silence, his voice cuts through it, raw and honest and real. In comparison, one word from Felix is worth at least 10,000 of his own.
And when it comes to his 'I love you's, Sylvain knows he could offer everything that he is and everything he will ever be, and still never repay them in full, not even in a thousand lifetimes--but Felix chooses to give them to him, and what is Sylvain if not a selfish, lovesick fool? So here he is, all but holding his breath as that hand reaches up, patiently waiting while he finds his words... And you know, maybe it DOES sound ridiculous? Maybe it does sound like something from a romance novel, but Sylvain hangs onto every word of it still, as if this really is the first time he's heard anything like this from him--or possibly the last. And again, as always, he's struck by how damn lucky he really is to know what it feels like to love and be loved as completely as this.
So, once Felix has said his awkward, stilted, perfect piece, Sylvain pauses for only a moment, smiling softly down at him. Then, the hand still held ("""held""") hostage shifts slightly, fingers sliding gently back into still-damp hair as he leans the rest of the way in--first to kiss his forehead, and then to kiss his lips, both soft and chaste and fleeting, although he hovers close even after he pulls away.
"I love you, too," he whispers, still smiling. He kisses him again, same as before, and adds: "Thank you."
For repeating it for him. For thinking of him. For loving him, most of all, which is why when he closes the distance a third time, he kisses him slow, and soft--and this time, he doesn't pull away.
no subject
But Felix can only take so much softness at one time. The look, the words, the oh-so gentle kiss—it feels as though he could drown in all of this, honestly, which is why he can't resist pulling Sylvain's bottom lip between his teeth and giving it the lightest of nips. He is how he is! And how he is... is prickly.
In, like, a loving way, hence the way he swipes his tongue along the bite before pulling back. Sylvain is still half-hovering over him; Felix, therefore, rolls onto his back as far as he's able, the hand at Sylvain's jaw urging him to follow.]
Don't get carried away, [he halfheartedly gripes, expression too open—too tender—to make this a serious attempt at Being Rude.] You need sleep.
[And so does he, but he is a grown man who can and will do as he pleases. Let him show his affection by (barely) fussing.]
no subject
But loath as he is to let Felix pull away, the angle they're working with is... not the best, admittedly, and anyway it isn't as if Sylvain needs to be told to follow twice! He'll shift seamlessly with minimal prompting, sliding his one hand up from Felix's thigh to brace beside his hip instead as he settles over him more fully; he doesn't miss a beat, shifting one leg between Felix's as he hums some vague affirmative and lowers his mouth down to the other man's neck.
"And so do you," he murmurs, in between light, lingering kisses against the skin exposed by that open collar, and there's a gentle, teasing note to his voice, because he is also a grown man who can and will do as he pleases. He doesn't intend to get carried away, sure, but like... don't tell him what to do! "I'm helping you relax."
Since he never remembers to without him.
no subject
And part of enjoying this moment is continuing their brand of banter, because while Felix doesn't joke, he does tease those he cares for—and that means Sylvain catches the brunt of it. For better or for worse.]
So helpful. [It's as dry a tone as he can manage, given the current state of Him—and he follows it up with a quietly amused hm.] One of your better qualities.
[Implying there are... many! Or very few? Take your pick.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
this icon is felix forcing sylvain to accept his love
This one's Sylvain accepting it, bc I need to make more soft icons dammit
you have two whole days off!!!
I have time to make so many icons... whoa
will you make them, though... will you...
(no subject)