[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!]
Just writes you an actual fucking novel ig, take this away from me
The Kissing Incident gets filed away as neatly as The Training Incident, even if the existence of two Felix-related Incidents to Not Think About makes it exceedingly difficult to not think about at least one of them during any relative downtime.
Downtime which Sylvain finds he has precious little of, and yet still more than he'd expected to, in the beginning. Because unlike Felix's return to his territory, by the war's end--against all odds and heedless of the wishes of some--Margrave Gautier, the bastard himself, still lives and breathes in this mortal realm. And that's... fine, or about as "fine" as anything in Sylvain's life has ever been, because he doesn't especially want to be in charge of his family's territory, nor does he wish his father any harm, not really. Like, he'd certainly never consider himself unlucky to have not joined those who had lost family to the war? But this isn't a meta analysis on Sylvain's Daddy Issues, so suffice to say: it's complicated, and Sylvain's perspective on everything is as skewed as always, and he's lucky to not have that kind of responsibility thrust upon him literally right after winning a war and having his heart kind-of-sort-of torn out of his chest and stomped on by their benevolent, beloved king. But here's the thing:
With the newfound knowledge that he is, in fact, in love with his best friend--has been in love with his best friend, he thinks, for... some time now?--and that he cannot, in fact, be with his best friend, Sylvain quickly learns that his usual means of Just Forgetting About Stuff... don't work quite as well as they used to. He questions how well they'd worked at all nowadays, but when he goes out on a date during the first week he's home with the hope of quieting his thoughts of Felix and finds that he instead can think of nothing but Felix... when he ignores it and tries to kiss her and not only feels a wave of guilt so strong it makes his stomach turn, but finds himself more distracted by all the ways it isn't like kissing Felix (and, by extension, by how much he prefers kissing Felix)...
...Well. Needless to say, the experience turned him off of that habit, no pun intended. Which means that, for a while, Sylvain spends his days hearing his father speak of arranged marriages and the battle at their northern border--the latter of which he himself begins to bring up more and more throughout that first moon, both because it's his responsibility as the wielder of their family's relic to be aware of the latest reports and to lend aid to their troops, and because it's the only thing he's found that can successfully divert the Margrave's attention away from his inevitable future as a nobleman. And that's fine, for a while! They don't always agree (in fact they never agree, but the Margrave won't dare to openly disregard his son's opinion in strategy meetings, and Sylvain won't dare to openly challenge his father's opinion at home) but things are, again, as fine as ever.
It's sometime towards the end of that first moon, when things take a turn towards not fine. The Margrave's approach to the situation at the border isn't as appreciated by the people of Gautier--or of Faerghus as a whole during this time of relative peace. People speak of stubbornness and selfishness and pride, the reasons they've lost soldiers still now that the war is over, and the Margrave finds his methods of garnering favor by way of politics aren't as effective these days, as Dimitri isn't a king so readily swayed, nor is his advisor so easily fooled.
And his family's home has always been cold, both in present and in memory; it's always felt empty no matter how many people might pile into a room. Ever since he was a kid it had always amazed him when he would visit his friends' homes, that a place could feel so full, even if he was the only one in the room, because the air in his own has always been so silent and tense that it feels like it could shatter with any move or noise too sudden.
But by the end of that week, tensions are so unbearably high that what starts out as a typical discussion turns into a typical argument turns into Sylvain raising his voice against his father and snapping something which, regrettably, he forgets less than a second later when his head catches up to his tongue, and that sacred silence, shattered, drops him into the terrifying nothingness that lies beneath. He doesn't remember much of the conversation after that--remembers the adrenaline and his echo chamber heart more so--but by the end of the first week of the following moon, the Margrave relinquishes his title to his second and only son, and Sylvain finds some humorless relief among the mess he's inherited in that he's finally busy enough to not think about either one of the Incidents.
Which lasts... like, roughly the rest of that second moon? Long enough for the official announcement to reach Fhirdiad (which is ironically about half as long as it takes the official request of audience to reach Gautier) and then long enough for the king's personal letter of congratulations to reach Sylvain's desk, which might seem like a nice gesture if not for the specific inclusion of, Felix sends his regards, as well as the parting line, We wish you safe journey, each letter penned as confidently as his signature below it. And he might not stare at it with such contempt if he'd at least had the decency to let Felix sign his name as well--but then he supposes that would mean Felix had actually read the letter to begin with. Honestly. As if Felix isn't perfectly capable of writing him himself?? As if Dimitri has any right to speak for him...
And if Sylvain spends the better half of the third moon distracted and itching to get on his horse and ride to Fhirdiad on his own right then, wondering why Felix hadn't written him (probably just busy, he tells himself, just as he had been), or if he had told Dimitri to write those things (unlikely?) and just didn't care enough to sign (also unlikely, and really just hurts to think about)... well!! He sure as fucking hell isn't about to say anything about it once he gets there!
Because eventually, after a long, long ride, Sylvain does get there, and his heart and his head and his horse's hooves all keep time with one another as he crosses that last stretch of land to the beat of Felix, Felix, Felix... And when he comes into view of the castle, it's Felix his eyes land on first--and seeing him in person makes him realize all at once exactly how long it's been that they've been apart, and how much has changed between the two of them, and how badly he really, really has missed him. But it's Dimitri he levels his stare at as he nears, standing so comfortably at his side, and he swears Dimitri does it on purpose, because when he comes to a stop, their old friend shifts his weight ever so subtly nearer to Felix, eye on Sylvain or maybe on his horse all the while. And despite it all, it's Dimitri who steps forward to greet him once he's back on solid ground with a too-tight hug he can't blame on anything but Dimitri being himself, which would be fine if it wasn't so blatantly tonedeaf to the whorl of emotions building in his chest that he kind of wishes he could shove him right off, and it almost overrides how glad he somehow still is to see the man again after so long.
And that's all complicated and uncomfortable, but what's even more complicated and uncomfortable is the fact that, when he's finally freed from the veritable fucking beartrap that is Dimitri's arms and steps around him to go to Felix, he gets, like... no significant reaction? He doesn't look up at him with the kind of relief and comfort and joy that he feels when he looks at him, doesn't reach for him, hardly even says anything beyond what's polite and expected between two people with their status--maybe a fraction warmer, but still cold, and in the shock of it, he doesn't even question why or push for more before Felix disappears altogether, and then it's just Dimitri, his hand a gentle but insistent and irresistable pressure at his back as he forces him forward, apologizing for him with a sigh that's too damn fond to do anything but annoy him as Sylvain fights back the urge to tell him to speak to him for Felix just one more time so he has the excuse to let himself invite the man to spar.
You know. For old time's sake! Because even though he hasn't been keeping up with his training as of late--he hasn't the time, nor the reason now that he's attained some semblance of a ceasefire with Sreng, still shaky and uncertain like a newborn foal learning to stand on its own legs for the very first time--he could really, really use the excuse to take a few swings at the guy.
The worst part of it all though is that, no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get a moment alone with Felix, or even just with Felix, like, as a concept regardless of company. And after a while, he can't help but wonder if he could be avoiding him...? If Felix heard of his visit and didn't look forward to it--not as a friend, not as... whatever they are, or were, or could be--but rather resigned himself to it as an inevitability, like any other task on his agenda, and... mm, that one hurts, he thinks.
That thought makes him feel even sicker than when he'd spoken against his father, makes the same sort of fear curl its cold, empty hands in his chest, because... what would he do without this? What would he do without Felix, if he somehow managed to ruin the only, only good thing he has, and for what...? The kiss? Felix had been the one to kiss him, yes, but they had both been drinking; he'd held his own perhaps a little too well, but then he supposes that doesn't rule out the possibility that Felix hadn't been aware of what he'd done until after the fact... And if he'd somehow hurt him, or taken advantage, Sylvain knows he would never forgive himself, but Felix-- Felix had kissed him first, and Felix had kissed him back...
(And hadn't he looked like he could cry, in that quiet moment before they'd been interrupted?)
...He just needs to ask, which is the correct choice, but when he finally catches Felix in the courtyard and nearly fucking jogs up to him for the sake of not losing him again, he realizes he isn't alone, and--
He can't quite hear everything Dimitri says from where he is, and frankly, he isn't sure he wants to. But he hears enough, sees the way his hand is held between Dimitri's own--and he can't stand it? It sends a white hot flash of something in him, even as it claws at his heart in just the worst of ways, and Felix--his Felix, some part of him cries, who isn't really his at all--has hardly said a word to him since he'd arrived after so, so long, but he still stands here for him, to hear all the selfish praise he can think to offer.
The only thing that keeps him from making a damn fool of himself is the fact that, although he can't see Felix's face from here, he can see Dimitri's. And it's a subtle thing, he thinks, something he might not even notice if he didn't know what to look for, but while Dimitri's voice doesn't waver, Sylvain can see the silent desperation behind that look and in the slight tilt of his brow, as if he might force his words through whatever invisible barrier Felix has put up between them. The honesty in his voice is almost sad, which means that, although Felix isn't pulling away, he... probably isn't encouraging him, either?
And that's almost more irritating, actually--but Sylvain manages to drag himself away from the scene, tries not to think about it in the same way he tries not to think about most things that make him feel so strongly, and he knows the only reason he gets any sleep is the fact he's still fatigued from travel.
So... you know. Sylvain is decidedly not a morning person? Never has been, never will be, and yet here he is, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed!! Or at least his expression brightens when he catches Felix walking up out of the corner of his eye, even if he has no tail and is, in fact, suspended largely by the weight of his ever-increasing number of insecurities and the desperate need for them to Please Stop, Maybe.
"Felix!"
He has to physically suppress the wince when he hears himself. He sounds like the damn vocal impression of a dog seeing its owner for the first time in months, something stuck directly between relief and joy, and really, it's a good thing Sylvain isn't the type to get embarrassed so easily, but it still doesn't sound, like... cool? At all.
"Ah... yeah," he admits, because the best way to handle this... is to be direct, right? Only, like... indirectly direct. If he acts like everything is fine, then Felix should do the same, or at least that's the working theory. "I wanted to catch you before you got stuck in meetings all day, since apparently you still don't know how to take a break. I feel like we barely saw each other yesterday!"
He looks like he's trying to decide whether he wants to keep speaking for a moment, but then he sort of laughs and adds, a bit sheepishly:
"I was starting to think you were avoiding me, or something."
[Felix has heard Sylvain say his name countless times before, and yet hearing him say it now, so excitedly, is—ah. It's almost as if Sylvain is something too bright to look at? Felix feels the distinct urge to look away, but he manages, somehow, to remain where he is, meeting Sylvain's gaze as he wills his expression to settle into a more, ah, normal state. Not quite a scowl; he can't even hope to pretend he's annoyed with Sylvain, but it certainly isn't one of his rare smiles. He's too uneasy for that. Too uncertain, because now that he's face-to-face with Sylvain for the first time in moons, all he can think about is how it felt to kiss him.
And how Sylvain smiled afterward, genuinely, but that— what if it was— well. Felix in the midst of battle is so sure of himself; Felix in the midst of... this questions every move, every thought, and thus he decides the best tactic is the simplest one: ignore it. Let it go. Pretend as though he hasn't thought of that brief kiss every night for the past three moons, because if Sylvain doesn't bring it up, then surely Sylvain doesn't want to talk about it—and Felix can't risk losing whatever they have left.
...Anyway. Stuff to shove to the back of his mind as he does his best to focus on the here and now. The familiar rise and fall of Sylvain's voice.]
Don't be ridiculous, [he retorts, unable to keep his eyes from sliding to the side. There's a portrait of some Blaiddyd ancestor on the wall; it's easier to study that than study Sylvain.] I keep a busy schedule. That's all.
[Which is both true and, mmm... not? Not entirely. Some of yesterday's meetings could have been postponed, thanks to a very important arrival, but here is the truth: it was easier to snap and snarl at others than tiptoe around Sylvain.
Which is, of course, something Felix isn't eager to admit, so. On to the next thing.]
...But I suppose congratulations are in order. [A beat, and then, as Felix shifts his attention back to Sylvain at last:] Margrave.
[He knows how Sylvain feels about his father; he also knows the weight a title brings, and so his serious expression doesn't even flicker.]
That's all, he says, as if it could ever be so simple. Sylvain knows better--knows Felix better--than to believe there isn't some half-truth in that statement, and yet he can't be bothered to dig into it too deeply. Not now, not yet, because half-truths be damned, he trusts this idiot more than anything and anyone else in his life? If Felix says he isn't avoiding him, then that's enough to scratch one worry off of his seemingly neverending list.
It's a combination of that, as well as the fact that hearing Felix being... well, Felix, after so long away and with their last encounter plaguing the forefront of his mind whenever he thought of him, that finally sets him more at ease... It feels more like coming home than when he'd returned to his own, and much, much warmer than the clipped words he'd been offered the day prior, and already he feels like he can breathe easier, as some of the icy daggers in his chest begin to melt.
He wonders: is the look in his eye is as fragile, as hopeful as the one he'd seen in Dimitri's? As if even the smallest fragment of attention willingly given is the greatest gift he's received--and for a moment, he's glad Felix isn't looking at him, for fear that he might learn what that hidden expression might have been.
Which... actually works in his favor, because Felix's next choice in topic is, uhh, probably the best thing to knock all that emotion from his face? Instead, he gives Felix a Look that more or less embodies the words:
"Please, don't call me that..."
Like, it's... one thing, he supposes, to inherit the title for formality's sake? To think of himself as a Margrave, no matter how he may tug at the stiff collar of stuffy responsibility it brings along with it, and to accept the role and all that comes with it in hopes of building a better future for his people. But it's another thing entirely to hear it in reference to anyone but his father, let alone himself--not just a Margrave, like he was never just a Gautier heir, but the Margrave Gautier, which is LIKE a Margrave, only worse because it drops all the weight that comes with it over the shoulders of a good-for-nothing, and you know? The best way to deal with stress is to compartmentalize everything and just pretend the stressful parts don't exist: The Gautier Way.
But more than any of that, he just doesn't like the twinge of distaste at hearing Felix regard him with such a formal title, no matter how fleetingly. It... will take some getting used to, for the sake of maintaining some form of professionalism... Although it'll probably also be difficult for Felix to claim professionalism to begin with, when Sylvain decides to close the distance between them and swing an arm around his shoulders, pretending for all he's worth like the act of casual intimacy isn't enough to make his heart race.
"I mean, I'm still me." If his laugh is just a little bit breathless... well, he doesn't actually know what he can blame it on, but he can figure it out as he goes. "But if you really want to congratulate me... come out with me later? We can go out for drinks. My treat," he adds, and then winks, because of course he does. "You can have whatever you want."
[Titles are heavy things! They've prepared for theirs for years, but now that they actually have them—well. Their respective titles come with baggage, and you know, maybe they're the only two people who get it? Like, Dimitri has a hell of a title with some serious baggage of its own, but it's... different, for Felix and Sylvain; it's family baggage that rises above all else for them, and as Felix takes in his friend's expression, he understands that, mmm, automatic aversion. Hadn't he felt it when people first addressed him as Duke Fraldarius... doesn't a part of him still feel it...
Answer: Yes. Yes, yes, yes, but before he can so much as think to say anything about it—oh! Oh. Sylvain, in typical Sylvain fashion, breezes right into his personal space, throws an arm over his shoulders like it belongs there—and it does, in a way. There is comfort to be found in this familiar gesture, even if it does send warmth creeping up the back of his neck as he's pulled so, so close to Sylvain's side while Sylvain offers him... whatever he wants. Huh. That is a (jokingly, he assumes) loaded offer if Felix has ever heard one, and the fact that he's suddenly struck with many things he wants sends his hackles raising.
(And could he handle seeing Sylvain flirt every pretty face he sees? Could his heart stand it?)]
You're still a fool, [is Felix's acidic response as he shoots Sylvain a Look—but does not pull away, because he's selfish, so selfish.] I don't have time for such nonsense. There's always something to be done.
[Always more reports to be read, or discussions to be had. Felix's life in Fhirdiad is indeed busy, especially when one considers the king he both is and is not responsible for. Would Dimitri remember to eat, to sleep, to take care of himself, were Felix not right there by his side? Most days, perhaps, but some days...
...Well. Felix huffs, annoyed at Dimitri—and annoyed at himself for being annoyed at Dimitri. It's a strange balance they've struck.]
And I can hardly leave Dimitri unattended.
[Dimitri. Felix had begun using Dimitri's name during the last few weeks of the war, but it was rare, reluctant; now, however, it slips out as easily as anything, and even the trace of resentment in his tone can't cover up that fact.]
When it comes to understanding Felix, a lot of what he means can be found in the things he doesn't say... and this is something Sylvain knows very, very well, which is why he can continue smiling through it all. Felix doesn't shove him away, which is more or less the same as Felix saying he wants to be here, or at the very least doesn't mind being here, and that sparks something like hope within him... until, that is, it's put out like torchlight caught in a sudden winter storm, helpless against the sudden, violent whip of its winds as they steal its flame away.
And in reality, it's little more than a second, but in that moment it feels like forever as he struggles to keep his expression from falling the way it wants to. He could handle Felix saying no? But this is...
But Dimitri, is...
Dimitri, not boar, not His Majesty, but Dimitri, Dimitri, Dimitri--and he can feel that name ricochet through his skull, the way every syllable sounds like a thousand knives. Has he always hated his friend's name so much...? Has he ever hated a name more than he does now, and why must it always, always be Dimitri...?
Because isn't it always Dimitri! Hasn't it always been, and isn't it, somehow, even still?
Even if it's Sylvain who sat with a crying Felix, just minutes after Dimitri's family had left for Fhirdiad. Ingrid had gone to tag along after Glenn, while Felix, precious Felix, had been left with Sylvain, and he'd hugged him until the tears slowed enough for him to ask if he still wanted to play. He hadn't expected the question to invite those watery eyes once more, because they had only been play fighting--but he and Dimitri had been playing pretend--playing the parts of Kyphon and Loog from the stories they'd been read. And Sylvain had offered to play that with him, too, but as Felix rubbed his eyes red he'd made a face and told him he would have to pick someone else, because he couldn't be Loog if Dima was Loog, and Sylvain hadn't known why those words hurt the way they did, but he'd played Pan (because fuck off Intsys) and Felix had been happy and back then that had been enough.
Even if it's Sylvain who snuck dango from the dining hall into the Cathedral (which people were weirdly still touchy about even when the whole place was in shambles, which... okay), where Felix stood vigil for their friend and watched as he was consumed by his own demons. Dimitri had come back from the dead, in a sense, but the man returned to them hadn't been the same as the one they'd lost--and none of them had felt that loss so keenly as Felix. And Sylvain knew; Sylvain understood, or at least he'd thought he did, then. So when the Cathedral was all shadows and echoed steps and the terrible, endless suffering of what was once their friend, Sylvain had found the shape of Felix haloed by sunset and offered to share in something they both enjoyed, both so he could rest easy knowing Felix had actually eaten something proper, and to catch those rare occasions when the light returned to his eyes, before they could flicker back to the shape of Dimitri and have it stolen away again.
And it's never really been so obvious as it is now, he thinks, because for as many looks as Dimitri might give, as many words of reparation offered, Felix has always met it with indifference, or disgust, or irritation. Distanced himself with names that weren't his, words lined with barbs and intended to hurt, but now--
--Now, Felix says Dimitri, and that distance isn't there anymore. And going by his tone, he doesn't want it there, because while he's never sounded especially excited about Sylvain's invitations, Sylvain can't recall ever hearing this kind of irritation in his tone before, as if the mere thought of leaving Dimitri behind is absurd, as if Sylvain's the fool for ever thinking he would rather go out with him than leave Dimitri behind, and that... hurts? That stings like loss; it burns like a betrayal. And he has no right to demand that Felix leave him, no right to Felix at all, and yet, genius that he is, he blurts out--
"He can come along, too!"
--as if the words don't tear his throat on their way up, and when he laughs this time, it tastes like glass.
"I mean, why not, right...? We're all friends. I'm sure His Majesty could use the break as much as you could--and I, for one," he lies, cooly, "would be honored to have the two most important men in Faerghus as my dates for the night."
Hm. Gross!
If he's lucky though, Dimitri will be dumb enough to encourage Felix to go on without him, and Felix will be convinced enough to listen, and Sylvain... Sylvain will be selfish enough to do whatever it takes to steal him back to his side, where he belongs and should always be. He tightens his arm around Felix's shoulders then, and tilts his head, meeting his eye with a smaller sort of smile on his lips.
"You can forget about responsibility for one night, Felix." His voice has quieted, too, and he thinks it must sound a little like please and a lot like I need you because both thoughts are running circuits through his head like a mantra. "Come on... For me...?"
[And Felix, of course, is oblivious to all of this; the only thing he's aware of is that the weight of Sylvain's arm feels so, so right, and that is because... ah, but he's missed this. He has. Even this simple contact, which he's positive Sylvain means nothing by, is so different than Dimitri has grabbing his hand, or holding his shoulders, or pressing close during those occasional moments they're forced to read the same report. And it's not that Dimitri ever pushes things too far! He is, Felix supposes, as patient as he can be, and Felix... well. Felix doesn't return his affections, but Felix is glad to once again feel close to his friend. His oldest friend.
Sylvain is his friend, too, and yet Sylvain burns in a way that Dimitri doesn't. It's almost too much, really; Felix is tempted to turn, to press himself into Sylvain's chest and inhale the familiar scent of him—but that's so much, that's too much, that sends new warmth rushing to his face even as Sylvain suggesting they invite Dimitri is the same as Sylvain dumping a bucket of ice-cold water over Felix's head. He stiffens, so fundamentally opposed to the idea that he can't even bring himself to say anything as Sylvain continues. It's just? It's so?
It's this: Felix has given Dimitri so much of himself over the years. Felix would give it all over again, in a heartbeat, because Dimitri is tied to him so tightly—but Sylvain is his. Sylvain has always been his, and the thought of giving away this last part of him—such an important part of him—is impossible to accept. He won't! He refuses—and as Sylvain's arm tightens around him, his stubbornness is bolstered by the sudden certainty that he can't.]
Do you honestly believe the Savior King can walk freely around Fhirdiad? [he asks, tone icy—and steady, thank the goddess his voice is so steady.] The entire city would flock to his side. And he's busy.
[Felix will see to it. Personally. So help him, but Dimitri is going to spend every night locked in his study, sitting right by Felix's side as they sort through mountain after mountain of paperwork, because Felix—Felix can't take the thought of Dimitri pulling Sylvain any further away than Sylvain already is. Felix can live with the damage he's caused; he can't live with whatever damage Dimitri deals.
...Ah. The damage he did indeed cause, the last time they met. He feels something twist deep, deep within him, and the only thing he can think to do is shoot Sylvain a Look, like this is all Sylvain's fault. He hates this.]
Why can't you forget about chasing women for one night, Sylvain?
"No one would recognize him if we put a bag over his head," Sylvain doesn't say, because he's pretty sure the joke wouldn't be appreciated, and because it isn't as much of a joke as it was intended to be when he thought of it.
But that ice hurts, that look hurts, and although Sylvain is so good at deflecting the blows that Felix's words try so hard to deal--the best at it, really--those words in particular pack enough of a punch that even he flinches back a bit. That arm over his shoulder falls slack, nearly falls off completely, and Sylvain can feel the exact moment the weight of the smile on his face falls to him to keep up to hide the damage done.
He'd almost forgotten, really? Or rather, he hadn't forgotten; he just hadn't thought about it for well over a moon by now, uninterested as he's become in flirting around ever since he'd put a name to that frantic feeling in his chest whenever Felix is around. He hasn't been on a date since that first week after his return, hasn't wanted anyone who wasn't Felix in his arms let alone his bed--and so this brutal reminder... well, it startles him, in a way.
It's... fine! It is, because he's nothing if not good at acting like he isn't hurt by something, after all, even when it feels like it's punched a hole straight through his chest.
"Who said anything about that?" he asks, and he thinks his expression holds steady. He hopes it does, because he can already tell the amount of mock-offense he lets slip so carefully into his voice isn't quite right, comes out a little more like disbelief... But when he remembers how easily Felix had seen through him before and always has, it's surprisingly difficult not to let a bit of that mask fall anyway. "Can't I just want to hang out with my best friend...?"
If... he is still his best friend, is what that sounds like. If he's still as important to Felix as Felix is to him--if he ever was, or ever even could be.
And it's probably that thought, he thinks, that has him stepping away to stand in front of him instead, and rather than let his arm fall he just shifts it around to keep it at Felix's other shoulder, as if that might be enough to keep him there. Because this is... a gamble? This is dangerous, and all-in-all probably a terrible idea, but the thought of Felix thinking he would even look at anyone else while he's with him sends a shock of something a little like panic buzzing all through him, and so:
"No women," he says, and for once his expression is as soft and earnest as his voice. "Seriously. I promise."
[The worst part about knowing someone as long—as well—as Felix has known Sylvain is this: you know when you hurt them. You pick up on the subtlest clues that others would overlook, but you can't, and you know that you've hurt them.
Felix knows he's hurt Sylvain the split-second before Sylvain flinches away, because it's the way Sylvain looks at him? It's something about his eyes, or the area around his eyes, or—look, Felix isn't quite sure, but it's unmistakable all the same; it prompts a sharp stab of guilt, which only intensifies when Sylvain does flinch away, and then continues intensifying with each word Sylvain says. It's almost too much for Felix to bear—but the least he can do, he thinks, is stand here and face the damage he continues to deal to their friendship. He owes Sylvain this much.
Along with... an apology? Perhaps? This is rather like the time he called Sylvain "insatiable," after all; like, even if he doesn't necessarily regret what he said, the look Sylvain is giving him makes him feel as though he should say... something...
The words, however, stick in his throat, as they often do. Partly due to his pride, partly due to the fact that he's so, so bad with knowing exactly what to say and when to say it—but Sylvain comes through for him, as he so often does. Sylvain moves before him, leaving Felix no choice but to tilt his head back to look up at him, and ah, that face. The way his arm sits so perfectly on Felix's shoulder. How close he is! Felix could take one step forward and be pressed flush against him, and that thought prompts yet another stab of guilt. This is his friend. This is his friend, and he hurt him, and he can't stop himself from thinking such selfish thoughts because he wants, he wants, he wants—
He wants so many things, but he forces himself to swallow. To consider Sylvain's words as he studies Sylvain's face.]
I told you, [he begins, quietly—and perhaps a touch uncomfortably? He's never been good with this.] Dimitri is busy.
[Sylvain didn't say anything about Dimitri this time, it's true, but Felix still feels the need to make a point of Dimitri's, ah, unavailability. The selfishness strikes again—and sends his eyes sliding to the side, because how can he look at Sylvain being so, so earnest when he's hiding something from him?]
I am, too, but— [A beat.] ...I can find time. For you. If you mean what you say.
[He knows that Sylvain takes his promises as seriously as he takes his, but! But.]
Felix is uncomfortable, and that's probably the worst part, he thinks.
Sylvain isn't privy to his inner thoughts, of course, because that would make all of this way too easy on them both. But in the same way that Felix can see through him, he knows all the tells that Felix keeps so carefully hidden, knows where to look to find the subtle build of tension, knows to watch where and when his eyes wander, knows how to read all the different creases in his brow. Because Felix, despite how he might try to act nowadays, used to show all kinds of emotion--and Sylvain, always Sylvain, would be there to help him through it.
So it's immediately obvious that Felix is, in fact, uncomfortable... it just isn't immediately obvious why, and Sylvain wants to know that answer almost as badly as he doesn't. There are too many possibilities... Their nearness, maybe...? Can he somehow hear the terrible crashing of Sylvain's heart in his chest? Is it even possible that Felix's might be thundering just as loudly? Or maybe he's thinking of that kiss... and if that's the case, then what is he thinking? Does he regret it?
Does he think Sylvain regrets it?
Maybe this is all just a misunderstanding, he thinks (and wouldn't you know it, the boy's right even if he convinces himself otherwise) but then, maybe 'Dimitri is busy' is supposed to mean 'I'm not comfortable going out with you alone'--and that's a thought that somehow carries a stings worse than anything yet, because hasn't Felix always been the one and only person he's ever felt able to really, truly be himself around? And wouldn't it just make sense that he wouldn't be allowed that last bastion of comfort, in the end...?
After all, he won't even look at him--he's never especially liked eye contact, but this is different--and Sylvain has to consciously stop himself from reaching out to guide Felix's face back towards his own. Even if he could, even if Felix would let him, he isn't sure he would be able to take his hand away, or prevent himself from closing the short distance altogether, and he already feels like he's losing more and more ground with every word he says, but--
--But, Felix says 'For you,' and he thinks the feeling in his chest is a little like the one he'd felt in the moments immediately following their final battle: like breaking the surface just as he's sure he'll drown, a gasp of cool air into burning lungs that had long since written off the hope of filling themselves with anything but the freezing water he'd been lost in.
"I do, Felix." He doesn't think as his hand slips from his friend's shoulder down, until his fingers fold tightly around Felix's own. He ends up with both hands gripping Felix's one, actually--as if it were an irreplaceable treasure, his hold gentle enough not to cause any harm, but tight enough that no one would be able to take it from him. "Not even one, I swear. Just forget about all this for awhile."
[Sylvain already promised; like, he would be well within his rights to be brush Felix aside for questioning his word, but—well. While there is a flash of fear when Sylvain's hand slides from his shoulder, when has Sylvain ever brushed him aside? Never. Sylvain has always, always been there for him—and has always, always made a habit of pushing into Felix's personal bubble, which is why Felix shouldn't be caught off guard by Sylvain taking his hand in his.
But he is. Stupidly so, really, and it's evident in the way he starts ever so slightly before jerking his attention down to their hands. Sylvain is speaking to him so softly, is holding his hand so carefully, and it is both similar to and so different from the way Dimitri holds his hand that he almost, almost, shudders. It's... Felix is not disgusted by Dimitri, but it's...
...It's this: Dimitri cradles his hand and Felix thinks of the many times they held hands as children, thinks of Dima pulling him along on some grand adventure while telling him they'll be together forever and ever; Sylvain cradles his hand and Felix thinks of Sylvain blinking down at him, his face so, so warm beneath Felix's hands as his mouth curves into an honest smile.
He remains as he is for a moment longer, silently soaking in the sight of his hand held so securely in Sylvain's, before his eyes finally flick up to Sylvain's face—and ah, but the pang he feels! A stab of something so sharp in his chest. Longing? Love? Both? It sends his fingers just barely twitching in Sylvain's grasp, a bloom of color appearing high on his cheeks even as he attempts to smooth his surprised expression. Ah, what to say... what do do, when what he wants to do is impossible...
A soft, quiet snort, then. An attempt at cynicism, matched by his choice of words.]
You make it sound so easy.
[There is a trace of... sadness? Is it sadness? Maybe so—and whether that's because Felix is thinking about his inescapable duty or Sylvain's unending thirst, even Felix can't rightly say.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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
Downtime which Sylvain finds he has precious little of, and yet still more than he'd expected to, in the beginning. Because unlike Felix's return to his territory, by the war's end--against all odds and heedless of the wishes of some--Margrave Gautier, the bastard himself, still lives and breathes in this mortal realm. And that's... fine, or about as "fine" as anything in Sylvain's life has ever been, because he doesn't especially want to be in charge of his family's territory, nor does he wish his father any harm, not really. Like, he'd certainly never consider himself unlucky to have not joined those who had lost family to the war? But this isn't a meta analysis on Sylvain's Daddy Issues, so suffice to say: it's complicated, and Sylvain's perspective on everything is as skewed as always, and he's lucky to not have that kind of responsibility thrust upon him literally right after winning a war and having his heart kind-of-sort-of torn out of his chest and stomped on by their benevolent, beloved king. But here's the thing:
With the newfound knowledge that he is, in fact, in love with his best friend--has been in love with his best friend, he thinks, for... some time now?--and that he cannot, in fact, be with his best friend, Sylvain quickly learns that his usual means of Just Forgetting About Stuff... don't work quite as well as they used to. He questions how well they'd worked at all nowadays, but when he goes out on a date during the first week he's home with the hope of quieting his thoughts of Felix and finds that he instead can think of nothing but Felix... when he ignores it and tries to kiss her and not only feels a wave of guilt so strong it makes his stomach turn, but finds himself more distracted by all the ways it isn't like kissing Felix (and, by extension, by how much he prefers kissing Felix)...
...Well. Needless to say, the experience turned him off of that habit, no pun intended. Which means that, for a while, Sylvain spends his days hearing his father speak of arranged marriages and the battle at their northern border--the latter of which he himself begins to bring up more and more throughout that first moon, both because it's his responsibility as the wielder of their family's relic to be aware of the latest reports and to lend aid to their troops, and because it's the only thing he's found that can successfully divert the Margrave's attention away from his inevitable future as a nobleman. And that's fine, for a while! They don't always agree (in fact they never agree, but the Margrave won't dare to openly disregard his son's opinion in strategy meetings, and Sylvain won't dare to openly challenge his father's opinion at home) but things are, again, as fine as ever.
It's sometime towards the end of that first moon, when things take a turn towards not fine. The Margrave's approach to the situation at the border isn't as appreciated by the people of Gautier--or of Faerghus as a whole during this time of relative peace. People speak of stubbornness and selfishness and pride, the reasons they've lost soldiers still now that the war is over, and the Margrave finds his methods of garnering favor by way of politics aren't as effective these days, as Dimitri isn't a king so readily swayed, nor is his advisor so easily fooled.
And his family's home has always been cold, both in present and in memory; it's always felt empty no matter how many people might pile into a room. Ever since he was a kid it had always amazed him when he would visit his friends' homes, that a place could feel so full, even if he was the only one in the room, because the air in his own has always been so silent and tense that it feels like it could shatter with any move or noise too sudden.
But by the end of that week, tensions are so unbearably high that what starts out as a typical discussion turns into a typical argument turns into Sylvain raising his voice against his father and snapping something which, regrettably, he forgets less than a second later when his head catches up to his tongue, and that sacred silence, shattered, drops him into the terrifying nothingness that lies beneath. He doesn't remember much of the conversation after that--remembers the adrenaline and his echo chamber heart more so--but by the end of the first week of the following moon, the Margrave relinquishes his title to his second and only son, and Sylvain finds some humorless relief among the mess he's inherited in that he's finally busy enough to not think about either one of the Incidents.
Which lasts... like, roughly the rest of that second moon? Long enough for the official announcement to reach Fhirdiad (which is ironically about half as long as it takes the official request of audience to reach Gautier) and then long enough for the king's personal letter of congratulations to reach Sylvain's desk, which might seem like a nice gesture if not for the specific inclusion of, Felix sends his regards, as well as the parting line, We wish you safe journey, each letter penned as confidently as his signature below it. And he might not stare at it with such contempt if he'd at least had the decency to let Felix sign his name as well--but then he supposes that would mean Felix had actually read the letter to begin with. Honestly. As if Felix isn't perfectly capable of writing him himself?? As if Dimitri has any right to speak for him...
And if Sylvain spends the better half of the third moon distracted and itching to get on his horse and ride to Fhirdiad on his own right then, wondering why Felix hadn't written him (probably just busy, he tells himself, just as he had been), or if he had told Dimitri to write those things (unlikely?) and just didn't care enough to sign (also unlikely, and really just hurts to think about)... well!! He sure as fucking hell isn't about to say anything about it once he gets there!
Because eventually, after a long, long ride, Sylvain does get there, and his heart and his head and his horse's hooves all keep time with one another as he crosses that last stretch of land to the beat of Felix, Felix, Felix... And when he comes into view of the castle, it's Felix his eyes land on first--and seeing him in person makes him realize all at once exactly how long it's been that they've been apart, and how much has changed between the two of them, and how badly he really, really has missed him. But it's Dimitri he levels his stare at as he nears, standing so comfortably at his side, and he swears Dimitri does it on purpose, because when he comes to a stop, their old friend shifts his weight ever so subtly nearer to Felix, eye on Sylvain or maybe on his horse all the while. And despite it all, it's Dimitri who steps forward to greet him once he's back on solid ground with a too-tight hug he can't blame on anything but Dimitri being himself, which would be fine if it wasn't so blatantly tonedeaf to the whorl of emotions building in his chest that he kind of wishes he could shove him right off, and it almost overrides how glad he somehow still is to see the man again after so long.
And that's all complicated and uncomfortable, but what's even more complicated and uncomfortable is the fact that, when he's finally freed from the veritable fucking beartrap that is Dimitri's arms and steps around him to go to Felix, he gets, like... no significant reaction? He doesn't look up at him with the kind of relief and comfort and joy that he feels when he looks at him, doesn't reach for him, hardly even says anything beyond what's polite and expected between two people with their status--maybe a fraction warmer, but still cold, and in the shock of it, he doesn't even question why or push for more before Felix disappears altogether, and then it's just Dimitri, his hand a gentle but insistent and irresistable pressure at his back as he forces him forward, apologizing for him with a sigh that's too damn fond to do anything but annoy him as Sylvain fights back the urge to tell him to speak to him for Felix just one more time so he has the excuse to let himself invite the man to spar.
You know. For old time's sake! Because even though he hasn't been keeping up with his training as of late--he hasn't the time, nor the reason now that he's attained some semblance of a ceasefire with Sreng, still shaky and uncertain like a newborn foal learning to stand on its own legs for the very first time--he could really, really use the excuse to take a few swings at the guy.
The worst part of it all though is that, no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get a moment alone with Felix, or even just with Felix, like, as a concept regardless of company. And after a while, he can't help but wonder if he could be avoiding him...? If Felix heard of his visit and didn't look forward to it--not as a friend, not as... whatever they are, or were, or could be--but rather resigned himself to it as an inevitability, like any other task on his agenda, and... mm, that one hurts, he thinks.
That thought makes him feel even sicker than when he'd spoken against his father, makes the same sort of fear curl its cold, empty hands in his chest, because... what would he do without this? What would he do without Felix, if he somehow managed to ruin the only, only good thing he has, and for what...? The kiss? Felix had been the one to kiss him, yes, but they had both been drinking; he'd held his own perhaps a little too well, but then he supposes that doesn't rule out the possibility that Felix hadn't been aware of what he'd done until after the fact... And if he'd somehow hurt him, or taken advantage, Sylvain knows he would never forgive himself, but Felix-- Felix had kissed him first, and Felix had kissed him back...
(And hadn't he looked like he could cry, in that quiet moment before they'd been interrupted?)
...He just needs to ask, which is the correct choice, but when he finally catches Felix in the courtyard and nearly fucking jogs up to him for the sake of not losing him again, he realizes he isn't alone, and--
He can't quite hear everything Dimitri says from where he is, and frankly, he isn't sure he wants to. But he hears enough, sees the way his hand is held between Dimitri's own--and he can't stand it? It sends a white hot flash of something in him, even as it claws at his heart in just the worst of ways, and Felix--his Felix, some part of him cries, who isn't really his at all--has hardly said a word to him since he'd arrived after so, so long, but he still stands here for him, to hear all the selfish praise he can think to offer.
The only thing that keeps him from making a damn fool of himself is the fact that, although he can't see Felix's face from here, he can see Dimitri's. And it's a subtle thing, he thinks, something he might not even notice if he didn't know what to look for, but while Dimitri's voice doesn't waver, Sylvain can see the silent desperation behind that look and in the slight tilt of his brow, as if he might force his words through whatever invisible barrier Felix has put up between them. The honesty in his voice is almost sad, which means that, although Felix isn't pulling away, he... probably isn't encouraging him, either?
And that's almost more irritating, actually--but Sylvain manages to drag himself away from the scene, tries not to think about it in the same way he tries not to think about most things that make him feel so strongly, and he knows the only reason he gets any sleep is the fact he's still fatigued from travel.
So... you know. Sylvain is decidedly not a morning person? Never has been, never will be, and yet here he is, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed!! Or at least his expression brightens when he catches Felix walking up out of the corner of his eye, even if he has no tail and is, in fact, suspended largely by the weight of his ever-increasing number of insecurities and the desperate need for them to Please Stop, Maybe.
"Felix!"
He has to physically suppress the wince when he hears himself. He sounds like the damn vocal impression of a dog seeing its owner for the first time in months, something stuck directly between relief and joy, and really, it's a good thing Sylvain isn't the type to get embarrassed so easily, but it still doesn't sound, like... cool? At all.
"Ah... yeah," he admits, because the best way to handle this... is to be direct, right? Only, like... indirectly direct. If he acts like everything is fine, then Felix should do the same, or at least that's the working theory. "I wanted to catch you before you got stuck in meetings all day, since apparently you still don't know how to take a break. I feel like we barely saw each other yesterday!"
He looks like he's trying to decide whether he wants to keep speaking for a moment, but then he sort of laughs and adds, a bit sheepishly:
"I was starting to think you were avoiding me, or something."
So like... hey!! Don't do that??
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And how Sylvain smiled afterward, genuinely, but that— what if it was— well. Felix in the midst of battle is so sure of himself; Felix in the midst of... this questions every move, every thought, and thus he decides the best tactic is the simplest one: ignore it. Let it go. Pretend as though he hasn't thought of that brief kiss every night for the past three moons, because if Sylvain doesn't bring it up, then surely Sylvain doesn't want to talk about it—and Felix can't risk losing whatever they have left.
...Anyway. Stuff to shove to the back of his mind as he does his best to focus on the here and now. The familiar rise and fall of Sylvain's voice.]
Don't be ridiculous, [he retorts, unable to keep his eyes from sliding to the side. There's a portrait of some Blaiddyd ancestor on the wall; it's easier to study that than study Sylvain.] I keep a busy schedule. That's all.
[Which is both true and, mmm... not? Not entirely. Some of yesterday's meetings could have been postponed, thanks to a very important arrival, but here is the truth: it was easier to snap and snarl at others than tiptoe around Sylvain.
Which is, of course, something Felix isn't eager to admit, so. On to the next thing.]
...But I suppose congratulations are in order. [A beat, and then, as Felix shifts his attention back to Sylvain at last:] Margrave.
[He knows how Sylvain feels about his father; he also knows the weight a title brings, and so his serious expression doesn't even flicker.]
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It's a combination of that, as well as the fact that hearing Felix being... well, Felix, after so long away and with their last encounter plaguing the forefront of his mind whenever he thought of him, that finally sets him more at ease... It feels more like coming home than when he'd returned to his own, and much, much warmer than the clipped words he'd been offered the day prior, and already he feels like he can breathe easier, as some of the icy daggers in his chest begin to melt.
He wonders: is the look in his eye is as fragile, as hopeful as the one he'd seen in Dimitri's? As if even the smallest fragment of attention willingly given is the greatest gift he's received--and for a moment, he's glad Felix isn't looking at him, for fear that he might learn what that hidden expression might have been.
Which... actually works in his favor, because Felix's next choice in topic is, uhh, probably the best thing to knock all that emotion from his face? Instead, he gives Felix a Look that more or less embodies the words:
"Please, don't call me that..."
Like, it's... one thing, he supposes, to inherit the title for formality's sake? To think of himself as a Margrave, no matter how he may tug at the stiff collar of stuffy responsibility it brings along with it, and to accept the role and all that comes with it in hopes of building a better future for his people. But it's another thing entirely to hear it in reference to anyone but his father, let alone himself--not just a Margrave, like he was never just a Gautier heir, but the Margrave Gautier, which is LIKE a Margrave, only worse because it drops all the weight that comes with it over the shoulders of a good-for-nothing, and you know? The best way to deal with stress is to compartmentalize everything and just pretend the stressful parts don't exist: The Gautier Way.
But more than any of that, he just doesn't like the twinge of distaste at hearing Felix regard him with such a formal title, no matter how fleetingly. It... will take some getting used to, for the sake of maintaining some form of professionalism... Although it'll probably also be difficult for Felix to claim professionalism to begin with, when Sylvain decides to close the distance between them and swing an arm around his shoulders, pretending for all he's worth like the act of casual intimacy isn't enough to make his heart race.
"I mean, I'm still me." If his laugh is just a little bit breathless... well, he doesn't actually know what he can blame it on, but he can figure it out as he goes. "But if you really want to congratulate me... come out with me later? We can go out for drinks. My treat," he adds, and then winks, because of course he does. "You can have whatever you want."
Like... for drinks, obviously!! Or food... Gosh.
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Answer: Yes. Yes, yes, yes, but before he can so much as think to say anything about it—oh! Oh. Sylvain, in typical Sylvain fashion, breezes right into his personal space, throws an arm over his shoulders like it belongs there—and it does, in a way. There is comfort to be found in this familiar gesture, even if it does send warmth creeping up the back of his neck as he's pulled so, so close to Sylvain's side while Sylvain offers him... whatever he wants. Huh. That is a (jokingly, he assumes) loaded offer if Felix has ever heard one, and the fact that he's suddenly struck with many things he wants sends his hackles raising.
(And could he handle seeing Sylvain flirt every pretty face he sees? Could his heart stand it?)]
You're still a fool, [is Felix's acidic response as he shoots Sylvain a Look—but does not pull away, because he's selfish, so selfish.] I don't have time for such nonsense. There's always something to be done.
[Always more reports to be read, or discussions to be had. Felix's life in Fhirdiad is indeed busy, especially when one considers the king he both is and is not responsible for. Would Dimitri remember to eat, to sleep, to take care of himself, were Felix not right there by his side? Most days, perhaps, but some days...
...Well. Felix huffs, annoyed at Dimitri—and annoyed at himself for being annoyed at Dimitri. It's a strange balance they've struck.]
And I can hardly leave Dimitri unattended.
[Dimitri. Felix had begun using Dimitri's name during the last few weeks of the war, but it was rare, reluctant; now, however, it slips out as easily as anything, and even the trace of resentment in his tone can't cover up that fact.]
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And in reality, it's little more than a second, but in that moment it feels like forever as he struggles to keep his expression from falling the way it wants to. He could handle Felix saying no? But this is...
But Dimitri, is...
Dimitri, not boar, not His Majesty, but Dimitri, Dimitri, Dimitri--and he can feel that name ricochet through his skull, the way every syllable sounds like a thousand knives. Has he always hated his friend's name so much...? Has he ever hated a name more than he does now, and why must it always, always be Dimitri...?
Because isn't it always Dimitri! Hasn't it always been, and isn't it, somehow, even still?
Even if it's Sylvain who sat with a crying Felix, just minutes after Dimitri's family had left for Fhirdiad. Ingrid had gone to tag along after Glenn, while Felix, precious Felix, had been left with Sylvain, and he'd hugged him until the tears slowed enough for him to ask if he still wanted to play. He hadn't expected the question to invite those watery eyes once more, because they had only been play fighting--but he and Dimitri had been playing pretend--playing the parts of Kyphon and Loog from the stories they'd been read. And Sylvain had offered to play that with him, too, but as Felix rubbed his eyes red he'd made a face and told him he would have to pick someone else, because he couldn't be Loog if Dima was Loog, and Sylvain hadn't known why those words hurt the way they did, but he'd played Pan (because fuck off Intsys) and Felix had been happy and back then that had been enough.
Even if it's Sylvain who snuck dango from the dining hall into the Cathedral (which people were weirdly still touchy about even when the whole place was in shambles, which... okay), where Felix stood vigil for their friend and watched as he was consumed by his own demons. Dimitri had come back from the dead, in a sense, but the man returned to them hadn't been the same as the one they'd lost--and none of them had felt that loss so keenly as Felix. And Sylvain knew; Sylvain understood, or at least he'd thought he did, then. So when the Cathedral was all shadows and echoed steps and the terrible, endless suffering of what was once their friend, Sylvain had found the shape of Felix haloed by sunset and offered to share in something they both enjoyed, both so he could rest easy knowing Felix had actually eaten something proper, and to catch those rare occasions when the light returned to his eyes, before they could flicker back to the shape of Dimitri and have it stolen away again.
And it's never really been so obvious as it is now, he thinks, because for as many looks as Dimitri might give, as many words of reparation offered, Felix has always met it with indifference, or disgust, or irritation. Distanced himself with names that weren't his, words lined with barbs and intended to hurt, but now--
--Now, Felix says Dimitri, and that distance isn't there anymore. And going by his tone, he doesn't want it there, because while he's never sounded especially excited about Sylvain's invitations, Sylvain can't recall ever hearing this kind of irritation in his tone before, as if the mere thought of leaving Dimitri behind is absurd, as if Sylvain's the fool for ever thinking he would rather go out with him than leave Dimitri behind, and that... hurts? That stings like loss; it burns like a betrayal. And he has no right to demand that Felix leave him, no right to Felix at all, and yet, genius that he is, he blurts out--
"He can come along, too!"
--as if the words don't tear his throat on their way up, and when he laughs this time, it tastes like glass.
"I mean, why not, right...? We're all friends. I'm sure His Majesty could use the break as much as you could--and I, for one," he lies, cooly, "would be honored to have the two most important men in Faerghus as my dates for the night."
Hm. Gross!
If he's lucky though, Dimitri will be dumb enough to encourage Felix to go on without him, and Felix will be convinced enough to listen, and Sylvain... Sylvain will be selfish enough to do whatever it takes to steal him back to his side, where he belongs and should always be. He tightens his arm around Felix's shoulders then, and tilts his head, meeting his eye with a smaller sort of smile on his lips.
"You can forget about responsibility for one night, Felix." His voice has quieted, too, and he thinks it must sound a little like please and a lot like I need you because both thoughts are running circuits through his head like a mantra. "Come on... For me...?"
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Sylvain is his friend, too, and yet Sylvain burns in a way that Dimitri doesn't. It's almost too much, really; Felix is tempted to turn, to press himself into Sylvain's chest and inhale the familiar scent of him—but that's so much, that's too much, that sends new warmth rushing to his face even as Sylvain suggesting they invite Dimitri is the same as Sylvain dumping a bucket of ice-cold water over Felix's head. He stiffens, so fundamentally opposed to the idea that he can't even bring himself to say anything as Sylvain continues. It's just? It's so?
It's this: Felix has given Dimitri so much of himself over the years. Felix would give it all over again, in a heartbeat, because Dimitri is tied to him so tightly—but Sylvain is his. Sylvain has always been his, and the thought of giving away this last part of him—such an important part of him—is impossible to accept. He won't! He refuses—and as Sylvain's arm tightens around him, his stubbornness is bolstered by the sudden certainty that he can't.]
Do you honestly believe the Savior King can walk freely around Fhirdiad? [he asks, tone icy—and steady, thank the goddess his voice is so steady.] The entire city would flock to his side. And he's busy.
[Felix will see to it. Personally. So help him, but Dimitri is going to spend every night locked in his study, sitting right by Felix's side as they sort through mountain after mountain of paperwork, because Felix—Felix can't take the thought of Dimitri pulling Sylvain any further away than Sylvain already is. Felix can live with the damage he's caused; he can't live with whatever damage Dimitri deals.
...Ah. The damage he did indeed cause, the last time they met. He feels something twist deep, deep within him, and the only thing he can think to do is shoot Sylvain a Look, like this is all Sylvain's fault. He hates this.]
Why can't you forget about chasing women for one night, Sylvain?
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But that ice hurts, that look hurts, and although Sylvain is so good at deflecting the blows that Felix's words try so hard to deal--the best at it, really--those words in particular pack enough of a punch that even he flinches back a bit. That arm over his shoulder falls slack, nearly falls off completely, and Sylvain can feel the exact moment the weight of the smile on his face falls to him to keep up to hide the damage done.
He'd almost forgotten, really? Or rather, he hadn't forgotten; he just hadn't thought about it for well over a moon by now, uninterested as he's become in flirting around ever since he'd put a name to that frantic feeling in his chest whenever Felix is around. He hasn't been on a date since that first week after his return, hasn't wanted anyone who wasn't Felix in his arms let alone his bed--and so this brutal reminder... well, it startles him, in a way.
It's... fine! It is, because he's nothing if not good at acting like he isn't hurt by something, after all, even when it feels like it's punched a hole straight through his chest.
"Who said anything about that?" he asks, and he thinks his expression holds steady. He hopes it does, because he can already tell the amount of mock-offense he lets slip so carefully into his voice isn't quite right, comes out a little more like disbelief... But when he remembers how easily Felix had seen through him before and always has, it's surprisingly difficult not to let a bit of that mask fall anyway. "Can't I just want to hang out with my best friend...?"
If... he is still his best friend, is what that sounds like. If he's still as important to Felix as Felix is to him--if he ever was, or ever even could be.
And it's probably that thought, he thinks, that has him stepping away to stand in front of him instead, and rather than let his arm fall he just shifts it around to keep it at Felix's other shoulder, as if that might be enough to keep him there. Because this is... a gamble? This is dangerous, and all-in-all probably a terrible idea, but the thought of Felix thinking he would even look at anyone else while he's with him sends a shock of something a little like panic buzzing all through him, and so:
"No women," he says, and for once his expression is as soft and earnest as his voice. "Seriously. I promise."
And he doesn't go back on his promises!
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Felix knows he's hurt Sylvain the split-second before Sylvain flinches away, because it's the way Sylvain looks at him? It's something about his eyes, or the area around his eyes, or—look, Felix isn't quite sure, but it's unmistakable all the same; it prompts a sharp stab of guilt, which only intensifies when Sylvain does flinch away, and then continues intensifying with each word Sylvain says. It's almost too much for Felix to bear—but the least he can do, he thinks, is stand here and face the damage he continues to deal to their friendship. He owes Sylvain this much.
Along with... an apology? Perhaps? This is rather like the time he called Sylvain "insatiable," after all; like, even if he doesn't necessarily regret what he said, the look Sylvain is giving him makes him feel as though he should say... something...
The words, however, stick in his throat, as they often do. Partly due to his pride, partly due to the fact that he's so, so bad with knowing exactly what to say and when to say it—but Sylvain comes through for him, as he so often does. Sylvain moves before him, leaving Felix no choice but to tilt his head back to look up at him, and ah, that face. The way his arm sits so perfectly on Felix's shoulder. How close he is! Felix could take one step forward and be pressed flush against him, and that thought prompts yet another stab of guilt. This is his friend. This is his friend, and he hurt him, and he can't stop himself from thinking such selfish thoughts because he wants, he wants, he wants—
He wants so many things, but he forces himself to swallow. To consider Sylvain's words as he studies Sylvain's face.]
I told you, [he begins, quietly—and perhaps a touch uncomfortably? He's never been good with this.] Dimitri is busy.
[Sylvain didn't say anything about Dimitri this time, it's true, but Felix still feels the need to make a point of Dimitri's, ah, unavailability. The selfishness strikes again—and sends his eyes sliding to the side, because how can he look at Sylvain being so, so earnest when he's hiding something from him?]
I am, too, but— [A beat.] ...I can find time. For you. If you mean what you say.
[He knows that Sylvain takes his promises as seriously as he takes his, but! But.]
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Sylvain isn't privy to his inner thoughts, of course, because that would make all of this way too easy on them both. But in the same way that Felix can see through him, he knows all the tells that Felix keeps so carefully hidden, knows where to look to find the subtle build of tension, knows to watch where and when his eyes wander, knows how to read all the different creases in his brow. Because Felix, despite how he might try to act nowadays, used to show all kinds of emotion--and Sylvain, always Sylvain, would be there to help him through it.
So it's immediately obvious that Felix is, in fact, uncomfortable... it just isn't immediately obvious why, and Sylvain wants to know that answer almost as badly as he doesn't. There are too many possibilities... Their nearness, maybe...? Can he somehow hear the terrible crashing of Sylvain's heart in his chest? Is it even possible that Felix's might be thundering just as loudly? Or maybe he's thinking of that kiss... and if that's the case, then what is he thinking? Does he regret it?
Does he think Sylvain regrets it?
Maybe this is all just a misunderstanding, he thinks (and wouldn't you know it, the boy's right even if he convinces himself otherwise) but then, maybe 'Dimitri is busy' is supposed to mean 'I'm not comfortable going out with you alone'--and that's a thought that somehow carries a stings worse than anything yet, because hasn't Felix always been the one and only person he's ever felt able to really, truly be himself around? And wouldn't it just make sense that he wouldn't be allowed that last bastion of comfort, in the end...?
After all, he won't even look at him--he's never especially liked eye contact, but this is different--and Sylvain has to consciously stop himself from reaching out to guide Felix's face back towards his own. Even if he could, even if Felix would let him, he isn't sure he would be able to take his hand away, or prevent himself from closing the short distance altogether, and he already feels like he's losing more and more ground with every word he says, but--
--But, Felix says 'For you,' and he thinks the feeling in his chest is a little like the one he'd felt in the moments immediately following their final battle: like breaking the surface just as he's sure he'll drown, a gasp of cool air into burning lungs that had long since written off the hope of filling themselves with anything but the freezing water he'd been lost in.
"I do, Felix." He doesn't think as his hand slips from his friend's shoulder down, until his fingers fold tightly around Felix's own. He ends up with both hands gripping Felix's one, actually--as if it were an irreplaceable treasure, his hold gentle enough not to cause any harm, but tight enough that no one would be able to take it from him. "Not even one, I swear. Just forget about all this for awhile."
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But he is. Stupidly so, really, and it's evident in the way he starts ever so slightly before jerking his attention down to their hands. Sylvain is speaking to him so softly, is holding his hand so carefully, and it is both similar to and so different from the way Dimitri holds his hand that he almost, almost, shudders. It's... Felix is not disgusted by Dimitri, but it's...
...It's this: Dimitri cradles his hand and Felix thinks of the many times they held hands as children, thinks of Dima pulling him along on some grand adventure while telling him they'll be together forever and ever; Sylvain cradles his hand and Felix thinks of Sylvain blinking down at him, his face so, so warm beneath Felix's hands as his mouth curves into an honest smile.
He remains as he is for a moment longer, silently soaking in the sight of his hand held so securely in Sylvain's, before his eyes finally flick up to Sylvain's face—and ah, but the pang he feels! A stab of something so sharp in his chest. Longing? Love? Both? It sends his fingers just barely twitching in Sylvain's grasp, a bloom of color appearing high on his cheeks even as he attempts to smooth his surprised expression. Ah, what to say... what do do, when what he wants to do is impossible...
A soft, quiet snort, then. An attempt at cynicism, matched by his choice of words.]
You make it sound so easy.
[There is a trace of... sadness? Is it sadness? Maybe so—and whether that's because Felix is thinking about his inescapable duty or Sylvain's unending thirst, even Felix can't rightly say.]
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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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