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.]
Sometimes... Sylvain catches himself saying something he probably shouldn't? Normally it happens around whoever the worst person to hear That Particular Thing may be, and Sylvain isn't an especially religious man? There aren't many superstitions he minds often, but this, he figures, is probably some sort of karmic comeuppance for the fact he says so many things he shouldn't to begin with.
Less often, he catches himself doing something he probably shouldn't, or at least it's less often if you disregard all the things he's done that no one should probably do. But in this particular instance, Sylvain catches himself doing something that, in the grand scheme of things is completely and utterly inconsequential in every conceivable way, and yet still manages to fall squarely in the 'oh, maybe this was a bad move' zone of the 'how badly can this decision backfire' chart. Or, more specifically: Sylvain doesn't catch himself so much as he does catch Felix as he looks so sharply down to their hands that it takes Sylvain a second to realize what he's looking at at all.
And then he does, and he wills himself to please, for the love of the goddess, act normal and not think about the fact that he's--
...Ah. He's not pulling away.
It's impossible not to think of the courtyard, the day prior. He hadn't been able to see Felix's expression, but he'd seen Dimitri's--and there's no way this is the view he'd had, Sylvain thinks, because if it had been, he wouldn't have been able to say even half the things he did. He would have been struck as uselessly silent as Sylvain is now, lips parted on a silent inhale of breath as Felix looks up at him with those wide, warm eyes. He watches as the color spills over his face, watches him part his lips to speak, and for just a moment, the words that come out mean absolutely nothing because the only one that Sylvain thinks is beautiful.
He'd wanted to kiss him that day at the training grounds, just as he'd wanted to kiss him that evening after their victory and every day since. He'd thought he'd already learned, then, how much he could possibly want, and yet looking down at Felix now, Sylvain somehow comes to the unshakable conclusion that he's never--never--wanted to kiss him more... He can feel the moment his hold on Felix's hand tightens, grounding himself as much as he is savoring the fact that he's been given this allowance to begin with.
...But, though it leaves a real, physical ache in his chest, he breathes out half the breath he's been holding, then lets the rest out on a quiet chuckle. He... can salvage this?? He can salvage this, just watch, he's great at charming his way out of sticky situations; he can compose himself enough to steadily lift Felix's hand to his chest which... ah, might actually be his first mistake?
Because, you see: Sylvain lifts Felix's hand, and he really doesn't mean for it to be anything but a lighthearted attempt to get Felix to... relax? To smile at him, if he's lucky, or to shove him away more than likely, but whatever the case, he just wants Felix to look at him like he's him again, instead of someone he feels the need to keep his guard around.
Instead, Sylvain lowers himself the rest of the way and says, "Why shouldn't it be?" hardly an inch away from skin, and it comes out quiet and serious without the slightest hint of teasing, even with his small, reassuring smile. So he startles himself, then, when the kiss he ghosts over those knuckles less than a beat later ALSO winds up like, ten shades more serious than he'd intended; his eyes flick back up, maybe a little too quick??
He's... you know. He's fine! He's just going to Not Move while he gauges Felix's reaction... Surely it's not good for his heart to keep beating so wildly every time he's around him like this??
[Sylvain's charisma is undeniable. Felix has seen his friend charm countless women, countless people, with astonishing ease, but he's always thought himself... immune. It's impossible for Sylvain to overwhelm him, because he knows Sylvain better than anyone.
But as he dazedly watches Sylvain lift his hand—oh. Oh. There are moments in battle when time seems to slow to a crawl? Strike-or-die moments—and as Sylvain inclines his head, warm breath puffing over the strangely sensitive skin of Felix's hand as he speaks, this certainly feels like one of them. This feels deadly.
And yet Felix doesn't—can't—pull away, even when the sensation of Sylvain's lips just barely grazing along his knuckles sends him sucking in an embarrassingly audible breath. This is nothing. This is a tease, a prank this incorrigible flirt has pulled on countless people throughout the years, but it still strikes Felix so incredibly deeply when Sylvain's eyes meet his. It's as though all the air has been sucked out of this tiny room, and Felix is dizzy, drowning, suddenly desperate for anything this man is willing to give him.]
Sylvain—
[The name slips from his lips, unbidden, and he instantly hates how vulnerable, how wounded, he sounds? It's so patently un-Felix-y that he freezes, unwilling to say anything more—and that, perhaps, is a good thing, because it gives him just enough time to register the sound of unfamiliar voices approaching before the door behind Sylvain is thrown open.
Ah.
Time begins to flow, then, as nobles push past them, and Felix finally finds the strength to slip his hand free as his eyes slip away from Sylvain's. It's—there's business to attend to, now. He can't focus on this, whatever this is, and so he drops his hand—burning, burning, burning—to his side before wordlessly moving into the mostly emptied room. Dimitri is there, sitting at the head of the table and frowning down at the mess of parchment laid out before him, and for once Felix is grateful for his duty. It's easy, really, to make his way to Dimitri's side and lose himself in fussing, in organizing, in doing what he's supposed to do as opposed to watching Sylvain's every move.
It's, mmm, less easy to avoid watching Sylvain once the meeting begins. Sylvain has always been an expressive speaker, knowing when and how to use his hands to better make a point, and Felix focuses on them, keenly aware of just how they felt wrapped around his own. It's unbearable. It's infuriating, which is perhaps why Felix is testier than normal, scowling and snapping at anyone who dares to address him.
So! The meeting goes super well, and that's a trend for the remainder of the day. Lunch with Dimitri goes super well, especially once Felix informs him that, no, he will not be attending their nightly tea party; meetings with various nobles go super well, all while Felix does his best to not think about the confused look on Dimitri's stupid face; following Sylvain to some crowded tavern goes super well, because Felix, awkward Felix, has no idea what to say to the man who sees fit to toy with his heart time and time again.
Alcohol, however, has a way of making even the most difficult things... easier? Somehow? The first drink loosens Felix's tongue; the second drink allows him to laugh at one of Sylvain's tasteless jokes; the third drink grants him the courage to speak to Sylvain as freely as he did during the war; the fourth drink—
...Well. Okay. The fourth drink sends him (reluctantly) clutching Sylvain's arm as the world spins around him, because he's always been a bit of a lightweight. Something, something, it isn't fair that Sylvain can drink him under the table because there so much more of him—but it's fine. It's all fine. Sylvain holds him steady, talks about who knows what as they make their way back to the castle, and Felix tracks the rise and fall of that familiar voice while he allows himself to be steered right along. He is... warm, both in the sense that alcohol chases the cold away and that Sylvain's presence is so incredibly comforting. What happened earlier in the day, what happened three moons ago—does anything but this matter? The way Sylvain accepts him so easily, even after the many times he's left him standing somewhere without offering so much as a single word?
Hmm. He can't help but to turn that over in his mind as they walk—and continue turning it over in his mind as they slip in some side entrance, stomping snow from their boots as half-frozen fingers work to unfasten their cloaks. An impossible task, when all of Felix's brainpower is devoted to one thing, one person, whose name he unknowingly sighs when his fingers fail to do what they're supposed to. Help him...]
How many times can I include the fact that Sylvain Hates Society in one thread?
It's as alarming as it is... mmm, interesting...? Maybe even exciting, in a way, to realize that there are still facets to Felix that even he is unaware of; the two of them may be closer than anyone, may know each other better than anyone, and yet even still there are parts to him that Sylvain has yet to discover. And suddenly he's a kid again, trying to figure out the best way to get people to smile at him in that way he's already learned is only ever temporary, and never comes freely, and Felix is offering him one so pure that he feels his own lighten, too--and he doesn't think of ways to get more smiles just like it from him, but rather what he would give to make sure this one never goes away.
Felix isn't smiling this time, perhaps, but the expression on his face is one that Sylvain hasn't seen before--not really, not like this--and when he says his name in that tone, it strikes at some half-starved part of him that aches in his chest and spills heat in his veins as he swallows, 'I'm here,' and wonders how his name would sound just a little more wild, a little more desperate, a little more breathless...
...Which is, like, a decidedly fucking terrible thought to get jolted out of, but the disruption comes as suddenly as a bucket of ice water over his head, and does just about as well to shock him back into reality, too. Meetings!! Right... Responsibilities, and politics, and all of those things that he'd never seen in his future, but then he supposes he hadn't seen much of a future for himself back then, anyway.
He wills himself to follow Felix in and tries to ignore his racing pulse, tries to ignore the way Dimitri's eye brightens once Felix finally settles at his side, tries to ignore the fact that the seat his title affords him is near enough to the king's (and therefore his advisor's) that he actually has to glance through some of his own reports to follow his own train of thought once or twice, when he can practically feel Felix's eyes on him and he has to force himself to stay focused. He supposes he's lucky that it can be written off as the nerves that come with his newness of his title--although that does also mean there's like, an entire throng of those who had worked with his father who suddenly rush to his side once the meeting ends, before he can even see where Felix has gone to. They make offers and suggestions that he doesn't want and hardly hears; they smile at him when he says the right thing, tut at him when he doesn't.
He finally frees himself when one of the lower ranking nobles sees fit to oh-so-cleverly mention that he'd brought his daughter to the capitol with him, which results a series of events exactly as awkward as you would expect: someone snorts; someone laughs; someone jokes under their breath that he'd have better luck convincing that Duke Fraldarius to whisper sweet nothings in her ear than he would convincing this Gautier to do anything but break her heart, which someone follows less under their breath with a scathing, "Or a bastard child," which is only almost too much until they add, "Better hope it has a Crest, or it won't be worth the trouble," which is.
He thinks he excuses himself with something along the lines of, "I'm actually already meeting someone tonight," in favor of the slew of insults that come to mind, if only for the sake of not inviting further scandal to add to his reputation.
So it's... nice, honestly, once the day winds to a close and he finally finds himself walking beside Felix. It's quiet, or it isn't, whenever some odd topic or question crosses his mind, but most of all it's comfortable, in a way that he never once questions how little his friend has to say.
He does, however, question how much his friend has to drink... Like, Felix is a grown man? He is perfectly capable of making his own decisions and taking control of his own life, and Sylvain trusts himself better than anyone to make sure that he gets home safely, but as much as he enjoys Felix's company, and Felix's laugh, and Felix's voice, and Felix so openly relying on him... well!! Well. The walk back to the castle is a test of wills, in its own right. Not because he wants to kiss him (although he definitely does want to kiss him) or because being pressed together this close, this warm, makes him wonder what it would feel like if they were pressed skin to skin (although he does find his mind wandering to that more and more, the more they're together like this) but rather because he is completely, stupidly endeared. The way Felix clings to him, soft and untroubled, as if there's no one else he could possibly trust more--it makes it so, so difficult not to say anything that might ruin this?
And it's even more difficult when he hears his name as he slides his own cloak from his shoulders, only to turn to... this!! Goddess above.
"Here," he chuckles, folding his cloak over an arm so he can turn to face Felix properly, gingerly (lovingly, he thinks, and it's a thought as vaguely hazy as it is warm, filling his chest and softening his expression) taking his hands in his own to pull them down. He makes the mistake of glancing up to Felix's face before he lets them go--takes a breath that's just a bit too sharp, before he lifts one hand to carefully, carefully tilt Felix's chin up--but he somehow convinces himself to bring both back to undo the fastening properly, slipping it from around Felix's shoulders and hesitating for only half a second before he folds it over his own and leaves them together once he sets them on like, ye olde coatracke or whatever. "...Do you think you can make it to your room...?"
A loaded question, honestly. But what may be more loaded is the way he too-boldly brushes some of Felix's hair the wind had loosened back behind an ear when he asks.
[Felix is drunk, yes—but just barely, after their walk? The sleepiness swiftly setting in lets him know that the night's high point is long behind him, which is both good and bad, really. Good because he's still tipsy enough to not mind Sylvain's chuckle at his expense; bad because he's, mmm, just sober enough to realize how pathetic he's being, asking Sylvain for help with something as simple as removing his cloak. Sylvain takes his hands in his, so gently, and it's like Felix is a child all over again, clinging to his older friend when everyone else has left the crybaby to fend for himself.
The key difference, however, is this: Sylvain slips a hand under his chin, tilts his head back, and Felix finds himself instinctively parting his lips as he waits for a kiss that doesn't come. And why would it? Friends, as far as Felix can tell, don't kiss other friends, especially not when one of them is too soused to unfasten their cloak. Stupid! He's not even sure why he allowed himself to drink so much in the first place. Was talking to Sylvain so awkward... was he hoping that a bit of liquid courage would help him make his second drunken blunder...
...Whatever. He closes his eyes as Sylvain slips his cloak from his shoulders, swaying forward ever so slightly—but he's still standing when he feels familiar fingers fuss with a few errant strands of hair, and he unconsciously tilts his head into the touch even as he huffs out a breath.]
Obviously, [he mutters, eyes cracking open just enough for him to blearily blink up at the man before him.] I made it here.
[Only because Sylvain was with him every step of the way—and when is Sylvain not? His reckless, idiotic, perfect best friend, who happens to be so handsome it hurts, and yet Felix can't bring himself to look away. His chest feels so incredibly tight; his mouth feels so incredibly dry; Sylvain's hand feels feels so incredibly warm, and that's what he chooses to focus on as he allows a strangely comfortable beat to pass.]
...Sylvain?
[Softly, so softly, with a hint of uncertainty that's soon echoed in his expression.]
Sylvain: I'm not saying that I would willingly beat the shit out of every noble in Faerghus, but
Does Sylvain expect Felix to lean into his hand like this...? No. But does he keep his hand close, like an offering, only to be pleasantly surprised when he does? Maybe so. Regardless, his chest floods with warmth when Felix's eyes meet his.
"You did," he agrees, quiet enough that the incredible fondness in his voice doesn't reach any farther than the small space between them.
...And that space stays small, even still, the same way Felix has yet to do anything but accept him and his every selfish whim. He wants to wrap his other arm around him, he thinks--wonders if he could get away with pulling him flush against his chest, bury his face in his hair, just once; wonders if he would be satisfied with once, or if he could ever bear to let him go again at all. It's all a very, very slippery slope...
Especially when Felix says his name like that, and he's hit with a wave of longing that aches, and aches, and aches. He doesn't dare act on it; instead, he uses it to brace himself against whatever heartbreaking thing might follow as he responds, quieter still:
"...Yeah?"
felix cheers him on from the sidelines--jk felix is right there with him
[Friends don't kiss friends, as has been previously established—but by the Goddess, Felix wants to. Sylvain looks at him, as patient as ever, and Felix wants nothing more than to pull him down for a second time, to crash their lips together as he tangles fingers so tightly in that messy red hair that Sylvain has no choice but to press closer, closer—
But that is shamefully selfish, isn't it? Doubly so, after the way he's worked to keep Sylvain at an arm's length ever since Sylvain arrived in Fhirdiad... and so he sighs. Considers, briefly, closing his eyes and enjoying things as they currently are, before he decides it's better to take half a step forward and press his forehead against the taller man's chest. Funny, how he used to hate the difference between their heights; now it's more of a blessing than anything, allowing him to hide his face from view as he brings both hands up, fingers curling into the front of Sylvain's shirt. How many times did he do this when he was a child...
...Hmm. Too many to count, really, which is a thought that sends him squeezing his eyes shut.]
When you arrived in— [Hmm.] When you asked me to go with you—
[Stop and start, stop and start. Where should he start, anyway? How far back should he go? Maybe he should apologize for the kiss, now that it's clear it was a mistake that won't be repeated, but he can't bring himself to say the words. Stupidly stubborn! That's the Felix way. Unwilling to say things he doesn't mean, even when some part of him knows it would make things easier, because it's better to be as honest as he can be. Therefore, after a second or so of silence:]
...I apologize, [he murmurs, instantly hating how stiff, how formal it sounds. That's not how anything between them should be, he thinks. Ever. It's why his grip on Sylvain's shirt tightens just before he clumsily, earnestly adds:] I was glad to see you again.
Felix sighs, and for a moment, Sylvain thinks he might pull away. He wouldn't blame him? Like, Sylvain is well aware that he's treading a certain, imperceptible line here that even he isn't familiar with; he's never been shy about pushing himself into Felix's space, never thought anything of taking up as much of it as possible, but this is different. This hand at his cheek is more intimate than friendly, and even if Felix leans into it now, that doesn't mean he'll want it again. But instead of moving away, Felix moves... closer?
...Felix moves closer, ducks his face away in his chest, and Sylvain sucks in a too-quick breath at the foreign-familiar feeling of Felix leaning against him. It's enough to dispel any lingering haze from the evening as he all but holds his breath, wondering if Felix can feel the way his heart stutters this close--wonders if he can hear it pounding in his chest--wonders if he knows it's for him, only for him, as Sylvain struggles back to himself. It's muscle memory, he thinks, that lifts his arm for him before he hesitates; some far-off reflex from when Felix would come crashing or crawling against him, and the only answer he'd needed to give was to pull him in close and hold him. A part of him almost expects to feel dampness against his shirt, but the Felix clinging to him now is as much the same crybaby he'd held all those years ago as he isn't. Yet... still, the fingers nearer to his face twitch for only a moment before he lets just a few brush tentatively through the hair over Felix's ear again.
He does manage to breathe again, after a moment, although he's still tense until the reason for this finally clicks into place. I apologize, Felix says, as if he has anything to apologize for, as if Sylvain would ever ask him to apologize in the first place. Like... if he'd apologized for the kiss, he isn't sure what he would have done... but this?
This, at least, is easy... This is what returns his control over his own body and lets his arm wind properly around Felix at the same time that his other hand slips around to cradle the back of his head as he just... holds him like that? He closes his eyes, ducking down to sort of scoff into his hair.
"Could've fooled me," he teases, but holds him tighter even still. "But you don't have to apologize... I mean, I should've known you'd be busy, right?"
It still HURT!! But hey, don't worry about it. Feelings are fake so they can't really hurt you, duh.
[There are only a few seconds of silence after he says what he needs to say, but Goddess above, if it doesn't feel like an eternity. It is, in fact, just enough time for him to wonder if he's made yet another mistake—but then Sylvain's arm curls around him and it's, mmm, rather difficult to worry about anything at all. This is—well? This is selfish, he's sure of it. This is him once again taking more from Sylvain than Sylvain should ever have to give, and yet the undeniable truth is that he is just as comfortable in Sylvain's arms now as he was when he was small. Every time Glenn snapped at him, or Ingrid said something unintentionally blunt, or Dimitri left him behind for whatever reason—it was always Sylvain he ran to. Always Sylvain who held him, saying anything he could to coax a smile back to his face.
And he loved Sylvain for it. Fiercely. He still does, even as hearing Sylvain accept his apology so, so easily prompts a fresh stab of guilt. Of course he was busy; there's a kingdom to rebuild, a continent to make plans for, a king to keep an eye on, but while he hums in quiet agreement—hmm. One hand releases its hold on Sylvain's shirt, slipping beneath Sylvain's arm to tentatively press flat against the small of his back. Sylvain doesn't seem as though he intends to pull away any time soon, so this is... fine, Felix judges. Surely. Maybe he's allowed this much, and in return: the honest truth.]
Not too busy for you.
[Never, even though some niggling voice in his mind reminds him that he's certainly tried to convince himself that he's too busy for even his closest friendship. All of the letters he wanted to write, but put off time and time again—and all of the letters he didn't receive, which is, ridiculously enough, a thing that sticks. Sylvain was busy in Gautier territory, and Sylvain owed him nothing after he tested the limits of their friendship, and yet...
...Ah, and yet. Another quiet sigh, and then, muffled against Sylvain's stupid chest:]
You didn't write to me.
[It sounds petty to his own ears, but! Well! No going back now.]
He should probably be embarrassed by how genuinely fucking happy he is to hear those words--like, if he had a tail, it would absolutely be going a mile a minute. Since he doesn't have a tail, he can only bask in the warm, gentle glow that this moment provides, even as the chill from outside still clings at them like so many little fingers. He doesn't care? Felix is hugging him--because isn't that what this is?? Can it be called anything else?
Sources say... no!! So he will absolutely enjoy this hug for all it's worth, phantom tail be damned--unnnnntil Felix decides to speak up again, anyway.
"Hey, now."
It starts off light enough? But when he thinks of all of those times, alone in his room, when he'd started to write... stopped writing... gone through how much paper in just a few short moons for the sake of letters, all unfinished and all unsent. If he'd had any idea of what to say, or any indication that Felix had even wanted to hear from him again at all after... well, after that! Which, apparently, he did?? So like, excuse him for getting a little frustrated at the mild accusation in Felix's tone here.
"You didn't write me, either," he retorts, and if he sounds, like... a little bit defensive, he really doesn't mean it. After all: it's not as if he expects the king's advisor to have time to sit down and write a personal letter to him on a whim! But surely, he thinks, surely... his best friend would have found the time, if only he'd wanted to. "You know I..."
A pause--just long enough for guilt to cut the wind from his sails as quickly as it had come, because isn't it just the same for himself? When he continues, it's with a soft sigh, just above Felix's ear.
"...I would have written back," he says, and he kind of hates how much it sounds like an excuse.
[How did Felix expect Sylvain to respond? What was he hoping for? Hell if he knows. It isn't as though his tipsy self fails to recognize the, ah, blatant hypocrisy here, but—well, it all comes down to a twisted sort of logic. He'd kissed Sylvain so suddenly, so recklessly, and he'd felt as though... the least he owed his best friend was the same space he'd so thoroughly ignored in the moment. He would let Sylvain reach out to him, if he wanted to. If he forgave Felix.
And even now, it's all so—mmph. I would have written back, Sylvain says, and even as that sigh sends a shiver racing through him, Felix's shoulders drop just a hair. Writing to him isn't... it shouldn't be an obligation. Felix would have cherished each and every response, yes, but is it so terrible to want Sylvain to want to write him of his own accord? Maybe it is. It certainly isn't something he should be indignant about, but there is something to be said, perhaps, for the shame Felix feels. He's never been so needy, so hungry—desperate—for someone's smallest attentions.]
I would have, too, [he fires back, rocking on his heels a bit as he debates pulling away or remaining precisely where he is. And he's, mmm, never been good at writing letters? They know this? Why send paragraphs when you can sum everything up in three sentences, etc etc, and yet he's still heated enough about this to huff.] Dimitri isn't—
[Well! When it comes right down it, Dimitri isn't a lot of things—but above all else, Dimitri isn't Sylvain. There are things Felix can only confide in the person who knows him better than anyone? Lines only said person can read between, and hey, guess what? Felix is drunk enough to admit a smidgen of that... albeit in his typically rude fashion, so:]
Ah... Yep. There it is. That awful sense that he's said something wrong--and that's... fair, honestly? Like, he hadn't exactly felt great about his answer or anything, but it's one thing to kind of vaguely assume he would've been better off keeping his mouth shut... It's a whole other to watch as his best friend--the same best friend that he's pretty sure he's in love with--starts to put even the slightest bit of unconscious distance back between them. And it's not obvious, perhaps, but it's obvious for Felix, which means it's like, doubly obvious to Sylvain, which does a pretty good job of squashing the last of that frustration in favor of the subtle guilt stabbing him in the gut.
Because that means that, all that time, Felix had been wanting him to write... which is an incredibly warming thought? Felix had wanted him to write; Felix had missed him, even with Dimitri here, just as he'd wanted Sylvain to write to him, and not to both of them.
It's why Dimitri's name sort of startles him for a moment, because Dimitri isn't what...? Does he want to ask? Probably... not, given that the arm around his waist holds firmer than ever, and the hand at his nape slips all the way around to Felix's shoulder instead, just to keep him held so tightly against him, even for just a moment more. And it's selfish, yes... extremely so, because it looks like he'd been right after all when he'd suspected he wouldn't want to let Felix go once he had him in his arms. Not if the last thing on his mind is Dimitri, but--
...But then, it isn't, is it? He isn't.
But Sylvain is. And Goddess, how selfish can he be if this still isn't enough...?
"That's all?"
He forces himself to pull back enough to hold Felix at a half-arm's length, just so he can examine his face before he just... like, leans over... and scoops him right up into his arms... He's clearly still too drunk to make it to his own room if he's admitting things like this, so! Hi, Felix. Don't squirm around too much while Sylvain gains his bearings.
"Just my letters...?" Really? "I'll have to ask His Majesty if an audience is really necessary, then, if only my letters will suffice."
It's a long ride down to Fhirdiad, after all!! Let the man be dramatic. (But also: be nice!!)
[Sylvain pulling away from him is objectively, mmm... very rude! Felix was so comfortable, muttering into Sylvain's chest and pretending that absolutely nothing about that was odd—but then Sylvain is looking down at him, expression somehow both bemused and amused. What? Why? All that Felix can offer is a (weak) scowl in return as he fumbles for his sharpest words—
—and lets out a very, ah, undignified yelp as the world suddenly tips up around him.
Listen: It isn't as though this is the first time Sylvain has carried Felix. When they were younger—much younger—Felix thought nothing of wrapping his arms around Sylvain's neck, sitting atop the older boy's arm as he was carried to and fro. There were piggyback rides, too, of course. There was even a piggyback ride back in their Academy days, when Felix twisted an ankle during some mission or another and the Professor ordered Sylvain to carry him back to Mercedes. A trust exercise, they'd responded, blandly, when Felix had raised as many objections as he could think. An exercise in humility, more like it. Sylvain carried him back to camp as easily as anything, chattering about his latest conquests while Felix did his best to focus on everything but the back of Sylvain's neck.
Being carried like this, however? An arm beneath his knees, an arm pressed high along his back? He feels as though he's about to be dropped any moment—and yet he also knows that's, ah, patently untrue, because the person holding him like this is none other than the person he trusts most in the world:]
Sylvain!
[Shocked and sharp as his hands scrabble for purchase at Sylvain's shoulders. He isn't moving... too much? He's cognizant enough to realize that toppling Sylvain over will end poorly for them both—and that Sylvain is, you know. Strong enough to carry him (which is a most intrusive thought) but not strong enough to deal with him thrashing about, so.]
Put me down or I'll run you through, [he all but snarls, stupidly, because it isn't as though he brought his swords with him to a tavern in Fhirdiad. Look at him! An idiot, which is why he soon sputters out the slightly better:] I'll burn every letter you send. I'm not a child!
[He's just a drunk loser whose face is growing redder by the second? Especially when he's forced to loop his arms about Sylvain's neck, because ah, this is... a most vulnerable position...]
It's impressive though, how easy it is for something so simple to make him forget he's ever felt anything but this comfortable sort of contentment that rises slow and steady in his chest. Trouble? Nah, no trouble... How could he ever be troubled when that voice is his favorite sound, and the focus of the man it belongs to is on him, only on him, exactly as he so desperately wants it to be? Like, what could possibly be enough to dull this fond amusement so bright in his eyes as Felix reaches out to him for balance?
Or to quiet the laughter it brings with it, for that matter; he manages to restrain himself well enough, all things considered, up until Felix corrects his initial threat, at which point he's just a little too smitten and has a little too much alcohol still in his system to continue to hold himself back. And it's definitely Too Late in the evening for two grownass men to come in and immediately start bickering and laughing at non-whispering levels, but hey! It's a big castle. And yeah, sound carries along old, stone walls, but Sylvain's thoughts are on just the right side of fuzzy for him to decide that's that is completely irrelevant information as he sets off without any further preamble.
"Obviously." He tightens his hold on him just a bit as he aims a grin down at him. Maybe tell him to keep his eyes forward, so they don't go crashing into some poor waitstaff? "If you were, you wouldn't be complaining even half this much."
He considers all the times in the past he's carried Felix and wonders, idly: had he always been this aware of how close they've been...? It's distracting enough, he thinks, feeling as the lingering outside chill fades from the layers of clothing between them until it's impossible to not think of the warm weight of him resting in his arms. But it's almost... startling, in a way? To realize how impossibly close he is like this to the heat of that blush on Felix's face, and the fact that it only makes him wish he was closer, still.
"You used to love when I carried you around," he points out, instead of asking the dozens of questions buzzing through his head that, frankly, he isn't sure he wants to ask. "And it'll be faster this way, too."
Even though it... definitely will not, considering the pace he's keeping. He just wants a little more time with him, that's all.
[Sylvain "negative attention is better than no attention" Gautier strikes again! Not that the glare Felix shoots him is all that terrifying. It is surprisingly difficult to seem truly angry when one is being held like this? Or, well. It is not-so-surprisingly difficult to seem anything more than, like, childishly huffy, and Felix is somewhat aware of it. With both feet on the ground, he could straighten his back, put a hand on his hip, allow the tenseness of his shoulders to dare Sylvain to say a god damn thing; pulled this close to Sylvain's chest, however, Felix can only sink an inch or so lower, settling even further into the other man's grip as he turns his head. To face forward, at first. To see where they're going as Sylvain speaks, but as he's soon all too aware of Sylvain's eyes on his face...
...Hmm. Better, then, to turn his head the opposite direction, chin settling atop the arm he's been forced to throw over Sylvain's shoulder. This, too, is childish. How fitting, considering that he's soon forced to remember the many, many times he'd begged his older, bigger friend to carry him from one place to another. He was always getting left behind, somehow? Not that Dimitri and Ingrid meant to leave him behind; it was just that, whenever Glenn came into the picture, they couldn't help but to be drawn into his orbit, so starry-eyed as they followed closely on his heels.
But not Sylvain. Never Sylvain. He'd always been there when the others left, picking Felix up without complaint—and Felix loved him fiercely.]
That was different, [he mutters, petulantly, as the arms around Sylvain's neck tighten ever so slightly.] Everything was.
[There'd been no need to question his feelings? No need to hide anything from anyone—and just like that, his righteous indignation gives way to something quieter. Tireder. Being a child had been so easy, and he hadn't even known to appreciate it! A shame! Felix thinks of what a fool he'd (unknowingly) been, and suddenly his head feels far too heavy; time, then, to press his cheek against his arm, blinking at the side of Sylvain's neck for a moment—kissable, he thinks—before he breathes out a quiet sigh.]
...It was simple.
[Loving Sylvain. Knowing that he was loved by Sylvain. Things he won't—can't—say.]
It wasn't that different, he wants to say, but... hmm. What a selfish thing to think, really, when so many more things were different for Felix back then.
In a sense, Sylvain's always known how to jump before the floor drops from under him. He's gotten pretty good at predicting when it'll happen; he knows that cutting his hands against a lifeline made from his own broken pieces is better than falling, falling, falling, uncertain of how long he has until he hits the bitter cold of the surface beneath, where it eagerly waits to drown him. So for Sylvain, the biggest change he'd had to endure was the sudden, inexplicable shift among his friends, and the sickening sense of failure that came with it.
For the others--for Felix--that 'change' was a point of no return. Felix had lost so much more than Sylvain ever had, and then lost more, still... And it should be enough, he thinks, to simply stay as they are, if only so Felix won't have to feel any different, and Sylvain won't be anything but what he is, and always has been, and always will be, so long as it means he can still stay by his side.
But when Felix continues, he sounds so far away--and Sylvain holds him a bit closer to his chest, as if it might be enough to keep him here, or maybe as if he's the missing piece responsible for this bone-deep ache in his chest.
"...It still can be," he says, still just as easy, just as bright, only somewhat quieter now. He's forced his eyes forward, albeit reluctantly, though he still doesn't loosen his hold on him. "You can pretend you still like this kind of thing... Just for tonight; I won't say a word."
[Despite everything, it... is nice, to be pulled even closer? And maybe Sylvain only does so because he doesn't want to drop him, sure, but Felix (selfishly) enjoys the warmth, and the closeness, and the fact that, if he closes his eyes, he can feel Sylvain speaking. The quiet rumble of his voice, somehow echoing in Felix's chest...
...Hmm. Sylvain is wrong, Felix thinks. Nothing about them can be as simple as it was—and that is both good and bad, now that he ponders it, but it's also an exceedingly complicated thing for his drunk brain to process. Goodness gracious! All he wants to do... is enjoy this moment for what it is. Nothing more, nothing less.
And yet. He cracks his eyes open, once again staring at the smooth skin of Sylvain's neck, because he should... speak? He should speak. If he doesn't, he's fairly certain he'll fall asleep like this, tucked so snuggly against Sylvain's chest, and he's determined to savor every second.]
I'm not good at pretending, [is how he chooses to begin.] Or lying. I'm not like you.
[He's never been very good at telling people what they want to hear? Never wanted to be good at such a thing. He says exactly what's on his mind because he's blunt, blunt, blunt, and Sylvain knows that—but for whatever reason, it feels important to remind Sylvain of that before he continues, softly, with:]
I don't hate this.
[Because it's Sylvain, of course. And in his hazy mind, now Sylvain can't doubt that he means what he says.]
Sylvain's pretty well-used to Felix's bluntness by now? He likes to think he can take it better than anyone else, because he's learned this language as well as if it were his own. He can decipher the truths hidden beneath all those barbs and tangles, knows how to brush them away and extract their meaning without ever feeling the sharp sting of those fangs biting into his skin, but...!
...But. Very, very rarely, something sharp still snags against him before he even sees it coming--and more often than not, it isn't even the fact that he'd said it that hurts, but rather the fact that, in some way or another, it's true.
This... is one of those moments, he thinks. The alcohol still in his system makes it hard for him to hold his expression steady, or maybe just hard to make himself want to hold it steady, because isn't that exactly the point...? If he keeps up a fake smile, won't that just be lying to him after all? It's bad enough that he's been acting like there's nothing unusual between them; like they hadn't kissed, like he doesn't still want to kiss him, like his winding thoughts aren't weaving themselves into what might happen if he were to stop, right now, and admit to everything, if only it would make Felix think any better of him.
He doesn't deserve anything else, though, and in the end he only looks somewhat troubled for a moment (maybe it can pass for offended, but he isn't paying close enough attention to notice) as his steps stutter--but before he can convince himself to do or say anything, Felix continues, and it's... well.
It doesn't stop the ache, but it does ease it, just a bit.
"...Good."
He sounds... thoughtful? Distant, almost, in a way that even he can hear. He hates that he can hear it, hates that it means Felix can hear it--but as they reach like... a staircase? Castle interiors are stupid, bedrooms and offices and such can be upstairs because I say so, so! As they reach a staircase, and he glances back down, it's easy to imagine Felix might be the thing that grounds him.
"I don't hate this, either." Because of course he believes Felix? Of course he does, and if not hating something is the closest he can get to Felix actually enjoying being this close to him... well then, so be it. "I'll still do it anytime you want me to."
Is that weird to offer...? It might be weird to offer... He's just gonna climb these stairs, so maybe don't think too hard about it.
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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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Less often, he catches himself doing something he probably shouldn't, or at least it's less often if you disregard all the things he's done that no one should probably do. But in this particular instance, Sylvain catches himself doing something that, in the grand scheme of things is completely and utterly inconsequential in every conceivable way, and yet still manages to fall squarely in the 'oh, maybe this was a bad move' zone of the 'how badly can this decision backfire' chart. Or, more specifically: Sylvain doesn't catch himself so much as he does catch Felix as he looks so sharply down to their hands that it takes Sylvain a second to realize what he's looking at at all.
And then he does, and he wills himself to please, for the love of the goddess, act normal and not think about the fact that he's--
...Ah. He's not pulling away.
It's impossible not to think of the courtyard, the day prior. He hadn't been able to see Felix's expression, but he'd seen Dimitri's--and there's no way this is the view he'd had, Sylvain thinks, because if it had been, he wouldn't have been able to say even half the things he did. He would have been struck as uselessly silent as Sylvain is now, lips parted on a silent inhale of breath as Felix looks up at him with those wide, warm eyes. He watches as the color spills over his face, watches him part his lips to speak, and for just a moment, the words that come out mean absolutely nothing because the only one that Sylvain thinks is beautiful.
He'd wanted to kiss him that day at the training grounds, just as he'd wanted to kiss him that evening after their victory and every day since. He'd thought he'd already learned, then, how much he could possibly want, and yet looking down at Felix now, Sylvain somehow comes to the unshakable conclusion that he's never--never--wanted to kiss him more... He can feel the moment his hold on Felix's hand tightens, grounding himself as much as he is savoring the fact that he's been given this allowance to begin with.
...But, though it leaves a real, physical ache in his chest, he breathes out half the breath he's been holding, then lets the rest out on a quiet chuckle. He... can salvage this?? He can salvage this, just watch, he's great at charming his way out of sticky situations; he can compose himself enough to steadily lift Felix's hand to his chest which... ah, might actually be his first mistake?
Because, you see: Sylvain lifts Felix's hand, and he really doesn't mean for it to be anything but a lighthearted attempt to get Felix to... relax? To smile at him, if he's lucky, or to shove him away more than likely, but whatever the case, he just wants Felix to look at him like he's him again, instead of someone he feels the need to keep his guard around.
Instead, Sylvain lowers himself the rest of the way and says, "Why shouldn't it be?" hardly an inch away from skin, and it comes out quiet and serious without the slightest hint of teasing, even with his small, reassuring smile. So he startles himself, then, when the kiss he ghosts over those knuckles less than a beat later ALSO winds up like, ten shades more serious than he'd intended; his eyes flick back up, maybe a little too quick??
He's... you know. He's fine! He's just going to Not Move while he gauges Felix's reaction... Surely it's not good for his heart to keep beating so wildly every time he's around him like this??
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But as he dazedly watches Sylvain lift his hand—oh. Oh. There are moments in battle when time seems to slow to a crawl? Strike-or-die moments—and as Sylvain inclines his head, warm breath puffing over the strangely sensitive skin of Felix's hand as he speaks, this certainly feels like one of them. This feels deadly.
And yet Felix doesn't—can't—pull away, even when the sensation of Sylvain's lips just barely grazing along his knuckles sends him sucking in an embarrassingly audible breath. This is nothing. This is a tease, a prank this incorrigible flirt has pulled on countless people throughout the years, but it still strikes Felix so incredibly deeply when Sylvain's eyes meet his. It's as though all the air has been sucked out of this tiny room, and Felix is dizzy, drowning, suddenly desperate for anything this man is willing to give him.]
Sylvain—
[The name slips from his lips, unbidden, and he instantly hates how vulnerable, how wounded, he sounds? It's so patently un-Felix-y that he freezes, unwilling to say anything more—and that, perhaps, is a good thing, because it gives him just enough time to register the sound of unfamiliar voices approaching before the door behind Sylvain is thrown open.
Ah.
Time begins to flow, then, as nobles push past them, and Felix finally finds the strength to slip his hand free as his eyes slip away from Sylvain's. It's—there's business to attend to, now. He can't focus on this, whatever this is, and so he drops his hand—burning, burning, burning—to his side before wordlessly moving into the mostly emptied room. Dimitri is there, sitting at the head of the table and frowning down at the mess of parchment laid out before him, and for once Felix is grateful for his duty. It's easy, really, to make his way to Dimitri's side and lose himself in fussing, in organizing, in doing what he's supposed to do as opposed to watching Sylvain's every move.
It's, mmm, less easy to avoid watching Sylvain once the meeting begins. Sylvain has always been an expressive speaker, knowing when and how to use his hands to better make a point, and Felix focuses on them, keenly aware of just how they felt wrapped around his own. It's unbearable. It's infuriating, which is perhaps why Felix is testier than normal, scowling and snapping at anyone who dares to address him.
So! The meeting goes super well, and that's a trend for the remainder of the day. Lunch with Dimitri goes super well, especially once Felix informs him that, no, he will not be attending their nightly tea party; meetings with various nobles go super well, all while Felix does his best to not think about the confused look on Dimitri's stupid face; following Sylvain to some crowded tavern goes super well, because Felix, awkward Felix, has no idea what to say to the man who sees fit to toy with his heart time and time again.
Alcohol, however, has a way of making even the most difficult things... easier? Somehow? The first drink loosens Felix's tongue; the second drink allows him to laugh at one of Sylvain's tasteless jokes; the third drink grants him the courage to speak to Sylvain as freely as he did during the war; the fourth drink—
...Well. Okay. The fourth drink sends him (reluctantly) clutching Sylvain's arm as the world spins around him, because he's always been a bit of a lightweight. Something, something, it isn't fair that Sylvain can drink him under the table because there so much more of him—but it's fine. It's all fine. Sylvain holds him steady, talks about who knows what as they make their way back to the castle, and Felix tracks the rise and fall of that familiar voice while he allows himself to be steered right along. He is... warm, both in the sense that alcohol chases the cold away and that Sylvain's presence is so incredibly comforting. What happened earlier in the day, what happened three moons ago—does anything but this matter? The way Sylvain accepts him so easily, even after the many times he's left him standing somewhere without offering so much as a single word?
Hmm. He can't help but to turn that over in his mind as they walk—and continue turning it over in his mind as they slip in some side entrance, stomping snow from their boots as half-frozen fingers work to unfasten their cloaks. An impossible task, when all of Felix's brainpower is devoted to one thing, one person, whose name he unknowingly sighs when his fingers fail to do what they're supposed to. Help him...]
How many times can I include the fact that Sylvain Hates Society in one thread?
Felix isn't smiling this time, perhaps, but the expression on his face is one that Sylvain hasn't seen before--not really, not like this--and when he says his name in that tone, it strikes at some half-starved part of him that aches in his chest and spills heat in his veins as he swallows, 'I'm here,' and wonders how his name would sound just a little more wild, a little more desperate, a little more breathless...
...Which is, like, a decidedly fucking terrible thought to get jolted out of, but the disruption comes as suddenly as a bucket of ice water over his head, and does just about as well to shock him back into reality, too. Meetings!! Right... Responsibilities, and politics, and all of those things that he'd never seen in his future, but then he supposes he hadn't seen much of a future for himself back then, anyway.
He wills himself to follow Felix in and tries to ignore his racing pulse, tries to ignore the way Dimitri's eye brightens once Felix finally settles at his side, tries to ignore the fact that the seat his title affords him is near enough to the king's (and therefore his advisor's) that he actually has to glance through some of his own reports to follow his own train of thought once or twice, when he can practically feel Felix's eyes on him and he has to force himself to stay focused. He supposes he's lucky that it can be written off as the nerves that come with his newness of his title--although that does also mean there's like, an entire throng of those who had worked with his father who suddenly rush to his side once the meeting ends, before he can even see where Felix has gone to. They make offers and suggestions that he doesn't want and hardly hears; they smile at him when he says the right thing, tut at him when he doesn't.
He finally frees himself when one of the lower ranking nobles sees fit to oh-so-cleverly mention that he'd brought his daughter to the capitol with him, which results a series of events exactly as awkward as you would expect: someone snorts; someone laughs; someone jokes under their breath that he'd have better luck convincing that Duke Fraldarius to whisper sweet nothings in her ear than he would convincing this Gautier to do anything but break her heart, which someone follows less under their breath with a scathing, "Or a bastard child," which is only almost too much until they add, "Better hope it has a Crest, or it won't be worth the trouble," which is.
He thinks he excuses himself with something along the lines of, "I'm actually already meeting someone tonight," in favor of the slew of insults that come to mind, if only for the sake of not inviting further scandal to add to his reputation.
So it's... nice, honestly, once the day winds to a close and he finally finds himself walking beside Felix. It's quiet, or it isn't, whenever some odd topic or question crosses his mind, but most of all it's comfortable, in a way that he never once questions how little his friend has to say.
He does, however, question how much his friend has to drink... Like, Felix is a grown man? He is perfectly capable of making his own decisions and taking control of his own life, and Sylvain trusts himself better than anyone to make sure that he gets home safely, but as much as he enjoys Felix's company, and Felix's laugh, and Felix's voice, and Felix so openly relying on him... well!! Well. The walk back to the castle is a test of wills, in its own right. Not because he wants to kiss him (although he definitely does want to kiss him) or because being pressed together this close, this warm, makes him wonder what it would feel like if they were pressed skin to skin (although he does find his mind wandering to that more and more, the more they're together like this) but rather because he is completely, stupidly endeared. The way Felix clings to him, soft and untroubled, as if there's no one else he could possibly trust more--it makes it so, so difficult not to say anything that might ruin this?
And it's even more difficult when he hears his name as he slides his own cloak from his shoulders, only to turn to... this!! Goddess above.
"Here," he chuckles, folding his cloak over an arm so he can turn to face Felix properly, gingerly (lovingly, he thinks, and it's a thought as vaguely hazy as it is warm, filling his chest and softening his expression) taking his hands in his own to pull them down. He makes the mistake of glancing up to Felix's face before he lets them go--takes a breath that's just a bit too sharp, before he lifts one hand to carefully, carefully tilt Felix's chin up--but he somehow convinces himself to bring both back to undo the fastening properly, slipping it from around Felix's shoulders and hesitating for only half a second before he folds it over his own and leaves them together once he sets them on like, ye olde coatracke or whatever. "...Do you think you can make it to your room...?"
A loaded question, honestly. But what may be more loaded is the way he too-boldly brushes some of Felix's hair the wind had loosened back behind an ear when he asks.
sylvain: we live in a society..................
The key difference, however, is this: Sylvain slips a hand under his chin, tilts his head back, and Felix finds himself instinctively parting his lips as he waits for a kiss that doesn't come. And why would it? Friends, as far as Felix can tell, don't kiss other friends, especially not when one of them is too soused to unfasten their cloak. Stupid! He's not even sure why he allowed himself to drink so much in the first place. Was talking to Sylvain so awkward... was he hoping that a bit of liquid courage would help him make his second drunken blunder...
...Whatever. He closes his eyes as Sylvain slips his cloak from his shoulders, swaying forward ever so slightly—but he's still standing when he feels familiar fingers fuss with a few errant strands of hair, and he unconsciously tilts his head into the touch even as he huffs out a breath.]
Obviously, [he mutters, eyes cracking open just enough for him to blearily blink up at the man before him.] I made it here.
[Only because Sylvain was with him every step of the way—and when is Sylvain not? His reckless, idiotic, perfect best friend, who happens to be so handsome it hurts, and yet Felix can't bring himself to look away. His chest feels so incredibly tight; his mouth feels so incredibly dry; Sylvain's hand feels feels so incredibly warm, and that's what he chooses to focus on as he allows a strangely comfortable beat to pass.]
...Sylvain?
[Softly, so softly, with a hint of uncertainty that's soon echoed in his expression.]
Sylvain: I'm not saying that I would willingly beat the shit out of every noble in Faerghus, but
"You did," he agrees, quiet enough that the incredible fondness in his voice doesn't reach any farther than the small space between them.
...And that space stays small, even still, the same way Felix has yet to do anything but accept him and his every selfish whim. He wants to wrap his other arm around him, he thinks--wonders if he could get away with pulling him flush against his chest, bury his face in his hair, just once; wonders if he would be satisfied with once, or if he could ever bear to let him go again at all. It's all a very, very slippery slope...
Especially when Felix says his name like that, and he's hit with a wave of longing that aches, and aches, and aches. He doesn't dare act on it; instead, he uses it to brace himself against whatever heartbreaking thing might follow as he responds, quieter still:
"...Yeah?"
felix cheers him on from the sidelines--jk felix is right there with him
But that is shamefully selfish, isn't it? Doubly so, after the way he's worked to keep Sylvain at an arm's length ever since Sylvain arrived in Fhirdiad... and so he sighs. Considers, briefly, closing his eyes and enjoying things as they currently are, before he decides it's better to take half a step forward and press his forehead against the taller man's chest. Funny, how he used to hate the difference between their heights; now it's more of a blessing than anything, allowing him to hide his face from view as he brings both hands up, fingers curling into the front of Sylvain's shirt. How many times did he do this when he was a child...
...Hmm. Too many to count, really, which is a thought that sends him squeezing his eyes shut.]
When you arrived in— [Hmm.] When you asked me to go with you—
[Stop and start, stop and start. Where should he start, anyway? How far back should he go? Maybe he should apologize for the kiss, now that it's clear it was a mistake that won't be repeated, but he can't bring himself to say the words. Stupidly stubborn! That's the Felix way. Unwilling to say things he doesn't mean, even when some part of him knows it would make things easier, because it's better to be as honest as he can be. Therefore, after a second or so of silence:]
...I apologize, [he murmurs, instantly hating how stiff, how formal it sounds. That's not how anything between them should be, he thinks. Ever. It's why his grip on Sylvain's shirt tightens just before he clumsily, earnestly adds:] I was glad to see you again.
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...Felix moves closer, ducks his face away in his chest, and Sylvain sucks in a too-quick breath at the foreign-familiar feeling of Felix leaning against him. It's enough to dispel any lingering haze from the evening as he all but holds his breath, wondering if Felix can feel the way his heart stutters this close--wonders if he can hear it pounding in his chest--wonders if he knows it's for him, only for him, as Sylvain struggles back to himself. It's muscle memory, he thinks, that lifts his arm for him before he hesitates; some far-off reflex from when Felix would come crashing or crawling against him, and the only answer he'd needed to give was to pull him in close and hold him. A part of him almost expects to feel dampness against his shirt, but the Felix clinging to him now is as much the same crybaby he'd held all those years ago as he isn't. Yet... still, the fingers nearer to his face twitch for only a moment before he lets just a few brush tentatively through the hair over Felix's ear again.
He does manage to breathe again, after a moment, although he's still tense until the reason for this finally clicks into place. I apologize, Felix says, as if he has anything to apologize for, as if Sylvain would ever ask him to apologize in the first place. Like... if he'd apologized for the kiss, he isn't sure what he would have done... but this?
This, at least, is easy... This is what returns his control over his own body and lets his arm wind properly around Felix at the same time that his other hand slips around to cradle the back of his head as he just... holds him like that? He closes his eyes, ducking down to sort of scoff into his hair.
"Could've fooled me," he teases, but holds him tighter even still. "But you don't have to apologize... I mean, I should've known you'd be busy, right?"
It still HURT!! But hey, don't worry about it. Feelings are fake so they can't really hurt you, duh.
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And he loved Sylvain for it. Fiercely. He still does, even as hearing Sylvain accept his apology so, so easily prompts a fresh stab of guilt. Of course he was busy; there's a kingdom to rebuild, a continent to make plans for, a king to keep an eye on, but while he hums in quiet agreement—hmm. One hand releases its hold on Sylvain's shirt, slipping beneath Sylvain's arm to tentatively press flat against the small of his back. Sylvain doesn't seem as though he intends to pull away any time soon, so this is... fine, Felix judges. Surely. Maybe he's allowed this much, and in return: the honest truth.]
Not too busy for you.
[Never, even though some niggling voice in his mind reminds him that he's certainly tried to convince himself that he's too busy for even his closest friendship. All of the letters he wanted to write, but put off time and time again—and all of the letters he didn't receive, which is, ridiculously enough, a thing that sticks. Sylvain was busy in Gautier territory, and Sylvain owed him nothing after he tested the limits of their friendship, and yet...
...Ah, and yet. Another quiet sigh, and then, muffled against Sylvain's stupid chest:]
You didn't write to me.
[It sounds petty to his own ears, but! Well! No going back now.]
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Sources say... no!! So he will absolutely enjoy this hug for all it's worth, phantom tail be damned--unnnnntil Felix decides to speak up again, anyway.
"Hey, now."
It starts off light enough? But when he thinks of all of those times, alone in his room, when he'd started to write... stopped writing... gone through how much paper in just a few short moons for the sake of letters, all unfinished and all unsent. If he'd had any idea of what to say, or any indication that Felix had even wanted to hear from him again at all after... well, after that! Which, apparently, he did?? So like, excuse him for getting a little frustrated at the mild accusation in Felix's tone here.
"You didn't write me, either," he retorts, and if he sounds, like... a little bit defensive, he really doesn't mean it. After all: it's not as if he expects the king's advisor to have time to sit down and write a personal letter to him on a whim! But surely, he thinks, surely... his best friend would have found the time, if only he'd wanted to. "You know I..."
A pause--just long enough for guilt to cut the wind from his sails as quickly as it had come, because isn't it just the same for himself? When he continues, it's with a soft sigh, just above Felix's ear.
"...I would have written back," he says, and he kind of hates how much it sounds like an excuse.
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And even now, it's all so—mmph. I would have written back, Sylvain says, and even as that sigh sends a shiver racing through him, Felix's shoulders drop just a hair. Writing to him isn't... it shouldn't be an obligation. Felix would have cherished each and every response, yes, but is it so terrible to want Sylvain to want to write him of his own accord? Maybe it is. It certainly isn't something he should be indignant about, but there is something to be said, perhaps, for the shame Felix feels. He's never been so needy, so hungry—desperate—for someone's smallest attentions.]
I would have, too, [he fires back, rocking on his heels a bit as he debates pulling away or remaining precisely where he is. And he's, mmm, never been good at writing letters? They know this? Why send paragraphs when you can sum everything up in three sentences, etc etc, and yet he's still heated enough about this to huff.] Dimitri isn't—
[Well! When it comes right down it, Dimitri isn't a lot of things—but above all else, Dimitri isn't Sylvain. There are things Felix can only confide in the person who knows him better than anyone? Lines only said person can read between, and hey, guess what? Felix is drunk enough to admit a smidgen of that... albeit in his typically rude fashion, so:]
I missed your stupid letters. That's all.
[Nyeah!]
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Because that means that, all that time, Felix had been wanting him to write... which is an incredibly warming thought? Felix had wanted him to write; Felix had missed him, even with Dimitri here, just as he'd wanted Sylvain to write to him, and not to both of them.
It's why Dimitri's name sort of startles him for a moment, because Dimitri isn't what...? Does he want to ask? Probably... not, given that the arm around his waist holds firmer than ever, and the hand at his nape slips all the way around to Felix's shoulder instead, just to keep him held so tightly against him, even for just a moment more. And it's selfish, yes... extremely so, because it looks like he'd been right after all when he'd suspected he wouldn't want to let Felix go once he had him in his arms. Not if the last thing on his mind is Dimitri, but--
...But then, it isn't, is it? He isn't.
But Sylvain is. And Goddess, how selfish can he be if this still isn't enough...?
"That's all?"
He forces himself to pull back enough to hold Felix at a half-arm's length, just so he can examine his face before he just... like, leans over... and scoops him right up into his arms... He's clearly still too drunk to make it to his own room if he's admitting things like this, so! Hi, Felix. Don't squirm around too much while Sylvain gains his bearings.
"Just my letters...?" Really? "I'll have to ask His Majesty if an audience is really necessary, then, if only my letters will suffice."
It's a long ride down to Fhirdiad, after all!! Let the man be dramatic. (But also: be nice!!)
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—and lets out a very, ah, undignified yelp as the world suddenly tips up around him.
Listen: It isn't as though this is the first time Sylvain has carried Felix. When they were younger—much younger—Felix thought nothing of wrapping his arms around Sylvain's neck, sitting atop the older boy's arm as he was carried to and fro. There were piggyback rides, too, of course. There was even a piggyback ride back in their Academy days, when Felix twisted an ankle during some mission or another and the Professor ordered Sylvain to carry him back to Mercedes. A trust exercise, they'd responded, blandly, when Felix had raised as many objections as he could think. An exercise in humility, more like it. Sylvain carried him back to camp as easily as anything, chattering about his latest conquests while Felix did his best to focus on everything but the back of Sylvain's neck.
Being carried like this, however? An arm beneath his knees, an arm pressed high along his back? He feels as though he's about to be dropped any moment—and yet he also knows that's, ah, patently untrue, because the person holding him like this is none other than the person he trusts most in the world:]
Sylvain!
[Shocked and sharp as his hands scrabble for purchase at Sylvain's shoulders. He isn't moving... too much? He's cognizant enough to realize that toppling Sylvain over will end poorly for them both—and that Sylvain is, you know. Strong enough to carry him (which is a most intrusive thought) but not strong enough to deal with him thrashing about, so.]
Put me down or I'll run you through, [he all but snarls, stupidly, because it isn't as though he brought his swords with him to a tavern in Fhirdiad. Look at him! An idiot, which is why he soon sputters out the slightly better:] I'll burn every letter you send. I'm not a child!
[He's just a drunk loser whose face is growing redder by the second? Especially when he's forced to loop his arms about Sylvain's neck, because ah, this is... a most vulnerable position...]
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It's impressive though, how easy it is for something so simple to make him forget he's ever felt anything but this comfortable sort of contentment that rises slow and steady in his chest. Trouble? Nah, no trouble... How could he ever be troubled when that voice is his favorite sound, and the focus of the man it belongs to is on him, only on him, exactly as he so desperately wants it to be? Like, what could possibly be enough to dull this fond amusement so bright in his eyes as Felix reaches out to him for balance?
Or to quiet the laughter it brings with it, for that matter; he manages to restrain himself well enough, all things considered, up until Felix corrects his initial threat, at which point he's just a little too smitten and has a little too much alcohol still in his system to continue to hold himself back. And it's definitely Too Late in the evening for two grownass men to come in and immediately start bickering and laughing at non-whispering levels, but hey! It's a big castle. And yeah, sound carries along old, stone walls, but Sylvain's thoughts are on just the right side of fuzzy for him to decide that's that is completely irrelevant information as he sets off without any further preamble.
"Obviously." He tightens his hold on him just a bit as he aims a grin down at him. Maybe tell him to keep his eyes forward, so they don't go crashing into some poor waitstaff? "If you were, you wouldn't be complaining even half this much."
He considers all the times in the past he's carried Felix and wonders, idly: had he always been this aware of how close they've been...? It's distracting enough, he thinks, feeling as the lingering outside chill fades from the layers of clothing between them until it's impossible to not think of the warm weight of him resting in his arms. But it's almost... startling, in a way? To realize how impossibly close he is like this to the heat of that blush on Felix's face, and the fact that it only makes him wish he was closer, still.
"You used to love when I carried you around," he points out, instead of asking the dozens of questions buzzing through his head that, frankly, he isn't sure he wants to ask. "And it'll be faster this way, too."
Even though it... definitely will not, considering the pace he's keeping. He just wants a little more time with him, that's all.
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...Hmm. Better, then, to turn his head the opposite direction, chin settling atop the arm he's been forced to throw over Sylvain's shoulder. This, too, is childish. How fitting, considering that he's soon forced to remember the many, many times he'd begged his older, bigger friend to carry him from one place to another. He was always getting left behind, somehow? Not that Dimitri and Ingrid meant to leave him behind; it was just that, whenever Glenn came into the picture, they couldn't help but to be drawn into his orbit, so starry-eyed as they followed closely on his heels.
But not Sylvain. Never Sylvain. He'd always been there when the others left, picking Felix up without complaint—and Felix loved him fiercely.]
That was different, [he mutters, petulantly, as the arms around Sylvain's neck tighten ever so slightly.] Everything was.
[There'd been no need to question his feelings? No need to hide anything from anyone—and just like that, his righteous indignation gives way to something quieter. Tireder. Being a child had been so easy, and he hadn't even known to appreciate it! A shame! Felix thinks of what a fool he'd (unknowingly) been, and suddenly his head feels far too heavy; time, then, to press his cheek against his arm, blinking at the side of Sylvain's neck for a moment—kissable, he thinks—before he breathes out a quiet sigh.]
...It was simple.
[Loving Sylvain. Knowing that he was loved by Sylvain. Things he won't—can't—say.]
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In a sense, Sylvain's always known how to jump before the floor drops from under him. He's gotten pretty good at predicting when it'll happen; he knows that cutting his hands against a lifeline made from his own broken pieces is better than falling, falling, falling, uncertain of how long he has until he hits the bitter cold of the surface beneath, where it eagerly waits to drown him. So for Sylvain, the biggest change he'd had to endure was the sudden, inexplicable shift among his friends, and the sickening sense of failure that came with it.
For the others--for Felix--that 'change' was a point of no return. Felix had lost so much more than Sylvain ever had, and then lost more, still... And it should be enough, he thinks, to simply stay as they are, if only so Felix won't have to feel any different, and Sylvain won't be anything but what he is, and always has been, and always will be, so long as it means he can still stay by his side.
But when Felix continues, he sounds so far away--and Sylvain holds him a bit closer to his chest, as if it might be enough to keep him here, or maybe as if he's the missing piece responsible for this bone-deep ache in his chest.
"...It still can be," he says, still just as easy, just as bright, only somewhat quieter now. He's forced his eyes forward, albeit reluctantly, though he still doesn't loosen his hold on him. "You can pretend you still like this kind of thing... Just for tonight; I won't say a word."
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...Hmm. Sylvain is wrong, Felix thinks. Nothing about them can be as simple as it was—and that is both good and bad, now that he ponders it, but it's also an exceedingly complicated thing for his drunk brain to process. Goodness gracious! All he wants to do... is enjoy this moment for what it is. Nothing more, nothing less.
And yet. He cracks his eyes open, once again staring at the smooth skin of Sylvain's neck, because he should... speak? He should speak. If he doesn't, he's fairly certain he'll fall asleep like this, tucked so snuggly against Sylvain's chest, and he's determined to savor every second.]
I'm not good at pretending, [is how he chooses to begin.] Or lying. I'm not like you.
[He's never been very good at telling people what they want to hear? Never wanted to be good at such a thing. He says exactly what's on his mind because he's blunt, blunt, blunt, and Sylvain knows that—but for whatever reason, it feels important to remind Sylvain of that before he continues, softly, with:]
I don't hate this.
[Because it's Sylvain, of course. And in his hazy mind, now Sylvain can't doubt that he means what he says.]
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...But. Very, very rarely, something sharp still snags against him before he even sees it coming--and more often than not, it isn't even the fact that he'd said it that hurts, but rather the fact that, in some way or another, it's true.
This... is one of those moments, he thinks. The alcohol still in his system makes it hard for him to hold his expression steady, or maybe just hard to make himself want to hold it steady, because isn't that exactly the point...? If he keeps up a fake smile, won't that just be lying to him after all? It's bad enough that he's been acting like there's nothing unusual between them; like they hadn't kissed, like he doesn't still want to kiss him, like his winding thoughts aren't weaving themselves into what might happen if he were to stop, right now, and admit to everything, if only it would make Felix think any better of him.
He doesn't deserve anything else, though, and in the end he only looks somewhat troubled for a moment (maybe it can pass for offended, but he isn't paying close enough attention to notice) as his steps stutter--but before he can convince himself to do or say anything, Felix continues, and it's... well.
It doesn't stop the ache, but it does ease it, just a bit.
"...Good."
He sounds... thoughtful? Distant, almost, in a way that even he can hear. He hates that he can hear it, hates that it means Felix can hear it--but as they reach like... a staircase? Castle interiors are stupid, bedrooms and offices and such can be upstairs because I say so, so! As they reach a staircase, and he glances back down, it's easy to imagine Felix might be the thing that grounds him.
"I don't hate this, either." Because of course he believes Felix? Of course he does, and if not hating something is the closest he can get to Felix actually enjoying being this close to him... well then, so be it. "I'll still do it anytime you want me to."
Is that weird to offer...? It might be weird to offer... He's just gonna climb these stairs, so maybe don't think too hard about it.
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