[ it's later in the night when sylvain manages to coax felix away from the swords, armed with two pints of ale and a basket full of smoked meat and cheeses enough to make their own charcuterie board. the next round of fireworks is supposed to start in a few minutes, and sylvain takes them to a quieter spot further out from the crowd, just over a hill to give them an unobstructed view of the night sky and the party below.
there's things for them to worry about, of course—their arrival in this place for one, mercedes and annette being here for two, not to mention this war they're supposed to be preparing for. but at the moment, there's nothing but him and felix and ale burning warm in his veins, just like how it did on that night they finally took enbarr. it feels like another lifetime entirely, even if it was likely no more than a week ago. but that's something to dwell on another time. he's only half paying attention to felix's verbal dissertation on the swords he saw today and sometime he the middle he reaches over, gray hands reaching for felix and dragging him over. he wraps his arms around felix, hands resting on his chest and he tucks his chin over his head, molds himself to his back just like he'd done when they were children. felix is warm and vibrant against him, a bright burst of color against sylvain's monochrome backdrop, and it's so fitting, he thinks: felix had always been so loud and colorful, a spitfire of a child that grew up into a spitfire of a man, all sharp edges and even sharper glares. and sylvain had continued to stay close regardless, even at the risk of pricking himself on all those razor sharp angles.
but maybe it's the ale. maybe it's the fact that he's just glad that he isn't alone, because felix is warm and pliant against him, and everything feels like it's finally starting to slot back into place. ]
[Swords are interesting? The different forging techniques, the different patterns—like, each sword tells a story, and Felix finds that much more interesting than watching others dance. He could—and would!—loiter by the blacksmiths' tents for the rest of the night, asking pointed question after pointed question. This is his idea of fun.
Sylvain's idea of fun, however, involves copious amounts of ale, and Felix can hardly say no as he's pulled away to some secluded spot. Sylvain has always gotten away with things that others can only dream of, where Felix is concerned—and there's also the fact that Sylvain is still, ah, monochromatic? That Sylvain's brilliant red hair is a dull shade of grey, and while Felix knows it's nothing painful—he was grey for the better part of a week, and he made it through just fine—the sight is still so wrong that it sends something twisting within him. Sylvain has always been... bright, in Felix's eyes. Sylvain deserves to be bright.
But there's thinking that, and there's saying that, hence Felix's incredibly informational TED Talk. He's sipping this (strong!) ale while rattling off fact after fact, observation after observation—and that, perhaps, is why he doesn't notice Sylvain reaching for him before it's too late. Not that it's bad, being pulled back like this. It's, mmm, somewhat shameful to be caught off guard in such an obvious manner, but even as Felix tenses, his prickly self unused to so much sudden contact...
...Ah. Well. Sylvain is as warm as ever—and as Felix directs one of his famously sharp Looks down at the hands now clasped over his chest, the absence of color gives him pause, prevents him from slinging an elbow into Sylvain's stomach as he feels that chin settle atop his head. He's grateful that Sylvain is here with him, selfish as it is. If only he could help with— if only Sylvain would tell him—
Hmm.]
You're not listening.
[A grumbled fact, then, as Felix shifts, attempting to determine whether he should stay where he is or attempt to pull himself free.]
[ swords are interesting, and they're even more interesting when felix really goes in about them. though it's less about what he's saying and more about how passionate he gets, which is really not that different from his usual self, but that dryness that's usually present is softened and that gleam in his eyes seeps into his tone of voice. sylvain hasn't heard it in a long time; rarely ever during their time at the academy, when felix was amenable enough to suffer through his company, and it all but disappeared during the war. so if he's too busy savoring it to really pay attention to every detail about how forging techniques work (but not enough to pass up commenting on how different levels of heat and the fluctuation of temperature dependent on the physical tempering can affect the stability of the metal, and thus, impact the overall durability and flexibility of the blade as a result; sylvain may not be a master swordsman but he's always been interested in the science behind it, the merging of all the different pieces to create something much greater than on their own), then well— ]
I'm listening, [ he says, light and lilting, his tone making up for the dullness of his appearance at the moment. ] I'm just trying to get comfortable.
[ and that means hugging felix to his chest apparently. don't @ him. ]
It's been a while since we had this.
[ he could be referring to a number of things: this moment of peace, their abundance of time, maybe. but he isn't thinking about that. he's thinking about years ago, when they were much younger, when everything hadn't gone to shit and despite all the things sylvain dealt with, he still had felix. felix, who clung to him and his every word, who eagerly devoured all the random trivia and minutiae that he'd picked up on when he hid in the library to avoid miklan. and now they're older, perhaps not much wiser, but they're still here, and sylvain still has the luxury of holding him close. ]
[Getting comfortable does not, in Felix's opinion, mean serving as a sort of makeshift backrest? Getting comfortable involves, like, stretching out in the grass, peering up at the strange stars in this strange sky—but Felix is still looking at those grey hands, so stark against the black fabric of his shirt, and the urge to snap back at Sylvain dies a swift death. At the end of the day, it isn't as though Sylvain asks him for anything at all; is it so hard to just give him this...
...It is, and it isn't. One of those strange contradictions that always seem to center on Sylvain and Sylvain alone, but here is the truth: the pleasant buzz of alcohol makes dealing with this... slightly more bearable? Allows Felix to huff out a breath before slowly, carefully, leaning back against Sylvain, and while he's still stiff, it's an undeniable acceptance of the current state of things. He will sit here, feeling—feeling—Sylvain's every breath as he considers Sylvain's words, because Sylvain is the person who always comes through for his friends when it counts; it's only fair, then, for Felix to return the favor, albeit in this incredibly small way.
And it has been quite some time since they've sat back-to-chest like this. Years and years, if Felix's memory is to be trusted, and thus he hums in quiet agreement. He's never been very good at sitting still, as they both well know—but there is, in fact, something unexpectedly comforting about this closeness. Something worth missing.]
Maybe.
[A single word that could mean many things—and is the closest thing to an admission that Sylvain is going to get, so enjoy that, sir.]
Ask, next time. [As grumpy as ever, but—ah? Ah. Next time. If Felix catches the implication of his own words, there's no reaction; there's merely Felix sinking a bit farther back before blitzing right along with:] At least wait until I finish speaking.
[Now he's lost his train of thought, Sylvain. Alas.]
[ as they'd gotten older, felix has taken more time to warm up to things. sylvain remembers once upon a time, easy contact like this would have been nothing, no more than a simple readjustment in the placement of their limbs before felix would be completely relaxed against him. now, sylvain approaches these kinds of situations always expecting felix to pull away, like a cat who doesn't want to be petted but secretly does. lately, he's gotten lucky enough that felix acquiesces to it without much more than a token protest. so even though he may still be a little stiff in sylvain's arms, he leans in against him anyway, pulling his legs up to bracket them outside of felix's own.
that's what it comes down to: felix gives him an inch, and sylvain pretends it's a whole mile. ]
If I asked, would you still let me?
[ there's amusement in his tone, just a little dry, because they both know the answer to that. but he likes the idea of next time, the idea that felix likes this enough to welcome it again, and a faint flush of color returns to sylvain's hands.
but anyway, swords. ]
So did you end up teaching that kid how to wield his sword properly?
[It's difficult for Felix to be as... open as he once was. For various reasons—but Sylvain sees through him with an ease borne of years of patient waiting, watching. There are times when Sylvain seems to know precisely what Felix needs before Felix himself does.
And maybe this is one of those times? Felix has come to terms with this strange new world, more or less, but even as he scoffs at that first question—answer: obviously not—it is undeniably good to feel Sylvain's heartbeat against his back. Comforting, in a way, although Felix generally hates the idea of being comforted. It's a matter of pride.
But it's only the two of them, here. No one is around to see the way Felix slowly, slowly relaxes into Sylvain's hold—or the way Felix's eyes widen as he notes that trace of warmth come creeping back into Sylvain's skin. He knows better than to make a big deal about it; like, bringing it up runs the risk of ruining... that and this, really, and so Felix focuses on the conversation? Keeps his eyes on Sylvain's clasped hands as he brings one of his own up to them.]
In one lesson? [A soft snort as Felix's fingers find their way to Sylvain's knuckles, brushing along the rise and fall of them.] Don't be ridiculous. At least he won't cut himself.
[Hopefully, that is. Kids! But as his fingers continue their journey, sliding over the back of Sylvain's palm, the bone of his wrist:]
I saw you with the horses.
[An abrupt (re: awkward) introduction of a topic that Felix knows Sylvain enjoys. Tell him all about them, horse boy.]
He's probably never seen a real sword his life, you know. [ his hand twitches up against felix's fingers, as if he wants to catch them in his and lace them together like he's always done. but there's something nice in the way felix trails them over his knuckles, tracing battle-worn fingertips along the softer skin of the back of his hand, down to his wrist. ] Go a little easy on him, okay?
[ there's actually an alarming number of kids here, and sylvain isn't sure how he feels about that. it's definitely something to ruminate on later, when he's not settled in this warm moment of peace with felix tucked up against him. he's just started to relax, after all, and sylvain finds his smile growing even though felix can't see it. ]
I was with the horses, yeah. [ he turns his hand around, exposing the inside of his wrist to felix's fingers, a silent encouragement for him to continue his slow exploration. ] They're gorgeous. There was this gray and black spotted one that kept following me around, I think I might take her with me tomorrow. Haven't come up with a name yet, though.
[ it's funny, how relaxed he feels despite how they're supposed to be going into battle very soon. this is nothing compared to the night they were to storm enbarr, and sylvain supposes that's where the difference lies—they've already fought and won their hardest battle, came out of the other side alive in spite of everything. and maybe it's arrogance, but he can't find it in himself to be very worried at all. the only thing he needs is right here with him; as long as he has felix, there nothing they can't overcome. ]
[Going easy on someone ensures they're not going to learn a damn thing, in Felix's opinion, but he merely offers up a quiet, noncommittal grunt, too focused on Sylvain's hands to bother arguing. The underside of one's wrist is a surprisingly vulnerable spot? Soft. Unmarred by scars, and Felix traces the dark line of a vein up to the ball of Sylvain's thumb, smooths his fingers over the rough expanse of Sylvain's palm. He wouldn't think to do this with anyone else, but with Sylvain, it all feels...
...Hmm. It feels every bit as natural as Sylvain's chin digging into the top of his head, which is, perhaps, something to chew over the next time he's alone with his thoughts? For now, however, Felix thinks about horses, thinks about Sylvain riding out tomorrow to keep an eye on the perimeter. Nothing new for him, really, and yet the thought sends Felix (unconsciously) sinking even farther back. It's hardly his fault that Sylvain is warm and comfortable, don't @ him.]
You've been reading, [is what Felix offers, referring to the ever-growing stack of books on Sylvain's nightstand. He's not bothered to look at what, exactly, Sylvain is choosing to read in this place, but.] Pick a name from one of your books.
[He's being very helpful, he knows! Especially as he scrapes blunted nails down the center of Sylvain's palm, just to see what reaction it elicits.]
[ it's vulnerable and surprisingly sensitive? it's not a spot that gets touched often and not in this way—him and felix have grabbed each other's hands and wrists all throughout their lives, but sylvain can't remember the last time they've done this, gentle and lingering touches over places that should be more than familiar by now. he doesn't say anything for a moment, lifting his chin from felix's head to tuck over his shoulder instead, watching the path his fingers make along the vein up to the base of his thumb. it makes his skin tingle, a huff of something halfway to a laugh as he opens his palm a little wider, giving felix complete access to his hand.
it's nice. natural, like everything else with felix is. but more than that, it's soft and it makes something in his chest soft, as if felix is touching something that should be handled with care. as if he should be handled with care, and he knows it isn't because felix thinks he's weak or anything like that, but because he wants to. because he cares, in his own way. and as he sinks back further against him, sylvain swallows, watching that previous flush of color bloom into something clearer, spreading out from where felix's fingers touch his palm as if he's the one depositing the color back into him. ]
I don't think most of those would work, [ he says eventually, his tone turning just a touch sheepish. it's a good thing felix hasn't looked at the stack, because while yes, they're mainly manuals and textbooks, there are some raunchy dollar store paperbacks tucked in between that he may or may not have bought just for curiosity's sake. they have nothing on bernadetta's manuscripts, but, you know. it's for science, or whatever. ] But... mm, maybe Whitney.
[ like whinny. he's sure felix won't catch it, but it's fine. he's momentarily distracted by the blunt nails scratching down his palm, and sylvain closes his fingers around felix's, trapping his smaller hand in his own. but the damage has been done: color returns to his whole hand now, seeping over his wrist and slowly making its way up his forearm. ]
[Felix is so focused on Sylvain's hand that he barely registers Sylvain shifting about behind him? Doesn't notice the way he automatically tilts his head to the side as Sylvain's chin come to rest atop his shoulder, granting Sylvain that much more of his precious space. It's the ale's fault; the world is, mmm, softer around the edges, in a pleasant sort of way, and Felix finds himself fascinated by the feel of Sylvain's skin. He touches others so rarely, after all. Never really wants to—but Sylvain is, for whatever reason, the exception to so many of Felix's rules, and thus Felix doesn't pull away the second Sylvain's fingers close over his.
And it's more than worth it, just to see the color flood back into Sylvain's hand. Sylvain's hands. Felix thinks of them wrapped around the Lance of Ruin in the midst of battle; thinks of them gently combing through his horse's mane after the battle is through; thinks of them brushing, feather-light, over his cheeks after they both wander back to camp, wiping away smears of blood while Sylvain cracks some joke about Felix's messy, messy habits. Memories from a lifetime ago. Memories from little less than a moon ago, and that sends a strange warmth flooding through him as he considers that wild name.]
Whitney.
[He repeats it so slowly, almost as though he's considering the feel of it. Of course he is. Felix is never shy about expressing his opinions, but after a moment's consideration:]
I'll admit, I expected something... longer, [he concedes as he flexes his fingers, tests Sylvain's hold. A flashier name, perhaps? Something ironic? Sylvain has always enjoyed drawing attention, after all, but while Felix does not make that connection... a beat, and then, quite honestly:] I don't dislike it.
[So he likes it. Something Sylvain will surely catch, and thus Felix busies himself with freeing his thumb, smoothing it back over the underside of Sylvain's blessedly normal-looking wrist. Did Sylvain miss seeing himself in full color? Felix realizes that he has, and as he leans his head back, pressing it against Sylvain's shoulder, there's suddenly nothing he wants more than to see Sylvain's brown eyes, Sylvain's red hair.]
Yeah, you know. [ he's trying not to laugh, though felix can likely feel his shoulders shaking a little bit. ] Like "whinny".
[ it's stupid, sylvain is stupid, we all know this. it's definitely more subtle than what he'd typical go for (at least until he discovers whitney houston), but he likes the way it sounds when felix says it, like he's rolling it around on his tongue, to test the way it feels against his teeth. just like how he says sylvain's name, the bite and hiss of the s and how it drives him crazy sometimes. if he was any more tipsy than he already is he would have shivered just imagining it, but he firmly puts a lid on that, focusing instead on the way felix's thumb smooths over his wrist. ]
We should get you one, too. So you can name it.
[ never mind that he knows felix would sooner deign to ride with him than on his own horse. he's distracted when he says it, though, watching as he comes back to color bit by bit, some places a little more faint than others and still tinged with a bit of gray. and when felix tips his head back, sylvain turns his head just a little to meet his gaze, nearly nose to nose. he blinks, eyes turning from light gray to warm brown, framed by his long lashes, and he smiles. slow and relaxed. ]
[Whitney, whinny. Not even close, in Felix's opinion. As dumb as the idea that he needs a horse to call his own in this world, but his half-formed protest dies on his lips when Sylvain looks down at him, stealing even more of his personal space in the process. Typical Sylvain, really. Always testing the boundaries—and yet, as color creeps into Felix's cheeks, so, too, does color creep into Sylvain's irises, dull grey giving way to lively brown, and how is Felix supposed to be annoyed? How is Felix supposed to focus on anything but Sylvain's eyes, the shade of which he's (unknowingly) taken for granted for years and years and years. It's...
...Hmm. It's the simple fact that Felix missed this thing more than he even realized? That there is a deep ache in his chest as he studies the many facets of this particular shade, recommits them to memory.]
Your eyes, [he all but murmurs, brow furrowing ever so slightly—and what would sound like a cheesy line, were Sylvain to say it, simply sounds like the honest truth.] They're a darker brown, in the center. I haven't—
[—been close enough to notice, he almost says, but he bites it back? Presses his lips together, his eyes drifting down to that soft smile, because it's less that he's never noticed and more that he's tried not to notice. There's never been a point—until there suddenly is, and he hurriedly averts his gaze, preparing to face forward once more.]
[ it's not even close, but that's The Name now and sylvain will never change it. not that he's really thinking about the name, no—at the moment, he's busy watching that flush of red bloom on felix's cheeks; busy ignoring that tiny part of him that wonders if he's the cause of it, or if it's their proximity, or some kind of combination of both. sylvain can't see the color restored in his own eyes or hair, and he can only assume it did as he stares at the way felix stares at him, trying to identify the expression on his face. it's something he doesn't immediately recognize, a rare moment of vibrant emotion that felix often tries to keep hidden. it's not often sylvain can slip through his defenses so quickly, not without at least some gentle nudging here and there. and he almost leans in even closer, as if he could reach in and discover whatever it is, puzzle it out and pick it apart like those magical formulas annette likes to rip her hair out over.
but just when he thinks he's close to reaching it (your eyes, they're a darker brown. when was the last time anyone's said anything about his eyes?) felix's lips press into a thin line and he looks away, sylvain tracking the way his gaze darts down to his mouth and he doesn't dare to breathe. he doesn't dare to say anything for a moment, because even if that was a sylvain line (which actually isn't, if he really thinks about it. he's never looked into someone's eyes like this; too much honesty. too much vulnerability he wouldn't and couldn't give up), it sounds completely different delivered by felix. because here's the thing: felix means it. felix is honest and braver than sylvain would ever be, and that's something that hasn't changed since they were kids.
and the worst (or maybe best) part is, it works. ]
... Better late than never, right?
[ it sounds lame to his own ears and sylvain suddenly wants to let go of him, laugh it off like he does with everything else. but he forces himself to stay put, to keep his hold around felix, because felix deserves better than him running away yet again, walking back things that he shouldn't. and before he can stop himself or talk himself out of it, he reaches up and gently sets his fingertips along felix's jaw, coaxing his gaze back to his. he should say something more, he thinks, as he searches the familiar angles of felix's face, the burnt copper and topaz of his eyes that look softer now after the ale. but whatever he'd wanted to say leaves him entirely, and he's left sitting with his fingers cupping felix's jaw, feeling the way his breath fans out softly against his nose and his lips. ]
[ it is six in the morning on friday and sylvain is still sprawled over their bed, arms wrapped around felix's pillow he abandoned when he'd extricated himself from sylvain at whatever ungodly hour he decided to get up at. sylvain has spent the last five years waking up before the sun has even started to rise, in places where the sun doesn't even reach at all, so excuse him while he takes full and complete advantage of sleeping in now that the war is over.
also, it's his birthday? not that he is aware of that in this moment, but let him have this one luxury, please. or not, because felix is a menace that sylvain hates to love but never loves to hate, and he is completely unguarded and unprotected, the blankets having worked their way down through the night. it means he's bare from the hip up, the waistband of his sweats peeking out as he turns over away from the window, pressing his face further into the pillow.
[Five AM is a perfectly normal time to wake up, thanks, because unlike some people in this apartment, Felix enjoys being productive. He took a shower; he double-checked his plans for the day; he attempted—attempted—to make coffee, but as he has yet to learn how the coffee maker works, "making coffee" turned into "cleaning coffee grounds off the counter before Sylvain bitches about the mess," but it's fine. Another good thing about waking up before noon: it leaves them with plenty of time to stop by the local coffee shop and grab a disgustingly sweet latte for Sylvain and a black iced coffee for Felix. It's not, say, Almyran Pine Needle tea, but it will work.
Will work. Will, as soon as Felix can convince Sylvain to get up, to get moving—without, you know. Actually mentioning that it's his birthday, because Sylvain has an, ah, interesting relationship with his birthday. Felix knows it. Felix knows many other things, too, like the fact that this dream's calendar doesn't line up with their true calendar, meaning that this isn't really Sylvain's birthday, but...
...Well. Felix also knows that he's missed five birthdays, thanks to the war. Both of them fighting on opposite fronts of Faerghus' little rebellion, and it's—it was necessary, it's true, but those are five birthdays Sylvain faced alone. Why not make up for them here? Why not give Sylvain one solidly good day, if he can, because as Felix gazes down at Sylvain's freckled torso, he thinks about the many, many days made better by... Sylvain. Just Sylvain.
But that doesn't excuse Sylvain's laziness, which is why Felix places one hand on Sylvain's shoulder, the other atop Sylvain's hip, and pointedly ignores how (nicely) warm Sylvin is as he attempts to shake the man awake. Hi, hello, gooooooooood morning, tender feelings mean somewhat violent gestures.]
Sylvain. [Another none-too-gentle shake.] You've slept long enough. Get up.
[ asking felix to clean after himself is not bitching at him, wow?? completely rude, like the way felix starts shaking him just on this side of rough. good morning, indeed. ]
Felix, [ it's like, a low half groan half whine that's mostly muffled by the pillow, the only sanctuary in his time of need. ] What—?
[ time is it, is what he means to ask, but he cracks one eye open just enough to squint at the little digital clock on the bedside table. 6:04 blinks cheerfully up at him and sylvain's next groan is more pronounced, dragging the pillow over his face. ]
Too early. [ felix didn't tell him they had plans today, so sylvain is convinced that he should be able to sleep for at least half an hour longer. nevermind the fact that going back to sleep now is impossible, because he's technically more awake than he was a few minutes ago. instead, he reaches out blindly to curl his fingers around one of felix's wrists, tugging him down. ] Come back to bed.
[Too early? That prompts a scoff from Felix, because this is, again, a perfectly acceptable time to climb out of bed—but Felix doesn't expect Sylvain to reach out to grab him. Felix doesn't expect Sylvain to pull him down, even though he very much should, given Sylvain's, ah, handsy ways. How many times has Felix woken up to an arm slung over his waist, or Sylvain's breath puffing against the back of his neck, or—
—he's not thinking about any of that. He just isn't, even when Sylvain catching him by surprise means he winds up, like, half-collapsed on top of a half-naked Sylvain. Another thing to not think about! Excellent.]
No.
[No!!! He wriggles into a more upright position, scowling down at Sylvain just in case Sylvain is looking up at him through artfully cracked eyes. He's sneaky like that, Felix knows, so:]
I'm dressed, you fool, [he snaps, stubbornly, as he settles for digging an elbow into Sylvain's exposed side.] So get up and get dressed, too. I know you're awake; I saw you open your eyes.
[So what if Sylvain only opened one (1) eye. Felix's point still stands.]
[ so get undressed, is what he thinks, groggily, and thankfully has enough sense to actually not say that aloud. that'd be a riot, just as the way he feels the mattress dip suddenly with felix's weight, and sylvain finds himself grinning beneath the pillow. gautier: 1, fraldarius: 0.
and the handsy-ness goes both ways?? he cannot count all the times he's woken up in the middle of the night to felix pressed against him, attempting to leech all the warmth from him despite hogging all the blankets. and that's before they ended up in this place, not that sylvain's ever complained about it or wanted to complain about it, for that matter. but fine! fine, he pulls the pillow away from his face, smiling lazily and sleepily up at felix until he gets that elbow digging into his side to ruin the moment. ]
Didn't think you were looking that closely. [ sylvain yawns then, releasing felix's wrist as he pushes himself up, blankets pooling in his lap. the slight chill from the morning feels good on his skin and it wakes him up a little more while he rubs the sleep from his eyes. ] So, what's the plan today?
[It's not his fault that he's constantly cold! Just like it's not his fault that most—most—of the fight in him disappears the second Sylvain gives him that sleepy smile, because ah, look at that. Felix is really looking at that, even as Sylvain sitting up means that Felix slips down to the, like, very edge of the bed. A precarious perch! It would be better to stand—but Felix remains where he is, instead. Plants his feet on the floor and twists about to better watch Sylvain, his scowl softening as he tries (and fails) to think of a clever comeback to that first statement. Of course he was looking, he's... always looking...
...Well, you know. More or less, but he can only take a few seconds of Sylvain rubbing his eyes before something about it becomes too much, in a not-at-all unpleasant way. Sends him glancing at something off to the side, like it's personally offended him.]
Coffee, first.
[A brief pause, then, as Felix thinks of how to say what he wants to say—and then, in typical Felix fashion, forgoes that step entirely. Charges right ahead, because he enjoys a tenuous relationship with words at the best of times.]
We have somewhere to be. And don't ask questions, [he says, rather snippily, before Sylvain can hopefully even think to.] It's—you'll see when we get there.
If you wanted to take me out, Fe, you could've just asked.
[ he's just teasing, they both know that, and it's less to really provoke felix than it is to soften that... nervousness, maybe? he tries to remember if he missed anything special or significant about today, but nothing comes to mind off the top of his head. though, that could mostly be contributed to the fact that felix is sitting close enough for his knee to nudge against the outside of felix's thigh, or just how nice it is that felix is the first thing he gets to see in the morning. one of the small blessings of being in this place together.
but anyway. ]
Alright, I got it. No questions, [ he sighs while slowly getting onto his feet, stretching lazily as he makes his way to the bathroom. ] Give me ten minutes to clean up for you, okay?
[It's a very funny joke, ha, ha, ha, but the thing is... well, Felix could have just asked? He knows that. He could have at least mentioned having, mmm, a plan, of sorts. Some place he'd like Sylvain to see for whatever fuckin' reason, and while Sylvain would have teased him—when does Sylvain not tease him—Sylvain would have agreed. That's how it's always been, with them. Felix can't say he doesn't like it.
But it's Sylvain's kind-of-sort-of birthday, and Felix wants to do something halfway nice, and thus Felix bites back a smart comment as he pretends that he isn't watching Sylvain stretch. He doesn't care about the freckles dusting Sylvain's shoulders, the movement of Sylvain's shoulder blades; he cares about getting this show on the road, hence his oh-so helpful:]
Ten minutes, [he repeats, just to be rude. And then, just to be ruder:] I'm counting.
[He's not, because as soon as the door clicks closed behind Sylvain, Felix takes a moment to... breathe. To flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling for all of twenty seconds, For Reasons, before he sits up. Stands. Hurriedly straightens the sheets, because while he's never seen the point in making a bed, Sylvain likes things to look neat.
So there. Felix has already gone above and beyond; he's free, then, to make his way to the kitchen and lean against the counter, ostensibly to watch the minutes tick by on the microwave's tiny screen—but he's just listening for Sylvain. Waiting to turn around as soon as Sylvain makes his grand re-entrance, because he's dressed (jeans and a black t-shirt, both of which he hates), he's ready, follow his impatient ass out the door.]
[ it's extremely rude, but it's how felix has always been, which is why he catches himself grinning anyway in the bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth. he has no idea where felix is going to take him; sylvain is usually the one who plans things, the one who rounds them all up together for meals or a party or everything else in between. he doesn't remember the last time anyone went out of their way for him like this, which isn't something he's held against his friends at all—for all the attention he got back at the academy, he never wanted to be in the spotlight when it came to himself. it was always easier to hang back and focus on his classmates instead; he preferred it that way and that's how it was.
and now, well. now he's actually awake and it sinks into him bit by bit, watching the soap and shampoo going down the drain in the shower, attempting to decipher the feeling in his chest. he knows he's happy—tentative, a little uncertain beneath the unfamiliarity of being on the receiving end this time. it really shouldn't be a big deal, he thinks, as he dries off and changes in the room, glancing at the hastily straightened sheets and feeling his mouth twist in something so disgustingly fond he can't even stand himself. and for once in his life, he feels a little nervous, actually doing up almost (almost) all the buttons on his shirt rather than just two, going the extra mile and tucking it into his jeans before meeting felix in the kitchen.
and off they go. no questions, as promised, but he is looking around as they walk, alright he's still curious don't @ him. ]
[Felix enjoys silence? Demands it, at times, but while he's pleased that Sylvain doesn't ask any questions as he watches Felix lock up the apartment, as he follows Felix down the street—well! Well. Silence, in this case, gives Felix ample time to think about the plans he's made—and to wonder if he's doing the right thing, after all. Those five years aside, what if Sylvain would rather ignore this day entirely... what if this place he's dragging Sylvain to isn't everything it's cracked up to be...
Or: Felix isn't normally one to doubt himself, but a) this is uncharted territory and b) Sylvain is... Sylvain. Someone important, you know? The person he sees every morning when he wakes up; the person he spends almost every day with, so forgive him for being, mmm, somewhat on edge as he ducks into the coffee shop, claiming a spot in the back of the line. His shoulders are tense, and his jaw is held tight, but after a few more seconds of silence, he tilts his head back just far enough to catch Sylvain's eye.]
I said no questions, [he says, so quiet it's practically a mutter.] I didn't say that you couldn't speak.
[So, like... talk to him? Talk to him, please, as he shifts his attention forward, pretending to consider the menu hanging over the counter as the next customer is called forward.]
...We have time to sit.
[Time to split a pastry, which, yes, Felix will actually take a single bite of if Sylvain insists.]
[ look, maybe he would've tried to fill the silence if he like, actually knew how far their destination was, okay. and maybe he's still a little nervous about the whole thing, a little thrown off, because while he'd never turn down an opportunity to spend time with felix (especially outside of training), this is still... different. new and unfamiliar, and he can tell felix is feeling the same way just from the set of his shoulders as he walks beside him, the deeper furrow between his brows that's different from the usual scowl he wears.
mostly, he's still trying to figure out what exactly is so special about today, and it isn't until he follows felix into the coffee shop and he sees the date written on the large chalkboard behind the counter that it finally hits him. june 5th... he does some math in his head quickly, and—
ah. his birthday. ]
I know, I know. [ he breathes out a sigh, something fond that softens his expression before he drops his arm on felix's shoulder, his chin following suit on the other one. ] It's not every day you're this nice to me, you know. Maybe I just wanted to savor it.
[ felix is offering to loiter in this place, even! it really is his birthday, huh? and he kind of hates and loves the way something swells in his chest after the fact, knowing that felix had thought about this and tried to plan something just for him. things like birthdays were the last thing on their minds during the past five years; none of that stuff mattered when they were just fighting to live to greet the next day before doing it all over again. and before all of that, well.
it doesn't matter now, does it? he's here and felix is here and he's trying, which is more than sylvain could say for a number of people in his life. but that's just classic felix, isn't it? for all his prickliness, he's still so soft in the center. and maybe it was affection he'd felt earlier. maybe he's getting soft, too. ]
The coffee flavored doughnut sounds good. [ he points to the display in the glass case as they shift forward in line. ] And it won't be too sweet for you.
[Does Felix even register that chalkboard? No. No, he does not, because Sylvain's chin settling atop his shoulder means that Felix is focusing very, very intently on the list of the day's specials. It's nothing Sylvain hasn't done before, but it's—hmm. It's Sylvain's hair, still slightly damp from the shower. Felix can smell his stupid shampoo.
And yet he doesn't shove Sylvain away; he merely crosses his arms, instead, fingers flexing against his upper arms as he obligingly looks at the case full of too-sweet things. A coffee doughnut! Still gross, in Felix's opinion, but after a second's consideration he offers a noncommittal noise. Yes, fine, maybe.]
It will be, [he says, resigned to his fate, really, because hey.] We'll get one.
[One. A singular doughnut, which Sylvain can break into pieces Felix can poke at, because Goddess knows this one pastry contains more sugar than Felix normally consumes in a week. Not that Felix is thinking about that as he tilts his head away from Sylvain's, just so he can better look at him. He is thinking about... well! He is thinking, and it culminates in the churlish statement that is:]
I'm always nice to you.
[Mostly, anyway. When Sylvain deserves it—but whatever. Sylvain can think about that as they wait for the barista—who is far too peppy, for Felix's liking—to call them forward.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
baby ur a firework
there's things for them to worry about, of course—their arrival in this place for one, mercedes and annette being here for two, not to mention this war they're supposed to be preparing for. but at the moment, there's nothing but him and felix and ale burning warm in his veins, just like how it did on that night they finally took enbarr. it feels like another lifetime entirely, even if it was likely no more than a week ago. but that's something to dwell on another time. he's only half paying attention to felix's verbal dissertation on the swords he saw today and sometime he the middle he reaches over, gray hands reaching for felix and dragging him over. he wraps his arms around felix, hands resting on his chest and he tucks his chin over his head, molds himself to his back just like he'd done when they were children. felix is warm and vibrant against him, a bright burst of color against sylvain's monochrome backdrop, and it's so fitting, he thinks: felix had always been so loud and colorful, a spitfire of a child that grew up into a spitfire of a man, all sharp edges and even sharper glares. and sylvain had continued to stay close regardless, even at the risk of pricking himself on all those razor sharp angles.
but maybe it's the ale. maybe it's the fact that he's just glad that he isn't alone, because felix is warm and pliant against him, and everything feels like it's finally starting to slot back into place. ]
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Sylvain's idea of fun, however, involves copious amounts of ale, and Felix can hardly say no as he's pulled away to some secluded spot. Sylvain has always gotten away with things that others can only dream of, where Felix is concerned—and there's also the fact that Sylvain is still, ah, monochromatic? That Sylvain's brilliant red hair is a dull shade of grey, and while Felix knows it's nothing painful—he was grey for the better part of a week, and he made it through just fine—the sight is still so wrong that it sends something twisting within him. Sylvain has always been... bright, in Felix's eyes. Sylvain deserves to be bright.
But there's thinking that, and there's saying that, hence Felix's incredibly informational TED Talk. He's sipping this (strong!) ale while rattling off fact after fact, observation after observation—and that, perhaps, is why he doesn't notice Sylvain reaching for him before it's too late. Not that it's bad, being pulled back like this. It's, mmm, somewhat shameful to be caught off guard in such an obvious manner, but even as Felix tenses, his prickly self unused to so much sudden contact...
...Ah. Well. Sylvain is as warm as ever—and as Felix directs one of his famously sharp Looks down at the hands now clasped over his chest, the absence of color gives him pause, prevents him from slinging an elbow into Sylvain's stomach as he feels that chin settle atop his head. He's grateful that Sylvain is here with him, selfish as it is. If only he could help with— if only Sylvain would tell him—
Hmm.]
You're not listening.
[A grumbled fact, then, as Felix shifts, attempting to determine whether he should stay where he is or attempt to pull himself free.]
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I'm listening, [ he says, light and lilting, his tone making up for the dullness of his appearance at the moment. ] I'm just trying to get comfortable.
[ and that means hugging felix to his chest apparently. don't @ him. ]
It's been a while since we had this.
[ he could be referring to a number of things: this moment of peace, their abundance of time, maybe. but he isn't thinking about that. he's thinking about years ago, when they were much younger, when everything hadn't gone to shit and despite all the things sylvain dealt with, he still had felix. felix, who clung to him and his every word, who eagerly devoured all the random trivia and minutiae that he'd picked up on when he hid in the library to avoid miklan. and now they're older, perhaps not much wiser, but they're still here, and sylvain still has the luxury of holding him close. ]
I guess I kind of missed it, you know?
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...It is, and it isn't. One of those strange contradictions that always seem to center on Sylvain and Sylvain alone, but here is the truth: the pleasant buzz of alcohol makes dealing with this... slightly more bearable? Allows Felix to huff out a breath before slowly, carefully, leaning back against Sylvain, and while he's still stiff, it's an undeniable acceptance of the current state of things. He will sit here, feeling—feeling—Sylvain's every breath as he considers Sylvain's words, because Sylvain is the person who always comes through for his friends when it counts; it's only fair, then, for Felix to return the favor, albeit in this incredibly small way.
And it has been quite some time since they've sat back-to-chest like this. Years and years, if Felix's memory is to be trusted, and thus he hums in quiet agreement. He's never been very good at sitting still, as they both well know—but there is, in fact, something unexpectedly comforting about this closeness. Something worth missing.]
Maybe.
[A single word that could mean many things—and is the closest thing to an admission that Sylvain is going to get, so enjoy that, sir.]
Ask, next time. [As grumpy as ever, but—ah? Ah. Next time. If Felix catches the implication of his own words, there's no reaction; there's merely Felix sinking a bit farther back before blitzing right along with:] At least wait until I finish speaking.
[Now he's lost his train of thought, Sylvain. Alas.]
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that's what it comes down to: felix gives him an inch, and sylvain pretends it's a whole mile. ]
If I asked, would you still let me?
[ there's amusement in his tone, just a little dry, because they both know the answer to that. but he likes the idea of next time, the idea that felix likes this enough to welcome it again, and a faint flush of color returns to sylvain's hands.
but anyway, swords. ]
So did you end up teaching that kid how to wield his sword properly?
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And maybe this is one of those times? Felix has come to terms with this strange new world, more or less, but even as he scoffs at that first question—answer: obviously not—it is undeniably good to feel Sylvain's heartbeat against his back. Comforting, in a way, although Felix generally hates the idea of being comforted. It's a matter of pride.
But it's only the two of them, here. No one is around to see the way Felix slowly, slowly relaxes into Sylvain's hold—or the way Felix's eyes widen as he notes that trace of warmth come creeping back into Sylvain's skin. He knows better than to make a big deal about it; like, bringing it up runs the risk of ruining... that and this, really, and so Felix focuses on the conversation? Keeps his eyes on Sylvain's clasped hands as he brings one of his own up to them.]
In one lesson? [A soft snort as Felix's fingers find their way to Sylvain's knuckles, brushing along the rise and fall of them.] Don't be ridiculous. At least he won't cut himself.
[Hopefully, that is. Kids! But as his fingers continue their journey, sliding over the back of Sylvain's palm, the bone of his wrist:]
I saw you with the horses.
[An abrupt (re: awkward) introduction of a topic that Felix knows Sylvain enjoys. Tell him all about them, horse boy.]
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[ there's actually an alarming number of kids here, and sylvain isn't sure how he feels about that. it's definitely something to ruminate on later, when he's not settled in this warm moment of peace with felix tucked up against him. he's just started to relax, after all, and sylvain finds his smile growing even though felix can't see it. ]
I was with the horses, yeah. [ he turns his hand around, exposing the inside of his wrist to felix's fingers, a silent encouragement for him to continue his slow exploration. ] They're gorgeous. There was this gray and black spotted one that kept following me around, I think I might take her with me tomorrow. Haven't come up with a name yet, though.
[ it's funny, how relaxed he feels despite how they're supposed to be going into battle very soon. this is nothing compared to the night they were to storm enbarr, and sylvain supposes that's where the difference lies—they've already fought and won their hardest battle, came out of the other side alive in spite of everything. and maybe it's arrogance, but he can't find it in himself to be very worried at all. the only thing he needs is right here with him; as long as he has felix, there nothing they can't overcome. ]
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...Hmm. It feels every bit as natural as Sylvain's chin digging into the top of his head, which is, perhaps, something to chew over the next time he's alone with his thoughts? For now, however, Felix thinks about horses, thinks about Sylvain riding out tomorrow to keep an eye on the perimeter. Nothing new for him, really, and yet the thought sends Felix (unconsciously) sinking even farther back. It's hardly his fault that Sylvain is warm and comfortable, don't @ him.]
You've been reading, [is what Felix offers, referring to the ever-growing stack of books on Sylvain's nightstand. He's not bothered to look at what, exactly, Sylvain is choosing to read in this place, but.] Pick a name from one of your books.
[He's being very helpful, he knows! Especially as he scrapes blunted nails down the center of Sylvain's palm, just to see what reaction it elicits.]
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it's nice. natural, like everything else with felix is. but more than that, it's soft and it makes something in his chest soft, as if felix is touching something that should be handled with care. as if he should be handled with care, and he knows it isn't because felix thinks he's weak or anything like that, but because he wants to. because he cares, in his own way. and as he sinks back further against him, sylvain swallows, watching that previous flush of color bloom into something clearer, spreading out from where felix's fingers touch his palm as if he's the one depositing the color back into him. ]
I don't think most of those would work, [ he says eventually, his tone turning just a touch sheepish. it's a good thing felix hasn't looked at the stack, because while yes, they're mainly manuals and textbooks, there are some raunchy dollar store paperbacks tucked in between that he may or may not have bought just for curiosity's sake. they have nothing on bernadetta's manuscripts, but, you know. it's for science, or whatever. ] But... mm, maybe Whitney.
[ like whinny. he's sure felix won't catch it, but it's fine. he's momentarily distracted by the blunt nails scratching down his palm, and sylvain closes his fingers around felix's, trapping his smaller hand in his own. but the damage has been done: color returns to his whole hand now, seeping over his wrist and slowly making its way up his forearm. ]
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And it's more than worth it, just to see the color flood back into Sylvain's hand. Sylvain's hands. Felix thinks of them wrapped around the Lance of Ruin in the midst of battle; thinks of them gently combing through his horse's mane after the battle is through; thinks of them brushing, feather-light, over his cheeks after they both wander back to camp, wiping away smears of blood while Sylvain cracks some joke about Felix's messy, messy habits. Memories from a lifetime ago. Memories from little less than a moon ago, and that sends a strange warmth flooding through him as he considers that wild name.]
Whitney.
[He repeats it so slowly, almost as though he's considering the feel of it. Of course he is. Felix is never shy about expressing his opinions, but after a moment's consideration:]
I'll admit, I expected something... longer, [he concedes as he flexes his fingers, tests Sylvain's hold. A flashier name, perhaps? Something ironic? Sylvain has always enjoyed drawing attention, after all, but while Felix does not make that connection... a beat, and then, quite honestly:] I don't dislike it.
[So he likes it. Something Sylvain will surely catch, and thus Felix busies himself with freeing his thumb, smoothing it back over the underside of Sylvain's blessedly normal-looking wrist. Did Sylvain miss seeing himself in full color? Felix realizes that he has, and as he leans his head back, pressing it against Sylvain's shoulder, there's suddenly nothing he wants more than to see Sylvain's brown eyes, Sylvain's red hair.]
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[ it's stupid, sylvain is stupid, we all know this. it's definitely more subtle than what he'd typical go for (at least until he discovers whitney houston), but he likes the way it sounds when felix says it, like he's rolling it around on his tongue, to test the way it feels against his teeth. just like how he says sylvain's name, the bite and hiss of the s and how it drives him crazy sometimes. if he was any more tipsy than he already is he would have shivered just imagining it, but he firmly puts a lid on that, focusing instead on the way felix's thumb smooths over his wrist. ]
We should get you one, too. So you can name it.
[ never mind that he knows felix would sooner deign to ride with him than on his own horse. he's distracted when he says it, though, watching as he comes back to color bit by bit, some places a little more faint than others and still tinged with a bit of gray. and when felix tips his head back, sylvain turns his head just a little to meet his gaze, nearly nose to nose. he blinks, eyes turning from light gray to warm brown, framed by his long lashes, and he smiles. slow and relaxed. ]
What're you looking at?
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...Hmm. It's the simple fact that Felix missed this thing more than he even realized? That there is a deep ache in his chest as he studies the many facets of this particular shade, recommits them to memory.]
Your eyes, [he all but murmurs, brow furrowing ever so slightly—and what would sound like a cheesy line, were Sylvain to say it, simply sounds like the honest truth.] They're a darker brown, in the center. I haven't—
[—been close enough to notice, he almost says, but he bites it back? Presses his lips together, his eyes drifting down to that soft smile, because it's less that he's never noticed and more that he's tried not to notice. There's never been a point—until there suddenly is, and he hurriedly averts his gaze, preparing to face forward once more.]
...I didn't realize.
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but just when he thinks he's close to reaching it (your eyes, they're a darker brown. when was the last time anyone's said anything about his eyes?) felix's lips press into a thin line and he looks away, sylvain tracking the way his gaze darts down to his mouth and he doesn't dare to breathe. he doesn't dare to say anything for a moment, because even if that was a sylvain line (which actually isn't, if he really thinks about it. he's never looked into someone's eyes like this; too much honesty. too much vulnerability he wouldn't and couldn't give up), it sounds completely different delivered by felix. because here's the thing: felix means it. felix is honest and braver than sylvain would ever be, and that's something that hasn't changed since they were kids.
and the worst (or maybe best) part is, it works. ]
... Better late than never, right?
[ it sounds lame to his own ears and sylvain suddenly wants to let go of him, laugh it off like he does with everything else. but he forces himself to stay put, to keep his hold around felix, because felix deserves better than him running away yet again, walking back things that he shouldn't. and before he can stop himself or talk himself out of it, he reaches up and gently sets his fingertips along felix's jaw, coaxing his gaze back to his. he should say something more, he thinks, as he searches the familiar angles of felix's face, the burnt copper and topaz of his eyes that look softer now after the ale. but whatever he'd wanted to say leaves him entirely, and he's left sitting with his fingers cupping felix's jaw, feeling the way his breath fans out softly against his nose and his lips. ]
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6/5 hey shawty it's your—
also, it's his birthday? not that he is aware of that in this moment, but let him have this one luxury, please. or not, because felix is a menace that sylvain hates to love but never loves to hate, and he is completely unguarded and unprotected, the blankets having worked their way down through the night. it means he's bare from the hip up, the waistband of his sweats peeking out as he turns over away from the window, pressing his face further into the pillow.
five more minutes, please. ]
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Will work. Will, as soon as Felix can convince Sylvain to get up, to get moving—without, you know. Actually mentioning that it's his birthday, because Sylvain has an, ah, interesting relationship with his birthday. Felix knows it. Felix knows many other things, too, like the fact that this dream's calendar doesn't line up with their true calendar, meaning that this isn't really Sylvain's birthday, but...
...Well. Felix also knows that he's missed five birthdays, thanks to the war. Both of them fighting on opposite fronts of Faerghus' little rebellion, and it's—it was necessary, it's true, but those are five birthdays Sylvain faced alone. Why not make up for them here? Why not give Sylvain one solidly good day, if he can, because as Felix gazes down at Sylvain's freckled torso, he thinks about the many, many days made better by... Sylvain. Just Sylvain.
But that doesn't excuse Sylvain's laziness, which is why Felix places one hand on Sylvain's shoulder, the other atop Sylvain's hip, and pointedly ignores how (nicely) warm Sylvin is as he attempts to shake the man awake. Hi, hello, gooooooooood morning, tender feelings mean somewhat violent gestures.]
Sylvain. [Another none-too-gentle shake.] You've slept long enough. Get up.
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Felix, [ it's like, a low half groan half whine that's mostly muffled by the pillow, the only sanctuary in his time of need. ] What—?
[ time is it, is what he means to ask, but he cracks one eye open just enough to squint at the little digital clock on the bedside table. 6:04 blinks cheerfully up at him and sylvain's next groan is more pronounced, dragging the pillow over his face. ]
Too early. [ felix didn't tell him they had plans today, so sylvain is convinced that he should be able to sleep for at least half an hour longer. nevermind the fact that going back to sleep now is impossible, because he's technically more awake than he was a few minutes ago. instead, he reaches out blindly to curl his fingers around one of felix's wrists, tugging him down. ] Come back to bed.
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—he's not thinking about any of that. He just isn't, even when Sylvain catching him by surprise means he winds up, like, half-collapsed on top of a half-naked Sylvain. Another thing to not think about! Excellent.]
No.
[No!!! He wriggles into a more upright position, scowling down at Sylvain just in case Sylvain is looking up at him through artfully cracked eyes. He's sneaky like that, Felix knows, so:]
I'm dressed, you fool, [he snaps, stubbornly, as he settles for digging an elbow into Sylvain's exposed side.] So get up and get dressed, too. I know you're awake; I saw you open your eyes.
[So what if Sylvain only opened one (1) eye. Felix's point still stands.]
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and the handsy-ness goes both ways?? he cannot count all the times he's woken up in the middle of the night to felix pressed against him, attempting to leech all the warmth from him despite hogging all the blankets. and that's before they ended up in this place, not that sylvain's ever complained about it or wanted to complain about it, for that matter. but fine! fine, he pulls the pillow away from his face, smiling lazily and sleepily up at felix until he gets that elbow digging into his side to ruin the moment. ]
Didn't think you were looking that closely. [ sylvain yawns then, releasing felix's wrist as he pushes himself up, blankets pooling in his lap. the slight chill from the morning feels good on his skin and it wakes him up a little more while he rubs the sleep from his eyes. ] So, what's the plan today?
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...Well, you know. More or less, but he can only take a few seconds of Sylvain rubbing his eyes before something about it becomes too much, in a not-at-all unpleasant way. Sends him glancing at something off to the side, like it's personally offended him.]
Coffee, first.
[A brief pause, then, as Felix thinks of how to say what he wants to say—and then, in typical Felix fashion, forgoes that step entirely. Charges right ahead, because he enjoys a tenuous relationship with words at the best of times.]
We have somewhere to be. And don't ask questions, [he says, rather snippily, before Sylvain can hopefully even think to.] It's—you'll see when we get there.
[So: it's a surprise. Felix just can't say that.]
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If you wanted to take me out, Fe, you could've just asked.
[ he's just teasing, they both know that, and it's less to really provoke felix than it is to soften that... nervousness, maybe? he tries to remember if he missed anything special or significant about today, but nothing comes to mind off the top of his head. though, that could mostly be contributed to the fact that felix is sitting close enough for his knee to nudge against the outside of felix's thigh, or just how nice it is that felix is the first thing he gets to see in the morning. one of the small blessings of being in this place together.
but anyway. ]
Alright, I got it. No questions, [ he sighs while slowly getting onto his feet, stretching lazily as he makes his way to the bathroom. ] Give me ten minutes to clean up for you, okay?
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But it's Sylvain's kind-of-sort-of birthday, and Felix wants to do something halfway nice, and thus Felix bites back a smart comment as he pretends that he isn't watching Sylvain stretch. He doesn't care about the freckles dusting Sylvain's shoulders, the movement of Sylvain's shoulder blades; he cares about getting this show on the road, hence his oh-so helpful:]
Ten minutes, [he repeats, just to be rude. And then, just to be ruder:] I'm counting.
[He's not, because as soon as the door clicks closed behind Sylvain, Felix takes a moment to... breathe. To flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling for all of twenty seconds, For Reasons, before he sits up. Stands. Hurriedly straightens the sheets, because while he's never seen the point in making a bed, Sylvain likes things to look neat.
So there. Felix has already gone above and beyond; he's free, then, to make his way to the kitchen and lean against the counter, ostensibly to watch the minutes tick by on the microwave's tiny screen—but he's just listening for Sylvain. Waiting to turn around as soon as Sylvain makes his grand re-entrance, because he's dressed (jeans and a black t-shirt, both of which he hates), he's ready, follow his impatient ass out the door.]
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and now, well. now he's actually awake and it sinks into him bit by bit, watching the soap and shampoo going down the drain in the shower, attempting to decipher the feeling in his chest. he knows he's happy—tentative, a little uncertain beneath the unfamiliarity of being on the receiving end this time. it really shouldn't be a big deal, he thinks, as he dries off and changes in the room, glancing at the hastily straightened sheets and feeling his mouth twist in something so disgustingly fond he can't even stand himself. and for once in his life, he feels a little nervous, actually doing up almost (almost) all the buttons on his shirt rather than just two, going the extra mile and tucking it into his jeans before meeting felix in the kitchen.
and off they go. no questions, as promised, but he is looking around as they walk, alright he's still curious don't @ him. ]
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Or: Felix isn't normally one to doubt himself, but a) this is uncharted territory and b) Sylvain is... Sylvain. Someone important, you know? The person he sees every morning when he wakes up; the person he spends almost every day with, so forgive him for being, mmm, somewhat on edge as he ducks into the coffee shop, claiming a spot in the back of the line. His shoulders are tense, and his jaw is held tight, but after a few more seconds of silence, he tilts his head back just far enough to catch Sylvain's eye.]
I said no questions, [he says, so quiet it's practically a mutter.] I didn't say that you couldn't speak.
[So, like... talk to him? Talk to him, please, as he shifts his attention forward, pretending to consider the menu hanging over the counter as the next customer is called forward.]
...We have time to sit.
[Time to split a pastry, which, yes, Felix will actually take a single bite of if Sylvain insists.]
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mostly, he's still trying to figure out what exactly is so special about today, and it isn't until he follows felix into the coffee shop and he sees the date written on the large chalkboard behind the counter that it finally hits him. june 5th... he does some math in his head quickly, and—
ah. his birthday. ]
I know, I know. [ he breathes out a sigh, something fond that softens his expression before he drops his arm on felix's shoulder, his chin following suit on the other one. ] It's not every day you're this nice to me, you know. Maybe I just wanted to savor it.
[ felix is offering to loiter in this place, even! it really is his birthday, huh? and he kind of hates and loves the way something swells in his chest after the fact, knowing that felix had thought about this and tried to plan something just for him. things like birthdays were the last thing on their minds during the past five years; none of that stuff mattered when they were just fighting to live to greet the next day before doing it all over again. and before all of that, well.
it doesn't matter now, does it? he's here and felix is here and he's trying, which is more than sylvain could say for a number of people in his life. but that's just classic felix, isn't it? for all his prickliness, he's still so soft in the center. and maybe it was affection he'd felt earlier. maybe he's getting soft, too. ]
The coffee flavored doughnut sounds good. [ he points to the display in the glass case as they shift forward in line. ] And it won't be too sweet for you.
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And yet he doesn't shove Sylvain away; he merely crosses his arms, instead, fingers flexing against his upper arms as he obligingly looks at the case full of too-sweet things. A coffee doughnut! Still gross, in Felix's opinion, but after a second's consideration he offers a noncommittal noise. Yes, fine, maybe.]
It will be, [he says, resigned to his fate, really, because hey.] We'll get one.
[One. A singular doughnut, which Sylvain can break into pieces Felix can poke at, because Goddess knows this one pastry contains more sugar than Felix normally consumes in a week. Not that Felix is thinking about that as he tilts his head away from Sylvain's, just so he can better look at him. He is thinking about... well! He is thinking, and it culminates in the churlish statement that is:]
I'm always nice to you.
[Mostly, anyway. When Sylvain deserves it—but whatever. Sylvain can think about that as they wait for the barista—who is far too peppy, for Felix's liking—to call them forward.]
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me keeping track of that icon like https://tinyurl.com/y7lysdm4
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je refuse
"equine child" i hate this
sylvain needs to take responsibility for his child
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i can keep making this thread as thirsty as i please
it's what we deserve
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