[It sure is quite the collection, isn't it? Felix takes in the many, many colors before he carefully places the cocktail sword—well, rapier—he's holding alongside others of its kind. Sylvain went to some trouble to arrange them, after all; the least he can do is... this, even if it does feel rather silly. These cocktail rapiers are silly.
And yet there's something about the fact that Sylvain thought of him, collected these for him. Felix tries to banish such facts from his mind by carefully picking up another, slightly larger rapier, taking in its bright green color as he rolls it between his thumb and his pointer finger. Garish.]
You stole them, [he corrects, somewhat dryly, as he gives Sylvain a sideways glance.] And you didn't bother to wash them.
[Not that he's a Sylvain about these things, but this new piece of plastic is tacky to the touch. Kind of gross, really—and that's precisely why Felix's eyes flick down to Sylvain's hand, just resting right there atop the counter, before he swiftly reaches out to press the sticky sword against the back of it. En garde, asshole.]
Hey, now. What's that saying? One man's trash is another one's treasure?
[ felix is just being a brat like he always is and sylvain is far from upset, really—this is how they've always been, the same kind of back and forth they eventually fall into no matter where they are, no matter how bad things get. it's familiar and grounding, and as much as people would like to believe that he'd thrive in a place like this, the truth is that he knows he would struggle. will struggle, actually, because no matter how hard he'd tried to convince everyone that he'd enjoyed throwing himself around at anyone who'd look at him twice, he could never truly convince himself of the same.
and the fact that felix is here is both a blessing and a curse, really, but that's always how it's been for him, isn't it? his life has always been one big study in cosmic irony anyway, he should have expected this.
the tip of the plastic rapier digs into the skin of the back of his hand and he flips it around to catch it in his fingers before he's aware of it, blinking back up to felix's face. felix may not be as nitpicky about this stuff as he is, but he'd also went around carrying used plastic in his pockets the whole night so like, that probably says something, doesn't it? hmm. better not to dwell on that, so he smiles, slides his fingers up the little blade of the rapier and up felix's fingers to curl around his wrist. ]
[Felix expects Sylvain to meet this silly sort of challenge with a laugh, or a whine; he doesn't expect Sylvain to slip fingers over his, a feather-light touch that trails over his knuckles, over that stretch of skin normally shielded by gloves. It's not... it isn't bad. It isn't wholly unfamiliar, given the many, many times Sylvain grabbed his wrist during their Academy days, ignoring his protests while tugging him here or there—and yet there's something different about it, now. Felix tells himself it's the simple fact that Sylvain's fingers are rougher than they once were, callused after five long, hard years, but that's only half the truth. It's more about...
...Well. He seizes Sylvain's stupid suggestion like a lifeline, promptly looking down at the (dusty) sink just to look away from familiar brown eyes. Maybe he had more to drink than he realized—except that he didn't, because the world as a whole is steady, albeit a tad fuzzy along the edges. Nothing is here than hasn't been here.
Hmm. There are many reasons not to think about that? Even though that is the reason he doesn't twist free, despite the fact that he generally dislikes being held in such a fashion.]
No.
[A short, simple answer to a stupid question, because he has something else on his mind? He's still holding onto that little cocktail sword-slash-rapier, you see; it's simple, really, to flip it about in his fingers, pressing the tip of it against the underside of Sylvain's wrist as he lifts his chin to look up at him.]
You lowered your guard.
[Surely Sylvain remembers Felix instructing him not to do this earlier in the evening? So Felix is, in fact, being a brat, but this pointed fact is better than Felix outright snapping at him. That slight buzz Felix feels has saved Sylvain's ass.]
the tip of the rapier presses against the soft skin of the inside of sylvain's wrist and it doesn't hurt, no, but the blunt edge of it clears the bit of that fuzziness that still lingers. just enough for him to slide his pinky through the little space where the guard and hilt makes, as he holds felix's gaze. ]
So I did. [ it's really easy to lean in a little further, to pull felix a little closer, and so he does until the tip of his boot nudges against felix's. ] Are you going to punish me for it?
[ by all means goes unspoken, but it's there, hanging in the limited space between them. and maybe he just wants to see how far he can pull before felix digs his heels in, until he lets him go and they go back to whatever it is they were doing before. or maybe it's something else, something that's always been there and he'd just never reached out to grasp it. it's foolish, he knows; he's spent his whole life choosing felix, reaching for him, waiting for him, and you'd think he'd choose this, too. and yet. ]
[It isn't a particularly strong pull, given that Sylvain's grip about his wrist remains relatively loose—and yet Felix steps forward, anyway, allowing himself to be tugged that much closer to Sylvain for no apparent reason. He certainly doesn't have a plan; his toy rapier is all but useless, now that Sylvain's cleverly stuck his finger through it...
But Sylvain is clearly challenging him? It's evident in both Sylvain's words and the way that Sylvain looks at him, obviously waiting for him to do... something. Pull away, maybe. A part of him wants to, thanks in part to the warmth creeping up the back of his neck, but as that would be conceding defeat—ah, well. Better to move without thinking, pointedly sliding his foot between Sylvain's as he huffs out a quiet breath.]
You'd enjoy that.
[Since he's, you know. Straight-up asking for it. Absolutely incorrigible—but Felix still brings his free hand up to Sylvain's chest, curling his fingers into the fabric of his shirt. This is just like Sylvain grabbing his wrist; like, there are so many times Felix has yanked Sylvain forward, or pushed Sylvain back, or some combination of the two, and yet there's once again something distinctly different about such a familiar thing. Felix feels tense, for whatever reason? Awkward.]
You're so— [Hmm. He's many things, really, and thus Felix settles for a sharp tug, unthinkingly pulling Sylvain a tad farther down.] I don't know. Irritating.
[ it's not a strong pull, nor is it a very secure hold—even if it was, sylvain knows he'd never be able to hold felix down anyway. not that he would dare to want to, either. felix is stubborn and rebellious, bright and burning; sylvain has witnessed him razing fields of soldiers like a farmer's hatchet through wheat, watched him scale and tear down walls time and again, those same walls that sylvain had put up since he was old enough to understand what having a crest really meant. but here lies his secret, because as much as it is a challenge to felix, so too is it a confession: the expectation of felix pulling away juxtaposed against his desire for him to be closer. there's an invitation buried beneath the easy smile he gives felix, and his hold is deceptively loose; it's easier this way, should felix step back. this way, he could at least attempt to fool himself that he'd let him go. there's always a contingency plan, a workaround, even if being around felix has always thrown his plans into beautiful disarray.
but felix slides his foot between his, curls his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and sylvain's heart betrays him yet again, a terrible ache and a clench that he feels like a gut punch through his whole body. maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the way felix looks beneath the glow of the kitchen light, the way it cups his face so delicately, makes his eyes turn an even warmer amber; what else can he do but let himself be pulled when felix tugs him down? ]
I'm a real pain in the ass, huh? [ he chuckles, low and soft, one hand reaching up to settle in the curve of felix's waist. they're dancing on that precipice again and sylvain wants to grab him, throw them both off that edge and into the water below. ] But you're still here, aren't you.
[Sylvain is always doing this? Allowing Felix to call the shots, apparently content to amble along in whichever direction Felix chooses—and Felix has rarely questioned it. Felix has, in fact, taken it for granted, because at some point in their shared past, Sylvain being by his side became something so natural that Felix stopped giving it any real thought. Sylvain has always been there; of course Sylvain will always be there, no matter where Felix winds up.
But Sylvain leans lower, his hand finding its way to Felix's waist as though it belongs there, and Felix finds himself wondering what Sylvain actually wants. It's a hard thing to tell, at times. Felix believes he reads Sylvain better than almost anyone, but there's such a carefully calculated carelessness in the way Sylvain speaks, the way Sylvain moves, that Felix finds confusing—and frustrating. So, so frustrating, because so, so many things would be easier if Sylvain just...
...Well. It's a question of what Sylvain wants versus what Sylvain tolerates, really. A tricky matter that sends Felix studying Sylvain's face, silently agreeing that he is, in fact, a real pain in the ass. Always has been, actually. Why is he still here? Because you're an idiot, Felix thinks, acutely aware of Sylvain's fingers locked about his wrist as he presses down, pushes himself upward. Because you're important. Because you can't chase me away.
What he says, however, just before his lips brush against the corner of Sylvain's mouth, is the annoyed-sounding, but deceptively simple sentence that is:]
I promised.
[That sums it up, doesn't it? Wraps everything in a neat little bow, freeing Felix to cant his head, to press a purposeful kiss so close to, and yet so far from, Sylvain's lips. He won't take anything Sylvain isn't willing to give, buzz be damned.]
[ what does sylvain want? there's so much, most of which he likely doesn't deserve, all of it culminating in the man standing right before him. sylvain has never been very good at hiding what he wants—he sees something he likes and he takes it without so much as a by your leave, and drops it the second something else catches his eye. but felix has always been the exception, because felix has always been the one constant in his life; his center of gravity, pulled into his orbit so easily, it used to scare him sometimes. felix expects him to be by his side, expects sylvain to follow where he goes—and when did it turn from sylvain following him based on that promise alone, to him following felix because he wanted to? because he needed to, because a life not by felix's side isn't really a life at all?
and that's... well. that's just as frightening to admit, isn't it?
but here's the thing: felix pushes himself up and sylvain leans down to meet him instinctively, body moving before he can even register it. he feels the words against his skin before he hears it, and his mouth goes dry the moment he feels felix's lips brushing the corner of his mouth, feels his warm breath on his face tinged with the remnants of alcohol. his mind goes completely blank, lashes fluttering at the soft touch because the last time he remembers felix kissing him was when they were tiny, blissfully unaware of the weight that comes with promises, heart bursting full of love to give. and sylvain had taken it, all that love and affection felix had given him when no one else would, because it was all he'd ever wanted—not a crest, not a lance, not a duty to carry on a legacy that he'd wanted no part of.
he closes his eyes, his shoulders dropping like his strings have been cut as he sags briefly against the counter, takes a shaky breath like felix had stolen it all away from him. and maybe he has; there's an ache in sylvain's chest like he's been ripped apart to bare all the ugliness that he's kept inside, and it's one kiss. not even a proper one by any means, and he's already such a wretched mess. ]
Oh, sweetheart, [ he whispers in the minimal space between them, before he lets go of his wrist to slide his fingers along felix's jaw instead, cupping his face as he leans in and tilts his head a little more. just enough to catch felix's lips with his, because felix doesn't do anything in half measures and far be it from sylvain to deny him (and himself, because goddess forbid he actually gives himself the one thing he'd ever wanted for once in his life) of anything that is within his power to provide. ]
[Kissing Sylvain is far easier than it has any right to be, and maybe that's because Felix, too, is reminded of the many times he'd kissed Sylvain when they were small? Sweet, innocent gestures, meant to thank Sylvain for wiping his tears, or to clumsily comfort Sylvain whenever his smile slipped. This kiss is simply... a continuation of that. A way to emphasize the oh-so important point that was—is—their promise.
And yet Felix lingers far longer than he necessarily should, given pause by the breath taken so close to his ear—and by the fingers suddenly brushing along his cheek, smoothing over his skin in such a strangely gentle way as that pet name echoes in his ears. Sweetheart. He's never been anyone's sweetheart; hasn't cared to be, really, and were it anyone else calling him such a thing, he'd probably challenge them to a spar? Knock them flat on their back and dare them to say it again.
Sylvain, however. Sylvain. Sylvain has always been able to get away with things others can only dream of, when it comes to Felix—and this, Felix finds, is no exception, because Sylvain's lips press against his and Felix promptly drops that plastic rapier, hears it ping off the dusty floor. Whatever. What matters is bringing his newly freed hand to Sylvain's shoulder as swiftly as possible, anchoring him in place just so Felix can savor this feeling. The warmth blooming within his chest, which should make him nervous, does make him nervous...
...But Felix refuses to back down from anything, and thus Felix presses that much father upward, returning this careful kiss in a surprisingly bold manner. Sylvain kissed him, after all. Maybe this is precisely what Sylvain wants, at this point in time—and so Felix draws confidence from that, tightening his grip on Sylvain's shirt as he parts his lips. An invitation, of sorts? Maybe. Yes, but first Felix drags his teeth over Sylvain's lower lip, almost teasingly, before nipping sharply at it.]
Don't— [The briefest of pauses as he goes for another, lighter nip, just for that added emphasis.] —call me that.
[But he didn't say stop kissing him? He did not say stop kissing him, and he is not letting go.]
[ it's too easy and it feels too natural, like everything that involves felix, yet his normal response of taking a step back and leaving immediately doesn't kick in at all. it should be terrifying, how... comfortable it feels, almost like coming home again after a long, long time away. he familiarizes himself again with all the little things that he'd tried to forget but never could: the warmth of felix's hand seeping through the material of his shirt; the long, hot line of him pressed up against sylvain's front. he's all lean and wiry muscle, steady and solid, like he's always been—and sylvain wants, oh, how he wants, and he splays his fingers over felix's waist to the small of his back, coaxing him closer.
but nothing compares to the way felix's fingers feel winding even tighter into his shirt, the open heat of his mouth, and if sylvain wasn't prepared for it, he thinks his knees would've gone weak just from that alone. what he isn't prepared for is the drag of felix's teeth over his lip and there's a sound that leaves him, something caught between a groan and a laugh as his other hand slides from felix's face further up to tangle his fingers in his hair. ]
Call you what? [ he's already a little breathless just from kissing alone, voice low and hoarse and endlessly fond. ] Sweetheart? [ he latches onto felix's lip, sucking on the swell of it as payback for those nips earlier. ] But look at you... how can I not?
[ because he's in trouble. goddess, he's in so much trouble and there's nothing he can do about it except lean down just enough to cup the back of felix's thighs in his hands, lifting him up and around to perch him on the counter instead. he fits himself between felix's legs, hands sliding up to settle low on his hips as he leans in for another kiss, slow and lazy and indulgent, as if he has all the time in the world. and maybe he does, and maybe he doesn't want it to end. ]
[Felix is lithe, and Sylvain is broad, and Felix has never given it (much) thought. Of course Sylvain is wider about the shoulders, thicker about the thighs? He swings his lance from atop a horse, relying on his weight to keep himself centered, whereas Felix darts and ducks his way through the battlefield on foot. Their builds reflect the different purposes they serve.
But being pressed together like this means that their differences stand out all the more, and Felix finds himself unable to think of anything other than the way he's all but surrounded by Sylvain—until it's suddenly Felix thinking of nothing but the ease with which Sylvain lifts him, a move that sends Felix hissing as he's perched atop the counter like a prize. Annoying and exciting, in equal measure. He doesn't like being picked up, least of all with no warning whatsoever, but... well? Well. Sylvain's hands curl about his hips, a searing brand Felix feels through the thick fabric of his turtleneck, and Felix doesn't seen a reason to fight; he settles, instead, releasing his hold on Sylvain's shirt just so he can press his hand to Sylvain's chest, bracing himself as he leans into this dangerously languid kiss. He could very easily lose himself in this.
...He is losing himself in this, he realizes, dimly aware that he's tightened his legs about Sylvain's waist, that the hand on Sylvain's shoulder has found its way to the nape of Sylvain's neck, blunt nails digging into the skin there. It isn't like him to lose track of such things; he always moves with clear purpose, but now it's a role-reversal, of sorts: Sylvain leading, Felix following.
Goddess knows he wants to be obstinate? Reclaim some shred of self-control, and yet it's only a breathless sigh that escapes him as he pulls back just a hair, bumping their noses together.]
Don't look at me, then, [he murmurs, caring as little about the fact that this conversational thread was lost, like, a good ways back as he cares about his burning face, or the way the temperature in this kitchen has spiked to an alarming degree. Sweltering.] You're ridiculous.
[Which is Felix's version of "sweetheart," really, so please indulge him as he tilts his head in the opposite direction, giving his poor neck a break so that he can come right back in for more.]
[ sylvain laughs against felix's lips before he can stop himself, a low chuckle that bubbles up in between kisses before it smooths into a sigh that's equal parts fond and exasperated, amused and resigned. don't look at me, then, he says, so easily, as if it's something simple that he can accomplish. bless his heart, because sylvain is going to die by felix's hand one of these days and he can do nothing else but welcome it. ]
Yes, darling, [ he says into felix's mouth, runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth just to feel the sting. ] But you're still kissing me, so who's more ridiculous now?
[ it's an even spread, most likely, if sylvain has anything to say about it. but he's not really paying that much attention right now; he'd rather focus on other things instead, like the drag of felix's nails against his nape, or the tight grip of his legs around his waist that only serves to make heat drip sticky sweet down sylvain's spine. he hums, low and soft, lets his hand drift down from felix's hip to palm along the length of his thigh curving over his torso, circling around beneath until his fingers graze the curve of his bottom. he's done this plenty of times before, slid his hands beneath the skirts of girls just like this to dip his fingers between thin lace and softer skin; made a show of teasing like he enjoyed it, like seduction was just some silly game he could fool around with to forget about everything else. because this is what he's best at: disconnecting and burying it all until there's nothing left but the husk he fills with empty praise and emptier promises.
he's done this plenty of times before, and yet with felix, it feels like the first time all over again. it's the only explanation for it, the only reason why his heart is threatening to burst out of his chest with every breath, why just kissing felix feels so good; the hand that remained on felix's hip slides up beneath that cursed turtleneck that plagues his thoughts more than it should, smoothing over warm skin to slot his fingers between his ribs. he's ruined for anyone else—if he wasn't sure before, he's certain now. and try as he might, he can't even bring himself to pretend to regret it. ]
[Sylvain may have done this sort of this countless times, but Felix has done this... rarely. Very rarely. He's so picky as to be impossible, according to some—but isn't it funny, how easily Sylvain meets every single standard Felix set? How Sylvain calling him darling pales in comparison to Sylvain's fingers sliding down, and then up the length of his thigh, a sensation that sends him shuddering well before Sylvain's other hand finds its way beneath his shirt. Others have kissed him, yes; others have bedded him, but Felix kept every encounter as, ah, impersonal as possible, only seeking an outlet for an hour or so. Stress relief.
This, however, is not simply stress relief, despite the bracelet secured about his wrist; it's so much more than that, because Sylvain touches Felix and Felix burns in a way he's never burned for anyone before. It's as though Sylvain knows what he needs without him even needing to say it? And maybe that's par for the course, for the two of them. Sylvain has never allowed Felix to push him away, has always stayed by Felix's side when so many others take Felix's prickly attitude at face value and leave him the hell alone—and as Sylvain's hand settles atop his ribs, Felix can't prevent the strangled noise that escapes him, pained and pleased, as he drags his hand down Sylvain's chest. This is—
—hmm. This is a mess of contradictions, at its very core. Too much and not nearly enough, a wild, out-of-control feeling tempered only by the knowledge that Sylvain is his best friend—and that's what sends his hand skittering to a stop on Sylvain's stomach. Yes, he has been kissing Sylvain. Still is, and how ridiculous is this situation as a whole... how ridiculous will it be, come the morning...
...It's a little like ice-cold water dripping down Felix's spine. The sudden fear of fucking up something so incredibly important, which is why Felix pulls back yet again—although time it's a matter of inches as opposed to centimetres, giving him just enough space to crack open his eyes? To slowly blink back at this person—his best friend—before murmuring a dazed, almost hesitant-sounding—]
Sylvain—
[It isn't like Felix to feel anything less than confident, once he's committed to something—and he very much wants this. To a degree that's frightening, really, but while he absently runs his tongue along his swollen bottom lip, he finds himself sitting back, putting a few more inches between them as he processes his spiking pulse, the harsh sound of his breathing in this too-quiet kitchen. Ah.]
[ felix is so reactive and it really shouldn't surprise sylvain at this point. ever since they were kids, felix has always been sensitive and emotional, and while he may have grown out of that crybaby phase over the years, sylvain still sees remnants of it. every time felix says his name, the way he always grabs him to pull him close or push him back; the way he shudders beneath his hands now, going pliant against him in a way that knocks something loose in sylvain's chest, that desire to keep him safe that's always been there. it's a weird twist of irony that fate decided to gift felix a shield for his relic, he thinks. yet sylvain knows there's no one better, least of all himself.
but there's honesty in felix's touch, so genuine and sincere that it hurts him in the sweetest of ways, the breaking of something so fragile before it's painstakingly pieced back together again. and maybe that's all he's been doing—letting himself break, breaking others, running into that knife again and again because at least this way, the pain is his choice. but it's so different here, like nothing he could have ever known or imagined: felix holds him and keeps him rooted firmly in the presence of the moment, invades each of his senses and doesn't let go, commands his undivided attention in a way no one else has. sylvain can't think of anything else even if he wanted to, isn't allowed to let his mind wander like it's always done in the past; the strangled sound felix makes sears through him and leaves him feeling dizzy and lightheaded in its wake, and he grips felix's thigh tighter, pulls him to the edge of the counter so he can get even closer, until there isn't a shred of space left between them. there's a wild moment where sylvain wishes he could melt into him somehow, slip through his skin and settle inside him, warm and familiar. and maybe this is what it really means to feel safe and protected—not reckless maneuvers masquerading as grand gestures of heroics, but allowing himself to be held, allowing himself to feel cared for, even if it means letting go of what he wants in the moment.
but is it really letting go if all he'd ever really wanted was for felix to say his name like that? for felix to look at him in a way sylvain has only seen in his dreams and was always too afraid to seek it himself? ]
Hey, [ felix sits back and sylvain doesn't reach for him, letting his hand slide free from beneath felix's turtleneck to settle on the counter near his hip. the hand on his thigh comes back up to rest on his knee, giving it a brief squeeze. ] I got you. It's okay.
[ he leans in to press another kiss to felix's lips, soft and chaste, the opposite of everything they've been doing just now. there's nothing he wants more than to hold felix close again, but he refrains, his thumb rubbing gentle and soothing circles over his knee. ]
[Sweet words, a sweeter kiss—things Sylvain offers him that Felix both does and does not want, despite the way he finds himself tilting forward the slightest bit as Sylvain pulls back, instinctively chasing the warmth of his lips. He wants... oh, he doesn't know what he wants, really. The world is strangely hazy, at this point in time; nothing feels real, aside from the simple shape Sylvain's thumb traces atop his knee, over and over and over again. Felix does his best to focus on that, attempts to time his breathing to the rhythmic movement. One loop completed; one breath taken. Easy.
...Everything is easy, when it comes to Sylvain. Something Felix considers, briefly, as he brings both hands to Sylvain's shoulders, thumbs (easily, so easily) settling into the divots above his collarbone, because—well. Maybe, just maybe, kissing Sylvain should have been difficult. For both their sakes.
But it wasn't, and look at them now! Look at Felix, feeling increasingly foolish as he remains sitting on this counter, legs shamelessly wrapped around his best friend's waist as he drifts down from a heady high. He's... fine. Of course he's fine. There's no reason for Sylvain to coddle him in such a manner, and Felix straightens his back as best he can, caught between the urge to push Sylvain away and the urge to ask Sylvain if he's okay, if he's fine, if he regrets absolutely anything that's taken place tonight.
Instead, however, Felix flexes his fingers, a halfhearted huff escaping him as his eyes slide to the side. Slide down, actually, to the collection of cocktail swords-slash-rapiers sitting on the counter beside him, and oh, but he hates the way his chest tightens, hates the way I thought of you once again echoes through his mind.]
...You sound like you're soothing your horse.
[Stilted? A touch awkward, honestly, but still terse enough—grumpy enough—to sound so perfectly Felix. Reaching for a shred of normalcy...]
[ he can't help but laugh a little, soft and light in the minimal space between them as he continues to draw circles around felix's knee. easy and measured, calm, like a morning magic lesson at the academy, even if he feels anything but that. heat still simmers beneath his skin, quieter now that he doesn't have felix's lips to distract him anymore, and the distance felix puts between them helps, too. as much as sylvain is stubborn and insistent about staying with felix, he's never pushed, never tried to take more than what felix is willing to give him, because felix deserves better than that. deserves better than sylvain kissing him on the kitchen counter like this, like they're both teenagers again and sneaking around the monastery. and wouldn't that be something? if sylvain wasn't so intent on single-handedly destroying himself back then, maybe they could have had this sooner.
or maybe they wouldn't. sylvain has bedded and been bedded, but he's never done so with someone he actually cares about. his best friend, someone who is so fundamentally part of his being. and that says something too, doesn't it? ]
If it works.
[ and he thinks it does, at least a little, with the way felix looks less shaky and dazed. that was a good look on him too, he thinks, and immediately pushes that down. whatever doubt sylvain had that felix didn't want to kiss him is soothed by his hands on his shoulders, the way his thumbs slot into the dip of his clavicle. felix maintains contact, even if he won't look at him, and sylvain takes what he can get. too much, too fast, most likely.
and he really needs to stop thinking in the context of other people, but when was the last time someone actually tried to stop him when he got them alone like this? he doesn't remember, and it's strange how it steadies him, slows down his heart rate as he lets go of felix's knee entirely. he leans down, bracing his forearms outside of felix's hips, loosely caging him in, because he may not have his tongue in felix's mouth at the moment but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to stay close. ]
You want to shower first?
[ and despite all of that, here he is, once again holding the door to the exit open to felix. ]
[If it works, Sylvain says, like using his Horse Voice™ on Felix is a perfectly acceptable thing to do. Goddess, what an asshole. It's why Felix looks back at him just to shoot him a frown as he crowds closer, hands tightening on his shoulders in preparation for a push—but the truth of the matter is that Sylvain's dumb laugh and even dumber comment bring them that much closer to normal? Their version of it, anyway, because this sort of (rude) push-and-pull is old hat to them.
So in the end, Felix doesn't push Sylvain away; Felix tolerates this intrusion, instead, ignoring the jolt he feels as he lowers his chin to better hold Sylvain's gaze. A shower does sound good, in a way. Being clean is a luxury he was so often denied over the past, what, five years—but water running over his skin risks washing away the ghost of Sylvain's touch, and while that's stupid, so stupid, Felix finds that he wants to preserve the memory of... this. Savor it while he can, because some part of him knows that, come the morning, his fully sober self will ignore all thoughts of Sylvain's fingers slipping beneath his shirt. There's no reason to waste time thinking about what is most assuredly a single occurrence.
(And won't Sylvain do the same? Won't Sylvain greet him as easily as ever, acting for all the world as though nothing at all happened?)
Now, however. Now. Felix can still feel Sylvain's hands holding his hips, and thus Felix unlocks his legs, leaning that much farther back before he gives into the temptation to do something uncharacteristically impulsive.]
No, [he manages after a noticeable pause.] I don't— I'll take one in the morning.
[Damn! That stumble sends him pressing his lips together, feeling oddly defensive. He took the out, difficult as it was; all that's left is for Sylvain to take it, as well, just so Felix can climb into a bed that is not his and imagine things he has no right to.]
[ listen, it works?? okay??? like, sylvain loves his horses and he also, not so secretly, loves felix so it should stand to reason that he would use that voice on him if he needs to. and sylvain expects the push, even if it doesn't happen, even if he presses closer again and sylvain has no other choice but to hold onto his hips. loosely now, rather than the tighter grip he had before. he lets felix guide him, as he's always done, takes his cues from him and adjusts himself accordingly.
sylvain sees the paths laid out in front of him. they'll wake up in the morning and felix will say nothing of what happened tonight, steadfastly ignoring the elephant in the room; chalks it up to the alcohol, a minor lapse in control, maybe, and sylvain will have two options: he could carry on as if nothing had happened, greet felix like he usually does and put tonight out of sight and out of mind. bury these emotions like he had for the past five years—his whole life, even. or, he could actually admit what he wants for once, actually communicate it, instead of sabotaging everything before he's had a chance to really try to work for it.
but felix lowers his legs from around his waist to lean back again and sylvain's lashes flutter in the absence of that warmth, something akin to a sigh leaving him as his hands return to the counter. ]
Okay.
[ it takes effort to straighten up again, to pull back entirely and give back that space felix seeks. it's a little bit like torture, he thinks, how felix let him have a taste of what he's always wanted, of what he could have, and now that he's had it he will never be able to forget it. he will be thinking about felix's lips and his taste, every sound he made and the soft tremor of his body beneath his hands, for the rest of his life. like some sort of curse, a sentence, and he's just enough of a masochist to think that maybe this is enough. this is what he deserves, because he has no right to want for more out of felix. it is not his place to wish for it, not if felix doesn't want to give it.
and so, he lifts his head, the same easy smile back in place. ]
I'm gonna wash up, then. [ he reaches out as if to cup felix's cheek but he thinks better of it, runs the back of two knuckles along the curve of it instead. he can't hide the way something in him softens at the way felix presses his lips together, that defensiveness he's become so accustomed to seeing. better to take that out too, before he gives in once more. ] Goodnight, Felix.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
😘
And yet there's something about the fact that Sylvain thought of him, collected these for him. Felix tries to banish such facts from his mind by carefully picking up another, slightly larger rapier, taking in its bright green color as he rolls it between his thumb and his pointer finger. Garish.]
You stole them, [he corrects, somewhat dryly, as he gives Sylvain a sideways glance.] And you didn't bother to wash them.
[Not that he's a Sylvain about these things, but this new piece of plastic is tacky to the touch. Kind of gross, really—and that's precisely why Felix's eyes flick down to Sylvain's hand, just resting right there atop the counter, before he swiftly reaches out to press the sticky sword against the back of it. En garde, asshole.]
no subject
[ felix is just being a brat like he always is and sylvain is far from upset, really—this is how they've always been, the same kind of back and forth they eventually fall into no matter where they are, no matter how bad things get. it's familiar and grounding, and as much as people would like to believe that he'd thrive in a place like this, the truth is that he knows he would struggle. will struggle, actually, because no matter how hard he'd tried to convince everyone that he'd enjoyed throwing himself around at anyone who'd look at him twice, he could never truly convince himself of the same.
and the fact that felix is here is both a blessing and a curse, really, but that's always how it's been for him, isn't it? his life has always been one big study in cosmic irony anyway, he should have expected this.
the tip of the plastic rapier digs into the skin of the back of his hand and he flips it around to catch it in his fingers before he's aware of it, blinking back up to felix's face. felix may not be as nitpicky about this stuff as he is, but he'd also went around carrying used plastic in his pockets the whole night so like, that probably says something, doesn't it? hmm. better not to dwell on that, so he smiles, slides his fingers up the little blade of the rapier and up felix's fingers to curl around his wrist. ]
So, help me wash them now?
no subject
...Well. He seizes Sylvain's stupid suggestion like a lifeline, promptly looking down at the (dusty) sink just to look away from familiar brown eyes. Maybe he had more to drink than he realized—except that he didn't, because the world as a whole is steady, albeit a tad fuzzy along the edges. Nothing is here than hasn't been here.
Hmm. There are many reasons not to think about that? Even though that is the reason he doesn't twist free, despite the fact that he generally dislikes being held in such a fashion.]
No.
[A short, simple answer to a stupid question, because he has something else on his mind? He's still holding onto that little cocktail sword-slash-rapier, you see; it's simple, really, to flip it about in his fingers, pressing the tip of it against the underside of Sylvain's wrist as he lifts his chin to look up at him.]
You lowered your guard.
[Surely Sylvain remembers Felix instructing him not to do this earlier in the evening? So Felix is, in fact, being a brat, but this pointed fact is better than Felix outright snapping at him. That slight buzz Felix feels has saved Sylvain's ass.]
no subject
the tip of the rapier presses against the soft skin of the inside of sylvain's wrist and it doesn't hurt, no, but the blunt edge of it clears the bit of that fuzziness that still lingers. just enough for him to slide his pinky through the little space where the guard and hilt makes, as he holds felix's gaze. ]
So I did. [ it's really easy to lean in a little further, to pull felix a little closer, and so he does until the tip of his boot nudges against felix's. ] Are you going to punish me for it?
[ by all means goes unspoken, but it's there, hanging in the limited space between them. and maybe he just wants to see how far he can pull before felix digs his heels in, until he lets him go and they go back to whatever it is they were doing before. or maybe it's something else, something that's always been there and he'd just never reached out to grasp it. it's foolish, he knows; he's spent his whole life choosing felix, reaching for him, waiting for him, and you'd think he'd choose this, too. and yet. ]
no subject
But Sylvain is clearly challenging him? It's evident in both Sylvain's words and the way that Sylvain looks at him, obviously waiting for him to do... something. Pull away, maybe. A part of him wants to, thanks in part to the warmth creeping up the back of his neck, but as that would be conceding defeat—ah, well. Better to move without thinking, pointedly sliding his foot between Sylvain's as he huffs out a quiet breath.]
You'd enjoy that.
[Since he's, you know. Straight-up asking for it. Absolutely incorrigible—but Felix still brings his free hand up to Sylvain's chest, curling his fingers into the fabric of his shirt. This is just like Sylvain grabbing his wrist; like, there are so many times Felix has yanked Sylvain forward, or pushed Sylvain back, or some combination of the two, and yet there's once again something distinctly different about such a familiar thing. Felix feels tense, for whatever reason? Awkward.]
You're so— [Hmm. He's many things, really, and thus Felix settles for a sharp tug, unthinkingly pulling Sylvain a tad farther down.] I don't know. Irritating.
[In a way.]
no subject
[ it's not a strong pull, nor is it a very secure hold—even if it was, sylvain knows he'd never be able to hold felix down anyway. not that he would dare to want to, either. felix is stubborn and rebellious, bright and burning; sylvain has witnessed him razing fields of soldiers like a farmer's hatchet through wheat, watched him scale and tear down walls time and again, those same walls that sylvain had put up since he was old enough to understand what having a crest really meant. but here lies his secret, because as much as it is a challenge to felix, so too is it a confession: the expectation of felix pulling away juxtaposed against his desire for him to be closer. there's an invitation buried beneath the easy smile he gives felix, and his hold is deceptively loose; it's easier this way, should felix step back. this way, he could at least attempt to fool himself that he'd let him go. there's always a contingency plan, a workaround, even if being around felix has always thrown his plans into beautiful disarray.
but felix slides his foot between his, curls his fingers into the fabric of his shirt and sylvain's heart betrays him yet again, a terrible ache and a clench that he feels like a gut punch through his whole body. maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the way felix looks beneath the glow of the kitchen light, the way it cups his face so delicately, makes his eyes turn an even warmer amber; what else can he do but let himself be pulled when felix tugs him down? ]
I'm a real pain in the ass, huh? [ he chuckles, low and soft, one hand reaching up to settle in the curve of felix's waist. they're dancing on that precipice again and sylvain wants to grab him, throw them both off that edge and into the water below. ] But you're still here, aren't you.
no subject
But Sylvain leans lower, his hand finding its way to Felix's waist as though it belongs there, and Felix finds himself wondering what Sylvain actually wants. It's a hard thing to tell, at times. Felix believes he reads Sylvain better than almost anyone, but there's such a carefully calculated carelessness in the way Sylvain speaks, the way Sylvain moves, that Felix finds confusing—and frustrating. So, so frustrating, because so, so many things would be easier if Sylvain just...
...Well. It's a question of what Sylvain wants versus what Sylvain tolerates, really. A tricky matter that sends Felix studying Sylvain's face, silently agreeing that he is, in fact, a real pain in the ass. Always has been, actually. Why is he still here? Because you're an idiot, Felix thinks, acutely aware of Sylvain's fingers locked about his wrist as he presses down, pushes himself upward. Because you're important. Because you can't chase me away.
What he says, however, just before his lips brush against the corner of Sylvain's mouth, is the annoyed-sounding, but deceptively simple sentence that is:]
I promised.
[That sums it up, doesn't it? Wraps everything in a neat little bow, freeing Felix to cant his head, to press a purposeful kiss so close to, and yet so far from, Sylvain's lips. He won't take anything Sylvain isn't willing to give, buzz be damned.]
no subject
and that's... well. that's just as frightening to admit, isn't it?
but here's the thing: felix pushes himself up and sylvain leans down to meet him instinctively, body moving before he can even register it. he feels the words against his skin before he hears it, and his mouth goes dry the moment he feels felix's lips brushing the corner of his mouth, feels his warm breath on his face tinged with the remnants of alcohol. his mind goes completely blank, lashes fluttering at the soft touch because the last time he remembers felix kissing him was when they were tiny, blissfully unaware of the weight that comes with promises, heart bursting full of love to give. and sylvain had taken it, all that love and affection felix had given him when no one else would, because it was all he'd ever wanted—not a crest, not a lance, not a duty to carry on a legacy that he'd wanted no part of.
he closes his eyes, his shoulders dropping like his strings have been cut as he sags briefly against the counter, takes a shaky breath like felix had stolen it all away from him. and maybe he has; there's an ache in sylvain's chest like he's been ripped apart to bare all the ugliness that he's kept inside, and it's one kiss. not even a proper one by any means, and he's already such a wretched mess. ]
Oh, sweetheart, [ he whispers in the minimal space between them, before he lets go of his wrist to slide his fingers along felix's jaw instead, cupping his face as he leans in and tilts his head a little more. just enough to catch felix's lips with his, because felix doesn't do anything in half measures and far be it from sylvain to deny him (and himself, because goddess forbid he actually gives himself the one thing he'd ever wanted for once in his life) of anything that is within his power to provide. ]
no subject
And yet Felix lingers far longer than he necessarily should, given pause by the breath taken so close to his ear—and by the fingers suddenly brushing along his cheek, smoothing over his skin in such a strangely gentle way as that pet name echoes in his ears. Sweetheart. He's never been anyone's sweetheart; hasn't cared to be, really, and were it anyone else calling him such a thing, he'd probably challenge them to a spar? Knock them flat on their back and dare them to say it again.
Sylvain, however. Sylvain. Sylvain has always been able to get away with things others can only dream of, when it comes to Felix—and this, Felix finds, is no exception, because Sylvain's lips press against his and Felix promptly drops that plastic rapier, hears it ping off the dusty floor. Whatever. What matters is bringing his newly freed hand to Sylvain's shoulder as swiftly as possible, anchoring him in place just so Felix can savor this feeling. The warmth blooming within his chest, which should make him nervous, does make him nervous...
...But Felix refuses to back down from anything, and thus Felix presses that much father upward, returning this careful kiss in a surprisingly bold manner. Sylvain kissed him, after all. Maybe this is precisely what Sylvain wants, at this point in time—and so Felix draws confidence from that, tightening his grip on Sylvain's shirt as he parts his lips. An invitation, of sorts? Maybe. Yes, but first Felix drags his teeth over Sylvain's lower lip, almost teasingly, before nipping sharply at it.]
Don't— [The briefest of pauses as he goes for another, lighter nip, just for that added emphasis.] —call me that.
[But he didn't say stop kissing him? He did not say stop kissing him, and he is not letting go.]
no subject
but nothing compares to the way felix's fingers feel winding even tighter into his shirt, the open heat of his mouth, and if sylvain wasn't prepared for it, he thinks his knees would've gone weak just from that alone. what he isn't prepared for is the drag of felix's teeth over his lip and there's a sound that leaves him, something caught between a groan and a laugh as his other hand slides from felix's face further up to tangle his fingers in his hair. ]
Call you what? [ he's already a little breathless just from kissing alone, voice low and hoarse and endlessly fond. ] Sweetheart? [ he latches onto felix's lip, sucking on the swell of it as payback for those nips earlier. ] But look at you... how can I not?
[ because he's in trouble. goddess, he's in so much trouble and there's nothing he can do about it except lean down just enough to cup the back of felix's thighs in his hands, lifting him up and around to perch him on the counter instead. he fits himself between felix's legs, hands sliding up to settle low on his hips as he leans in for another kiss, slow and lazy and indulgent, as if he has all the time in the world. and maybe he does, and maybe he doesn't want it to end. ]
no subject
But being pressed together like this means that their differences stand out all the more, and Felix finds himself unable to think of anything other than the way he's all but surrounded by Sylvain—until it's suddenly Felix thinking of nothing but the ease with which Sylvain lifts him, a move that sends Felix hissing as he's perched atop the counter like a prize. Annoying and exciting, in equal measure. He doesn't like being picked up, least of all with no warning whatsoever, but... well? Well. Sylvain's hands curl about his hips, a searing brand Felix feels through the thick fabric of his turtleneck, and Felix doesn't seen a reason to fight; he settles, instead, releasing his hold on Sylvain's shirt just so he can press his hand to Sylvain's chest, bracing himself as he leans into this dangerously languid kiss. He could very easily lose himself in this.
...He is losing himself in this, he realizes, dimly aware that he's tightened his legs about Sylvain's waist, that the hand on Sylvain's shoulder has found its way to the nape of Sylvain's neck, blunt nails digging into the skin there. It isn't like him to lose track of such things; he always moves with clear purpose, but now it's a role-reversal, of sorts: Sylvain leading, Felix following.
Goddess knows he wants to be obstinate? Reclaim some shred of self-control, and yet it's only a breathless sigh that escapes him as he pulls back just a hair, bumping their noses together.]
Don't look at me, then, [he murmurs, caring as little about the fact that this conversational thread was lost, like, a good ways back as he cares about his burning face, or the way the temperature in this kitchen has spiked to an alarming degree. Sweltering.] You're ridiculous.
[Which is Felix's version of "sweetheart," really, so please indulge him as he tilts his head in the opposite direction, giving his poor neck a break so that he can come right back in for more.]
no subject
Yes, darling, [ he says into felix's mouth, runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth just to feel the sting. ] But you're still kissing me, so who's more ridiculous now?
[ it's an even spread, most likely, if sylvain has anything to say about it. but he's not really paying that much attention right now; he'd rather focus on other things instead, like the drag of felix's nails against his nape, or the tight grip of his legs around his waist that only serves to make heat drip sticky sweet down sylvain's spine. he hums, low and soft, lets his hand drift down from felix's hip to palm along the length of his thigh curving over his torso, circling around beneath until his fingers graze the curve of his bottom. he's done this plenty of times before, slid his hands beneath the skirts of girls just like this to dip his fingers between thin lace and softer skin; made a show of teasing like he enjoyed it, like seduction was just some silly game he could fool around with to forget about everything else. because this is what he's best at: disconnecting and burying it all until there's nothing left but the husk he fills with empty praise and emptier promises.
he's done this plenty of times before, and yet with felix, it feels like the first time all over again. it's the only explanation for it, the only reason why his heart is threatening to burst out of his chest with every breath, why just kissing felix feels so good; the hand that remained on felix's hip slides up beneath that cursed turtleneck that plagues his thoughts more than it should, smoothing over warm skin to slot his fingers between his ribs. he's ruined for anyone else—if he wasn't sure before, he's certain now. and try as he might, he can't even bring himself to pretend to regret it. ]
no subject
This, however, is not simply stress relief, despite the bracelet secured about his wrist; it's so much more than that, because Sylvain touches Felix and Felix burns in a way he's never burned for anyone before. It's as though Sylvain knows what he needs without him even needing to say it? And maybe that's par for the course, for the two of them. Sylvain has never allowed Felix to push him away, has always stayed by Felix's side when so many others take Felix's prickly attitude at face value and leave him the hell alone—and as Sylvain's hand settles atop his ribs, Felix can't prevent the strangled noise that escapes him, pained and pleased, as he drags his hand down Sylvain's chest. This is—
—hmm. This is a mess of contradictions, at its very core. Too much and not nearly enough, a wild, out-of-control feeling tempered only by the knowledge that Sylvain is his best friend—and that's what sends his hand skittering to a stop on Sylvain's stomach. Yes, he has been kissing Sylvain. Still is, and how ridiculous is this situation as a whole... how ridiculous will it be, come the morning...
...It's a little like ice-cold water dripping down Felix's spine. The sudden fear of fucking up something so incredibly important, which is why Felix pulls back yet again—although time it's a matter of inches as opposed to centimetres, giving him just enough space to crack open his eyes? To slowly blink back at this person—his best friend—before murmuring a dazed, almost hesitant-sounding—]
Sylvain—
[It isn't like Felix to feel anything less than confident, once he's committed to something—and he very much wants this. To a degree that's frightening, really, but while he absently runs his tongue along his swollen bottom lip, he finds himself sitting back, putting a few more inches between them as he processes his spiking pulse, the harsh sound of his breathing in this too-quiet kitchen. Ah.]
no subject
but there's honesty in felix's touch, so genuine and sincere that it hurts him in the sweetest of ways, the breaking of something so fragile before it's painstakingly pieced back together again. and maybe that's all he's been doing—letting himself break, breaking others, running into that knife again and again because at least this way, the pain is his choice. but it's so different here, like nothing he could have ever known or imagined: felix holds him and keeps him rooted firmly in the presence of the moment, invades each of his senses and doesn't let go, commands his undivided attention in a way no one else has. sylvain can't think of anything else even if he wanted to, isn't allowed to let his mind wander like it's always done in the past; the strangled sound felix makes sears through him and leaves him feeling dizzy and lightheaded in its wake, and he grips felix's thigh tighter, pulls him to the edge of the counter so he can get even closer, until there isn't a shred of space left between them. there's a wild moment where sylvain wishes he could melt into him somehow, slip through his skin and settle inside him, warm and familiar. and maybe this is what it really means to feel safe and protected—not reckless maneuvers masquerading as grand gestures of heroics, but allowing himself to be held, allowing himself to feel cared for, even if it means letting go of what he wants in the moment.
but is it really letting go if all he'd ever really wanted was for felix to say his name like that? for felix to look at him in a way sylvain has only seen in his dreams and was always too afraid to seek it himself? ]
Hey, [ felix sits back and sylvain doesn't reach for him, letting his hand slide free from beneath felix's turtleneck to settle on the counter near his hip. the hand on his thigh comes back up to rest on his knee, giving it a brief squeeze. ] I got you. It's okay.
[ he leans in to press another kiss to felix's lips, soft and chaste, the opposite of everything they've been doing just now. there's nothing he wants more than to hold felix close again, but he refrains, his thumb rubbing gentle and soothing circles over his knee. ]
You're okay.
no subject
...Everything is easy, when it comes to Sylvain. Something Felix considers, briefly, as he brings both hands to Sylvain's shoulders, thumbs (easily, so easily) settling into the divots above his collarbone, because—well. Maybe, just maybe, kissing Sylvain should have been difficult. For both their sakes.
But it wasn't, and look at them now! Look at Felix, feeling increasingly foolish as he remains sitting on this counter, legs shamelessly wrapped around his best friend's waist as he drifts down from a heady high. He's... fine. Of course he's fine. There's no reason for Sylvain to coddle him in such a manner, and Felix straightens his back as best he can, caught between the urge to push Sylvain away and the urge to ask Sylvain if he's okay, if he's fine, if he regrets absolutely anything that's taken place tonight.
Instead, however, Felix flexes his fingers, a halfhearted huff escaping him as his eyes slide to the side. Slide down, actually, to the collection of cocktail swords-slash-rapiers sitting on the counter beside him, and oh, but he hates the way his chest tightens, hates the way I thought of you once again echoes through his mind.]
...You sound like you're soothing your horse.
[Stilted? A touch awkward, honestly, but still terse enough—grumpy enough—to sound so perfectly Felix. Reaching for a shred of normalcy...]
no subject
or maybe they wouldn't. sylvain has bedded and been bedded, but he's never done so with someone he actually cares about. his best friend, someone who is so fundamentally part of his being. and that says something too, doesn't it? ]
If it works.
[ and he thinks it does, at least a little, with the way felix looks less shaky and dazed. that was a good look on him too, he thinks, and immediately pushes that down. whatever doubt sylvain had that felix didn't want to kiss him is soothed by his hands on his shoulders, the way his thumbs slot into the dip of his clavicle. felix maintains contact, even if he won't look at him, and sylvain takes what he can get. too much, too fast, most likely.
and he really needs to stop thinking in the context of other people, but when was the last time someone actually tried to stop him when he got them alone like this? he doesn't remember, and it's strange how it steadies him, slows down his heart rate as he lets go of felix's knee entirely. he leans down, bracing his forearms outside of felix's hips, loosely caging him in, because he may not have his tongue in felix's mouth at the moment but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to stay close. ]
You want to shower first?
[ and despite all of that, here he is, once again holding the door to the exit open to felix. ]
no subject
So in the end, Felix doesn't push Sylvain away; Felix tolerates this intrusion, instead, ignoring the jolt he feels as he lowers his chin to better hold Sylvain's gaze. A shower does sound good, in a way. Being clean is a luxury he was so often denied over the past, what, five years—but water running over his skin risks washing away the ghost of Sylvain's touch, and while that's stupid, so stupid, Felix finds that he wants to preserve the memory of... this. Savor it while he can, because some part of him knows that, come the morning, his fully sober self will ignore all thoughts of Sylvain's fingers slipping beneath his shirt. There's no reason to waste time thinking about what is most assuredly a single occurrence.
(And won't Sylvain do the same? Won't Sylvain greet him as easily as ever, acting for all the world as though nothing at all happened?)
Now, however. Now. Felix can still feel Sylvain's hands holding his hips, and thus Felix unlocks his legs, leaning that much farther back before he gives into the temptation to do something uncharacteristically impulsive.]
No, [he manages after a noticeable pause.] I don't— I'll take one in the morning.
[Damn! That stumble sends him pressing his lips together, feeling oddly defensive. He took the out, difficult as it was; all that's left is for Sylvain to take it, as well, just so Felix can climb into a bed that is not his and imagine things he has no right to.]
no subject
sylvain sees the paths laid out in front of him. they'll wake up in the morning and felix will say nothing of what happened tonight, steadfastly ignoring the elephant in the room; chalks it up to the alcohol, a minor lapse in control, maybe, and sylvain will have two options: he could carry on as if nothing had happened, greet felix like he usually does and put tonight out of sight and out of mind. bury these emotions like he had for the past five years—his whole life, even. or, he could actually admit what he wants for once, actually communicate it, instead of sabotaging everything before he's had a chance to really try to work for it.
but felix lowers his legs from around his waist to lean back again and sylvain's lashes flutter in the absence of that warmth, something akin to a sigh leaving him as his hands return to the counter. ]
Okay.
[ it takes effort to straighten up again, to pull back entirely and give back that space felix seeks. it's a little bit like torture, he thinks, how felix let him have a taste of what he's always wanted, of what he could have, and now that he's had it he will never be able to forget it. he will be thinking about felix's lips and his taste, every sound he made and the soft tremor of his body beneath his hands, for the rest of his life. like some sort of curse, a sentence, and he's just enough of a masochist to think that maybe this is enough. this is what he deserves, because he has no right to want for more out of felix. it is not his place to wish for it, not if felix doesn't want to give it.
and so, he lifts his head, the same easy smile back in place. ]
I'm gonna wash up, then. [ he reaches out as if to cup felix's cheek but he thinks better of it, runs the back of two knuckles along the curve of it instead. he can't hide the way something in him softens at the way felix presses his lips together, that defensiveness he's become so accustomed to seeing. better to take that out too, before he gives in once more. ] Goodnight, Felix.