[ so what? is what he wants to ask but never gets out as felix surges up to kiss him, brute forces his way in with that determined focus he uses with everything else. but it's a little different this time, a little softer and a little slower, and it makes something in him melt, sinking further into felix. he doesn't think he could ever get tired of this: kissing felix is nothing short of overwhelming, riddled with emotion that he'd never dared to voice, never dared to let himself try to find. he never thought he deserved this—the luxury of being able to hold felix close, to be able to touch him in this way without having to hide behind years of friendship, telling himself that felix deserves better than anything he could provide.
but the thing is, felix makes him want to try anyway in spite of it, makes him want to work for it. and maybe there will be a day when he can finally be worthy of it, the love that felix gives him freely, the belief he has in sylvain that never fails to push him further whenever he feels like he can't. felix has always done more for him than he knows.
he has his fingers in felix's hair when he pulls away, his heart threatening to thud right out of his ribcage when he remembers what breathing is. it's so easy to lose himself in felix, like a dying man taking his first sip of water after months of wandering a desert, and he wonders if felix knows. he wonders if felix understands that because it's still always been him, no matter what lifetime; every single one of them. but maybe he does, because he's felix and he knows him better than he knows himself sometimes, and maybe he knows the thing that's been on the tip of sylvain's tongue for the longest time, now that he's all but said it. that last piece to slot in place, one that sylvain has been working up to for years now.
but before any of that, he feels a small nudge against his ankle, a wet nose bumping against the side of his foot, and sylvain looks down to see zoltan sniffing around their feet in a more active bid for attention. ]
C'mon Zoltie, your parents are talking. [ he still has yet to let go of felix even as zoltan wriggles between them, trying to get to the other side and further into the apartment. dryly, as he looks back up at felix: ] This must be what it's like to have kids, huh?
i had this typed up for hours in a tab? i forgot to hit post, what the fuck
[Felix's mind is mess? He's thinking of everything and nothing as Sylvain shifts back, aware, on some level, that the end of the kiss surely means more talking—but he fails to account for Zoltan. Zoltan. The tiny ball of energy that drags Sylvain's attention downwards, and Felix is grateful for him, grateful that there's something light for Sylvain to focus on. Felix was immediately fond of Zoltan when he spotted him peeking out of Sylvain's shirt; now that fondness takes on new meaning, new depth, even as Sylvain says the stupidest shit. So they're parents now, are they...
...Felix shoots Sylvain a Look, of course, lips pressing into a thin line as Sylvain shifts his attention upwards once more. It's expected. It's all so blessedly normal, despite the fact that Zoltan is a strange new addition to both their lives. Their shared lives? Hmm.]
"Zoltie?" [Hmm, no. Firmly:] Zoltan.
[That's a very important name, you little shit—and Felix will be forced to Accept this cutesy version of it within a week. So it goes. Now, however, Felix is seizing upon this opportunity with reckless abandon, because he can and will sort through this bombshell when Sylvain's arms aren't around him, when Sylvain isn't holding him so closely. He should pull away; he does no such thing.]
We're not his—parents. He's your dog, and if he makes a mess, I won't be cleaning it.
[Again, give Felix a week. He'll be grumpily whipped.]
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but the thing is, felix makes him want to try anyway in spite of it, makes him want to work for it. and maybe there will be a day when he can finally be worthy of it, the love that felix gives him freely, the belief he has in sylvain that never fails to push him further whenever he feels like he can't. felix has always done more for him than he knows.
he has his fingers in felix's hair when he pulls away, his heart threatening to thud right out of his ribcage when he remembers what breathing is. it's so easy to lose himself in felix, like a dying man taking his first sip of water after months of wandering a desert, and he wonders if felix knows. he wonders if felix understands that because it's still always been him, no matter what lifetime; every single one of them. but maybe he does, because he's felix and he knows him better than he knows himself sometimes, and maybe he knows the thing that's been on the tip of sylvain's tongue for the longest time, now that he's all but said it. that last piece to slot in place, one that sylvain has been working up to for years now.
but before any of that, he feels a small nudge against his ankle, a wet nose bumping against the side of his foot, and sylvain looks down to see zoltan sniffing around their feet in a more active bid for attention. ]
C'mon Zoltie, your parents are talking. [ he still has yet to let go of felix even as zoltan wriggles between them, trying to get to the other side and further into the apartment. dryly, as he looks back up at felix: ] This must be what it's like to have kids, huh?
i had this typed up for hours in a tab? i forgot to hit post, what the fuck
...Felix shoots Sylvain a Look, of course, lips pressing into a thin line as Sylvain shifts his attention upwards once more. It's expected. It's all so blessedly normal, despite the fact that Zoltan is a strange new addition to both their lives. Their shared lives? Hmm.]
"Zoltie?" [Hmm, no. Firmly:] Zoltan.
[That's a very important name, you little shit—and Felix will be forced to Accept this cutesy version of it within a week. So it goes. Now, however, Felix is seizing upon this opportunity with reckless abandon, because he can and will sort through this bombshell when Sylvain's arms aren't around him, when Sylvain isn't holding him so closely. He should pull away; he does no such thing.]
We're not his—parents. He's your dog, and if he makes a mess, I won't be cleaning it.
[Again, give Felix a week. He'll be grumpily whipped.]