Chapter Text
Byleth Eisner is no fool.
She may have a lot to catch up on, having been asleep for five years, but she’s a quick study.
There’s a lot of sadness in the monastery now.
She can see it in all the students that were once Black Eagles, in the way their smiles waver when they recall the country they’re essentially exiled from. She can see it in Edelgard’s eyes when she talks about the fate of the Empire, about a fate that’s been ripped out of her hands by the Prime Minister himself.
She can hear it in all the students that were once Golden Deer, in the false brightness of their tones when they discuss letters from home, all too aware of the lingering threat of invasion and war that lurks on their doorsteps and threatens their families. She can hear it in Claude’s voice when he mumbles “Teach,” and drops his forehead onto her shoulder, as if the weight of the entire Alliance rests heavy on him and him alone.
She can feel it with all the students that were once Blue Lions, in the way they tense up when the subject of the church and state surfaces in conversation, all eyes nervously darting over to their feral king -- who’s always liable to start a fight with Edelgard over that particular subject. She can feel it in the set of Dimitri’s jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the fire in his eyes (eye?), a primal rage winning out over his better sensibilities at the mere reminder of the misfortune that’s befallen his Kingdom.
Carefully, she has to tread carefully around the subject of war. Everyone has their breaking point, and as Rhea’s unwilling appointed successor, Byleth is too close to the trigger not to watch her step when she speaks with most of her students.
Except they’re not her students anymore.
“Professor!”
On instinct, Byleth turns towards the shout.
They may not be enrolled in the Officer’s Academy anymore, but Byleth’s position still stands. She is still responsible for their lives, she still decides their futures -- every step they take is by her command, and she must not lose them.
Soldiers.
She hates that it’s true, but they are her soldiers.
“Professor? Are you in there?”
With a couple blinks, Byleth pulls herself back into the present moment.
Edelgard waits for acknowledgement, hovering nearby until Byleth nods in her direction. Quickly, she falls in step with her professor (commander?) and smiles, bright and warm.
“Drifting off during the day, now?” She teases, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
Edelgard is concerned for her.
An unfamiliar warmth blooms in Byleth’s chest.
(She’s not used to feeling much of anything at all, but after fusing with Sothis, the world has been just a little bit brighter.)
“I’ve been getting enough.” Byleth returns, honest and concise. “There’s much to do.”
Edelgard’s smile fades. “Take care of yourself, professor.” She insists, reaching out to press a reassuring touch into the other woman's shoulder while they walk. After a beat, something in her gaze warms, and her smile returns. “We can’t win this without our best tactician, after all!”
The sentiment is light-hearted, meant to encourage and reassure.
She tries to take it that way, but when Edelgard launches straight into planning for their next major skirmish, the warmth in her chest fades away.
Byleth is no fool.
Edelgard, Claude, and Dimitri are no different from each other. They all (more or less) have the same goal. They all have entire countries watching their every move, relying upon their every decision, affected by every outcome of their actions.
They’re all close with Byleth, close enough that Byleth knows them well enough to know that they all love her very much.
She loves them too. She loves them with her whole, unbeating heart. More than they could know.
She knows them well enough to know that they all need her for something -- and they will only have time to love her after their goals have been achieved.
When they look at her, they see what she will be one day (an archbishop, a queen, a goddess), they see her for what she will be for them (a commander, a tactician, a weapon). When they look at her, they see her use.
She knows that’s to be expected -- especially considering the power she holds, both by merit of her Crest and merit of her name.
It makes truly falling in love with them in return a difficult feat.
Now, it’s not as if she’s short on people in love with her, considering the devotion of her students (soldiers?), considering how each of them pay attention to her in their own special way.
But, much like their House Leaders, many of them don’t love her as she is.
If the war ended, and she left everything behind to go back to working as a mercenary, many of her students, though they love her dearly, would not come with her.
Byleth is not one for politics and titles and nobility. Ferdinand, Hubert, and Petra -- and probably Lorenz and Dedue -- would not follow her into a life of anonymity. All of them have a strong sense of duty, strong ties to their country and fellow political leaders, ties that she doubts they could sever just to humor her. (Not that she would want them to, anyways.)
Byleth is a creature of action, of crossing swords and putting a stop to injustice with the power of her own hands. Dorothea, Lindhart, and Marianne would not follow her into a life of conflict. They’ve seen too much death, mended too many wounds, inflicted too many more. She’s not sure she could live a life without conflict -- and it would be cruel to ask them to follow her on that path. (Not that she would want them to, anyways.)
Byleth is not picky about what’s beneath her lover’s clothes. Some of her students love her, but not like that. Leonie, Hilda, Annette, Bernadetta, Ingrid, Lysithea -- and many more of the women she’s met, noble and common alike -- love her, but not like that.
Byleth loves her students, but she doesn’t love all of them like that. Yes, she can imagine lying in bed with Ignatz or Ashe or Mercedes or Raphael or Caspar or -- you get the point. But it would be… weird. She loves them like she would love a sibling, if she had one. (Perhaps it is best that she does not.)
Which leaves. Her problem children. (Soldiers? Adults? Lords?)
Felix and Sylvain.
Byleth does not think of Felix nor Sylvain as siblings. Nor would she believe (for even a second ) that neither of them love her like that.
(It’s more obvious with Sylvain -- mostly because he doesn’t hide it, thinking she’ll take it as his usual womanizing schemes -- but still, as much as he tries to be subtle about them, Felix’s searing glances and flushed cheeks tell her all she needs to know.)
If she dropped everything, all her titles, all her status, all comforts in life, just to be a merc for hire again, Felix and Sylvain would be beside her without a moment’s hesitation. Their loyalty to the nobility registers shockingly low on the scale -- much to their House Leader’s dismay, at times -- and neither of them have a problem with battle (Felix actively seeks it, for the goddess’ sake).
It can't be avoided that when they see her, they see her use, they see how she can benefit them -- why else would they hang around her, if they didn’t like her for any reason at all?
But when she talks to them, the warmth in her chest is never blown out by duty or destiny or the fate of Fodlan and what she must do to ensure its safety.
Especially now that she’s merged with Sothis, now that she’s feeling on a level she’s never quite felt before… those two make the warmth in her chest burn stronger.
To Felix and Sylvain, she is simply Byleth. That is all they see. That is who they love.
Not that either of them would ever admit that they’re actually in love with her, though.
Which is… disheartening, to say the least.
She is no fool. She knows they do.
She can see it, hear it, feel it in every passing glance, every conversation, every lingering touch.
When Felix watches her from afar, when he lets her in on a joke, casually teases her, no bite to his bark… when he presses close while they spar, hovers over her when one of them yields, loathe to move away -- Byleth knows.
When Sylvain’s gaze drifts away from his date of the month (week? day?) to follow her, when he gifts her with compliments too soft not to be sincere, when he grabs her hand and brushes his lips against her knuckles, drapes an arm across her shoulders like it’s no big deal -- Byleth knows.
Unfortunately, she has a sneaking suspicion that she’s too good at concealing her emotions.
She doesn’t think Felix sees the way her gaze lingers on the nape of his neck, doesn’t think he knows just how many times she stops in to watch him spar. She’s not certain he hears the way her voice drops in surprise when he blesses her with a compliment, not certain he notices the goosebumps that raise in the wake of his breath hot against her skin when (and if) he manages to pin her while they spar.
She doesn’t think Sylvain sees her eyes trace the soft curl of his lips, doesn’t think he knows she can tell if he’s lying just from the look in his eyes. She’s not certain he hears the short gasp that tears from her when he accidentally tickles her neck, she’s not certain he’s aware of the heat that pools low in her gut when he strips off his armor, revealing a shirt pulled tight around muscles that she’s still getting used to seeing.
If they did notice, then maybe something positive would happen.
Instead, she watches the two of them spiral out of control.
Felix pushes her away, refuses to speak to her -- won’t even look at her. Avoiding eye contact is not unusual for the swordsman, but not looking at her at all?
Meanwhile, ever the yin to Felix's yang, Sylvain ramps up the flirting and teasing and caressing. It happens so often now that Ingrid’s stopped reprimanding him, and the line between the things he means and the things he doesn’t is beginning to blur.
Byleth is. Worried.
The two are beginning to push the boundary that delineates the difference between appreciating the benefits of being with her and using her.
If she lets this go for too long, lets this go too far, she will be a tool for Felix to hone his blade -- something he will tire of, eventually -- and a tool for Sylvain to break himself down -- something that will destroy him, eventually.
That’s why she relentlessly pursues Felix, regardless of the way he bares sharp teeth and snaps when she gets too close. That’s why she humors Sylvain’s honey-laced fictions and sweet lies, regardless of how nice they make her feel.
Byleth Eisner is no fool.
But she is by no means perfect.
She chases after Felix and she pushes him too far.
She humors Sylvain’s lies and she dismisses the truth.
In all honesty, she doubts they will come to dinner now. Sylvain may have promised that he would drag Felix along with him, that they would all sit and chat together, but… after her series of royal fuck-ups, the prospects of such an event look bleak.
She so misses the meals they used to share, back when they weren’t surviving off of rationed ingredients, back when her request would have them in the seat across from her without fail.
“Professor,”
Used to the call by now, she turns on instinct towards the voice. Ingrid stands rigid in front of her, back straight, shoulders stiff, fingers laced together in front of her.
“Might you be able to tell me why Felix just took a very nicely dressed Sylvain into his room and shut the door?” She hazards, one blonde eyebrow lifting just a hint higher than the other.
Byleth mulls this over, pressing a fist into her cheek.
Well, Sylvain certainly stayed true to his word, regardless of the mood he had been in after leaving their teatime.
Whether they would actually show…
She keeps the defeated sigh she wants to let loose to herself. No use in letting it out in front of Ingrid -- she’ll only worry.
“They’re fine. Probably.” Byleth assures the straightlaced knight. Ingrid’s brow only twitches a little in response. “Leave them to it. You know how they are.”
If anyone knows “how they are,” it’s Ingrid.
Ingrid lets out a breath it looks like she’d been holding. “Alright. Good.” She hums, running her fingers through her bangs. “I was just… worried.” As usual, Byleth notes. “Because Sylvain mentioned having tea with you when we passed in the hall earlier, and he got all dressed up -- and then later he was all huffy, barrelling through the monastery like he was on a mission or something,” she rambles on, fingers pressed to her chin while she thinks aloud. “Y’know, professor, I’m really starting to think he might be serious about all this flirting with you recently -- you’re sure you don’t want me to talk to him?”
Byleth levels a blank stare on her fretting student (former? student?) until Ingrid stops talking.
“You’re right,” Ingrid corrects herself, grimacing at the thought. “Talking to him would not help.”
Byleth gets approximately two more moments of silence before Ingrid goes off again.
“Felix has been acting kinda weird too -- have you noticed, professor?” Blonde eyebrows knit tight over green eyes. “He hasn’t been this… prickly in a while. I thought it was because of Sylvain, but he just let him into his room like it was no big deal, no snide remarks or anything -- so it must be Dimitri, I guess.”
“Surely,” Byleth nods, but she’s not listening anymore. “Ingrid, do you know where Dorothea is?”
Ingrid does not know where Dorothea is. Luckily, she gets the point, blushing sheepishly and apologizing for fretting before waving goodbye and heading off.
Byleth finds Dorothea by the pier.
“Professor!” The ever-so-familiar greeting rings pleasantly in Byleth’s ears. “Here to fish? Planning to wind down before dinner?”
Byleth shakes her head. “I need your help. Something only you can do.”
Dorothea is so pretty when she smiles. Byleth wishes the war didn’t weigh so heavily on the corners of her mouth. “What is it?”
Silence, for a moment. Byleth collects her thoughts.
“How would one best go about dressing to impress without making their intentions too obvious?”
What with the way Dorothea’s smile pulls wide, Byleth thinks she’s definitely come to the right person.
---
Considering she walks through the dining hall without a single glance thrown her way, Byleth thinks Dorothea’s done a good job.
(Claude does let out a low whistle upon catching sight of her, but it’s only after she nearly runs into him. She presses a coy finger to her lips, and the archer gets the memo immediately, throwing her a wink before turning away.)
The kohl Dorothea lined her eyes with is subtle, only noticeable from a couple feet away. Byleth also let her fashion expert dust her cheeks with rouge -- only a pat! Dorothea had promised -- so she’s aware she looks a little more alive than usual.
Wearing this particular dress had been Byleth’s original intention -- since it bears the same color and neckline as the armor she usually wears, and the hem stops not far below where her shorts usually rest, not too noticeable of a difference -- but it was Dorothea’s brilliant idea for Byleth to wear her usual coat, avoiding any further suspicion. The lace tights and black boots matched the dress, and Byleth wanted to stay as far under the radar as possible, so those stayed too.
Considering the outfit Sylvain wore to tea, his pit stop at Felix’s room, and the two’s incessant competition, she’s pretty sure they’ll both be dressed to the nines.
She won’t be outmatched by them either -- hence, the dress. Not to mention, she won’t be upset if they can’t take their eyes off of her. Not at all.
It’s just that… Sylvain and Felix (definitely Sylvain, less so Felix) can get away with dressing up for no apparent reason. Byleth does not go a day without everyone’s eyes on her -- and it’s not that she doesn’t want this dinner to be a date, but if all three of them are dressed to the nines, the entire monastery will jump to conclusions before any of them can get a word in edgewise.
Byleth will not force anything -- especially without knowing for sure whether or not either of the two boys (men -- men, they’re men, now) have objections to that particular label.
A date. Dating.
It’s all entirely too… foreign, to her.
She’s never dated. Fucked, certainly, but dating… commitment…
Unconsciously, Byleth fiddles with the ring her father gave her. She’s kept it on her person ever since he died.
“One day, I want you to give this ring to someone you love.”
Someone. One.
Byleth squeezes the ring until it bites into the flesh of her palm.
Sylvain catches her eye from across the dining hall and waves. Felix, surprisingly, isn’t scowling while he stands next to the cavalier.
Someone you love.
The fire within her sparks and glows brighter, spreading a comfortable warmth through her chest.
So it begins.
---
To her relief, she was right to err on the fancy side for their dinner tonight.
She’d already had the opportunity to drink in the sight of Sylvain in that coat -- pretty much unchecked -- but now Felix has risen to the occasion as well, ink-black hair twisted into a glossy braid that twists around his head and rests gently atop his shoulder, and --
At least Byleth’s eyes will feast well tonight.
---
The two men take up the space on either side of her as they head to the line for food, falling into step with her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. While her students usually keep a respectful distance while they talk, Sylvain and Felix are plastered to her side tonight, a hair’s breadth away from brushing up against her as they walk.
Her shoulders are on a near-constant collision course with fabric warmed by the soft skin beneath, bumping against Felix’s bicep and Sylvain’s chest with every step.
What she wouldn’t give to get the clothing out of the way, to see if what lies beneath is truly what she expects it to be, or if it’s something entirely different. What she wouldn’t give to know them -- either of them -- solely by the touch of her hands.
She’s long since stopped chastising herself for having… less than pure thoughts about her former students. The thoughts are far too intrusive and far too frequent to ignore, and she enjoys them too much to be laden with guilt over the influence of her former position.
They are not her students anymore. They are boys no longer.
As they find an open table in the crowded dining hall, Felix and Sylvain take up spots on the bench across from her -- just as the three of them would sit five years prior.
They are not her students anymore.
Sylvain shrugs off his cloak, draping it over the bench beside him, and works open the first few buttons of his dress shirt. “Food’s warm, the fire’s blazing,” he lists as the third button he undoes reveals collarbones shining with sweat, almost grumbling under his breath, “I’m burning up over here!”
Tearing her gaze away from the smooth column of his throat, Byleth turns her attention to Felix just in time to see him eye the redhead with an odd mixture of disdain and delight. The swordsman settles on disdain, eyebrows scrunching together while his arms cross over his chest. Byleth gives up entirely and turns her attention to her meal, certain that the shorter man will notice if she keeps staring at his biceps.
They are boys no longer.
“So, professor,” Felix pipes up, his frown easing as he turns to face her. “What’s the occasion?”
When red eyes rove over her figure, brimming with barely restrained desire, she remembers with sudden clarity the effort she put into her appearance tonight.
“Yeah,” Sylvain echoes. “Between you and our meal tonight, I’m not sure which one looks more delectable,” the cavalier all but purrs, pinning the professor with a pleased grin.
Honey gold eyes gleam with satisfaction, his gaze never wavering -- even when Felix groans and smacks his arm. Byleth holds his stare, though she takes it less as a challenge and more as an opportunity to search his gaze, see what she can find within the careful air of separation he puts on as a front.
She finds only honesty, despite the sugar-sweet words. He’s not lying.
“I got wind that two of my former Blue Lions had a dorm room rendezvous before they came to dinner with me,” she dropped the information as if it were harmless, biting back a smile. “I figured, what with how Sylvain was already dressed and your tendency to compete, that I wouldn’t be outmatched.”
The flush that graces both of the men’s cheeks takes her by surprise. When they exchange glances, something surreptitious and heated, heavy resignation sinks deep into Byleth’s chest.
Byleth is no fool.
She knows there is something between them -- a low burning fire that has never been properly attended to, a tension that coils tighter but never resolves -- something that makes hurt and regret well up in their eyes whenever she dares to prod at the subject.
She wonders if… somehow… her missteps have not only pushed them away from her, but into each other. If that is the case, then… well, she only wants what’s best for her students (soldiers? friends?) in the end. Right?
While the tinge of misery scatters her thoughts, she nearly misses Sylvain turn in his seat, his attention stuck fast to the man sitting next to him.
“Felix needed my help,” the cavalier’s voice drops low as he reaches out, fingers trailing over woven strands of hair. “I’m the only one of us that can braid.”
To Byleth’s ultimate surprise, Felix doesn't deny nor correct any of Sylvain’s account. He just sits there, clutching his utensils like he’s forgotten how to move.
When Sylvain tucks a loose strand of hair behind Felix’s ear, Byleth feels just as stricken, the realization hitting her like the swing of an axe.
She knows that smile. He’s flirting with Felix.
All at once, she’s filled with emotion -- none of them useful, all of them conflicting.
Long ago, she might have shut down under the sudden wave of sensation, too removed from feeling to properly handle all of these reactions at one time. But she’s not the Ashen Demon anymore.
Instead, she carefully mulls over her options as she chews another bite of food, sifting through reactions and outcomes until she finds the right one.
“You did a wonderful job,” she praises Sylvain with a nod in his direction before settling a smoldering gaze on the man beside him. “Felix looks absolutely charming.”
The swordsman’s cheeks tinge the slightest pink, ruby eyes glittering as they dart away from her stare. Bingo.
Then -- as seems to be the theme, today -- Sylvain surprises her again.
“Doesn’t he?” The agreement rushes out of Sylvain like a pleased sigh. Felix flushes a deeper red, pinned under the heated stares of his dining partners -- and Byleth watches in stunned silence as a new path opens up in front of her.
Sylvain isn’t competing with her. He’s agreeing with her, adding onto her praise, taking the fire she’s lit and stoking it until the flames lick at poor Felix’s cheeks. He’s not upset with her at all.
Neither is Felix.
And the more Sylvain teases the shorter man, the more Byleth can’t help but join in, poking and prodding at the younger man until he’s snapping back with insults and jabs -- words that just don’t hit as hard when he’s as red in the face as he is.
“Have you ever considered reclassing as a Dancer?” Byleth queries, tone and expression absolutely solemn, giving nothing away. “You’ve got the magic skill for it… and the looks,” she tacks onto the end, quirking an eyebrow in his direction.
Felix’s jaw drops -- Sylvain’s does too, total surprise written over their faces.
Sylvain cracks first.
“Oh- oh, goddess above, Professor!! ” He wheezes, muffling his laughter in his hands. “You can’t- you can’t do that to me with a straight face!” He insists, shoulders shaking in time to his giggles. The glimpses of the smile she sees between his fingers sparks something joyful in her heart.
Of course, Felix pouts, vexed by his friend’s amusement. “I don’t know what you find so comedic about this,” he huffs, vengefully stabbing into his meal. “I would make a wonderful Dancer, outfit and all. My skill with a sword will not be impeded by some ribbons and a skirt.”
Their professor opens her mouth to respond, but Felix gives a start, eyebrows furrowed in sudden concern.
“Not that I want to reclass as a Dancer,” he insists, frantic.
Byleth raises a hand to stop him before he can freak out any further. “I’m content with your classification right now.” Her reassurance allows him to sink back into his seat, but he tenses again when she pauses to reconsider. “However… I believe we discussed an area of discontent earlier today -- concerning your priorities on the battlefield.”
Sylvain’s laughter dies off immediately, and Felix shifts in his seat when his friend looks to him with concern. The flighty look in those crimson eyes makes Byleth wonder if she’s going to lose the swordsman before they can make any progress tonight.
A deep, careful breath washes the tension out of the shorter man’s shoulders. Perhaps he’s tired of running away from the subject.
“You wanted to know who I fight for.” Felix remembers aloud, watching her from beneath his eyelashes. “I’m afraid I lied to you, earlier today.” He admits, looking back down to his plate. “I do fight for myself.”
The warmth in her chest ices over, cold unease sinking deep into her heart. As I feared…
“Felix--” Sylvain complains -- the sound nearly pleading, for some reason -- but Felix waves him off with a hissed let me finish!
The swordsman straightens his shoulders, brow furrowed, lips pressed into an insistent line -- looking ever the part of a determined soldier reporting to their commander. “I fight to better myself, to always improve, so I can cut through the battlefield and come out victorious.” He informs her, serious and sharp, battle-hardened.
She wishes it wasn’t this way, that they didn’t have to be so formal. She wishes to see Felix exist like he does when Sylvain ropes him into some outlandish scheme, the two of them giggling to themselves, soft around the edges,
“Victory is what matters. The strong don’t lose.” Felix insists, hands curled into fists where they lie atop the table. “And I’m… I’m afraid to lose. I’ve lost too much.” His hands shake for a fraction of a second, but he curls his fingers tighter, masking the tell. “If I fight to win, if I keep getting stronger, I can’t lose anything.”
The chatter of the cafeteria around them nearly drowns out the quiet, “or anyone,” that falls from the swordsman’s lips. Gently. Soft.
“Indeed, it’s a selfish reason -- punish me if you must, but --”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sylvain squeeze Felix’s shoulder. Felix stops talking, mouth left half-open, rendered completely silent -- especially after Byleth reaches across the table to curl her hand around his.
“Thank you. I appreciate your honesty.” She murmurs, letting the ghost of a smile slip through.
Sometimes Felix frustrates her to the point of madness, to the point where she kinda wants to strangle him, wrestle him into submission -- force him to say what he means, not what he thinks will protect him. But now, with him so stiff and uncertain in front of her, red eyes haunted by old memories and present fears, she wants to be gentle with him, wants to run her thumb over his knuckles until he relaxes, wants to cradle his face in her hands and --
“Aw, Felix, you really do care about us,” the drawl of Sylvain’s teasing rips into her thoughts, and the sharp smile that stretches his lips makes him look like the cat that finally caught the canary.
Ever unaffected by the older man’s taunts, Felix huffs out a short hmph and turns his attention back to his meal, shrugging off the comforting touches from the people surrounding him for good measure. “‘Course I do.” He grumbles around his final mouthful of food, cheeks heating under their stares. “I’d be bored as hell without you two.”
The three of them finish their meals with gusto (well, the two of them, since Felix muffled his affections with his final bites), and talk about literally anything other than what Byleth had planned to discuss during dinner.
She feels the opportunity slipping out of her grasp when they all stand to leave and regroup by one of the doors that lead outside to fresh air. Before they can bid her goodnight and turn away, she takes matters into her own hands and reaches out, tangling her fingers in their coats.
Neither of the men brush her off. They merely wait, two pairs of eyes full of intrigue boring into her.
Waiting.
And if she’s lucky, wanting.
“I owe you two an apology.” Their professor begins, holding their stares. “I’ve not been very considerate of your feelings, as of late. I’ve pushed you too hard,” she says to Felix before turning to Sylvain, “And I’ve brushed you off. I had no intention to hurt you, but I handled the situation incorrectly regardless. I apologize.”
She releases them only to press a fist to her chest as she bows -- escaping the sudden clarity in Sylvain’s eyes, the sharp analysis in Felix’s.
“I understand.” Felix murmurs as she straightens. “I don’t mind. I need the challenge.” He doesn't comment on the hands that raise to clutch two coats again. His hand merely rises to graze over hers, holding her while she holds him.
Sylvain is slower to respond, hovering over an answer. She can see him forming the words, the response on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t say anything.
His situation is a little more grave than Felix’s, after all.
I’m madly in love with you.
“I mean it, Sylvain.” Byleth insists. “I shouldn’t have--”
“Maybe we should take this somewhere else,” he interrupts, amber eyes glancing over to the bustling tables of comrades, their friends wandering about nearby. Ingrid waves across the cafeteria, and she stands from her seat when Sylvain waves back.
“Why?” Byleth lets a teasing smile curl the edge of her lips as she watches Sylvain panic, his hand dropping back to his side. “Can’t be seen being serious in front of everyone?”
Sylvain shoots her a glance, looking somewhere between impatient and desperate as Ingrid draws near. Quickly, he smooths his ruffled feathers and grasps her hand in his, tugging it free of his cloak.
“I would declare my love for you from the rooftops, if it so pleased you,” he hums, lashes fluttering while he grazes a kiss to her knuckles. Felix squeezes her hand. Heat races down her arms, feeding the flames in her chest. “But I’d rather this be between us.”
Felix draws up tight like a bowstring, fingers going stiff around Byleth’s. “I should go.” He announces, turning on his heel.
Fingers roughened from years of weapon training and black magic -- callouses they all share -- wind tight into the gemstone bright fabric of Felix’s coat, anchoring the swordsman in place.
“I said between us, didn’t I,” Sylvain’s voice drops low, as rough as his hands. “C’mon. Unless you want Ingrid to interrogate us for the rest of the night.”
Pliant to the taller man’s will, the swordsman and the swordswoman let themselves be pulled away, trailing behind a cloak of midnight blue and hair of sunset red.
Ingrid calls after them, but they weave through tall hedges and iron gates until the only thing they can hear is each other panting, catching the breath they’d lost in their haste.
With all the hustle and bustle -- not to mention the fire blazing in her core -- she’d become quite warm beneath her long-sleeved coat. With a final sigh, Byleth tugged her sleeves off her shoulders, exposing heated skin to the cool night air.
It was nice out, tonight. Not too hot and not too cold. She certainly wouldn’t mind if --
“Professor,”
Two surprised hisses pull her back to the present. Fire lights a trail down her arm as Sylvain lets go of her hand to trace the lace pattern of her sleeves. Felix hasn’t let go of her hand yet.
“Yes?”
Two men exchange glances, two pairs of mouths open and close, two hands squeeze around hers.
“Your dress, it…” Felix trails off, unable to force the words out.
“...It looks nice.” Sylvain finishes for him, thumbing at the black lace around her wrist.
Despite Byleth’s murmured thank you, they stand there in silent awe of each other, drinking in the expensive fabric and exposed skin that seems to glow in the moonlight.
There is much to discuss. We can’t stand here all night. An annoyed tone quite similar to Sothis’ voice echoes in her mind, but she knows it is merely her own thoughts.
It takes a lot of effort to break the silence, but she manages it with a half-hearted, “You were saying?” aimed in Sylvain’s direction.
The redhead’s sigh is long and wounded -- and for a moment it looks like he wants to bolt, wants to throw all of his progress away. Thankfully, he stays rooted in place, anchored by the hands of the two people he dragged with him.
Sylvain looks up, and Byleth immediately drowns in honey gold.
“I’m serious. And I was serious. Before, I mean,” he stumbles, nervously toeing the dirt with his boot. “I think you know that now, but you didn’t before. So, please,” he whispers, uncharacteristically reserved, “Believe me when I say I would do anything for you.”
The warmth in her chest gleams yellow bright, spreading leisurely across her skin.
A tug on her arm directs her attention to the third member of their party, and she barely catches a glimpse of lips twisted into a pout before she’s adrift within a crimson blaze.
“I’m serious too.” Felix insists, stubbornly holding eye contact (despite his aversion to it). “I won’t lose you. Not again.”
For a moment, it’s perfect. The three of them, linked by the curl of possessive fingers, all in consensus for what they know to be true, content to be --
“And I--” Sylvain chokes on his words, a dramatic crescendo shattering the moment. “I’m… You were right, earlier, when you told me I needed to tell Felix the truth too,”
Byleth knows she’s right, but Felix doesn’t seem to agree.
“Stop,”
Sylvain follows instructions, pausing mid-sentence.
“You’re making this way more difficult than it needs to be.” The swordsman pleads, his entire body bowed as if he’s in some kind of pain.
Gathering his resolve, Sylvain shakes his head. “No. I’ve made promises to you, too, Felix. I can’t just cast those aside.” He takes another breath in, sharp and quick, then barrels forwards. “I’m laying my cards out on the table, tonight. No more lying to myself, no more lying to you, no more lying to our dear professor.”
The confession settles comfortably in Byleth’s center, weighing her down for the moment. In moments like these, it’s clear how much Sylvain has really grown.
She’s proud of him. She loves him.
“You’re telling me,” Felix growls, shaking his head in irritated defeat. “That in all these years of chasing every woman that crosses your path -- including this one,” he gestures with a shake of Byleth’s arm, “That you never let go of some stupid childhood crush.”
The older man doesn’t even hesitate. “Yep.”
The groan that leaves Felix is ripe with exasperation.
“You’re impossible,” comes a hiss between clenched teeth, “What sort of signals were you hoping to send, whoring yourself off to anyone that batted their eyelashes in your direction?”
Ah,
Byleth’s gaze slides over to Sylvain, who has tensed under her grasp. Felix has always been good at pushing buttons, even when he doesn’t know they’re there, and this… this is a sensitive topic.
For a moment, she truly believes Sylvain is going to shrug off that pleasant demeanor of his and sink his teeth into the man beside him (maybe I’ll collect the debt echoing in her mind), but he merely… sags, the fight drained out of him before he could ever fight.
“Do you remember my first crush?” The cavalier asks instead, staring morosely at the way his fingers are entwined with Felix’s. “That girl, Sophia, from the village nearby? You were kinda young, so I doubt you --”
“She broke your heart.” Felix remembers aloud, pointedly refusing to meet anybody’s eyes. (Not that Sylvain is looking anyways.) “You never told me what happened, but you stopped talking about her out of nowhere.”
Still staring at the ground, Sylvain looks kind of impressed that Felix even remembers. Byleth settles in, waiting for the rest of the story.
“It wasn’t the first time I’d ever fallen in love, but it was… it was the first time someone ever loved me back. Everyone had kinda wrinkled their noses at my advances so far, so to find someone that wanted me, that listened to me, it… it was so… so nice.” He whispers the words, the story heavy on his tongue. “And then, by total accident, I overheard her mom praising her for reeling in a noble suitor. When I asked her about it, she… she didn't even deny it. She told me I was cute and funny and all, but if I hadn’t been a noble… If out of nowhere, I was disowned, she’d leave me in a heartbeat.”
A ragged breath tears through the silence between them.
“And, y’know, it hurt to be played like that, but whatever, move on,” he’s trying to be upbeat, Byleth can tell, but the light behind his eyes is fading, like it always does when he talks about his heritage. “But it kept happening. Over and over and over, noble and commoner alike, it wasn’t about me. It was always about my Crest. My status. What I have. Nobody wants me for who I am.” Sylvain wrings her hand between his while he closes his story. It’s uncomfortable, but she can’t find it in herself to complain.
The heavy stillness in the air only sits for a moment before it’s broken by a sharp tch!
Felix tosses his head back with a snap, looking up to glare at the taller man beside him. “I’ve always wanted you for who you are. You’re just an idiot, sometimes.”
The confession settles comfortably in Byleth’s center, right next to Sylvain’s. In moments like these, it’s clear how much Felix has really grown.
She’s proud of him. She loves him.
Her father’s ring weighs heavy in her pocket.
“Why’d you think sleeping around was going to fix that?” Felix wonders, genuinely puzzled. Sylvain can’t help but laugh in response, sheepishly meeting the swordsman’s eyes.
“Hey, I said I had reasons, not that I was a perfect man.” He huffs, flushing the sweetest shade of pink.
“How boring you would be, if you were a perfect man,” Byleth agrees aloud -- and apparently they’d forgotten she was there, despite clutching to either of her hands, since they both startle at the reintroduction of her voice.
Something possessive flares in her chest -- bright and hot alongside the contentment that soothes her soul, a direct result of seeing her students get along.
Do not forget about me. I am here too.
“Does that--” Sylvain swallows hard, and she can’t help but watch his throat bob with the movement. “Does that please you?”
Ah, well… Out with it, I suppose.
“It does.” She hums, glancing between them. “Both of you please me, just as you are. Very much.”
Both of you
The two of you
Someone you love
She receives… very different responses from the two men standing before her.
Felix tilts his head back with a groan that sounds suspiciously like exasperation, and Sylvain cocks his head to the side, quietly confused, waiting for clarification.
“You’re both impossible! Why are you like this?” The swordsman demands, throwing his hands (their hands) up in the air. “Why can’t you just pick one like a normal person??”
“How boring would I be, if I were a normal person,” Byleth wonders aloud instead of answering, much to Felix’s dismay.
Sylvain, however, looks positively lost in thought, the gears in his head clicking so loud, Byleth swears she can hear them. “You mean to tell me,” he forms his words slowly, the idea still processing, “That, given the opportunity, you would have us both?”
Despite the effort he makes to conceal it, Felix looks absolutely floored. “That’s- that’s an option? ” He screeches, bewildered -- as if it had never occurred to him -- his glossy braid whipping back and forth as he glares at Byleth and Sylvain in turn. “You would do that?”
Ever collected, Byleth’s nod is slow, calm. “I would. Would you?”
The question seems to throw a wrench in the two men’s turning gears. Both of them freeze, carefully considering the question, carefully avoiding looking at each other.
“I will not agree to anything that does not have your wholehearted agreement.” She informs them, firm in a decision she's already considered all outcomes of. “I would love to be committed to both of you. But if either of you are uncomfortable with such an arrangement, I would understand.”
There is no power in Fodlan, divine or mortal, that could convince her to commit to both of them if one of them was averse to the idea. If they were uncomfortable with the prospect of sharing, if they couldn’t be convinced to be tied down -- no matter the reason, wholehearted, enthusiastic consent would be the only thing pushing the three of them into a relationship tonight.
“I’m not uncomfortable with it.” Sylvain is quick to climb aboard, something hungry in his eyes as he looks between the two people holding his hands. “Are you kidding me?” He responds to a confounded glare from Felix with an equally exasperated answer. “After all this time, all this fighting with myself -- to be allowed to have her and you? It’s- it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Despite Sylvain’s enthusiasm, Felix is… oddly silent.
Staring off into nothing, eyebrows scrunched together, he runs his thumb over Byleth’s knuckles a few times before he finally speaks.
“Who would you have, if you could only choose one?”
It’s a question she’s thought over many times before.
It’s a question she carries around in her pocket, forged into glistening silver, inset with glimmering indigo.
Felix’s confession echoes back at her, quiet, soft, pained. I’m afraid to lose. I’ve lost too much.
“How could I choose?”
She answers Felix like she answers herself.
“How could I choose when you both bring such wonderful things to the table? When you challenge and comfort me in ways the other can’t -- in ways no one else can?" She demands. "When I can go to Sylvain and have my spirits lifted with sweet words and attentive praise, when I can go to Felix and relax, free to cross blades without putting on airs about my mood or my strength? How could I choose?” She lists off, holding them tight, hoping they won’t slip away. “How can I choose between two men laden with strength and intelligence and cunning and skill? Two beautiful, stunning, charming men,” her pleased hum resonates in the air while she returns Felix’s gesture and runs her thumbs over the hands she holds.
“Alright, that’s enough praise,” Sylvain warbles, fighting back a grin.
“No need to butter me up.” Felix grumbles, echoing the tone he takes when she compliments his technique. “I get it. I get it.” He echoes himself, still lost in his own thoughts.
Byleth watches in surprise when Sylvain drops Felix’s hand -- and Felix must be startled too, because his head whips up, but he moves just in time for gentle fingers to cup his cheek, careful, hesitant.
“If we were to… If she…with both of us,” the smooth talker can’t seem to find the words, discarding every sentence he starts in favor of a new one. He shakes his head to clear it, red hair flying, and settles on, “Would you have me, too?”
Byleth is no fool.
She sees the way Sylvain leans down, sees the way crimson eyes dart to parted lips, stuck fast on the promise of a kiss.
Felix turns to her, but his eyes are so far away.
“Would you-- would that please you?” The shorter man rasps, one last-ditch effort to resist -- or is he double-checking? -- before he finally gives in.
“Nothing would please me more than knowing that the men I love also love each other.” She hums, letting a smile crinkle the corners of her eyes.
Despite how very lost he looks, Felix focuses back in on her grin as if it’s a lantern in the darkness. His gaze flicks up to her eyes, double, triple checking (and she nods, for good measure), before he turns back to Sylvain, reaches up with his newly freed hand, and yanks him down by his collar.
Truly, regardless of the outcome she’d intended for the night, she is perfectly content to watch Sylvain and Felix grapple for control, mouths hot and open and panting against each other while they learn where their lips best fit together, while they breathe the same air, tugging each other closer, closer,
It’s nice, because Felix only lets go of her hand to reach for her hip, which he grips like a lifeline while Sylvain kisses the life out of him. It’s nice, because Sylvain never stops stroking her fingers while he grips Felix’s chin in his other hand. It’s nice to watch them go at it, to resolve a tension even she could feel wound tight between them.
It’s nice, because when Sylvain finally steps back, releasing Felix’s face to swipe the back of his hand over his mouth, Felix looks absolutely kiss drunk, gone on the sensation of lips hungry against his. It’s nice, because when she squeezes his arm, the swordsman turns to her with the eyes of a man gone wild and cages her up against the nearest wall to seal his lips over hers.
He devours her, forgoing any chaste first kisses in favor of slotting his lips between hers, nipping at whatever he can draw between his teeth until she gasps in surprise. He’s quick to enter her mouth, tongue lapping and curling against whatever it can reach, but Byleth has never been one to sit back and take things, and she quickly rises to the challenge.
Upon the first press of her tongue, Felix groans into her mouth like a man unhinged -- and if she wasn’t hot before, she’s certainly hot now. She presses and prods at him, corralling him back into his mouth until she can properly explore, enjoying the wet sounds as Felix eagerly sucks at the intrusion.
Under her palm, she feels Felix’s bicep flex, feels his body tense against hers, then relax, all at once -- and only after she registers Felix’s reaction does she realize Sylvain has pressed himself to the shorter man’s back, joining in on their little tryst.
“My turn,” the redhead rumbles, and Felix moans -- not yelps, moans -- when Sylvain buries a hand in his neatly braided ponytail and yanks him out of the way.
Byleth doesn’t have a moment to protest the loss -- nor to process that wonderful sound -- before Sylvain leans over Felix’s shoulder and claims her mouth for his own.
She quickly learns why Felix looked so positively wrecked after a few moments of exchanging kisses with Sylvain.
Everything the taller man does is slow, tantalizingly perfect, searing with purpose. Every drag of his lips has Byleth chasing after him, every swipe of his tongue has her begging for more.
Felix seems content to be squashed between them, intermittently groaning against her neck and squeezing her hips every time Sylvain rocks against him. When she lifts her hand from his arm, just enough semblance of thought left over to bury her fingers in his hair and pull, Felix yowls and sinks his teeth into her shoulder.
Paired with Sylvain’s tongue running over the roof of her mouth, her cheeks warm beneath his palms, Byleth really has no choice but to moan. The sound is muffled against a devious tongue and kissed-pink lips, but it comes across loud and clear.
“Fuck -- professor, if you keep this up, I --” Sylvain hisses, amber eyes glinting in the moonlight as Felix wiggles insistently between them. “You too, Fraldarius -- don’t think I can’t feel you rocking against the front of my pants.”
“And if I am?” Felix challenges, releasing the professor’s neck to tip his head back and meet Sylvain’s gaze. From her ear to her collarbones, Byleth sparks and tingles, mourning the loss of spit slicked lips and sharp teeth that fuel the fire beneath her skin.
With Felix’s head tilted back like this, she can fully admire the column of his throat, pale, unmarked skin nearly gleaming in the soft light of the moon.
She takes it upon herself to hook a finger in his collar and duck her head down to meet his neck, pressing a sloppy kiss to the underside of his jaw to begin. The high pitched noise of surprise from Felix doesn’t deter her in the least -- if anything, it spurs her on -- and a graze of her teeth against his adam’s apple makes a whine buzz against her lips.
“Careful, professor,” Sylvain teases, watching her with dark eyes and a sharp smile. “Haven’t you noticed Felix likes to keep his neck covered? He’s sensitive there,”
“Sh-shut up!” Felix interjects, lifting his head off of Sylvain’s shoulder to protect the exposed weakness.
Neither Sylvain nor Byleth give him the chance.
In unison, two hands grip a handful of ink-black hair and pull, two mouths lock onto either side of the curve of skin exposed by the resulting motion, and Felix. is. lost.
“Hnn- ahh, please, please,” the swordsman gasps, eyes wide while lips and tongue make quick work of the sensitive skin of his neck.
There’s not a single inch untouched between the two of them, combining their efforts to completely dismantle the man trapped between them. Sylvain breathes hot against the shell of his ear while Byleth unbuttons his shirt down far enough to nip at his collarbones, leaving Felix to pant and rut between them, pushing into Byleth and back against Sylvain, completely out of control.
They don’t even consider the ramifications of the sounds they’re making -- desperate, wrecked moans from Felix while mouths lap at his neck, breathy sighs and grunts from Sylvain while Felix grinds against him and Byleth runs her fingers through his hair, muffled growls from Byleth while she works another red mark into Felix’s pristine skin, while Felix’s hands wander up her sides, while Sylvain’s hand traces the notches of her spine --
“Sylvain!” Felix cries out in equal parts surprise and arousal when a large hand slips between them to palm the front of Felix’s dress pants.
“Want me to stop?” Comes the breathy confirmation, eager but honest, waiting for consent.
“I-- no, please,” Felix mumbles, whining when Byleth rewards him with a tug on his hair. “If you stop, I swear I’ll kill you,”
“Oh, you’re no fun,” Sylvain mumbles -- but Byleth can tell he’s pleased nonetheless. “What’s the point in --”
“Felix?”
The three of them freeze.
“Is that you? Is Sylvain over there, too?” A voice that is clearly Ingrid’s floats over the gates and hedges and walls protecting them from being seen. “Have you seen the professor? Dimitri’s throwing a fit again, and Edelgard’s not really helping. I know you were with her last, so --”
“Tell that beast to go fuck himself,” Felix growls, beyond frustrated by being interrupted at such a crucial moment.
“It is you, Felix,” Ingrid chirps, unperturbed. “Have you seen the professor around?” She repeats, heading closer.
Crimson eyes dart down to said professor's neck, where Byleth is certain lies a mess of red splotches and teeth marks.
“Last I knew, she was headed for the bathhouse.” Felix lies through his teeth, voice shaking. He shudders when Sylvain strokes a thumb down his neck -- and though he glares at the man behind him, the move seems to bolster his confidence, somehow. “If you hurry, you might catch her before she retires for the night.”
“Ah!” Ingrid chirps. The footsteps that had been steadily nearing their hiding place pause, and after another beat, pick up again, heading in the opposite direction. “Thank you!”
Sylvain chuckles darkly, stroking damp skin with his thumb. “Mean,” he chastises the shorter man, shaking his head. “You’re so mean.”
“Bought us some time,” Felix mumbles, echoing Sylvain’s ministrations with a finger against Byleth’s shoulder. “I can only conjure a healing spell so fast. It’s not my specialty.”
Their professor hums under her breath, content, while the white magic mends her skin. She’s a little disappointed when the pleasant tingling subsides, quickly longing for the dull throb that served as a pleasant reminder of the way the swordsman had devoured what was offered to him.
“You’ll replace them, right?” She murmurs, tracing along one of the many marks she’d imprinted into his skin. “So I can see them for myself, sometime?”
She isn't expecting a smile to pull at Felix’s lips, something genuine and warm and slightly exasperated, but she welcomes it all the same.
“Yes. Of course.” He assures her, unusually soft while he strokes her cheek.
“Now off with you,” Sylvain shoos her away, ignoring Felix’s grumbles and complaints while he untangles the three of them from where they’re piled on top of the shorter woman. “Our King requires your assistance.”
The two men make a show of cheerfully bidding her goodbye, but Byleth Eisner is no fool.
She’s pretty sure they’ll miss her.