Chapter Text
The final day dawns, and Felix finds himself pacing his quarters. He’s mostly packed, as they will be returning to the Capital early, Ingrid apparently having to report directly to Dimitri once this week has passed. Yet he also has his... outfit for the evening hanging in the closet, a sense of dread crossing his mind whenever he passes by mid pace.
He’s never liked these types of events; they’ve always had a sense of wastefulness to them, the excess in outfits, consumption, and time when there have always been far more pressing things to attend to. He supposes now that is less so, but he cannot help in thinking that his evening could be better spent in any sense.
It doesn’t matter though, this dance and dinner will occur, and he will endure. Except it has almost this additional pressure thanks to his friend’s intervention yesterday. Now he has a motivation for attending, and he almost wishes he didn’t.
It is, he has to admit, a classically romantic setting. Felix is no stranger to asking another to dance, has done so many a time throughout his life, most of the time being told beforehand exactly whom he should be aiming to dance with. Although many find the activity diverting, he’s really only ever used it in a political sense.
But there is no need to do that tonight. Of course, he’ll dance with Petra at some point, but he knows her, and it’s hardly for any motivation at this point. He’ll ask Ingrid to dance because he knows she hates it, and Dorothea because she loves it and is an excellent partner, and Ashe—
Felix swallows, and sits down heavily on the bed.
He hates this feeling. Possibly more than any others he’s experienced in these past few days. These rush and bursts of energy that climb from his centre through his throat, his fingers twitching and feet pacing, uncontrollable in their need to move and twitch until he has exhausted the surge.
He has spent years training himself to be in control of his faculties; it’s essential in swordsmanship to understand his own body, to master its tells and know the way it twists, aches, and pounces. These nervous flares and spikes when thinking of this evening are the antithesis; uncontrollable, hitting without warning, and barely having an outlet.
Sentiment. Always as confusing as ever to Felix, no matter how many years pass. He tips back on the bed, sinks into softness before rising once more, head twisting to find a comfortable position.
“Dancing,” he mutters, and stares to his left, cataloguing the scatterings of belongings he has still not managed to pack yet. It’s not quite organised chaos, but there is a method to it, he just cannot seem to explain it to anyone with a tidy mind.
He stands, restless once more, and in need of a distraction before he spirals into another loop of frustrated musings. He opens his other pack and begins with the heaviest items, trying to mirror Sylvain’s technique of rolling fabrics in the gaps, although it doesn’t seem to reduce the bulk.
He picks up a shirt, angles his head to decide where it would be fit, when he catches sight of the tailoring on the cuff, a strange pattern he does not recognise. He blinks, holding it up to the light in confusion, then almost drops it when he recalls exactly why he has a foreign shirt.
It’s Ashe’s. He hadn’t returned it after the swift healing he’d received on entry to the manor, and it looked as if the castle staff had been kind enough to wash it free of the specks of blood and grime Felix is most certain it collected originally.
He abandons his packing in favour of staring at the shirt, opening it up fully to inspect. It is just a shirt, a piece of fabric. Yet when he recalls the ease of which Ashe passed it over, the way it had sat unevenly on his frame, a similar size but still not quite right, his chest tightens without warning.
It’s softer, he notices now. Ashe’s shirt is somehow softer, perhaps in the material or perhaps with wear. He rubs the fabric between his thumb and forefinger for a second, trying to capture exactly what it is that’s so different about it.
“Felix! Are you packed yet, do you need help?”
He drops the shirt and glares at the door, Ingrid’s voice and knock echoing around the room. Gritting his teeth, he stalks over and pulls the handle abruptly, Ingrid looking slightly alarmed at his expression.
“I am not ten, I do not need help from you,” he says and Ingrid blinks back.
“And yet you have clothes and books on the floor,” she says drily, and Felix, being the adult he is, closes the door in her face.
“Come down for a ride when you’re done,” she calls.
“No,” he yells back and wraps Ashe’s shirt as quickly as he can in something resembling a tube and placing it beside his bag, before rolling up his own shirts in a similar fashion and still managing to make his bag bulge. He’ll return Ashe’s shirt before they leave tomorrow.
He does, despite his protests, go for a ride with Ingrid, manage to finalise arrangements for the sword he ordered, and ends up striking the basics of a new agreement to get more lumber delivered to Fraldarius with one of the merchants.
All in all, his day passes in the blink of an eye, and before he knows it, he’s standing in his room with, strangely enough, Dorothea next to him. She’s fully ready, as striking as ever in a burgundy gown, delicate strips of silver hanging from her ears which are understated but lovely, and Felix knows they are a gift from Ingrid. Her hair waves in what looks to the untrained eye as an effortless fall of nature, when in reality mostly likely took some time. What he doesn’t understand is why she is brandishing a hairbrush at him.
“I didn’t let you touch my hair at the academy, why the hell would you think I’d change my mind now?” he says, but she stares back defiantly.
“Were you trying to impress anyone? And if you’d let me, you might have done sooner,” she says with a sly grin, then laughs unabashedly.
“Come on, Felix. Indulge me. Get changed and I’ll do your hair. It’s so long now, it’s craving someone to actually take care of it,” she says, and Felix huffs before going to his closet.
“I take care of it fine,” he says, and Dorothea giggles.
“I can see a few split ends,” she says, then moves into the bathroom to give him privacy.
He rolls his eyes even though she can’t see. As he changes, he remembers that night in the inn, Ashe commenting on how he shouldn’t cut his hair. He takes it down from the tie, letting it fall past his shoulders. It seems... vain, stupid to be getting hung up on this type of frivolty.
“Are you ready yet?” Dorothea calls.
He doesn’t answer her, and walks to the dresser, staring at his reflection. The outfit looks fine, one he’s worn before, so he knows it will suit this occasion. The jacket is a simple midnight blue, tailored with a scattering of turquoise embroidery around the edges. Simple dark, tailored trousers and a white high collared shirt finished the look. Nothing spectacular, but elegant in itself.
He waits a little, just enough time to annoy Dorothea a little more, then calls to her. She enters with a glare, fully knowing what he’s done, but it softens when she sees him.
“You look very dashing. And my, your hair really is long. Lots to work with,” she says, before moving closer, and patting the chair before the dresser. Felix approaches wearily, still unsure.
“It’s not going to bite. Sit or we’ll be late,” she says, and Felix obliges, albeit slowly. Dorothea tuts, but says nothing, hand hovering over his hair as she meets his eyes in the mirror. It’s an ask and he nods jerkily, and she gives him a far softer smile than previously, before her face morphs into a seriousness.
“What do you want to do with it? Not too elaborate, I know. But anything you want to try?” she asks, clearly having some idea, but wanting him to lead. That feeling from before rises though, and he looks away.
“It’s just hair, I don’t care about this type of silly thing. There are more important things to worry about,” he says.
Dorothea stays silent for a moment, but he can feel her still segmenting his hair lightly.
“I think there are very few things more important than taking time to do something lighthearted. To dress up. To dance. To sing. To change your hair. A few hours to let ourselves be free from duty or responsibility, as long as it’s appropriate. We all need time to relax. Or it makes what we need to do that much harder,” she says, deliberate and paced.
Her words scatter around him, his eyes drawn to the ornate wood of the dresser. She says it so simply, so easily, as if she’s not trying to battle against so many years of built up ideals. He’d not lied so many years ago when he’d told the Professor that he’d learned to swing a sword before he could write his own name. Dances were for duty, as were all things.
But Felix never liked duty, lost the illusion of knighthood and purpose from a young age. Even now, he struggles seeing Ingrid’s pride in her position, in the way she has managed to weave her life into a template of something that simultaneously shatters and makes her own in the same breath.
Maybe it is too difficult, maybe it is too hard to undo all these years and generations of tradition, but he wants to. Wants to find that place he can call his own, find a reason to push with all the might that he has. To understand what it is like to truly know who he is when he is not fighting. Whether that is from enemies, assassins, or his own mind which still tells him he must follow one path or obliterate it.
He wants to believe an evening of respite is healthy and deserved. So he, much like with all his wants for so long, in order to make it happen, forces it. He inhales, then looks back up, the jerk of his head disturbing Dorothea in it’s suddenness.
“I want to leave some of it down. And nothing ridiculous,” he adds, giving into those words Ashe spoke to him.
Dorothea grins, then dips down to lean on his shoulders, which he frowns at even as he endures.
“Oh, I have a good idea of exactly what to do,” she says, and Felix cannot say he is comforted by that, but he has made his choice, so tries to relax as Dorothea begins her work.
“Wow, Felix your hair is wonderful,” Ingrid says, the smile and way her eyes dart to the style making him sure it’s a truthful compliment. And like with all such honest commentary, he isn’t quite sure what to do with it, so clears his throat as he feels heat rise to his face.
“Your wife-to-be is skilled,” he says and Ingrid laughs.
“I’m aware, her and Petra are good at this... hair thing,” she says, waving her hand at her own short locks, which have been curled in an artistic way, then half pulled back, probably so she doesn’t spend the whole night distracted by her own hair.
Felix chuckles and nods, knowing much like himself, she doesn’t really care to spend effort other than what’s required on her appearance. But she does keep looking at the style as they walk, until he turns to face her.
“What?” he says, annoyed.
She smiles though, not in the least perturbed. “You look good. I think Ashe will agree,” she says, quietly, and this time he really does blush to the roots of said styled hair.
Dorothea did exactly as instructed, for it is almost all down and it’s not too elaborate. It’s simply pulled back by a small braid which begins at the leftmost corner of his hairline, and fixed after a few knots with invisible pins that he can sort of feel, but cannot for the life of him see. It means he only has one side of his hair to fiddle with, as much like Ingrid, he is tempted to play with any hair that crosses his eye line. So, currently, the right side is tucked behind his ear, out of the way for as long as he can make it.
“Just hair, and that’s not the point,” he mutters, turning away, and Ingrid thankfully drops it in favour of walking further into the manor ballroom.
It’s not a full ballroom the likes of which are seen at the Palace, but a large open space that has been edged with chairs for those who would like to sit as staff pass by with drinks and canapes. The food will be small but frequent, as is the nature of these nights, and although it is a reception with a Queen, it is still a laid-back affair. From what he knows of Petra, that seems more her style.
On Ingrid’s insistence, they get drinks then go hunting a very specific set of canapes she needs to eat, which is about as amusing as it sounds, especially when one server actually restricts how many she can take at one time. She tries to bribe him into silence, but Felix just continues to laugh, knowing he’ll be recounting this to Sylvain and Annette as soon as he has the chance.
Felix is stopped by the ambassador he saved, and there is a toast raised by the group surrounding in his honour.
“There shall be many more of these tonight, but I wanted to add my personal thanks,” he confides, and Felix nods, giving his thanks but not looking forward to potentially many more of such offerings.
However, it seems that despite the excuse to celebrate, most people in attendance are not in the mood for extravagance, so they are mostly stopped by small groups who toast or pray for their health, making less of a scene than he imagined. It is actually fairly enjoyable, as much of this week has proved to be, but the amount of people stopping them means it’s some time before they spy familiar places.
“There’s Petra, let’s go,” Ingrid says once they are excused, and Felix goes along, not really paying attention until he looks up and sees that of course, Petra is not alone. As they step determinedly towards her, his eyes are drawn in particular to one figure standing to her left.
Ashe’s back is half turned to Felix, so he does not see their approach. Felix takes in his side profile though as Ingrid drags him forward, for once grateful for this. Ashe’s outfit, like all of theirs, is nothing extravagant: he’s added a waistcoat which Felix prefers not to wear, seeming too close to his old school uniform. His outfit is black with no decoration other than an emblem on his lapel which indicates his status as a Knight. Felix smiles to himself, hiding it in his drink as they near. It is warming to see Ashe so proud of achieving his goal.
“Ah, there you are!” Dorothea calls, turning from Petra to greet both of them.
“Felix, Ingrid. You are both looking wonderful,” she says and they both bow, Felix’s hair draping over his shoulder, causing him to have to brush it back with slight annoyance on standing.
As he moves he ends up twisting slightly and comes face to face with Ashe. Felix knew he was standing there, had been taking in his frame barely a minute past, but still it is a suddenness, a shocking jolt to his limbs, not unlike the commencement of a thunder spell.
Those eyes, once more giving him romantic inclinations that he doesn’t know how to categorize, isn’t enough of a wordsmith to give them any meaning other than alive in just how bright they seem to shine against the darkness of his outfit. Ashe stares, unblinking, and Felix is used to being scrutinised and studied in all he does but not in this respect. Whatever it might be.
“Hey, Felix,” he says, quiet, but may as well have been shouted for it’s the only sound he can hear above the laughter and talk of the room.
“Ashe,” he says, with a small nod and a lift of his glass, sipping his drink because he has absolutely no idea what to do or say.
But it somehow works, as Ashe tracks the movement, and Felix can no longer deny that this isn’t thrilling, isn’t making the night open up into exceptional possibilities despite his initial hesitation.
The moment is broken when Petra appears at his side with the ambassador, the two whisking him off for a formal thank you with her aides before he has time to say a word further. He does however, give one more glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, Ashe is still watching him, his cheeks lighting up as Felix discovers, turning away swiftly to face Ingrid.
The night is adequate. He knows he’ll never really enjoy these things, but Dorothea’s words from earlier do seem to have worked, and he is able to forget somewhat. It doesn’t quite remove the notion that he should be doing a more crucial task, but when he’s occupied by the more interesting of talks, he is able to let go.
Dorothea finds him almost as soon as the music starts up.
“No,” he says as she walks over, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“Are you going to reject a lady who asks you to dance?” she says, mock insulted.
“If it’s you, yes. Ingrid is literally over there,” he says and she continues to stare him down.
“But somehow, you are the best dancer here, and I want at least a few decent songs. I love Ingrid, but she does step on my toes every time,” Dorothea says with a fond sigh and Felix resigns himself to being one of the first on the dance-floor.
Felix generally prefers doing things well, has never had much patience for spending time doing something without purpose, and anything he deems worthy to excel at, he spends time doing so to perfection. Dancing, he hasn’t ever wanted to master per se, but seeing as being a noble involves attending such events, he decided long ago he may as well be good at it.
And it does help having Dorothea as his partner, whose skills are fantastic. They strangely have a habit of trying to trip each other in steps or movements, resulting in a tendency to become a little wild in their dances, especially on occasions where they’ve been deep in their cups.
Tonight is not quite on that level, but they do manage at least four dances by Felix's account before Ingrid cuts in, both of them slightly winded.
“Okay, you’ve shown off enough, my turn,” she says, and Dorothea’s smile seems almost too private for him to witness, so Felix leaves them without a word, heading to get another drink.
As he does, Ashe comes into view waving, a more standard tone to their interactions, which gives Felix a little more steadiness than before, slipping into old routines, even with the spark of more swimming through.
“You haven’t lost your touch, I see,” Ashe chuckles, and Felix grimaces.
“I’d hardly say it’s my best skill,” he says and Ashe tips his head, questioning but still with that barely there smile, which still lightens his face as a whole.
“I’d disagree, you were a dancer at school,” he reminds and Felix clenches his teeth.
“Please do not remind me,” he says and Ashe’s smile turns teasing.
“You don’t miss the outfit, at least?” he asks, and Felix narrows his eyes.
“No. I burnt it,” he says and Ashe laughs, throwing his head back, and the sound is so free, a little too loud for the room and the sentence, so much so that it must be true.
It’s the laugh that does it; so far from the usual chuckle Felix receives that it throws his caution and nerves away, gives him that forwardness usually reserved for swordplay.
“Dance with me.”
Ashe stops laughing abruptly, and Felix thinks for a moment he’s spoken out of turn, but after just a few seconds of strained quiet Ashe puts down his drink and waits. Felix turns, and walks towards the dance floor.
It’s probably the most awkward proposition anyone has ever given, but the thought of taking Ashe’s hand and leading him is simply beyond what Felix’s wits can cope with. However, Ashe does follow, so once they are a small way in, Felix spins, and Ashe steps up.
This time, Felix does hold out his hands, a testament to the years of training as to how they do not shake. Ashe takes them, and Felix gives himself one exhale, just as his brother taught him to do before striking with his sword, before he steps forward, beginning a slow rotation.
Ashe follows nimbly and the dance begins, weaving around others who dance with varying skills and styles in the crowded room. Ashe is not a bad dancer, he has good rhythm and movement, but it’s too stiff and rigid.
“Loosen up, it will make the steps easier. Don’t look at your feet, makes you more likely to trip,” Felix says, as they pass another couple stepping widely and causing him to have to grip Ashe closer in order to pass without a collision.
“I’m not sure how I’m meant to know where my feet go without looking at them,” Ashe mutters, looking down as he speaks, head rushing back up when Felix tuts.
With the new position, they are extremely close. So close, Felix notices the spread of Ashe’s freckles, pronounced in the amber light of the room. Are there more than he recalls? It is approaching summer, it makes sense they would multiply. He has the sudden urge to count, to know the changes of his skin; a new, better way to mark the passing of time.
He notices the blush form because he’s staring so much, therefore clears his throat before he can be discovered.
“Just trust me to lead. I know well enough,” he says, voice sticking a little.
“I do trust you,” Ashe says, softly like a secret between them, and Felix gulps, unsure for a moment how to take the next step.
The song changes, a blessed distraction as they fall into the new rhythm, and manoeuvre their way between the partners coming and going around them. Once they are settled, Felix feels less unsure, and something about the way they have been dancing for so long with nothing too amiss makes his yearn for conversation.
“What are you doing, when we go back?” he says.
Ashe blinks, the sudden shift definitely random. He pauses for a second.
“I have some work to finish off with Mercedes. And I’ll be returning to castle Gaspard soon,” he says, but the words seem constructed with care, and Felix stiffens a little, his grip of Ashe’s hands tightening as the mood changes.
The music saunters between them, and Ashe stiffens against Felix, looks away once, then back again, clearly about to speak. But the words bubble out of Felix without control, his tendency to speak in the moment coming out.
“How long were you in Fraldarius when you worked with Mercedes?”
Ashe actually stumbles then, Felix grabbing into him to make sure they do not crash into anyone else as they lose the rhythm they’d spent so long acquiring. They get back on track and Felix feels Ashe’s body move as he inhales.
“A few moons. You weren’t there, when I first arrived,” he says, slowly, but still getting to the crux of Felix’s feelings.
He knows this is awkward, he’s not immune to these types of situations; but Felix has no idea how to defuse it, so he continues onward, a boulder in free-fall.
“And then I returned,” he says, and it sounds as petulant as it is, so much so that they’ve practically stopped dancing, more swaying vaguely.
“Are you upset I didn’t say anything?” Ashe says, frowning and Felix knows he has a choice. He could say so, even if it’s sounds needy and strange, could admit why he’s been building this up in his head for so long, and yet—
“No, I’m not,” is what comes out of his mouth and he wants to pull it back in, but in truth, what else would he say?
Because despite all the coaxing from his friends and the tiny little chips in his thinking, it still boils down to the same thing. He doesn’t believe it will do any good, and he doesn’t know how to explain how torn he is in caring so much and also having no idea how to move forward with that.
So he lets go. They stop dancing and Ashe’s face falls, which he cannot bear to watch, so he walks away, and Ashe lets him, which helps nothing and no one, but it’s most likely for the best.
Felix walks straight outside, as far as he can go, past revellers and lovers outside for fresh air and secrecy. He doesn’t go too far, but enough that he feels away, sitting on a low wall and staring up at the sky as the breeze picks up. He remembers the conversation on stargazing merely a few nights ago, and if he closes his eyes he can remember two different types of affection.
The first being wrapped up in a blanket, sitting on his mother’s lap as she teaches him constellation names, the sound of his and Glenn’s voices repeating them, testing the unfamiliar sounds and syllables. The second is, of course, Ashe leaning against him, warm as he says the same old names, deeper and with confidence, passing on that knowledge in a way it was first given to him.
“Felix.”
The voice belongs to none of the people in his memories, and he opens his eyes slowly. There’s a crunch of gravel and Ingrid comes to sit beside him. She says nothing, the two looking vaguely upwards, before he tips his head backwards.
“How do you erase what came before?” he asks.
He hopes he doesn’t have to elaborate. It’s the only sentence which makes sense to express how he’s feeling, what he’s struggling with, and has been for so long.
“You don’t,” Ingrid says, and he turns to face her. She fiddles with the ring on her finger, the sapphire darker in the half light.
“I can’t erase what I was brought up to think marriage was. I can’t forget how I lost so much, or how I conducted myself when that happened. And I can’t change our childhoods and the things we’ve seen and done,” she says.
Felix exhales and shuts his eyes for a second. “How are you still going, then?” he asks, the bitterness in his voice so clear but he doesn’t care.
Her hand on his leg forces him to turn back to her, and she squeezes his knee before drawing away.
“It’s not about getting rid of it. It’s about reshaping. You have to remember what we experienced, what we were told, to know why it was wrong. You have to undo those ideals in the present so no one else has to experience them. And you have to start by thinking of what you want, and making it happen,” she says with a pointed look.
Felix smiles, without humour. “That’s the issue. I don’t think I can do any of those things,” he says. He still hates admitting weakness, even though he knows now it doesn’t diminish who he is.
“Of course you can. It’s hard, believe me. But I know you, Felix. You never back down,” she says, but he stands, suddenly tired.
“This isn’t the same as... a battle or an argument. It’s not... it just doesn’t work like that,” he says, losing patience with his own mind, and ability to put these things in words, pulling at his hair in frustration, a nervous habit he gained long ago, and one of the main reasons he doesn’t ever have his hair down. He gives himself a moment, and then turns back, Ingrid looking at him sadly.
“I know. You don’t have to figure it out tonight. But the point is trying and making steps. Like the first time you tried to do a spell,” she says, and he snorts with laughter, tension broken.
“Really?” he says, and Ingrid laughs.
“It’s one of the few memories I have of you at school not being perfect, let me keep it. Between you and his highness being fantastic at sparing, and Sylvain’s top marks in every exam, I need that,” she says, and he rolls his eyes.
“As if you don’t know how good you are at flying,” he says and Ingrid smiles, brighter than he would have expected, and it occurs that she doesn’t always know, doesn’t always see what he does. And he’s not the best at offering comfort, even to his friends, or reassurance in things that matter.
He opens his mouth to try and utter a semblance of support, when the sound of gravel moving under feet makes them both turn. Felix’s eyes widen as Ashe comes into view, actually stepping back once in surprise.
Ingrid gets up, and grasps his shoulder in encouragement as she walks by. She speaks to Ashe as she passes, a short mumbled exchange, then they both carry on to their destinations, while Felix, still rooted by his surprise, await’s Ashe’s arrival.
It’s still tense, but strangely there is an air of potential between them, the very fact that Ashe has come out here opening a door he felt he’d bolted shut. Ashe gives him a half grin and Felix tries to give a smile in return but isn’t sure his face muscles obey.
He is thankful then, when Ashe starts the conversation. “You didn’t tell me what you were doing after this,” he says, and Felix tips his head upwards.
“I don’t know,” he says, with more feeling than the question warrants, taking air into his lungs, then looking back to Ashe.
“It’s okay to not know what you want,” Ashe says, soft and vanishing into the night, and Felix grinds his teeth in frustration because even he can realise the emphasis has fallen on the wrong issue.
“That’s not it,” he snaps, then turns red with a violent force, the intense heat in his cheeks making him almost dizzy, and he hopes the night is somewhat concealing. He composes himself with a speed of years of practice, and looks back at Ashe, who looks confused once more.
“I don’t know where I’ll be going. I don’t know what...I don’t know what will happen when I leave. Or where I’ll need to go. I’m not a Knight, I follow my sword where it’s needed,” he says.
“You could be a Knight, if you wanted to you. But if you wanted to, you’d already be one,” Ashe says, stepping forward, their similar heights meaning they are eye to eye, could be toe to toe if just a little closer.
Felix agrees with a sharp nod. Ashe takes it in, and then sighs.
“It sounds tiring. You asked earlier, why I didn’t come and visit. And I thought about it, honestly, I wanted to. But I was never sure you’d be there. It’s happened before, you were near Gaspard last year, but left before I even caught wind of it. You move constantly, following your sword, as you said. Don’t you miss your home?” he asks.
“Not in the same way others seem to. It’s never… it’s just a place,” he says.
“Then where is home?” Ashe counters, pushing, as he usually does, quietly but insistently, imploring, almost, so Felix doesn’t feel cornered, but is compelled to answer all the same.
“I cannot remember. It was there, in the past but now I... another thing I don’t know,” he says, crossing his arms in frustration. He feels tired even thinking about it, and it harks back to Ashe’s original question.
It is exhausting. Maybe years ago, it would have seemed logical that he’d fight for a living but that was before he fought for his life.
“Home changes, Felix. I’ve had many. It’s not a building, as you said. You’ll find out what it is, and what it means. But from what you told me, you were loved there. Your mother taught you to stargaze, your brother taught you to read, your father taught you to walk. All in that place,” he says.
Felix just stands there, staring amazed by those choices of memories. Nothing of the sword, nothing of being a Duke, nothing of his life now. But Ashe continues, does not allow him to falter on just this.
“Places have bad and the good in them. But they also have a future. And you do return home, even if I can’t keep track of when. Those things are difficult, I know. But it’s okay to take your time and to work out what you need,” he says, almost a mirror of Ingrid.
“But just know there are people here who care where you end up. Whether you’re staying still or moving. Just... don’t be a stranger,” Ashe finishes, with what Felix knows is a false smile.
He nods, and then Ashe leaves. For these is nothing more to say, nothing more to do. For either of them.
The ride back is strange. It’s not awkward, more deflated between them all as they leave. Dorothea, Ingrid, and Ashe all head to the capital to see the King, while Felix rides on with his soldiers. A week later and he’s back in the Manor, without any changes that he can see.
Back to a frozen place, a frozen time.
He stares out of the window on the morning he arrives, watches the sunrise as they’d chosen to ride through the night to make their homeward journey sooner. He’s given the soldiers the week off, who both tried to protest, but it’s been hard riding and hardly the best use of their skills. This way, they can see their families and rest.
As the sun climbs, he starts to unpack the few gifts he has from the well wishes or Petra’s court. He’s not one for trinkets unless they are swords, but really, it is... nice to see them. He sorts through his clothes until he picks up the sleeve of a white shirt, and his heart simply drops.
He hadn’t given it back. In the haste of the departure and the strangeness of his parting with Ashe, he’d simply packed the shirt away. Combined with the spices and tea gifts which sit on his bed, he simply gives up and stares at the three objects. They seem to taunt him for his indecision, his lack of courage and swirling confusion. He twists the shirt between his hands and sits down, careful not to squash the packages.
Why has it come to this? Why is he so tied in knots he cannot see what direction anything moves in? This is so unlike him, and yet—
Perhaps it’s not. He’s been thrown off his feet by others before, it’s simply this combination of uncertainty which is rooting him, rather than plowing forward without care. Perhaps it’s specifically those words Ashe spoke to him many nights ago now which have him stalling.
“Places have bad and the good in them. But they also have a future.”
He looks up at the window as he says this, taking in the barren room he’s been cycling in and out of for the past few years. Apart from the mess which is his version of unpacking, there is very little here. One functional sword, one dagger under his pillow, a glass of extremely old water on his bedside table, and a book.
The book. The one Ashe had given to him for his birthday years ago. He leans over, picks it up and flicks through the pages, indented from his favourites, a little weathered from travelling with him in his younger days.
“Where are the rest?” he mutters without thinking, then slowly puts down the book.
Then, he gets up as if in a trance, walks to the closet, and throws the doors open. He spies what he’s looking for at the back, and heaves, a medium sized traveling trunk coming with him. It’s not that heavy, probably about half full, and covered with a layer of dust. He hesitates just for a second, then throws it open, as if expecting an attack from the inside.
And there, nestled in, are things .
His Garreg Mach uniform, minus the boots he threw away when he wore holes in them. The cursed dancer uniform which he honestly should have burned. His certifications, rolled up with the ribbon still tied. Two battered text books, one on magic and another on sword formation, still, he thinks, with his own notes marking the pages. His academic year before the world fell apart summarised in pieces.
He sits down heavily beside the floor, taking each piece out, revealing the layers underneath. He inhales, shaking a little as he picks up a stack of letters. All from his father, generic asks of his welfare during his time at the academy. He doesn’t know why he’s kept them, why he kept them before, let alone now. He puts them aside; he’s not ready to start reading anything yet.
There are other letters, some from Sylvain during the five years before the reunion, and some from before that time, when they were younger, handwriting worse and loopy, spelling mistakes rampant. There’s letters from Annette, scraps of songs she would show him then discard, but he’d keep in case she suddenly thought of the next piece. Reminders from Ingrid, mostly to do things, and he remembers posting similar things to her, a weird tradition they picked up to deal with how each time they spoke their words became knives.
Outside of papers, there are a pair of woollen gloves Mercedes made when he lost one of his during a watch turned fight. They’re still soft, still warm to the touch, and he takes them out to make sure he uses them. A painting Bernadetta had given him as a thank you for something he doesn’t remember, small and bright which makes him smile. A recipe from Dedue. Felix takes it out, a bile in his stomach rising. There’s much regret there, but as Ingrid said; the point is to understand and undo the systems.
And then, there are older things. Very few, for these are what he took with him to the monastery. A picture drawn by Dimitri, stick figures of the four of them in the time before the tragedy of Duscur. Glenn’s spur, which he’d clung onto since he found it barely a moon after his passing. A necklace that was his mother’s; a small silver chain with a tiny star charm on it. He has a feeling he and Glenn ‘bought’ it for a birthday when he was very small. Without thinking, he fiddles with the tiny clasp for a second, loops it over his own neck, the pendant cool where it touches the hollow of his chest as it slides under his shirt.
He lets it settle then looks at the final few objects. He pulls out a portrait, and grins, smile wobbling even if he doesn’t want to admit it. It’s he and Glenn, Glenn holding him on his lap as a toddler, Glenn’s hair so long it rivals his own now. He cannot remember sitting for this, he’s a baby and Glenn must be about nine years old, but it makes him feel safe. It’s why he kept it for so long, why he brought it with him.
And it was made in this house. In the main room downstairs that Felix never uses as it’s too large for one or two people, but it contains fragments of these times. He puts down the portrait and breathes in. Breathes in time and memories, space and years of life that occurred here before it became stagnant and cold.
Ashe was right. Is usually right. This place has bad and good in it, like life and everything it throws at Felix. And he can shape which path he takes next. As it turns out, Felix has been storing up a home, in the pieces he’s collected and kept locked up, waiting for a moment where it’s right to start laying them down, when it’s safe, when he’s ready.
Maybe that time has finally come.
Sylvain arrives by the end of the week. Felix isn’t surprised, his best friend has this habit of showing up just when he’s needed, not necessarily wanted. He hugs Felix as if it’s been years and not weeks, which he endures, before pushing him away.
“You have a lot to explain,” he says, sharp as a knife, and Sylvain holds up his hands.
“Hey, hello, it’s nice to see you too,” he says and Felix just tuts.
“Hello, Sylvain. Want to explain what you were trying to do with having Ashe accompany me?” he says, striding into the parlour, where tea is already waiting.
“Having a Knight of the Kingdom, and an old friend accompany you on a treacherous journey?” Sylvain says and Felix glares.
“Hardly treacherous,” he scoffs.
“I heard you got stabbed,” he says with a grin as he puts a whole cake in his mouth. Felix’s face curves in disgust at the action, and he sits without responding to Sylvain.
“Urg, fine. I don’t need to spell it out, Felix. The fact that you brought it up means you know why I did it,” he says, taking his own seat.
“Did you arrange the inn, too?” he asks bitterly.
“What inn?” Sylvain says, seeming genuinely puzzled and Felix decides to keep that secret with him.
There’s silence as they pour the tea, Felix sipping it carefully as Sylvain takes another cake, not bothered by the silence.
“Wait, is that the sword I got you?” Sylvain asks suddenly.
Felix turns as Sylvain stands and marches over to the wall, the twin swords set on the wall. He hums in agreement as Sylvain stares. One was a gift from Byleth when they won the war, another Sylvain had given him for his birthday. A set, rare and peculiar, more ornametary than functional. He likes them, and seeing as he’s been turning the manor inside out looking for things, as soon as he’d seen them he knew he had to display them.
Sylvain turns on his heel and stares at him.
“Huh,” he says, cocking his head to one side.
“What?” Felix grumbles as Sylvain walks back, spring in his step.
“Something happened. You’re... different,” he says.
“I can’t change in such little time, Sylvain,” Felix says with a roll of his eyes, but doesn’t deny it.
Sylvain stares as he drinks, until Felix huffs and shakes his head.
“Fine. Ashe...said something to me. It made me think,” he says, unsure if he can say anymore, if there is anything he’s ready to reveal.
Sylvain places the cup down and grins widely.
“I knew it!” he cries and Felix groans, not looking at him.
“The swords look great,” Sylvain adds, tone softer, and causing Felix's face to heat. They had been gifts, wonderful gifts if he’s honest, and he still doesn’t know how to deal with their existence and the people who gave them.
So, in the quiet, he finishes his tea, takes the few snacks he likes and watches Sylvain demolish the ones he doesn’t.
“Sooo… you gonna tell me what happened?” Sylvain says, leaning forward.
“What’s to say if there’s anything to tell?” Felix remarks, and Sylvain groans.
“Felix Hugo Fraldarius, you have swords up that were gifts, you’re wearing a necklace and you never wear jewellery, and you’re smiling. Well okay, you’re kinda smiling, but still. Something happened. Don’t hold out on me, I’ve never held out on you,” Sylvain says with a pout as if this is something they’re confessing as teenagers,
Another lost moment. Another lost factor of youth replaced by war and death that Felix is reliving as an adult when really he should have experienced all this long ago. But, he’s been learning in the rush of these past few days, it’s okay to have delayed reactions.
“It’s okay to take your time.”
“I never asked to hear about you and Dimitri,” he reminds, and Sylvain shakes his head.
“And yet you listened. So here I am, too. Listening,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows.
It makes him cave, so quickly he should be embarrassed but he’s not anymore. These things, he thinks, are easier once started.
“Fine. But the necklace was my mother’s, it’s nothing to do with this,” he says, and Sylvain’s look is warm and happy, happy for him and it makes Felix feel strange and alert to emotions he’s not sure he fully understands now.
“Yes! Okay, but we need wine for this type of talk. And lots of it.”
Felix regrets it in the morning, when his head pounds with every step he takes, and he waves his best friend off with a grimace and Sylvain laughs at his hungover self.
“You really, really need to go see Ashe. Promise me you will? And for the what..sixth time, make sure you grow your beard when you see him,” he says and Felix immediately yanks at his leg so he almost topples off his horse, laughing all the while, a move he’s been pulling on Sylvain since he was tall enough to reach.
But it does feel lighter, feel better. The house feels better if he’s honest, the pieces of himself he’s kept stored and locked away now lining the rooms he uses the most. This place will always be too grand; Felix isn’t one for large buildings and useless space, but that can be sorted later. For now, he marks the places he loves and needs, airing them of ghosts and lost hours.
He still isn’t sure what to do next, but he does know he can return. It’s why he always has come back here, in a way. Here, his brother told him he could be a swordsman, but also told him he didn’t need to be anyone but himself. Here, his father praised him when he could name all the Kingdom banners, even if their understanding diverged in years to come. Here are his memories of his mother, all of the few he has and clings onto like stardust as the years past.
It’s worth returning to. It’s worth making something of.
At some point, he’ll need to return to the Capital. He is a servant of the crown after all, though no summons have come his way. He thinks it won’t for a while, if Sylvain has anything to do with it. He receives a letter stating his new sword will arrive in a week, so he occupies himself with local tasks until then. It’s good, he finds, to immerse himself in the welfare of his territory. Not that he was neglectful before, he does take the care of his people seriously. He’s just not focused on it as his main priority, and finds himself helping in areas he hadn’t ever thought would be his responsibility.
And it’s good. It’s nice. Fast paced but also not, occupying his mind but not his whole self. Perhaps, despite it all, being a Duke is not a torture. But that’s as he’s changing things for him, and not for another.
He is given notice of a rider approaching one morning as he reads through papers on a new set of houses they are planning to build in the west of the territory. He blinks, vision swimming with numbers and scales, before standing and stretching, back clicking in a way which cannot be good.
As has become a habit, he ventures to the roof. Not many messages have arrived since Sylvain’s departure, but he’s finding himself tracing the steps up to the rooftop each time, as well whenever he is at a loss of what to do. The summer has fully set, meaning the breeze is pleasant and Felix can see the world spreading before him, clear and wide, inviting and enchanting.
He has the itch in his fingers to do something. But it’s not as paramount as it was. Perhaps he’ll never be fully satisfied in one place. Up high it’s easier; he can see all, anticipate what’s coming and what’s next. Since the first time the world swung out from under his feet with Glenn’s death, he’s been fighting in some ways, to control all outcomes.
He cannot, though. And that’s always been his downfall. Staying still always meant losing grip, but now perhaps that’s easing. Perhaps it’s not so bad, at times, to let the world take its course. His mind is not filled with only bad memories, even though it tries to trick him at times that it is.
He leans out, and watches for the rider, seeing them as a speck in the distance. He wonders where to hang this sword, seeing as now he’s actually decided to start displaying possessions, and that keeps his mind wandering through rooms as the rider makes his way towards the gates.
All of a sudden, Felix’s mind stumbles, eyes having betrayed him as he suddenly recalls the day when Ashe arrived, both of them in this very position, Ashe riding up like the arrival today, Felix staring out and lost in his thoughts. He huffs out a laugh to himself, shaking his head. He’s less irritated by his fixation on his feelings now he’s had a space to breathe and sort through some of the tangles. Doesn’t mean he is any happier with his tumultuous thoughts, so takes a second before looking back again.
But the scene hasn’t changed. A rider, who looks very Ashe-like, is still coming towards the house.
Felix gapes for a moment, but the world keeps turning, and without a second thought he runs from the roof, down the stairs, heart hammering and breath constricting as he slides into the corridor and forces himself to slow to a swift walk. He passes various members of his household in a blur, focused on the doorway, and he picks up his pace into an almost run as he sees it, no longer caring too much for appearances.
He throws them open just as Ashe’s horse rounds the corner and a stable hand arrives to take it. He marches over as Ashe swings down and goddess, it is beyond good to see him. Something lights up inside and he’s smiling, enough to feel the pull even as nerves rattle through as Ashe turns and sees him.
His eyes widen, mouth opening in surprise, and he walks forward to meet Felix, bringing with him what is unmistakably, a sword. Felix laughs as he approaches, and shakes his head.
“You brought my sword,” he says, fond even to his own ears, grin increasing as Ashe blushes.
“W-well, the warehouse is in the Capital. I was coming this way. It made sense to stop by here first,” he says, collecting himself quickly.
“First,” Felix repeats, and Ashe smiles, sweetly as he hands it over.
“Of course. From now on, I’ll stop by first. Even if I’m not sure you’ll be here,” he says.
Felix takes the sword, his usual urge to unwrap such an item immediately dimmed as he meets Ashe’s gaze.
“I should imagine I’ll be home more frequently from now on,” he says, almost mumbling, and Ashe tilts his head slightly, question clearly brewing, but Felix steps away.
“I assume you’ll want a rest, having travelled all this way. Come in,” he says, leading on before he can lose too much of his bravado, still somewhat on edge that Ashe personally delivered his sword, riding in like that ridiculous scene in the play they watched not so long ago.
Ashe follows, falling into step just behind, as an attendant says there will be tea served in the parlour momentarily. Felix thanks her, then the two settle into the room, the atmosphere and layout so different from just a few weeks ago.
“You’ve been decorating,” he says, inspecting the swords and few portraits Felix has found in different parts of the house since his return. He nods as Ashe turns back, taking a seat.
“I was... inspired, shall we say,” he says, and before Ashe can say anything further, their tea arrives.
“Thank you,” Ashe says to the server, then to Felix who shakes his head.
“I should be thanking you, for coming all the way here, and well, for the tea. Seeing as this is the blend you gave me,” he says.
Ashe stares at his cup, as Felix takes a sip, then without warning, places it back down on the table, rocking to saucer as he does.
“Sorry, sorry. It’s just... I can’t keep doing this,” he says, and Felix gulps a mouthful of scalding tea, shuddering as it burns its way from his mouth down his throat. He doesn’t make a sound though, too caught up in Ashe who wears a determined expression, keeping Felix in his gaze.
“I’ve tried to show my affection gradually, but I... I just need to tell you. Felix, I—I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years, but I haven’t ever found the moment that feels right enough. I wasn’t sure, still am not sure if you feel the same, but I cannot keep it to myself anymore.”
Felix knows he needs to step in, needs to say something but he’s so entirely thrown by love being given to him that he doesn’t know how to do anything more than stare, eyes too wide, so words tumble from Ashe now he’s begun to let them fly.
“I liked you even back at school, yet these past few years and spending so much time with you last week have just solidified what I feel. I know you have many things you’re thinking about, and I don’t mean to complicate matters further but—”
“Ashe,” Felix says, managing to unstick his jaw, finally placing down his tea cup as the ability to move seeps through.
Ashe shuts his mouth with a click and it’s the most adorable thing Felix has ever seen, combined with the fact this man loves him causes a smile to form before he can help it.
“Ashe,” he begins again, softer and not without hesitation, for this is the first time he’s ever done this before.
“I love you too.”
It is not easy. For love is not, not to Felix, but this confession feels natural and good. So very good to say what has been stirring and building inside for so long.
“You do?” Ashe says, in what appears to be shock and Felix cannot help the laugh that escapes.
“I do. I have been thinking, since you spoke to me at the party. And I’m working out where my home is, and what to do in the future which will take time. But... I do,” he says, stumbling over saying those specific words again.
Ashe however, is still staring. Almost not blinking, just transfixed on Felix.
“Ashe? Are you listening?” Felix says, a little short as he’s just... confessed, of all things, and the recipient zoned out, when Ashe shakes his head.
“Sorry! I—no, this is wrong, no,” he says, sending Felix entirely array when he gets up and marches to him.
“What?” he says but Ashe smiles, then lifts his hands up, gently cupping Felix’s cheek, tipping his head up as he does. Felix can feel the roughness of the pads of his fingertips, the way the small taps against his skin send tiny thrums of energy through his whole body.
“You’ve read romance novels Felix, there’s only one thing you do immediately after your feelings are returned,” Ashe teases, and it’s the only warning Felix receives before he’s being kissed.
He’s been kissed and kissed first before, but it is different when there is so much raw emotion behind it. He knows the movements, the way to respond with soft pressure to Ashe’s chapped lips curving over his own, but it is the roar in his ears, the ignition of so many hours of time spanning aeons coming together in a single action that crashes and shatters the remnants of hesitation and concern.
He’s living in monumental time as the first kiss parts, beginning another; Felix catching Ashe’s lip between his teeth for a moment, just enough to feel his start of a gasp before the kiss gains fire and thunder, his go-to elements, and it’s a rush of understanding of just how fantastic this can be, will be, learning every twist and turns of mouths as they both lean in.
His neck strains and he grips Ashe’s shirt and pulls so he stumbles onto Felix’s lap which is perfect, exactly where he needs him to be, and the kiss deepens, Ashe sighing into it, arms around his neck, Felix holding him, keeping him close and subjecting all of this to memory, these sounds and the taste, for all of time.
They part, almost chasing for another kiss when their eyes catch. Ashe smiles, leaning forward and instead just buries his head in Felix’s neck, placing one kiss there as he curls in. And Felix lifts a hand to his hair, running his fingers through the fine strands, nothing left to be said as they both savor the comfort of closeness.
“And that one?”
Felix secures the blanket for what must be the fourth time in the last hour as Ashe points to somewhere far to the East. He leans forward to see, Ashe on his lap leaning back towards his chest, hand drifting back into warmth.
“Sirius,” he says and Ashe mouths the name and then just snuggles closer, Felix’s hands tightening around his waist. The closeness soothes that raw edge inside, as if touch and nearness are a balm to something he doesn’t know is ravaged. A scar he may not heal, but has found a way to alleviate the aftermath, even if it’s been with him for so many years.
“Is this what you want to do all night? Ask me to name stars for you?” he says, squeezing Ashe’s sides, who yelps, twisting to glare as Felix grins back.
“I asked you to show me your favourite place, this is your plan,” he accuses and Felix shakes his head.
“Hardly. I’m not here for your amusement,” he says and Ashe turns, moving out of his lap to sit before him, the cold air hitting his back as the blanket moves, only for a moment though, as Ashe sweeps it in place, leaning forward to they are almost nose to nose, Felix’s head tipping upwards on instinct.
Ashe’s mouth curves upwards and Felix grimaces. He’s good at this, so very good at enticing him already, and it’s been mere hours. But he doesn’t withhold the kiss, sinks in deep to Felix as their mouths slide in the same rhythm, more comfort than flare in this hour and place.
“You’ll stay?” Felix blurts out suddenly, meaning to tack on ‘for the night’ but it becomes open-ended.
Ashe sits back on his heels, eyes steady, unconcerned. “I can stay the week, before I have duties. If you’ll have me for that long,” he says with a chuckle, and Felix nods stiffly, words not right for what he’s feeling.
“And with you, if that’s what you’re asking, then that’s what I want. I love you. I want this to be as much as it can, Felix. Even if we aren’t physically close often,” he says, and Felix moves forward, gripping Ashe’s hands.
Ashe stills, looking confused, but says nothing as Felix scrambles mentally for the right words to convey what he needs to.
“I want to be with you. And to decide my own future, my own life. I’ll do what I can to make sure we’re close, whenever we can be,” he settles on, and Ashe nods, before turning once more, settling onto Felix’s lap as if it’s now his favourite place, which Felix privately hopes it is.
“Petra was telling me about Brigid. Have you ever seen the ocean? The sea sounds amazing,” he says, leaning back into Felix, who kisses his temple.
“Can’t say I’m a fan of a huge body of deep water,” he says, and Ashe sighs, Felix moving with it.
“I don’t know, sounds romantic,” he says, and Felix rolls his eyes.
“You read too many pirate romance books,” he mutters, and Ashe laughs so hard he shakes against him.
But Felix already commits himself to taking Ashe to Brigid. At some point, hopefully not too far away, when it’s all more secure in his own head and heart, when he has a direction fixed with more tentative foundations. When he can give his full focus to a vacation or surviving some sort of sea adventure.
The future gaps, possibilities frightening in their openness. Yet his future with Ashe, he is certain of. There will be the bright and the dark, like there is in most things, but he knows without questions they are a combined force to be reckoned with against the bad which may come.
So he holds Ashe close and revels in their first night as together like this as the moon rises higher. A close of one day, and the prelude to a future.