Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s friendly curiosity, Sylvain tells himself. Because they’re friends. Not because he wants to gossip, or anything like that, no sirree, Sylvain Jose Gautier is not that kind of man, not at all--

Well. He’ll tell Ingrid and His Highness about it though. But that’s it. He swears.

So.

The initial plan had been for him to sneak the hallways, peer into the library from the doors. Inconspicuous, unnoticeable. The absolute pinnacle of stealth. But then he remembered that the library was a public space, open to all students, and really, that’d just be way more suspicious than simply waltzing in like he owned the place.

Of course, the problem now would be that Sylvain never voluntarily went to the library. But at the time, Sylvain had figured that that'd be an issue for future Sylvain.

As it turns out, "future Sylvain", also currently going by the name of "present Sylvain", really, really regrets that decision. He sighs, as he stands outside the library. He really should have thought this through earlier...

Well, whatever. No time for regrets. Sylvain pushes the doors open, and strides in. There’s Linhardt, Claude, the usual suspects, and there. Aha. The man of the hour. Felix Hugo Fraldarius. In the library! Would wonders never cease.

Now, Sylvain has to be casual enough not to be suspicious, yet simultaneously stealthy enough not to be noticed. It’s a hard balance, one that Sylvain will most definitely--

“What are you doing here?”

Fail.

“Yo, Felix,” Sylvain pastes a wide grin on his face, turning sheepishly to face his target. The hunter becomes the hunted, so on and so forth. “I could be asking you the same thing here.”

Felix looks unimpressed. Then again, doesn’t he always?

“Unlike you, I do find time to study, now and again,” his voice is flat, and Sylvain suppresses a wince. Ohhh-kay. Local teenager in a bad mood. Unsurprising, but still unwanted.

“Hey now, I study!” Sylvain still opens his mouth to protest. Local teenager makes a bad decision, he thinks with some regret. Unsurprising, but damn is it still unwanted.

“Without Ingrid? I find that unlikely.”

“Uh...”

Yeah, Sylvain doesn’t have a good retort for that. Goddess, he really should have come up with a plan beforehand.

Thankfully, a ray of fortune shines down on Sylvain, as his gaze snags on the book in Felix’s hands. The Goddess’s mercy, the Goddess’s pity, or maybe just the Goddess finding some humor in playing a prank on Felix, but Sylvain’s found a way to turn this conversation around.

“Hey, that book...” As quick as Sylvain points it out, Felix abruptly hides it behind his back. It’s not a graceful movement, by any means, and Felix seems to know it by the way his cheeks turn just slightly pink. It’s too late, though. Sylvain’s already caught a glimpse of the cover, and he’s not going to let it go anytime soon.

“Woah,” starts Sylvain, and Felix is already turning away, a grimace on his face. “Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. I just wanted to say that I never thought I’d catch you reading these kinds of books again.”

“You’ve already said far too much, you dolt,” Felix snaps. His grip on the book tightens, knuckles turning white.

“Loog and the Maiden of Wind, huh?” Sylvain muses, ignoring him. “A classic tale. Nothing wrong with that, you know--“

“Shut up,” hisses Felix. He glances around, and Sylvain follows his gaze. Linhardt, as always, seems too lost in his own reading to pay them any mind, but Claude’s watching them with raised eyebrows and a smirk playing over his lips. Not that Sylvain expected any different from the illustrious, sneaky leader of the Golden Deer himself, but hey, he could stand to employ some of that subtlety he’s somewhat known for.

Felix flushes a stark red, and, turning on a heel, storms out of the library. Belatedly, Sylvain raises a hand to stop him.

“H-Hey, have you borrowed that already?” he calls, but Felix has already swept out the doors. Sylvain sighs, arm falling to his side. He stares mournfully at the closed doors for a few moments, before a hand comes down on his shoulder.

Sylvain does not yelp, thank you very much. And he doesn’t whip around in shock either. He turns gracefully, and elegantly, as befitting the heir of House Gautier, and in no way is he anything less than polite when greeting Claude. Alright?

“Tough luck,” says Claude, patting his shoulder in, what, faux sympathy? Sylvain can’t really tell. Claude’s a tough nut to crack, and it’s not like Sylvain’s ever spoken to him in any depth anyway.

“Uh, yeah...” hedges Sylvain. Claude grins at him, razor sharp. Yeah, the guy’s definitely having an inner laugh at his expense. What else is new.

“Tell you what, I’ll throw you a bone,” Claude leans in, breath tickling Sylvain’s ear. And if Sylvain flushes, well, look. Come on. “Come ‘round Thursday, you might see something interesting then.”

Against his better judgement, Sylvain nods. With that, Claude rocks back on his heels, hands slipping inside his pockets. Another smirk directed at him, and the future Alliance leader trots off, diving straight back into...whatever he’s doing. Reading, obviously, but reading what, Sylvain has no idea.

Claude’s a tough nut to crack, and Sylvain doesn’t have the slightest idea what the guy may be up to. Still, it probably wouldn’t hurt to follow his advice. What’s the worst that could happen, right?

(Not right, Sylvain knows, but hey, that’s an issue for future Sylvain to solve.)


“Aww, come on, what makes you think I’m up to something?” Sylvain whines as he walks down the hallway with Ingrid. Ingrid just stares at him, deadpan.

“You, Sylvain, asking me to study with you?” she scoffs. “If it weren’t for the way you’d flirted with that poor girl just moments before, I’d be convinced you were an imposter!”

“I’m not that bad...”

“Yes, you are.”

“Well, maybe I’m just trying to better myself!” Sylvain tries. “You know, redemption, atonement, all that good stuff.”

Ingrid doesn’t even bother to respond to that one. Which, fair enough. Not that he tried very hard.

“...Well, whatever it is. As long as you study,” Ingrid eventually acquiesces with a sigh. Sylvain fistpumps. Mentally. If he did it for real, Ingrid’d probably punch him or something.

They reach the library, and Ingrid pushes the doors open with no preamble. It’s easy for her, nerdy bookworm that she is. No dawdling around the entryway, wondering if it’d be too weird to go in. Just an easy pull of the door, and she’s in.

It’s a weird thing to be jealous about, maybe, but Sylvain has a reputation to keep, okay.

When they walk in, Sylvain’s first act is to glance around the library, and catalogue just who’s decided to be a nerd today. No Claude, for once. Ignatz is here, though, so the quota of “archer from the Golden Deer” is still filled, Sylvain supposes. Otherwise, the library is barren, save for a pair that Sylvain finds very, very interesting.

“...Huh,” Ingrid blinks. “It’s Felix. And Ashe.”

Sylvain whistles, low and quiet.

“So that’s what he’s up to,” he nods to himself, the pieces slotting themselves together in his mind. “Damn. Never thought I’d see the day...”

Ingrid looks at him. Then looks at Felix. Then looks back at Sylvain.

“...Sylvain,” she starts, and Sylvain instinctively winces. Uh oh. It’s that tone of hers. He’s in deep shit. “...Just what exactly are you up to this time?”

Her voice takes up a threatening undertone. Or, well, even more so than usual. Ingrid could be complimenting the weather, and she’d still have a threatening undertone. In Sylvain’s opinion anyway. Or maybe that’s just how she acts around Sylvain. Whatever.

“H-Hey, come now,” Sylvain laughs, determinedly not letting his anxiety creep into his speech. “Do I really look like--“

“Yes.”

“...Okay, alright, fair,” Sylvain allows, brushing his hair back with a sigh. He looks up pleadingly at Ingrid, who stares back at him, merciless. “Alright, look, I don’t mean anything bad by it. Actually, come on, let’s sit down first.”

He keeps his voice hushed, all too mindful of the unlikely pair standing just ahead. Though, they do seem rather engrossed in a book, which is the best Sylvain can hope for.

They find their seats at a table, Ingrid setting her books down carefully, Sylvain dropping them like a hot potato. Ingrid tuts at his rough treatment, but her attention is quickly drawn back to Sylvain himself.

“Alright,” she orders, leaning forward. “Talk.”

“Okay, okay. So, listen, remember how you mentioned that Felix has been hitting the books an awful lot recently?” Sylvain asks. Ingrid’s face scrunches in an attempt at recollection.

“Er, yes, but that was just an observation, you know. Not an invitation to-- to go around stalking him!” she hisses, also mindful to keep her voice low. Presumably for the same reason as Sylvain himself, given how her gaze keeps darting to Felix (and Ashe) and back.

“I’m not stalking him.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes! You are!”

“No!” Sylvain almost shouts, but manages to cut himself off in time. He sends a quick glance at Felix. Still engrossed in the book. Good. He turns back to Ingrid, and mindfully lowers his voice. “Come on, Felix is our friend. Don’t you want to know why he’s been sneaking off to be a nerd lately?”

Ingrid scoffs.

“Unlike you, he does actually study,” she rolls her eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” Sylvain rolls his eyes right back. Two can play at that game. And Sylvain is the master eye roller. Clearly. “Sure, Loog and the Maiden of Wind is some important literary reading.”

Ingrid’s knee jerk reaction is to bristle. “First of all Loog and the Maiden of Wind is a great book and I will not hear you disparage it,” she hisses, glaring, and kicks Sylvain in the shin. Sylvain yelps, barely managing to clap a hand over his mouth in time to stifle the sound.

“No offence meant, just saying,” Sylvain says weakly, and Ingrid leans back with a sigh. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“...Well, I suppose that is weird,” she admits. “For Felix.”

“Yeah, exactly!” Sylvain nods so fast he nearly makes himself dizzy. “I mean, after that, I just had to see what was up. Come onnn.”

Ingrid sighs.

“And, I mean, I think we just found the answer,” Sylvain finishes with a flourish. He gestures grandly at Ashe. “Ubert.”

Ingrid stares dubiously at him.

“...Okay,” she says. “But why?”

“Oh, come on!” Sylvain whines. “Isn’t it obvious?” He dramatically throws his hands out for emphasis. “Our little Felix is growing up and getting crushes.”

Ingrid stares at him. Sylvain stares back, raising an eyebrow. Then, as one, they whip their heads around to stare at the pair.

In full clarity, they get to see Ashe look up at Felix, beaming bright. From here, Sylvain can’t make out what he’s saying, but Ashe’s mouth is moving a mile a minute, and doesn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon. Felix, for his part, actually listens, nodding along. Not even a frown, or anything. In fact, there’s even the smallest, tiniest upturn of the corner of his lips.

A smile.

For Felix, that’s practically the equivalent of declaring his undying love for someone.

Ingrid looks at Sylvain. Sylvain looks at Ingrid.

In sync, they lean in towards each other.

“Is that Felix, ” Ingrid hisses first, gazes darting back and forth between her two childhood friends. “Felix Hugo Fraldarius!?”

“Exactly what I thought!” Sylvain replies, hushed and frantic. They both chance a look back at the pair. Then they look back at each other.

“Oh my Goddess Sylvain,” Ingrid says, sounding absolutely shell-shocked. “He has a crush.”

“On Ashe!”

“On Ashe,” Ingrid echoes, looking dumbfounded.

So shocked they are by this revelation, it barely registers when Ashe walks past them, and out the library doors. Then Sylvain blinks.

“Wait,” he says.

Ingrid freezes, as they both clue in to what just happened. Slowly, both their gazes turn to where Felix and Ashe are standing. Were standing, to be exact. Felix, now, is walking towards them, a scowl firmly set on his face and murder in his eyes.

“Oh shit,” mouths Sylvain. Ingrid hurriedly grabs her still closed textbook, and flips it open to a random page.

“Quick,” she hisses to Sylvain, who does the same, much more frazzled than her.

By the time Felix strides over, both of them are “buried” in their studies, noses practically touching the pages.

“Hello Sylvain, Ingrid,” he greets icily. His stare sweeps over to Sylvain. “Nice to see that you’ve picked up the art of reading upside down, idiot.”

Sylvain lets out a soft curse, sheepishly lowering his book. Ingrid just slaps her face with her palm. At that, Sylvain sends her a mournful look, and she glares back at him. But when she opens her mouth to start chewing him out, Felix clears his throat. Loudly.

Sylvain gets to watch in guilty satisfaction as Ingrid freezes once again. She plasters a way too fake smile on her face (seriously, Sylvain needs to give her some lessons) and turns robotically to the last member of their little trio.

“Oh, Felix!” she says, a forced cheeriness in her voice. “What a surpri--“

“Can it, woman,” Felix sneers, and Ingrid’s mouth snaps shut with a clack. It’s odd, how someone can look both so affronted yet guilty at the same time. Sylvain raises his eyebrows at her, and Ingrid glares back.

Then, Felix turns his heated glower onto Sylvain, and boy is it hot in here or what? Sylvain laughs awkwardly, fanning himself with his shirt. Totally not avoiding eye contact, nope, no way.

He waits for Felix to make the first move. Thankfully, Sylvain doesn’t have to wait long.

“Why are you stalking me,” Felix asks flatly.

“Wha-- I am so not stalking you! Come on!” Sylvain complains, throwing his hands up in the air dramatically.

“You are,” Ingrid chimes in, with her unwanted opinion. “I mean, you were the one with the bright idea to come here in the first place--“

“Traitor,” Sylvain hisses. “And don’t act like you’re innocent here either! ‘Ooh,’” Sylvain imitates, his voice going into a falsetto. “‘Is that Felix Hugo Fraldarius!? Oh goodness!’”

“I do not sound like that,” Ingrid snaps.

“You sound like that to me, and that’s what counts.”

“I’ll show you what I sound like--“

“So,” Felix interrupts yet again, and they both slink back into their seats, wearing the expressions of a puppy who just pissed on the carpet, while knowing it wasn’t supposed to piss on the carpet. Ingrid guiltily puts down her arm. Then uncurls her fist.

Inwardly, Sylvain thanks the Goddess that Felix had intervened before Ingrid threw her one-two.

“So, you just happened to be in the library. When I just happened to be there. Twice. You. Sylvain Idiot Extraordinaire Gautier,” Felix raises a slow eyebrow at him. Sylvain sinks in his seat.

“...Yes?” he tries weakly.

The sound of Ingrid’s hand meeting her face resounds loudly in the library. Again.

“I-- I-- okay, look,” Sylvain grasps at straws. “I just wanted to see what you were up to, sneaking around like this! And boy oh boy, did I ever not expect this, man, I mean like I don’t mean anything but like--“

“Expect what,” Felix says.

“Uh,” Sylvain flounders. “You know...”

“No. I don’t know,” Felix says, then slams a heavy hand down on the library table. The thud echoes in the room. Sylvain and Ingrid both jump in shock, Sylvain with some additional fear mixed in. “Elaborate.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can barely make out Ignatz fleeing through the door. Good for him, thinks Sylvain sourly. Lucky bastard.

“Sylvain!” Felix’s voice is like a slap to the face, and Sylvain winces.

“Uhh, that you and Ashe are, you know,” he says, and proceeds to form a circle with one hand. With the other, he holds up an index finger, and then--

Ingrid slaps his hands down, her face flaming, but it’s too late. Felix has already zeroed in on the gesture, and Sylvain braces himself for the biggest explosion known to mankind.

Felix does not disappoint.

“How stupid can you be!?” Felix’s yell is so thunderous, Sylvain wouldn’t be surprised if people could hear it all the way from the greenhouse. “You absolute, blundering, foolish, ignoramus! I swear, I will lop your useless head off of your shoulders--“

“Felix,” Ingrid cuts him off. Felix turns on her, teeth bared, but Ingrid just glares right back. “This is a library.”

Felix snorts.

“Does it look like there’s anyone around to care?” he asks, sweeping a wide arm around them at the empty room. Ingrid frowns.

“Still,” she insists, and Felix just heaves a great, big sigh. He takes another deep breath, evidently trying to calm himself down. When he’s done, he turns back to Sylvain, eyes still blazing but face no longer red with anger.

“So, you see me talking to someone and automatically assume I’m fucking them? What the hell,” Felix growls. “I knew you were an idiot, Gautier, but this far exceeds even my expectations. Congratulations.”

“Listen,” Sylvain holds up a finger. “Context is important.”

“What context.”

“Uh, the context that it’s you, duh,” says Sylvain. He rolls his eyes for good measure. This is not a good idea, judging by how Felix’s expression darkens, looking ready to kill. Again.

“Okay, okay, seriously though,” Sylvain hurriedly backtracks. “You hate knights, and the whole concept of them. But now you’re reading knight’s tales again? With Ashe? For Ashe? Visiting the library for some one-on-one book club time? C’mon, man, I can connect the dots. The only thing that’ll push you that hard has to be--“

“I don’t have to take this from you,” Felix cuts him off. He looks constipated, a red flush rising on his cheeks. “Asshole. Have fun jumping to baseless conclusions. Fuck off.”

With those parting words, Felix abruptly turns on his heel, and storms out. His thud of his boots echo loudly in the silence, steps thumping angrily on the wooden floor. Sylvain and Ingrid watch him go, and both flinch at the loud crash of the doors when Felix slams them shut.

“...Yikes,” says Sylvain. Ingrid rolls her eyes, and smacks him none too gently over the head. Sylvain yelps, and clutches the spot, staring at Ingrid with a wounded expression. “Hey, what was that for?” he complains.

“For pushing too far,” Ingrid scolds. She folds her arms, and sighs, leaning back in her chair. “Now Felix is going to be in a terrible mood for the next week or so. Great job, idiot.”

“He’s always in some kind of mood or the other,” Sylvain scoffs. “And now, he’s got boys on the mind, clearly. Doesn’t bode well.”

Ingrid fixes him with a deadpan stare.

“Seriously, Sylvain,” she says. “We don’t know the whole story, so don’t go around doing...things, alright?”

“Things?” Sylvain feigns offence. “Why, my fair lady, what ‘things’ may I be up to?”

“Matchmaking,” Ingrid retorts. Sylvain avoids her gaze, and whistles.

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sylvain,” Ingrid stresses. “Felix clearly hates you talking about it--“

“What, about his massive denial boner?”

“Yes about his massive denial boner, shut up and let me talk for Goddess’s sake,” Ingrid scowls at him. “Don’t go around trying to mess with him, alright? Just let them sort it out in their own time.”

Sylvain sighs.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he flaps a dismissive hand. Ingrid’s glare intensifies, but, as if sensing that that’s the best she’s going to get out of him, she reluctantly drops the topic.

“...Heh,” she breaks the silence, a few moments later. “Poor Felix, though. Is this his first crush, you think?”

Sylvain snorts.

“‘Poor Felix?’” He echoes. “Personally, I’d be more worried about Ashe.”

Ingrid looks back at him. Opens her mouth. Closes it again.

“...Yeah, alright,” she huffs, amusement laced through her voice. “I’ll give you that much.”

Sylvain grins cockily. Leaning back, he stretches, cracking his neck and back along the way. Ignoring Ingrid’s disgruntled look, he starts to stand.

“Welp,” he says brightly. “This was fun. Anyway...”

“Oh no you don’t!” Ingrid snaps, pushing herself up onto her feet, her chair dragging back with a clatter. She glares ferociously. “Sylvain Jose Gautier, you sit down right now!”

Sylvain sits down. And he does not squeak, thank you very much.

“You came here to study, so you better study,” Ingrid tells him, her tone brooking no argument. Sylvain tries to argue, anyway. He’s never been one for good decisions, as has been proven many, many times before.

“Well, technically, I didn’t actually come here to study...” Sylvain trails off with a wince at the sheer rage on Ingrid’s face. “Okay! Okay! I’m sorry! Don’t kill me!”

“Read,” Ingrid orders.

Sylvain reads.


Naturally, Sylvain tells Dimitri all about this turn of events. And by extension, Dedue as well, since the man is pretty much everywhere Dimitri goes, and damn is it hard to tell Dimitri something without Dedue overhearing.

Predictably, Dimitri just sighs and shakes his head.

“Do not interfere in Felix’s affairs, Sylvain,” the prince warns, and Sylvain pouts and whines in return. It’s a regular interaction, one that they’re both all too used to.

The real surprise is this, however: Dedue catches up with him after Sylvain walks away, whistling a tune to the sound of Dimitri’s despair at his “nosy, gossipmonger childhood friend”.

“Oh, heya Dedue,” Sylvain grins. Dedue blinks back at him, always so caught off guard by simple human courtesy. It’s kinda sad, honestly.

“...Sylvain,” Dedue nods.

“So!” Sylvain puts a hand on his hip, standing casually. “What brings you here to talk? No worries,” he winks, “this is a judgement-free zone!”

“...I see,” Dedue says. Sylvain winks again, even more exaggerated this time. Dedue sighs. “Stop,” he says.

Sylvain winks. Once more. Just for good measure.

“...” says Dedue. “...Ahem. I’d like to speak to you about what you told His Highness, earlier.”

Sylvain blinks at that.

“Woah,” he says, surprise coloring his tone. “Didn’t take you for a gossip, Dedue. Hidden depths and all that, huh? Don’t worry, I get it.”

Dedue huffs.

“No, it’s not--“ he shakes his head, and sighs. “I am simply...concerned.”

“Concerned?” Sylvain echoes.

“For Ashe,” clarifies Dedue. Sylvain takes a moment to process the words, before nodding in realisation.

“Ahhh, I see,” he says. “Weeeell,” Sylvain drags out, chewing his lip in thought. “I mean, I guess it’s not totally unwarranted? Felix does have a tendency to put his foot in his mouth at times...”

“So I have heard,” Dedue says, tone utterly cool. Sylvain’s eyebrows fly up at the obvious disdain in Dedue’s voice, before shelving that topic for another day. Right now, it’s all about Felix’s love life. Or lack thereof.

“I mean, look,” Sylvain says, crossing his arms behind his head. “I’ve known Felix since we were little tykes, and sure, he can be a total grouch, but he’s nice on the inside. Deep down, there’s a heart capable of kindness! ...Deep, deep, deep down. Somewhere.”

“That does not fill me with hope,” Dedue informs him. Sylvain shrugs.

“It’s Felix,” he says, like that explains everything. “But, hey! Don’t worry about it! I’ve totally got it covered. Just wait and see.”

Dedue stares at him.

“That still does not fill me with hope,” he says. Sylvain winces.

“Sheesh,” he mutters, “cut a guy some slack around here, huh?”

Dedue just shakes his head. Man, for being a total stoic, he could dish out some ice cold burns. Sylvain would be impressed, if those burns hadn’t been directed at him a solid ninety percent of the time.

“I agree with His Highness,” Dedue says, and Sylvain tries his best not to sigh. Since when do you not, he snarks. Inwardly, of course, because actually saying that out loud would be rude as hell, what the fuck, Sylvain. Dedue continues, and Sylvain snaps back to reality. “I do not believe it wise to meddle in the affairs of others.” He pauses, then adds, “Especially those concerning relationships.”

“Pshaw,” Sylvain snorts, waving a hand. “C’mon, it’s Felix. If I’m not there for him, he’s gonna fuck it all up. Guaranteed.”

Dedue eyes him, the lack of faith obvious. Ah, the tragic tale of Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain laments. Doomed to be forever untrustworthy.

“...If you insist,” Dedue says, dubiously. Sylvain grins, cocksure.

“Oh boy, do I insist,” he nods. Dedue sends him one last, lingering gaze, before he sighs and turns away.

“Do not do anything you will regret,” the man warns. With that, he takes his leave, presumably trotting back to Dimitri’s side.

Sylvain snorts, a hand coming up to his face as he shakes his head.

“‘Anything I’ll regret’, huh?” he mutters to himself, with a short laugh. “Come on, it’s just some fun! What’s the worst that could happen?”

With that, Sylvain looks back up, and lets out a deep breath.

“Right,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “Now, where to start...?”

Chapter Text

Clearly, Sylvain decides, they have to start with the classic scheme.

“And then,” he enthuses, “as they’re locked together in the closet--“

“Why are you telling me this,” interrupts Ingrid. Sylvain pouts at her.

“You can’t tell me that you aren’t invested,” he insists. Ingrid levels him with a flat stare.

“I am not invested,” she tells him. “Wow, so they read a book together. Great love story. One for the history books.”

“Woah, okay. You can’t just try and play this one off. I was there,” Sylvain says. And again, his voice shifting to an unrealistically high register, he starts echoing Ingrid’s words from the other day. “‘Is that Felix? Felix Hugo Fra--‘“

Ingrid slaps a hand over Sylvain’s mouth, flushing red.

“It was a slip, okay,” she hisses. “A slip!”

“Oh, and was it a slip when you wondered if it was ‘Felix’s first crush’ with that giddy grin on your face?” Sylvain jabs, and Ingrid goes even redder, her gaze skittering down and onto the dining table. “Yeah,” Sylvain says smugly, sitting back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. “That’s what I thought.”

“Look,” Ingrid protests. “Just because I’m happy that my friend is finding love--“

“I find love all the time,” Sylvain says, but Ingrid ignores him, barrelling on.

“--doesn’t mean that I’m going to go all gaga and shove them in closets together,” she finishes. “There’s a limit.”

“Yeah. And I’m going to break it.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No!”

“Yes,” Sylvain says decisively. “And you can’t change my mind.”

Ingrid groans, a hand coming up to massage her temples. “You,” she starts, sending a vicious glare Sylvain’s way, “are insufferable.”

“You love me,” Sylvain says.

“I do not.”

“Oh, careful now, you’re coming down with Felix Syndrome.”

“...Sylvain, what are you--“

“Denial,” he stage whispers, leaning in. Ingrid stares at him, incredulous.

“...Are you on drugs?” she asks.

“On the drugs of being happy for Felix,” Sylvain replies, grinning. Ingrid opens her mouth. Closes it. Shakes her head.

“Just don’t go overboard, okay,” Ingrid tells him, and Sylvain shoots her a thumbs up.

“No need to worry, my lady,” he winks. “Everything will be fine!”

“Right,” says Ingrid. “So why am I here, again?”

“Moral support,” Sylvain promptly responds. “And also, to put the broom in.”

He gestures at the broom in his hand.

“...The what?”

“The broom, Ingrid, keep up,” Sylvain rolls his eyes. Goddess, hasn’t Ingrid read anything about this? With all the books she usually buries herself in, one would think she’d know this trick inside out.

“No, seriously,” Ingrid tries. “I’m putting a broom where? And why do you think that I even want to participate in this-- this crass scheme you’re putting on?”

“If you do, I won’t hit on anyone for a week,” Sylvain bargains.

“Liar!”

“Gah, you guys seriously don’t have any faith in me!” Sylvain complains. He puts a solemn hand on his chest. “Okay, okay. I swear on the Goddess herself. I, Sylvain Jose Gautier, will not hit on anybody for the next week if you help me with this.”

Ingrid narrows her eyes at him.

“And if you don’t, I get to drag you to the library to study,” she says. “Everyday. For a month.”

Sylvain winces.

“Oh man, you seriously drive a hard deal there...”

“If you just keep your word, you won’t have to worry about it,” Ingrid rolls her eyes. She frowns at him. “Unless, of course, you’re implying that you won’t.”

“Oh, I will, I will,” Sylvain raises his hands in surrender. “Cross my heart.”

He pauses, thinks carefully (for about half a second) about what he’s going to say, then decides, eh, fuck it, might as well while he still can.

“Princess,” he adds.

Ingrid glares at him for that, but in a rare moment of mercy, she lets it slip.

“...Right,” she says. “So. Fine. You got me. What do I do now?”

“Okay, so in a few minutes, Ashe and Felix are going to come by to get their stuff for stable duty. So we’ll be hiding,” Sylvain points to a nearby crevice in the wall, “and so what I’ll do is shove them in--“

“You’re going to what,” Ingrid says, but Sylvain ignores her.

“--and you’ll help me shut the doors, then push the broom through the door handles. So they can’t get out,” he finishes. Ingrid stares at him.

“Felix is going to kill you,” she says. “Scratch that, he’s going to kill us.”

“He’s not going to if he doesn’t know who did it!”

“Firstly,” Ingrid says. “I don’t know where you got the idea that either Felix or Ashe won’t notice you as you physically push them into a closet. Secondly, bold of you to assume that Felix won’t just kill you anyway based on pure assumption alone.”

Sylvain spares a moment to think about that.

“Well,” he decides eventually, “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

“That is literally the worst idea--“

“--and so? What did you feel about the ending?” Ashe’s cheerful voice makes it way down the hallway, to Sylvain and Ingrid’s ears. They freeze, looking at each other. Sylvain forces the broom into Ingrid’s hand, and then drags her over to their official hiding place.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid hisses, once they’re moderately out of sight. “What in the name of-- oh, Goddess, this is such a terrible idea, why did I agree to this...”

“Shhh!” Sylvain shushes her. Ingrid reluctantly falls into silence, as Felix and Ashe approach their position.

“...It was typical,” comes Felix’s disgruntled answer. “Great, so the knight married the princess, and they lived happily ever after. How nice.”

“Mmm,” Ashe says, as they come to a stop outside the closet. Carefully, Sylvain peers out from the corner. “That wasn’t what I was talking about, though. I know you’re not a fan of this kind of stuff, so I specifically chose this book, you know?”

“...You mean the plotline with the twin brother and the antagonist,” Felix says. It’s not so much a question, as it is a statement. Ashe beams at him.

“Yes!” he says excitedly, as he opens the closet. “I’m curious to know what you thought about it!”

Felix is quiet, for a moment.

“I will admit,” he says after a pause, gaze focused on Ashe, “some parts of it...were compelling, but--“

He cuts off with a distinctly un-Felix-like yelp, as Sylvain then takes the best chance he has. It’s not usually an easy feat to knock Felix off his feet, but with him so distracted, Sylvain doesn’t have to shove him that hard. Ashe inadvertently gets pushed in as well by Felix’s tripping forward, letting out a loud squeak as he gets squished into the back of the closet.

Before either of them can regain their balance, and look back, Sylvain slams the door shut, Ingrid quickly pushing the broom through the handles not a moment later.

There’s an outraged silence from the closet.

One , Sylvain counts mentally, two, three--

“What the fuck!”

There he goes, Sylvain nods to himself in satisfaction. The Felix Volcano has erupted. Everyone, steer clear.

“Gah!” Ashe yelps. Poor thing. Stuck in that tiny, cramped space, with Felix shouting at the top of his lungs beside him. Sylvain squashes the tiny amount of guilt rising up in him. It’s for a good cause, he reassures himself. Ashe can thank me later, when Felix shows him a good time.

“Sylvain!” Felix bursts out, audibly furious, and Sylvain winces. Ingrid just sighs, sending him a look that just screams “I told you so.” Felix continues, still yelling, “Sylvain, I swear to the Goddess, if that’s you--“

“C-Come now, Felix,” Ashe says shakily, his voice hard to make out in between all of Felix’s noise. “You don’t have proof that it was him, do you?”

Felix snorts.

“Who else would it be,” he snaps, voice all too loud, and all to clear to Sylvain’s ears.

“Okay, okay, just, calm down, alright!” Ashe says hurriedly. There’s a moment of silence. Sylvain presses his ear to the door, and Ingrid just looks at him, clearly exasperated.

“If you want to go, then just go!” Sylvain hisses, rolling his eyes. “Look, I’m not forcing you to stay.”

“You think I’m going to go through all this trouble then just leave?” Ingrid narrows her eyes.

“Hah. Knew you were a gossip all along.”

“I am not,” Ingrid denies primly. “I am simply reaping the rewards of my efforts.”

“Soo, you’re a gossip,” Sylvain repeats. “But like, in fancy words.”

“Shush, you.”

Then, Felix starts speaking again, and Sylvain turns his attention back to the closet, straining to listen in.

“Ugh, I swear, the second I get out of this hellhole...” Felix sighs. The door rattles, and Sylvain flinches back. Before pressing up against it again, because he’s invested, damnit. “Ugh,” Felix repeats, sounding even more put-out.

“Is the door jammed?” Ashe asks, worried. Felix scoffs.

“More like we’ve been locked in,” he replies. “By the stupid bastard probably going by the name of Sylvain who pushed us in here.”

“You still don’t have any proof, though,” Ashe says. Sylvain is mildly touched at his (misplaced) faith. He grins at Ingrid, who just shakes her head.

“Poor Ashe, deceived by a philanderer,” she laments. “Sylvain, you monster.”

“Hey!” Sylvain protests softly, angling his head away from the door. “Not my fault that Ashe just naturally assumes the best of everyone!”

“Then don’t take advantage of it.”

“I’m not taking advantage of anyone,” Sylvain says. Ingrid just shoots him a look at that.

“I don’t need proof,” comes Felix’s irritated reply, and Sylvain focuses back on him. “I know it was him. I can sense it.”

“You can...sense it?” Ashe sounds amused. Usually a death sentence for anyone when talking to Felix, but once again, an exception is made.

“Yes,” Felix says flatly. “It’s a skill I’ve picked up after being exposed to Sylvain for so many years. Like building up an infection to a disease.”

“Rude,” Sylvain whispers.

“He’s right though,” Ingrid tells him.

“Rude.”

“Oh? What category of disease would Sylvain be classified under then?” Ashe asks, sounding as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. At that, Sylvain’s face falls.

“Is everyone out to get me today?” he complains to Ingrid, who just smirks.

“Terminal,” she and Felix say at the same time.

“...I hate the both of you,” Sylvain informs.

Ashe giggles.

“You know, Felix, it’s kinda unexpected, but you can be really funny at times,” he says. Sylvain raises an eyebrow at that.

Does he have the right Felix, he mouths at Ingrid. Ingrid just shrugs helplessly.

Unclear, she mouths back.

“You’re a strange one,” Felix tells Ashe bluntly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say that to me.”

“What, that you’re funny?”

“What else?”

“But you are, though!” Ashe says. “And you’re rather kind as well! Honestly, I was somewhat shocked at the beginning, but that’s just a part of your charm, I think.”

“My...charm?” Felix echoes, and would wonders never cease, he actually sounds flustered. “Th-- That’s-- What are you even gabbing on about now?”

“I like you, Felix,” Ashe says honestly.

Felix chokes, audibly. Not that Sylvain is really listening, considering the violent coughing fit abruptly wracking through his body.

Look, he’s just shocked, alright? Shocked.

Ingrid slaps him on the back, in a decidedly not gentle way. If anything, Sylvain just coughs more. It’s a damn miracle neither Felix nor Ashe have heard him at this point, though he supposes that Felix is rather preoccupied at the moment. With his own death via embarrassment, that is.

“You’re always so honest about what you think, it’s rather refreshing, really!” Ashe continues chirpily, as if oblivious to his words causing two people to nearly suffocate. “Talking to you is fun.”

“I...I see,” Felix says, unsteadily, after he’s caught his breath. “...Ashe, you...”

“Huh?” Ashe asks, clueless.

“...Nevermind,” Felix says.

“Eh? What? What is it?” Ashe continues prodding. “Did I say something?”

“No, you-- just--“ Felix groans. “Nevermind!”

“Felix, if I’ve done anything to offend you, I truly apologise--“

“Don’t apologise!” Felix cuts him off harshly. Then he coughs. “...Don’t worry about it.”

“Ah, okay then?” Ashe says, sounding confused. Sylvain resists the urge to tear his hair out in frustration.

“It is not terrible talking to you as well,” Felix grudgingly admits after a short pause. “So long as you don’t go overboard with the whole knight talk. It’s...pleasant.”

Coming from Felix, that’s practically a compliment of the highest order. Ashe evidently shares Sylvain’s thoughts, as he laughs.

“Wow, is that praise I’m hearing?” he teases. “See, Felix? You really are nice!”

“Don’t say it like that,” Felix snaps.

“Like what?”

“Like,” Felix flounders. “That!”

“Felix,” Ashe says, “there’s no need to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not,” Felix denies.

“You’re blushing.”

Ingrid’s eyebrows fly up at that. She turns to Sylvain, almost instinctively. Inwardly, Sylvain cheers at the way Ingrid has clearly been sucked in, just as interested in the whole thing as Sylvain is.

“Felix? Blushing?” she says. “What I’d give to see that again.”

“You’re telling me?” Sylvain grins. “Wittle baby Felix, with his face all red. Ahh, I miss those days.”

“Urgh,” Felix groans. His voice sounds muffled, as if he’s covering his face with his hands. Which, Sylvain privately thinks, would be totally adorable, and damn he kinda wants to be in that closet with them now. But like, not in a weird way or anything. Because that would be weird.

“Imagine what people’d say if they caught wind of this!” Ashe laughs. “The heir to House Fraldarius, turning red over a few words!”

Felix scoffs.

“Oh, don’t remind me,” he says. “And don’t call me that.”

“Oh,” Ashe says. A slight pause. “You don’t like it?”

“What?”

“You know. Fraldarius.”

“No.”

“Oh,” Ashe says again. Then, “Why? To be honest, I hadn’t pegged you for the type to even care about that kind of stuff, so to hear you actually have an opinion on it...”

“It’s not even about the title, or the implications,” Felix says irritably. “Well, not just about that. ...It’s a damn mouthful, alright?”

“Hm? I think your last name sounds great, though!” Ashe says.

Sylvain shoots an excited grin at Ingrid. She narrows her eyes at him.

“It’s really not that big a deal,” she says. Sylvain just scoffs. Clearly, Ingrid just didn’t get the importance of this exchange. Names and all that. Exciting stuff.

“Fraldarius... Fraldarius,” Ashe tests it out. “It rolls off the tongue so nicely!”

“Good,” Sylvain whispers, hushed, “because that’s what you’re gonna be screaming in bed tonight!”

“...He’s going to be screaming Felix’s last name?” Ingrid asks dubiously. Sylvain flushes.

“Shut up!”

Ingrid huffs, amusement dancing across her face.

“You know, Sylvain, you claim that you show all the girls the ‘best time of their life’, but sometimes, when you say things like that, it really makes me wonder...” she puts a hand to her chin in faux contemplation.

If it weren’t for the miniscule smirk playing over her lips, Sylvain would have taken her seriously. But there’s that telltale glint of mischief in his eyes that so rarely appears, so Sylvain just gasps, bringing a hand up to his chest in mock offence.

“Woah, okay, is that doubt I’m hearing? Doubt in the Sylvain Jose Gautier, greatest woman pleaser in all of Fodlan?” he says. Ingrid rolls her eyes.

“‘Woman pleaser’,” she mutters, and scoffs. “Just say it how it is, you stupid skirt-chaser.”

“Hey--“

“Unlike mine,” Ashe’s voice comes again from the other side of the door, and Sylvain and Ingrid hurriedly shut up, straining their ears once more. Ashe laughs, self-deprecatingly. “I mean, I love...loved my family and all, but even I can admit Ubert isn’t exactly a very pretty name.”

Sylvain winces at the past tense, but valiantly soldiers on.

“Okay, come on Felix, you can bring this back,” he mutters. “Really good opening for you, just say that you like it--“

“It is rather similar to ‘Hubert’,” Felix says instead. He snorts, inelegantly. “Goddess knows anything vaguely related to that man can’t be good.”

Sylvain resists the urge to slam his head against the wall. Hell, even Ingrid groans at that.

“Is it so hard to be nice,” she hisses at the door. As if Felix could even hear her.

Thankfully for Felix, Ashe is one of three things:
A. Really polite. (Likely)
B. Really into him. (Also likely. Sylvain thinks.)
C. Has absolutely no taste when it comes to social interaction. (So, Sylvain concludes, the same as B, then.)

Ashe laughs. “Did something happen between the two of you?”

Felix is silent, for a moment.

“Living for another person,” he starts eventually. His tone is serious, and both Sylvain and Ingrid crowd into the door even further. It’s not often they get to hear Felix’s thoughts, stripped of all his defensive anger. “Dying for another person. The idea of such blind loyalty, going so far as to--“

“Woah guys, are we having a party in here or something?”

Claude von Riegan’s voice rings out through the hallway, loud and clear. Inside the closet, Felix abruptly stops talking.

Sylvain quietly curses, and Ingrid stares at Claude, frozen like a deer in headlights. For a moment, it feels like time stops around them, the world going hushed around them. And then Ashe speaks.

“Is someone out there?” he asks.

Claude blinks, long and slow. His gaze slides between the two guilty parties standing in the hallway, and the closet door separating them from their ‘victims.’ His lips curl up into a leisurely, deliberate smirk.

“Oh, yeah,” Claude responds, his boots clacking loudly on the floor as he approaches them. Ingrid flushes utterly red, as she stumbles back and away, while Sylvain just sends a pleading, desperate gaze to the leader of the Golden Deer. Don’t do this , he mouths, but Claude just ignores him. “I was just walking by, and imagine my surprise when I saw these two just loitering in the hallway! Tut, tut, you guys,” he shakes his head at Sylvain and Ingrid. “There’s a sign about that, you know.”

The blanket of silence that falls on them is suffocating.

“These... two?” Felix asks, quietly, voice deadly.

Shut up shut up shut up, Sylvain mouths frantically, miming slicing a hand across his own throat. Claude grins, a spark of malicious entertainment flickering in his eyes. Goddessdamnit, this is Sylvain’s penance, isn’t it?

“Yeah,” Claude replies cheerfully. “Your two friends. Sylvain--“ Sylvain just shuts his eyes in the face of his imminent death, “--and Ingrid.” Ingrid makes a pained noise.

“...” says Felix. Or, well, doesn’t say. But the point has been made.

With that, Claude slides the broom out, releasing Ashe and Sylvain’s doom out into the wild. The doors open. Ashe and Felix practically tumble out from inside, both rumpled and messy. Ashe’s face is bright red, the boy refusing to make eye contact with any of them. And Felix...

Felix...

Sylvain can say without a modicum of shame, that the second he sees the look on Felix’s face, he screams and runs without turning back. Ingrid, wisely, has already made her escape, the only evidence of her presence being the end of her skirt flashing around a corner.

“Sylvain! Ingrid!” Felix roars, from behind them. Loud, thumping footsteps chase Sylvain, and he inwardly prays to the Goddess for salvation. “The both of you get back here!”

Needless to say, Felix gives them a right throttling once he manages to catch up to them. Ah, the advantages of being used to running on foot through a battlefield, as opposed to riding a horse, or flying a pegasus, in Ingrid’s case.

The next day, Ingrid immediately starts shaking her head when Sylvain approaches her, before he even has the chance to speak.

“Nope, nope, nope,” she chants. “I am not doing anything for you ever again, Gautier, go away.”

“But I haven’t even said anything yet!”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

And thus, Sylvain ends up alone on his next attempt. But that’s fine. That’s totally cool. He can handle this solo, for sure.

All he has to do is make sure that Felix doesn’t kill him first.

Felix has always been somewhat antagonistic, but this incident only seems to have turned that trait up to eleven. Now, Sylvain can barely get a word in, before Felix is just snarling in his face, or straight up walking away. It’s frustrating, to be sure, especially considering that Sylvain can’t exactly put his plans into motion with Felix completely avoiding him like this.

So obviously, who he needs to go after is Ashe.

This too, is something easier said than done. Ashe clearly hasn’t forgotten just who it was that trapped him and Felix in that closet, and it’s hard for Sylvain to get a hold of him. But it’s not as hard, nor as dangerous as chasing after Felix, so Sylvain’ll just take what he can get.

“Yo, Ashe!” Sylvain waves. Ashe glances at him, then looks away, a slight red flush overtaking his features. It’s kinda cute, how embarrassed he is over the whole thing. Kinda makes Sylvain want to coo and pinch his cheeks a little. Not that Sylvain’ll do that, obviously.

“Hi, Sylvain,” Ashe says. “Do you need anything? Because if not then I--“

“Actually, I could use your help,” Sylvain answers breezily, preemptively cutting off Ashe’s excuse to flee. Ashe eyes him suspiciously.

“...You’re sure,” the boy asks dubiously.

Ouch, Sylvain inwardly winces. Already busted. But he makes sure not to show it on his face. He’s not out for the count yet, so long as he acts confident enough.

“Yup!” Sylvain nods. “Sooo, I’m on shopping duty today, but I heard that you’re pretty good at haggling people down…”

“Oh,” Ashe brightens. “Would you like me to come along, then?”

“Er,” Sylvain says. “Actually, I was hoping that, you know…”

At that, Ashe’s face falls. He sighs, shaking his head in disapproval.

“Sylvain,” he scolds, “I’m not going to do your duties for you.”

“What if I take over your weed duty in exchange?”

Ashe pauses.

“...As future knights, we have to be well-rounded in all areas,” he says. “Sylvain, just--“

“Look, just this once, okay!” Sylvain slings an arm around the shorter boy’s shoulder. “Plus, Professor Byleth allows it! I mean, just the other day I heard that His Highness exchanged stable duty with Annette, you know?”

Ashe pauses, visibly struggling with the choice.

“May I ask why?” he eventually gets out. Sylvain winks.

“Well, I mean, you know how it is, I’ve got a date around this time,” he lies. Sylvain doesn’t actually have a date, but what Ashe doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Ashe narrows his eyes at him. 

“That just makes me want to swap with you less,” he says. Sylvain pouts.

“Not even for weed duty?” he wheedles. “Seriously, Ashe, I’ll owe you so much. I’ll do two weed duties--“

“What is with your obsession with weeds?” Ashe asks, exasperated. He shakes his head, again. “No, Sylvain. Do your work.”

“Oh come on! Ashe, pleaseeee--“

“What in the name of the Goddess is going on here?”

Sylvain perks up despite the harsh words, as a welcome coincidence greets both him and Ashe. Felix stands in front of the both of them, glaring daggers at Sylvain. Which, well, on one hand Sylvain is mildly offended that Felix has literally just walked up to them and he’s already blaming Sylvain. On the other, he’s right, so like.

Fair enough, Sylvain supposes. 

“Heya, Felix,” Sylvain says, placing a casual hand on his hip. Act natural, he tells himself. You can still save this. “Nice to see your face around again.”

“What are you even talking about,” Felix asks flatly. Sylvain raises an eyebrow at that.

“Oh come on, don’t act dumb,” Sylvain says. Felix snorts. 

“Right, that’s all you, isn’t it?” he says, words cutting. Sylvain just grins, though. Ah, the classic Felix way of showing affection. Calling Sylvain an idiot. Some things truly never change.

“Don’t change the subject,” Sylvain teases. “What, are you done avoiding me now?”

“It was self-preservation,” Felix tells him. “If I’d hung out with you any longer, my brain cells would have all rotted and died.”

“Harsh,” Sylvain says cheerfully. “But you’re here now, aren’t you?”

“Only to make sure that you don’t inflict the same damage unto others.”

“Aww, are you worried about Ashe here?” Sylvain grins, tugging Ashe into him. Ashe yelps, stumbling nearly face first into Sylvain’s side. “Well, little Ashey boy here’s intelligent enough that even if he does lose any of his precious IQ points, it won’t matter that much in the long run.”

“What?” Ashe cries out. Felix stares.

“I don’t even know where to start with that sentence,” he says. Ashe struggles out of Sylvain’s grasp, pushing himself away.

“Gah-- Sylvain!” he says. “Stop making fun of me!”

“I’m not making fun of you,” Sylvain says. “I just said you were smart! How’s that making fun of you?”

“How about because of everything else,” says Ashe.

“Like what everything else?”

Ashe glares.

“Are you really going to make me say it,” he hisses. Sylvain’s eyebrows raise, and he holds his hands up.

“Woah, easy there,” says Sylvain. Though, he has to admit, Ashe doesn’t paint the most threatening picture. His glare is more akin to a pout, his anger most alike to a kitten puffing out its fur. Seriously, Ashe can just be downright adorable at times.

And it seems like Felix agrees. Out of the corner of his eye, Sylvain spies Felix staring, transfixed, at the look on Ashe’s face. It’s both cute and mildly terrifying, seeing Felix so clearly infatuated.

Unfortunately, the moment is over all too soon. Felix shakes his head, then looks back at Ashe and Sylvain.

“Right,” he says dryly. “So as interesting as this little conversation may be,” the sarcasm is obvious but Sylvain performs a little bow anyway, to the disgust of Felix, “neither of you actually answered my question.”

At that, Ashe puffs up indignantly.

“Sylvain tried to get me to swap duties with him, so he could go on some date,” he says.

“Tattletale!” Sylvain instantly calls him out. Felix curls his lip at him, baring his teeth.

“What are you, three?” he says derisively. “And stop setting up all your little flings during your work, idiot. Honestly, all you ever do is just invite trouble.”

Felix turns back to Ashe, after he’s done lecturing Sylvain. “What duty was it anyway?” he asks, and at this, Sylvain cringes.

Ashe, oblivious to Sylvain’s sudden raging need to extract himself from this conversation, right here, right now, simply answers, “Shopping duty.”

Felix goes still.

“Interesting,” Felix says, in a way that suggests that he doesn’t find it interesting in the slightest. “Because last I recall, I was the one paired up with him for that.”

Slowly, both their gazes turn to Sylvain.

A bead of sweat trickles down Sylvain’s cheek, as he takes a few steps back. He laughs, awkwardly, in a poor attempt at relieving the tension.

Neither Ashe nor Felix laugh along with him. Shit, thinks Sylvain.

So, there’s two options here. One, Sylvain can run like hell. Or two, Sylvain can… In retrospect, why is he even thinking about this?

Sylvain turns heel, and runs like hell.

Thankfully, though, he doesn’t have to run too far. Sure enough, Felix starts after him. But Ashe steps forward as well, and grabs the back of Felix’s uniform. 

“Hold on, Felix,” Sylvain hears Ashe interrupt. “Just-- calm down, okay?”

“Why?” Felix snarls. Fortunately, Ashe isn’t cowed. Or, if he is, he doesn’t show it. 

Sylvain ducks behind the corner, and stops, trying not to make it obvious that he’s totally eavesdropping on them. Honestly, though, what else would they expect him to do? Just walk away? It’s like they don’t know him, or something.

“Do you really need to cause a scene, now?” Ashe says wryly. “Besides, if you need to, you can get him later.”

Felix is silent, for a moment, clearly fighting with himself over what he should do. Finally, he sighs.

“Ugh,” he grumbles. “That idiot. I should have known that he was going to skimp out. I really should… Hey, what’s that look on your face for?”

Sylvain desperately wants to peer around the corner, to see just what kind of face Ashe is making. But alas, he still does have a shred of self-preservation, and would rather not risk it. Because if Felix sees his face again, Sylvain has the feeling that Ashe won’t be able to stop him this time.

“Huh?” Ashe stutters. “U-Uh, I mean.”

Ashe trails off. Felix clicks his tongue.

“What is it?” he prods. “Speak up.”

“Er, nothing, I just,” Ashe takes a breath. “Hey, Felix, do you think that Sylvain…”

Ashe goes quiet again.

“Sylvain what?” Felix repeats.

“Oh! Um, no, nevermind,” Ashe replies quickly. There’s a slight squeak, as his shoes shuffle on the floor. “Forget about it. I’m just thinking out loud again.”

A beat passes.

“Well, okay, then,” Felix says, unceremoniously dropping the topic like a rock.

Another beat. It’s starting to feel kinda awkward, here. Sylvain resists the urge to sneak away while he has the chance, but if he were to pass up on this absolutely juicy opportunity to be a nosy shit, his name wouldn’t be Sylvain Jose Gautier. 

“...Gah, that stupid bastard,” Felix breaks the silence. “I suppose I’ll be doing the shopping by myself, then.”

“W-Well,” Ashe pipes up. “I’ll be happy to help if you need me.” 

Felix coughs.

“I-- That’s not necessary,” he says, evidently caught off-guard. Whether by Ashe’s eagerness to help, or by the way Ashe is looking at him (not that Sylvain’s sure that Ashe is even looking at Felix, but the starry-eyed gazes he’d caught on Ashe all the times beforehand have kinda given him a feel for this sort of thing), Sylvain’s not sure. Whatever it is, Felix is flustered. “I am perfectly capable of shopping on my own. Frankly, I don’t know what Professor Byleth was thinking, assigning us together for this.”

“But it’s easier with two people, especially when you have to carry everything back,” Ashe points out. “I mean, I’m free around then, and I’m rather good at haggling, if I do say so myself, so… Um, not that I’m trying to pressure you, or anything!”

There’s a pause.

“I suppose,” Felix eventually gets out, clearly struggling with the words, “that your help would be…appreciated.”

Sylvain can practically hear Ashe light up.

“I’m always happy to help!” he enthuses. Felix is utterly silent for a brief second, and then Sylvain hears the harsh squeak of shoes sliding against the ground, as Felix abruptly turns.

“Right,” Felix says curtly. “Thank you, Ashe.”

With that, he starts striding away, footsteps nearing Sylvain’s ‘hiding spot’. Sylvain shrinks back. Don’t notice me don’t notice me don’t notice me, he prays.

“Er, you’re welcome?” Ashe calls out after Felix, confusion audible in his tone. But Sylvain barely hears him, automatically tuning him out, because he’s too busy staring at Felix’s face as the man walks forward and past Sylvain’s corner, not even registering Sylvain’s continued presence. 

To be more specific, Sylvain’s too busy staring at the burning, luminescent blush painting Felix’s cheeks.

Sylvain grins to himself giddily. So maybe, he allows, this hadn’t gone quite according to plan. But still, it worked out in the end. And really, this may just be an even better result than what he had hoped for.

Sylvain swears, the next time he happens upon Ashe and Felix together, it’s pure coincidence.

So there’s this girl, and Sylvain had maybe sorta kinda implied that her friend is way hotter than her, and well, to cut the long story short; Sylvain is hiding. Right, so maybe not a good idea to mess with a girl who has top marks in brawling. But come on, Sylvain’s just telling the truth, here.

It’s not that Sylvain particularly wants to go into the forest, per say. It’s muddy, and dirty, and conjures up way too many memories of trekking here alongside Professor Byleth and his classmates, on their way to their next mission. But at the same time, that’s why it’s also the perfect place for him to go. As angry as a girl may be, there’s no possibility that she’ll actually follow him here just to beat him up. Right?

Right? 

Sylvain digresses. He trudges through the forest, branches and twigs snapping under his feet. It’s not a stealth mission, okay, and Professor Byleth isn’t here to give him that long stare of disapproval. And so he makes his way through, when he stops at the sound of voices. Familiar voices, at that. 

“--quite a rare specimen!” Ashe’s voice cuts through the foliage, and makes its way to Sylvain’s ears. “These usually grow in the more northern parts of Fodlan, around Charon territory, in fact, so to see these here… It’s rather incredible!”

Sylvain stops. Then, slowly, he creeps forward, this time, making sure not to step on anything. Like hunting for game, he thinks sardonically, except this time the game is my friends and the prize is gossip.

He peers through the branches. In a forest clearing, Felix and Ashe are crouched down, staring intently at the ground. Though, if Sylvain looks closer, he can vaguely make out what seems to be a small cluster of mushrooms. Wow, is that what Ashe is all excited over? What a colossal nerd. Sylvain means that in the nicest way possible, of course.

“You can use it to cook as well. I’ve eaten it a few times before — not a lot, mind you,” Ashe continues to ramble to Felix, who is (to Sylvain’s delight) just blatantly staring at Ashe rather than the mushroom Ashe is pointing to, “and it really has this surprising kick to it! It’s such a unique taste, and you really wouldn’t expect it from a mushroom, and-- Oh, er, sorry, a-am I boring you?”

Ashe laughs awkwardly. Felix just blinks.

Say something, idiot, Sylvain mouths urgently, as if Felix can even see him. Look, he’s just really caught up in this, okay? And he wants Felix to not fuck it up. It’s important.

There’s a long pause. The smile on Ashe’s face grows more and more fixed with the passing seconds.

“Oh,” answers Felix eventually, after his brain has caught up to the situation. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m not?” Ashe echoes, unsure. “Um, you know, Felix, you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings or what not. I know that mushrooms aren’t the most interesting topic, and we didn’t come here for me to--“

“Do you see me as the type of person to lie in some foolish attempt to ‘make someone feel better?’” Felix scoffs. He shakes his head. “No. You’re not boring me. Keep talking.”

If Ashe were anyone else, Sylvain thinks, he’d get offended by Felix’s tone. From the way that Felix so inelegantly orders Ashe around, in his own weird way of trying to reassure the boy. Sylvain knows that if he ever spoke to his girlfriends like that, only the Goddess would be able to save him then. But Ashe is Ashe, and Ashe just laughs.

“Well, alright then,” he acquiesces cheerfully. “In that case, I’ll talk.”

It’s sickeningly sweet. Sylvain kinda wants to both throw up and also high five the both of them and scream. It’s a tough choice.

“I think I’ll take some of these,” Ashe muses, as he starts tugging the mushrooms out from the bottom of their stems, “but not all of them. It’d be a shame if there were nothing left. Hopefully, the remaining ones will continue reproducing, and we can have a replenishing supply of this. Say, Felix, do you know how mushrooms reproduce?”

Felix hesitates for a moment, thrown off.

“No,” he says. Ashe hums.

“My father used to tell me this, when I was a kid,” he says. “It’s kinda ironic, because they — my birth parents, they never went to a formal education, never quite knew how to read, but they would know the in’s and out’s of all these things that might have some connection to their cooking.”

Ashe pauses. The clearing is silent. Sylvain holds his breath.

“These are gilled mushrooms, you see,” Ashe says, his voice settling into a rhythm which makes it clear that he’s reciting something from memory. Repeating another’s words. “If you turn it over, like this,” Ashe does so and points to the bottom of the mushroom cap, “you can see all these folds. These are the gills.”

Felix nods. His gaze flickers, moving between Ashe, and the mushroom, and back.

“These types of mushrooms have what some fancy folk like to call ‘basidia cells,’” says Ashe. Sylvain almost wants to laugh, when the phrase ‘fancy folk’ slips out of Ashe’s mouth, but he doesn’t. He bites his tongue, and doesn’t breathe. “These cells are what produce the spore, which are what will grow into mushrooms if they’re spread in the right places. For the basidia, unlike the asci cells, they make this spore on the outside. So in these gills are all the basidia cells, and when the mushrooms are ready to expand their numbers, they just start dropping spores from them.”

Ashe finishes. There’s a moment of quiet.

“But, of course,” Ashe starts again, embarrassment coming through his voice now that he’s no longer using the voice of his late father to speak, “that’s really just in layman's terms. I’m sure there’s others who can explain this way better and way more accurately than I just did, and--“

“Stop,” says Felix. Ashe stops. “As long as your explanation gets the point across, I don’t see why you should care about how scientific you get, or whatever stuck up terms you use. You explained how it works. I understood how it works. So it’s a good explanation. ...That’s all.”

Ashe looks down at the ground. If Sylvain focuses, he can see the beginning of a flush spreading its way over Ashe’s freckles.

“Thanks, Felix,” Ashe says, softly.

“It’s nothing,” Felix tells him. They stay there, crouched down and each staring at their feet, for a little bit. Sylvain shifts, feeling just a bit awkward in his intrusion now.

“Your birth parents,” Felix breaks the silence eventually, and Sylvain winces. Yeah, that awkwardness is really starting to hit him. “They…” he trails off. 

“They used to run a restaurant in Gaspard territory,” Ashe explains freely. “When I was younger, I would help them with the chores; foraging, cleaning and the like. We were never that well-off, and when they passed, it was kinda tough for a while. But Lonato took me in. That… It really helped.”

The atmosphere grows heavy. Much like all the other times the late Lord Lonato is brought up around Ashe. It’s a sensitive topic, and Sylvain can only imagine how much worse it must be for Annette, who was the one who ultimately dealt the final blow to Ashe’s adoptive father. But again, Sylvain digresses.

“Lord Lonato,” Felix says. “You say that he was kind.”

“He was,” Ashe nods. “He was one of the kindest men I knew. He taught me how to read, and he provided for me and my siblings. He cared for us like we were his own, just like Christophe. ...Though, I suppose that in the end, he still did value Christophe over us. If not, then, I just can’t fathom…”

Ashe bites his lip.

“Your adoptive brother, correct?” Felix says, bitterness intertwining into his tone. “Hmph. Fathers do always prize their ‘perfect’ children more, don’t they.”

A beat.

“Christophe too,” Ashe says hesitantly, “he was kind as well. He used to take me out fishing sometimes, when he was free. ...Your brother. You said that he used to read books to you, right?”

“Glenn,” Felix says, and Sylvain sucks in a sharp breath at the name that so infrequently comes out of Felix’s mouth. “Yes. Knight’s tales. He was always obsessed with them, striving to match up to the perfect ideal of a true knight. To his own bitter end.”

Ashe is quiet, for a moment.

“He died for his own ideals, then.” 

“Don’t try to glorify his death!” Felix snaps, and Ashe flinches back, eyes wide. “What did that even accomplish in the end? More pain? More suffering? I’d rather he were still alive, here and now, even if it only means that he’ll be trailing that boar around like a damned guard dog. That, at least, would be of more help than rotting in a grave.”

Ashe is silent, staring at Felix. Sylvain thinks he might just start to suffocate, from all the breathing he’s not been doing.

“...I’m sorry,” Ashe says. “It-- It must have been hard for you.”

Felix scoffs. “Don’t apologise.”

“...Sorry,” Ashe says again. Felix huffs. 

“Seriously, what did I just say,” he mutters, but at least the anger is receding from his tone. At that, Ashe smiles, small and tremulous.

Felix looks up, and casts his gaze around, as if looking for a topic to jump on to get rid of this horrid atmosphere. Sylvain, panicked, tries to shy back, and hide behind the trunk of a tree to avoid being caught out, but it’s too late. Felix catches onto Sylvain’s bright orange hair (damn, Sylvain might have to consider dyeing it at some point in the future), and his eyes instantly narrow. His lips tug into a snarl, his body stiffening in anger, as he straightens up. 

Shit, thinks Sylvain.

Ashe blinks at Felix, noticing his sudden moodswing.

“F-Felix?” he stutters. “Is something wrong?”

Felix grits his teeth.

“Nothing,” he says, obviously lying. “I think. That I just saw a filthy bug that I need to squash.”

“...Er, Felix? We’re in a forest. There’s bugs everywhere.”

“Oh,” and Felix smiles, slow and threatening, “but this is a particularly annoying insect. You know.”

“...Um, okay?” Ashe squeaks out, bewildered.

“You just stay here,” Felix waves a dismissive hand. “And go pick mushrooms, or something. I’ll be right back.”

With that, Felix starts towards Sylvain. Ashe stares after him, evidently confused, but he reluctantly turns his attention back to the foliage around him. Sylvain muffles a yelp as Felix strides past him, grabbing his arm and tugging him farther away.

“Gah, Felix, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Sylvain starts babbling, as soon as he’s sure that they’re out of Ashe’s earshot. “I swear, it was just an accident, okay, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop I was just hiding from this chick-- “

“So you were listening in, then,” Felix growls viciously, and grabbing him by his collar, shoves Sylvain up against a tree. Sylvain’s back hits the bark with a loud thump, and he winces as sharp wood digs into him, scratching his uniform and stabbing lightly into his skin. “Seriously!” Felix barks. “Have you ever heard of minding your own damn business?”

“Sorry,” Sylvain gasps, scrabbling for purchase as Felix tightens his grip. “I was just super curious to know what you two were up to don’t kill me-- “

“If someone’s having a private conversation,” Felix hisses, and shoves his face nearer to Sylvain. “ Then respect that privacy.”

“I didn’t know,” Sylvain protests futilely. “I just heard you guys talking about mushrooms and I just thought it was cute, okay, you two are cute--“

“What the fuck are you on?”

Sylvain gasps, as Felix decides to grant him some mercy, and loosens his grip. Now the other is glaring at him, no less angry, but at least no longer two seconds away from burying Sylvain’s corpse in the middle of the woods.

“Okay, look, I’m super happy for you and Ashe--“ 

“I don’t know what you’re implying, but I don’t like it,” Felix says. At that, Sylvain’s brain-to-mouth filter briefly decides to becomes suicidal, as Sylvain snorts. Felix’s glower intensifies, and his hand tightens on Sylvain’s collar once more.

“Gah! Sorry, sorry!” Sylvain begs. “I-I’m just saying, I really want you two to be happy with each other, and like, you know, I just want to make sure that you don’t massively fuck it up--“

“Excuse me?” Felix sounds murderous. “First of all, whatever the hell you’re reading into this is ludicrous in the first place. Secondly, the implication that I’ll somehow ‘fuck it up’ so badly that you have to swoop in to save the day is even more so.”

“Felix,” Sylvain tries. “Come on, admit it. You don’t know the first thing about relationships--“

“And you do?”

“--hey, I’m probably the person with the most relationships in this academy, okay!” Sylvain protests, momentarily forgetting his position.

“The person who has fucked up his relationships the most, you mean,” Felix spits. “I don’t need your damn advice. And if I do, for whatever reason, have any sort of ‘romantic issues’, which I’m not because I don’t see anyone that way, I most certainly won’t be going to you.”

“Come on,” Sylvain bargains. “I just really want the best for you--“ 

“You can do what’s best for me by shutting the fuck up and leaving me alone!” Felix shouts. He pants, catching his breath after that loud outburst.

Very, very, loud outburst.

Behind Sylvain, bushes rustle.

“Felix?” Ashe’s timid voice rings out. “Is everything alright? I heard shouting…”

Ashe emerges, eyes wide and worried, with little twigs and leaves stuck in his rumpled hair and clinging to his clothes. His gaze sweeps over the both of them, landing squarely on Sylvain, who’s still pressed up against a tree. 

Sheepishly, Sylvain waves. 

“Ah,” says Ashe, and he nods. “I thought this might have been the case.”

Sylvain grimaces.

“You knew?” he prods. Ashe shakes his head.

“No,” he replies honestly. “Just, when I saw Felix run off like that, with that furious expression on his face, well. What, or rather who else could have caused that?”

Sylvain grins, as sincerely as he can manage considering that his very pissed, very dangerous childhood friend is currently five seconds away from committing homicide. 

“Oh man,” says Sylvain. “You sure know Felix well.”

Felix scoffs, and his grip tightens. Sylvain gulps.

“Great,” Felix grits out. “ Fantastic. So, are you going to help me kill him now, or what?”

Ashe frowns.

“Felix,” he hedges. “Don’t you think that you’re going a little--“

“Oh, please,” Felix hisses, shooting a glare at Ashe. “He was listening in on us the whole time. He deserves it.”

Ashe flushes in slight embarrassment, as he recalls their conversation (meant for no one’s ears but their own), but valiantly, he soldiers on.

“Felix,” he tries. “It’s really not that bad--“ 

“Well, maybe you don’t mind broadcasting your family issues to the whole damn world, but I care!” Felix snaps. Ashe reels back in shock, hurt clear in his eyes. His mouth opens, slightly, but no sound comes out.

“Hey,” Sylvain’s lips tug down into a frown, and he scowls disapprovingly at Felix. “Dude. I know you’re pissed, but don’t take it out on Ashe. Seriously.” 

Felix takes a deep, shuddering breath. Abruptly, he steps away, releasing Sylvain. Felix looks down at the ground, fists clenching by his sides. 

“...Sorry,” he mutters. He takes another step back. “That was-- uncalled for.”

Ashe is quiet, for a moment.

“It’s okay,” he says, after a brief hesitation.

Sylvain winces. Because clearly, it isn’t okay.

Felix grimaces, and looks away.

“Okay,” Sylvain speaks up, trying to diffuse the tension in the air. “You know, how about we just, uh, all clear the air, and--“

“Actually,” Ashe interrupts. “I think...I have something to do.”

Felix quickly nods in agreement.

“Yes,” he concurs. “I have sparring plans. Now.”

“Oh,” Sylvain says. “Uh. Y-Yeah, okay.” 

“Right,” Felix keeps nodding. “I’m just going to--“

“--go,” Ashe is stepping backwards. “Um. Goodbye."

With that, they both turn in opposite directions, and flee. Sylvain is left, standing in the dust.

“...Right,” he says, and shouts loud enough for both of them to hear. “Good talk, guys!”

He’s greeted with silence.

Well, Sylvain thinks, sighing. That could have gone better. To say the least.  

Man, am I in over my head with this after all?

Chapter Text

“I feel like,” Ingrid sighs, “we’ve been here many times before.”

Sylvain sits sullenly on the other side of the dining table, pushing his food around with his fork. This cabbage, he thinks, deserves to be stabbed one more time. 

Ingrid stares, dead-eyed, as Sylvain viciously forks a carrot. And then unforks it. And then forks it again. What good have carrots contributed to society, anyway? Nothing. That’s what. Sylvain stabs it with his fork. Once more. Just for good measure. 

“Can you stop,” says Ingrid. Sylvain scowls, a slight pout mixing in with it.

“But Ingrid,” he protests, and this is when Ingrid puts her hands over her face in despair, “It’s not working!”

“What’s not working,” Ingrid asks, muffled. 

“My incredible plan to get Felix a happy ending?” Sylvain says, an implicit ‘duh’ in his voice. “You know this. What other things would be ‘not working’ for me?”

“Your relationships,” Ingrid starts listing, and she removes her hands from her face, to use them to count off on her fingers instead. “Your brain. Your common sense. Your--“

“Wow, okay, getting kinda harsh here.”

“Am I wrong?”

Ingrid sends him a positively frigid stare.

“You know,” Sylvain says after a short pause. “I’m getting the feeling that you’re pissed at me.”

“I’m always pissed at you,” Ingrid retorts.

“Yeah, well, but like, more pissed than usual,” Sylvain emphasizes. He waves his hands around in wild gestures. “See, normally you’re at this level of pissed,” Sylvain lets his hand hover a small distance off the top of the dining hall table, as a point of reference. “And then,” he raises his hand slightly, “this is like, ‘when I hit on someone’ level of anger.”

“Uh huh,” Ingrid says flatly.

“And this is like,” Sylvain brings his hand to his chin level, “‘when you have to clean up my messes’ level of anger.”

“Right.”

“And this,” Sylvain extends his arm fully, reaching as far above his head as he can, “is like, ‘when you’re absolutely, one hundred percent, done with my shit’ level of anger.”

“Yeah.”

“And I just get the feeling that, you’re like,” and Sylvain brings his hand back down to his chin, “around here. Right now.”

“Basically,” says Ingrid with a nod. 

“...Okay, which girl tried to kill me this time?” Sylvain asks, leaning back and chewing his lip in thought. There was that girl with the war axe, who had kept really overtly coming onto him so he’d just stood her up one day. Then there was that other girl, with the gauntlets, who constantly talked about marriage and starting a family, so he’d flirted with someone else in front of her face. Then there was that other girl--

“Well, Sylvain,” Ingrid smiles, not at all kindly. “It’s not actually a girl, this time.”

“Oh. Then, why?” Sylvain asks, somewhat distressed, but also not that distressed, because if he gets distressed every single time Ingrid gets angry at him, Sylvain will die of a heart attack at the ripe old age of twenty-one. Maybe younger. 

“I’m pissed,” Ingrid says calmly, and sweetly, “because whatever you did has landed Felix in a bad mood, and also now he and Ashe are being awkward around each other, which isn’t helping things by the way, and the last time when I tried to speak to him about his assigned duties he glared at me and told me to shut up and go away before I could even speak . So yes. I am mad. Because this is all your fault.”

“Okay, firstly, you don’t know that it was me--“

“I,” says Ingrid, “am not an idiot who is incapable of connecting some fucking dots, Sylvain Jose Gautier.”

Sylvain winces. Ouch. The swear word, and the full-name. All together in one neat, packaged sentence. This does not bode well for him. 

“Okay, okay, so maybe Felix is kinda pissed at me,” Sylvain allows. “But listen, I wasn’t the one who made him say those things, alright!”

Ingrid narrows her eyes.

“Things?” she asks suspiciously. Sylvain grimaces. 

“You don’t want to know,” he tells her. Ingrid stares, for a few more seconds, but drops the topic with a shake of her head. 

“Look, Sylvain,” she says. “You know, your intentions are nice and all, I’ll admit that much, but I really do think you’re going too far. You need to stop.”

“But I have plans ,” Sylvain whines. 

“Well, whatever they are, they’re clearly not working,” Ingrid tells him, sounding aggravated. “So you should really just--“

“Do better,” Sylvain finishes, and snaps his fingers. “That’s such an obvious answer, why didn’t I think of that?”

“No, that’s not what I was going to say.”

“Thanks Ingrid,” Sylvain blatantly ignores her. “You really helped me with that one.”

“I did not,” denies Ingrid immediately, “and if you even try telling Felix that I had any part in this, I will personally glue your ears to your mouth, so that the next time you speak, you can actually listen to yourself and realise how stupid the things you say are.”

“Hm,” says Sylvain. “I mean. That’s an interesting way to put it.”

“Do you think I’m joking?”

“Well, do you know how to surgically reattach my ears to my face and make them work?”

“I will learn. Just to spite you.”

“Wow,” says Sylvain. “I mean like. Good for you, I guess.”

“Thanks,” says Ingrid, and then she leans forward, pushing her empty plate to the side. She braces her elbows on the table, and looks Sylvain in the eye. “Anyway. Stop.”

“No. Come on, I just thought of something really good that will totally propel them together and it’ll also get rid of the awkwardness along the way,” Sylvain wheedles. 

“I bet that’s what you thought about your last plan, and look where you are now,” Ingrid says, rolling her eyes. “You took a step backwards, Sylvain. You made it worse. Great job.”

“Well, sometimes if you want to succeed,” Sylvain reasons. “You have to hit rock bottom first.”

“Is that what you say to all your girlfriends?”

“I mean,” says Sylvain with a helpless shrug. “It’s a line I try at times.”

“Goddess,” Ingrid looks up at the ceiling. “Why do I even talk to you?”

“Because I’m fantastically hot, and good-looking, and also I look good--“

“Shut up.”

“You can’t silence the masses, Ingrid, their voices deserve to be heard! And they’re all saying that I am incredibly handsome, in addition to being--“

“Shut up.”

“I am--“

“Shut up.”

“I--“

Ingrid reaches across the table, and covers Sylvain’s mouth with her hand. “Stop,” she says. 

Sylvain is silent for a moment. And then he licks her palm. 

“Oh my Goddess you are gross,” Ingrid hisses, her voice pitching high as she yanks her arm back. And then she reaches forward again, just to wipe her hand off on Sylvain’s uniform. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Sylvain tells her smugly. Ingrid shakes her head. 

“I will personally rip your heart out with my teeth,” she tells him. Sylvain thinks about for a moment. 

“...Kinda hot,” he says, after picturing it in his mind. Ingrid takes a deep breath.

“Oh my Go--“

So.

For Sylvain’s next genius idea, he’s going to make Felix jealous. Which, he admits, is a very dangerous and life-threatening decision, but sacrifices have to be made in the name of love at times. 

He very pointedly does not tell Ingrid about this plan. Because, he thinks, she might actually succeed in killing him this time. 

Of course now, the problem is that he doesn’t know Ashe all that well. He knows that Ashe likes chivalry, knights, being a nerd, mushrooms apparently, but he doesn’t know Ashe. He doesn’t know Ashe’s favorite color (if he even has a favorite color), his favorite flower (if he even has-- well, no, he probably has a favorite flower, if Sylvain’s being realistic about it), what his moral opinion on revenge is (probably ‘bad’, Sylvain thinks), all that good stuff. 

To that end, he requests help from someone much more knowledgeable than him in the ways of Ashe, and who is also relatively unlikely to murder him for even asking. (Like Ingrid. Or just Felix himself. But that would be too obvious.)

Dedue looks at him dubiously. Sylvain smiles, harder.

“I do not see why you need this information,” says Dedue, slowly. He glances back down at the piece of paper that Sylvain had handed to him, a list of questions scrawled messily on the surface. When he returns his gaze to Sylvain, his brows are furrowed in even more confusion. 

“Reasons,” answers Sylvain. So maybe Dedue is less likely to kill him than anyone else Sylvain can ask. Still doesn’t mean that Sylvain’s going to just spill everything. Less likely still means that there’s a chance.

“...” Dedue is silent. He looks back down at the paper.

“I do not know Ashe’s…‘sleeping’...habits. ...Why are there six quotation marks around the word ‘sleeping’,” he says. It’s not so much a question as it is a statement. 

Sylvain suspects that Dedue definitely knows why there are six quotation marks around the word ‘sleeping’. ...Not that it’s particularly hard to figure out. Especially considering the fact that it’s coming from Sylvain. 

“Don’t worry about that,” Sylvain says hurriedly, when Dedue looks like he’s approximately two seconds away from throwing the paper into the garbage bin. Right, so maybe he’d gone a little too far, a little too soon into the paper. Save those questions for later, and all that. “Just, uh… Hey! Look at that question! ‘What’s Ashe’s favorite color’? Isn’t that nice and innocent and great and totally easy to answer! Right?”

Dedue looks at him. 

“...You wrote the words ‘in bed’ right next to it.”

“I crossed them out!” Sylvain protests.

“...What does that even mean, if I may ask? Or is this simply another one of your nonsensical jokes?” Dedue frowns. 

“What, colors in bed?” Sylvain’s eyebrows raise, and he starts grinning. “Ohoho, now let me tell you a little someth--“

“Nevermind,” Dedue interrupts, shaking his head. “On second thought, I do not want to know.”

“Yeah, cool, cool,” Sylvain nods. “So, what else is on the list?”

Dedue looks down, and begins reading aloud. “What is Ashe’s favorite flower? What is Ashe’s favorite food? Is Ashe a t--“

At that, Dedue instantly cuts himself off, and takes a deep breath. 

“Sylvain,” he grits out, sounding pained, “are half of these just questions about Ashe’s sex life.”

“...No,” Sylvain lies.

“He is sixteen.”

“Hey,” Sylvain shrugs. “I mean, when I was sixteen--“

“Abhorrent,” Dedue scowls. It’s an expression that’s surprisingly rare on the man’s face, considering his usual stern looks. But there’s a difference between neutrality and actual annoyance, and Sylvain thinks he might have just tipped Dedue over that line. “Sylvain, if you insist on being this way then I simply must--“

“Woah, woah, hold on a second there buddy,” Sylvain says quickly, raising his hands in surrender. “How about, I ask you some questions that don’t have anything to do with, er, this topic? Just completely start over, and this time none of that monkey business, alright?”

“...I suppose that is acceptable,” Dedue says after a pause, exhaustion clear in his tone. 

“Ohoho, so you’ll answer my questions then?” Sylvain asks, just to confirm. 

“So long as it doesn’t pertain to that, and it does not get too personal,” Dedue nods. “Then yes.”

“Right, right, right, great! Let me just grab another paper...” Sylvain turns, making sure that Dedue can’t see the triumphant smirk on his face. It’s an easy way to make people agree to your outlandish requests, Sylvain has found. Provide them with an ultimatum, set the bar so damn low to the point where they’re still pleasantly surprised even when you ask the most ridiculous shit of them, because they had expected worse.

It’s simple. But it works, and who does it hurt? Nobody. And, well, frankly, if it does actually hurt somebody, then it’s not like Sylvain forced them into agreeing, now, did he?

...Well, anyway. Sylvain digresses. 

“Righty, then,” Sylvain turns back with a roguish grin, after a minute or two. “So, did someone ask for a paper with some questions?” He brandishes a different paper in Dedue’s face. Dedue blinks. 

“...That was fast,” he says. 

“I write fast,” Sylvain replies modestly, leaving out the fact that he’d written this paper before he’d even written the one with all the sex questions. Some things are better left unsaid, he thinks. 

“I see,” says Dedue. “Well, my apologies, but my writing speed is considerably slower. It will take longer for me to write down my answers, I fear.”

“Dude, totally chill,” Sylvain reassures him. “I mean like, so long as you get the end results, amirite?”

“It depends on the situation.”

“Well, I mean, this isn’t anywhere near life-or-death,” Sylvain shrugs. “So no need to get all serious on me.”

“My apologies.”

“I just said not to get all serious on me, didn’t I?” Sylvain cocks his head. He winks disarmingly, to file the edge off of his words. Dedue huffs.

“It is simply in my nature,” he demurs. Sylvain raises an eyebrow. 

“That’s chill,” he says. He crosses his arms behind his head. “I mean like, I’m the type of guy who has got to have some fun in his life, ya’know? But that’s cool too.”

“I shudder to think of what your definition of ‘fun’ is,” Dedue says dryly. 

“Okay, ouch.”

Sylvain waits in silence, as Dedue scribbles out the last few answers. He didn’t ask too many questions, and none of them went beyond basic surface level (hobbies, music taste, just general stuff like that. Sylvain likes to at least maintain the illusion of not being a total douche), so it’s not a particularly hard questionnaire to fill out. 

“Thanks man, you’re a lifesaver,” Sylvain declares as he accepts the paper back. Dedue eyes him. 

“Just do not misuse this information,” he says, one final, parting warning. 

“Ooh, lecture me harder,” says Sylvain in return with a roll of his eyes, because he has absolutely no brain-to-mouth filter, nor does he have any form of self-preservation skills. 

Dedue looks at him. Sylvain looks back. 

“...Are you contemplating murder right now?” asks Sylvain, after a beat.

“Perhaps,” Dedue replies, and Sylvain takes that as his cue to leave. 

The best and easiest time to put his plan into action, Sylvain thinks, is right after class ends. When everyone is still packing up, idly chatting, asking their professors questions. Usually, Sylvain takes the first opportunity to dash out the door, but not today. 

Today, he has plans.

“Yo, Ashey,” Sylvain greets as he casually walks up to the younger boy. Ashe looks back at his voice, and blinks at Sylvain. 

“Oh,” he says, sounding surprised. “Hi, Sylvain.”

“Aww, why so shocked?” Sylvain asks in mock affront. He leans in, slinging an arm around Ashe’s shoulders. Ashe jumps slightly at the sudden contact. “Don’t tell me you’re still upset?”

“A-Ah, no, it’s just that you don’t often approach me, so…” Ashe stutters, clearly unprepared for Sylvain touching him so familiarly. He shakes his head. “A-Anyway, what would I even be upset about?”

“No need to play dumb. I know you’re a smart cookie,” Sylvain says, idly flicking Ashe’s forehead with his free hand. Ashe jerks back at that, sending Sylvain an exasperated look. “You know, that time in the forest? The mushroom sex?”

Sitting next to Ashe, Annette sends them an utterly confused and slightly appalled glance.

Ashe flushes red. 

“Don’t say it like that!” he hisses to Sylvain, who just smirks.

“What,” Sylvain acts oblivious. “Mushroom fucking? The mushroom horizontal tango? The--" 

"Stop," Ashe looks like he’s a moment away from collapsing due to heatstroke. 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Sylvain rolls his eyes, and starts talking in a high pitched voice, in a very poor rendition of what Ashe might possibly sound like after inhaling helium. “But Sylvaaain, mushrooms don’t have genitalia! And they reproduce asexually! I know, I know.”

“...If I ask you to stop talking to me--"

“Sorry, no can do,” Sylvain answers him seriously. “You’re stuck here with me.”

Ashe bites his lip, and looks like he’s having an intense, internal debate with himself about whether or not kicking Sylvain in the crotch to get away would be considered a humane act. Sylvain knows. He’s seen this sort of look on others much too many times before. 

“I mean like,” Sylvain hurriedly steers their conversation back onto relatively normal ground. “Anyway, you aren't still upset about that, are you? 'Cause if you are, then like, you know, I really didn’t mean to eavesdrop that time. Super sorry about that, seriously.”

“Oh,” Ashe blinks, caught off-guard by the sudden topic change. “Er, no worries. Anyway I--“

“Like, seriously,” Sylvain repeats, crowding in further and his voice going low. “If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you…”

“Uh, what?" Ashe leans away, but Sylvain follows him. A tinge of red covers the younger boy's cheeks at their proximity, and Sylvain grins. 

Poor little Ashey, he thinks. Being bounced around whichever topic Sylvain wants to spring on him at the moment, and getting so flustered by them too. He really just makes it too easy. 

“Like, if you want, I can treat you to dinner?” Sylvain offers. “A night out in town, maybe? You like sweets, don’t you? Well I heard there’s this absolutely fantastic cafe that serves just the best desserts.”

“You really don’t have to go through all this trouble…” 

Ashe is looking away, embarrassment growing hotter on his freckled face. And out of the corner of his eye, from the other side of the room, Sylvain can vaguely see Felix glaring at them. 

Success, he thinks, and restrains himself from pumping his fist. 

“Dude, no need to act all concerned for me,” Sylvain grins, and leans in, even closer. His breath is hot on Ashe’s face, and Ashe shivers at the feeling. “Think of it as a treat for me as well, yeah?”

“U-Uhhh,” Ashe opens and closes his mouth, seemingly unable to find his words in the face of Sylvain’s very unsubtle come-ons. Sitting beside Felix, Ingrid is cutting a hand across her own throat, and if Sylvain pays attention, he can kinda read her lips.

Sylvain , she’s mouthing, eyes narrowed and gaze sharp. Cut it out.

Well, Sylvain supposes that Ashe does look overwhelmed. He takes pity on the boy, and draws back. Ashe breathes an audible sigh of relief. 

It’s kinda cute, if Sylvain’s being honest. 

“I mean, just think about it, ‘kay?” Sylvain says, with a clap on Ashe’s shoulder. “The invitation’s always open. Wherever, whatever. Just ask.”

“Um, yeah, right,” Ashe says, eyes refusing to meet Sylvain’s. “I’ll, er, keep that in mind. Th--Thanks. Sylvain.”

“It’s no problem,” Sylvain grins, and can’t resist throwing in one last line. “Gotta say though, the way you acted just now was so cute, I might as well owe you two favors now.”

At that, Ashe’s face burns. 

“Okaythat’snicegottagobye,” he says, all at once, and then he bolts out the door. It swings, in his wake. 

Almost immediately, Ingrid stands with a clatter from her chair, and starts approaching Sylvain, danger in her walk. Dedue, as well, moves around the table separating them. But at the moment, Sylvain only has eyes for Felix. 

Felix looks homicidal. His hands are tense, knuckles white as he shoves his papers back into his bag. And then he glowers at Sylvain. 

Don't think, he mouths, eyes narrowed and teeth showing, that I don't know what you're up to. 

Sylvain just shrugs at him, grinning. 

Felix keeps his gaze locked onto Sylvain, for one, two seconds, then he breaks their eye contact with a scoff. He sweeps up onto his feet, graceful just like any true noble, and exits without fanfare. 

But Sylvain knows.

So he sits down in Ashe’s empty seat, smug and proud, even as Ingrid and Dedue both bear down on him. 

“I warned you not to misuse it, didn’t I?” Dedue frowns. “Sylvain, I do not see how this will assist in...whatever it is that you are attempting.”

“Sylvain!” Ingrid is markedly less calm about the whole thing. “What are you even thinking?!”

“Aw, come on,” Sylvain protests. “It was great! Did you see that look on Felix’s face? He looked like he was ready to kill me!”

Sylvain doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy about Felix wanting to bury his body before. Then again, with the amount of times Felix has felt, and probably will feel that way, it’s only natural for Sylvain to react in every possible way eventually. So really, this is just another reaction to knock off the checklist.

Ingrid and Dedue share a glance. Then, as one, they turn back to Sylvain. 

“Just how stupid are you--“

“Sylvain, I believe it to be unwise to continue further--“

Everyone’s a critic, Sylvain laments, as he kicks back in his chair, and proceeds to tune both lectures out. 

The next time Sylvain manages to catch Ashe with Felix in the vicinity, they’re both in the training ground. 

It’s not like training’s a group activity or anything, but there’s a certain awkwardness to the way they’re so pointedly not interacting. It kinda makes Sylvain feel disappointed. But not for long, because he’s definitely going to fix that. 

Felix is, as always, hacking dummies to pieces. Straw is scattered over the ground, the remaining remnants of his previous victims. There’s a reason why House Fraldarius takes a chunk out of its own coffers to funnel into Garreg Mach, Sylvain knows, and that reason is Felix. Previously, it had been Glenn, back when the man himself had walked these same halls. 

Sylvain still remembers the times Glenn would send letters back from the academy, when he and Felix were young and barely able to comprehend the act of fighting; the reasons, the consequences, the stench of the iron on the battlefield.

Father, those letters had read, when Felix and Sylvain would sneak them out of Lord Rodrigue’s drawers when the man pretended that he didn’t notice, I appear to have destroyed a bit too many targets once again. The school is requesting recompense from our house. My deepest apologies for the trouble. Please write back soon. 

Love, Glenn.  

Felix doesn't write letters like Glenn used to. But Rodrigue sends the funds all the same. 

On the other hand, Ashe's practice is far less destructive. He breathes, slow and deep, as he draws the string back, completely focused. 

Sylvain stands back, and watches. There's a type of grace and beauty to archery that other weapons can't quite imitate. Not that the others aren't elegant in their own way, Sylvain can attest to, but there's simply something about the bow and arrow. 

Ashe lets the arrow fly, already nocking the next one by the time the first hits bullseye. Sylvain takes the chance to whistle, long and low, before Ashe gets too far into his next shot. 

Both Ashe and Felix turn their heads to him at Sylvain's whistle. Felix instantly looks away with a scowl, while Ashe flushes slightly, most likely recalling their last interaction. 

Well, Sylvain thinks as he saunters up to Ashe, time to start the show. 

"Hey, Ashe," he calls, and once again slings an all too friendly arm over Ashe's shoulders. This time, at least, Ashe seems to expect the contact, and he just sighs. "What, you don't want to see me? That's harsh, Ashe."

"It's not--" Ashe starts, then cuts off with another sigh. "Just, what are you playing at, Sylvain?"

"Woah, woah, woah," Sylvain's eyebrows fly up at that in faux shock. "Who says I'm 'playing' at anything? Can't a guy just hang out with another guy, and appreciate his "bow and shaft" technique?"

Ashe opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. 

"Firstly," he says, and Sylvain is already mentally wincing. “I really don’t know what was going through your mind the last time we talked. Did-- Did you really have to be so-- so--”

“Hot?” Sylvain offers.

“No! I was going to say flir--“

“Oh, so you don’t think I’m hot. I see how it is.”

“No, you are,” Ashe blurts out loudly, then looks like he wants to die. Sylvain grins. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he even manages to catch Felix’s glower. It’s great. “Objectively! I’m saying that objectively!”

“Wow, Ashe,” Sylvain shakes his head with a tut. “I appreciate the compliment and all, but don’t you know there’s no objective view of beauty? Shame on you. Everyone’s beautiful in their own way, you know?”

“Gah,” Ashe groans, palming his face. “You-- You know what I meant.”

“It’s okay, Ashe. I get it. You can say that you’re attracted to me, it’s alright--”

“I’m not, though…” Ashe’s face falls into a pout, and Sylvain decides to take pity on him. Or, well. Not that much pity. Is it weird if Sylvain finds it cute, how Ashe gets all sulky when Sylvain teases him? Possibly. Whatever. 

“Oh, so you’re more into the dark and broody type? Figures,” he says casually. Ashe’s face flames. 

“I-- Stop,” he says weakly. At that, Sylvain finally spares the boy mercy, and draws back, his arm falling to his side. He’s had his fun, in any case. 

“Whatever you say,” Sylvain shrugs. “Anyway, what was your second point?”

“Huh?”

“You said ‘firstly’,” Sylvain reminds Ashe patiently, “so what’s the second point?”

Ashe blinks.

“Oh!” he says. “Right! I was going to say that ‘shaft’ and ‘arrow’ can’t be used interchangeably.”

Now it’s Sylvain’s turn to be confused.

“...Huh?”

“You can’t say bow and shaft,” Ashe tells Sylvain very sincerely. “It’s incorrect.”

Sylvain pauses, for a moment.

“I-- Ashe,” he says. “It. It was a joke.”

“I know,” Ashe says. “But I just have to get it off my chest. A shaft is one part of an arrow. An arrow is made up of, to put it simply, a shaft, a fletching, a nock, and a point. Of course, there’s more variations, but that’s the most basic form of an arrow. So unless you’re shooting bare shaft, it’s wrong to say ‘bow and shaft’. Even then, bare shaft isn’t technically just shooting a shaft, so--“

“I,” declares Sylvain, interrupting, “have absolutely no idea what you’re saying.”

Ashe sighs.

“You were there for Shamir’s seminar just last week!” he accuses. “I saw you!”

“Hey man,” Sylvain raises his hands in surrender. “Literally only there for the lances. Did not listen to a single word otherwise.”

“Then why didn’t you attend Seteth’s instead? He was right next door,” Ashe says, aghast. 

“Because Seteth’s not a hot chick,” Sylvain reminds him. “I mean, I’ll admit, he’s a hot guy, but he’s not a hot chick, you get what I’m saying?”

“...You’re terrible, Sylvain. Terrible.”

Sylvain is about to just about to retort a comeback, when an idea suddenly smacks him in the face. He stops short, his mouth partially open, as he abruptly thinks of the best thing ever. In his humble opinion. (Which counts for a lot, because clearly, Sylvain is a genius.)

“...Hey, well, if you’re so upset about it, how about you teach me, oh great master Ashe?” Sylvain asks with a wink. “You know. Some one-on-one bow time. Some real, uh, what was it, bare shaft action--“

“If I agree,” Ashe cuts in, sounding utterly serious, “will you promise to never, ever say the phrase ‘bare shaft’ outside of its intended usage ever again.”

Sylvain bites his lip, then decides, eh, fuck it. “There is actually more than one intended usage for the phrase ‘bare shaft’, I hope you know.

“I know,” Ashe’s eyes glaze over, as if recalling a traumatic memory. “And I wish I didn’t.”

“...Uh, wow, okay,” says Sylvain, slightly taken aback. He hesitates for a brief moment. “...Um. Hm. Well. ...You know what? Sure. I’ll use it how it’s meant to be used. You know what I mean. Now teach me your ways, oh wise one.” Sylvain claps his hands together. 

“...I get the feeling that I’m going to regret this very soon,” Ashe sighs, but acquiesces. “Right, so the bow…”

Sylvain’s eyes cross slightly as he begins zoning out. Hey, it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose. It’s just, man, bows are so not his type of weapon. Still, though, he tries his best. Kinda. Well, if trying his best also includes thinking about that girl from the other day, in the marketplace. Man, was she--

“Sylvain!” Ashe rudely interrupts his train of thought, and Sylvain jerks in shock. 

“Y-Yeah?” he asks feebly. Ashe glares. Pouts. Glare-pouts. Whatever. 

“Are you even listening to me?” he complains. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, then--”

“I am taking this seriously!” Sylvain protests, his hands coming to defend himself. “I am the most serious!”

“Oh?” Ashe challenges. “Then repeat what I just said.”

Sylvain opens his mouth, and wracks his brain. 

“Uhhhh,” he says, dragging his words out as he desperately thinks back to just a few seconds ago, “draw the string back in a straight line along your arm…?”

Ashe blinks. 

“Huh,” he says, sounding surprised. “That’s right.”

Yes! Sylvain cheers inwardly. Oh yeah, I still got it!

“But,” Ashe’s gaze sharpens. “Just because you might have been listening doesn’t mean you’re getting out of this. Here.”

Ashe hands over his bow, and Sylvain grasps it. But before Sylvain can even move, Ashe is fussing over him again. 

“No, no, no!” he frets. “That’s not how you hold it!”

With that, Ashe grabs at Sylvain’s arms, and Sylvain flinches back, not expecting Ashe to suddenly initiate contact. Ashe, for his part, seems unphased by Sylvain’s small twitch, and sets about adjusting Sylvain’s grip. 

His hands flutter over Sylvain’s, as they push and maneuver Sylvain’s arms around. His fingers nudge Sylvain’s, their elbows knocking together as Ashe starts clucking over Sylvain’s arm placement. 

“Oh, and you have to stand like this,” Ashe mutters absently, his hands going down to Sylvain’s waist. His grip is warm on Sylvain’s hips, as he bodily coaxes Sylvain to turn, his front facing a right angle away from the target, the side facing the bullseye. 

“Your feet,” Ashe murmurs, and wow, has he been this close to Sylvain the whole time? Sylvain can practically make out his individual eyelashes, at this distance. “They need to be in a straight line.”

“Like this?” Sylvain shifts. 

“Align the tips of your feet. Don't be so tense — relax your stance. Just stand casually. Feet apart."

Sylvain does. Ashe hums.

“Good job.”

And Sylvain should really not be feeling so happy over completing a basic task, and two words of praise, but here he is. Emotions are weird, Sylvain decides. 

“What next, coach?” Sylvain teases. Ashe huffs, rolling his eyes, but hands over an arrow anyway. 

“Here. The tip for this one is blunted, so you probably won’t injure yourself even if you screw up. ...I think.”

“Well, that instills a ton of faith into me,” Sylvain says sarcastically as he takes the arrow. “Thanks.”

“It’s the best the school has,” Ashe replies, flushing. “A-Anyway, nock the arrow.”

Sylvain already knows what Ashe is going to say, before he even says it. 

“No!” Ashe cries, and Sylvain thinks, called it. “Not like that!”

And then Ashe’s hands are on Sylvain’s again, adjusting the placements of Sylvain’s fingers.

“Your index goes above here,” Ashe instructs, as he shifts Sylvain around. “And your middle and ring fingers go down here. So it ends up like this.”

Ashe laces his fingers together with Sylvain’s, as he demonstrates. His hands are kinda small, Sylvain notes. Pretty and delicate, one might almost think, if they didn’t know that those same hands have been used to aim a killing blow at many a bandit. 

But Sylvain digresses. 

“Now,” Ashe says, low and soft, “bring your arms up to your shoulders, and pull the string back.”

Sylvain does so, his back muscles flexing and tensing. Gently, Ashe grips the elbow of his left arm, and rotates it so that it’s not obstructing the string’s path. 

“There we go,” he says. “Now aim. And shoot.”

Sylvain breathes. And then he lets the arrow fly. 

Somewhat disappointingly, it is nowhere near the centre of the target. But it does at least land on it, which, in Sylvain’s opinion, is already pretty darn good. Ashe smiles at him, so he probably agrees as well. 

“Nice!” he comments, and wow, okay, either Ashe is really good at complimenting people, or Sylvain’s suddenly discovered something new about himself. A bubble of pride wells up in his chest, and Sylvain grins. 

“Not bad for a beginner, eh?” he brags, cocking his head. Ashe just beams at him. 

“It’s far better than my first attempt, in any case,” he says. Sylvain narrows his eyes. 

“Okay, now I know you’re just making fun of me. You came out of the womb holding a bow, you liar,” Sylvain says. Ashe laughs. 

“I did not,” he denies.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to lie to make me feel better,” Sylvain sighs dramatically, leaning into Ashe. “I have enough ego for the both of us, it’s fine.”

Ashe giggles, and Sylvain grins fondly, moving even closer--

Snap.

Both Sylvain and Ashe jump apart in shock, their heads whipping in the direction of the sudden noise. Felix is standing still, facing away from them and holding two halves of a broken training sword. Made of wood, of course, so it's not that bad, but still.

Oh, Goddess, Sylvain thinks. I actually completely forgot he was there.

Still, though. This is great. This is fantastic. Felix got so mad at Sylvain and Ashe basically just feeling each other up that he snapped his sword in half. 

It’s even better than what Sylvain had hoped for. 

Sylvain and Ashe watch in silence as Felix tosses the weapon onto the floor before striding out the doorway; Sylvain with a determinedly neutral expression as he tries to suppress his glee, while Ashe's eyes are wide and worried.

The boy reaches a hand out, opening his mouth, but after a pause he withdraws, opting to wring his hands together instead. 

"Do you…" Ashe trails off with a wince as the doors to the training ground slam shut with a loud bang. "Do you think he's alright?"

"Oh, I'm sure he is," Sylvain reassures him, and then turns back to the target. "Now, where were we?"

Ashe sends one last, lingering stare at the doors, before turning to Sylvain. 

"Er, right, so now let's…"

Oh yes, Sylvain grins to himself, as Ashe starrs explaining again. This is the best idea I've ever had. I should get an award for this. I am such--

--an idiot, Sylvain finishes.

An angry Felix Hugo Fraldarius is not something anyone wants to have in their room. Ever. But of course, when Felix had come banging on Sylvain's door that night, threatening to knock it down himself if Sylvain doesn't open up, well. What else is Sylvain supposed to do?

So now he and his murderous childhood friend are just chilling in his dorm room together. No homo. So not homo, in fact, that Sylvain will probably be found dead the next morning. Which, in Sylvain's professional opinion, is a pretty good example of no homo.

Anyway. Sylvain digresses. 

"...Is this a fucking joke?" Felix spits out, after a few seconds of gazing intently into each other's eyes. (But like, not in a gay way, unless that also includes Sylvain staring into the eyes of his own death, in which case, yes, in a gay way. Which is chill.)

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sylvain feigns ignorance. This very quickly turns out to be a bad idea, as Felix snarls like a wild animal, and proceeds to slam Sylvain into his own dorm wall. 

Dazedly, Sylvain wonders just what His Highness, just next door, is thinking of all the noise. 

"Don't act dumb!" Felix snaps. He shakes Sylvain's shirt collar, for good measure. "Contrary to popular belief, I know that you aren't actually an idiot. So just speak the fuck up."

"Why, Felix!" Sylvain tries to laugh, but it comes out squeaky and panicked. "I never knew you thought of me so highly--"

"Shut the fuck up," says Felix, coldly, "and talk."

"Okay, okay, you got me," Sylvain spills, because damnit if he's going to die then he's going to at least die having fun. Not now. When he's like, in bed with someone, or something. "I was trying to make you jealous! Haha. Funny right? You know, you see your old pal, Sylvain Jose Gautier, making the moves on your man, and you're like, damn, I gotta move faster, or else--"

"Why," says Felix quietly, softly, deadly. Sylvain goes silent. "Must you keep insisting on interfering?"

Sylvain opens his mouth. Closes it. The room feels cold, suddenly. 

"I have no time for cowards," Felix continues calmly, in that same, terrifying tone. "Say your piece."

"...Because I want you to be happy," Sylvain says, truthfully. "And if that means setting you up--"

"That's not what I was asking," Felix interrupts. "I said, why are you interfering?"

Sylvain doesn't know how to answer that one. 

"Do you think I'm incompetent?" Felix's grip tightens. "Do you think I'm incapable of managing my own affairs? I'm not a child, Sylvain."

Sylvain is quiet. 

"...I'm worried, Felix," he says eventually. "You've never--"

"You don't have to hold my hand!" Felix bursts out angrily. "Stop-- Stop acting like I don't know how to fucking--"

"Oh, please," Sylvain snaps. It's uncharacteristic of him, and he tries not to get frustrated with Felix, but sometimes, it's hard. "If you knew what you were doing, then we wouldn't even be having this stupid conversation--"

"I don't need you to tell me what to do!" Felix yells. At this point, even through the thick stone walls of the dorms, people have to be overhearing their argument. "You're always like this! Pushing me around, trying to make me--"

"Because you're not good at this shit," Sylvain retorts. "Seriously, if I weren't around, if Ingrid weren't around, you'd still be cooped up in your room, or in the training ground, and never leaving--"

"Fucking inconsiderate control freak--"

"Don't even try to say that, when I've been doing this whole thing for you--"

"I didn't ask for this!" Felix screams. Sylvain's mouth snaps shut. "Stop putting your own damn words into my mouth! All you want is for things to go your way, don't act like you're doing this out of the kindness of your fucking heart."

"Felix--" Sylvain tries, but Felix doesn't stop. This, in retrospect, is the moment that Sylvain realises that he might have made a mistake. 

"You just care about yourself," Felix sneers, and then he says words that make Sylvain's heart stop, "You probably killed Miklan because you wanted him killed right."

A beat passes, as they both stare at each other, shocked at the sentence that just came out of Felix's mouth. Then as one, they jerk back. 

Dimly, Sylvain registers his hands curling into fists at his side. 

It hurts.

It fucking hurts, because Felix knows. Felix was the one who barged into his room the night it happened, who let Sylvain cry all over his jacket with only one short, cursory word of complaint. And it was Felix, after that, who had followed Sylvain around, snapping at anyone who showed any sign of trying to bother Sylvain about it.

So Felix knows. And that, Sylvain thinks, is what hurts the most. 

“Wow,” Sylvain hears himself say, after a long pause, and his voice sounds absolutely fake, even to himself. “Little harsh, don’t you think? Did I really fuck up that much?”

Felix stares at him, with wide, horrified eyes. 

“I,” he says, taking a step back. “I--”

Sylvain is silent, as he watches Felix. Takes in how Felix clenches his fists, how he bites his lips. The way that anxiety and guilt, so rare to see on him, runs clear over his face.

“I didn’t,” Felix says, then stops. 

Is it, Sylvain wonders dully, that hard to apologise?

A beat of silence. Two.

“...I have to go,” Felix blurts out, breaking the limbo they’re stuck in. And then he turns tail, and runs. 

As Sylvain stares after Felix’s back, something twisted and sharp curls in his chest. 

It’s an emotion he’s far too experienced with, something he lets crash over and engulf him whenever he’s surrounded by those shallow, tittering girls who can’t see farther than his crest. But It’s something he tries not to feel, not around his friends, not around Felix. 

No matter how far Felix may go, no matter how biting his remarks may get; Sylvain just reminds himself that it’s Felix’s own personal brand of fucked up affection. But it’s hard, now, to think of a reason to push this terrible, ugly ache in his chest down. To stop it from twining around his guts, and tightening into a stranglehold.

For once, Sylvain thinks, he wants Felix to hurt.

No, Sylvain sucks in a trembling breath, and shakes his head violently. Come on, you guys have been friends for how long now? Don’t let Felix’s little temper tantrum get in the way of that. He’s said worse before. 

(Or maybe not. This, Sylvain doesn’t want to admit, might be the worst of them all.)

Still, though. Sylvain can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop the words from rattling around in his head. 

Chapter Text

The truth is this: Sylvain goes to the training grounds to train. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

He's not like Felix or Dimitri, always burying themselves in training, in swinging a weapon, in burying steel in a dummy up to the hilt. Battle and spars get his blood pumping, true, but there's no thrill in war. Not for Sylvain. 

Still, though. There are times where Sylvain simply wants to do something. And sometimes, that something includes going to the training grounds, and hitting straw until his arms go numb. 

There's a problem with this strategy, though. And that problem, is that the reason for Sylvain's mood, the very person who Sylvain wants to avoid, also adores the training grounds as his home away from home. (His first home being, of course, the training grounds in the Fraldarius manor.)

Felix, predictably, is training when Sylvain arrives. Really, Sylvain shouldn't be feeling surprised. Less predictably is Ashe, once again practicing. Though, it's not that shocking. Ashe is a notoriously earnest hard worker even at the worst of times. 

The real whammy here though, is that Ashe is teaching Felix how to use a bow. 

At that, Sylvain feels an odd wave of...anger? No, he thinks. Not exactly. Something close, maybe. Something off. 

It's not that he's upset over Felix so blatantly stealing his idea. Or maybe he is. Is he? No, that wouldn't make sense. He wanted this to happen, Sylvain knows. Maybe--

His thoughts get cut off, as Ashe looks up and notices him. A bright smile adorns his face, as he waves and calls to the older boy. 

"Sylvain! Over here!" 

Sylvain casts a quick glance at Felix. Felix is stiff, stubbornly avoiding looking back at Sylvain. Slowly, reluctantly, Sylvain makes his way over. 

Goddess, this is awkward. But it's hard to say no, in the face of that cheery grin. 

"Hey, Ashe," Sylvain forces a smile as he reaches them. "Conducting more bow lessons? Maybe you should be the one conducting seminars, now."

The joke falls flat. Ashe cocks his head at him, gaze piercing, his eyes flicking between Felix and Sylvain, who both are still refusing to look at each other. Ashe opens his mouth, as if to ask something, but then closes it, like he'd considered then thought better of that decision. 

There's a brief pause. 

"Do you…" Ashe trails off, but musters his courage and continues, "do you want to join us, Sylvain?"

It's a clear deflection, from what he'd originally wanted to say. Something forcibly light, something that might just be able to break the tension. 

Sorry, Ashe, Sylvain thinks bleakly. But the situation's worse than you can imagine. 

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Sylvain says instead. He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt, you know. Tutoring two incompetents at once, now that’s hard.”

“Are you sure?” Ashe prods. “If you’re just worried about Felix, don’t be. I can help the both of you together.”

“I mean,” Sylvain stalls. He shoots a quick, short glance at Felix. Felix is still stubbornly looking away from him. “I guess if you insist...But, like, you sure Felix is cool with it?”

There. Perfect. Now the ball’s in Felix’s court; he can’t bitch at Sylvain if he’s the one making the decision. And also, it’s way less weird if Felix were the one to protest Sylvain’s presence. So now, all Sylvain has to do is stand back, and wait for Felix to dismiss him. 

He and Ashe both stare expectantly at Felix; Ashe with wide, puppy-dog eyes, Sylvain with a stiffly neutral expression while he inwardly chants say no say no say no.

Felix glances between the both of them. His eyes fix on Ashe, and it's then that Sylvain realises that he fucked up. 

He'd accounted for the version of Felix that talks to Sylvain. He'd forgotten, however, all about the version of Felix that talks to Ashe. 

This version of Felix swallows, almost unnoticeably, and, his gaze still stuck on Ashe, he says, his voice flat, "...I don't give a shit. The moron can do what he wants."

Well, fuck me, I guess, Sylvain thinks sourly.

Perhaps if Sylvain were in a better mood, he'd be happy with this. He'd be smirking and smug over how Felix takes a look at Ashe, and gives in so uncharacteristically. So Felix is so clearly weak at the knees, and pliant for the boy who is everything that Sylvain isn’t. 

Perhaps if Felix hadn't spat those words last night. If he'd taken a look at Sylvain, and given in, so uncharacteristically. Maybe if Sylvain were like Ashe, who’s so kind, and caring, and compassionate, that even Felix can’t help but kneel.

As it is, Sylvain can't feel anything but bitter. 

"Oh, good," Ashe is saying, relief clear on his face. He's staring up at Felix, with those soft doe eyes of his, and Felix is staring back down at him, unable to tear his gaze away. “Well, if the both of you are fine with it…” he turns back to Sylvain. 

And Sylvain is a hypocrite, he will admit. Because he can’t say no either. And besides, it’s not like he can just refuse. Not after Felix allowed it. That’d just be way too weird.

“Oh, yeah, totally,” Sylvain lies through his damn teeth. 

Ashe levels a long stare at him. It’s clear that he doesn’t buy it. Is Sylvain really such a poor actor? Or is Ashe more observant than Sylvain gives him credit for? More questions to ponder at a later date, Sylvain supposes. When he isn’t feeling so shitty.

“...Alright,” Ashe allows finally. He turns back to Felix. “Oh, Felix, could you help grab a bow for Sylvain?”

Felix scoffs. 

“I wasn’t aware that the idiot lacks legs of his own,” he spits out, but he’s already turning, stepping toward the weapon racks. Complying, so easily, with Ashe’s request. 

Sylvain reminds himself to breathe, and not to choke on the ash in his throat.

Ashe moves closer to him, just slightly, as Felix walks out of earshot. He’s watching Sylvain, eyes filled with concern. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, his head cocked. “You aren’t acting like yourself, today.”

Like he knows how I usually act. What a joke.

Sylvain shakes his head, banishing the intrusive thought. No need to be a dick, he chastises himself. And to Ashe, of all people. The only person worse to shit on would be Mercedes. And even then, Mercedes is so much older than Ashe, that actually, Ashe might still be the worst to insult.

“Nah, ‘m fine. I just didn’t sleep very well last night. You know how it is,” Sylvain says. A half-truth. Ashe obviously can tell that Sylvain’s omitting some key details, given the way he side-eyes him, but the boy seems to know when to let a topic drop. 

Felix grunts his return as he unceremoniously drops another bow into Ashe’s hands. Ashe fumbles, gripping two bows at once, and Sylvain takes pity on him, taking the initiative to just grab one out of his hands. Ashe flashes a quick smile at him, and Sylvain helplessly returns it, nowhere near as bright as the original.

“So both of you know the basics, right?” Ashe starts, gaze flicking between the both of them. They both nod (Sylvain) or grunt (Felix, obviously) in affirmation. “Good. I don’t have much to tell you, then. Let’s just start shooting, shall we?”

Right off the bat, it’s easy to tell that neither Felix nor Sylvain are at their A-game. Not that they were good at using a bow in the first place, but this is just pathetic. Sylvain is somehow shooting even worse than yesterday, and Felix…

“Your aim is worse, now,” Ashe tells him bluntly. Felix grits his teeth. “Your spread was better just now… Calm down, Felix. Don’t be so tense.”

“Bold of you to assume that Felix can calm down,” Sylvain can’t resist snarking. It doesn’t come out as humorous or as jokingly as he’d hoped. His knuckles turn white around the bow, as Ashe casts him an unreadable glance at that comment. His next arrow doesn’t even hit the dummy. 

Felix takes an audible breath. He’s not looking at Sylvain. He’s refusing to so much as acknowledge Sylvain. 

Good, Sylvain thinks. 

“The both of you need to relax,” says Ashe. He’s frowning disapprovingly. “Using the bow isn’t just about your technique. Your mind has to be clear.”

“Sorry,” Sylvain mutters. He nocks another arrow. 

“Don’t apologise,” Ashe frowns harder. “This isn’t about me.”

“Geez, Ashe,” Sylvain lets the arrow fly. It just barely hits the dummy’s arm. Which would be cool and all, if Sylvain hadn’t been aiming for the throat. “Wanna transfer schools to become a therapist, or something? I think you’d do great.”

“Sylvain.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, sorry,” Sylvain says, his hands and arms stiff as he reaches for another arrow. Ashe is watching him, not upset. Not happy, but not angry at Sylvain’s poor attitude, either. For some reason, that makes Sylvain feel a spike of annoyance. “I shouldn’t make light of your dream and all. You’ll make a great knight, Ashe.”

His weak attempt at a compliment falls flat. On the other side of Ashe, Felix lets out a quiet, almost inaudible scoff. Sylvain pretends not to hear him. 

“I’m being serious, Sylvain,” Ashe continues to pester him. Damn. The feeling of annoyance is starting to grow stronger. Sylvain does his best to push it down. Ashe looks between Felix and Sylvain. “The both of you. There’s obviously something wrong. What happened?”

Felix looks away. Sylvain laughs, fakely. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ashey,” he smiles, too wide and too bright at Ashe. Ashe recoils, just slightly. 

“I don’t-- I’m not--“ the younger boy struggles with the words. He narrows his eyes at Sylvain. “I’m not dumb, Sylvain,” he bites out, and there’s the frustration. It’s irrationally satisfying, knowing that even Ashe has his limits. “Stop trying to lie to me. And so badly, at that.”

“Aww, come on, I’m not lying,” Sylvain blatantly lies, as he forces an even bigger grin. He moves, and Felix goes utterly stiff as Sylvain slings an arm over his shoulders. “See?” Sylvain says, and if there’s a hint of an almost mocking lilt to his tone, well, that’s for Sylvain to know, and Sylvain only. “Besties forever. Right, Felix?”

He chances a glance at his childhood friend. Felix’s fists are clenched, his teeth grinding together as he stands, frozen. And then abruptly, he shifts and shoves Sylvain’s arm off of him. Sylvain stumbles back, startled at the force. 

Felix is still not looking at Sylvain. 

“...I’ve changed my mind,” Felix grates out, after a short, awkward pause. His harsh breathing is audible in the silence. “I don’t think bows suit me after all.”

With that parting statement, he turns on his heel, and marches out of the training grounds. Sylvain and Ashe watch him go with wide eyes. 

Slowly, Sylvain’s own grip on his bow tightens. 

Ashe looks at him.

“Sylvain,” he says, worriedly, almost warily, but Sylvain doesn’t take the time to process the emotions in his tone. His own mind is swirling with thoughts, a bleak hurricane of chaos. 

“Man, you know what, Ashe?” Sylvain laughs, and Ashe flinches at the sound. “You’re right. I think I should go cool down. Catch you later?”

Ashe bites his lip.

“...Okay,” he says after a brief hesitation, but Sylvain is already walking away, his bow and arrows tossed haphazardly onto the dirt floor.

At night, Sylvain stays up, and waits for Felix to come. 

The unfortunate truth of the matter is that this is far from the first time things like this have happened. Sylvain pushes, and pushes, and he tips Felix over an invisible line, and Felix snaps. Felix goes too far, his words too harsh, and they dance around the subject until Felix comes knocking on Sylvain’s door. 

It’s an all too common occurrence. And for the life of him, Sylvain can’t figure out if it says more about Felix — for being so fickle and so obtuse with just where the line is on any given day, or if it says more about Sylvain himself — that he always pushes too far, that he never knows when to stop. That he can’t judge, doesn’t know the limits of his “best friend’s” temper. 

But they make up. They always do. 

It’s always during the night, when Felix makes his walk of shame. When nobody else is out and about, all snuggled up in their beds like the good knights-in-training that they are. Is it shame that drives it? Or is it simply the convenience of the timing, when they both lie awake in their beds, constantly thinking and rethinking and overthinking and wondering--

Or maybe that’s just Sylvain. Maybe Felix sleeps like a baby. Maybe Felix sleeps without a care. Maybe Felix doesn’t sit on his bed, waiting to hear the familiar sound of footsteps, and hoping against all odds that this night will not be the one to break the cycle. 

Sylvain waits. And waits. 

And when he’s just about ready to give up and sleep, and to wait another day, he hears the footsteps. 

There’s a certain way that Felix walks. Light and fleet-footed, as to be expected from such an agile swordsman. Yet still strong and thudding, like Felix wants the world to know of his presence. As if he wants everyone else to turn to him, just so that he can spit in their faces. To declare himself with such finality, and to proclaim his disdain for all those unworthy of the end of his blade.

Sometimes, Sylvain wonders just what it says about him that he knows Felix’s footsteps better than Felix’s boundaries.

After what seems like an eternity, but is likely only a scant few seconds, those footsteps stop outside of Sylvain’s door. The air is still. 

A beat of silence. Another. 

Knock, thinks Sylvain, with bated breath and a tense grip on his bed sheets. Just knock already. 

(This is what does not happen:

Felix knocks, and Sylvain lets him in. Felix is short, and snappish, but ultimately contrite, and Sylvain immediately forgives him. Sylvain grovels for his own actions, and Felix scoffs, saying that Sylvain is far too much of an idiot for him to have expected any better, anyway. At the end of it all, Sylvain shoves Felix into his bed, and Felix puts up a token protest, but he ends up stealing all the blankets when they sleep. The bed is too small for two people, but they make do, as always.

When they wake up in the morning, Felix curses Sylvain out and bitches about how he’s going to have to sneak back to his own room, while not arousing any rumors about them — Goddess forbid — dating, damnit Sylvain, why the hell would anyone ever think I’m attracted to you? I’m offended that they can even begin to think my taste so utterly shit. And Sylvain laughs, and laughs, and makes some noise about Ashe catching wind of it all, and wouldn’t that be hilarious, and Felix pushes Sylvain out of the bed with a glare--)

This is what happens:

Felix doesn’t.

At the dining table, Sylvain yawns loudly, his mouth gaping open and his eyes squeezing shut at the force of it. Ingrid sends him a dirty look, for that. 

“If you’re going to open your mouth so wide, at least have the decency to cover it with your hand!” she lectures, crossing her arms with a frown. As always, they’re sitting across from one another, Ingrid with her usual large helpings of food on her plate, and Sylvain with a far more modest selection. 

Not that Sylvain particularly eats a lot in the first place, but a lack of sleep really doesn’t do wonders for one’s appetite. At that reminder of last night, Sylvain’s mood sours. 

What the hell is up with Felix, anyway? Sure, he doesn’t usually apologise right away, but none of the previous insults had hit quite as hard as this latest one, in their little series of dickishness. Not to mention, the walking to Sylvain’s room, and then the nothing that resulted from it? No knocking? No sorrowful sighs as Felix angsted over actually talking about feelings with someone? No heartfelt talk followed by slightly homoerotic-but-also-not-really-because-Sylvain-physically-recoils-at-even-the-thought-of-boning-Felix-even-if-it’s-like-a-friends-with-benefits-kind-of-thing-much-less-an-actual-romantic-thing-which-would-be-ew bedsharing? ...Platonic bedsharing, to be more concise?

What bullshit. 

Fuck feeling like shit, Sylvain thinks. He’s actually kind of pissed now. 

(But maybe it's your fault, taunts that stupid, little voice in his mind that never quite knows how to shut the fuck up. Maybe you're such a genuinely horrible person that--

Sylvain shuts it down. He shouldn't be thinking about these kinds of things. He can't be thinking about these kinds of things. If he does, then--)

“--Sylvain? Are you listening to me?” Ingrid’s voice snaps Sylvain out of his little, swirling cesspit of anger, and Sylvain blinks at her, startled. Had she been talking to him all along? ...Whoops.

“No,” Sylvain replies candidly. Ingrid blinks at him, taken aback by his bluntness. And then her eyes narrow, and Sylvain mentally braces himself. 

“I cannot-- Urgh! Boys!” Ingrid throws her hands up in the air. “Absolutely ridiculous! Honestly, what is with the both of you?”

Sylvain’s ears perk up at that. He leans forward, just slightly. 

“Both of us?” he parrots. Well, it’s rather obvious who the other person in the equation is, but it never hurts to check. 

Sure enough, Ingrid rolls her eyes at him. 

“Felix,” she says, the unspoken idiot all too clear in her tone. “Who else would it be.”

“His Highness?” Sylvain tries. Ingrid levels him with a flat stare. 

“Are you ill?” she asks bluntly. “I swear, if you start calling him a boar as well…”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Sylvain raises his hands in surrender. “Never said anything about that.”

“Good,” says Ingrid. Almost absently, her eyes start sweeping the rest of the dining hall, her gaze travelling over the various heads and faces. “Really, if Felix had spread his… Oh, well then. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.”

“Huh?” Sylvain says, then whips around, twisting his body to follow her gaze where it has suddenly paused. He already knows what, or rather who, he’s going to see before he even sees them, but it doesn’t stop the instinctual grimace that tugs its way over his face at the sight of Felix. 

Felix, for his part, notices them, pauses, then proceeds to turn on his heel and start walking in the opposite direction.

“Felix!” Ingrid calls, waving her arm at him. Felix ignores her, continuing on his path. Ingrid shouts again, louder, “Felix!”

And when he still doesn’t respond, she then proceeds to vault over the table.

Sylvain jerks away, his cutlery clattering as he hurriedly saves his food from Ingrid’s path of destruction. Other students sitting at their table yelp and flinch back in shock and fear, as Ingrid bodily flings herself toward Felix. Food spills, the hall is abruptly filled with the sounds of metal hitting the ground, and Ingrid is dashing at Felix. 

“Goddess,” Sylvain winces, as Ingrid catches up to the poor man. He’s still pissed, sure, but even he can muster up some pity for Felix. “Ever heard of walking around an obstacle?” Sylvain asks her, when she forcefully drags Felix back to their table. He pointedly avoids looking at the last member of their little trio. 

“No,” Ingrid answers primly, shoving Felix down in the chair next to Sylvain. And as if to prove her point, she once again leaps the table, getting back to her original seat. She smooths down her skirt, and sits with grace, acting as though she hadn’t just caused utter chaos in their section of the dining hall. 

Goddess, Sylvain inwardly shudders, she’s terrifying. 

Felix sullenly sits beside them. He jabs a fork into his omelette, and then just stares at it for a few moments, unmoving. Like, who the fuck does that, thinks Sylvain, ignoring the fact that he himself has done that exact same thing before. 

“Okay you two,” Ingrid claps her hands together. Obediently, Sylvain and Felix look at her. “So. Something’s going on.”

Felix looks back down. Sylvain just groans. 

“Okay, first of all, do we really have to do this now,” Sylvain protests, actually annoyed. “And secondly, there’s nothing going on. Stop it.”

Ingrid glares at him. 

“Firstly,” she tells him, her tone saccharine sweet, “yes, we have to ‘do this’ now. Secondly, don’t ever try to lie to my face again.”

“I’m not lying,” lies Sylvain.

“See-- you’re doing it again!” Ingrid glares even harder. “Stop.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do. Contrary to popular belief, I know that you aren’t actually stupid, Sylvain,” Ingrid says. “Stop acting like it.”

“I’m the dumbest idiot at this monastery,” Sylvain tells her. “I’ve got a negative sum total of brain cells. Village idiots wish they were me.”

“Shut up. No you aren’t.”

“Yes, I am. I am the biggest moron--“

“Sylvain, shut the fuck up, I know you aren’t--“

“Can I leave now,” says Felix, sounding dead inside. Ingrid turns on him. 

“No you can’t,” she snaps. Felix looks at her, square in the eyes, and picks up his plate of food, as if making to leave. Ingrid instantly reaches over and drags his arms down, pinning them to the table as Felix’s wrists turn white around her tight grip. 

“You,” says Ingrid, slowly, threateningly, “are not leaving until I say so.”

“Tyrant,” Sylvain mutters under his breath. Ingrid still hears him though, and she turns back to him, eyes blazing. Sylvain avoids her gaze. 

“Maybe if the two of you weren’t so stupid,” she hisses. At that, Sylvain snorts. 

“Oh, so now I’m stupid?” he asks, cocking his head mockingly at her. “And here I thought that, you know, ‘contrary to popular belief--“

“These things are not mutually exclusive,” says Ingrid. 

“Aren’t they?”

“I hate the both of you,” interrupts Felix. “Just let me leave. What the hell.”

“Well, maybe if Sylvain would just stop being an obtuse asshole,” Ingrid scowls, “we could all admit our fucking failings, and go on our happy fucking way!”

Sylvain stares blankly at her for a moment, his mind processing her words. And then the anger surges up, and takes him over.

“Wow, okay,” he snaps. “Yeah, sure, thanks a lot Ingrid, lemme just list down the fifty million reasons why I’m a terrible Goddessdamned person and how I’m clearly going to Hell--“

“I didn’t say that, and you know it,” Ingrid glares at him. 

“Right, right, because saying it subtextually is sooo much better,” Sylvain rolls his eyes. Ingrid bares her teeth.

“There isn’t a subtext! Not everything has to be about you, you self-centered jackass!”

“Well if it’s not about me, then why are you making it about me?!” Sylvain yells. People are staring, blatantly, and damnit, His Highness is looking over at them with concern, but Goddess fucking shit, Sylvain is pissed. “Oh, Sylvain, you failure, tell the world just how much you suck! Fuck you.”

“Both of you need to shut the fuck up,” Felix growls, head in his hands and fingers locked in a tight grip in his own hair. “I swear to the Goddess, all this bullshit--“

“I didn’t say that!” Ingrid ignores him, steamrolling right over his words. She’s standing up now, glowering down at Sylvain. “I never said that!”

“Shut the fuck uuuup,” Felix groans, but his protests go ignored. 

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Sylvain sneers. “You’re the one always going on and on and on about how I need to think before I do anything, but here you are, acting like a hypocrite--“

“What are you even talking about?” Ingrid snarls. “Where the hell am I contradicting myself here? I said that you should talk about whatever the hell’s been bothering you, and then you started--“

“ I started it?” Sylvain laughs, high and helpless and furious. “Is your memory worse than a goldfish?” Ingrid's eyes go arctic, but Sylvain continues without a care. “You were the one talking shit about how I’m a failure and how I’m ruining all your neat little plans to force us into your stupid little get-along box--“

“I said that you had your failings that you have to admit, I didn’t fucking say that you’re a fucking failure, you Goddessdamned moron, these are two different things,” Ingrid argues. “The only one calling you a failure is your own damn self.”

“Life isn’t a technicality,” Sylvain scoffs. “Failings, failure, they’re all the same. Just admit that you think I’m a worthless good-for-nothing who will never, ever amount to anything good in his life--“

“How about you just admit that you’re just projecting all your insecurities onto me?” Ingrid snipes. “Please, like I’ve ever said any of those things-“

“--literally every single time I hit on a woman, but okay, sure, keep lying to make yourself feel better I guess--“

“--I’ve never!” Ingrid snaps. “When have I ever said that you’re a, a ‘worthless good-for-whatever the fuck’, I never said that--“

“You’re always implying it!” Sylvain shouts, glaring at her. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Felix mutters.

“I didn’t imply shit!” Ingrid shouts back at Sylvain.

“The fucking both of you need to shut the fuck up,” Felix hisses. His hands clenches slowly into a fist, around his fork. 

“Your tone, and your fucking words, and the way you always carry yourself around me--“

“--you, you, you!” Ingrid screams. “It’s not about you! Stop trying to--“

“Shut,” Felix slams his fist down, stabbing the fork through the table. Wood splinters, and Sylvain and Ingrid leap back at the audible crack that resounds through the dining hall. The Crest of Fraldarius runs glowing hot through Felix’s veins, as he snarls at the both of them, “the fuck up!”

Sylvain is silent, for a single, shocked moment, but then he makes the executive decision to ruin everything even more, because that’s just how his life goes, he supposes. 

“Oh, fuck off, Felix,” he snaps. 

“I’ve been trying to,” is Felix’s growled reply, “but apparently, no, I have to be here for your little pissing match. If the both of you want to broadcast to the world how fucked up you guys are, at least have the decency not to drag me into it.”

“Oh, so you want privacy for your dirty laundry, huh?” Sylvain says maliciously. He takes the plunge. “Don’t want people to hear when you say that I liked killing my fucking brother?”

Ingrid sucks in a sharp breath. Really, it feels like the entire dining hall sucks in a sharp breath at the mention of Miklan. 

That's right, Sylvain thinks, bitter and gleeful and dark. Be appalled. Be disgusted. 

Felix clenches his fists.

“That was a slip,” he grits out. 

“A slip?” Sylvain zeroes in on Felix’s words. “So you mean that you were thinking it?”

“Fuck you,” Felix bites out. “That wasn’t what I fucking meant. You have no fucking right to go off at Ingrid about how her wording doesn’t matter, then turn right back around and try to lambast me for--“

“Shut your mouth,” Sylvain hisses, a red haze overtaking any last sense of rationality he might have still had. “Are you actually trying to excuse yourself? Are you actually trying to tell me not to be pissed that you brought up how I killed my own brother, when you know damn well how terrible I felt about it?”

“I’m not--“

“You’d think,” says Sylvain, softly, mockingly, “you’d have experience with people talking about dead brothers, don’t you?”

Absolute silence. 

And then Felix throws his plate at Sylvain’s face. 

Once, when Sylvain was younger, he woke up feeling cold inside.

There hadn't been any particular reason for it. Yesterday had been a regular day. He'd teased Ingrid, she'd hit him over the head, he'd bothered Felix and Dimitri to varying degrees. He'd gone on a date. It was all the usual. 

Nonetheless, the next day, he’d woken up empty. It was weird. He felt so drained and mindless and wanting to feel something, but not able to muster up the energy.

It was something instinctual, what he did next. Something that his feet carried him to, his mouth spoke for him; his body acting and mind in a daze. 

He made his way around town. He went to the doors of every girlfriend he had at the time, every girl he'd taken on a date just recently. Every foolish, shallow girl, who fell for his winks and his charm and the crest beneath his skin. 

And then he told them how much he hated them.

Why he hated them. How he despised the way they so blatantly begged for the chance to marry into nobility, without a care for the nobles themselves. How he never, ever, wanted to see their faces again. 

By the end of it all, he was black and blue, bleeding and hurting everywhere. And when he limped back to the Gautier manor, Ingrid was there, having caught wind of the rumors already flying around mere hours after Sylvain had started on his little romp around.

He remembers it, still. How she opened her mouth, ready to yell at him, before she took a good look at him and balked. She had blanched. Her eyes were fixed on Sylvain's face.

Sylvain wonders just how much of that horror was due to the small, sincere smile he hadn't been aware that he was wearing at the time.

They don't talk about it. But Sylvain still remembers, clear as day. And sometimes, when he's awake in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, he bitterly, spitefully, hopes that Ingrid does as well. 

His face still stings, though Professor Manuela has already proclaimed all the cuts good and healed. She’d clucked her tongue at him and shook her head in disapproval (“Youth these days,” she lamented under her breath, while Sylvain could still hear her, loud and clear) but she healed him nonetheless. 

Lucky that that glass hadn’t hit anything important. Lucky that Felix hadn’t permanently fucked him over. 

Sylvain’s not even pissed, honestly. He just feels like nothing. Or, well, he feels like shit, actually, but what else is new. 

Ingrid tries to apologise to him, when he gets out of the infirmary. 

“Look, Sylvain,” she says, guilt written clearly all over her face. “I’m sorry. I was just...frustrated, that you weren’t letting me in. I truly didn’t mean for our argument to escalate to the level that it did--“

“Stop,” Sylvain tells her. Ingrid bites her lip, and wrings her hands. Goddess, Sylvain is so fucking tired. “It’s. It’s fine. Water under the bridge, and all that. We both were assholes. Whatever.”

Ingrid peers at him. 

“Are you--“ she starts, but Sylvain cuts her off. 

“Listen, I’m really not in the mood for talking right now. Could we just do this another day?” he says. It’s not a question, really, and Ingrid seems to sense that. She hunches in on herself, and nods.

“Y-Yeah,” she mutters. “...See you later.”

Sylvain doesn’t bother with his own goodbye, as he walks away.

He’s not sure where he’s going. Just that he’s walking, and he’s walking somewhere away from here. Wherever here is, even. It’s only when he hears the voices of Ashe and Felix, that he realises that he’s wandered all the way to the stables, where Ashe and Felix are currently on duty. 

“--think Sylvain is alright?” That’s Ashe. 

“I don’t care,” and that’s Felix. Obviously. Who else would talk about their friend, who they injured with their own two hands, with such blatant derision? ...Goddess, Sylvain can’t even muster up the energy to feel pissed about it. This sucks. 

“Felix!” Ashe’s voice takes on a scolding tone. “You can’t say that!”

“Why not,” Felix’s voice is flat. 

“Because he’s your friend?”

Felix doesn’t respond to that. A suffocating silence blankets them, tense and awkward. 

Sylvain can’t stand it. He walks out, and toward them. Ashe and Felix are standing outside the stables. Whether they’re taking a break, or they’re already finished with their tasks; Sylvain doesn’t know, and honestly, Sylvain doesn’t really care. 

“Harsh words,” he says, and Ashe jumps at his voice, whipping around to face him. Felix stiffens, but doesn’t react otherwise. Not that Sylvain expected anything else. He continues, voice uncharacteristically emotionless, “Especially considering the fact that you were the one who threw the plate in the first place.”

Felix turns, finally. His eyes are narrowed, and his mouth is set in a straight line, but he doesn’t broadcast anything other than that. 

“You deserved it,” he tells Sylvain bluntly. Beside him, Ashe shoots him a horrified look. 

“Felix!” he hisses, aghast. “You can’t--“

“Why. Not.”

“Because maybe you could have blinded me?” Sylvain casually drops in. He walks closer, feet treading on the dirt ground. Felix avoids his gaze. Ashe is staring at the both of them, eyes wide and stance hesitant. Sylvain continues, still in that strange, dead tone. “I was lucky that a glass shard didn’t go into my eye, you know.”

Felix swallows. 

“...Professor Manuela could have healed it,” he says, eventually. Sylvain stops, just in front of him, and looks Felix right in the face. 

“You don’t even believe that yourself, do you?” Sylvain says, softly, quietly.

Felix still isn’t looking at him. 

“...Asshole,” says Sylvain, without heat. He’s too exhausted to have any heat, really. Next to him, Ashe bites his lip, his gaze flicking frantically between the both of them. 

“Both of you--“ the boy starts, but cuts himself off. Sylvain turns to him, and Ashe takes a single, nervous step back.

“Both of us what?” Sylvain asks. If he tries hard enough, he can sound nearly curious. It’s a start, if nothing else. 

Sylvain knows how to lie, and lie well. Sometimes, though, he just doesn’t feel like it. 

Ashe takes another step back. 

“...Nothing,” he mutters. At that, Sylvain smiles, slow and wide. Ashe flinches, and even Felix looks unsettled. The latter makes something dark unfurl in the pit of Sylvain’s stomach, churning and stirring. 

Sylvain smiles wider. 

“Oh? Well, well, now you’ve caught my attention,” Sylvain says, a teasing tone barely tipping the balance to taunting. He takes a step forward, toward Ashe. “C’mon, spill.”

Felix is glaring, now. And that feeling in Sylvain’s gut just won’t go away. 

“It’s nothing,” Ashe repeats, stubbornly. Sylvain moves closer. 

“Whaaat ,” Sylvain drags the word out, as he leans in. Felix is frozen stiff, watching by the side. And Sylvain slings both his arms around Ashe’s shoulders, in a mockery of a hug and a facsimile of affection. “You’re not even going to tell me?”

Ashe is still. And then he takes a breath, and steps back, once more. Sylvain’s arms slip down from the boy’s shoulders, and back to his sides. 

Ashe looks Sylvain in the eye, and says with utmost finality, “No.”

Sylvain is silent, for a moment. He gazes at Ashe. 

“...Well, alright then,” he shrugs after a tense beat. “Fair enough.”

Felix is still unmoving, his gaze fixed on the both of them. And that, somehow, spurs Sylvain on, as he subconsciously, dazedly, reaches his arm out, back to Ashe. 

Ashe doesn't react, when Sylvain takes his hand in his own. When Sylvain laces their fingers together

(your index goes above here and your middle and ring fingers go down here)

and wonders, briefly, just what the hell he's doing. 

Ashe's hand is cold. Sylvain rubs a warm circle into his palm, with his thumb. Ashe looks up at him, and then to the side. 

Felix is watching them. He looks gutted.

This is not about Ashe, Sylvain realises. This is about Sylvain. This is about Felix drawing a line in the sand, and Sylvain crossing it, again, and again, and again once more. 

Without a word, Felix turns, and storms off. The silence left in his wake is deafening. 

"...Sylvain," Ashe breaks it, eventually. He doesn't sound upset. He doesn't sound angry. He sounds almost disappointed. "Why are you doing this?"

Sylvain doesn't have an answer for that.

(Sylvain feels terrible. 

Sylvain feels something.)

It's not the same, Sylvain tells himself. It can’t be the same.

Sylvain doesn't want to be that hopeless, cruel boy anymore. To turn on the fate that turned on him, and snarl, with bloody teeth and a bloody smile. It’s why he makes a conscious effort to help out those who seem to need a hand. How he’ll help an old man carry his bags across the sidewalk, will pick up a crying child who scraped their knee from falling. It makes him feel like he’s actually amounted to something. Like he’s actually good.

And yet. 

And yet. 

(It's always easier to tell yourself that you're trying to hurt someone else. Because if not, then the only person left would be--)

Sylvain doesn’t stop doing it. He drapes an overly friendly arm around Ashe, he leans in close and smiles. Every opportunity he gets, he takes, and takes, and takes, and he feels all the worse for it. 

Ashe bears it all with a dignity that Sylvain hadn’t expected from the younger boy. A polite smile here, a bland reply there, and if Sylvain were halfway serious about the whole endeavor, he might have even been a little heartbroken at Ashe’s handling of the situation. Not that Sylvain doesn’t back off when Ashe sets a limit, though. Even Sylvain isn’t deep enough into his own head for that.

As it is, Sylvain’s focused on another person entirely. And Felix, on the other hand, does not disappoint. 

It’s an uncommon sight, to see the heir of Fraldarius so agitated. But Sylvain seems to have a special kind of talent for it. 

He grits his teeth when Sylvain goes so close, his breath runs hot on Ashe's ear. Glowers at Sylvain when he presses his body against Ashe's. Most of all, Felix looks hurt when Sylvain meets his eyes, and smiles.

This is not about Ashe, they both know. 

It all comes to a head in the library. Ingrid has her head buried in a book in the corner, still pretending valiantly that she hasn't been surreptitiously following Sylvain around the academy like a kicked puppy. She peeks up, now and again, before frantically returning her gaze back down to her book. 

Joke's on her. Everyone knows. Even she knows that everyone knows, Sylvain figures. But hey. Sticking to one's guns is an admirable trait. ...At times. 

This, for Sylvain, is not one of those times. 

Sylvain is not so subtly draping himself all over Ashe, as Ashe tries his absolute best to ignore him and just continue minding his own business, reading his own book. Felix is not so subtly glaring at the both of them, sitting at the other end of the table. 

"--I mean, I don't know, I always felt like there was this extreme homoerotic tension between Loog and Kyphon, you know?" Sylvain is speaking, leaning his body on Ashe's shoulder. "I mean like, that line, you know, about being his sword and shield, and all the parts where they gaze into each other's eyes. Like, sexually."

"I don't recall any moments where they 'sexually' gaze into each other's eyes," says Ashe calmly. 

"It's all in the subtext," Sylvain tells him. "I mean, come on, when Kyphon is all like, 'Oh Loog, how could I ever live and breathe without you by my side, yadda yadda yadda let's fuck' and then they stare at each other for some prolonged seconds. You know."

"I don't remember that part either," Ashe says dryly. 

"Oh, I'll jog your memory, then," Sylvain tells him, brightly, and he tugs Ashe around to face him. Ashe just looks resigned, at this point. "Here. Come on. I know you know this scene."

Sylvain places both his hands on Ashe's shoulders, and meets his eyes. Out of sight, he can feel two sets of piercing eyes on him. 

"Ashe," Sylvain says, his voice going low, and Ashe shivers slightly. A quick, dying flicker of smugness runs through Sylvain at that. "Please, stand by me for the rest of my days. Without you, my life runs bleak and my time cut short. For your loyalty is what I prize and desire most, and I wish for nothing more."

Ashe swallows. But he plays along. 

"My liege," he says, head bowing just slightly, his eyes avoiding Sylvain's gaze. "T-To be able to stay by your side, 'til death greets me with a solemn goodbye, is a gift I shall cherish above all."

"Do not speak of your passing," Sylvain's hand slides to Ashe's chin, tipping his head up. Sylvain sees green. "Do not speak of your leaving. Let us live and relive this promise of eternity, and thus walk on without the thoughts of breaking it."

Ashe stares at him, wide-eyed, as Sylvain slowly, slowly inches forward--

And then a violent hand yanks him back, a nigh rabid growl accompanying it. Sylvain stifles his yelp of pain at the tight grip, tearing himself away forcefully and whipping around to face the owner of the hand. 

It's Felix, of course. Who else would it be. 

"Wow, okay, learn to chill, maybe?" Sylvain snarks. He can't stop the smile, though. The tiny, little grin that tilts his lips up in a farce of triumph.

He doesn't feel very triumphant, honestly. 

Felix's snarl turns uglier at the sight of it. 

"Oh shut up," he snaps. "We all know what you're trying to do here. Don't play innocent."

"What," Sylvain puts a hand on his hip as he straightens up. He looks down his nose at Felix. The ten centimetre height difference really comes in handy, at times. "I'm just hanging out with my good friend Ashe. Don't tell me you're trying to police my social life now."

"You know damn well what I mean," says Felix. "I can't fucking believe that after everything, you're still fucking around like this. Do you even care?"

"Why, Felix," Sylvain smiles, and Felix narrows uneasy eyes at him, "of course I care."

"Then act like it," Felix hisses, shoving Sylvain. Sylvain stumbles a few steps back, bumping his hip into the edge of the table. "You selfish, sadistic asshole--"

"Sadistic?" Sylvain questions, genuine for once. "You really think so?"

"Guys--" Ashe's protest is drowned out by Felix's aggressive response. 

"Yes," Felix says, as he crowds Sylvain further into the table. "You like hurting others. I don't know how I didn't realise until now--"

"Oh, I don't," Sylvain says, completely honestly. "It sucks."

"Then why?" Felix grabs his uniform collar. It's practically routine by now; Felix trying his darndest to strangle the life out of Sylvain. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Sylvain doesn't know what to say to that. Fortunately for him, though, Ashe does.

"You two, enough," Ashe cuts in firmly. He frowns at the both of them. "I don't know what's going on--"

"You're right," Felix turns on him, voice utterly cool. "You don't. So stay out of this."

Ashe meets his gaze without flinching. 

"I think," he says, neutrally, "that when the two of you are trying to use me in some weird spite contest, that I have the right--"

"Oh, so you knew all along, didn't you?" Felix sneers. "So it's your fault as well."

At that, Ashe reels back, looking like Felix had just slapped him in the face. 

"...My...fault?" the boy echoes, his tone incredulous. 

"Yes," Felix says. He takes a step forward. "You're part of the problem as well."

Sylvain blinks, belatedly registering the trainwreck in motion that's about to happen right in front of his eyes. 

"Felix--" he tries, reaching a hand out, but Felix slaps it aside without glancing at Sylvain. 

"If you knew," says Felix, irrational fury driving his words, "then you should have told him to stop. Is this some kind of fucking joke to you? Are you just playing some sick game?"

Felix takes another step forward.

"Go on about your knightly ideals all you like," he scoffs, "None of it matters if you don't care enough to actually act."

From this angle, from this vantage point, from this point of view; Sylvain gets to see, in perfect vision, as Ashe Ubert's control over his temper finally snaps in half. 

"Excuse me?" Ashe says, gaze going subzero as he abruptly takes a step toward Felix. His chest bumps against Felix's, and Felix backs away, evidently startled, his eyes wide. "Did you actually just say that?"

"I--" Felix tries to speak, clearly regretting his words almost immediately, but Ashe just barrels on. 

"Why is it my responsibility to clean up your messes?" Ashe snarls. His lips curl, ugly, his teeth gleaming white as he glowers at Felix. At Sylvain, as well. "When it's the two of you trying to drag me into this crap , that I never wanted and I never asked for!"

He turns on Sylvain, and Sylvain winces back at the anger in his eyes. 

"I'm not stupid," he says. "I know you were trying to push me and Felix together. You suck at matchmaking, by the way," he tacks on the last sentence, a quick afterthought.

"That's fair," Sylvain says weakly, his brain currently unfunctioning. 

"And I'll be honest, I don't know what it is you're going through now, or whatever is going through your mind, or if you even have some kind of reason for this, but I'm not tolerating this any further," Ashe snaps. "Back off."

Sylvain raises his hands in surrender. 

"Sorry," he apologises, and he actually means it. There's nothing quite like righteous fury from a midget to help wake one up from an episode. 

Hahaha. ...That's not very funny, actually. Not in context, at least.

(Well. It kinda is. But this is not the appropriate time, Sylvain tells himself.)

"And you!" Ashe whips around to face Felix, and Felix takes another step back. If it weren't Felix, Sylvain might even call it cowering. But it's Felix, so he just looks vaguely unsettled at worst. "You-- You--"

Ashe fumbles, for a few moments. 

"You're just a dick!" he blurts out. Sylvain blinks, mouth dropping open just slightly. Felix is not much better. "Learn to think before you open your mouth! I don't know if you're doing this on purpose, or what, but everything you say seems to be specifically engineered to make the most amount of people the angriest they can get."

"I don't care how annoyed or hurt or frustrated you are," Ashe's voice goes low, as he approaches Felix, steps echoing in the library around them, "or how kind you may actually be beneath your exterior, or if you secretly have good intentions or whatever! Don't you ever speak to me like that again."

He stops, right in front of Felix.

"Because it hurts," he finishes. Judging by way Felix physically recoils, his eyes going wide, this is the worst possible thing Ashe could have said to him. 

Ashe, finally, moves back. For a beat, the library is silent. 

"...I'm not going to be your doormat anymore," Ashe breaks it, his voice back to its usual soft cadence. "Until the both of you have sorted out your issues, don't even try to approach me."

With those parting words, Ashe turns, and takes his leave. 

Felix and Sylvain stand, shocked still and speechless. From her forgotten corner of the library, Ingrid sighs loudly, standing as she rolls up her sleeves. 

"Right," she says, "so we need to talk."

Chapter Text

Felix is not very sure how it ended up like this. 

Well. That's a lie. Felix knows very well. He was there for all of it. But Felix isn't sure how it ended up like this; him and Sylvain sitting side by side at the library table, while Ingrid takes the seat across from them, a deadly serious expression on her face. 

There's a very awkward silence permeating the air. Sylvain is staring down at the table, hair flopping over his face and hiding his eyes. Which, fine. Felix didn’t want to see them anyway. Fucker. 

Felix, for his part, crosses his arms, and meets Ingrid’s gaze straight on. She purses her lips. His mouth remains stubbornly closed, despite Ingrid’s obvious displeasure. 

Like hell Felix is going to be the one to give in first.

Eventually, Ingrid sighs, leaning forward with her elbows braced on the table. 

“Fine,” she breaks the silence, voice dull. “I’ll start.”

She pauses, for another second, giving them a chance to speak. As if Felix is going to suddenly jump in to save the day. As if Sylvain’s going to ever look up from the table. 

Wisely, Ingrid gives it up as a lost cause. 

“Okay, look,” she says. And sighs again, hanging her head. “I’m sorry.”

Felix blinks. Sylvain looks up. 

“Why are you apologising?” Felix can’t help but blurt out, genuinely befuddled. Ingrid grimaces. 

“I know I haven’t been handling this the best I could…”

“It’s not actually your job, you know,” says Sylvain. He’s gazing at Ingrid, now, an unreadable expression on his face. “You’re not, like, legally obligated to put up with our bullshit. Just leave if you want to.”

Ingrid’s brows furrow, and the look she gives Sylvain is almost hurt.

“How could you possibly even think that?” she asks. “Of course I can’t leave, Sylvain.”

“You should,” Felix tells her coldly. His mouth moves without permission, but still, Felix thinks, this is something he would have said even if he were in control. “You’re not enjoying this. I’m not enjoying this. Hell, the moron isn’t enjoying this. Just let it go, already. Clearly, we aren’t meant to continue sticking around each other. I'm done, even if you aren't."

Ingrid sucks in a sharp breath. Sylvain is examining the wood grains on the table, again. 

“Don’t say that, Felix,” Ingrid’s voice comes out as a whisper. “Please.”

“I don’t see what the problem is,” Felix continues bluntly. “I can train without any interruptions. Sylvain can go flirt with all the girls he likes without a care. You can get some peace and quiet in your life. Sounds fine to me.”

“You don’t think that, Felix,” Ingrid says. Her hands curl into fists. “I know you don’t.”

“Don’t act so presumptuous as to tell me what I’m thinking,” Felix snaps. “I’m just saying--“

“Why are you such an asshole?” Sylvain asks, suddenly. 

Felix’s words stop in his throat. He turns, and finally, looks at Sylvain directly. Sylvain’s still staring down, avoiding both Felix and Ingrid’s eyes. His hands are gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles white. 

“...That’s ironic, coming from you,” Felix responds cooly, when it doesn’t seem like Sylvain is going to follow up on that. “Or have you miraculously forgotten the events of the past few days?”

Sylvain lets out a short, mirthless laugh. 

“Oh,” he says, and when he tips his head up and returns Felix’s gaze, Felix has to resist the urge to flinch. It’s that terrible, fake smile again. The one Sylvain always plasters on around the worst of the girls he dates. The one that Sylvain had worn for days, after the incident with Miklan and the Lance of Ruin. “Believe me,” Sylvain continues, his voice casual and all wrong, “I haven’t forgotten.”

His lips tip into a frown, far more genuine than the grin he was just wearing. At that, Felix’s hackles lower. 

It’s not that Felix prefers seeing Sylvain with a scowl. It’s just that Felix has never been one for liars.

“Listen, Felix,” Sylvain says, and he sounds serious. Not dead, or flat, or so utterly dissociated like he’s been lately. That, at the very least, is a step up. “I know I’ve been a total dick as of late. I don’t have an excuse for it. I’m just… I’m sorry. I’ve invaded your privacy, and I’ve disrespected your boundaries, and just-- ...I’m sorry, man. There’s nothing else I can say to make it better. I’m just really fucking sorry.”

Felix closes his eyes. 

There are a myriad of things Felix can say in response to that, he knows. I forgive you. I hate you. It’s alright. It’s not. Let’s talk this over. Never look at me again. 

He breathes in. He breathes out. Counts to ten. 

“...Do you really think a simple apology is going to make up for everything,” Felix grits out, after a long beat. Ingrid sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Felix--“ she starts, but Felix ignores her. 

“Do you expect me to feel bad for you, or something?” Felix can feel a hysterical laugh building up in his throat. He pushes it down, because if he lets it out, he thinks, he’ll laugh and laugh and he won’t stop until he cries. 

Felix doesn’t want to cry. Not here. Not in front of them. 

“Why is it,” Felix says, in the dead silence of the library, “that you always have to wait until after you’ve fucked everything up to admit that you did? Why do you always have to piss me off until I yell at you, and then I’m the one crawling to your doorstep and grovelling? Why can’t you ever apologise first? Why can’t you fucking stop when I fucking tell you to?”

“Fine,” Felix snaps, when Sylvain opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something. Felix doesn’t want to hear it. Felix doesn’t want to listen to Sylvain’s excuses. Because he fears that if he does, he’s never going to be able to say this. Because Felix is scared that Sylvain is going to talk, and Felix is going to listen, and Felix is going to listen, and Felix is going to listen--

“I’ll admit,” Felix says tonelessly. “What I said about Miklan. That was out of line. I apologise for that. I shouldn’t have said it. And the plate. That was...genuinely terrible. Fine.”

Felix’s hands curl into fists, in his lap and safely hidden under the table. 

“But,” he bites out, “that doesn’t mean I’m just going to accept it when you say you’re sorry for everything you did. You’re always like this. You never fucking listen when others talk to you.”

Sylvain is silent. 

“...I’m listening now,” he says, quietly. 

“You weren’t before.”

Sylvain doesn’t have a response to that. 

“Felix,” Ingrid says, after the silence drags on for too long, “I know you’re upset--“

“What clued you in?” Felix asks, sarcasm heavy in his tone. 

“--but this isn’t helping matters,” Ingrid finishes calmly. 

How is it not helping? Felix wants to scream. I’m fucking saying it all for you to hear. Isn't this what you wanted? For me to talk?

I’m talking now. Listen to me. 

But Felix doesn’t say that. Felix just grunts, instead. Crosses his arms, and looks away. And when he hears Ingrid sigh, he almost gets up then and there to leave. 

Felix stays.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid directs her attention to the other boy. Of course she does. She doesn’t see the ghost of a ghost in him, after all. “Say something.”

Sylvain laughs, mirthless. 

“What do you want me to say?” He asks. “I’ve fucked it all up beyond repair, clearly.”

“Clearly,” Felix snaps, but Ingrid is shaking her head. 

“Stop it, the both of you,” she pleads. “Can’t we just get through one conversation without fighting? Please. For me. For us.”

It’s funny, Felix thinks, numbly, how it’s always for something else. For something greater. For Faerghus, for the boar, for Glenn, for this farce of a friendship that they all keep clinging onto because it's the last thing they have left.

It’s never about him. It’s never about the individual. It’s never for the people who sob and scream and those who just want to be selfish, for once in their fucking life. To enjoy one damn thing, all to themselves, without meddling and without prying and without Felix's stupid, stupid past coming back to ruin everything--

Felix stays. 

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says, with a shuddering breath. “I know there's something going on with you. Please...can’t you just tell us what's wrong?”

Sylvain is silent, for a moment. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he answers eventually, and in any other situation, Felix would mock him for such an obvious lie. Now, though, Felix doesn’t feel like saying much at all. “It's my own fault, anyway--“

“Stop lying,” Ingrid cuts him off. She glares at him, and Felix can see how her nails sink indents into her palms. “Stop fucking lying. I hate it when you lie. Stop it.”

“Oh, so you just hate him all the time,” Felix can’t resist muttering under his breath. Sylvain snorts, and Ingrid pointedly ignores him. 

“Aren't we your friends?” Ingrid asks, her glare turning pained. “Can’t you trust us?”

“...I don't know what you want me to say,” Sylvain says eventually, his shoulders slumping, sounding defeated. “Sorry,” he starts, a self-deprecating mockery. “I feel like shit, so forgive me for fucking everything up? What do you want me to say, Ingrid? I’ll say it, so just tell me.”

“That’s not--” Ingrid shakes her head, and she takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to hear your apologies,” she says. “I want you to talk to me.”

Sylvain looks at her, for a long, long moment. 

“I don’t know what to talk about,” he says dully, after a pause. 

“Yourself,” says Ingrid. There is blood on her palms. “Why you keep doing this. I don’t fucking know, Sylvain, that’s why I’m asking you to talk.”

Felix refuses to look at either of them. He stares down, instead, at the hands curled in his lap and the creases in his uniform. 

"...I don't like hurting people, you know," says Sylvain. He sounds distant. Detached, once more. Felix hates it, and hates the way he hates it. "But I'm not sure that I know how to stop."

“That’s fine,” Ingrid says, and the desperation in her voice makes Felix want to puke. “That’s fine, Sylvain, so just let us help you--“

“Don’t include me in this farce,” Felix doesn’t realise he’s speaking, until the words are already out of his mouth. Hanging in the air, and stunning Ingrid silent. Felix is not one to leave things half-done, so he continues, “I told you. I’m done.”

“Felix…” Ingrid starts, but Felix ignores her. Cuts her speech short, because if he hears her speak again in that heartbroken tone of hers--

“Newsflash, asshole,” he snaps at Sylvain. Sylvain just looks back at him blankly. “Behave like one for too long, and no one will want to put up with your shit,” Felix snarls. Sylvain is still staring, blank and unsurprised. And that just pisses Felix off. 

“It doesn't matter what reasons you have for it,” Felix tells him coldly. “Why the hell should I bother with you if all I do is get burned by it?” He takes a breath, and repeats himself, spitting the words out. “I’m done.”

There's a long beat of silence. 

“...So,” Sylvain says, finally. His voice is small and weak. Tired and fraying at the seams. “This is the end, huh? All those years of friendship down the drain.”

“That’s right,” Felix says. His voice is flat. He feels numb. “...Goodbye, Sylvain.”

“Felix, please--“ Ingrid blurts out, one last-ditch attempt, but Felix is shoving his chair back and standing up. His legs feel weak. His vision blurs. Felix turns around, and refuses to look back. 

There's a hitching breath behind him. Felix takes a step forward. 

Don't stop. 

Ingrid's voice cracks wordlessly. 

Don't look back. 

A shuddering sob. 

Don't look back. Don't go back. Or you'll stay, again, and again--

The last thing Felix hears before the library doors slam shut behind him are Sylvain's devastated words, "Oh, Ingrid, please, don't cry…"

Felix is thirteen when his father tells him that Glenn died for a reason. 

“He died for our kingdom, Felix,” Rodrigue’s eyes bore into him, disappointed and disapproving and sad. “Can’t you at least respect that?”

“But why?” Felix asks, voice cracking and hitching. At this time, he is childish and naive and unknowing of the ways of the world. “Why did he have to die? I want Glenn back.”

“Felix,” says Rodrigue, and he places a heavy hand on Felix’s head. “Sometimes, we have to make a sacrifice for the greater good. Prince Dimitri is alive, isn’t he? Isn’t that cause enough?”

Three things Felix understands, in that moment:

One: Not all lives are created equal. Would Glenn have died for a lesser man, Felix is unsure if Rodrigue would have said the same thing. 

Two: His father will always put the needs of Faerghus over the needs of his child. Rodrigue is a good knight. Rodrigue is a good friend. Rodrigue is a good man. Rodrigue, fundamentally, is not a good father. 

Three: In the grand scheme of things, Felix is ultimately unimportant. Felix doesn’t matter. When Felix speaks, he is asked to be kind. When Felix is kind, he is asked to look at the bigger picture. There is no way of winning, and so Felix should just keep his mouth shut. Unwanted are his opinions, and unneeded are his feelings. So long as Felix is quiet and gives up sacrifice after sacrifice, he will be lauded as a noble man when he is eventually lowered into his grave. 

These are revelations that follow him long afterward, into the academy, and into his friendships, and into Felix himself. There is a prideful rebellion in the way that Felix denies them; he speaks out of line. He makes his own choices. He prioritises his own wants, and he refuses to compromise on them.

He never, ever, lets anyone look at him and see someone else. See something to fit into their ideal little box of reality. 

Felix makes sure to keep all of this in mind, when Ingrid prattles on about the past, and Sylvain never speaks of the future. They are the thoughts that rattle around Felix’s head, when Ingrid is crying and Sylvain is silent and everything is falling apart around them. 

This is how Felix knows that he isn’t making a mistake; this is not a censorship of Felix’s beliefs and Felix’s words — Felix is not sacrificing himself, in the end. In that sense, Felix is adhering to what he thinks is right; the unwillingness to surrender, the courage to bare your fangs, and the wisdom to know when to step back, to recede for the better of yourself. These are selfish things, he knows. 

Yet Felix is not a selfless man.

In the days that pass after Felix declares their history good and gone, nothing much happens. Classes go on. Clouds roll gently in the blue skies above them. People talk in the hallways and laugh during lunch. There is a sense of normalcy in their surroundings, and if Felix tries hard enough, he can pretend that nothing has changed. 

But Felix dislikes lying, and most of all to himself. Everything has changed. For better or for worse, is what still remains unsure. 

There’s a certain awkwardness in the air during class, nowadays. It’s only to be expected, though, given that it’s the one time of day wherein Sylvain, Ingrid, Ashe, and Felix himself are all forced into a single room with one another. 

Ashe still refuses to talk to them. Felix can respect that, at the very least. There’s a stabbing pain in his chest when he thinks about it, but-- no. Felix shouldn’t dwell on such matters.

It’s the upset glances that Ingrid throws him, and how Sylvain idly spins his quill with a far-off, blank gaze, that truly set Felix off. Felix has made his decision. His pride, if nothing else, won’t allow him to back down. 

The second the bell tolls, and Professor Byleth dismisses them, Felix is up and striding out of the classroom. He pays no heed to the way Ingrid almost chases after him, or how Sylvain still spins his pen, unmoving. Felix isolates himself in training and swords, and when anyone gives a sign of trying to approach him, he bares his teeth and scares them off. 

As thus the days continue on. 

This semi-idyllic peace cannot last forever, Felix knows. As with all good things, it must come to an end. The snapping of a string, the blade through the tension. Sooner or later this worn theatre will come crashing down on their heads, once again. 

And so Felix is unsurprised when Ingrid corners him in a secluded hallway, near the training grounds. Annoyed, and disgruntled, and bitter, yes, but unsurprised all the same. 

“Felix,” Ingrid gasps out, her breath coming short and quick. She grabs Felix’s wrist, before he can make an undignified break for it. “We need to talk.”

“You’re a cunt,” is Felix’s prompt response. 

Ingrid twists his wrist. Felix restrains himself from letting out a pained yelp.

“Don’t be fucking rude,” says Ingrid. “I’ve been trying to speak to you forever, you ass, so stop avoiding me.”

“I’ve said all that there needs to be said,” Felix yanks his arm out from Ingrid’s grip, and tries his best to ignore the grimace that flashes over her face, hurt and lightning-quick. “I’m done. Stop talking to me.”

“We are not done, Felix,” Ingrid glares, putting her hands on her hips. “It’s not up to you to decide when it’s over. Friendship is a two-way street.”

“Exactly,” Felix snorts. “It’s a two-way street. And I’m not invested. So go away, already.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, then, you don’t seem to be very good at saying what you mean, don’t you?” Felix asks snidely. Ingrid flinches. “Tell me,” Felix presses on, because he wants to make his point clear. “Has Sylvain accepted your apologies, yet?”

“Don’t-- this isn’t about him, Felix,” Ingrid bites back. “Don’t bring him up.”

“How about you stop lying to yourself?” Felix turns away. He can’t stand looking at the expression on Ingrid’s face any second longer. “You’re just here so that you can try to convince me to hold his fucking hand and sing kumbaya. I’m not going to. Stop deluding yourself.”

“...I will not deny,” Ingrid pauses, and Felix can picture her face in his head; scrunched up like she’d just bit into a lemon, biting her lip as she goes against her pride. It is an unfortunate fact of life that when you spend long enough with somebody, you develop a feel for their personality. That is the way they speak and the way they act and thusly Felix is unsurprised by her following words. “That I would prefer if you and Sylvain could make up again, yes. But that is not my primary motive for coming here.”

“Get to the point, then,” Felix barks. “And after we’re done here, leave me alone.”

“You’ll grant me this time, then?”

“Shut up and talk.”

“Shut up and talk?” Ingrid echoes. There is a ghost of a smile playing over her lips, and Felix is not looking back, but he can see it anyway. Hear it, anyway. “So, which is it?”

“Don’t think that just because my main issues are with Sylvain, that my words don’t also apply to you,” Felix shuts her down. “I’m done with this charade. Tell me what you want to say, then get out.”

Ingrid is silent for a beat. Then she sighs, deep and heavy. Guilt stabs Felix’s heart for a single, short moment, but he rips it out with his bloodstained fingernails and refuses to tolerate it any further.

Human emotions are a fickle thing. Logically, Felix knows that should he lock away his sense of self and crawl knocking to Sylvain’s door, he will only hate himself all the more for it. Yet still there is a tiny part of him, deep down inside, that screams for Felix to take it all back. To stifle his own voice and say, it's alright, I was wrong, and let bygones be bygones 'til everything goes to shit, and the stage falls out from beneath their feet, once again. 

And this is the same part of him that wonders what would have changed should Glenn have lived. And this is the same part of him that Felix has experience with tuning out; the volume muted, his ears covered. 

"...I don't know why you're so set on pushing us away, Felix," Ingrid says, eventually, sounding exhausted. 

"I don't know what's so hard to understand," Felix says caustically. "Spending time with the both of you sucks. Every conversation I have with you makes me want to scream. So I'm done with it. That's all."

"...Do you really hate us that much?" Ingrid asks miserably. 

"I don't hate you," says Felix, after a pause. "I just think you shouldn't force something that isn't there. The past is in the past, Ingrid."

"I don't want it to end like this, Felix."

"And you think I do?"

At that, Ingrid laughs, bitter and almost angry.

"If you don't want it to end," she asks, and there’s spite threaded through her voice, "then don't let it end. Goddess, are you even listening to yourself? Why are you always running away?"

"I'm not running away," Felix scowls. "I'm not fucking obligated to be your friend. I'm making a conscious fucking decision--"

"It's a stupid decision," Ingrid tells him bluntly. At that, Felix finally whirls around, a violent snarl painting his lips. 

"And who are you to decide that?" he snaps. "Fucking hell, this is exactly what I'm talking about!"

Ingrid flinches back, eyes wide. 

"I said I'm done, so I'm fucking done! If you have even the slightest modicum of respect for me, then back off!" Felix yells. 

Ingrid stares at him. She looks very, very small, all of a sudden. 

Felix wants to turn away. Felix wants to throw up. Felix doesn't, because he has to make a fucking point.

"...I just want us to be friends again like we used to, Felix," Ingrid says, her voice tiny and feeble. She looks down. Her bangs fall over her face.

"...Why does this have to be so hard?" she whispers. Felix watches her, a detached sort of panic welling up in his throat. 

"If you cry again," he says, numbly, "I'm going to actually kill you."

"I'm not going to fucking cry," Ingrid chokes out. "...Asshole."

Felix eyes her warily. 

"I swear to-- I'm not going to cry!" Ingrid snaps. "And even if I did, why the hell should you care, anyway? Didn't you say that you were done? Jerk."

"It's unfortunate," Felix snarks, "but emotions are illogical, sometimes."

"I didn't realise you had emotions," Ingrid mutters, not even hesitating before taking the opportunity presented to her on a platter.

"Fuck you."

Ingrid lets out a wet sort of laugh.

They stand there, in silence, Felix with his arms crossed and trying not to look away from Ingrid, her head still bowed and her teeth gritted. 

“...I don’t want to let you go,” Ingrid is the one to break the silence, with a quiet whisper. “Can’t we still fix this? Why can’t we just get better together?” she asks desperately, her voice getting louder. “Tell me what’s gone wrong, Felix. Just-- tell me, and I’ll fix it, so--“

“What’s gone wrong,” says Felix, and it’s now that his gaze breaks away, unable to stomach looking at Ingrid any longer, “is that I don’t think I can believe either of you anymore when you say that.”

The sudden rift between the three of them is not something that goes unnoticed by the other students. By now, their giant argument in the dining hall is common knowledge. That, together with their latest drama, spawns a whole new wave of rumors that run rampant throughout the monastery. Felix’s personal favorite one is the theory that they’re caught up in a messy love triangle, because it’s so ridiculous and far from the truth, that Felix can’t help but laugh. 

It’s the first time he’s properly laughed in a while, actually. 

True to his word, Felix is done. He goes to the training ground. He has the occasional spar. He eats alone (Most of the time, at least. There are occasions where he finds himself sitting with Annette and Mercedes, and wondering just how the hell he’d ended up there). He studies by himself, and he walks by himself, and really, he does most things by himself. 

It’s funny. Felix has always thought himself to be a lone wolf, but he hadn’t realised just how much Ingrid and Sylvain had invaded his time until they’re both gone. 

The issue of the matter here is that Felix does miss them, at times. He sees a book on knights, and half-expects Ingrid to start talking his ear off about chivalry. He sees a girl sitting by her lonesome, and Felix recalls the time Sylvain had dated and dumped her in the span of a week. 

Felix has spent such a long time with Ingrid and Sylvain, that at this point, there is nothing in his life that he cannot associate with them. 

It’s akin to a scab that gets picked, again and again, and again. Felix cannot forcefully sever the connection his mind automatically makes between a cup of tea and Sylvain, not can he refrain from thinking about Ingrid when he sees a woman knight with a lance in hand. 

Each reminder only makes Felix sick to his stomach. When he thinks of Ingrid, he thinks of her tears, her desperation, and how she keeps trying to make them fit into the neat little boxes that they’ve all outgrown. When he thinks of Sylvain, he thinks of that fake smile, and those awful words, and how he had looked so resigned when he said, “So, this is the end, huh?”

It is not a refusal, at this point, to rekindle their friendship. It is a bitter ache and a savage hurt, and Felix cannot stand to look at them. 

Yet still.

Fresh wounds will eventually heal, and some will scar over. It is in a moment of weakness that Felix admits to himself that their drawing back together, like moths to a burning flame, is an inevitable conclusion. 

The fundamental root of the problem is that they all love each other a little too much to ever truly fall apart. And no matter how much Felix snarls and snaps, and how much Ingrid yells and lectures, and however much Sylvain flirts and winks and lies; this is the result of all their arguments: time passes, they pretend to forget and they never bring it up again. The vicious cycle repeats. 

This is not forgiveness. This is not a reconstruction. They all keep taking and taking from one another and they never stop. Felix loses his trust, and Sylvain loses his honesty, and Ingrid loses her friends.

Yet still. 

Felix sits on his bed at night, and hopes against all odds that this time will be the one to break the cycle; the snap of the olive branch and a final goodbye. 

(Growing up, Felix has never quite been able to imagine a future without Ingrid and Sylvain somehow involved in it. This, even now, still holds true.)

It’s late by the time Felix exits the training grounds. This is not a new thing. In the weeks that have passed since The Library Incident, Felix’s schedule has gotten royally fucked up. 

Without the constraints of people around him, forcing him into a normal routine with a normal timing, Felix barely leaves the training grounds. Before, it had always been Sylvain or Ingrid dragging him away from his sword, reminding him to eat at regular intervals, scolding him whenever he pushes himself too far. 

Of course, they don’t do that now. Felix spends hours straight practicing his footwork and the way he swings his blade, and it’s only when the sky turns dark, and the grounds are deserted, that Felix realises he hasn’t eaten since the morning before classes started.

It’s ironic. In excising the blighted friendship that only serves to make Felix sick, Felix has also removed his own main support. 

See? Felix wants to laugh, ugly and bitter. I don’t need you to hurt me. I can do it all by my damn self. 

The hallways are empty when Felix walks back to the dorms. It’s pushing midnight, and all the good little students should be in their beds with their lights off, adhering to the school’s curfew and acknowledging their early classes the next morning. 

Of course, almost nobody in this school is a good little student. Even now, there’s most likely students in the library, students in town, students sneaking out under the cover of darkness to do things they can’t in the light. Students crawling back to their room after hours and hours of training without a break in between. 

If Sylvain were here, Felix thinks, and he were the regular Sylvain. Not the one that has a fake smile plastered all over his face, even as he flirts with yet another girl as Felix watches with disgust and thinks I was right not to trust him to change. If Sylvain were here, he’d ruffle Felix’s hair and tease him for not spending his night at least with a girl on your own, c’mon, Felix. 

If Ingrid were here, Felix thinks, and she were the regular Ingrid. Not the one that keeps her head down, and whirls her lance with a ferocity that can only stem from a hurt anger, and who doesn't look at Sylvain nor Felix. If Ingrid were here, she'd smack Felix over his head, and she'd take him by the wrist and shove him down into a chair in the dining hall. 

They aren't, though. Sometimes, in Felix's bleakest moments, he wonders if they're with Dimitri. Buried six feet under in an unmarked tomb, with an empty coffin and an empty grave. 

The worst part is that he knows they aren't. This is still Sylvain, and this is still Ingrid. This is who they've grown to become. 

So Felix is alone.

This radio silence, he dimly muses, has lasted an oddly long time compared to the ones previous. For a moment, Felix allows himself to consider the possibility that this is truly the end. Despite his vehement declarations, there had always been a part of him, deep down, that didn't think it to be true. And yet, here Felix is. 

Somehow, that thought doesn’t make him happy. Nor does it make him devastated. It’s an empty, bitter feeling that permeates Felix’s body, the type of melancholy that exists in the darkest hours of the morning, when one stares at a candle as it burns down to nothing and thinks, oh, so time is passing.

And, so time is passing. Felix makes the journey back to his room in a daze. He barely registers it when he pushes his own door open, hears the click of it swinging, and wonders for brief, confused moment why it's unlocked. 

This thought does not last for long. 

Felix stops straight in his tracks. He blinks, dumbfounded, as he stands stock still in his own doorway. In his own room. 

Ashe Ubert is sitting at his desk. 

What. The. Fuck, thinks Felix.

“Hi, Felix,” says Ashe, cheerfully, like they’re having a normal conversation. Felix opens his mouth. Closes it. Eyes Ashe. Takes a step in, and shuts the door behind him. 

“Did you break in,” asks Felix flatly, once he’s certain that their voices won’t travel out to the hallway. 

“I picked the lock,” replies Ashe promptly.

It’s not a secret that Ashe can pick locks. It’s an ability that their professor loves to abuse, really, sending Ashe off during missions to pilfer chests of gold and open doors to reveal further paths in. There had been a week or two where von Riegan had actually tried to lure Ashe over to the Golden Deer simply for this particular talent, but the man had given it up as a lost cause after being sent enough dirty looks by the rest of them. 

So, it’s not something that Ashe tries to hide. But neither is it something Ashe flaunts so openly, nor behaves so unrepentantly about. Usually, the boy ducks his head, flustered, whenever anyone tries to even bring it up. Now, though. 

Now Ashe is staring Felix straight in the face, as he sits uninvited in Felix’s own chair, inside Felix’s own room, after admitting to picking the lock and breaking in. And he’s smiling. As if everything is as usual. 

What the fuck, thinks Felix, again. 

“Are you alright?” Ashe asks, cocking his head and breaking Felix out of his stupor. “Oh,” Ashe claps his hands together. “I made some tea, actually. I hope you don’t mind.”

Well, Felix snarks mentally. You say that, but you’ve already done it. It’s too late now. 

But Felix can’t quite manage the words, so he just nods, instead. He’s still in a state of shock, and he has the nagging feeling that Ashe is not about to put up with any of Felix’s shit, tonight. Which, really, isn’t helping Felix’s confusion very much. 

Ashe pulls out the second chair at Felix’s desk (he still remembers how Sylvain had bitched and bitched until Felix capitulated and got it) and gestures to it, in an unspoken invitation for Felix to sit. In his own chair. In his own room.

Still. Felix sits without a word, settling down beside Ashe. Partially because his mind is still struggling to comprehend the situation at hand, partially because he’s been rendered genuinely speechless. 

Ashe slides a teacup in front of him. Obediently, Felix takes a sip from it. 

“...This is Almyran Pine Needles,” says Felix after a pause. He sets the teacup down. 

“Oh, yes,” Ashe nods enthusiastically. “His Highness was kind enough to inform me which type of tea you enjoyed! So I went and got the tea leaves from Professor Byleth. They have a rather incredible variety of tea leaves, you know, it’s actually quite impressive--“

“Ashe,” Felix forces the words out, and cutting the other boy off mid-sentence. He swallows. “Why are you here.”

Ashe goes quiet, at that. In the brief moment of silence between them, he takes a sip of tea from his own cup. 

“Why?” Ashe asks, eventually. The cup hits the saucer with a tiny clink. “Do I need a reason to talk with you?”

“You broke into my room,” repeats Felix, still in disbelief over that fact. 

“Well,” says Ashe, calmly, “It was the easiest way.”

“To talk to me?” Felix blurts out. “Really. The easiest way to start a conversation with someone is to break into their room. Really.”

“We’re talking now, aren’t we?” Ashe points out. “As far as I know, you’ve barely spoken to anyone lately. So the fact that you’re here, and talking now… Well, that means my method worked, didn’t it?”

Felix opens his mouth. Closes his mouth. 

Technically, he begrudgingly admits to himself, Ashe is sort of right. Technically. 

Like hell he’s going to say that out loud, though. 

“That still doesn’t excuse the fact that you broke into my fucking room, Ubert, what the fuck,” flounders Felix. “...And you made tea! With my water!” The second those words come out of his mouth, Felix wants to smack himself. Really? Water? That’s what Felix chooses to complain about?

Pathetic, he berates himself. 

“Sorry,” says Ashe, not sounding sorry in the slightest. 

“Sorry doesn’t--! Ugh,” Felix groans, his hand meeting his forehead, and then dragging slowly down his face. “Nevermind. Just-- just. Nevermind. Fucking hell. Why are you here,” he repeats his earlier question, voice muffled by his palm.

Ashe hums, lightly. 

“I think,” he says, “we need to have a talk that’s long overdue.”

Felix’s mouth goes dry. 

“Why now,” he gets out, anyway. “You’ve seemed perfectly happy not speaking to me before.”

This is the truth, plain and simple. Felix may have imposed an accidental isolation on himself these past few weeks, but he’s not a blind man. Ashe, so far, has seemed utterly untroubled by the drama that’s been plaguing Felix, Sylvan, and Ingrid. He studies with Annette, he cooks and gardens with Dedue; Felix has spotted him on occasion with the princess of Brigid and the second son of Bergliez. Overall, Ashe seems to be acting utterly normal, other than the fact that he’s completely cut Felix’s fucked up little trio out of his life. 

Well. That he had completely cut them out, at least. Considering the fact that Ashe is in his room, serving Felix tea, is probably a sign that that stage of their relationship is over. 

“To tell the truth,” Ashe replies, and he looks down at his lap, “I’ve been struggling with what to say for quite a while now. I was angry, at first.”

“I’ve realised,” says Felix dryly. Ashe grimaces.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Felix blinks. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper back then. It was rather thoughtless of me. I...like to think that I have good self-control, but I suppose...well.”

“Don’t apologise,” Felix finds himself saying. “You didn’t say anything but the truth, anyway. ...You shouldn’t feel bad for standing up for yourself and calling people out. ...That’s just what I think, anyway.”

”That’s nice of you to say,” Ashe demurs, and he hides what almost seems like an amused grin behind his teacup. Felix narrows his eyes. “In any case,” says Ashe, distracting Felix from trying to dissect Ashe’s face. “It was still quite rude of me to yell like that. So I’m sorry.”

“...Whatever,” Felix grunts, crossing his arms and looking away. “It’s fine. You were right. I was being a dick. ...Sorry.”

“O-Oh,” Ashe looks back up. He seems startled.

“What,” Felix snaps, feeling a traitorous heat flood his cheeks. Unwillingly, his gaze moves back onto Ashe. 

“Ah, well, nothing. Or, well, I suppose I’m simply surprised that you apologised so quickly--“

“I can tell when I’ve made a mistake,” Felix bites out. “And I know when to admit it. I’m not a fan of beating around the bush. ...Mostly.”

“I see,” says Ashe, neutrally. If Felix tries hard enough, he can almost hear the unspoken then why didn’t you tell it to Sylvain straight before everything blew up in our faces?

Or maybe that’s just Felix’s imagination. 

“Well, back to what I was saying before,” Ashe ducks his head again. Absently, Felix finds himself wishing that Ashe will look back up at him. To brush his hair out of his face, so that Felix can see his eyes. 

And then he shuts down that train of thought.

“I was quite angry,” Ashe continues. “At Sylvain. And you. Actually, I was kind of disappointed.”

Felix winces. 

“I don’t know,” says Ashe, and he’s looking into his teacup now. “I suppose I have a tendency to overlook people’s flaws. I dislike, well, disliking people. I like to believe there’s always some good in everyone, and if that’s the case, I’d rather just focus on the good.”

“How naive,” Felix unwittingly blurts out. His fingers curl tighter around his cup. Well. The words are already out of his mouth. Too late to take it back now. “Ignoring the bad in someone will only ever lead to disaster. To truly know somebody, you have to see all of them. No matter how much it--“ hurts, but the word gets stuck in Felix’s throat, and he ends up swallowing it down. 

Ashe is silent for a moment. Then he laughs, self-deprecatingly. 

“Right,” he says, a tiny, half-hearted smile playing over his lips. “It’s foolish, I guess. I’ve gotten burned by it multiple times before. I really should stop.”

Felix doesn’t have anything to say in response to that. Felix probably doesn't have a right to respond to that, given that he’d been one of the aforementioned flames.

The silence stretches. Ashe is still staring down at his tea. 

“I guess it’s stupid of me,” he says, eventually. “To believe that there truly are people out there just like the knights in the books.”

Felix breathes. In, and out. And he closes his eyes. 

“Correct,” he says, and the word is like ash in his throat. He can feel Ashe’s eyes on him. Watching him. Judging him. 

(Or maybe that’s just Felix’s imagination.)

“I don’t like it when you yell, you know,” Ashe abruptly says. It’s not quite a change in topic, but it’s different enough to catch Felix off-guard.

“...I always thought you unbothered by my attitude,” is Felix’s weak response, after a pause. 

“Don’t get me wrong, Felix,” says Ashe, candid and casual, “I liked you in spite of your temper.”

“...Hah,” Felix laughs, short and mirthless. “But I’m worse than you thought.”

“I suppose that’s not untrue,” says Ashe, distantly. 

Felix would like to say that the lack of denial, the admittance of the truth — it doesn’t hurt, not in the slightest. But Felix would be lying. 

“You’re not unkind, Felix,” says Ashe, as if reading Felix’s mind and trying to provide comfort. To Felix, at least, it falls flat. “At least, I don’t think so. You do care, deep down.”

“Thanks for telling me about myself,” says Felix, flatly. “How about you write my biography for me as well?”

“But you have a hard time showing it,” Ashe continues, completely ignoring Felix’s remarks. “You know that the only one getting hurt by that is you, right?”

“What is this,” it takes a second, before Felix registers that the toneless, loud voice resounding in the air is coming from him. “I didn’t come here for a fucking psych eval, Ubert. So how about you--“

“If you think it’s healthy to train from morning to night without stopping to eat,” says Ashe, meeting Felix’s gaze. “Then tell me to get out, right now, and I won’t bother you again.”

Felix stares back at him. Then he breaks his gaze, and looks down at the table. 

Get out, are the words on the tip of Felix’s tongue. You’re no better than that nosy bastard. Who do you think you are to--

Felix swallows. 

“Fuck you,” is what he says, instead, voice small and feeble. 

“Felix,” says Ashe. “Talk.”

“...Fine,” Felix bites out. “Fine.”

A beat passes. Felix examines the wood grains of his desk. 

“I told them I was done,” he says finally, exhausted.

“Done.”

“Yes, done,” Felix snaps. “I don’t care for their farce of a friendship. All we end up doing in the end is yell at each other, anyway. It’s bullshit.”

Ashe doesn’t say anything. He just keeps looking at Felix. Listening, Felix realises. 

“It’s fucking stupid,” the words keep pouring out of Felix’s mouth, unable to be dammed even if Felix tried to. “Sylvain can act like he cares all he wants, or fucking-- I don’t fucking know, maybe he does, in his own fucked up little mind. I don’t fucking know. Whatever. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s an inconsiderate bastard--“

Felix’s voice cracks. And he takes a breath. Fuck, he thinks. 

“...He’s an inconsiderate bastard,” he finishes, miserably. “All he ever does is fuck up and apologise for it. Then fuck up again. It’s useless. Like just saying sorry will make up for all of it.”

Ashe hums. 

“Just because you apologise doesn't mean you won't do it again,” his eyes turn distant. “A thief who is regretful everytime he steals is still a thief.”

“...Hmph,” Felix snorts. “Not that I disagree, but… Here I thought you were a little champion of the people’s rights. Never expected you, of all people, to say that last part.”

“Really now?” Ashe smiles, almost looking amused. “Well, I never said they should be locked up for it. The world would be a better place if we could give more people more chances, I think.”

Felix looks up at Ashe, then away. He scoffs. 

“And there's the idealism popping up, again,” he says.

“You don't agree,” Ashe says, a statement rather than a question, but Felix is shaking his head.

“I don't disagree,” he corrects. “In the end, humans all have reasons behind their actions. It's not up to me to decide whether they’re right or wrong, for however much those two words mean in the grand scheme of things. So long as they understand that if they get in my way, I’ll cut them down.”

“Cut them down?” Ashe parrots, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yes,” Felix says crisply. 

“Seems a bit harsh for a pickpocket, don't you think?”

“Well, that's their own problem,” Felix shuts him down. Ashe huffs out a short laugh. 

“I see,” he says. “Well, not that I should have expected anything less from you.”

“Shut up,” Felix mutters. Quiet reigns over them, for a moment. But then Felix’s body betrays him yet again, and he opens his mouth. “But you understand, don’t you?”

The question comes out weak and pathetic, and Felix wants to slap himself. But Ashe is looking at him, and there’s empathy on his face, and Felix feels his heart beat, and beat, and beat--

“It’s hard, isn’t it,” says Ashe. 

Felix laughs. And then he can’t stop laughing. 

“Why,” he chokes out, “is it you?”

Ashe blinks at him, evidently confused, but not saying anything. He lets Felix go through his hysterics, to finish up his brief fit of madness, and he doesn’t speak a word. 

Fuck, thinks Felix, dully. This is terrible.

“You would think,” he starts again after he’s regained himself, mouth opening of its own volition and without permission, “that after knowing me for so damn long, Ingrid would know me, wouldn’t you?”

“Well,” says Ashe, and nothing more. That’s fine. Felix doesn’t need him to say anything, anyway. 

“But no,” Felix says, his voice lowering to a mad murmur, almost like he’s speaking to himself. “Of course she doesn’t. Of course she can’t. Can’t dig her head out of the fucking ground--“

“Felix,” interrupts Ashe. Felix stops. “Calm down.”

No, Felix wants to snap. Fuck you. You were the one who asked me to talk, so just listen--

Felix takes a breath. Another one, deeper. 

“Fuck,” he says, after a beat. 

Silence. And Felix finds that, actually, he doesn’t quite feel like talking much anymore. 

“...So,” Ashe says, eventually. “You’re done. Is that right?”

Felix snorts. 

“I fucking hope so,” he mutters. Ashe cocks his head, and raises an eyebrow. 

“What do you mean by that?” he queries. Felix grits his teeth. 

“What I mean,” he says, “is that we’re all fucking idiots. And I’m a fucking idiot, I guess. Because I keep regretting it.”

“Ah,” says Ashe. 

There’s nothing quite else that he can say, really. 

“This sucks,” says Felix, dully. 

Ashe is silent, for a moment. Then he sighs. 

“I don’t think there’s a right answer to this,” he says. 

“I wasn’t looking for one.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“...Fuck. I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I really hate this.”

“I know.”

“...I don’t want to apologise,” says Felix. 

“Then don’t.”

“I don’t want to give myself up again,” says Felix. 

“Then don’t.”

“...I don’t actually want to be done with them,” Felix finally admits, hushed, and small, and weak. Ashe looks at him. 

“Then don’t,” he says. 

Felix takes a breath. And he takes another breath. 

“It’s not that easy,” he says. 

“It’s not,” Ashe agrees. 

Felix looks at him. And Ashe is looking back, and he’s listening to Felix, and there’s a quiet empathy in the way he speaks, and he’s never known Glenn before--

“I just want--“ Felix swallows. And he looks at Ashe, and Ashe is looking back--

Felix makes a mistake. 

He crashes forward like a hurricane, body tipping and moving without thought. Ashe’s wide green eyes are the last thing he sees, before Felix’s own eyes are slipping shut, and he’s tilting his head, and Felix is in free fall.

Ashe’s lips are soft. Unresponsive. Felix presses in, his hand coming up to Ashe’s chin in a biting grip. Don’t let me go, please, Felix wants to say, but he knows, and Ashe knows, and they both know the inevitable conclusion. 

Ashe pushes Felix away, softly, gently. Felix lets himself be pushed away, softly, gently. 

His panting breaths are harsh and loud in the quiet of the night. There’s a burning humiliation in Felix’s gut, spreading and spreading like a blight--

He looks down. He can’t bear to look at Ashe’s face. Because if he does, then Felix might actually--

“I’m sorry, Felix,” says Ashe, sadly, wistfully. “But I’m not your atonement.”

Chapter Text

There have been three instances of Felix’s heart being ripped to shreds, before:

One: Glenn’s death.

Two: Rodrigue’s words, after.

Three: Dimitri’s death, in that rebellion two years ago by now.

To compare this — Ashe’s sad smile, the way he apologises like he wishes he didn’t have to, like he wishes Felix hadn’t pushed them both to this — to them, would be an insult, plain and simple. The rejection of Felix’s childish little fancies are nothing compared to the deaths of:

One: his brother

Two: his illusion of a father who prioritised his children above his duties

Three: his best friend whom he’d sworn to protect and love, ‘til death did them part (and so death did, and left Felix with a boar in his place.)

This is what Felix tells himself; this is what rings in circles and circles and circles around his head as he stands atop the Goddess Tower, elbows braced on the railing as he looks over the ledge.

The Goddess Tower, Felix has found, is a remarkably good place to go to just bask in the quiet, and think. Strange, perhaps, given how it’s the one thing people can’t stop talking about whenever the day of the ball rolls around. Nonetheless, on any day other than that, there is no legend calling to the ears of those superstitious enough to believe in the promise of promises.

So Felix is alone.

This is probably not the best time for Felix to stew in his own thoughts, he will admit to himself. To spiral deeper and deeper into everything and all the issues he’d rather leave untouched, preferably until the end of time. Reevaluating his own life decisions have never done Felix much good, because in the end, he always comes back to the same conclusion: fuck it all.

He tips his head. Rests it on his crossed arms. He should go back to the dorms, and get some sleep for once. But his mind is still whirring, with all the possibilities and what if’s and what if Felix had done that, instead, what if Felix hadn’t--

(There are bags of tea leaves, still on Felix’s table, that Ashe had given him before he’d walked out of Felix’s room and didn’t turn back.)

There is a hypocrisy to the way Felix thinks, he knows. To say he wants to leave it all behind, but then dwell on it all when his mind isn’t occupied by a sword. To lecture others to look to the future and never back, but here Felix is, looking back and looking back and looking back.

It’s disgusting. It’s pathetic. Felix needs to just stop thinking. He should just sleep, no matter the reasons for not-- for not wanting to head back to. His room.

But just as Felix finally makes the executive decision, for his own damn peace of mind, to suck it up and head back to the dorms, he hears footsteps, steadily growing louder as they near him. Felix freezes.

He recognises those footsteps.

Felix is already gritting his teeth, clenching his fists, by the time the voices reach him.

“--worrying too much,” comes a casual, easy, familiar and fake voice. “Who in their right mind would be up here? And now, of all times. It’s perfect, babe, just trust me.”

Who in their right mind, huh , Felix wants to snort. Well, he isn’t wrong about that. Felix certainly doesn’t feel like he’s in his right mind at the moment. Especially after this latest twist in the abject misery of Felix’s past few weeks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the girl giggles, sounding as vapid and shallow as all of Sylvain’s typical conquests. Unsurprising. “I mean, it’s so romantic up here… Don’t you think there’ll be others?”

“Aww, babe,” Sylvain chirpily replies, just as both of them finally step into view. “You worry too much. It’s always--“

Unfortunately, neither the girl nor Felix get to hear Sylvain finish his speech, because Sylvain’s eyes catch on Felix, standing still in front of the railing. And the man cuts off immediately, choking on his words.

Felix allows himself a few moments to stare. The girl’s a conventional type of pretty, he thinks, absently. Also unsurprising. Sylvain is nothing if not predictable when it comes to this particular habit.

Now Sylvain, on the other hand, looks like shit. Oh, he can act all he likes, and sure, most people may be fooled by his charming smile, but Felix knows better. Unfortunately. Fortunately. He can’t really decide, at the moment.

“...Hmph,” Felix breaks the silence with a scoff, after a long beat. “I see where I’m not welcome. I’ll get out of your way.”

He makes to leave, violently brushing past Sylvain, their shoulders bumping and Sylvain stumbling back at the force. Sylvain is unmoving, eyes wide, for a second, before he’s turning around, and grabbing Felix by the sleeve.

Felix jolts to a stop, more from shock than anything. Sylvain’s grip isn’t that tight, and Felix could easily break out of it. Felix should easily break out of it.

“Wait,” says Sylvain, and his voice is raw in its desperation. And that is what ultimately freezes Felix to the ground, even as a tiny, bitter voice in his head rages to leave Sylvain, here and now, and never, ever, look back.

But Felix is a hypocrite, after all.

“What do you want,” Felix snaps. There’s a thickness in his throat, choking him, and Felix can barely recognise his own voice. He turns.

At this distance, he can see everything in clarity. The way Sylvain bites his lip, the unusual pallor to his skin. How his eyes slide to the left, wary and nervous.

“Hey,” says Sylvain, but he’s not talking to Felix. He’s looking at the girl, who’s blinking dumbfounded at the both of them. “Sorry, but could you leave?”

Felix coughs. It’s both funny, and really, really not. The girl’s eyes grow round, and her mouth drops open.

“You... You!” she sputters, and Sylvain just stares at her blankly. None of them are surprised when the resounding sound of a slap rings out in the silence of the night, a scant few moments later. Sylvain doesn’t even flinch at the hand mercilessly delivered to his face.

Felix doesn’t watch the girl storm off. But neither does Sylvain. His gaze is back on Felix, his face unreadable. His hand drops from Felix’s sleeve, leaving Felix free to go.

Felix stays.

It’s when the footsteps of the girl finally taper off to nothing, that Felix finally speaks.

“You’re such an asshole,” he says. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Sylvain gnaws on his lip, and doesn’t reply.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Felix says, dully. “Or, wait. Actually, I can. You’re such an inconsiderate bastard. You really aren’t ever going to change, are you?”

Sylvain opens his mouth.

“If you even think about saying that you’re trying, I will actually kill you.”

“I really am, though,” says Sylvain, a small frown on his face. Felix scoffs.

“Yeah, you were really trying to get up that girl’s skirt,” he rolls his eyes. Sylvain winces. “Liar,” Felix accuses.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain says, and he looks down at the ground. Hot anger curls in Felix’s stomach, and it takes all Felix has to stop himself from spitting at Sylvain’s feet.

“Why are you apologising to me,” he snaps.

“Because you obviously don’t like it?”

“I’m not the one getting hurt by it.”

“Aren’t you?” Sylvain looks back up; and Felix doesn’t like making eye contact, but Felix does like making a point. Some sacrifices aren’t too bad. When they’re ultimately inconsequential, anyway.

“No, Sylvain,” Felix says, as he looks into golden brown. “That’s just you.”

Silence reigns over them. Sylvain is staring, wide-eyed, at Felix. Felix meets his gaze for one, two seconds, before unceremoniously dropping it.

“Felix,” Sylvain says, oddly quiet. “You…”

He trails off. Felix looks at the ground.

A second passes. Then two--

“What,” he snaps, unable to take the hush any longer.

“...No,” Sylvain says distantly, as if he’s just figured something out, and is trying to puzzle it out. To refit and reorganise his own view of the world, and to accommodate this new information so abruptly dropped into his lap. Or, perhaps, it’s the slow uptake as the last piece slides into place. “It’s nothing.”

Felix bristles; but he drops the topic, because Sylvain still looks like he’s struggling with...with whatever the hell’s going through his mind now.

“You’re an idiot,” is what he scathingly tells Sylvain instead. “An absolute idiot. Stupid beyond all fucking belief. Good grief.”

Sylvain is silent.

If Felix were smart, he thinks, he would just take this rare, blessed opportunity of Sylvain actually being at a loss for words, and leave right now. Go back to his room, flop onto the bed, and proceed to never talk to Sylvain again. But even now, his own, pathetic admission to Ashe still repeats in his head, like a broken tape recorder. I don’t actually want to be done with them. I don’t actually want to be done with them. I don’t--

There are a million different things Felix could say. To break the silence, to diffuse the tension in the air, to make it worse. Anything. A million different ways to do a million different things, so of course Felix has to choose the absolute worst option.

“I got rejected.”

Felix instantly regrets this, obviously. In addition to being completely, utterly humiliating, it’s also entirely inaccurate. Or, well, not entirely; but it’s inaccurate enough in its implications. Like Felix hadn’t been the one to fuck it all up in the first place. Like Felix hadn’t recognised that fact. Like Felix hadn’t accepted Ashe’s offer of a continued friendship a little too quick; like Felix hadn’t been inwardly grateful for the allowance of that much, at least.

Goddess, Felix sounds completely pathetic when he puts it like that. Felix feels pathetic, honestly.

But, on the plus side, it’s inordinately satisfying watching how Sylvain’s eyes bug out as he gags on his own breath. Still doesn’t quite make up for the terrible, overwhelming embarrassment currently rushing through Felix’s body, but it’s something.

“Um,” says Sylvain, once he’s somewhat regained control of his own vocal cords. “T-That sucks?”

“I deserved it,” Felix tells him flatly.

“Ah.”

A pause.

“...It was mutual.”

“...You mutually rejected yourself?” Sylvain sounds dubious.

“Shut up and fuck you,” says Felix, because he is Felix. Sylvain is still squinting at him.

“Why are you telling me this,” he asks, sounding bewildered and completely ignoring Felix’s demand for him to shut up. To be fair, Felix often tells people to shut up without actually expecting them to shut up, so. But also Felix kind of wants Sylvain to rot in a ditch at the moment, so fuck him anyway.

“I don’t fucking know,” Felix answers, because he doesn’t. “Spite, I guess. Just to rub it in your face that you suck.”

“Sounds plausible,” Sylvain shrugs in easy acceptance, which truly says a lot about him as a person. And then he adds, “Also, nice job taking yourself down alongside me. Woo. You got rejected. Stick it to me, Felix.”

“I’m absolutely certain that you were more invested in Ashe’s and I’s ‘relationship’ than I ever was,” Felix tells him, tone drier than the desert. Sylvain rolls his eyes, and scoffs.

“And now you’re the liar,” he says, and Felix bristles, but also doesn’t, because there is truth to Sylvain’s words. And that kinda pisses Felix off, honestly. “You were so head over heels that I even managed to get Dedue in on it.”

“You did not,” Felix immediately refutes, because even the idea of that happening is ridiculous. But Sylvain’s shaking his head, a smirk spreading over his face and replacing the unreadable neutrality that came before it.

“I did.”

“No, you didn’t, you fucking liar.”

“I so did, like, he wrote me a list and shit--“

“You tricked him into it,” Felix accuses.

“I tricked him into it,” Sylvain admits, not even bothering to deny it.

“I fucking hate you.”

“I know, buddy,” Sylvain nods solemnly. A beat passes. And then Sylvain opens his mouth again, because he just doesn’t know when to stop. “...Still doesn’t change the fact that you were even more obvious than, like, I don’t know. The sun.”

“...The sun,” echoes Felix, incredulous.

“I couldn’t think, okay! I just said the first metaphor that came to mind!” Sylvain tries to defend himself. Felix narrows his eyes.

“The sun is not a metaphor,” he informs Sylvain.

“Anything can be a metaphor if you just try hard enough,” says Sylvain, wisely, despite his words not actually sounding wise in the slightest. He folds his arms behind his back casually, and Felix wants to shove him off balance.

“I don’t think that word means what you think it means,” deadpans Felix.

“Oh, so a metaphor isn’t a figure of speech applied to an object or action to which it isn’t literally applicable? So it’s not something used to represent or symbolise something else?” Sylvain asks innocently, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Felix gapes, momentarily at him, before hurriedly shutting his mouth and pretending he hadn’t just been staring, slack-jawed, at Sylvain.

“What,” he hisses, trying to cover up his embarrassment, and turning his head away to hide the red in his cheeks. “Did you memorise the dictionary, or something?”

“Memorise is a strong word,” Sylvain shrugs. “I mean, I read through the thing like two years ago. Can still remember some parts of it, anyway. I remember metaphor, at least, ‘cause I think it’s a pretty good word. Like, you know. Bracket. Juxtaposition. Don’t you just think they sound nice?”

“What the fuck,” says Felix, whipping his head back around to look at Sylvain, because what the fuck. “Why would you--”

“Okay, but, like dude,” Sylvain levels a serious gaze at him, completely steamrolling over Felix’s disbelieving query. “You know what’s the best word of all? Definitely vagin--“

“I’m going to kill you,” Felix cuts him off flatly.

“...Oh, right, sorry. Forgot you were gay for a moment there,” Sylvain says, and Felix contemplates the merits of pushing him over the railing. Then Sylvain says, “Penis.”

Right.

So.

Pros: Sylvain will be dead.

Cons: ...Sylvain will be dead.

…

...Felix settles for punching him, instead.

“Fuck--“ Sylvain chokes out, staggering at the force behind the blow, and while he goes down, his hand snaps out and grabs at Felix’s uniform. Felix stumbles, not expecting the retaliation, and they both tumble to the ground.

Felix stares dazedly, blinking at Sylvain. And then everything registers at once.

“You’re going to regret that,” he tells Sylvain, eerily calm.

The next few moments descend into a chaotic mess from there. Felix distinctly remembers feeling the impact of a headbutt, and snarling something along the lines of you damn hard headed fool as he sends a foot somewhere into Sylvain’s arm. Otherwise, it’s mostly a blur; clumsy jabs and childish tussling as they roll around the concrete floor.

Felix wins, obviously. Their “fight” (if it could even be classified as one) ends with Felix yanking Sylvain into a headlock, tugging viciously at his hair, as Sylvain begs for mercy.

“Yield!” he yelps. “I yield, oh, fuck--“

“We aren’t sparring,” Felix tells him loftily, and pulls his hair again.

“Felix!” Sylvain cries out.

“Repent, asshole,” repeats Felix.

It takes another minute, and Sylvain’s increasingly desperate whines, but Felix does eventually let Sylvain go. Sylvain flops over with an overly dramatic wheeze, and Felix smacks him one more time over the head. Just for good measure.

Sylvain lets out an exaggerated whimper, cradling his head.

“Keep that up and I’ll hit you again,” warns Felix.

Sylvain obediently shuts up.

They sit in almost-peace for a while. In the silence, the tension returns, thrumming in the air — but so long as they don’t speak, they can ignore it. It’s a quiet night. In the distance, and if Felix strains his ears, he can almost vaguely make out the chirrups of nocturnal animals, making their nightly rounds.

Still, here and up high at the peak of the Goddess Tower, sound is a rare thing. Cool night air settles into Felix’s bones, and he breathes in, and out.

The nights are cooler yet in Faerghus. Cooler yet in Fraldarius, the lands to the north. And even cooler yet, in Gautier territory, and beyond.

(There are some who say that it is the coldness of Sreng, that seep into their flesh, and freeze them to frigid warriors of ice. And there are times where Felix wonders what that says about the people in Gautier, who live right by their borders.)

Felix leans back, his hands on the ground behind him and holding him up, his legs crossed and his head tipped to the sky. Beside him, Sylvain lays on his back, hands folded across his chest and looking for all the world like a dead man in a coffin.

The sight and thought, together, send a stabbing jolt through Felix’s body. He finds himself staring at the way Sylvain’s chest rises and falls, his eyes open and clear. Felix stares, for a beat too long, before he tears his eyes away.

Felix looks up, and breathes. He’s never actually seen into a coffin before. Not in reality. Felix was thirteen when they had brought Glenn back, and his father had shook his head, and gently covered Felix’s eyes. And then there was no one else that Felix was close enough to, who Felix knew enough of to allow him to catch a glimpse of their body before they’re ceremoniously lowered into the ground.

Felix would have declined, anyway. A corpse is a corpse is a corpse, no matter how prettily they dress it up, no matter how golden are the etchings on their deathbed.

“Hey, Felix,” Sylvain speaks up suddenly. The peace broken, Sylvain raises a lazy hand up and points to the sky. “Remember when we were kids, and I’d tell you about the constellations?”

“...I remember,” Felix replies. There had been a time, Felix knows, when Sylvain didn’t bother hiding his smarts. There would be assorted books scattered over his desk, ranging from the frivolous to the in depth look at the history of Sreng.

Back then, when they were younger and during the visits House Fraldarius would pay to Gautier lands, Sylvain would drag him out at night, tugging him along by the wrist. Look, he’d say, and trace a pattern in the stars above them. And then Sylvain would talk. Felix will never admit it, but he remembers each and every tale.

(That’s Cassiopeia the Queen. Wanna know more about her?

Huh? Felix had asked, blinking wide eyes and cocking his head. And Sylvain had grinned back, sharp, with all the pride of a child speaking to a child.

I read all about her in a book from Sreng, he puffs out his chest. And he had whispered, in a dramatic retelling, they say that there was once a vain Queen. And she had a daughter, and she fell them both to her own hubris.

I don’t like this story, Felix had complained, after Sylvain was done spinning his tale. Felix had pouted, sticking out a wobbly lip, as Sylvain had laughed and laughed and laughed. How could she do that to her own child?

Because there was a monster sent to attack her lands. It was to offer her child up, or to ruin her own kingdom. What else would you do, in her shoes? There was barely hidden amusement in Sylvain’s tone, but Felix hadn’t been focused on that.

But she tied her to a rock to die… How could she just sacrifice Andromeda like that?

Well, Sylvain had said, and there was a glint in his eyes that Felix couldn’t quite place. Cassiopeia got what she deserved in the end, didn’t she?

When Felix looks back on the memory, he thinks he can pinpoint what it was he had seen in those auburn gold: a bitter, vicious satisfaction.)

“Why are you suddenly bringing this up,” Felix asks, his mouth dry, when the silence stretches on for too long, yet again. Back in the present, Sylvain sends a careless glance his way.

“Nothing,” says Sylvain. “I don’t know. I was just thinking. ‘Cause I don’t think we’ve just...I don’t know. Messed around like that, for a while. So it just got me thinking back, you know.”

“Great,” says Felix. “Stop thinking.”

“Don’t be like that, Felix,” Sylvain rolls over to face him in full. His face is open, serious in his sincerity. “It was fun, just now, wasn’t it? Just like old times. Come on, man.”

“You’re forgetting,” says Felix, curtly, “that this isn’t the ‘old times’ anymore.”

Sylvain is silent, for a moment.

“It’s not,” he agrees. “But that doesn’t mean we still can’t--"

“No.”

“Ouch,” Sylvain raises a hand to his chest, in faux affront. “That hurts.”

“Does it?” Felix can’t resist jabbing.

“It does,” says Sylvain.

For the life of him, Felix can't tell if Sylvain's being sincere. So Felix breathes in, and out, and doesn't say anything in response to that (truth), that (lie), that (little bit of proof of how far they've drawn apart).

"Felix.”

“No, Sylvain,” Felix snaps. “We are not doing this again.”

Sylvain bites his lip, and back his words. Quiet falls like a blanket, and Felix looks up, and away.

(Cassiopeia is a constellation that one can only see in the most northern reaches of Fodlan. Apt surroundings for the queen with the heart made of ice. When Felix stares into the universes revolving above his head, the waiting supernovas, there are no twinkling lights that he recognises. The lands of Gautier and Fraldarius are a long ride away.

If Felix closes his eyes, he can still see her; Cassiopeia, still on her throne, forced into the night above where plasma burns her back, her legs, her arms. The stars trace out her chair, Sylvain had said. That’s her punishment. Being sentenced to an eternity in the heavens, clinging to her own torment so that she doesn’t fall. It’s ironic, don’t you think?

So… If she lets go, then…

Sylvain had ruffled his hair. I’ll tell you when you’re older, okay?

Sylvain hadn’t, in the end. He didn’t need to.)

In his peripheral vision, Felix vaguely registers Sylvain flipping over onto his stomach, propping his upper torso up on his elbows. He’s watching Felix, now.

“You know,” says Sylvain, his voice wistful. “Sometimes, I wish I could just tell what you’re thinking.”

You used to be able to, Felix could say. But that’s unfair. Because Felix is starting to realise that, maybe, it was Felix who first stopped understanding the thoughts that run through Sylvain’s head.

Or maybe he had never understood at all.

Felix looks at Sylvain, and wonders when he’d stopped seeing the boy he grew up with. Who let Felix cry into his shoulder. Who, when Felix was sad, would grab him by the waist, and lift him up onto his shoulders, while Felix screeched to be let down. Two years used to be an eternity, and Felix still remembers the way he’d stomped his foot when Sylvain had gotten his growth spurt, and Felix hadn’t.

“They’re not very interesting thoughts,” says Felix.

“Maybe to you.”

“Maybe to everybody,” Felix retorts.

“Or maybe not to everybody.”

Felix rolls his eyes.

“I was thinking about the stars,” he half-lies. Sylvain’s eyebrows fly up, at that.

“Huh,” he says, after a pause. “Have to admit, wasn’t expecting that.”

“You were the one to bring it up in the first place,” snaps Felix.

“So I was.”

“That’s right. So shut up.”

“Harsh.”

“Shut up,” Felix repeats.

Sylvain does, miraculously. But he doesn’t stop looking at Felix.

The quiet stretches. The stars are brighter in Gautier lands.

It should be calming. Felix should be glad for this peace. Yet, he can’t help but open his mouth, an unseen force guiding his lips.

“You always…” he starts, then trails off. Sylvain is staring, still, his full attention on Felix.

Felix's skin prickles, where Sylvain's eyes bore into him.

He swallows, and starts again. “You always act like this. Like if we just pretend nothing happened, and go back to the routine, then everything will be fine. It’s not. Things don’t just go back to how they used to be.”

Sylvain licks his lips. He hesitates, for a moment, before speaking.

“I don’t think that,” he says. “I know that I-- that you--“

Sylvain struggles with his words. Fumbles. Stops.

“I don’t know,” he finishes, finally, lamely.

“What do you know,” Felix asks scathingly.

“...I know that I don’t know? That’s the greatest wisdom of all, or something, right?”

“Smartass.”

“Hey,” Sylvain protests, but doesn’t actually say anything worthy of note.

“I already said fucking everything in the library,” Felix continues on, tone dead, and still pointedly not looking at Sylvain. “But I’ll just say it again. You’re an inconsiderate bastard. And you never fucking think about your actions. Helping someone carry their groceries is one thing. But if you-- Whenever you-- You--" and Felix takes a breath, "...You just don’t think, sometimes.”

Sylvain is silent.

“You don’t care about yourself. And you just let that affect everything you do. How you see everything you do.” Felix’s mouth is going dry. It’s getting harder to speak.

“I hate the way you hurt yourself like you think it doesn't matter,” he gets out, and it feels like sandpaper on his throat. “Because it fucking does, you asshole.”

You’re hurting me. You’re hurting Ingrid. For once in your life, look up and around you, and see, you idiot.

Felix doesn’t say that last part. He thinks he might just choke and die if he even tries.

Sylvain doesn’t say anything in response. Distantly, hysterically, briefly, Felix wonders if he’s finally managed to rip that annoying tongue out of Sylvain’s mouth, if he’s finally managed to render Sylvain Jose Gautier speechless, the one time Felix wants him to say something.

The silence wraps around Felix, a hand grasping his neck. Just when he feels like all the air in his lungs has dried up, does Sylvain finally deign to talk.

“Felix,” he says, and now, he looks away from Felix and up. Stars glimmer in the nebula above them. Billions are born and billions collapse, in the space of the breath between Sylvain’s words. “Tell me to make you a promise.”

Felix blinks.

“A…promise,” he echoes, after a moment.

“Yes,” Sylvain says, and doesn’t explain in the slightest. Felix turns and looks at him.

“Elaborate,” he demands. And Sylvain turns to him.

“If it’s a promise to you,” Sylvain says, “then I won’t break it.”

Felix breathes. And he swallows.

“What are you talking about,” says Felix.

“I’m saying,” Sylvain meets his gaze. An uncomfortable prickle goes down the back of Felix’s spine, but he ignores it. “That you should make me promise not to hurt you again. And I won’t break it.”

Felix is quiet, stunned speechless, as he stares. Sylvain’s expression slowly twists into a grimace, before he covers it up with a (fake, fake) grin, and quickly tacks on, a hand coming up to the back of his neck, “Besides, we’re on the Goddess Tower and all, aren’t we? So any oath--“

“Shut up.”

The voice that interrupts Sylvain is thick with anger, and it takes Felix a second to register that it’s him speaking. Sylvain chokes into silence, staring wide-eyed at Felix.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Felix seethes. “You still don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about me.”

His hand flashes out, as quick as he is on a battlefield, and Sylvain yelps when Felix grabs him by the chin, and jerks him forward. At this distance, their faces so near to one another that Felix can feel Sylvain’s breath on his face, Felix has the full view of Sylvain’s expression, open and shocked.

“It’s about you,” Felix spits out.

Felix breathes, ragged and raw. And Sylvain still has that stupid, slack-jawed look of surprise on his face. A small noise of disgust crawls out of Felix’s throat, and he uses his grip on Sylvain’s face to shove him backward, and away.

Felix pulls his knees to his chest. Ducks his head, and the loose strands of his hair cover his eyes. Like this, Sylvain is just an orange blur, obscured by Felix’s legs and Felix’s hanging hair.

Felix sucks in sharp breaths, loud in the quiet of the night. And Sylvain is dead silent.

“Make your own stupid promises to your own stupid self,” Felix croaks out. “Take some fucking responsibility, for once. You asshole.”

And Felix squeezes his eyes shut. And Felix presses his forehead against his knees.

“I hate you,” he says, softly. “I really, really do.”

Sylvain doesn’t have anything to say in response to that.

It’s okay. Felix doesn’t want him to, anyway.

Slowly, steadily, Felix tries to regulate his breathing. His heart is beating fast in his ribs, and his fingers are gripping bruises into his own calves. There’s an irrational pressure building up behind his eyelids.

It’s not because Felix is upset. Nor is it because Felix is angry. Rather, Felix feels nothing at all.

Yet still, it’s tears that threaten to leak out and spill down his cheeks. Purposeless and meaningless. Perhaps this is where all Felix’s emotions have gone, and when he cries them out, Felix will truly be empty.

It’s a nice, fanciful thought. If only Felix could rip out his own heart and sob the pieces away; if only Felix could grieve and mourn and move on without a glance back.

But the world doesn’t work like that.

“Leave,” Felix says.

Sylvain doesn’t. There is no telltale sound of receding footsteps, and there is no cold air brushing over Felix’s figure, stronger in the wake of being left alone. Instead, there is the shuffling of fabric on concrete, and a hand on Felix’s arm.

“I told you to leave,” Felix snaps. But he doesn’t move.

“You did,” agrees Sylvain, calmly, quietly. And he doesn’t move, either.

Felix burrows his face further into his knees. And he tries to hold his breath, wonders if he holds it long enough if he can suffocate himself, but his body betrays him with gasping pants. A sob almost breaks through, as well, but Felix shoves it down, far and deep to where no one will ever find it.  

“...never fucking listen…” Felix mutters, indistinctly. “...asshole…”

“Yeah,” Sylvain says. His voice is low. “I am. I am an asshole, aren’t I.”

Do you get it now, Felix wants to ask. Do you understand, now?

But Felix doesn’t. He swallows the words and gags on the question. He doesn’t want Sylvain to answer. He’s scared of what he might hear.

So Felix sits there, curled into himself, trying to muffle his own tiny, pathetic noises; and Sylvain sits beside him, a gentle hand curled loosely around Felix’s wrist, and he says nothing.

(This is a story that Felix will not forget:

Once, there was a kingdom in a far off land. There ruled a King and Queen, and together they had a daughter, heiress to the throne. The Queen went by the name of Cassiopeia, and her daughter was bestowed upon the beauty of the calling of Andromeda.

They were both as fair as can be, and Cassiopeia prided herself on such beauty. Oh, she would boast, should there appear another yet fairer than Andromeda and I; fall me upon a blade and scatter mine ashes to the wind. Allow us this life of eternity, for never shall such an event occur.

But these words angered the god of the sea. In these lands, they did not believe in the Goddess. They did not know of the Goddess. There were powers, instead, who ruled over their own domains; the sea, the sky, the land and the people. The actions and the objects, and everything anew.

And these gods had children. And these gods had pride.

On behalf of the nymph daughters who oft accompanied him, the god of the sea sent a ravaging monster to the shore. Again and again, it crashed against the land, desecrating the homes of the Queen and her daughter.

Desperate, Cassiopeia and her husband, the King, turned to an oracle. And the oracle spoke, “the only appeasement He will allow, is the devourment and the death of thine daughter.”

And so the story goes. The King and Queen spared no thought before chaining their daughter to a rock by the sea, awaiting her fall and thusly the end to the monster’s terror. And Andromeda, she-- well. That is a different story altogether.

Yet neither could Cassiopeia escape her own consequence. The god of the sea bore down upon her, and He spoke, unto her, “for your arrogance, so shall you be chained to your throne. For your vanity, so shall all those who desire to look be free to look.” Cassiopeia could not manage even a scream, before the god waved his hands--

And the sky swallowed her whole.

.

.

.

But what happened to Andromeda? Felix asked, wide-eyed and staring. Sylvain grinned, cocksure and smug.

Oh. You want to hear this one, as well? He teased.

Duh. Felix rolled his eyes. Tell me.

Geez, so pushy! Okay, okay-- oh, c’mon, don’t look at me like that!

Hurry up and get on with it, Sylvain!

Gah, everyday, you get more abrasive… Yeah, yeah, I got it. So, there was this man, and his name was Perseus…)

Felix glares balefully into the mirror.

So, as it turns out. Crying and sleep deprivation does not a good combination make. With swollen red eyes and the pronounced lines on his face; Felix looks like hell. Felix feels like hell. Felix is probably going to go to hell. Actually, Felix is probably already in hell.

This fact is only proven when Claude von Riegan walks into the communal bathroom, yawning into his hand as he absently takes his usual place at the sink next to Felix. The future Alliance leader blinks blearily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and shakes his head slightly to clear his vision. He looks up, and meets Felix’s gaze in the mirror.

“Hey th--“ and then Claude chokes on his own, half-hearted greeting, when he actually registers Felix’s face.

Felix continues to glare balefully into the mirror.

“Oh-- fuck--“ Claude is coughing. Irritably, Felix wonders if he actually looks that bad. “Uh, wow, okay. ...Rough night?” Claude asks, eyebrows raising.

“Shut the fuck up,” says Felix, to the very illustrious, terrifyingly smart heir to House Riegan, who also (allegedly) makes poisons in his spare time.

“Okay,” says the very illustrious, terrifyingly smart heir to House Riegan, who also (allegedly) makes poisons in his spare time. And then he pats Felix on the back. “Sucks to be you, buddy.”

“Do not think that politics will stop me from driving a blade into your throat,” Felix threatens him. Claude takes a step back, and raises his hands in surrender.

“Wooaahhhhkay, message received, thank you very much.”

They brush their teeth in silence. Claude sneaks glances at him, when he thinks Felix isn’t looking. After a moment, he opens his mouth.

“You know, I’d never known that there was a way to angrily brush your teeth befo--“

“Shut,” says Felix, muffled around his toothbrush, “your mouth.”

Unfortunately, Felix’s day does not get much better from here. Students who walk past him in the hall do a double take when they spot him, and when he walks into the classroom, a few seconds before Professor Byleth enters after him, he can see his classmates blatantly gawping at him.

Felix grits his teeth, and takes the last remaining seat free. Right at the front of the room, next to Annette, and in front of the boar. Great.

Annette is staring. When Felix narrows his eyes at her, though, she at least has the decency to flush red, and hurriedly turn back to her notes. Unlike Ingrid, whose gaze Felix can feel boring into his back.

Ugh.

Of their own volition, he finds himself looking over at Ashe, seated on the other side of the classroom. The boy is biting his lip, flicking quick glances over at Felix, and it takes a second before Felix realises why. That Ashe is worried that it’s his fault.

The thought simultaneously makes Felix feel a reluctant endeared fondness, as well as a traitorous spike of guilt. Which is annoying, and terrible, and Felix wants to excise his own heart out of his chest. Nonetheless, he minutely shakes his head, while making eye contact with Ashe.

Call Felix weak, perhaps, but the relief that spreads over Ashe’s face is-- It makes Felix feel--

Well. Whatever.

Felix usually hates class and everything to do with theory, but for today, it’s a blissful escape from all the prying eyes. Felix throws himself into actually listening, for once, and when they’re dismissed for their break, he doesn’t waste any time before sweeping his materials into his bag, and standing up. And then a hand lands on his arm.

Slowly, Felix’s gaze follows the path of the hand, up and up until his eyes land on Annette’s face. She blinks at him guilelessly.

“Wanna have lunch together?” she asks, tone as innocent as it can be.

“No,” says Felix.

They stare at each other, for a long beat. Nope. Nope. Nope, Felix chants inwardly.

Felix is not doing this. Felix will not do this.

Felix refuses--

Crunch.

“Oh man,” Annette groans blissfully, speaking through the food in her mouth. Sitting across from her, Felix glowers, and inwardly wonders just how he’s gotten roped into this. Again.

In what comes as a surprise to almost everybody that Felix knows, Felix has a very low tolerance for terrible table manners. Though, he is unfortunately used to it. Ingrid has never been one to eat with decorum; really, she just loves food too much to bother. Sylvain, perhaps surprisingly, is a very mindful eater, but that fact is one that Felix has grown so accustomed to, it’s more surprising to him when others express their shock at it.

“Felix,” Annette says, muffled, before swallowing. Her words are clear, when she continues. “The food here is so good.”

Felix narrows his eyes at the sweet buns on his plate.

“Right,” he says, tone drier than the desert. Growing up, Dimitri, Sylvain, and Ingrid had all adored munching on the things. Felix, personally, never could find the appeal.

Annette huffs, and reaches out a hand to smack him on the arm. It leaves powdered sugar behind, a white, dusty imprint, and Felix scowls at the girl. Annette has enough grace to look sheepish, but not enough to actually say anything about it.

Felix grumbles incoherently under his breath. But doesn’t outright say anything either.

He petulantly cuts a piece of his food and takes a bite of it. And chews, viciously, in a manner that Felix hopes indicates how unhappy he is about it.

“Don’t be like that!” Annette complains. She scowls at him. It’s probably meant to be threatening, but Felix is reminded more of a kitten with its claws out and hissing. She picks up her unused fork lying next to her plate, and points it at Felix’s face. “Enjoy your food. Got it?”

“If you have the ability to jab your fork at people,” says Felix drolly, as he takes her wrist with a gentle hand and pushes her arm down, “then you have the ability to eat with it. Stop using your hands.”

Annette goes red.

“You--“ she sputters, stumbling over her own words in her embarrassment. “S-Shut up! Don’t lecture me!”

“Right,” deadpans Felix. “My apologies, Miss Dominic.”

“Argh!”

Annette puffs out her cheeks, and visibly sulks, but she does use her fork and knife the next time she digs into her food. So Felix counts that as a win for him.

Hah. Felix seven, Annette three. He’s crushing it.

Felix allows Annette to swallow, before he next opens his mouth. Never say he can’t be gracious if he feels like it.

“So,” he says, “why exactly have you dragged me out here?”

Annette hesitates, just slightly, before she answers, and that’s how Felix knows he’s already going to hate what’s coming next.

“Why, Felix!” Annette titters nervously, and Felix narrows his eyes. “Can’t I want to eat a meal with my wonderful, amazing, incredible classmate who can do no wrong--“

“You called me evil last week,” reminds Felix. At that, Annette's face scrunches up like she'd just bitten into a raw lemon.

"Because you are evil!" she hisses and slams a hand on the table, doing an instant one-eighty on Felix’s character. Felix raises an eyebrow.

“I thought I was a wonderful, amazing, incredib--“

“That and being evil are not mutually exclusive things!” protests Annette.

“So,” Felix raises his eyebrow even more aggressively. Somehow. “I’m an evil person who can do no wrong?”

“Yes,” Annette nods furiously.

“That doesn’t sound very factually correct.”

“It is,” insists Annette, vehemence in her tone. She points her finger at Felix this time, in lieu of her cutlery. “Your vibes--“

Unfortunately, Felix never does get to hear what Annette thinks about his ‘vibes’. Whatever the hell that means. Because a voice — one that Felix is, unfortunately, far too familiar with — cuts in.

“Oh,” says Ingrid, eyes wide in shock, and Felix catches her tiny flinch when he whips around to look at her. “...Ah. Sorry. Am I--“

“Oh, Ingrid!” Annette cries out gleefully, and Felix whips back around to look at her. She’s grinning madly, her hands clasped together under her chin. “You’re just in time!”

A dawning realisation sparks in Felix’s mind.

I’ve been set up, he thinks in abject horror.

“Oh yeah,” Annette adds cheerfully, glancing back at Felix as if she isn’t a devious witch who had clearly planned this all along, “Tooootally forgot that I, you know, invited Ingrid to lunch earlier this morning. Before you came to class. Sorry. Just. You know. Slipped my mind!”

“Oh. Really,” Felix grits out. Ingrid is staring blankly, eyes wide, mind evidently still in the midst of processing this turn of events.

“Sorry,” says Annette in what may possibly be the fakest tone of voice Felix has ever heard in his entire life. Annette, Felix has come to realise, should never, ever, become an actress. “My bad! So, uh, I mean. Guess we all have to eat together now! That’s fine, right?”

“That is not--“

“Yes,” says Ingrid, cutting Felix off. Felix shoots her an utterly betrayed look, but Ingrid refuses to turn her head to face him. Coward. “That,” says Ingrid, “is absolutely fine.”

"Ingrid," Felix warns.

"Felix," says Ingrid in return, finally deigning to look at him.

Felix glares. Ingrid meets his eyes without backing down.

“Wow, guys,” Annette laughs nervously. “Really, uh, really feeling the love here.”

Her voice eventually peters off into nothing when neither Felix nor Ingrid acknowledge her. She shifts awkwardly.

“Um,” Annette tries again, “Ingrid, how about you… take a seat.”

Ingrid obeys, sitting down next to Felix and placing her lunch tray on the table. All the while, she doesn’t break eye contact.

Felix takes a slow bite of his food. Ingrid does the same, following his lead.

"Er," says Annette. "So. Nice weather today, huh?"

"It's raining," says Felix flatly, without sparing her a glance. Annette opens her mouth. Closes her mouth.

"...So it is," she says, weakly. Ingrid sniffs.

"Well, I, for one," she says primly, "think that rain is perfectly nice weather."

"Oh, you are so full of shit--"

"Okay!" Annette yelps. She frantically waves her hands to draw Felix and Ingrid's attention. "Let's all get along!"

Felix and Ingrid look at her. They look at each other. Then they look back at her.

The judgemental silence is oppressive. Annette shrinks in her seat.

"Um!" she announces loudly, as she sweeps up from her seat. "I, uh, I need to get seconds, so--"

"You haven't finished your food yet," points out Ingrid.

"I need to get seconds. A-Anyway, the both of you stay here, and play nice, alright?" Annette gives them each a hard look, over her tray. "If I come back, and you guys aren't here, I'll… I'll... Uh..."

"Tell His Highness?" Ingrid suggest helpfully.

"No," Felix scowls, aghast, but Annette is snapping her fingers, as she tries her best to transfer and balance her tray on one hand. ...She’s not doing very well.

"Aha!" she declares triumphantly. "Exactly!"

"Like I care what the boar thinks--"

"We'll behave," promises Ingrid.

"I hate you?"

"Great!" says Annette, completely ignoring Felix. "Okay, I'll be riii-- argh!"

Annette shrieks as her tray tips over, crashing to the floor. Ingrid sighs, while Felix raises an eyebrow.

Around them, students continue eating, unfazed. By this point, Annette's clumsiness is nigh legendary, so her fumbling her plate comes as no surprise.

"Oh nooo," wails Annette, staring despondently at her wasted remaining sweet bun. She sends a panicked look up at Felix and Ingrid. "Okay, uh, might take a liiittle longer to get back than expected, whoopssorryabout thatbye--"

And with those eloquent parting words, she bends down to sweep the mess into her hands.

"Annette, wait, no, don't touch the broken glass--" but Ingrid’s horrified warning comes too late, as Annette scoops her mess up as best as she can. “Annette--“

“Everything is fine!” Annette screeches, before turning tail and running to the nearest cafeteria staff, screaming all the way. Ingrid leans over the table in an attempt to peer closer, a worried furrow to her brow.

“Did she cut herself?” Ingrid mutters frantically under her breath. “Oh, Annette…”

Felix rolls his eyes.

“We have healers,” he says. “She’ll be fine.”

“Felix…” Ingrid sends a disapproving stare his way. “That doesn’t mean we should so recklessly endanger ourselves.”

“It’s literally just a cut. Calm down. We’ve all had worse.”

“If the glass digs into her palm in a bad way, it could turn out dire, Felix, don’t make light of it!”

“If Annette dies to a fucking plate,” says Felix. “I will personally attend her funeral just to laugh at her.”

Ingrid grimaces.

“Must all of your jokes be so tasteless?” she bemoans. Felix stares her straight in the face.

“What makes you think I’m joking,” he deadpans. Ingrid narrows her eyes at him.

“Felix.”

“Ingrid.”

They engage in yet another silent staring contest. Despite Felix’s usual dislike of eye contact, Ingrid breaks first. Felix chalks this up as partially due to his own unwillingness to lose at anything, and partially due to--

“Look, Felix, I didn’t-- I want to talk,” says Ingrid, and she bites her lip. “You’ve been crying.”

As a general rule of thumb, Felix does not cry in front of others. It’s a point of shame, to show his vulnerabilities so openly. Whether he lets out his tears in private is another matter altogether — no, still, because Felix will sooner die than admit weakness even to himself — but the point is that last night was an anomaly; one that Felix very much regrets.

(But if it got through to Sylvain, if it got Sylvain to understand, then maybe--

No. Felix can’t think like that. Disappointment is an old friend by now, but that doesn’t mean Felix has to exacerbate it. Sylvain will have to prove it through his actions before Felix even considers--

Felix digresses.)

So Felix can imagine Ingrid’s discomfort with seeing the evidence of… his late night activities. (It sounds scandalous when put that way, but frankly, Felix would rather he had been having illicit sex in lieu of... crying.)

“Really,” Felix bites out, a sarcastic retort to Ingrid’s stating of the obvious. “What gave it away?”

Ingrid doesn’t respond. Not right away. She turns back to her food, and takes a considering bite. Felix does much the same. It’s an easy excuse not to look at one another.

“I,” says Ingrid, then pauses. Her hesitation drags on, and Felix’s patience snaps.

“What,” he demands. Ingrid casts him a short, momentary glance.

“I talked to Sylvain. A bit. Earlier.”

“Hm.”

“Before class,” Ingrid clarifies.

“Okay,” says Felix. “And?”

“And,” Ingrid stresses. “He didn’t look exactly in tip-top shape, either.”

“Okay,” repeats Felix flatly. “And?”

Ingrid scoffs.

“I really don’t know why you boys are incapable of grasping the fact that I know how to connect basic dots,” she gripes. “Obviously, something happened last night.”

She stops. Licks her lips. Her gaze hovers on Felix’s face.

“...Do you need me to punch him for you?” she asks. Felix snorts.

“No, but do it anyway.”

“Really?” Ingrid asks. Felix opens his mouth to make another snarky remark, but halts. He searches her face; her no nonsense gaze, her lips pulled taut. Oh, he realises, she’s actually being serious.

“...You don’t need to keep coddling us like this,” Felix grumbles. “We can sort it out ourselves.”

Ingrid just raises an eyebrow, at that.

“Right,” she says, sarcasm heavy in her tone. “And that’s why after weeks of absolutely zero communication, you suddenly walk into class looking like you’ve been crying the whole night--“

“Ugh, just, shut up,” Felix groans. He puts his head into his hands. “You’re not our mother. Stop it.”

“Sometimes, I really do feel like I am,” Ingrid shoots back.

“Well, then that’s your problem.”

“It’s not just my problem when the both of you are acting like overgrown children.”

“Like I said. You’re not our personal caretaker. We’re not your responsibilities. Worry about yourself.”

“How am I supposed to do that when the two of you are just…” Ingrid trails off, and waves her arms in some indecipherable hand gestures. “Like that?!”

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Felix blandly, “but I’m offended.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t?”

“Don’t act dumb, Felix. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Whatever.”

“Don’t whatever me! Maybe if you were just the slightest bit more in touch with your emotions--“

“Maybe,” counters Felix, “if you weren’t such a bossy control freak--“

“Ohhhhh my Go-- okay, we are not getting into this argument again,” Ingrid rolls her eyes. “This is stupid.”

“It is stupid,” agrees Felix readily. “Let’s never talk again.”

“Is that your default solution to everything?” Ingrid asks in despair. “Actually, wait, no, don’t answer that. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Okay, then,” Felix shrugs. “Guess I won’t say yes.”

“Felix…”

“You keep saying my name, like it’s going to change anything,” says Felix. “I don’t know what you want me to garner from that.”

“I want you to ‘garner’,” Ingrid parrots Felix’s words, making air quotations with her fingers, “that I am very disappointed in you--“

“Don’t care.”

“--and that you should reconsider your life choices.”

“No thanks.”

“Felix.”

“And there you go again,” Felix rolls his eyes. “You’re not my keeper, Ingrid. Just shut up already.”

Ingrid glowers at him. Her hand twitches on her knife, like she’s barely managing to restrain herself from stabbing Felix with it.

“I cannot fathom,” she hisses, and Felix mentally braces himself, “just why you have to be so fucking rude all the time. Would it kill you to just be honest with your feelings for once in your life?”

“On the contrary,” says Felix, “I think I’m being very honest.”

Ingrid’s hand twitches again. Harder.

“Have you ever considered,” she asks, “that it’s your own emotional constipation and inability to express yourself that always causes all of these, ah, ‘problems’ you constantly complain about?”

“I don’t know,” snipes Felix. “Have you ever considered that maybe it’s your insistence on remaining stuck in the past, and your own selfish need to force everything to conform to your perfect molds that’s causing these, ah, ‘problems’ that I constantly complain about? Whatever the hell that means.”

“Are you-- ugh, fuck, we’re doing it again,” Ingrid groans. She shoves half a bun into her mouth and chews, a childishly annoyed expression on her face. Felix watches with half-amused disgust. Ingrid side-eyes him.

“Shut up,” she says. Or, at least, Felix thinks she says. It’s hard to make out her words when they’re muffled by a mouth filled with food.

“Swallow before you speak,” says Felix. “And, like I said before. Let’s never talk again. We always end up just arguing this same point anyway. There’s no meaning to it.”

Ingrid tries to talk through the food in her mouth again, but it comes out so garbled, even she eventually gives up with a frustrated look on her face. So Felix is treated to a few seconds of angry, vicious chewing, followed by a loud gulp, and then Ingrid whirling on him.

“There’s no meaning to it because you never listen to what I have to say!” she berates. “Is it wrong for me not to want my friend to be a total jerk? No matter how many times I tell you to stop being so damn rude, you’re just all like,” Ingrid deepens her voice, in what is a frankly terrible impression of Felix, “Ooh, don’t care. Well, you should care! You’re better than this, Felix. Stop being so… so…”

She flails in Felix’s general direction.

“Like that?” Felix echoes her words from earlier, mockingly.

“Yes,” Ingrid glares. “Like that.”

“Oh, well my sincerest apologies, Lady Galatea,” Felix sneers, and he feels a vicious satisfaction at the way Ingrid goes cold and furious. He’s hit a button, clearly; one that they both know too well. Perhaps that’s why it stings. “Next time, I’ll be sure to act the proper part of a chivalrous knight--“

“That,” Ingrid’s knuckles go white around her fork, “is not what I mean, and you know it!”

Felix laughs, meanly.

“Do I?”

“Felix--“

“Because honestly,” Felix says, and the words just slip out, “sometimes I feel like you wish I was Glenn instead.”

Ingrid chokes.

Felix instantly chomps down on his own lip, already wishing he could take the words back and shove them deep somewhere neither of them have to see. But Ingrid is already reeling back, with a shocked expression on her face, and something dangerously close to hurt flickering in her eyes.

It’s not that Felix was holding it back to spare Ingrid’s feelings, or anything. Or, well, maybe — but that’s… Felix digresses. Felix doesn’t like to admit his weaknesses; to speak them aloud and verify them in the unfortunate truth of his reality.

Yet now is one of his most irrational insecurities out in the open. Hanging in the air. And out of the confines of Felix’s own mind, it feels terrifyingly genuine.

“Felix… I never--“ Ingrid cuts off, and looks down. “I don't--“

“I know you don’t,” Felix interrupts harshly. Ingrid flinches back, again, and Felix unwillingly shrinks in his seat. “It’s… nevermind,” Felix mutters. “...Sorry.”

Ingrid blinks, a conflicted look crossing her face.

“Oh,” she says. “Uh.”

Felix bristles.

“What,” he spits.

“Nothing!” Ingrid waves her hands hastily. “I… just didn’t expect such a quick apology! That’s all.”

Felix scowls.

“Fuck, why does everyone always say that?” he complains. “First Ashe, and now you. Is it really so hard to believe?”

Of course, Ingrid has to ignore his actual point, and zeroes in on the most useless part of his sentence. She raises an eyebrow. “Ashe?”

“Yes,” Felix snaps, and doesn’t elaborate, despite Ingrid’s clear curiosity.

A beat passes, thick and awkward.

Thankfully, Ingrid quickly (and visibly) resigns herself to never hearing the answer. Which is good. Because if Felix ever has to recite the details of that incident to anyone, ever, he’d have to kill them. And then himself, because he wouldn’t be able to bear living with the embarrassment of repeating it aloud.

So instead, Ingrid sighs, and turns the topic back to its original, morose subject.

“...You know I don’t think that, Felix,” she says quietly.

“I know,” Felix says, aggravated.

But Ingrid just sends him a sad look. Like she doesn’t believe him. Felix glares.

“I know,” he repeats, emphatically. He looks away, unable to stomach seeing that stupid look on Ingrid’s face any longer. “Just…” he mutters, his mouth moving on its own accord, “You talk about him. A lot.”

“...He was my inspiration,” Ingrid says wistfully. “And now that I’m finally here, and my dream actually seems in reach, I…”

Felix clenches his fists. Grits his teeth.

“What,” says Ingrid, after a pause. “Not going to talk about how foolish the ideals of being a knight are?”

Felix snorts. “There’s no point,” he says bitterly. “You won’t change your mind anyway. So go on and die your noble death. I’ll be here, reaping the seeds you can’t.”

Another pause. Longer, this time.

“...Can’t you just be straightforward for once in your life?” Ingrid is the one to break the silence, predictably. “Is it really so hard for you to say ‘I don’t want you to die?’ ”

Hearing it said aloud like that — so blunt and so terribly, terribly sincere — makes Felix want to puke.

“You still understood in the end, didn’t you?” Felix retorts caustically, deliberately side-stepping all the filthy implications that come with him...well, side-stepping Ingrid’s words.

“But not all the time,” Ingrid keeps on insisting. “I want to talk, Felix. I want to be close again. But it’s hard when you keep pushing us away like this.”

“Because it’s fucking annoying talking to you,” Felix bites out. “When it feels like all you want is for us to play house like we used to. And lecture us on shit we damn well know about, and talk on and on about how much you want to fucking die--”

“I don’t want to die!” Ingrid bursts out, and Felix’s mouth snaps shut with a clack. “Felix, being a knight isn’t all about dying! You know this! Stop twisting its creed to suit your own needs! I want to serve my country. I want to help my people. If I have to die for them, then so be it, but first and foremost I will live for them. My life dedicated to their service. Is that so bad?!”

“...Hah,” Felix scoffs. “Are you even hearing yourself? What good is a life pledged to another, and not yourself? Living for someone, dying for someone; dress it up all you like but the fact is that if you’re so damn willing to lay your life down for a pointless endeavor, you may as well not live at all.”

“...It’s not pointless to me, Felix,” Ingrid says softly. “...Stop disrespecting me. Stop disrespecting Glenn--”

“Stop fucking talking about Glenn’s death,” Felix growls. “I’m sick and tired of you trying to fucking glorify my brother--”

“Why can’t you let me believe that he died for a reason!” Ingrid cries out. “You’re always so insistent that he died meaninglessly or that he died for nothing — what the hell is wrong with having pride in his fucking pride?”

Silence falls over the two of them.

Felix looks away.

Around them, the air is filled with the sound of meaningless chatter, cutlery clanking, and the innocent laughter of students hoping to become future knights. Not for the first time, Felix wonders what it’d be like; to be like them.

Ingrid opens her mouth first, her brow furrowed and a pained grimace on her face, but Felix beats her to the punch.

“...You know,” he says distantly, “my old man used to say that there was no glory in war.”

Ingrid blinks, caught off-guard by both the topic change, and the content of Felix’s words.

“...Really?” she asks doubtfully. “Rodrigue?”

Felix snorts.

“Surprising, isn’t it,” he says scornfully. “...To tell the truth, I suspect he still believes this, even now. Yet knowing that won’t stop him from taking up arms and fighting to his last breath, should the worst come to pass. Nor did it stop him from from treating his own damn son like a soldier. ...Who the fuck says that about their kid? Honestly. ‘A noble death’. What fucking bullshit.”

“Felix…”

“It’s not that I believe sacrifices are unnecessary,” Felix drones on. “I’m not stupid. Or naive. People are always going to die. And you know what? You don’t have to pretend like there’s a fucking reason for it. Some people die and they change jackshit. You send soldiers out and they lose the war. There’s no need to act like their deaths were worthy, or anything. They fucking lost and they fucking died. That’s all there is to it. ...If you keep blinding yourself with all this idealistic bullshit, then in the end, you’re going to lose sight of what matters most in the end.”

Ingrid bites her lip.

“...The people,” she finishes, for him.

“Exactly.”

They fall into another silence. Though this one is shorter. Ingrid stares down at her lap, past her empty plate and into her twiddling hands.

“...You’re not wrong,” she laughs mirthlessly. “I mean, I wouldn’t say you’re strictly right, either, but… Anyway. ...I know this, Felix.”

“Do you now.”

“I do,” answers Ingrid calmly. Felix bristles.

“Then why-”

“I know that there’s a difference between the knights in the storybooks and the knights in reality,” Ingrid says, soft. “...You know what His Highness said to me the other day? About Glenn. …’He must have died an agonising death, full of pain and regret.’”

Felix flinches involuntarily.

“It made me think, honestly,” Ingrid admits. “Well, not that I hadn’t considered it before, but. You know. And… despite it all? ...I want to be a knight, Felix. Faerghus is my country. Even if I die meaninglessly on the battlefield, choking on my own regrets to the bitter end… For the time I served, I served my people.”

“...The way you speak so casually of your own death is disgusting,” Felix says eventually. He violently stabs his last bun with his fork. “...Don’t you dare say those things to me again.”

Ingrid has the audacity to laugh quietly at that.

“Yeah, Felix,” she says, and there’s a sickening thread of what almost sounds like fondness in her voice. “I won’t. Trust me on this much.”

She leans on the table, elbows braced on the wood.

“We’re never going to see eye-to-eye on this, are we,” says Ingrid. It’s not a lament. It’s not a declaration. Simply a passing comment that rings too true.

“If we ever do,” Felix says, staring down at his food without moving to actually take a bite. “Then strike me down where I stand, because that version of me is someone whom I don’t want existing.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes.

“Ever the dramatic,” she says. “...Well, that’s at least one part about you that hasn’t changed.”

“Hmph. ...And one part about you that hasn’t changed is your appetite, I see,” Felix says dryly. Ingrid jerks back and quickly averts her eyes, pretending as if she hadn’t just been practically drooling over Felix’s plate.

“S-Shut up!” she squawks, and smacks him on the shoulder. Felix rolls his eyes, and pushes her plate in front of her.

“Eat it,” he orders brusquely. “Wouldn’t want you to go so hungry you start plucking plants off of the ground again, would we?”

Ingrid flushes a stark red.

“That was once!” She protests. “...And His Highness assured me they were perfectly safe to eat!”

“And you trusted him?” Felix asks, in scathing disbelief. “The both of you truly are idiots. Just shut up already. Enjoy the meal.”

“Don’t order me around,” Ingrid huffs. “You’re still the youngest of the four of us, you know. Respect your elders, and all that.”

“Shut. Up. And. Eat.”

“I’m eating! I’m eating!”

Once again, Felix is treated to the pleasure of watching Ingrid shovel food into her mouth like an uncivilised barbarian. It’s both revolting and fascinating at the same time. Felix can’t look away.

“You’re disgusting,” he says, in an appalled admiration.

Ingrid flips him off, in the midst of chewing.

“You’re disgusting,” she tells him loftily after swallowing it all down. Felix sneers.

“I know my table manners, you brute. Unbelievable. And you still have the gall to try and nag at me about bullshit, while you act like you’ve never lived in a damn society before.”

“Oh, my sincerest apologies, Sir Felix,” ingrid simpers. “Perhaps you could start setting a proper example for table manners by actually showing up to eat? Maybe the way I eat isn’t very suited for, er, polite company--”

Felix snorts.

“--but at least I eat.”

Felix scowls.

“I forgot, okay,” he defends himself.

“See!” Ingrid glares at him. “And you try to tell me that I don’t need to nag you. Honestly…”

“Urk…” Felix grimaces. “...Just-- Just don’t try to police my whole life, and we’ll be fine, alright?! ...I don’t care if you try to force me out of the training grounds-- well, that’s a lie. I will care, and you’re a fucking asshole. But anyway. Just… just learn how to shut up.”

Admittedly, Felix thinks sourly, he could have worded that better. Fortunately for Felix’s ears, Ingrid seems to get it anyway. She rolls her eyes.

“Okay, we seriously need to work on your tact,” she mutters to herself, and she’s right, but Felix glowers anyway. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I get it. In that case, you should stop being such an asshole about things, and actually say what you mean, instead of just… I don’t know. Being an asshole about it, I guess.”

Felix grunts, in lieu of a proper response.

“...So is that a yes? Or a no?”

Felix grunts, again.

“...I’ll chalk it up as a work in progress, then,” Ingrid grumbles to herself. “Honestly, Felix-“

“Hey!”

Felix (thank the fucking Goddess) doesn’t get to hear the rest of Ingrid’s tirade, because it’s in this moment that Annette chooses to jog back up to them, face red and voice breathless. She stops short, bending over and panting harshly when she reaches their table.

“Sorry for the wait,” she apologises weakly. “I had to talk to the staff, and then I had to pay for the damage, and then I tried helping out ‘cause I felt bad, you know, but then I ended up, uh, not helping them, you know, so like-- Uh. Yeah.”

“Wow,” says Felix, after a pause. “You really suck.”

“Felix!” Ingrid and Annette round on him at the same time. Felix leans back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What?” he sticks out his chin defiantly.

“Don’t be so fucking rude!”

“You’re evil, Felix! Evil!”

So, Felix concedes. Probably not the best idea to incite both his dining partners to yell at him for the better part of their break.

Still, though. Annette just makes it too easy, sometimes.

(Felix eight, Annette three. And Felix stands by this score. No matter how much Annette whines that ugh, Felix, I totally have way more than three points, come on!

She doesn’t, damnit.)

Felix isn't sure where his feet are taking him until he finds himself in front of the greenhouse, and staring at the doors.

It’s a shocking revelation, perhaps, but Felix doesn’t only bury himself in violence to relax. The repetitive motions of swinging a sword, the feeling of his blade cutting through the air; it never truly fails to settle a little piece in Felix, the tiny part inside all Faerghus nobles born and raised for war. But there are times where all it does is get his blood boiling, an irritating surge of adrenaline with an edge that can't be taken off by simple dummies.

Sometimes, Felix just wants to walk, and lose himself in counting his steps.

Ingrid has so far been making good on Felix’s word that he wouldn't mind her dragging him out of the training grounds once in a while (I took it back, he’d growled when she’d staunchly shut down his complaints with a reminder of his ‘promise’. Goddess, does Felix regret ever letting that slip out of his mouth.) and true to her own self, she’s been nagging him about this and that.

Oh, pay attention in class, Felix. Oh, do your work, Felix. Oh, don’t forget to eat, Felix. If you actually collapse then I swear, I’m leaving you on the ground, dumbass.

Ugh.

At least she hasn’t been pestering him to try talking to Sylvain again. Nor has she been trying to chatter his ears off about those insufferable ideals of chivalry she adores so much. A small blessing, perhaps, but one all the same.

Nonetheless, Ingrid seems to have acquired the ability to leave Felix alone when he truly wants to be left alone. So it is Felix, by himself, who stands in front of the greenhouse doors and ponders the decision to enter.

Through the frosted glass windows, he can vaguely make out the shape of two silhouettes. One is conspicuously large, and that in itself almost makes Felix turn away then and there. It's no secret just who frequents the greenhouse the most, and the idea of having to interact with that dog is enough to make Felix sick.

But Felix can't tear his eyes away from the other shadow; yet another obvious guess, especially considering the way the two silhouettes intermingle. And perhaps it should be a turn off, considering the way they had parted just a few nights before, but Ashe still beams at him when their eyes meet, and Ashe still waves at him when they pass in the corridors.

This distance that Felix keeps, he’s beginning to realise, is all self-enforced.

And he could approach at another time; he could close the distance when Ashe is alone and Felix has no witnesses to his own unfortunate bumbling buffoonery around the boy — but his feet are taking him forward, and his arms are reaching up to the door handles.

Felix pushes the doors open.

Ashe and Dedue both look up at him.

As always, Dedue’s face remains infuriatingly neutral, but Ashe breaks out into a sweet smile. The sight of it, that terrifyingly blinding light aimed straight at Felix — it’s giving Felix hives, or something, he swears.

“Oh, Felix! What brings you here?” Ashe asks, his hands clasped around the handle of a watering can.

Hives. Felix swears.

“Uh,” Felix’s mind momentarily blanks out in the aftermath of his sudden, fatal contraction of the disease known as Ashe, “I was...taking a walk.”

Felix inwardly winces. Goddess, why does he always have to sound so damn lame. But Ashe doesn't seem to notice. Or, if he does, he’s polite enough not to mention it.

“Ah, yes, it's nice to just take a stroll around the monastery sometimes, isn't it?” Ashe chatters on, seemingly oblivious to Felix’s inner turmoil. By now, Felix knows enough to know that Ashe isn’t; but as long as neither of them speak of it aloud, then Felix, at least, can also feign ignorance.

“It really helps me relax!” Ashe continues, tipping his watering can and letting a light rain soak the soil. “Or, well, I mean. With all the stuff that's been going on lately, it’s not exactly… but, still, it's a beautiful place, don't you think?”

“...I suppose,” Felix allows. They both verbally sidestep the part where, now, two of the monastery staff have been uncovered as traitors and murderers seeking (presumably) terrible goals, but, well. No biggie, right, Felix thinks sarcastically.

Felix doesn't remember too much of their mission in Remire Village, if he's being honest. It had been during those terrible weeks where his mind had been in a daze; living mindlessly on from day to day, going through his routines with a robotic stiffness and a lack of heart. There had been times he’d woken up, and realised that he’d already forgotten the entirety of yesterday.

That being said, it’s hard to erase the memories of the burning fire, the screaming villagers. The way the boar had finally let slip his mockery of a facade of someone who Felix had once pledged his eternal devotion to, and shrieked in mad delight as he’d thrust his lance through his hapless enemies. The way that the librarian, who Felix doesn't even recall the name of, had changed, his facial features morphing into that of a beast uglier than the boar himself.

It’s these horrific moments that lodge themselves in Felix’s head, that carve their way into Felix’s mind and refuse to leave.

Nonetheless, what’s over is over. Almost a month has passed since then, and Felix is standing in the monastery greenhouse, surrounded by plants and the warm brightness of Ashe’s grin. So he shakes the thoughts out of his head, and listens when Ashe begins to speak again.

“Are you interested in gardening, Felix?” Ashe asks, cocking his head. Felix takes a little too long to respond, apparently, because Ashe seems to take his silence as an invitation to reach his arms out, presenting his watering can to Felix like it’s some modern marvel.

“Here,” he says. “Take it.”

Felix stares like an idiot. Then, slowly (like an idiot), he reaches his own hands out to…accept(?) the…gift(???).

Ashe’s fingers brush against Felix, and Felix involunarity freezes for a second (like. An. Idiot). His cheeks go a light, traitorous red, but he forcefully banishes the flush from his face as he grasps the watering can.

And then Felix is holding it, blinking dumbly down at the green plastic in his hands.

(???)

“...Okay,” he says dumbly. “Now what?”

Which, in retrospect, is an incredibly stupid question to ask. Obviously, Felix is going to water some fucking plants, or something. But there has to be a technique or something to it. Right?

Felix doesn’t garden. How’s he supposed to know?

Ashe is watching him, amused. Behind him, the dog’s eyebrows are raised. Which is. Well. The only one Felix’d hate seeing that expression on more would be the boar.

Felix glares at the man, and bares his teeth. He grips the watering can tighter.

At the sudden change in Felix’s face, Ashe glances back, bemused, following Felix’s gaze. He stares, for a moment. When he looks back, he looks distinctly exasperated.

But he doesn't say anything about it. Which, ironically, makes Felix feel worse than if Ashe had bothered lecturing him.

What Ashe chooses to say instead is, “Here, Felix.”

And he beckons Felix forward. Like a particularly stubborn puppy.

Coming from anyone else, it’d feel condescending. It does feel condescending, even now. Somehow, still, Felix finds himself following, with only a brief scowl and a quiet, half-hearted mutter. He steps in front of the plants that Ashe and Dedue seem so enamoured with, and peers down at them dubiously.

To Felix, they’re just plants. Exotic plants, for sure, but plants still all the same.

Yet Ashe’s eyes light up when he talks about them.

“These are plants native to Duscur,” he enthuses. “They’re pretty, aren’t they? And so unique. Before coming here, I’d never even heard of them before. Isn’t it fascinating, Felix?”

“...Ah,” Felix says. His gaze flicks unwillingly to Dedue. “...So they are.”

Dedue looks back. He still doesn't say a word.

“Yes,” Ashe hums. “They’re more used to a dry environment, so they don’t need to be watered often. But when you water it, it has to be completely through! So until the water starts flowing out onto pan below it and all. Oh,” Ashe claps his hands together, “but not until the pan is completely overflowing, or anything like that. Caspar did that, once. And then he didn’t pour it out. It was awful.”

“I...see,” says Felix. This is a blatant lie. Felix does not see. This is, in fact, the first time Felix has touched a watering can in his life.

The combination of Felix’s incredibly shitty lie, along with Ashe’s natural aptitude for seeing through people’s bullshit results in Ashe smiling at Felix. There’s a soft fondness to it, and Felix swallows.

“I’ll show you,” says Ashe. Which is fine, and all, but then Ashe puts a considering hand on his chin. “Or, actually, Dedue could. He’s far better than me at gardening, in any case.”

Which is not fine.

“Hm,” says Felix cooly, in an attempt to disguise his utter disgust at the mere suggestion. The dog? Teach him? Felix would rather not. And that’s an understatement.

“Ashe,” says Dedue, finally. It’s the first thing that Felix has heard from the man since Felix walked in. “While it may be true that I’m more familiar with matters such as these, you make a far superior teacher than I.”

“Nonsense!” Ashe shakes his head, and there’s already a sinking feeling in Felix’s gut. “You’re very good at explaining things, Dedue! After all, you taught me all those Duscur recipes, didnt you?”

If Felix looks close enough, he can almost see the minute twist down of Dedue’s lips. But otherwise, the man remains a brick wall.

“...I suppose so,” he says eventually. An inevitable result.

Ashe beams.

“Okay, that’s great!” It’s not great. “This is super convenient as well.” It’s not super convenient. “I actually need to go check on something really quick, so I’ll be right back. You two better get along while I’m gone, alright?”

With those ominous (to Felix, at least) parting words, Ashe practically runs out of the greenhouse. Felix doesn't even have the chance to call after him, to — what, protest? Agree? Grunt, noncommittally? Felix isn't sure.

Whatever it is, it's too late now. And Felix is alone with Dedue. He eyes the man suspiciously. Dedue, as always, returns it with a neutral stare. Dog, Felix almost lets slip out, but he bites it back.

It's irrational, really. Ashe isn't even here. And even if he was, then it's not like that should affect Felix's actions any. It doesn't matter what kind of civil front Felix puts on; Felix will still think the dog a dog on the inside. All this front will show, Felix concludes, is that he is a coward, and a liar.

...But still, Felix bites it back.

"Fine," he grunts instead, and his knuckles go white around the stupid neon green watering can. "Let's just get this over with."

But Dedue doesn't make any move to begin.

"You realise that if you truly wish not to," he says instead, carefully, "Ashe will not begrudge you if you refuse."

Felix glares.

“Whatever,” he hisses. “Just shut up and tell me about leaves, or something.”

“There are more to plants than just leaves,” Dedue replies, still infuriatingly calm. Felix wants to wipe that-- well, there’s not really a look on Dedue’s face, now, is there. Felix just wants the dog to show something, at least. So Felix can know that his words are being heard, and acknowledged.

“Oh?” he scowls. At this point, he’s just being difficult for the sake of being difficult. Which is a juvenile act entirely below Felix, but as long as he doesn’t think about it too hard, then Felix can ignore that fact. “Well maybe I’d know that if you started explaining, so start explaining.”

“Hmmm,” says Dedue, still stubbornly unreadable.

“What,” Felix snaps.

But Dedue doesn't respond to Felix’s demand. He, instead, finally turns to the plants. Great. The one time Felix wants him to actually talk, and he doesn’t. Fantastic.

Dedue stares at the plants for a moment. Then he reaches up, and lightly pinches one of the leaves between his fingers. With his other hand, he lightly scatters...something into the soil. Felix will freely admit that he has absolutely no clue what the man is doing.

“These ones are a special variety unique to Duscur,” Dedue says. “Duscur is a cold and dry place. Not much fauna are able to tolerate that environment. The ones that do grow have evolved for many years, adapting to the harsh climate for their continued survival.”

“...They’re just plants.”

“That is true,” Dedue says, unruffled. “Yet that does not mean we should respect them any less. It does not rain often, in Duscur. Ironically, it is during the summer when these plants get the most of their water; when the snow melts. In the winter, they dry up, but that is simply another phase of their lifespan. When summer comes around again, they perk up again, as if nothing had ever happened.”

“...Okay,” says Felix, for lack of anything better.

“Of course, here is a far warmer climate than in Duscur,” Dedue says. “An eternal summer, of sorts. Just because they are able to tolerate the winter does not mean that we should force it on them. So we will take care of them as is appropriate. Now is the scheduled time to water them. Like Ashe said earlier, simply ensure that the soil is wetted thoroughly. There is no need for any particular technique, with these ones.”

“...So I literally just pour it in,” Felix says dubiously.

“Yes. Duscur plants are hardy. Even when mistreated, they will still live on,” says Dedue. Felix narrows his eyes.

“Wow. Enlightening. You could have just said ‘water them’, you know,” he scoffs. “I was under the impression that this was going to be hard. Even a child could do this.”

“Perhaps,” Dedue shrugs. “But you asked me to explain. And so, I explained.”

“I didn’t--! Whatever,” Felix cuts himself off with a mutter, as he belatedly realises that yes, he did kinda ask that.

Ugh.

Blessedly, they both remain silent as they take care of the rest of the plants. Felix can’t claim to know shit about anything in here, but he does know how to tip a watering can over. And, as much as he hates it, he does know how to follow instructions. Dedue is short and curt as he informs Felix what to do, what not to do, and Felix acquiesces with only slight grumbling.

Which, Felix thinks, is a pretty damn good accomplishment for him.

But, of course, no good thing lasts forever. Felix stiffens when Dedue, done with...whatever it is he’s doing, turns to him. He waits in tense anticipation, setting down the watering can, as Dedue stares, then, slowly, opens his mouth.

“I dislike you,” says Dedue.

Felix had expected many things. Felix had expected more plant facts, maybe. Or perhaps a lecture on how Felix treats the boar. Or maybe even a quiet demand to get out, and never show his face again.

Felix, frankly, hadn’t expected this; this blunt, tactless declaration of the lack of love lost between them.

He’s stunned speechless for a moment, before his brain reboots, and his mouth moves ahead of it.

“...Wow. Okay,” he says. He gathers himself. “I see that it's also human social niceties that you lack. Fitting, I suppose. In any case, the feeling is mutual.”

Dedue looks at him flatly.

“Ironic,” he says. His voice is bland. “Considering how tactless your own words are. But I digress.”

“Oh?” Felix tilts his head up. Being that he is currently talking to the tallest person in the monastery (as far as Felix knows, at least), it’s rather impossible for Felix to literally look down his nose at the dog. But he does it in spirit. “No. Tell me. Let me know just how a do-- ...someone like you sees me.”

“...I see you’ve gained some semblance of manners since we last spoke,” Dedue says dryly. The subtle sarcasm is not lost on Felix. “I assume the cause to be your talk with Ashe?”

Felix opens his mouth to retort, when the actual content of Dedue’s words register in his mind. So he gapes, instead, mouth hanging for a brief moment, before he blurts out, “He told you about that?”

Felix instantly snaps his mouth shut. But it’s too late, of course. Embarrassment courses through Felix’s body, before he hurriedly shuts it down, and shoves all these stupid emotions into box to be properly examined and opened later on. In the wonderful privacy of his own damn room, where nobody can look.

“No,” Dedue demurs, and Felix’s shoulders do not sag with relief, thank you very much. “None of the details, at the very least. Simply, I was the one he came to after that incident with you and Sylvain in the library. He was rather distraught at the time.”

So he knows that much as well. How...humiliating. Yet another feeling to lock up for the time being.

“In the end,” Dedue finishes. “He did not so much need my advice, as he needed someone to vent to. Ashe is a strong person, after all.”

“...So he is,” Felix says. His voice is a bit too soft for his liking. Evidently, Dedue thinks much the same, from the way he scrutinises Felix. Felix can feel the traitorous heat crawling up the back of his neck.

“...Shut up,” he barks.

“I did not say anything,” says Dedue. Felix bristles.

“I don’t care.”

“Hm.”

“What.”

Silence greets Felix. And he bares his teeth, and clenches his fists, but, in a great show of self-restraint, he doesn’t actually do anything.

If Sylvain were here, he’d call it growth, my dear Felix. Ah, it feels like it was only yesterday when you were crying all over my shirt-

And then Felix would punch him.

“...We’ve gotten off-track from my initial point,” Dedue’s voice brings Felix back out of his idle musings. Felix shouldn’t be thinking about Sylvain now, anyway. Not when they haven’t even talked since that dreadful night. “As I was saying, I dislike you,” repeats Dedue.

“Okay,” Felix says, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes. “Don't know why you're telling me this, but okay.”

“I am telling you this because I think this will be one of the very few times we will talk like this. So, while we have the chance, I feel it appropriate to speak,” Dedue says bluntly. “Openly and honestly. Felix. I dislike you. I dislike your abrasiveness. Most of all, I despise the way you treat His Highness.”

“Oh yeah?” Felix bites out. “Not even going to say how you hate me because of the way I treat you, specifically? Because frankly, I’d think that's the most valid reason you could have.”

“It does not matter how you treat me,” Dedue shakes his head. “I am used to worse.”

Felix snorts. “And that's why I hate you,” he sneers. “For goodness sake, get a will of your own. It’s all going to end up going to shit. I just know it.”

Dedue narrows his eyes. It feels like a victory, almost, except it really, really doesn’t.

“The boar and you are terrible influences on each other,” Felix continues, driven on by the actual change in expression on Dedue’s face. “The both of you are simply dogs barking mindlessly at each other, egging each other on. It’s a vicious cycle of inhumanity. The boar doesn’t need a fucking enabler. He needs someone to call him out on his shit.”

Dedue cocks his head, and puts a hand on his chin. “...You speak as though you would prefer to be the one by his side.”

Felix’s mouth drops open at the sheer audacity of that statement. And then he shakes his head furiously. “Oh, hell no,” he snaps. “I'm not touching that beast with a ten foot leash.”

"...I truly do not understand you," says Dedue, finally.

"Good," says Felix. Dedue ignores him.

"You call His Highness a beast, yet you seem to wish for him to regain his humanity," he continues heedlessly, his eyes a piercing discomfort on Felix's body. "You preach allowing the dead to lie, yet you persistently cling to someone whom you refer to as a “walking corpse”. And for all you scorn duty and the ideals of loyalty, you still-“

“Enough!” Felix clenches his fist. His nails dig into his palm harshly, a paleness spreading over his hands. "I don't care about that stupid boar. Stop trying to read into things that aren't there. I know you damn well know what that boar is, so just give it up already."

The silence that follows his words makes Felix's skin prickle. It's a terrible feeling.

“...What an ugly name,” murmurs Dedue, eventually. And Felix zeroes back in on him.

“What?”

It does not come out as harsh as Felix wants it; Felix needs to get a grip, before all his edges slip and fall out beneath his feet.

"Boar," repeats Dedue. "...What an ugly name."

Felix scowls.

"It doesn't matter how 'ugly' it is," he scoffs. "A boar is a boar is a boar. If you don't like it, then stop talking to me."

"Hmph. Fine," Dedue says. The lack of denial; within Felix is a contrasting wave of vicious satisfaction, and a cold, boiling pit of... something. Whatever it is, Felix pushes it aside, as Dedue lifts his head and continues, "But allow me to say one last thing."

"Whatever," Felix grits out.

“...Have you ever wondered,” Dedue asks, “if it’s your voice and words that His Highness hears in his nightmares?”

Felix stares, for a long, blank moment.

And then--

How dare he.

It’s instinct, the way Felix lunges forward, a haze over his eyes, and raises a fist--

“Oh, hey!”

Ashe calls out as bursts back into the greenhouse, panting heavily.

Felix stops short, stumbling over his own momentum. Dedue untenses from the defensive stance he’d subconsciously taken up. And Felix whips around, arm lowering in a slow mortification at his own loss of control.

Ashe pauses in the doorway. His gaze flickers between the two of them.

He does not look very surprised. For some reason, that lodges a stone in Felix’s gut, heavy and sinking.

“Well,” says Ashe after a moment, “I’m glad the plants are doing well.”

He smiles.

This — Ashe’s words? Ashe’s calm nonchalance? Ashe’s mere existence? — should not make Felix feel like a child with their hand caught in the cookie jar. But it does. At the very least, Dedue doesn't seem much better. There’s an actual expression on the man’s face, an unsure sort of guilt.

This does not make Felix feel any better.

“Oh, but you guys still haven’t taken care of the right side, have you?” Ashe cocks his head.

“Ah,” Dedue coughs lightly. “As those are the more delicate ones, I…”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Ashe beams. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

Felix drifts back, and watches, still on edge.

Delicate.

Felix is not a delicate man, whether it be in words, actions, or thoughts. Thusly it’s only sensible for him to hang back, to play a mere observer as Ashe and Dedue do the actual work. Thusly, it would be all the more sensible for him to leave right here and now.

But he doesn’t.

There’s a certain awkwardness to the air that Dedue and Felix both feel acutely, and that Ashe seems to ignore. His light, mindless chatter fills the silence; albeit it’s a very one-sided conversation as something sticks in Felix’s throat, preventing the words from exiting. And Felix doesn’t know what goes through the dog’s mind, but he’d wager that Dedue feels much the same.

They finish up with little fanfare. Upon leaving, the cool air hits Felix with all the familiarity of a childhood spent in one of the coldest places in Fodlan. Here, at Garreg Mach, even the winters are no match for Fraldarius autumns. But Felix can feel, still, the oncoming chill of the approaching season. It’s a welcome change, if nothing else.

“I am needed elsewhere,” Dedue says abruptly. Both Ashe and Felix glance at him. “I’ll see the both of you tomorrow. It was...not an unpleasant experience.”

Felix narrows his eyes. Dedue’s always been hard to read; this is no exception.

“I see,” Ashe dips his head in casual acceptance. “See you tomorrow. We’ll be heading back now!”

“Huh?” says Felix, who has not been informed of this. He whips his head around to goggle ungracefully at Ashe.

Both Ashe and Dedue ignore him.

“I see,” says Dedue. “Stay safe.”

“Wait,” says Felix.

Both Ashe and Dedue still ignore him.

“You too,” Ashe shoots Dedue one last parting smile, and then he grabs hold of Felix’s wrist. Felix instantly goes stiff, mind blanking as he lets himself be dragged along. “Bye!”

Dedue nods. And then he’s out of sight.

It’s not a long walk from the greenhouse to the dormitories. But Ashe seems to be taking measures to walk as slowly as possible, so by the time Felix’s brain reboots, they still haven’t reached it. Felix blinks, and is instantly struck by the conflicting desires to either

A. wrench his hand away from Ashe’s.

B. do nothing.

...It’d be awkward to suddenly act now, Felix concludes.

Ashe, having seemingly realised that Felix is back among the living, looks up at him and smiles.

“You know, Felix,” he says. “That actually turned out a lot better than I thought it’d would!”

Felix opens his mouth. Hesitates, for a few short moments.

He’s not really sure what to say in response to that, considering Ashe had literally walked in to the sight of Felix almost punching Dedue in the face.

“...Was it really,” he settles on eventually, voice flat.

“Well,” Ashe allows, “it could have been better. But I was half-expecting you to have stormed out within the first thirty seconds, so yes. It did turn out a lot better than I thought it would.”

Felix… has nothing to say in response to that.

“Even if it didn’t end up very nice,” Ashe continues, disregarding Felix’s loss for words, “I’m just happy that the two of you did manage to talk some. I kinda thought that the both of you would just ignore each other the whole time or something.”

“...Maybe it would have been for the better if we did,” Felix mutters. Ashe shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don't know what went down between the two of you. But it happened either way, so it's up to you what you learn from it.”

Once again, Felix doesn’t know what to say. But Ashe seems satisfied either way, so they continue walking. Before them, the dormitories come into view.

“...I’m glad we can still talk like this,” says Ashe. Felix casts a glance at him. Ashe is looking forward, stubbornly. “To tell the truth, after what happened, I was worried you would never approach me again.”

“...That’s ridiculous.” Felix can’t help but comment.

“Maybe,” Ashe laughs. It’s been a while since he’s heard the sound, Felix realises. “But, I don’t know. I worry, sometimes. So I was irrationally relieved when I saw you walk into the greenhouse. And it was fun, gardening together. Even if you and Dedue were pretty tense the whole time.”

Felix looks down at their feet.

“...Sorry,” he mutters. Ashe’s hand squeezes, warm around Felix’s wrist.

“You don’t need to apologise,” says Ashe. “Not everybody can get along. That's just how the world works. What matters is cherishing the friends that you do have.”

They reach Ashe’s door. Ashe’s arm falls back to his side, and the breezes prickles cold over Felix’s wrist. Felix stands, dumbly and silently, as Ashe opens his door and crosses the threshold. Then, he turns back to face Felix.

“Thanks for walking me back,” says Ashe. Felix chokes.

“I--” he sputters. “We were just walking together! Don’t-- make it sound so weird!”

There’s a tiny, miniscule smirk on Ashe’s face.

“It was very gentlemanly of you,” he demurs. Felix stares, stunned, for a single, humiliating moment.

“...You’re actually evil?” Felix manages to get out, after scrambling for his word. “What the fuck?”

“No idea what you mean,” Ashe blatantly lies. And then he smiles, brightly, softly.

Felix's heart does a flip in his chest. Something must show on his face, because Ashe’s smile turns just slightly sad at the corners. A distant longing flickers over his face for the briefest moment, before it's gone.

“I’ll see you around, Felix,” says Ashe.

And then he closes the door.

If Felix had thought Remire Village to be bad, then the result of this one blows that out of the water.

Felix does not get the displeasure of watching it happen. None of them do, actually. Professor Byleth orders them to go on ahead, and so the professor is alone when their father dies in front of their eyes.

Instead, Felix and the rest of his classmates are treated to the sound of an unfamiliar scream, and the skies abruptly opening up in a torrent above them. There are legends of crests giving people powers beyond even the strongest of magic; the winds that blow a song, the animals that chirp in tongue, the weather that changes on a whim.

But for now, that is the last thing on Felix’s mind. The class doubles back in a panic, and Professor Byleth is clutching their father’s cooling body, and Professor Byleth is soaked in the pouring rain, and Professor Byleth’s mouth is open with no words to exit.

It’s been a week since then, and still the somber mood permeates the monastery. Felix is beginning to suspect it might never leave, really.  

Yet, even now, some things never change.

“Do you think the professor would appreciate this?” Annette frets, ever paranoid. “Are we, like, overstepping? I don't want to accidentally be rude, or disrespectful or anything!”

“You worry too much, Annie,” Mercedes is quick to reassure her. “I’m sure they’ll be very touched by the gesture.”

“Oh, I just don't know…”

Sitting at one of the tables just a few metres away, Felix hmphs.

It’s late. The dining hall is empty apart from the three of them; Felix looking to grab a quick bite after his training session that ran overtime, and Mercedes and Annette baking sweets in an attempt to cheer Professor Byleth up.

Felix should really just stay quiet, finish his food and go, but he finds himself opening his mouth, anyway.

“Stop freaking out,” he grunts. “You’re being stupid.”

Annette whirls on him.

“Shut up, Felix!” she cries out, and Felix snorts. Mercedes sends him a mildly chastising glance, but he just shrugs unrepentantly.

“What do you think they're going to do, stab you?” Felix scoffs. “It’s sweets. You made them out of the good of your heart, or whatever. That should be reason enough for them to accept it.”

“Shut up, Felix!”

“He does have a point,” Mercedes chimes in cheerfully, and Annette turns to her with a betrayed gasp. “Besides, Annie, have you ever been upset by a plate of sweets before?”

Annette scoffs. “Of course not!”

“I have,” Felix mutters under his breath. But clearly not soft enough, because Annette shoots him a dark glare, while Mercedes simply gives him a serene stare.

“You don't count,” she tells him blithely. “You're an anomaly.”

“...I’m a what?” Felix should probably feel offended. He thinks. The words themselves are certainly offensive enough. But Mercedes’s kind smile, and her relaxed demeanor are throwing him off, so Felix just ends up feeling conflicted over it. Annoyingly.

"She means that you're a weirdo, and you should stop existing," Annette helpfully translates. "For the better of Fodlan."

Now that, Felix can safely feel offended by.

Mercedes laughs. Felix rolls his eyes. A moment passes, then another, and slowly, that conflicted feeling of dread comes back as Mercedes doesn’t say anything to rebuff Annette’s words.

Felix eyes her warily.

“In any case,” Mercedes continues on, while, Felix notes with some trepidation, still not denying it, “I’m sure the professor will be happier when we present them with this.”

“...They'll appreciate the thought, at least,” Felix reluctantly adds on when Annette still looks unconvinced. “It’s unrealistic to expect them to just-- stop being sad, or whatever but--“

“As long as they feel better,” Annette says, “then it's alright.”

Felix falls silent. He averts his eyes. Mercedes hums, as she whips the batter.

“I mean,” continues Annette, into the silence draped over them. “I don't know. ...When I was younger, Mother used to bake sweets whenever I was upset. So, I guess, I just hope this'll work, you know?”

Felix swallows the last bite of his food. He puts his spoon down. Feeling, suddenly, like an intruder into this oddly personal moment, his eyes go to the exit, but Annette chooses then to address him.

“Hey, Felix,” she says. Felix looks at her. “Your dad’s a knight too, right?”

Felix pauses. Then he barks out an incredulous laugh.

“Yeah,” he says dryly. “He's a knight, alright. I hear some people even call him the Shield of Faerghus, or something.”

“Ugh, shush, you!” Annette brandishes a threatening mixing cup at him. Felix is appropriately threatened by this; that is, not in the slightest. “Anyway, I'm not wrong! Technically! He’s just… uh… a really famous knight.”

“I didn’t say you were wrong,” counters Felix. Annette puffs out her cheeks, and looks ready to fist fight him (to the death), when Mercedes blessedly cuts in.

“Oh, but we've met him before, haven't we, Annie?” she expertly and cheerfully steers the conversation back to safer ground. “He was very polite.”

“Ooh, yeah,” Annette grimaces, successfully distracted. “He was all, oh, Miss Dominic, and talked all about uncle. I had to try so hard not to embarrass myself in front of him!”

Felix scoffs darkly.

“Yeah,” he says shortly. “All noble-like, huh. Sounds like him.”

His curt words are followed by an awkward silence, as Mercedes and Annette exchange telling glances. The sounds of whisking fill the dining hall.

“...You don't like your father much, do you, Felix? Mercedes is the one to break the silence. Beside her, Annette chokes, and smacks her lightly on the arm.

“Oh my gosh, you can't just say that, Mercie!” she hisses under her breath. Felix can hear her anyway. He snorts.

“I don't care,” he tells her flippantly. “And no. I don't like him very much.”

“Oh,” Annette frowns. “...But you still, like, talk to him. Right?”

“I try not to,” Felix says flatly.

“Oh.”

Another awkward silence descends upon them. And once again, Mercedes is the one to save them from the atmosphere.

“Does he send letters often?” she asks, cocking her head. Felix snorts.

“He doesn't,” he says. And if there’s just the slightest hint of bitterness in his voice, well. That wouldn’t make much sense, would it? Felix is the one who cut off contact first. So it must be just his imagination.

“Oh,” Mercedes says, blissfully ignorant of the thoughts racing through Felix’s mind. “That’s good then, isn’t it?”

“Half the reason I came here was to get away from him,” Felix says. A truth, “so I’d certainly hope its ‘good’.”

“Really?” Annette blurts out, then shrinks back when Felix and Mercedes look over at her sudden outburst. “I, er, no, sorry. I was just...surprised! Coming here to get away from your family, huh…”

Mercedes hums.

“Well,” she says serenely, “it's a more common reason than you'd think.”

Annette grimaces. She bites her lip, as she and Mercedes look at each other, sharing a silent conversation that Felix isn’t privy to.

Not for the first time, Felix wonders about the Martritz attached to the end of Mercedes’s name. He doesn't know the details, but he's well versed enough in Fodlan affairs (a side-effect of being raised for the purpose of becoming the boar’s right-hand man) to have heard of the wiped out Imperial house.

Then again, it’s none of his business now, is it.

Felix stares down at his empty plate, and reflects that he should really just get up and go.

Yet Felix has a habit of not listening to anyone, least of all himself.

“I don’t know,” Annette says, wringing her hands. “I guess, oh, well, I guess it’s just weird to me, is all. Since I…”

Mercedes frowns.

“It’s been months, Annie, perhaps…”

“I know,” Annette sighs.

Felix is currently very much regretting not listening to himself.

“Felix,” Annette turns to him again, and Felix stiffens. “How do you do it?”

“...Huh?” Felix asks, very eloquently.

“You know,” Annette insists.

“You're always saying that,” responds Felix dryly, “yet I find that most of the time; no, I don’t know.”

“Ugh,” Annette scowls. “I-- oh, it's hard to say, alright?”

“Then don't say it.”

“Okay, now you’re just being a dick on purpose.”

“Yes,” Felix admits.

“Why are you like th-- oh, nevermind! Felix!” Annette abandons her half made sweets entirely, and goes over to Felix’s table for the sole purpose of slamming her flour-y hands on it. “How do you...give up?!”

Felix blinks.

“...What?”

“No, wait, I don't mean it like tha--“ Annette quickly rescinds her words, before cutting herself off with a smack in her own face, and a groan. She doesn’t seem to register the streaks of flour left behind from her hand, and Felix isn’t much inclined to inform her about it. “Sorry. I didnt word that well. I mean--!”

“Annie wants to know about your relationship to your father,” Mercedes 'helpfully' chimes in. “Also, please wipe your face, Annie.”

“Oh fu-“

Felix’s eyebrows raise at Mercedes’s words.

“...You got that out of it?” He asks dubiously. “I don't see how… 'giving up' has anything to do with my old man.”

“You'll get it eventually,” says Mercedes, very cryptically. This does not inspire much hope in Felix’s heart. What the hell is up with Mercedes and being (unintentionally? Very intentionally?) scary as shit.

“...Right,” he says, then levels a gaze at Annette, who currently has her still flour-y face buried in her arms. Which, Felix could point out, is just creating an even bigger mess. But he won’t, because it’s funnier this way. “...Awfully nosy, aren't you?

“Sorry,” Annette croaks out, muffled. “You don't have to--“

“He and I just don't see eye-to-eye on many things,” Felix cuts her off curtly. “Talking to him is a chore. So I don't. Its as simple as that.”

It’s not. But they don't have to know that.

“...Just like that, huh?” Annette mumbles.

No.

“Yes,” Felix answers decisively.

From the way Mercedes stares at him with her lips pursed, it's probably not as decisive as he'd like it to be. But Annette is sighing mournfully as she looks off into the distance, so it's good enough.

“It'd be nice if I could just do that,” she says. “But…”

Her hands balls into fists, tight, on the tabletop.

“I can't,” she mutters, quietly. Perhaps it's meant to be for nobody's ears but her own, yet in the silence of this big, empty dining hall, it rings out loud and clear. “I won’t.”

Felix holds his tongue.

Not that he knows the specifics, but — the declaration, the desperate determination; those are clues enough.

It is, unfortunately, a sentiment that Felix understands. One he wishes he didn't. This need for confrontation, the search for a resolution that keeps moving further out of reach. Would Felix be able to move on without looking back, and be fine with the concluded non-conclusion — then he would take it, gladly, gratefully.

As it is, though, Felix finds himself thinking, and rethinking, and rethinking; it is a weakness of his he wishes to stamp out, the flames flickering and dying in the embers of his burning heart.

He had tried, really. He had tried so fucking hard.

"...Do what you must," Felix says, finally. "Just make sure you don’t regret it afterwards."

And on that note, he stands, sweeping his tray up.

“Oh,” Mercedes cocks her head, watching him with doe eyes, “leaving already?”

“I'm tired,” Felix responds flatly. “I'm heading back to my room. ...The two of you shouldn’t stay up too late either. You never know what might happen, these days.”

“We'll go to bed once we're done,” Mercedes nods. “There's no need to be worried about us, though I’m touched at the sentiment.”

“...Who says I’m worried,” Felix grumbles, but it's a half hearted protest at best.

Felix leaves to the chorus of farewells from Mercedes and Annette, and the subsequent sound of something clattering to the floor, accompanied by Annette’s yelp. His tray slotted back in the return point, Felix walks, empty handed and alone, back to the dorms.

He'd thought all his energy drained earlier, exerted into his training and leaving him feeling satisfyingly sore. But even now, there's something buzzing underneath his skin.

He blames Annette. Stupid Annette.

So engrossed he is in his own thoughts, he doesn't see the obstacle in his path until he bumps face-first into it. Said obstacle lets out an oof as Felix walks straight into its big, dumb, idiotic, braindead, moronic chest.

Felix stumbles back. And is promptly greeted by the shocked face of Sylvain Jose Gautier himself.

Sylvain blinks, startled.

“...Felix?”

Felix is left gaping, speechless, for a moment. But he quickly gathers his composure.

“Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Sylvain raises his eyebrows.

They’re stuck in another deadlock. Felix crosses his arms, and the threshold first.

“Surprising to see you here alone,” he remarks caustically. “Especially considering the current atmosphere of the monastery. Don't you like bedding those poor girls when the mood is at its lowest?”

Sylvain winces.

“Er, about that, well,” he raises a sheepish hand to the back of his head. “You know. I've been, uh, trying to cut back.”

Felix narrows his eyes.

“Oh?” he asks, in the sweetest tone he has. Which is not very sweet, but he tried. “So the woman the other day was a simple figment of my imagination, I see.”

Sylvain winces. Again.

“Aww, cut me a break,” he protests. “I have been toning it down, yanno.”

Sylvain, Felix reflects, isn't exactly lying. Distantly, absently, Felix has noted somewhere in the back of his mind that he has seen Sylvain with less girls as of late. Though that information hadn’t registered in full until just now.

So. Fine. Maybe just a little bit mercy.

“Whatever,” Felix grunts.

“So mean,” Sylvain says lightly. “You're headed back, right?” Without even waiting for a response, he barrels on. “Me too. Let's walk together.”

“What ever,” Felix repeats. But he doesn't say anything when Sylvain falls into step beside him, as natural as can be.

It’s both irritating, and terribly, annoyingly relieving how normal it all feels. When the knights are out searching for a killer, and tensions run high in the monastery as everyone looks at each other and wonders, what’s next, who’s next? Sylvain and Felix haven't spoken in a while, a surprisingly hard task considering their forced proximity — their dorm rooms and their classes and their everything together and the(y’re)ir everything to each other — but it's simple enough to look at someone and walk away.

Still. Here they are again. Stepping in time to their rooms, only a door in between.

”...Soooo,” Sylvain pops. “What’s been keeping you up so late? Nah, wait, don't tell me. Training, right? Right? Say I'm right.”

“Fuck you.”

Sylvain looks pleased.

“I knew it,” he gloats, despite Felix’s lack of confirmation and subsequent insult. Though, perhaps that in itself is one of Felix’s ways of saying yes.

“Fuck you,” repeats Felix, anyway.

Apparently satisfied, Sylvain falls quiet. The dormitory is not a great distance from the dining hall (an understatement, frankly), so it doesn't take long before the stairs come into view.

They ascend to the second floor, still not speaking. It's not an awkward silence between them; but Felix’d be hard pressed to call it comfortable, either. Could be better. Could be worse.

Felix and Sylvain have been very fortunately blessed with the rooms on the entire other side of the fucking hallway, and thus the need to creak their way past the doors of every single person living on the second floor. At the very least, it's an easy excuse to continue not talking, but there's a small, flickering desire at the bottom of his stomach and buried by the weight of Felix’s twisting guts; it would be easier if we could just--

But Sylvain is an idiot, and Felix isn't much better when it comes to matters such as this, ergo.

Felix’s room is first. And Sylvain’s is only two doors down, but the man pauses, and waits as Felix opens the door. Sylvain grimaces at the sight of Felix’s clothes and books scattered messily over the floor; stupid neat freak, Felix glares back. The last time Sylvain was over (and it’s been a while, Felix realises), he'd reorganised Felix's shelves, and when Felix held him at sword point in aghast fury — I have a system, jackass! — Sylvain had just shrugged.

You put your tea bags between the pages of your History of Fodlan book, he had told Felix, voice low and serious. That shit has to be illegal.

And then Felix jabbed the blunt end of his sword into Sylvain’s stomach, and Sylvain had wheezed before grabbing for one of the many ceremonial swords hanging on Felix’s walls — and the rest, as some may say, is history.

(Felix had won. Obviously.)

Sylvain is still standing dumbly, unmoving, even as Felix steps past the doorway. And Felix turns, and maybe Felix is the idiot, because he hesitates just before he closes the door.

A beat.

If Felix were a weaker man, maybe. Or —and this he'll admit aloud to nobody —maybe if Felix were a stronger man. He'd open the door wider, an implicit invitation in his actions, and then--

And then--

Felix’s mind comes to a blank and a question mark. Felix, in the end, has never been good at coming up with conclusions.

"...Goodnight, Sylvain," so he says stiffly, instead. He starts to close the door--

Sylvain's hand shoots out and grabs it. Felix jerks, blinking, and when he involuntarily looks up and meets wide, amber eyes; that's how Felix knows that Sylvain, too, is not very good at creating endings.

"...Hey," Sylvain says, casually (too casually). "...Mind if I stay over tonight?"

Felix stares. His mind whirls, and whirls, and--

Felix swallows. There is a lump in his throat, and for the life of him, Felix can’t choke it down.

"...You're sleeping on the floor," is what ends up spilling out of his mouth. Not propelled by Felix’s own will, nor checked by Felix’s rationality. Still, Felix doesn't take it back.

For one, that’s embarrassing.

For two, ugh.

“Oh,” says Sylvain. He sounds mildly shocked.

“Well?” Felix bites out, and takes a step back, still holding the door open. “Hurry up before I change my mind.”

“Oh-- right!” Sylvain scrambles in.

Felix shuts the door. Sylvain, as always, is a rude bastard who doesn't waste any time making himself comfortable.

“Oh, sweet,” he says, gaze landing straight on Felix’s bed, “you still have the extra pillow.”

Felix bristles, as Sylvain nonchalantly swipes off his mattress.

“That's for me, asshole,” he snaps.

“You don't need two pillows. Don't be greedy, Felix.”

“Says the blanket hogger,” Felix mutters darkly. Then he shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. “Anyway! When I let you in here, I was under the impression that we’d be sleeping. Not talking. So shut up, and go the fuck to sleep, idiot.”

“Aww, Felix,” Sylvain mockingly simpers. “You mean you don't want to paint our nails and gossip about cute boys? It’s the perfect opportunity, especially when your room is left, right, and above some prime cuts of meat--“

“Talk about the boar like that ever again, and I’m cutting your head off,” Felix threatens.

“Thats fair,” Sylvain concedes cheerfully. “But don’t think I didn’t notice how you made no mention of the other two--“

“Objectively speaking,” says Felix, as cold as he can be when speaking about such asinine topics, “Riegan is an attractive man.”

“Also fair.”

They pointedly make no mention of the boy sleeping just downstairs. Which is good. Because Felix would hate having to go through the effort of hiding Sylvain’s body.

Felix changes into his nightclothes, while Sylvain just strips down to his underclothes, shamelessly flopping onto the carpet half-naked and head burying itself in his stolen pillow.

“You’re really just going to sleep like that,” Felix says, wrinkling his nose with distaste as he settles onto his bed. Sylvain doesn’t even bother with a verbal answer, just shoots a lazy thumbs-up to Felix from the ground. “You’re abhorrent.”

“Chill out, maybe?”

“Maybe you should consider your actions as a guest,” says Felix.

“Well, I mean, if you’re going to go that way, I could say that you’re being a pretty poor host, making me sleep on the floor and all…”

“My bed is not made for two people, Sylvain.”

“You just need to try harder,” says Sylvain, and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I know I’ve made it fit before--“

Felix throws his pillow into Sylvain’s face, and it hits him with a quiet oomph.

“Don’t joke about that,” Felix snaps. It comes out too honest for Felix’s liking, but words are words and once they make it out of someone’s mouth, there’s no taking them back.

Sylvain blinks at him, over the pillow sliding down his face.

“Ah,” he says.

“Ah,” Felix parrots derisively. Sylvain makes a face.

“Geez, you can be so rude sometimes,” he laments, but says nothing more. Felix scoffs. Then, after a beat:

“...Are you going to give that back, or.”

Sylvain hugs Felix’s pillow to his chest.

“Nope!”

Felix stares, for a long, long moment. And then he pushes himself up.

Sylvain quickly throws the pillow back in a panic.

“Joking!” he hastily whisper-shouts, briefly glancing at the walls separating them from Felix’s neighbours. He looks back at Felix with wide eyes. “It was a joke!”

“I didn’t even say anything,” says Felix, but he accepts the pillow graciously, anyway.

He also makes Sylvain be the one to get up, and plunge the room into darkness, because when it comes to certain people, Felix is petty at the best of times. And also, it’s really funny hearing Sylvain curse as he trips over one of the things Felix has lying around his room floor, still.

“How do you live like this,” Sylvain gripes, and in the black of the night, Felix can hear him flopping back down onto the floor with a muffled thump. Moonlight spills in from the window, and in the silvery light, Felix can make out Sylvain’s silhouette.

“I usually clean up,” Felix says. “You just happened to be here on the day I didn’t.”

“Liar,” Sylvain accuses.

Felix shrugs.

“Whether or not you believe me is your own problem,” he says. “I’m just telling you; usually I try to at least keep the floor free.”

It’s not a lie, exactly. Just...Felix doesn’t do it quite as regularly as his words imply. In retrospect, he’d gotten truly lucky that Ashe had broken in on one of the good days.

“Cleaning your room and keeping things organised is a very important part of keeping up appearances, you know,” Sylvain lectures, and Felix snorts.

“Unlike you,” he says, with a little venom seeping in, “I don’t invite people over every other night. There’s no need for ‘keeping up appearances’, or whatever it is that you’re talking about.”

Felix snaps his mouth shut, after.

Once again: words are words are words, and they are left hanging in the air.

Sylvain is silent. Then he rolls over to face Felix.

In the refraction of the reflection of the rays of the sun, Sylvain’s eyes are easy to make out; the slight golden glow, the prism trapped within his cornea. Felix focuses on the slant of Sylvain’s nose, the curve and point; it’s easier this way.

“Hey, man,” says Sylvain softly. “You know I don’t mean it like that.”

“Maybe you should just say what you do mean outright, then,” Felix says. And the way that Sylvain’s gaze bores into him; Felix feels the sting of a hypocritical accusation, and he rolls over.

— or maybe that’s just Felix’s imagination.

Nonetheless, Felix faces away from Sylvain. The feeling of eyes on his back — always watching — never leaving — is discomfiting, but the other option is worse. Felix is not one to protest the decision of bad and worse, the objectivity of black and a little less black. Felix will take the hit and Felix will continue, onwards. It’s as simple as that.

“That would be nice,” says Sylvain, like a distant dream.

Felix curls up, into himself.

“...That’s yourself you’re talking about,” he bites out. “Stop acting like you can’t change it.”

A brief pause.

“Can I?” Sylvain asks.

A brief pause.

“Yes,” Felix says.

A brief pause.

And then:

“Sometimes,” Sylvain says. “I think you have more faith in me than I do myself.”

“I have no faith in you,” Felix mutters.

And then:

“Yeah,” says Sylvain.

In the darkness of his room and in the comfort of his bed, Felix closes his eyes. And breathes in, and breathes out; one, two.

He flips over. Opens his eyes. Sylvain is looking at him.

Felix holds out a fist, with his pinky outstretched.

“Hey, Sylvain,” he says. “Make me a promise.”

Sylvain gapes at him.

“Wha-“

“Shut up,” Felix interrupts. “And just do it right now, asshole.”

“...You’re not even going to tell me-“

“But you don’t break your promises to me, right?” Felix parrots Sylvain’s words, from that night that seems like a damned eternity ago. And he stares, expectantly, at Sylvain; and Sylvain swallows, and reaches out his hand.

When their pinkies interlock, like children too young, Felix says, “So you promise then.”

“I don’t even know what I’m promising,” Sylvain snorts, quietly, “but sure. Okay.”

“Alright, then,” says Felix. “Promise to stop being an idiot.”

And then he lets go.

Sylvain blinks, dumbly at him.

“Too late,” and Felix props his head up on his arm, his elbow digging into his mattress. “You already broke it. You suck.”

Sylvain is still mutely staring, rendered speechless.

“Change yourself for yourself,” Felix tells him shortly. “You’re stupid, so I’ll help you, but if you keep prattling on and on about other people and their feelings and their disappointment, then I’ll run you through myself. Got it?”

Sylvain opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“I,” he says weakly. “I don’t--?“

“The fact is that you’ll always keep disappointing everyone,” Felix tells him bluntly. “No matter what. It’s an inevitability.”

“...Wow, okay, tell it to me straight, I guess?” Sylvain looks utterly confused.

“So just shut up,” Felix says. “And worry about disappointing yourself. If you can stop doing that much, at least, then it’s already enough for me.”

Felix flips back over. If he has to continue looking at Sylvain’s puppy-dumb expression, he might actually just scream.

It takes a few long beats of silence. But eventually, Felix can hear the sound of Sylvain shifting, and the huff of a laugh.

“Geez,” Sylvain says. “Maybe you should just say what you mean outright.”

Felix doesn’t deign that with a response.

“Talking to you is like playing a board game, sometimes,” Sylvain continues complaining. But you like board games. But Felix doesn’t say that out loud, because that is a metaphor too obvious to be lost on either of them. “Seriously,” Sylvain says, “Couldn’t you just have said--“

“Implying that I haven’t already said it countless times,” Felix retorts. “You were just too dumb to get it.”

“I did get it,” says Sylvain. “I just, didn’t like, get it get it--“

“Whatever,” Felix says. “Idiot.”

“...I mean, even now, I still-“

“Idiot,” Felix repeats emphatically.

“Felix--“

“You’re stupid,” says Felix, again, and he makes sure to emphasize every word this time. “So I’ll help you. Has this fact gotten through your dumb, dense brain yet? Or do I have to say it another five times?”

Sylvain is, yet again, rendered mute.

“I still don’t believe you, by the way,” Felix adds caustically. “You always just say the same thing, all oh, sorry, and then you keep doing it. So I’ll just tell you this: do it again and I’ll personally kill you. Got it?”

There’s a pause. Felix can hear Sylvain’s swallow.

“...Got it,” echoes Sylvain.

“Screw up again, and I won’t forgive you,” threatens Felix. “This is your last damn chance, Gautier.”

With that, he closes his eyes, relaxes fists he hadn’t realised he’d clenched, and breathes steadily as he tries to unknot every muscle in his body. Behind him, Sylvain is quiet.

“...Thanks, Felix,” he mutters eventually.

Felix scoffs, halfway to unconsciousness.

“Go to sleep,” he says. Or he thinks he says. It might have come out as an indistinct mumble. Or nothing at all.

Whatever it is: Felix gets the last word — in spirit, at the very least

(“Do you think people will notice that I’m wearing the same uniform as yesterday,” Sylvain whispers to Felix, the next morning.

“Oh my fucking Goddess,” says Felix, and he throws a pillow at Sylvain’s head. “Just go back to your room and change, dipshit.”)

Things aren’t alright yet, but — they could be, Felix thinks. They could be.

Sylvain is an idiot, still, and Felix isn’t much better, he’ll admit. This is a process that takes time, Felix reminds himself, when Sylvain is gone and back with the lingering scent of perfume; the next night and Sylvain is once again barging into his room, whining about this and that.

Go find a different distraction, Felix bitches, and tries to suffocate him with one of his turtlenecks.

Ingrid looks so stupidly, infuriatingly happy whenever she sees them. Felix wants to wipe that smile off her face, to take his sword and bash it away; so he does, again, and again, and again in the training grounds. Annoyingly enough, this does not actually help. Ingrid, if anything, just looks happier.

Asshole.

And sometimes Felix locks himself away, and sometimes he doesn’t see Sylvain, and sometimes there is a gray-haired boy who closes the door, and Felix doesn’t knock —but things could be alright, Felix thinks. They could be, but then:

One month passes, almost two--

Edelgard declares war on the church.