Chapter Text
“Sylvain,”
The man in question stops what he’s doing -- which is nothing much, just greenhouse duty -- as soon as he registers who’s calling upon him. Lorenz, also on duty, grumbles about "work ethic" and "easily swayed" under his breath when Sylvain abandons his post.
“Professor,” the Faerghus noble returns the greeting as he sets his watering can down. “How are you?”
"Just fine." She nods as she approaches, ever calm, and stops at a respectful distance in front of him.
Nevertheless, Sylvain's heart is racing. He’s really got to get this under control.
"Mercedes told me you two were in here." The professor informs him.
At the name, Lorenz flinches away, scuttling deeper into leafy ferns and curling vines.
The Alliance noble would never admit it, but Mercedes scares the shit out of him.
They're on friendly terms now that Lorenz has given up the "I must find a wife befitting of my title" plug, but Sylvain would bet his entire estate that Lorenz has been on the receiving end of Mercie's signature "warm smile, freezing words" sting just enough times to give the woman a wide berth.
Sylvain doesn't blame him. Mercie can be pretty scary when she wants to be.
The more he thinks about it, the more he comes to the conclusion that he and Mercedes are kindred souls, cut from the same cloth-
"I was wondering if you'd heard anything from Felix," Byleth's voice, carefully neutral, breaks him out of his reverie.
Sylvain makes a show of pondering, but really he just wonders if Mercedes has an equally as aggravating childhood friend that she happens to be attracted to in her life.
"I might know something," he admits eventually, flashing a teasing grin.
Byleth crosses her arms, raises an eyebrow, and waits. A silent command to spill.
"Maybe I'll tell you if you take me to tea," her former student wheedles, bending to scoop up the watering can he'd abandoned. "It'd be great if we could talk about something that's not Felix while we're there, too."
"Oh,” surprised, Byleth's arms drop to her sides. “I'm sorry, Sylvain,"
Sylvain dons his brightest grin. Because he really doesn’t mind that the person he’s interested in only wants to talk about the other person he’s interested in but can’t have. Not at all. Absolutely not.
“S’okay, professor. I understand.” He winks at her before tending to the plant in front of him, admiring the waxy leaves before checking the soil’s dampness.
If his old professor needs his help to get closer to Felix, then help he will give.
Who is he to deny a request from Byleth Eisner?
Besides, Sylvain has no shortage of contingency plans. Women fall all over him everywhere he goes. Sure, he’ll never love any of them as much as he loves Byleth or Felix, but Sylvain won’t be alone if Byleth leaves him for someone else.
He will, he’ll be so alone, isolated, walled off for the rest of his life,
Felix, however… Felix needs someone like Byleth -- someone that won’t stop trying to reach him, someone that won’t balk at insults and snide remarks, someone that won’t be fooled by his sullen outer shell.
He needs that too, he needs someone like that, he needs Byleth,
If this is what his professor wants, Sylvain will do whatever he can to help.
Even if it means destroying himself.
“Oh, and,” Sylvain adds, turning away from the purple buds blooming in front of him. “I’m no expert or anything, but… if you’re worried about Felix, maybe you should ask Felix about it?” He ventures, lifting an eyebrow in her direction.
In one moment, Byleth’s eyes go wide -- the equivalent of anyone else’s jaw dropping -- and in the next, she winces, seemingly appalled by her own actions.
“I’m sorry, Sylvain,” she presses a fist to her chest and bows -- unbearably formal -- and when she stands up straight again, her face has been wiped clean of emotion. “Thanks for setting me straight.”
The sentiment catches him off guard. Him, Sylvain Jose Gautier, the worst student at Garreg Mach, putting Byleth Eisner, professor extraordinaire, back in her place.
He can't help but laugh -- and the poor flowers beneath him get sloshed with a little too much water. Oh well.
“No problem,” he manages, trying and failing to bite his lip to contain his grin. “See ya!”
Byleth nods, as concise as ever, calls a goodbye to Lorenz, and heads out.
As soon as her mint green hair is out of sight, Sylvain’s impeccable posture vanishes, leaving him slumped over his watering can.
This is a lot.
It all sits like a weight on top of his shoulders, pushing him down down down.
Being around Byleth isn’t like being around his other flings. With them, there’s no pressure. Nothing he says matters, because they only care about themselves. They don’t bother to look past the surface, and they don’t care about him. The feeling is often mutual.
With Byleth, everything matters. Everything he says, everything he does, because she sees right through him. Because she’s looking. And he careswhat she sees in him.
Not to mention, Felix is also in love with Byleth and is apparently doing his damndest to push her away before she gets too close and he has to… open up, or something. Have feelings. Who knows.
Regardless, Sylvain has to balance helping Byleth and helping Felix and helping himself. And it’s not going very well.
Sylvain lets out the groan that’s been building up in his chest ever since the professor called for his attention.
Lorenz peers around the corner, summoned by the sound. Sylvain straightens, ready to wave the noble off, tell him everything’s fine, but the look etched into Lorenz’s face isn’t curiosity.
It’s pity.
“My deepest condolences,” the man offers, brushing purple hair over his shoulder. The look in his eyes tells Sylvain that he’s absolutely serious. “You’re truly in a tough spot.”
Sylvain bites back the urge to sink his teeth into the lavender clad noble.
Lorenz is being genuinely concerned for you. You can’t snap at him just because you’re frustrated. You’d be no better than Felix.
“Can’t say I know what you’re talking about,” he laughs, feigning ignorance straight to Lorenz’s face. Great. “It’s my pleasure to help our dear professor in whatever way I can.”
Lorenz’s expression doesn’t change. Thin eyebrows stay scrunched over violet eyes, thin lips pressed into a thinner line, regarding Sylvain with concern -- and maybe sympathy?
“I can’t believe I’m saying this to you, of all people,” Lorenz opens with something of a grimace, his mouth twisting up a little. “But your choice of action is truly noble. I admire your strength.”
Sylvain knows what he’s referring to.
Putting Byleth before himself, putting Felix before himself, pushing the two together regardless of how far away it pushes him in return.
He drops the act, the attempt at a pleasant expression wiped clean off of his face in favor of a tight frown. “It’s not strength.” Sylvain bites out, aiming the sharp tone of his voice at the plant in front of him.
“Pardon me?” Lorenz returns, a gloved hand floating to hover over his heart. “I daresay prioritizing the wellbeing of a friend over your own feelings is a powerful strength -- a strength most people don’t seem to possess nowadays, mind you.”
Sylvain just shakes his head. He can’t argue this one, not with Lorenz. Not with anybody.
When he turns his back to Lorenz, the Alliance noble gets the point. It’s quiet enough that the swish of his expensive, violet clothing is audible as he turns back to the tomato plant he’d been weeding beforehand.
Good job, Sylvain. Now you’ve worried Lorenz.
Sylvain used to think Lorenz was just like him: a skirt chaser for the hell of it, pursuing women simply because they deserve to be desired. See a beautiful woman? She ought to know! Once upon a time, they had even competed over pickup lines and compliments.
Nowadays, he knows that’s not the case. Their motives wildly differ.
The difference between them is that Lorenz goes into these interactions assuming that the end result will be positive, that he will either gain a life-long partner, or discover that relationship was not meant to be, that he should move on. Sylvain assumes -- and assumes correctly -- that the end result will be negative. It’s use or be used, and he’s been used too many times to idly stand by anymore.
Sylvain doesn’t flirt and date to better himself of his future. He does it to destroy himself.
Helping Byleth get closer to Felix is just another way to sing the same song.
So sue him if he doesn’t see that as strength.
He stews in his own thoughts for the rest of the shift, torn between beating himself up over snubbing Lorenz or beating himself up about letting Byleth go or beating himself up about even considering taking something so precious away from his best friend --
“Professor!” Lorenz cries out when Byleth marches back through the greenhouse doors unannounced. “Did you forget something?”
Byleth nods -- wordless, precise.
Sylvain’s too deep in his thoughts to chance facing her right now. He hopes Lorenz will distract her with some small talk.
“I could not help but overhear your concerns earlier,” the Alliance noble prattles on -- bless him. “I hope I am not prying too deeply to wonder if everything is sorted out between you and Heir Fraldarius?”
Sylvain wonders if Byleth wrinkles her nose as much as he does at the formality. Heir Fraldarius.
“I believe I’m making headway.” Is Byleth’s answer, curt and full of determination.
“I am glad to hear it!” Lorenz cries, surely smiling and congratulating their former professor. “I wish you the very best, as always.”
Sylvain barely hears Byleth thank Lorenz, barely hears whatever they talk about next.
He’s watering this plant and checking the leaves and the soil but everything is on autopilot. He can’t feel his fingers.
He does feel the warm pressure of a hand on his shoulder.
And after he registers that, he catches the tail end of a quiet “Sylvain,” spoken in a tone he knows well from class. It’s the one she uses when it isn’t the first time she’s tried to get his attention. It’s a tone he’s quite familiar with.
Somehow, that calms him down.
“I forgot to ask you to tea.” She announces as soon as he turns his attention towards her.
He waits for her to say more, but that’s it.
(He doesn’t know why he waited -- of course that’s it, it’s Byleth, when does she ever say more than she needs? He must be seriously out of it…)
“Sounds great!” The tone of his voice is bright -- way more convincing than he’d thought it was going to be. “When would you like to meet?”
Byleth doesn’t answer immediately, responding to his question with silence and an expression he can’t read. Which… isn’t new.
He just looks at her in return, taking in green eyes and green hair and strong arms and soft skin and --
“After this shift.” She decides, voice firm with finality.
“Oh, professor, eager to speak with me?” Sylvain teases, letting something of a genuine smile tug at his lips.
Byleth doesn’t even blink before nodding, steadfast in her decision, unfazed by the syrupy sweet tone.
Goddess, he’s in love with her. He’s so in love with her.
She bids them farewell for the moment, telling Sylvain she’s going to fish at the docks until his shift is over, and walks out the door as briskly as she came in.
Lorenz and Sylvain both stare after her.
“She’s incredible.” Sylvain whispers.
“Truly amazing.” Lorenz agrees with no hesitation.
---
When his shift is over, he’s covered in dirt. (In the five years since the monastery was abandoned, some of the plants grew out of control. They were tasked with replanting the herbs, since they were beginning to overtake the vegetables.)
The professor’s no better off -- her hands are bloody from removing fish from hooks, and she smells like raw seafood.
They both agree they’re in no state to have tea and decide to meet up after a quick wash and change of clothes.
And maybe Sylvain dons a nicer shirt than usual, maybe he throws on the cloak that Ingrid said makes his shoulders look nice -- the one that’s the same shade as the night sky, royal blue with gold stitching. Admiring himself in the mirror, he appreciates that the gold really brings out the warm notes in his skin, in his fiery hair. And so what if he dots a bit of cologne on his wrists and combs his hair for the third time today?
So what if he absolutely revels in the doubletake his professor does when they meet up in the courtyard?
“Date tonight?” She wonders aloud. Does he cherish the way her green eyes sweep over his frame? Absolutely.
“Sure thing,” he grins -- purposefully leaving out the fact that this is the date he prepared for.
Byleth squints at him for a moment, as if she’s trying to decode something, then murmurs, “Should I have changed?”
It’s quite possible that this is a trap, that she’s seen through him and she’s asking if she should’ve dressed up for what he sees as a date. It’s also possible that she’s as harmlessly naive as ever and asking if she should’ve matched the level of effort he put into dressing for their chat over tea.
Regardless of the consequences, Sylvain doesn’t hesitate to throw himself forwards. “You look absolutely stunning as you are.”
He’s not lying, but he’s comforted when she rolls her eyes.
They talk about lots of things during tea. As usual, discussions of the upcoming battle, the outlook of the war, politics, and rebuilding the monastery nearly put him to sleep. Byleth’s always had an eye for topics of conversations, so she moves on quickly.
“Earlier today, Mercedes and I had a pretty in depth discussion of the formula for Ragnarok.” Byleth informs him while he takes another sip of bergamot tea. “It seems she’s having trouble grasping the concept.”
Sylvain hums after he swallows, running through the incantation in his head. “It can be tricky if you don’t say it right. It’s one of few spells that’s really picky about the cadence of your voice.”
Byleth hides a smile behind her teacup.
“You really should sign up to hold a seminar on black magic.” She urges him -- a request that’s not new to his ears. “I can’t tell you how many students would be eager to attend.”
Ah. She tricked him into admitting he knows more about magic than he’s letting on.
Sylvain can’t help but scoff. “Sorry, professor, but my reputation around here doesn’t really have anything to do with academics. I don’t think anyone would take me seriously, much less show up.”
“You’d be surprised.” Byleth muses, inspecting a bite-sized cake. “Word on the street is that you’ve got an aptitude for this stuff.”
“Professor,” Sylvain whines, exaggerating his pout for show. “Have you been spreading rumors about me?”
There’s absolutely no shame in Byleth’s nod. “Annette’s really the one singing your praises. I just agree with her.”
“Oh, take it back,” he immediately pleads, disappointed. “I’d rather it be you.”
The corners of her eyes crinkle. He swears the goddess shines through her smile.
This is it, he dies like this, stricken by a fatal heart attack under the spotlight of her pleased grin. Tell Felix he can have the Gautier estate --
“I’m serious,” she reiterates, oblivious to his dramatic inner monologue. “Think of the number of people who would attend! Annette, Mercedes, Marianne, maybe even Lysithea -- Lorenz always jumps at the opportunity to improve,” she lists, ticking off on her fingers.
“Sounds like a classroom full of beautiful, impressive women,” Sylvain considers the concept, imagining the pretty faces focused intently on him while he teaches his class. “I’m interested.”
“Dorothea could be convinced -- maybe even Hubert,” she continues, ignoring him.
“Oh, professor, don’t flatter me,” he waves her off, banishing the thought of stern-faced Hubert staring him down while he attempted to explain the intricacies of Bolganone.
“I bet you Felix would attend,” she offers -- and it sounds like an offer, especially with the way her voice drops oddly low while she looks up at him through her eyelashes.
Sylvain swallows. Hard.
Maybe a sullen glare fixed on him while he lectures wouldn’t be so bad.
“Now you’re just making things up.” Sylvain dismisses the thought, sweeping away the warmth that coils in the pit of his stomach at the mental image of intense crimson eyes.
“I would be there.”
Consider him reheated.
“Well,” Sylvain drawls, dropping the pitch of his voice to match hers. “Now you have my attention.”
“Oh no, Sylvain,” comes the smooth return, “You have mine.”
He’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to melt right here, his heart’s going to jump right out of his throat, his professor is going to see his boner and she’s going to kill him, he’s going to die,
“Consider me convinced,” damn his smooth tongue, he doesn’t miss a beat. “Where do I sign up?”
Conversation shifts to academics after that, and, thank the goddess, Byleth goes back to talking in her usual octave.
It doesn’t take her long to shift academics to training, and after training comes,
“Felix,” Byleth sighs, her shoulders slumping. “I stopped by the training grounds and sparred with him today.”
Sylvain tries to pretend like he’s not interested, taking a politely detached sip of tea. “How’d that go?”
Mint green hair scatters when she shakes her head. “I promised.” She reminds him. “Teatime is about you.”
Sylvain is… oddly flattered by that.
“Well, tell me if you pissed him off or not -- that affects me, y’know,” he trails off, hoping the joking tone will prod her along, but she just gets that sad look on her face and shrugs. “It can’t be that bad. Felix isn’t that hard to understand.”
Byleth gives in a little under his prodding, lacing her fingers together on top of the table while she rolls the subject around in her head.
“It’s not that I don’t understand,” she begins, hesitant to admit to her findings. “I just can’t assume. I need to hear it from him.”
Oh.
If Byleth is saying what Sylvain thinks she’s saying… then everyone in this monastery is fucked.
“Oh,” is all Sylvain can get to come out of his mouth at first -- and Byleth raises an eyebrow at the sound, probably because he sounds like he’s been kicked in the chest. “Why don’t we have dinner tonight? You, me, and Felix? I’ll go talk to him, try and wiggle some answers out of him, and maybe we’ll see some results tonight!” He offers -- even though every word feels like a knife digging into his throat.
“Sure,” Byleth agrees -- but it’s slow, very hesitant. “But Sylvain,”
“Yes, professor?” He puts on his best innocent face, but she’s not fooled. (He wouldn’t expect anything less.)
“Felix isn’t the only one I need to hear the truth from.” She levels a very professor-esque glare on him. If she had glasses, she’d be peering over them. He feels goosebumps rise on his forearms. “And I don’t think I’m the only one that needs to hear it, either.”
Sylvain has never been in control of his tongue. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come to tea with the love of his life today.
“Alright,” he caves immediately, still holding her gaze. “I’m madly in love with you.”
There’s a pause. He’s on fire, that feeling in his chest roaring to life, swallowing him whole.
Byleth doesn’t move. Neither does Sylvain.
Then -- of all things -- Byleth snorts.
It’s a soft sound, a little puff of air through her nose. A little smile pulls at her lips, flattered, but not entirely convinced.
“Sure, Sylvain.” Her response is soft -- weirdly vulnerable for someone who seems to be turning him down. “Come back when you’re serious.”
Oh.
She -- she can’t seriously think that he’s -- but of course she would, what reason does she have to believe you? Sylvain Jose Gautier, skirt chaser, heartbreaker extraordinaire?
Like a true noble, he can do nothing but sit there and stare, schooling his expression into something passive and carefully neutral.
His body is heavy, his heart aches.
That fluttering in his chest has been replaced by something so much darker, by a disappointment he’s always feared to face.
“The thing is,” he begins -- and his voice is too strong for how weak his knees feel, “If I tell Felix the truth, he’s going to say the exact same thing.”
Byleth just looks at him with that fucking blank stare, and Sylvain knows he can do nothing but suck it up and move on. He stands, slings his coat over his shoulders, and scrambles for something to say.
He’s got nothing. Nothing worthy of an upcoming knight, at least.
Once, when he asked Alois what the trick to being a brave knight was, he got a response he wasn’t expecting.
I think the bravest knights are the knights that keep their chin up in times of adversity. If you can still smile after defeat -- if loss doesn’t steal your laugh -- then you’ll win every battle.
All he can do is walk away.
When Byleth calls after him, something pleading in her tone that he refuses to acknowledge, Sylvain does a short 180 on his heel, puts on his best smile, and waves as cheerfully as he can.
“See you at dinner!” He promises before turning back around.
Byleth doesn’t pursue him. Sylvain keeps his chin up until he’s out of sight.
---
For a while, he wanders aimlessly.
He must look intimidating, or at least, he must be taking people by surprise, what with his cloak billowing out behind him, fists clenched at his sides, handsome features clouded and stormy. People move out of his way when he approaches, ducking into hallways and pressing themselves against walls.
Even Edelgard moves, tugging an obstinate Hubert out of the line of fire just in time.
He doesn't want to talk to anyone, and he doesn't want to do anything, but he knows if he stops and sits inside all of these emotions, he'll break.
This time around, the break won't be quiet relief. If he breaks now, it will be loud, and it will be mean.
Sylvain puts on a pleasant smile for the world, charming people into thinking he's just an airhead with no strong feelings about anything in particular. The smile is a part of him now, but it's still a mask.
His real smile is sharper. Full of teeth.
Not many people can handle that smile -- not even his closer friends. Dimitri would take it as a threat and Ingrid would either crumple or push him away. He really doesn't need any of that right now.
He can’t go to Byleth. Not for this one.
But Felix… Felix doesn't cower away, nor does he lash out at the threat. He seems to like Sylvain better when the teeth come out. Felix, he… Felix.
He catches himself running through Felix's schedule in his head -- today the swordsman has a shift in the stables, then he'll probably hit the training grounds. But he always stops by his room before dinner…
Before Sylvain can stop himself, his feet carry him in the direction of Felix's dorm.
When he gets there, the room’s empty. Which is fine. He can wait.
Instead of drowning in the overwhelming slew of thoughts tearing through his brain, Sylvain completely zones out, going offline until further notice.
Come back when you’re serious.
As if he’s not serious, as if he doesn’t mean it. He’s never been more serious about anything in his life.
How is he supposed to --
Further notice ends up being knuckles in his arm. It’s more of a push than a punch, enough to unbalance him and force his systems to come back online.
Sylvain turns slowly, still processing the input, and finally focuses in on crimson eyes.
Felix doesn’t say anything, but the way he lifts an eyebrow while he takes in the bleak look in Sylvain’s eyes says enough.
Sylvain doesn’t say anything either. He does, however, notice the towel around Felix’s neck, the sheen of freshly washed hair, the black strands falling out of a hastily pulled up ponytail. He takes a deep breath to ground himself and only ends up breathing in the scent of soap and Felix.
For a moment, he thinks Felix is about to send him away.
But he doesn’t.
Without a word, the shorter man opens his door, holding it until Sylvain gets the idea and steps inside. The click of the latch behind him sends shivers down his spine -- which is completely unrelated to the brush of Felix’s body against him as he slips past.
Sylvain hovers by the door while Felix rattles around his room, pushing things into drawers and making his bed and pulling his sword from the sheath at his waist -- wait,
But Felix doesn’t threaten him or anything too terribly in character. He just sits down on his bed and starts sharpening the blade with a well-worn whetstone. The rhythmic motion of his hand across the blade and the measured sound of the whetstone against metal lulls Sylvain into an odd sort of trance.
When Felix nods to the spot beside him, Sylvain follows the command without hesitation. As he acquiesces, the bob of Felix’s head grows increasingly insistent, guiding his friend to sit beside the arm that holds the blade still, not the arm that sharpens it -- lest Sylvain be repeatedly elbowed and possibly stabbed -- and soon, they settle into place.
For a while, Sylvain just stares at his hands where they lie limp in his lap. But, after a few more consistent strokes of stone against metal lull him into complacency, his head falls to rest on Felix’s shoulder.
He just listens to the scrape of the whetstone echo through Felix’s body, listens to his bones grind and pop with the movement, feels the muscles in his shoulders tense and relax as he maintenances his blade.
Finally, finally, Sylvain finds his voice again.
“I’m trying to smile, but I don’t think I can.”
He hates that he can only manage a wheezy whisper, but it’s something, at least.
Felix’s body rocks back in time with a tiny scoff. “Then don’t.”
It’s not that easy.
Sylvain scrubs a hand over his face. Lets it fall back into his lap.
“But I’m just angry underneath.” The confession hisses out of him through teeth that are sharper than usual. Felix doesn’t flinch away.
“And under that?” The swordsman follows up, eyes on his blade, ears on Sylvain.
The only response he gets is the sound of stone against metal.
Same as you. Something small and vulnerable. Something wounded and sad.
Only when his blade is deemed sufficiently sharpened does Felix speak up again.
“What happened?” He asks -- gentle, but not soft.
“I had tea with Byleth. Promised you and I would have dinner with her tonight.” Felix sheathes his sword while Sylvain lists off his eventful afternoon, accompanying the bland tone of voice with an extended metallic scraping. “Told her I love her.”
There’s a loud click as the sword is sheathed to the hilt all at once.
“You did what?!” Felix shouts, turning his chin to face the head of orange hair on his shoulder.
The explosive noise echoes in the tiny room, rings in the redhead’s ears while his friend (impatiently) waits for an explanation.
Sylvain’s voice is small, too small, but he doesn’t have the strength to fake it. “Oh, come off it,” he manages a dry laugh, something that’s not quite as reassuring as he’d meant it to be. “It’s not like she took me seriously. I’m not gonna take her from you.”
His cheek squishes into a strong shoulder when Felix sits up straighter. “Take- take her from me?”
Sylvain doesn’t want to answer what Felix is asking. So he sits up, gathers what little semblance of his usual personality he’s regained, and plasters on a smile.
“Besides, I told her I’d come rattle some sense into you before we all have dinner together tonight!” He announces, taking Felix by the shoulders and facing him completely. “So tonight I’m going to help you confess to Byleth.”
Scowling something fierce, Felix pushes him away. “Knock it off.” He grunts, shaking his head. A few more pieces of hair fall loose. The scent of citrus floats over to Sylvain.
“I’m serious! I wanna help you!”
The vermillion stare that locks onto him narrows in suspicion. “Why.”
Truly, Sylvain is puzzled by this question. “Because I care about you?” He offers the answer with enough hesitancy to make Felix’s eyes narrow even further, burning into him with slits of angry crimson. Sylvain backtracks. “Because that’s what friends do? Help each other? Especially when said friend has the emotional intelligence of a brick and definitely has a chance at snagging an incredible, beautiful, powerful-”
“Stop it,” the tone of his friend’s voice is too broken to be a command.
Sylvain’s jaw snaps shut. It’s rare to hear Felix plead.
“Why would you do that to yourself?” His friend whispers, looking legitimately concerned. “I know you’re in love with her -- why would you put yourself through that?”
The heir to House Gautier has known the answer to this question for a long time.
“After everything I’ve fucked up?” Sylvain huffs out a laugh, entirely too self-deprecating for his closest friend not to notice. “Maybe I deserve to suffer.”
The confession elicits a familiar sneer from the man next to him, twisting a pretty face with contempt and disgust.
“I won’t help you destroy yourself.” The decision is firm and it’s final. Sylvain has no say in the matter.
That doesn’t stop him from letting out a long, put-upon sigh, a grumbled “why not?” making its way past his lips -- as if it will change Felix’s mind. It merely earns him another scoff, as if the answer is obvious.
Well it’s not, Felix, so sue me for wondering --
“Because I care about you?” The swordsman copies Sylvain’s earlier tone, offering the sentiment with hesitation.
The pink spreading across Felix’s cheeks is almost too good to be true.
Sylvain doesn’t allow himself to savor it for long, pitching forwards to plant his forehead on Felix’s shoulder again. Felix doesn’t fight him.
“Don’t get my hopes up,” he mumbles into skin that smells like citrus and cinnamon. “I’ve already had them dashed once today.”
Fingers that smell like metal and weapon polish slide into his hair, stroking once through auburn waves before settling at the base of his skull. Sylvain dares to scoot closer.
The next words that come out of Felix’s mouth are oddly faraway, like he’s not really thinking about what he’s saying.
“Who says I don’t mean it?” He asks as he turns, pressing a narrow chin into Sylvain’s forehead.
Sylvain dares to look up.
Which brings him nose to nose with Felix Hugo Fraldarius, who’s hand is holding him in place, refusing to let him back away from eyes of vermillion and the enticing wash of hot breath over his skin and -- how far would he have to lean forwards to kiss his best friend anyways? He can’t tell. He’s too close to check without going cross-eyed, and his nose is probably in the way anyways.
I’m madly in love with you.
He only mouths the words, knowing full well that Felix can’t see past his own nose either.
“Sylvain,”
His name spoken against his lips has never, never sent shivers down his spine like this.
“Sylvain,”
After Felix jostles him with a shake of his shoulder, the cavalier doesn’t have much of a choice but to acknowledge the call and sit up. As soon as Felix is free from the weight of Sylvain’s head, he stands up -- but it’s not to retreat, if the way he immediately turns on his heel to face the still seated man says anything.
“Get up.” Felix demands, planting his hands on his hips. Sylvain merely stares up at him, still processing the faint memory of ebony hair and pale lips. “Get up!” The swordsman insists, bending to take hold of the taller man’s arm and pull.
Now he’s standing, but still, the only thing Sylvain can do is stare.
Felix is beautiful.
Chin tilted up in defiance, glossy black hair falling over his shoulders -- when had his ponytail fallen out? -- there’s still the faintest hint of pink in his cheeks, and the red tint of his bottom lip tells Sylvain he’s been worrying at it with his teeth.
What Sylvain wouldn’t give to bite that lip for him.
“Face me as your rival.” Red of fire and righteousness stares Sylvain down. “Meet me as your equal.”
Sylvain has to tear his gaze away from white teeth and plush lips.
Felix’s cheeks are definitely a brighter pink. Good.
“Alright.” The cavalier agrees.
This is comfortable. This is familiar. He and Felix always compete. They always have.
“I’ll come to dinner with you.” Felix continues to plan out their evening as if Sylvain isn’t thinking about kissing the shorter man senseless. “We should both confess to Byleth. Stand on equal ground and see what she thinks.”
There’s a moment of silence where Felix waits for a response -- and then probably realizes that Sylvain’s still not really back to normal.
“Can you still braid?”
Sylvain blinks, taking one step back into reality. “Huh?”
The flush on Felix’s cheeks deepens, and he scowls as if Sylvain has told him he’s bringing a girl back to his room tonight. “Can you still braid, blockhead? You know, like, hair?”
“Of course I can,” Sylvain huffs, fighting a frown. “Why?”
Instead of answering, Felix turns on his heel and makes a beeline for his closet.
Sylvain opens his mouth to question after him, to request an explanation, but Felix pulls off his shirt before he can make any words come out.
Sylvain closes his mouth.
The realization hits him, not for the first time that evening, that Felix is beautiful.
He’s the same shade of pale as everyone in the Northern Kingdom, smooth skin littered with scars from countless battles, taut with muscle from countless hours of practice. Sylvain lets his eyes wander, taking in biceps and triceps and shoulders and the line of his spine, the small of his back --
“This is a really stupid question, but,” Felix calls out, grabbing Sylvain’s attention. “Do you think I look better in blue or red?”
Without turning around, the swordsman holds up two coats, one a dark teal, the other a wine red. They’re both nice, clearly meant for special occasions -- and Sylvain wonders if Felix is already trying to one-up him.
Sylvain’s feet carry him forward under the guise of seeing the garments up close, but when he reaches the swordsman, he merely hovers behind him, letting the warmth of his body seep into the shorter man.
“I think you look good in anything.” Sylvain informs him, absolutely truthfully. Felix gives him a sharp tch in response, and Sylvain can’t help but laugh. “Depends on what color pants you’re planning on wearing. Brown for blue, black for red.”
Felix hangs up the red coat. “I’ve already got enough red and black happening,” a pale hand gestures vaguely to his face. “White shirt?”
“White shirt.” Sylvain agrees. A flash of white and a rustle is the only warning he gets before there’s a shirt hanging over his shoulder. “Good aim!”
Felix grunts in response. What a charmer.
“Brown, brown, brown…” the swordsman murmurs, bending to rummage through his drawers. Sylvain takes a step back, shamelessly admiring the curve of Felix’s ass. “Ah,”
If Sylvain thought he was shameless, he’s got nothing on Felix -- as evidenced by the fingers that dig into his waistband and yank his pants off of his hips.
While he steps out of one pair of pants and into another, Felix glances over his shoulder and frowns. “Start unbuttoning that.” He directs, nodding to the shirt still thrown over the taller man’s shoulder.
“Yessir,” Sylvain accompanies the quip with a crisp salute, grinning when Felix hastily looks away. When Felix turns to face him completely, pants secured around his hips, Sylvain bats at the shorter man’s arms until he raises them, then begins to pull the sleeves over pale wrists.
“What are you doing?” The swordsman asks, but there’s no venom in his voice. He just watches while the redhead tugs crisp white fabric over his arms, oddly pliant in the larger man’s grasp.
Sylvain pulls the shirt up over his shoulders and smooths down the front with both hands. “See how the buttons are on this side? These shirts are meant to be buttoned by someone else.”
By your wife, is the first thought that comes to Sylvain’s mind. It’s something his father told him when he was younger and struggling to correctly button up his shirt.
“I’m ambidextrous,” Felix argues, reaching up to bat calloused hands away from the lapels of his shirt.
Sylvain doesn’t retreat. “Regardless,” he murmurs, kneeling in front of the swordsman. “It’s easier this way.”
The cavalier would be lying if his fingers didn’t burn with every brush against Felix’s skin, if he didn’t shiver every time he registered taut muscles beneath his knuckles. Felix was tense, frozen in place, but he didn’t push him away.
“All the way up?” Sylvain murmurs, keeping his voice low, careful not to break the tension between them. The nod Felix manages is jerky, mechanical. He swallows hard when Sylvain’s fingers brush against his throat. The pale column of his neck beckons Sylvain to press his lips there, to kiss, suck, bite, mark --
Sylvain stands after he fastens the last button, removing himself from the temptation.
Vermillion eyes stare up at him.
Amber eyes stare back.
“Braid my hair.”
Felix demands.
Sylvain complies.
And even after Felix’s long, glossy hair twists around his head, lying shiny and smooth over his shoulder, Sylvain can’t bring himself to step away.
Trailing his fingers over his handiwork, following the path of each partition down to the tie that cinches the end, he can’t stop touching him. He doesn’t stop himself from tracing the angle of Felix’s jaw, applying the gentlest of pressure under his chin -- as if Felix would follow such a command.
And wouldn’t you know it, like a dream come true, Felix tilts his head up to face him, lips parted in the smallest exhale.
And, like a man spiraling out of control, Sylvain bends to meet him.
He’s not sure if he should be grateful or disappointed that Felix stops him, pressing a thin, calloused hand to Sylvain’s face and pushing back until Sylvain stands straight again.
Felix lets out a long sigh. He sounds as defeated as Sylvain feels.
“Let’s go to dinner. I’m sure the professor is waiting for us.”