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Maybe it's because his room is all the way at the end of the dormitory hall, but Sylvain's Academy-era bedroom is in decidedly okay condition. Sure, there's a five-year-thick layer of dust, dirt, and assorted debris, but that's to be expected. Only a small portion of his drawers have been pulled fully from their shelves by a passing thief, and he blames his general lack of possessions for that one. Cleanliness and emptiness go hand in hand, he would always remind himself, and even the young Sylvain of his Officers Academy days held to that.
Needless to say, Sylvain is one of the first to finish cleaning out his quarters, pushing all the dirt and rubble out into the hall to dispose of later. By the time he's replaced the dusty covers of his old bed with the fresh linens Mercedes and the professor had scavenged from the Monastery's storehouse, his room is in very livable condition. By the time he pushes all the displaced drawers back into their shelves, shooing a stray cat out of his closet—with far more difficulty and superficial scratches than he will truthfully admit to—his room looks almost exactly the same as it had five impossible, long years ago.
Even the old board game the professor had given him in their first month at the Academy has found its way back to his desktop—albeit, missing a few pieces. It isn't playable anymore, but it's a nice touch, seeing whatever chess pieces he could find strewn about his room lined up, like it was just another school night. Like they weren't at war, reunited for the first time in five years to restart their insurgent efforts all over again.
Hopefully this time, Sylvain ponders, they'll fare better. He's not sure he can take another five years of this.
Gathering up the pile of old uniforms and linens, Sylvain pushes his door open, sneezing as the dust from the fabrics floats up at his disturbance. The sneeze does nothing to clear the aforementioned dust, only kicking up more. Sylvain sneezes twice before he drops the fabric by the pile of dirt and amalgamated debris sitting opposite his door, telling himself he'll get rid of it the next morning.
He isn't the only one with that same idea, either; small piles of trash line the entire hallway at irregular intervals, a clear show of just how many of their old classmates have found their way back.
The space across from Dimitri's door, however, is empty. Sylvain wonders, absently, if they'll have him clean it out tomorrow. He contemplates doing it regardless, half to keep his hands occupied and half because—well. Because it would be nice, he imagines, coming back to a livable room after so many harrowed nights staring at crumbled stone deities in the frigid cold chapel.
The door after Dimitri's is a different story. Felix has gathered a large heap of dirt and old uniforms, moth eaten and thrown haphazardly against the opposite wall. Sylvain doesn't see the old linens accompanying them and wonders if Felix has yet to replace those. After so many years unable to see him, Sylvain can't think of a single reason not to knock on Felix's door, so he does.
"What do you want?"
Welcoming as ever.
"It's me."
There's a series of quiet shuffles, and Sylvain faintly hears Felix mutter to himself—something that sounds vaguely like an amused "Of course it is"—before he falls quiet.
"It's unlocked," Felix eventually calls, muffled through the heavy wood. Sylvain grins. When he finally pushes the door open, the first thing he does is sneeze. Twice, just for good measure. He hears Felix snort in the brief space in between, but is too busy pushing his disheveled hair out of his face to see it.
"Coming down with something?"
Felix looks up at him with a wry twist to his lips, a teasing glint that the he of five years ago might never have been so generous with. If Sylvain didn't find that look enthralling back then, he does now, half breathless at the way Felix's eyes crease playfully at the corners.
"Hello to you too, Felix," he groans, wiping gracelessly at his nose.
Felix is sitting on the floor when Sylvain lets himself in, one knee pulled up to his chest and the other leg outstretched. There's a small cat draped lazily across that leg, head tilted scrutinizingly Sylvain's way. Huh. No wonder Felix couldn't open the door for him. "New friend?"
He clicks his tongue in place of a real answer, scratching the little black and white thing behind its ear. Those wide, pale green eyes blink slowly in content at the movement, and Sylvain watches with considerable amusement as the cat tilts its head greedily forward for more. Felix, surprisingly, doesn't even think twice before acquiescing.
Only a very dull, muffled part of Sylvain's mind finds the ability to call it unfair; the rest of him is too busy tracing the slight smile on Felix's lips as he sits ass-down on the dusty ground, wild animal sprawled across his lap as if this was the only thing he'd ever want to do. It's peaceful, almost impossibly so, and Sylvain is torn between pinching himself and staring for as long as he can, committing every gentle, quiet thing about this moment—about Felix—into stunning, endless detail.
"He was here when I began cleaning," Felix hums. "It seems that even without us, these rooms never stopped being a home. I scared his companion off earlier, but this one," he pauses, emphasizing the statement with a careful nudge against the cat's cheek, "was eager to stay."
"How can you blame the little guy? Look at how much you're spoiling him," Sylvain laughs, walking around the two to lean against Felix's bed. The sheets, as expected, have yet to be replaced, and it's all too obvious why. "They're not pets, you know. They're still wild animals—maybe even more so since it's probably been years since they've seen a real person."
Felix arches an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. Sylvain, mature as ever, pouts in response.
"Don't give me that look. You're letting him distract you from your cleaning! How can you just sit there when your bedsheets still look and smell like this?"
"I was going to get to it," Felix snaps. The action jostles the cat a bit too much, and it somehow ends up glaring at Sylvain instead. Yeah, that's pretty insulting. The only thing that stops him from glaring back—at the cat, Sylvain tries to remind himself, the cat that really shouldn't be getting to him this much—is his sudden sneeze. It bounces loudly off the bedroom walls and the cat does not stop glaring at him, because of fucking course it wouldn't. Part of him wonders if it's because he called it a wild animal, and part of him reasons that cats can't understand him, so his first idea was just plain stupid.
"Why not now," he whines, shooting Felix his most pleading look. It's ruined by another sneeze, and Felix is unrepentant as he snorts at Sylvain's pains.
"I do get to decide when I make my own bed, Sylvain."
And it's a perfectly reasonable argument, but Sylvain is already turned away from him, ripping the dirty sheets off of Felix's bed. He has had enough, and being so ruthlessly the victim of Felix's small snorts and grins is killing him. "Goddess," he huffs, hiding absolutely none of his ire, "and you call me insufferable."
"I didn't tell you to—"
"Too late!"
Sylvain has the disgusting sheets bundled up in his arms and his halfway to the door already. He can hear Felix rolling his eyes. After dumping the fabrics unceremoniously across the hall, he comes back and busies himself with spreading out the new linens, trying not to focus too much on the way Felix's gaze burns onto the back of his neck. At least the room smells less foul. He sneezes the second after having that thought.
"If only you were this stubborn about your responsibilities five years ago," Felix drawls, prompting an affronted "hey!" from Sylvain. "Say what you want, you know that you're— huh, where are you g—"
Something solid bumps against the back of Sylvain's calf, and he almost steps on the poor cat as he attempts to turn around, a yelp startling past his throat as he trips over his own feet. It's a goddess-given miracle that he doesn't fall on top of the lithe little monster as he tumbles down, but having nothing but the dusty, five-year-old carpet to break his fall is arguably worse.
"Fuck!"
His shoulder is absolutely going to be bruised in the morning.
Felix tries to dive forward and grab the mangy beast, but it darts quickly out of the seated swordsman's reach, making an absolutely terrifying beeline for Sylvain. Sylvain doesn't bite back his strangled cry as it brushes its entire side against his cheek on its way past, tail tickling the line of his jaw before Felix finally manages to wrap his hands around it, dragging the thing back into his lap.
Sylvain sneezes five times in rapid, painful succession, and he swears his head is spinning by the end of it. He refuses to blame that on his fall, opting instead to glare blearily at the cat. Dragging himself up is an arduous task, but he eventually pulls himself up to sit cross legged in front of Felix, dust-covered and eyes watering. Felix has not stopped staring at him.
"Are you... allergic to cats?"
With a beleaguered groan, Sylvain wipes at his nose. "I don't know, maybe?" He freezes, narrowing hazel eyes at Felix. "Wait, you're not going to ask me if I'm okay? Did you see that fall I took? C'mon, Fe, have a little pity!"
"If you can complain about it," Felix shoots him an amused look, "then you're fine. I had no idea you were allergic."
Crossing his arms, Sylvain pouts, because he deserves at least this much. "Well, neither did I," he sniffs. "Is this even important, Felix?"
Felix shrugs.
"I didn't know." His lips are pursed, curved around words he can't quite bring himself to say. Sylvain wonders if he's reading too much into it when his mind supplies a second half: "and I thought I knew everything about you," muttered low and contemplative into the space between them. Felix can't quite meet Sylvain's eye and that only makes the thought ring louder.
"It's funny, actually," Felix eventually notes. His tone is lighter this time, and when his eyes flicker up to meet Sylvain's, they are alight with sharp amusement. "You're allergic, and this breed of cat happens to be named after the Gautiers."
Sylvain hums skeptically in acknowledgement, narrowing his eyes at the cat. For something that supposedly shares his name, it sure is a little bastard about being respectful to that name's next heir. Do cats even have a sense of respect? It flicks its eyes up to stare back at him, and that makes him sneeze.
"In hindsight," Felix hums, "I think it makes sense."
"Does it now?"
Felix smirks, molten copper eyes alight. The sight makes Sylvain's heart skip a beat.
"You're both incorrigible attention whores."
Goddess, the way he looks while saying that should not be as attractive as it is.
"Hey, I resent that!"
"Mhm."
"Oh, come on!" Sylvain exclaims, crossing his arms in childish protest. "This coming from the man who hasn't been able to keep his hands off of the furry little Gautier beast." He is not jealous, Sylvain has to remind himself. He is not jealous of a cat and has never had reason to be, but goddess fucking help him— "Got something to confess, Felix? I'm all yours," he challenges, eyes narrowed.
Okay, maybe he's a little jealous.
Felix, to his credit, looks to flush more from anger than embarrassment, if his scowl has anything to say about it.
"Very funny, Sylvain." Reaching an arm out, he flicks Sylvain on the forehead. His pained yelp draws a soft snort past Felix's lips, and Sylvain can only grip at his smarting forehead and sulk for so long in the face of that gentle amusement. At this point, he can't say it's only the thrill of getting to see Felix again after so long; his best friend has come to have a hand in Sylvain's moods like no one else, and the subtle curve of his smile makes everything else melt away.
"At least I waited until you invited me in," he pouts, to which Felix barks out a laugh.
"That you did," he agrees, and Sylvain can't bite back a low chuckle in response. Now that things have settled, Felix loosens his hold on the cat, going back to the idle glide of his fingers across the soft plush of its fur. It shifts restlessly, and when it starts to slink out of Felix's lap, prowling idly toward Sylvain, the paladin acutely feel his nose start to itch again.
"No thank you," he waves his hands, trying to shoo the cat away. It ducks nimbly past them, quickly coming over to rub its face against Sylvain's thigh. When he claimed he wanted the cat to respect him as the Gautier heir, this was really not what he meant. Sylvain, as he is wont to do, sneezes.
"Felix." He looks over at his friend pleadingly, but Felix is sitting with his arms crossed like, you know, an asshole, as he watches the cat assault Sylvain with the gentle docility of a falling feather. He can see the black cat hairs rubbing off against his leggings, and that horrible realization makes him sneeze twice more.
He nudges gingerly at the cat's head with the back of his hand, quickly lifting it away when the beast lifts its eyes up to glare at him. The little thing may be named after the Gautier line, but there's an undeniably Fraldarius ferocity to it.
At that show, a quiet chuckle puffs past Felix's lips, drawing Sylvain's gaze back up. Copper eyes glow warmly in the candlelight, half on Sylvain and half on the cat that's still circling lazily around him. There's the barest glimpse of teeth as Felix bites into his bottom lip, trying and ultimately failing to bite back the fond smile that threatens to overtake him. It hits Sylvain suddenly, how immeasurably peaceful this feels, how—for the past five, painful years—he can't remember a moment as hazy and timeless as right now.
At least, until he sneezes. Again. Like an idiot.
The cat bumps its head against his knee, and Sylvain can only sigh.
"Go back to Felix," he commands, as if he hadn't just decided earlier that the cat definitely could not understand him. "Just look at him! He's an asshole, but he loves smaller little assholes just like you. You two are made for each other!"
Felix is decidedly unamused by that remark, which is quite frankly fine by Sylvain, because—saints a-fucking-bove, the cat is trying to crawl into his lap. He's not Felix, his eyes are starting to itch something horrible , and this is an overall unpleasant situation. Sniffling weakly, he looks back toward his friend. Apparently, Felix hasn't forgiven Sylvain enough to help, so that proves absolutely fucking useless.
Leaning back as far as he can, Sylvain watches with mild-to-extreme horror as the cat deposits itself in the center of his lap, staring up at him with brilliant, pale green eyes. The color reminds him of the wispy, thin grass that would try to peek up from beneath the early spring snow in Gautier, iced over but undeniably bright. It's almost pretty, he muses, until the cat places one dreadful paw against his chest, using that surface to lean up and bump its head against Sylvain's nose.
Sylvain, of course, is not having this.
"Felix—" he begins panickedly, and the other man is begrudgingly unfolding his arms to take the cat back, but Sylvain's track record has other terrible, terrible plans. He sneezes right into the cat's face, slamming his nose against its head and dragging out an enraged hiss. Sylvain yelps as the cat lashes out, slashing its claws against the flesh of his cheek before disappearing behind Felix. His hand flies up to cradle the cheek, hissing as his fingers touch blood, and Felix—
Felix Hugo Fraldarius—professional, full-time asshole—bursts into laughter. He ducks the brilliant flash of his grin behind curved fingers, as if one hand could hide the way his eyes light up like the sun itself has taken refuge in the electric copper of them.
Sylvain forgets about his bleeding cheek immediately.
The only appropriate response is gawk at him, eyes wide and owlish as he drinks in the sight and sound with a slackened jaw, feeling absolutely bodied by whatever the fuck is happening right in front of him. By Felix, whose genuine laughter he hasn't heard in over ten years, whose bright eyes single handedly replaced whatever sun Sylvain thought he knew in the single instant it took for them to spark to life behind the trill of his crescendoing laughs. With eyes like that, Sylvain could spend his lifetime orbiting that beautiful, blinding brilliance and never want for anything—for anywhere or anyone—else.
He wants the moment to last forever, to let the impossible warmth that washes over him at Felix's laughter wrap around him in a hold that never lets go—and isn't that a thought, an eternity in the sunshine of Felix's smile. There's so little that Sylvain wouldn't give up for exactly that, and he can list all of them on one hand: Felix, and his own life—if only so he could live out the rest of it at his best friend's side.
It's inevitable that Felix's laughter starts to quiet, but the gleam of his eyes proves far more resilient, gazing at Sylvain with a fondness that takes his breath away. Exhaling a breathy chuckle, Felix reaches around to grab the cat that has taken refuge behind him, rising to his feet to drop it outside in the hall. When he returns, the look in his eyes has softened considerably, and he sinks back down to sit across from Sylvain, so close that their knees brush lightly against each other.
With a cluck of the tongue, Felix shoos Sylvain's bloodied hand away, fingertips barely whispering across the ridge of his knuckles.
"It's really not that bad," Sylvain begins, but Felix wastes no time in cupping one hand beneath the curve of his injured cheek, silencing him immediately. He sits ramrod still as Felix scrutinizes the cut, and when he brings another hand up to hold his opposite cheek, Sylvain forgets to breathe. He dizzily wonders if he can blame the blood loss for how light-headed he suddenly feels, trying and failing to focus on anything except how Felix's hands leave something like Thoron dancing hot and electric over his skin.
"Just be quiet and let me heal you," he chastises, exhaling deeply as he begins to focus. Sylvain is glad Felix closes his eyes as he does, because the sensation of warm air breathed out agonizingly slow over the curve of Sylvain's lips makes him go insane. Felix mutters something under his breath, the words to spells Sylvain can barely make out over the rush of blood behind his ears.
It's mesmerizing, the low rumble of Felix's voice and the rhythmic parting of his lips in synchronized time. Sylvain watches him speak with heavy eyelids, wondering if his nonsense spells might have shape if he were to speak them into Sylvain's mouth, lips slanted against his own. He's not as shocked by this desire as he should be—wanting to pull Felix those last few inches and learn what healing magic and half smiles taste like against his tongue—but acknowledging it is like looking down to see he's been neck deep in this feeling the whole time, only now the water is rising and kissing Felix is his last chance for air before he drowns.
When those closed eyes flutter open, Sylvain almost does. He watches, breathless, as Felix surveys his work past thick ebony lashes and he wants to kiss him, to drown in the hazy molten copper of his eyes and let it cast this moment in precious metal for time immemorial. Felix's gaze travels up to find Sylvain's, and he wonders if Felix can see how his eyes trace the outline of his lips, can tell that his eyelids are heavy with the same force that draws him toward Felix like a falling star caught in his irrefutable gravity.
He wonders, dizzily, if there's a future where Felix will bridge the distance between them.
And, of course, he sneezes, slamming his forehead against Felix's.
Seiros fucking end him.
They rear back simultaneously. Sylvain slumps back against the bed and waits for Felix or the goddess herself to smite him where he sits. Peeling on eye open, he finds Felix in a similar position, rubbing at his forehead with a pained grimace. He really hopes this doesn't bruise.
"Sorry about that, Felix..."
"It can't be helped," he groans, shaking the rest of his disorientation away. Reaching into one of the drawers behind him, he pulls out a rag, ratty and stained with polish. After wiping away the blood that had gotten on his fingertips, he tosses it to Sylvain. "Remind me not to let you into the same room as that cat in the future, though." There's a hint of playfulness in his tone, tugging the corner of his lips upwards.
"Wait— you plan on keeping the cat in here? Felix, you're killing me! You're killing your best friend."
"And you're being ridiculous. Where else is it going to go? In case you haven't noticed, I've taken residence in its home."
"This is— You do know this was your bedroom first, right? Five years ago?"
Felix arches an eyebrow at him, noticeably amused. "I am capable of sharing the room with a single cat, Sylvain. Don't tell me being only two rooms away isn't enough for you," he quips, lips quirked at Sylvain's expense. It's cruel and gorgeous and Sylvain can't get enough.
"Not even close! I saw you, what? All of two times in the past five years?" He pouts. "And now, you're barring me from seeing you using my own—achoo! My own allergies against me. That's just cruel, Felix."
"You're not barred from seeing me, you fool. You're here now, aren't you? And after you so gracefully headbutt me, too. I've every reason to kick you out, you know."
At that, Sylvain grins.
"But," he points out, "you didn't."
Felix rolls his eyes, but there isn't a hint of venom to it.
"But," he nods, "I did not. Five years... is a long time, Sylvain."
"It is, isn't it?" Sylvain murmurs, folding his hands behind his head. "To think that we all remembered that old promise, too. For once," he chuckles wryly, "I almost feel hopeful.
"Hopeful?" Felix echoes. "The war hasn't ended just because we're all back together. Nothing's changed but the company we keep while fighting it."
"It's better company, for sure," Sylvain laughs, making sure to shoot Felix a cheerful wink. It's met with a roll of Felix's bright copper eyes. "But a few things have changed. Two people back from the supposed dead, all of us back together. Hell, after so long counting the hundreds that died fighting back against Sreng and the Empire, I feel a little selfish being happy about just the nine of us."
Felix hums in acknowledgement, pulling a leg up to his chest. Resting his chin against his knee, he peers thoughtfully over at Sylvain. "You're overthinking it." He says it like he says everything, simple and resolute. His unyielding resolve is one thing Sylvain has always admired about Felix, and seeing it firsthand again causes admiration to bubble up in his chest, escaping in the sound of a breathless, disbelieving laugh.
"Am I now?"
Felix doesn't grace that with an answer. "Your soldiers back in Gautier," he posits. "You're glad when they survive, aren't you? For whatever reason—victory, safety, relief."
Sylvain looks at him curiously, brows furrowed.
"Of course I am."
"There's your answer, then." When Sylvain continues gawking at him, Felix rolls his eyes, pulling himself up to sit straight. "There's no point in feeling guilty for not constantly mourning, Sylvain. The only times we find reason to celebrate and continue fighting are for the living, not for the dead. You do the right things, believe it or not," Felix snorts. "Sometimes, you just do them for the wrong reasons."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"What, are you fishing for compliments?" Felix asks, grinning. There's a bite to both the question and his grin, a flash of teeth behind the teasing fondness that even his sharpness cannot hide.
"No, no," Sylvain insists, shaking his head. "If I was, I wouldn't ask you," he tacks on, tossing in a playful grin. Felix lets out a soft scoff, lips lifting at the corners. "Did you mean it, though?" he presses, leaning forward to mirror Felix's previous position, one knee drawn up to his chest. "About me doing the right things."
Felix snorts.
"I didn't mean everything you do, Sylvain. We all fuck up somewhere. You, more than others," he adds cheekily, and Sylvain's affronted gasp only makes him smirk wider, teeth peeking out from behind it. "But when it matters," he intones, voice low, "you... you're there. You come back and you stand with the rest of us, and that's right. To me, at least."
He flushes slightly as he says it, a quiet glow to his cheeks that's made even warmer by the golden candlelight that fills the room. Sylvain stares at it, feels that nebulous, all encompassing want unfurl like flower petals in the face of Felix's sun. There's not a desire that flashes through his mind that doesn't start with his arms wound fierce and unyielding around Felix's smaller frame, his own nose buried against the side of his head and in the navy silk of his hair, smothering a smile against the shell of his ear.
"I like the sound of that," Sylvain breathes, just as low and infinitely more breathless. Felix's gaze flickers up to catch his, questioning, and he can only grin in response. "Doing right by you," he says, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
Felix's cheeks grow darker, but he manages to puff out a scoff, averting his eyes. "It's not just me, you idiot." The words are sharp, but his tone is the exact opposite, dulled into something fond and almost pleased at the quiet confession.
"By everyone, then," Sylvain shrugs. "You're just the first."
"I'll believe it when I see it."
"Keep those pretty eyes on me and you will," he repartees, shooting him a shameless wink. Felix's flustered scoff makes his heart skip a beat, but the quiet response that follows makes it nearly stop altogether.
"Then I will," Felix swears, genuine and low. It catches Sylvain entirely by surprise, and he blinks dumbly, feeling his cheeks begin to warm. Felix's gaze flickers back and Sylvain can see the exact moment Felix notices the blush, the corner of his lips curling up into a small smirk. The twinkle of victory in his bright copper eyes is the only light Sylvain could ever care to see the world illuminated by. "You better not disappoint me."
Sylvain snaps his mouth shut, nodding dumbly, and it only makes Felix's smirk grow wider. Another moment passes, and then he coughs, turning his gaze away for a second to regain himself. With a sheepish laugh, Sylvain clears his throat as he tries to will the blush away.
"Alright," he begins, "I guess I've overstayed for tonight." Sylvain rises to his feet, followed by Felix soon after. As he makes his way toward the door, Felix crosses his arms, levelling him with an appraising look.
"Implying you don't plan on leaving me alone anytime soon?" It sounds more statement than question, and Sylvain can't help his cackle in response, feeling giddy at how easily Felix sees right through him.
"It's a promise." He throws a wink over his shoulder as he tugs the door open. As soon as he does, a painfully familiar blur of black and white manifests at is feet, diving back into Felix's room. Sylvain watches as the cat from earlier beelines toward the newly made bed, dragging dirt and loose hairs all over the pristine white sheets. Felix gives it an amused glance before turning back to see Sylvain's horrified expression.
"It's a promise," he agrees, smirking. Sylvain feels his nose start to itch again, but then Felix lays a hand on his shoulder, pushing himself onto his toes to press a kiss against the corner of Sylvain's jaw, and the itch disappears.
What.
What the fuck was that.
Felix grins, toothy and resplendent and cheeks tinted a warm, undeniable pink.
"Good night, Sylvain."
Sylvain, desperate as he is to get in a farewell, is too busy short circuiting as Felix closes the door. By the time he's sentient enough to realize how hotly his cheeks are burning, he sneezes.
"Yeah... Good night," he murmurs dazedly, to no one in particular as his fingers hover over the curve of his jaw. He's vaguely aware that he won't be getting any sleep tonight.
That cat and that boy are going to be the death of him.