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Felix finally picks up the phone the third time Ingrid calls, and it's really only to tell her to fuck off so he can have some semblance of peace for the night.
“Look, if it's about Sylvain, I still don't—“ he starts, but she cuts him off, and her tone makes him listen.
“Felix, are you at home?” She sounds like she's on speakerphone, probably driving, and when he makes a little noise of affirmation she continues. “Ok, I'm coming to get you, don't leave. Ok? Felix?”
“What happened?” He sounds distant even to himself, and he flips off the stove burner and goes to lean against the counter. It could be anything, his father or Dimitri, but it's Sylvain, it's Sylvain, he knows it is—
“Hey, keep it together. Are you sitting down?” He's breathing too fast, and he goes and sits in one of the chairs around their dining table.
“Ingrid, what happened.”
“Sylvain had an accident; he's ok, he's at the hospital and he's fine, I'm going to come get you so stay there. Ok? I'm almost there.” He sighs and hangs up, then carefully sets the phone on the tabletop and stares at it.
He and Sylvain had gone to an event for his job, one of those country club parties where rich snobs rub elbows and sneer down noses. Felix fucking hated them, but it was practically required and it helped him find new clients, so they had gone. And Felix had been annoyed to be there, so he had been drinking. And Sylvain was fucking gorgeous, so people flirted with him. And Sylvain was charming, and didn't want to fuck Felix over at work, so he flirted back.
And Felix knew it wasn't anything serious, but it still stung him to see Sylvain smile and tease, because Felix hoarded Sylvain's affection like a fucking dragon on a treasure pile, or a man in a desert with his last canteen. Sylvain made him feel too much, and it was so hard for him to express it right.
So of course he had fucked it up when they had gotten home and Sylvain had tried to pull him out of his dark mood. He had said things he should not have said, things he didn't mean, and the worst of it was Sylvain hadn't said anything back. He didn't throw Felix's failings back in his face, and he didn't defend himself. He just...looked at Felix. Like he had expected this, been waiting for it, and it made Felix feel like a fucking monster. A drunk, stupid, pissed off monster, who knew better but didn't do anything when Sylvain nodded and rubbed the back of his neck and said he would go crash at Bear's and let Felix know when he could come get his things.
So.
They were over.
It's been two weeks and Sylvain hasn't come to get his things, other than changes of clothes that he picked up while Felix was working. He hasn't called at all, and Felix thinks he's probably waiting for Felix to just apologize.
And Felix knows, realistically, that all he really has to do is apologize. If he calls Sylvain and tells him he is sorry, he's fucking sorry, he had not meant any of the awful words and he loves him and will he please come home before the smell of him disappears from his pillow, Sylvain would be back in an instant.
But he can't fucking do it. It's stupid and he's stupid and he hates himself but he can't do it. There are the feelings to deal with, and the knowledge he will probably just fuck it up again the same way, right? Why drag Sylvain back to deal with him, prickly and too embarrassed and bottled up to just be open and vulnerable, when Sylvain is so good to him? Why make Sylvain come back to get hurt again?
He's thinking about that when Ingrid knocks on the door, and he follows her out to her car in a daze. He brings his phone but forgets a jacket, too caught up in wondering why the hell anyone would bring him to see Sylvain when he's already injured.
+
“Babe,” Sylvain croaks when Felix is allowed into his room, and he looks so relieved to see him it makes Felix stumble. His head is bandaged, and he has fresh bruises and swelling all along one side of his face, his arm in a sling and held tight against his body.
When Felix gets to the side of his bed, Sylvain reaches for him easily with his good arm, and the way he holds Felix's hand almost makes him cry. “I kept asking for you and no one would say where you were, I was starting to think maybe, maybe something bad—“ he stops himself, brings Felix's hand up to his cheek and holds it there.
Felix doesn't know what the fuck he means, and he turns to look at Ingrid and the doctor who has followed them in. He looks back at Sylvain, and he does not want to ever let go of him again, but the doctor looks too damn serious and Felix needs to know what's wrong. “I'll be right back, just going to talk to the doctor, see when you can come home.” He brushes his fingers up Sylvain's un-bruised cheek and Sylvain nods once, slow, before Felix turns to join Ingrid.
Someone had run a light and sideswiped Sylvain's car; he has a hairline fracture in his arm, which is going to make work difficult, and a major concussion. How major is major, Felix wants to know, and then the bomb drops and he feels like he'll vomit—Sylvain hasn't forgiven him, isn't just happy to see him because he loves him, he doesn't remember their fight at all. He thinks it's the Thursday before the party, has no idea he's been sleeping on Bernadetta and Caspar's couch for two weeks because Felix is a bastard—
Ingrid holds him up as the doctor explains this could happen with a concussion, though it was rare. Sylvain may remember, or he may not. He may have trouble forming new memories while he heals; they can't really say with any certainty.
Still.
Felix isn't going to leave Sylvain here; he's not going to leave Sylvain ever unless Sylvain tells him to.
And that means he has to explain what he had done, and apologize, because to sit here with Sylvain looking at him the way Sylvain had, like he's the best thing in his life, and not say anything? It would be beyond fucked up. He can't do it.
Ingrid kindly steps out when the doctor leaves, with the excuse that she's going to call their friends to let them know. Felix takes the opportunity to pull up the chair in the room to the side of the bed, and as soon as he's sitting his hand meets Sylvain's. He's glad for a second that it's not Sylvain's dominant arm that's broken, so he'll still be able to draw while he recovers, and the tears start.
“Oh, hey, Felix, sweetheart, I'm fine. I'm ok.” Felix sniffs and laughs miserably.
“No, Sylvain, you're not. You're really not. Ugh.” He wipes at his face with his free hand, angry at himself for crying when he should be apologizing. “You have a concussion, and amnesia, and it's bad.”
“What, like, 50 First Dates bad?” Felix hiccups out another awful laugh.
“I don't know. Maybe? The doctors don't know, which is great, honestly.” He seizes on that anger to push the tears back, and swipes at his eyes again. “Uh, so, you lost like, two and a half weeks. You might remember them, they don't know.” He hopes he won't, honestly, but. Sylvain just looks at him, and squeezes his hand.
“What else? You don't have to go easy on me.” Sylvain looks like he's expecting to find out he's dying, and Felix feels a little like he's dying, and he grimaces.
“No, there's not really anything, anything else like, like that. Uh. Fuck. I probably shouldn't be here!” Sylvain blinks at him, and Felix wants to look away but he owes Sylvain at least this much. “You, um, left me.”
“No fucking way.” The sure sincerity of it punches Felix in the stomach and he starts to cry again.
“You did. I said some pretty awful shit, because I'm a dick, and you've been at Bernadetta's for like two weeks. I haven't even, t-talked to you, in two weeks, and I'm. I'm fucking sorry! God, I'm really fucking sorry.” Sylvain lets go of his hand and he sobs out a little broken noise, but then Sylvain is wiping at his cheeks.
“Hey, Felix, it's ok! It's ok, I forgive you—“
“You can't, you don't even remember what I said—“ Sylvain reaches down for his hand again.
“Ok, you said something awful, right?”
“Yes.”
“And did you mean it?”
“No.”
“Then it's ok! You apologized, I forgive you. I love you.”
“Don't—“ it tears out of him, “It's not that simple.” Sylvain's eyes roam his face for a moment.
“Are you worried I'm going to remember and be pissed again?” Felix flinches.
“You weren't pissed, Sylvain, you were hurt.” Sylvain squeezes his hand, and then sighs.
“Call Bear for me?” Felix isn't sure what that will help, but he'll do anything Sylvain wants, right now. He nods and calls Bernadetta, and he wonders if she will even pick up. What have Sylvain's last two weeks even been like? Surely she knows what Felix had said, and she won't want to talk to him. But she picks up almost right away.
“Felix?” She sounds worried. “Is Sylvain with you? He didn't come home and he's not picking up his phone—“
“Yeah, yeah, he's with me. Uh, we're at the hospital, I'll text you about it, but he wants to talk to you.” He hands the phone over to Sylvain.
“Heyyy Bear, I'm fine. Ok, well, actually, I've got some real soap opera amnesia shit happening here. Have I been sleeping on your couch?” He pauses, looks at Felix in surprise. “No shit. Uh. Ok, ok, help me out here: If Felix came and said he was a dick and he was sorry and he didn't mean any of whatever he said, would the me who was couch surfing forgive him?”
Oh, for the love of—Felix leans forward and glares at Sylvain, who is ignoring him to listen to Bernadetta. This is ridiculous, he can't forgive Felix based on this—Sylvain looks back at him with a little smile.
“No, he didn't! Hey, Felix, do you love me?”
“Of course—“
“Ooh, he says 'of course' in his most Frustrated Felix tone—hm? No, no, he thinks I shouldn't forgive him.” Sylvain laughs. “Yeah, that's what I said. Thanks, Bear. Yeah, sure, I'd love to see you. Ok, I gotta finish this with Felix. Yeah, love you, too.” He hangs up and holds the phone back out to Felix.
“Sylvain, that was ridiculous—“
“So,” Sylvain barrels over him, ignoring him, “as advised by the other person who knows me best, I still forgive you. I think you should probably accept it, because I'm not changing my mind.”
“Sylvain...” He wants to. He wants to.
“I really don't want to go back to sleeping on Bear's couch, Babe.” That startles a laugh out of Felix, and he folds towards the bed and the arm Sylvain holds out for him, rests his forehead on Sylvain's stomach while he rubs a soothing circle on Felix's back.
“I'm really stupid, Sylvain. It was miserable,” he says into Sylvain's hospital shirt, and Sylvain brushes his fingers on the nape of his neck, through the length of his ponytail.
“Hey. Make it up to me? I could really use a kiss right now. I've got like, what, a two-week backlog?”
Felix laughs, and he kisses him.