Archive of Our Own

“A favor,” Felix says, incredulous. “Not interested. Find someone else.”

“You didn’t even ask,” says Sylvain. “You’re not going to say it depends on the favor?” 

“It doesn’t,” says Felix. “Not when it’s you.”

He has a point. Sylvain has virtually never asked Felix for a favor that doesn’t cause physical pain. The favors he’s requested have all been completely intolerable — making excuses for him, helping him hide, dodging the professor, Dimitri, Ingrid — and Felix has the right idea: this one will be particularly bad.

“Okay,” says Sylvain. “I’ll just spill and you can decide. But also, you, uh, pretty much have to do this. I’m just saying, if our friendship means anything to you —” 

“I’m leaving.” 

“— what? no, just — just hold on a second, Felix! It’s the host club.” Sylvain wrings his hands with uncharacteristic sincerity. “We — we need your help. Hosting.” 

This time Felix doesn’t dignify him with a response.

Sylvain catches up with him halfway down the hall. Their little dance of wheedling and whining, of refusing and what part of no do you not fucking get, Sylvain, continues through the dining hall and very nearly into the courtyard. Finally Sylvain manages to grab onto Felix’s wrist, and though Felix snatches it back immediately, it stops him in his tracks long enough for him to get a word in:

“Felix, hear me out. I promise this is not just an excuse to see you host. I mean, not primarily.” 

“What?” says Felix.

“What do you mean, what?” says Sylvain. “Like, I’m not doing this just to” — and actually, yeah, it’s probably not obvious to Felix how much he wants to see this for, uh, personal reasons — “embarrass you,” he finishes. “It’s just that Hilda is sick, and we need someone to fill in. That’s all this is about.”

“Is Hilda really sick,” Felix asks, with merited skepticism. 

“She’s in the infirmary. Some kind of flu.” 

“Fine. So she’s sick. Get someone else to do it.”

“No — look, listen! There’s no one else.” Needier than he wanted to sound. Nevertheless. “No one qualified.”

“Qualified,” repeats Felix. He’s glowering but he’s turned to face Sylvain, which is progress.

“Yeah. Qualified. You know. There’s a bunch of… qualifications… that you need. For this. Your, uh, face needs to… it’s gotta be there. You know?”  

Sylvain’s really struggling here. The fact is that Felix is, like, objectively really good-looking. It’s doubly stupid because it shouldn’t even need explaining. He knows beauty’s in the eye of the beholder and all, but Felix? Pretty fucking easy to behold! And yeah, he’s irritable, but some people like that. People like Sylvain. Also, if he says any of this out loud, Felix will walk away and slam the fucking door. 

“Sylvain’s right,” a voice says, stepping out from absolutely nowhere. 

“Vice President!” Sylvain sweeps the floor with a mock-bow. “Never thought I’d find you here.” 

Claude winks at Sylvain, a look that says don’t worry, I’ve got this all figured out. Sylvain knows that look. He uses it himself. He’s not sure who wears it better. 

(He thinks it’s Claude. He… kind of minds?)

“What Sylvain is trying to say,” Claude says, winking at Sylvain again, and yeah, he definitely wears it better, that is so not cool, “is that you bring a specific type to the Host Club, which needs a breadth of types to function.” 

“Types,” says Felix. Claude’s doing well. A response means he’s listening. 

“It’s not enough to be handsome,” Claude says smoothly. “We need type coverage. Dimitri handles the prince archetype. Sylvain and I are playful. Dedue’s strong and silent. And you’re… well, I don’t want to stereotype you, but you’re different enough from us,” and Sylvain thanks his stars that Claude knows better than to go into detail here, saints above, “that you’d be an invaluable asset to the club. Just for the night. So how about it?” 

Felix is taking this better than expected. Sylvain wonders if it’s because he’s not the one who’s talking. 

“Uh, in terms of types, what is Hilda?” says Sylvain. “The… lazy type?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” says Claude. 

Felix is still thinking. 

“And if you don’t help out, we’ll have to use Lorenz,” Sylvain says, thinking fast. “He keeps asking. I don’t know how much longer we can turn him down.”

That does it.

“Fine,” Felix says. “But you owe me.”

(Sylvain never asks himself why Claude would be waiting outside the courtyard like that. As if he had some kind of plan.

In the world where he does that? This evening? Pretty different.

But in this world? 

Well.)

The thing is, seeing Felix host has always been a pipe dream. Sylvain’s got a lot of pipe dreams! He’s never considered what he’d do if they came true! 

“Sylvain,” says Felix. “What’s wrong. You look…”

“Normal,” says Sylvain, immediately. “I look normal. Do I not look normal? Yeah, and you look normal too. So there you go.” 

Felix scowls. He steps out fully from the curtain.

What Sylvain wants to say is: You don’t look normal. You look incredible. Felix, dressed the part, is stunning. He's got on a sleek and jet-black suit and he cuts a wild figure in it. A single button is undone at the collar; hair falls around his eyes just so; and, okay, yeah, he’s scowling something fierce. Maybe the scowl isn’t the most traditional part of the getup. But Sylvain likes it, too! It adds interest. Fuck, he’ll be fucked if he doesn’t like all of Felix, every presentation, every which way.  

“What do you think?” That’s Dorothea, mirror in hand. She did his hair. “Cleans up nice, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” says Sylvain. “Yeah, you could say that.” 

Dorothea winks at him. If Sylvain sees one more wink today better than his own he will lose it. “Pretty cute, right?” She runs her fingers through Felix’s hair as she says it. Sylvain's nails dig further into his palms. “I tried to get him not to tie it up. He’s no fun!” 

Letting his hair down? Sylvain will combust if he sees that. 

“I’m not,” says Felix. And then to Sylvain: “You’re late. Get changed.”

Sylvain does. He keeps his thoughts off Felix very carefully.

The Host Club’s mission for tonight is simple: throw the ball, and throw it well.

The Valentine’s ball is traditionally a spectacle. For the past two years Garreg Mach has been contracting the operation out to Claude, and tonight is no exception. Claude, ever shrewd, has steadily increased the size of the enterprise, and the club now stands to make a sinful profit. 

It’s never been clear why Claude isn’t just president of the club given how little Dimitri does for it. Sylvain thinks he’s just got a soft spot for the king.

He doesn’t blame him. Dimitri’s the kind of guy you can’t help but put your faith in. Even if he knows less about the workings of the club than any of its members. Or human life, for that matter. Sylvain tries not to think about how he’s going to spend the rest of his days serving a king who thinks omelettes have eggshells in them. If he likes the crunch, what’s Sylvain to say?

Now that he’s gotten changed, he finds Felix again.

“Hey!” Sylvain says, pleased as punch by how unaffected he sounds. “You good for the evening? Need me to give you the rundown again?” Also, is Felix red? “Wait. Have you… been drinking?”

“What? No.” Felix is affronted. “I haven’t been drinking. Why would I?”

“Well, you’re red,” Sylvain helpfully points out. “Like, the bridge of your nose, and stuff.” 

“I haven’t been drinking,” Felix says again, with irritation. It sounds sincere, which is odd, because why else would he be red? “I remember what we’re doing. And I don’t need your help, Sylvain.”

Sylvain doesn't get it. "Are you sunburnt? It’s mid-winter —"

Dimitri and Dedue choose that moment to appear, changed into club attire as well. A single crimson rose is pinned to Dimitri’s suit jacket, significantly enhancing The Look. 

“I cannot thank you enough for helping us tonight, Felix,” says Dimitri, incredibly earnestly. “We will do whatever we can to repay you.” He clasps Felix by the shoulder, who makes a noise. Sylvain doesn’t think it’s voluntary. 

“Indeed,” says Dedue. 

“I have every confidence in your hosting,” says Dimitri, eyes sparkling. 

 Felix is still kind of red. is he allergic to something? 

“Everyone!” It’s Claude, who isn’t looking so bad himself. He’s wearing white! Stylish. “Let’s recap the plan. We’ve got the ballroom booked and we’ll be serving tea and snacks for the first part of the evening. Then we’ll transition to dancing. We’ve got Dorothea on piano and the orchestra lined up.”

Dedue is calm, Dimitri eager; Felix scowling, Sylvain waiting. As if on cue, the violins begin to play. 

“Everyone ready? Let’s get started!”

And it's a success! Of course it is. They're an hour in and everyone's having a blast. All along the ballroom floor students are mingling and giddily toasting flutes. The air is thick with excitement that shimmers and swirls; it's the magic of the Host Club, baby, and Sylvain loves to see it.

Dimitri is on the veranda, explaining the club to several starry-eyed first-years who cannot believe this is what the prince of Faerghus gets up to in his spare time. But Dimitri is embarrassingly earnest about their mission, his eyes shining as he speaks, and Sylvain can virtually pinpoint the moment all three fall for him at once.

Dedue stands nearby, plating hors d’oeuvres with comical skill. A group of onlookers watches in hushed, admiring tones. How someone can look good while arranging canapés Sylvain will never understand. 

Claude's unfindable. The guy's probably up to something. Always is.

Which just leaves Felix. 

...

He has a harder time finding Felix in the crowded ballroom than any of the others. As it turns out, this is because Felix is swarmed. Felix cannot physically move. A throng of admirers surrounds him, crowding and jostling and hanging onto his every taciturn word.

He... looks like the most popular host in the room?

Sylvain stares in disbelief.

He needs another drink.

Felix is too popular for his own good. Sylvain finds this out over text.

sylvain.
i need a favor. it's urgent. 

!!!!!!!

shut up.
i need you to bail me out.
these girls are talking to me and they won't leave. 

hey felix am i hearing this right?
you need me to bail you out
by upsetting women

that's right.
i don't care about whatever stupid joke you're typing. just show up already. 

you know me too well!
omw <3

He spots the problem immediately: three Golden Deer girls, teacups in hand, perched around a tiny table to which Felix is attending. And oh, they're interested in him. Very interested. All three of them cling to his every word. No wonder he messaged Sylvain.

"You're so funny," says the youngest, twirling her hair. Sylvain squints. That’s just false and she should know it. 

"You flatter me," says Felix, not sounding flattered.

"Are you free tomorrow?" asks the oldest, more cunning than the others. "We'd love to see you again."

"I've got training," says Felix.  

"Then the next day?" says the middle one, hopefully. 

"Training again." His politesse is fraying.

"You can't always have training," says the oldest. Crafty, that one. "Don't you ever relax?" It's a valid point and one Sylvain's made many times before. But his sympathy for her vanishes abruptly when she sets down her teacup and brushes her fingers, ever so casually, against Felix's own. 

Well then.

"Good evening, ladies," says Sylvain, smooth as silk, as he saunters into the circle and all but slaps her hand away. "Thank you so much for entertaining my boyfriend."

"Your boyfriend?" says the middle one, skeptically. Felix is looking at him like he's grown two heads.

"Shy, isn't he? So good of you to talk to him. I'll take him off your hands now," Sylvain says, grabbing Felix's shoulders before he can speak and maneuvering him away with precision.

"We don't need to be taken off his hands," says the oldest, visibly irritated. "We're having a great time!"

"A wonderful time," says the oldest. "You're not taking him anywhere." And then, with an audacity Sylvain honestly admires, she reaches out and — yeah, now it's not just brushing fingers. She's stuck to his hand like a squid. 

Red alert. 

Sylvain thinks fast. With a tug of the tablecloth, he rights the situation. 

"Eeeeeeeek!"

The tea set sails through the air and explodes on impact. Porcelain crashes; teacups are flying. When the dust settles the oldest girl is on the floor somehow, flustered and splattered, and Sylvain would feel sorry if the sight of those brushing fingers weren’t quite so fresh in his mind. Actually, who is he kidding? He's vibrating with delight. 

"Sylvain," says a voice behind him, prickly and familiar, as Sylvain turns around. 

It's Felix — and he is positively drenched. 

Whoops.

Claude all but throws them out of the event to get Felix some clean clothes. It’s hard to read Felix’s expression — it always is — but Sylvain is pretty confident he isn’t mad mad, just annoyed and maybe even… gratified for the break? Then Claude texts them to get some instant coffee because the club’s running out, and at that point it kind of just becomes an outing. 

They make a beeline for the nearest convenience store in town, where Felix expresses more knowledge about instant coffee brands than he’s got any right to have. The cashier recognizes Felix (weird) and strikes up a conversation (weirder). Sylvain hears mention of your cute friend, which makes him feel good, followed by you know! the one you come here with all the time, which... makes something drop in his stomach. Huh. 

He waits by the self-checkout lane and is feeling pretty sorry for himself by the time his phone buzzes twice.

sylvaaaain!!!
im so mad im not there!!!! 

i don’t have your new number but is this hilda

of course it is!!! who else would it be!!! 

yeah i can hear the sickness over text! just your personal brand of plague

youre soooo funny sylvain i JUST got discharged
also i dont wanna hear shit from the guy who still hasnt made his move

what

seriously how have u not made a move yet

sorry i have no idea what you're saying 

claude is streaming this live i can see everything you can NOT just pour tea on him and call it a day 

“I’m done,” says Felix, coffee freshly bagged. Sylvain closes his phone weakly. They get moving.

...

He's just gonna ask him! He's... just gonna ask.

...

...

Fuck.

“Hey, uh, did that cashier ask you about someone?” Sylvain says, very casually, when they're practically back at the monastery. “Like, that guy you’re always with, or something?”

“Oh,” says Felix. He sounds bored. Sylvain’s not sure if that’s a good sign. “That?”

He chooses his words carefully. “I just didn’t know you were seeing someone! That’s all.”

Felix scowls. “That was Dimitri.”

Right. Okay. Sylvain’s a colossal fucking moron, but also, that makes him feel better. A lot better. “You come here with Dimitri? Why?”

“Because he can’t taste,” seethes Felix. “Every time Claude sends him he comes back with some kind of fucking sawdust. He fucks up so often I had to start chaperoning him myself.” 

“Explains how you know so much about instant coffee,” says Sylvain. “I was impressed!”

Felix grimaces. 

Moments later they're back on the grounds and Sylvain is in the courtyard outside Felix's room, waiting for him to get changed. It’s a spacious courtyard where many of the school’s minor events are held, and Sylvain’s surprised to find he’s come to associate it with dancing. If he closes his eyes he can see himself staggering around in awkward time, rising and falling, someone beautiful and scowling on his arm. He frowns a bit at the image. Scowling? Why are they scowling?

Oh. Right. Well, enough of that. Sylvain opens his eyes and checks his phone. He brightens (2 new messages)  before realizing it's just Hilda: 


um i dont see u and felix on the livecam?????
r u guys finally gettin somewhere :* 


Felix returns. Sylvain closes his phone for the night.

“Enjoying the evening?” he asks, cause he’s got nothing to say. 

To his surprise, Felix considers it.

“More than I thought,” he says carefully. And from Felix? That’s a strong yes. Wow. 

Fireflies are dotting the courtyard and drifting upwards in lazy little circles. Sylvain yawns. "Shall we head back, then?"

"Wait," says Felix. Sylvain tilts his head.

Felix is looking at Sylvain in a funny way. His chin is stuck out just a little, like a challenge. He’s looking at him like… he wants to fight. Wants to fight?

"Dance with me," says Felix. 

Sylvain opens his mouth. Then closes it again. 

"What’s wrong?” says Felix. “Don’t you don't know how to dance?" His voice is almost perfectly even. But not quite. 

"What? No. Felix, I —” Sylvain is dumbfounded. “I know how to dance. I spend so much time picking up girls, it’d be sad if I didn’t. But — “

"Let's see if you're any good," says Felix.

Felix is very good at dancing.

Sylvain spends as little time as possible thinking about what just happened. He takes the first three champagne flutes he finds and downs them immediately. 

It's not that he doesn't want to! Not at all. It's that the memory of it has sunk its claws in him and won't let go. He's trying not to think about it and it's all he's thinking about. If he actively lets himself dwell on it he'll set himself on fire. He'll do something.

Or maybe he'll just be really horny. Who cares?  

He has no time to worry. At ten sharp the lights go out completely. This is how Sylvain, and everyone else, learn that the huge chandelier is electric: because it begins flashing like a strobe light as waves of filthy sound swamp the venue. The vibe has instantly transformed from ball to rave, and Sylvain is very here for it. 

A giant contraption chooses this moment to rotate its way out of the floor, very noisily. Sylvain has no idea what it is. No one does. It looks at least three centuries out of place. Claude's at the helm. 

"Everyone!" his voice booms from the speakers. "We've decided to add some intrigue with a contest! One lucky winner will be chosen by raffle to kiss our top host of the evening!" 

Wait, what?

The crowd oohs and ahhs as Sylvain does a double take. Then a triple one. 

Sorry — top host of the evening? 

Lucky winner?

A kiss?

It's Felix. It's gotta be. The most popular host of the night. That's just obvious.

So someone's going to kiss Felix. That's fine! It's fine. It really is.

…

Has Felix... ever been kissed? 

…

...

Probably not. 

So Felix's first kiss, in all likelihood, is going to be with some random student.

That's cool. It's totally cool. It's just kissing. It's not like. You know. Sex. 

…

...

But kissing's more intimate than sex, in a fashion. Isn't it? 

And none of this would have happened without his own stupid intervention. 

Okay. Well, there's free alcohol. 

There’s... a lot of free alcohol.

There’s so much alcohol Sylvain forgets not to answer his phone, though he does let it ring twice before picking up. He’ll be fucked. It’s a video call.  

"Heeeey!" Hilda's voice rings through the air, bright and cheery. Sylvain furiously dials down the volume while she smacks popcorn off her fingers. 

"Hey!" says Sylvain. "Great nails.”

“Thanks! I know!”

“Of course. So, to what do I owe the pleasure? Need anything?"  

"Oh, no! No. Not at all," says Hilda. "I'm just here to make fun of you. And so are they!"

The video shakes briefly; when it rights itself Dorothea and Ingrid are in camera view, entwined on the ratty old couch Hilda keeps talking about getting replaced.

Dorothea waves enthusiastically. Ingrid does not wave. 

"Whoa there!" Sylvain throws his hands up. "Ladies! Leave some room for Seiros, don't you think?"

"Sylvain, shut up," says Ingrid, and Dorothea looks like she could kiss her. They... probably kiss a lot. Sylvain tries not to think about that, too. 

"So what's this event?" he says, as Hilda re-inverts the phone and pops another fistful of popcorn in her mouth. "Or did you guys really, truly get together to make fun of me?" 

"Yeah," three voices chorus at once. Sylvain whistles. Fair enough.

"Who I really feel bad for, though," says Dorothea, "is Felix. He doesn't deserve this. Honestly." Hilda nods assent as Ingrid buries her face in her hands. 

"Sorry?" says Sylvain. "Deserve what?"

"Do we really need to spell it out for you?" says Hilda. "You're supposed to make a move, dumbass."

"I," says Sylvain, whose brain has stopped working.

"We're glued to the livestream," says Dorothea. "You've had so many opportunities! And you haven't taken a single one! What are you doing?"

"How does everyone know about Felix?" he hisses at the three of them. 

"Um, do you think you're subtle?" says Hilda.

"I heard my name," says the worst voice possible. Sylvain is going to pass out. He is.

Felix is not good with technology. He sticks his neck in the camera view at what can only be described as patented mom angle. It looks like a terrible selfie. Dorothea shrieks. Hilda falls over.

"Hey, Felix," Ingrid says wearily.

Felix is looking suspiciously at all three of them. He knows trouble when he sees it. 

Dorothea recovers slightly. "We have to go."

"Bye," says Hilda. The line goes dead.

There’s a pause during which Felix says nothing. He doesn’t have to.

"Uh," says Sylvain. "You didn't... hear any of that, did you?"

"Why?" Felix says. "Something you didn't want me to hear?"

"Great," Sylvain says. "Wonderful. Listen, Felix, I... uh... have to go."

Sylvain goes. He goes about thirty paces and throws up in a rosebush.

It makes sense that Dedue finds him. The guy can probably sense his precious plants being… besmirched. Destroyed. Vomited on? Is vomit fertilizer? What is he talking about?

“Sylvain,” says Dedue. 

“Oh, thank god it’s you,” says Sylvain. “If someone’s going to see me like this I’d much rather it be you.” A sudden surge of nausea roils him; he covers his mouth with a fist. “Wow. That tastes awful.”

Dedue blinks, just once. “Are you... all right?” 

“Yeah!” says Sylvain. “Yeah, just peachy. Hey, listen — I love talking to you, but I’m kind of in the middle of something right now, so if you could just check back in when I’ve got the headspace —” Another bout of nausea wracks him. He staggers. Round two, baby —

Several moments pass as Sylvain finishes throwing up whatever’s left of the champagne and canapés in his stomach. Dedue, a fucking legendary friend, holds his hair. When he finishes and staggers to his feet, Dedue remains, holding his shoulder with a steadying grip. 

“You,” says Sylvain, “are a fucking gem. You know that, Dedue? I could kiss you right now.”

“Indeed,” says Dedue. “We are friends, Sylvain.” 

“Yeah, and speaking of friends,” Sylvain says, practically falling into him, ”who you wanna kiss, does that ever — ever happen to you? Or like, maybe you’ve got one specific person in mind? But you can’t do anything about it? Just a hypothetical.”

“Sylvain,” says Dedue. 

“Because maybe this one specific person is your best friend, and if you say those things to them, you can’t go back. You don’t wanna ruin the best thing you’ve ever had, but you also can’t go on like this. Or maybe you’re just a fucking coward and that’s why you won’t pull the trigger. I’m just asking for a friend. Totally! I’m just asking."

“Sylvain,” says Dedue, more firmly.

“Oh yeah, and it’s not you. Sorry. I might have made that unclear.”

“Sylvain,” says Dedue, gentle this time. He reaches for Sylvain’s shoulders and straightens him out. “I had gathered.” 

“Oh,” says Sylvain. “Oh, well, — yeah, okay.” 

“Perhaps we should go inside,” says Dedue. “The festivities are starting.” Then he leaves, with a long glance at Sylvain, standing in the rosebushes. 

The festivities.

Right.

God he needs water.

Sylvain stands there, thinking, for several moments. Then he absconds — to the third floor. That’s where Felix finds him: alone on a balcony, seated on the railing, legs dangling precariously off the ledge.

Felix joins him. 

Which is fine! That's fine. 

Really.

“Hey,” says Felix. “Are you okay?”

Sylvain smiles a smile which he can already tell is more a grimace. “What? Of course I’m okay. Do I not look okay?”

Felix isn’t fooled. “You look awful. I saw you talking to Dedue.” 

“Oh, that. That was… something.”

“Hm.”

“It was nice, though! He’s a good listener.” 

“And I’m not?” says Felix. 

Sylvain’s brain is going to crack at the seams. “What?” 

Now Felix isn’t looking at him. “...I’m just saying. If something’s on your mind… tell me. I’ll listen to you too.” 

“Wow,” Sylvain says. “Did you rehearse that?” Felix glares. “I’m kidding! Seriously, thanks for the offer. I don’t deserve you, Felix,” he says, leaning against the railing with a practiced sigh. “I really don’t.” 

“Don’t say that. It’s not true." Felix’s voice is low and sharp. "...And don’t sit up there, either. You could fall.” 

“Fall?” He supposes it’s true. He could fall. “But you'd catch me!" Felix scowls. "And there’s a fountain right below us. I’d just fall into the water, then.”

Felix scowls even harder. “You’ll catch cold.”

“Oh man, Felix, are you worried about me?”

“Yes,” Felix snaps, and his voice is so sharp it startles both of them. “Yes, I'm worried about you, you moron, you’ve been acting strangely all evening!”

Sylvain considers it.

Has he?

“Come on. Name one time I acted strange.”

“Throwing up in the roses.”

Too easy. “Nope! Do that all the time.”

“Fine. That call with Ingrid and Dorothea.”

That seems right. “Okay, fair.”

“Or what about when you danced with me in the courtyard?” says Felix.

That was what Sylvain had been hoping he wouldn't bring up. He’s brought it up. “Oh — that? That was —”

“You ran away,” says Felix, nearly spitting. “You’ve been avoiding me ever since. This was two hours ago. Or do you really not remember?”

“No, I remember that,” says Sylvain. He'll be honest. It's not like he's got anywhere left to run. “Uh, I guess you’re right.” He laughs once, rueful. “I’ve been a bit of a mess, huh?”

“Did I do something wrong?” Felix says.

Sylvain opens his mouth to make some kind of dipshit response. That’s before he sees Felix’s expression, wrenchingly open, and, wait, is Felix serious?  He’s made Felix think he could be in the wrong here?

Then he’s really fucked up this time. 

But he can’t tell him the truth, either. I liked it so much I had to leave. Felix’s body pressed into his own, steering him through the courtyard with ease. Moving together, breathing together; the dip, plunging towards the grass for one short moment before Felix caught him easily and lifted him up, that coursing adrenaline —  

“No,” Sylvain says, insistent, urgent. Truthful. “No, not at all. You don’t do anything wrong. Didn’t, I mean. I…” He swallows. “I want to talk about something else, but for now let’s just say you’re good, and I’m sorry, and I’ll talk to you later, probably, about what’s been on my mind. Just not right now. Deal?”

There's a pause, and then:

“Deal,” says Felix. 

“Cool,” says Sylvain. “Then let’s talk about something else.”

“Fine,” says Felix. He looks out over the grounds. He looks almost... wistful. “It’s five minutes to midnight. I wonder who won that contest.”

That wasn’t what Sylvain was expecting. “You can’t be serious.”

“What do you mean?”

Sylvain’s at a loss for words. “You know it’s gotta be you, right? It’s definitely you. That person at midnight that they call up. The most popular host.” 

“Ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous if you can’t see that! Who do you think it would be? Dimitri?”

“You,” Felix all but growls. “It would obviously be you!” 

“What? Why would it be me?!” 

Every subsequent word costs Felix a massive physical effort.

“I saw you,” Felix says, words dragged out of him, “talking to… those girls. On your free shift. You were... good.”

“Oh yeah? Liked what you saw?” He doesn’t give him time to respond. “Come on, Felix. Your table was flooded with visitors. Did you even see yourself? You were a vision! They loved you! I was jealous!” 

“Ridiculous,” Felix mutters. But the truth of Sylvain’s words has sunk in; he is changing colors. 

“Let’s make a bet,” Sylvain says, on a sudden stroke of inspiration that he is in no way going to regret. “I think Claude’s gonna call out your name at midnight. You think it’s gonna be me. So let’s bet. If you win, I’ll do whatever you want. And if I win, you’ve gotta... kiss me.”

He waits for the protest. It never comes.

“Deal,” Felix says. 

“Uh,” says Sylvain. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I,” says Sylvain weakly. “Don’t get me wrong, I like this outcome, but I… kind of thought you wouldn’t. You don’t object?”

“There’s no need,” says Felix, with supreme confidence. “I won’t lose.”

His voice is impressively even for someone the color of tomato juice. 

“I,” says Sylvain. “Uh. Well.”

Two minutes to midnight remain, during which Felix and Sylvain are no longer able to make conversation with each other. 

Sylvain gives up. He pats the balustrade. 

“Sit with me,” he says.

Felix balks. “On the railing?”

“You won’t fall. You’re like a cat. And I won’t either.” 

Felix appraises the idea. He hops up and joins him, with visible distaste. 

“Something wrong?” says Sylvain. “You don’t love heights?" 

Felix is caught. “You could say that.”

Sylvain can’t help himself. “Cute. I never knew.”

Felix doesn’t have time to glare: the clock is chiming midnight exactly, and the band kicks up once more. Their vantage point is unexpectedly good. From here Sylvain can see students streaming to the central courtyard for the announcement, happy and wined and waiting for excitement. 

They do not wait long. With a colossal shriek and a tearing of wind across the courtyard, a massive wyvern flies into view. It’s white. It’s splendid. And Claude’s at the helm again, his suit matching. 

“Goddess,” Sylvain mutters. “That’s his wyvern? And it’s white?” 

“Show-off,” says Felix. 

People are taking pictures. 

“Hey again, everyone!” says Claude. He’s delivering the announcement from mid-air, from a megaphone, on the back of a white fucking wyvern. This evening does not want for spectacle, that's for sure.  “It’s time for us to unveil the winners of our little challenge!” He spies Felix and Sylvain on the balustrade mid-announcement, his smile brightening instantly into something more… sincere? Devious? Or somehow both?

“For the hosts, in last place… it’s a tie between me and Sylvain Gautier. How about that!”

Sylvain shoots a triumphant look at Felix. Felix is not impressed.

“In third, we’ve got Dedue Molinaro, which is an injustice — you’re number one in my heart, Dedue! Carrying on, in second place…. this one was real close, folks, but our number one host tonight is not your usual number one host. In fact, he’s not really a host at all!”

Felix is in horror.

“What did I say?” says Sylvain. “What did I say?”

“In second place — Dimitri! And in first place — Felix Fraldarius!” The crowd is going wild. “Speech! Speech? Nah, speeches aren’t really his thing. So we’ll move right along to the raffle. I’m drawing a name from this satchel of entrants. Who will tonight's lucky someone be? Let’s find out!" 

Over the last few minutes a steady influx of texts have been trickling their way to Sylvain’s phone. Of course he’s not checking them. But the beginning of a thought is wriggling its way into his mind, like an itch that disappears when you scratch it. Or a sixth sense for trouble.  

 Claude rummages through the bag and draws a slip of paper. He reads it. 

“Looks like our lucky person of the night is…”

That sixth sense? Is spiking into overdrive. 

"..."

"......"

“...............................our very own Sylvain!”

Right. Of course.

Felix turns to Sylvain in absolute horror. 

“This can’t be happening,” says Felix. 

“Claude,” says Sylvain. 

“Did you even put your name in that thing?” 

“Claude played us,” says Sylvain, with dawning respect. He’d be mad if it weren’t so good, Claude, what the hell, Jesus Christ. “He played us like fiddles.” 

“And what now?” Felix says, looking at him strangely. 

“What now? What do you mean, what now?”

“Everyone’s looking at us!” Felix hisses. 

“Oh,” says Sylvain, because, yeah, right. That’s true. 

The floodlights have found them, too. Now they’re illuminated starkly, two small figures sitting on a railing, hundreds of screaming, cheering students watching from below. The band is playing something uptempo, some kind of pop punk bullshit Sylvain listened to five years ago, and it’s exactly the sort of frenetic homecoming energy he'd want for a scene like this. But that’s not the important question. 

The question is, what does Felix want? Because he’s not doing anything Felix doesn’t want him to. He turns back to Felix, who is looking at him like he’s waiting for an answer but sure isn’t going to make much longer. 

“Yeah,” says Sylvain serenely, articulately, like a person who uses words to effect. “They are. Uh. Do you mean the, uh, kiss? Because I’m not not down, but I’m sure Claude wouldn’t make you do anything you don’t want to —” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Felix says. “You’re so stupid.”

“— so I guess we can just kind of — hey,” he protests, “what do you mean I’m ridiculous, you’re the one who —” 

Felix tackles him rather than let him finish the sentence. He tackles him with a kiss. Right. Sylvain staggers, then, yeah, he gets it. 

The onlookers are screaming. Claude, on his wyvern, looks very pleased.

Felix clutches at him as they fall off the railing together and into the fountain below. It’s a fall of about ten feet and the floodlights don’t follow; they plunge into the water, and it’s fucking freezing, which is not sexy, but seeing Felix drenched for the second time this evening kind of makes up for it. 

…

...

...

“We’ll catch cold,” says Sylvain, when they surface.

“Shut up,” says Felix. “Less talking.” 

“And more what?” says Sylvain. “Felix? More what? Don’t let me down.”

Felix looks at him.

Felix doesn’t.