Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sylvain groaned. His pen hung over the paper, ink threatening to drip upon the page.

It wasn't as if this was a hard task. He just needed to complete a simple letter: report on the current status of the Gautier estate, and address the professor's request.

The issue wasn't the difficulty, though. It was just that it was so so boring. He had managed to stave off the impending sense of hopeless dullness by coming up with different ways of saying "everything here is fine, I will support you as you need" for a couple years now. But, now that he was coming up blank, it was just as if he was being struck with boredom full force.

He glanced over at Byleth's previous letter, still open upon his desk. Her request was rather vague, if Sylvain was being honest with himself. The empire needed at least a battalion's worth of men to help quell unnamed 'insurgents'. The Alliance had been absorbed, and the Kingdom no longer had any rebellious leaders who would protest their current state. So who exactly was left to rise against Emperor Edelgard?

Sylvain reached his hands behind his head and stretched. It didn't really matter who it was, he supposed. He wasn't really in the sort of position where he needed to know such things. He wasn't close enough in the Emperor's court to question anything asked of him. And he wasn't really in any position where he had to know such information to stay alive.

Margrave Gautier was stuck here, anyway.

For a country that proclaimed how much it no longer needed crests, it seemed rather ironic that the first thing they did was return a Gautier--no, the Lance of Ruin--to the North. Someone had to stay in Gautier lands to protect it. And it was best when that someone had the Gautier crest. Which meant Sylvain was permanently stationed here.

But that was how it was always meant to be, wasn't it? Wasn't that the price of having a crest?

His eyes wandered over to the map across from his desk, down toward the former Fraldarius territory.

Would Felix have had this problem? Had he actually been convinced to keep his title, would he be like Sylvain, tormented with boredom as he churned out letter after letter? Filled request after request? Sat there as his sword arm grew dull and the most significant change rested upon filling an inkwell when one ran out?

A smile played on Sylvain's lips. No, Felix would never tolerate that. He would never let his sword dull. He'd probably use any excuse possible to use it--even routing out ordinary bandits from his lands if he needed do. Knowing him, he'd probably sneak into Sylvain's and take care of his, too.

It would have been fun. Really, really fun. Just to escape the monotony, Sylvain would have crept from the watchful eyes of the Gautier house, just to pester Felix. To try and coax him from that cold and empty castle. Felix would fix him with a glare, demand that he had more important business to get done. And then Sylvain would smile, and ask if Felix wanted to spar. Felix, stubborn fool that he was, would deny him again. Sylvain would sigh, and say that he knew it--knew that Felix was just afraid to lose. Felix would take that bait without any hesitation, and Sylvain would be bruised--but so very happy--when he returned to his lands.

Perhaps, even, Felix would come to Sylvain's territory. Toss a training sword at him and demand he practice. Drag him out if he needed to. Remind Sylvain that he'd have to train if he didn't want to die to some nobody from Sreng. Sylvain would lose, of course, but at least he'd know he did well when Felix finally relented and demanded dinner.

Sylvain inhaled sharply. He had to stop thinking about Felix. But almost every time his mind wandered, it wandered there. Wandered toward an impossible fantasy.

It was unlikely that it was ever possible. But it was even less so now. At least when they were students, those insurmountable walls weren't there. Now, not even his sincerest words could ever reach Felix.

He sighed. The professor had always called him out on going out of his way to hurt himself. Well, if he couldn't stop it, then Sylvain might as well indulge.

After all, the last time Sylvain had seen Felix was only a half year after the war had ended.

--- 2 years earlier --

Sylvain crumpled the letter in his hands. Sreng was coming in with the biggest assault they had in decades, and all the professor could offer him was one mercenary band.

Didn't the emperor know that the entire north could be lost if Gautier lost to Sreng?

Didn't the professor know that Gautier had lost the bulk of its forces fighting alongside the losing team?

Didn't they know that Sylvain had sacrificed nearly everything to aid their cause--and all they could offer was one mercenary band?

Of course he accepted their aid. Poured all the thanks and understanding he could muster into the letter back to the empire. True, the chance of victory was minimal with their help, but it was better than nothing. One additional day to live was better than dying tomorrow.

He tossed the letter to the side as he stepped down the entry hall. His fingers slid back into his hair, and a false smile was plastered onto his lips. No doubt the mercenaries knew they would likely die, too. So it wasn't fair if he decided to take it out on them.

He needed to play the proper Margrave, and greet the men with all the manners expected of him. Besides, then perhaps he could get a proper read on them. Perhaps he would survive two days instead of one.

Snow crunched beneath his boots, then halted completely.

Felix stood at the entrance to the Gautier estate, a rather intimidating battalion standing behind him. A scowl was practically engraved into his face, arms crossed tightly as if it was an absolute insult to his pride that he be expected to wait. Well, at least that was the impression he was attempting. But Sylvain knew better, and tried to hide his smile. Adorable, that he was even trying to hide that he was cold.

"Please, get out of the snow." Sylvain offered, motioning toward the open door. "You're welcome to make use of the western wing here."

Felix's eyes narrowed, but he nodded toward one of the captains of his group. The man then motioned to the others, who then began to gather their belongings and filter inside. Sylvain watched as they passed by him, led further in by one of the castle's servants.

Not a single woman among them. Well, Felix did always think they were a distraction.

"I assume you have a place to plan." Felix grumbled, stepping up along Sylvain's side. He didn't even bother to glance at the redhead. "Or did you think you could just fool around till it resolved itself?"

"Aw, c'mon Felix." Sylvain chuckled, slinging an arm around the shorter man's shoulders only once his men were out of view. "I'm hopeless, but you know I'm not that hopeless."

"Hmph." Felix shrugged Sylvain off with ease, stepping further inside and infuriatingly out of Sylvain's immediate reach.

Sylvain ran a hand through his hair. There was the wall. A half year since he had last seen Felix, and it was still there. "My father's old office. Didn't see much reason to change it."

Felix nodded slightly, and walked directly there without another word.

Even when planning, Felix's statements were simple, words clipped. If it was business, then he responded. If it was anything remotely otherwise, it was ignored and disregarded. Sylvain couldn't so much as even ask what Felix had been up to the last few months without earning himself a scowl. It seemed Felix was only really satisfied when Sylvain directly addressed any questions thrown at him.

Felix had always been blunt, Sylvain knew that. But he had sincerely hoped that the distance might made Felix a little more . . . amiable? No, amiable was impossible. At least more open. More tolerant. More willing to enjoy Sylvain's presence than act like it was a burden.

It was infuriating. Bewildering. Hurtful. And, sure, Felix was always hurtful with his words, but there was normally something behind it. But this was less a blade meant to sculpt Sylvain into something better, and more thorns meant to tear at him until he gave up entirely.

Sylvain let his gaze settle over the other as Felix leaned over the map at his desk, eyes focused as he adjusted a couple of the markers' positions on the table. Idly, Sylvain tried to think of the last time he actually looked at Felix.

In this case, he wasn't entirely sure he liked what he saw.

Felix had always looked tired, but now it was even more so. The ever-present bags under his eyes were slightly darker now. It was as if he didn't bother with sleep, now that there was no one to chastise him about it. And his cheeks seemed somewhat shallower, too. Probably because winter was always hard on mercenaries--and as if Felix thought he had no resources to turn to. And he was pale, so much paler than before. Was it possible that he was ill? Or had the other issues led to this?

His hair was getting longer, too. Felix brushed his dark bangs out of his face as he tucked them behind his ear, but it seemed a rather futile effort. They were getting unwieldy, and it was clear that it was beginning to frustrate Felix. Regardless, it kind of seemed like he was able to put it back into the bun he had when they were students (though history made it clear that his hair hardly ever stayed well in it). When they had gotten older, Felix had cropped it much shorter so there was no risk at all of looking like his brother or father--now it seemed as if he didn't care at all.

Sylvain's gaze fell lower, sliding to every bit of damage on his armor. At the tears in his cape and sleeves. Sylvain remembered the state it had been in when they had parted ways. It meant that all of this had occurred between then and now. And some of that damage looked like it could have had the potential to be fatal.

It was all a state that Sylvain could have prevented, if he was there.

"What?" Felix practically growled.

"Sorry, but," Sylvain crossed his arms, chewing on the inside of his cheek, "I need to know."

Felix didn't look up. "You'll be protecting the west side, and we will protect the east. What else do you need to know?"

"That's not what I mean. I mean . . . why'd you refuse being Duke Fraldarius?"

Felix glared up at him momentarily, but didn't respond.

"I know the Emperor and the professor offered it to you. I mean, all things considered, you were loyal to their cause and I can't think of anyone there who was more competent and skilled. Frankly she probably wanted to give you my job; you're more 'worthy' for it than me." The only thing that made Sylvain even remotely worthy was that Lance, after all. "But you refused. Why?"

Felix snorted. "If you have the luxury of asking such foolish questions, then I'm done here."

Sylvain stared for a moment. That wasn't really an answer. In the future, he would ask himself why he didn't press further then.

But he took too long, and before he had his senses, Felix was already out of the room.

In his mind, Sylvain knew where Felix would go. He'd tell his people what they needed to do--where they needed to go--and then he'd find the nearest training ground. Spar with the nearest potential partner.

A part of Sylvain wanted to go find him there. Gautier castle only had one training ground, so it wasn't like he'd be hard to find. He could lean against the wall, make enough commentary to just tip into irritating Felix. Watch him destroy a couple more dummies before he pressed a little further. Act reluctant as a training sword was shoved into his hands. Maybe last a spar or two before he invited Felix to dinner. If he had to, he could pretend that the staff had made too much food for one person. Just like the good old days.

But there was something in Felix's eyes that reminded him that those days were long gone, never to be found again.

He didn't see Felix again until the day of the battle.

The enemy lines were more unbalanced than the scouts had relayed, or than Felix and Sylvain had estimated. The forces had come in with ranks unbalanced and unorganized. Fliers and armored units stacked up against the Gautier forces--easy to dispel and handle with magic and quick arrows. A broad arrangement of martial forces grouped along the other edge, hitting Felix's men with more force than they had the sheer manpower for.

A genius tactician would know how to easily balance this. But Sylvain was hardly a tactician. He couldn't even convince his men that this arrangement was a problem. They wanted the mercenaries to use all they had to weaken the enemy line, making it easy for their own.

After all, they argued, why should they sacrifice their own for a few measly mercenaries? It was their job to die, wasn't it?

Sylvain grimaced, and ordered his men to continue to hold the front. There was no point in trying to force them to fight alongside those they saw as fodder instead of comrades.

His eyes fell across the field. In some ways, it seemed his worries were unjustified. Felix's men had more experience and willpower than Sylvain's. Melee combat was their trade, after all. It only made sense that they'd be able to handle lancers and swordmasters.

There was a flash of blue as Felix fought on the front line with his men. His moves were mesmerizing, even though he was cutting a bloody path before him. Each slice of his blade was efficient, almost graceful. He yelled at his men with the same sort of efficiency he kept to all conversation, but it seemed as if they understood him--as if his will was theirs. Sylvain could watch it for years, and never lose interest.

The shimmer of metal caught his attention, and his gaze flicked to the treeline. In land already claimed, a battle already won, forces were creeping up behind them. Forces that Felix didn't see, and had no reason to expect there.

Sylvain cursed, body reacting before his mind had fully even processed the situation. He spurred on his horse, charging across the field. With every second, his mind went blanker, more focused. Spear in hand. Stab. Slice. Felix. Charge. Stab. Thoron. Felix.

His spear's strike made it just in time, just as a Sreng warrior's axe rose to sink into an unsuspecting Felix. The attack is efficient, the enemy felled immediately.

Felix's eyes flicked over his shoulder, widening as his gaze caught Sylvain's. Sylvain flashed a smile in return, raising his spear as if as a signal. Another language that he and Felix seemed to understand. The other nodded, and dove deeper into the lines of his enemies.

Sylvain's heart thrummed in his chest, pounding in his years. It was as if he had been dead for six months. Nothing brought him more to life than fighting alongside Felix. He smiled to himself, wondering if he had possibly gone mad. Who smiles when they sink a lance into another human being?

Well, the same sort of man who knew he would get to live another day, it seemed. What had seemed impossible odds were now not only plausible, but guaranteed.

When the battle was done, Sylvain found himself more out of breath than he had anticipated. The energy in his arm seemed mostly drained as he pulled the Lance of Ruin from his last felled enemy. Perhaps he had been slacking too much in his training.

He glanced across the battlefield. It appeared as if their losses were minimal, and Felix was not among that number. Instead, the other was standing before him, panting heavily and covered in blood that was most certainly not his own. There were a couple injuries, certainly, but nothing major.

Sylvain grinned. He wasn't surprised that Felix didn't return the gesture. What did surprise him, though, was the look on Felix's face. Eyes wide, lips parted, getting paler by the second.

When was the last time he saw that sort of expression?

His mind barely got a moment to linger upon it as he lurched forward. The world seemed to spin a bit at the edges of his vision, the remainder too blurry for his liking. He couldn't quite get himself to sit up straight, leaning too far forward to stay balanced. He gripped his saddle to stay upright--but the mere fact that he had to made his stomach lurch.

It seemed impossible to manage the grip in his other hand, and the Lance of Ruin fell from his fingers.

In the peripherals of his vision, he could see an arrow stuck deep into his shoulder.

Huh. So that was the price this time.

*

Sylvain glanced around, lips pressed together. Of course he knew this place. He had only been here for a little over a year and a half, but it would be etched into his memories forever. Gareg Mach training grounds. A place he strictly avoided during classroom hours, and always went to first whenever there was free time.

He glanced down at his hands. Sure, it seemed real, but he knew it was a dream. Hell, he even knew which dream. One right on the brink between pleasant dream and nightmare.

"You never change." Felix's voice echoed in the room, as if it was more auditorium than training ground.

Sylvain's eyes slid across the grounds and toward the source. There was Felix, just the slightest trace of a smile on his lips. It had only been a few months, but he seemed so much young there. There was still life in his eyes--even if it was just from a spark of irritation.

And there was Sylvain, arms behind his head as he smiled like an idiot--as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"Nope." The other him said. "I try to stay on an even keel."

Felix's brows furrowed. "You're always . . ."

Sylvain found himself echoing the line with his clone as he stepped nearer. "Always what?"

Felix glanced away. "Nothing."

The past him pressed. "Come on. If you've got something on your mind, then say it.

There was a silence between them, and Sylvain used the opportunity to close the gap. He knew he meant well in the past, but he was so clueless. He tried not to grimace at the expression on his own face, at the foolishness of his past, but . . .

He sighed, trying to place a hand on Felix's shoulder. His hand passed right through, and Felix turned away from both him and his past self.

"Maybe I'll tell you later." There was a tease in Felix's voice. "Maybe I won't."

This was his chance. His one chance to make it right. Sylvain looked at his past self, watching as his smile fell just slightly.

"Fair enough." The other him said. "I'll be having something to eat while you're deciding...whatever it is you're deciding." The smile returned. "Actually, come with me. My treat. If you do want to talk, then I'm right there."

Sylvain watched as Felix's shoulders relaxed--even if just barely. That part was right. That part had been done well.

And then he'd screwed it up. Sylvain tried to punch his past self as he started blathering about hitting on girls. The attempt was just as successful as it had been with touching Felix, and Sylvain passed right through. He fell to the ground with a frustrated yell.

Such an idiot. Always falling back to talking about girls, even though he knew Felix hated it. Especially because he knew Felix hated it. Goddess forbid Felix get the wrong impression.

He should have just pressed. He should have just outright asked what Felix meant.

Footsteps began to fade as Felix disappeared into the distance in a frustrated escape. Not far behind, the past him chased after. It didn't matter; the damage had already been done.

Perhaps he was why Felix never took on the title of Duke Fraldarius. As he gripped the pebbles beneath his fingers, his shoulder began to sting.

*

A hard rapping on his door snapped Sylvain from his dream. With a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair. It was gross from his sweating--though he couldn't tell if it was a side effect from his injury or an inevitability from his dreaming.

He didn't want to deal with anyone like this. Not when his shoulder throbbed from how hard he clenched the sheets. Not when he was still half-asleep, still without his charm awakened enough to serve as a shield. He closed his eyes, hoping they might get the message and go away.

"Sylvain."

The voice made Sylvain's eyes snap open. With a sigh, he sat up. "Hey Felix." He muttered, voice still groggy. His eyes flicked down to the bandages that half-covered his torso, and entirely enveloped his shoulder. His fingers brushed over where they were most dense. The sharp pain made him wince.

But it was an injury on him, and not on Felix.

He smiled, even though he knew Felix couldn't see. "I'm glad you're safe."

Felix's stomp was very clearly audible through the door. "You irresponsible fool! Protecting me like that. You're so weak, and yet you always . . . always . . ."

Sylvain blinked. Was that a crack in Felix's voice? True, Sylvain knew better than to tease Felix--especially with their relationship where it was. But another part, a stronger part, wanted desperately to hear that again. "Look, it doesn't matter, as long as you're safe. You can go on living, while I . . ."

"Stop kidding around." Felix's anger was bubbling, but that edge of desperation was definitely there. It made Sylvain's chest ache. "You're not going to die."

True, Sylvain mused. At least not today.

Quietly, barely audible, Sylvain thought he heard, "I won't let you."

The door slammed open before he could process it. Sylvain plastered on his casual smile. It was forced, of course--his shoulder was killing him--but it wasn't like anyone knew or cared about the difference anyway.

He chuckled, shrugging with his one good shoulder. "Nah, I won't die on you. I promise. You think something like this could kill me? No way. " He waved his hand as if the silly thought was floating around them. "A little magic will take care of the wound. Some bed rest then I'm good to go out and do it all over again."

True, he was probably minimizing it. The healers had looked especially concerned. And there was something about such and such happening if he took such a hit again. But those were minor details compared to the flush across Felix's features.

"Sylvain!" He practically hissed.

Sylvain glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. If he looked directly, Felix would turn away and he'd never get to enjoy it. Besides, how long had it been since Sylvain could enjoy a genuine expression of any sort on Felix's face?

But there was only so long he could really make Felix suffer without feeling guilty.

He chuckled. "Oh, come on. That was funny." When Felix didn't even bother with a half-chuckle, Sylvain's expression softened into something more genuine. "It's not like you to be so concerned."

The flush darkened, and Felix glanced away as he crossed his arms. Sylvain tried not to think that it was cute that Felix still couldn't manage eye contact for long.

Slowly, the blush faded away, and Felix's eyes narrowed in his frustration. " You really are a fool. The biggest in all of Fódlan." He huffed as he shook his head. "I thought something was off. There's no way you could die from such a small cut."

Liar, Sylvain thought, but kept it to himself.

Felix continued, glancing over at Sylvain. His gaze sharpened into something a bit harsher. "You're so reckless and inattentive, I thought this might be divine punishment."

"Hey! That's not nice!" Sylvain could feel himself flush now. The words struck a little closer to the heart than he would have liked. He raised an eyebrow to try and distract himself from the guilt. "You should be thanking me."

Felix was always small, comparatively. But with the way Felix's shoulders caved, and he ducked his head, he seemed even smaller. "I am grateful." He muttered. "You've been doing this ever since we were children."

Sylvain opened his mouth. Of course he had. That's what he wanted to say. Of course he always looked out for Felix. Felix, who used to cry about everything. Who would grab onto his sleeve and refuse to let go whenever Sylvain had to go back home. Who would look at Sylvain's new cuts and bruises every time they reunited and cry for him--even if he didn't know what he was crying for.

Of course he protected Felix, who helped Sylvain keep his heart when it should have withered away before he turned ten.

Sylvain didn't even realize he was smiling until he saw the brush of pink across Felix's cheeks.

Felix continued with a grumble, though it seemed to lack the same fury as earlier. "You're constantly fooling around, but then showing up and helping when we really need you. I'll admit, seeing that smile on your face, I almost want to . . ."

Sylvain blinked. "Want to . . . what?"

For a moment, Felix looked like he did when they were kids. Eyes wide, lips pressed together as if he were on the verge of tears. The blush spread to the tips of his ears.

And then, suddenly, it was pushed back. Everything on Felix's face slid into something tighter and colder. Whatever emotion he was allowing was suppressed completely. The wall--the one that Sylvain had been dreading since they last parted--fell back into its position.

"I wish you a speedy recovery, Sylvain." Felix said, turning back to the door. "Get some rest."

Sylvain didn't really have the energy to argue, and frowned as Felix left. If he obeyed, then perhaps . . . perhaps they could address whatever this was when he woke up.

But when he did, Felix and his mercenary groups were gone.

--Present--

Sylvain sighed as he looked back down at the letter. In his thoughts and thoughtlessness, the ink had stained too much of the paper. Whatever he had previously written was completely smothered in ink and illegible.

He'd have to start it again.

With a groan, he crumpled the paper in his hand and grabbed another. His pen was more determined this time, business pushing to the front of his mind to drive away anything negative.

Of course he would grant the emperor the use of his forces. If needed, he was willing to offer himself to assist with the mysterious insurgents. He knew the professor would never accept that offer--too much risk--but it was worth at least the attempt.

Penning the letter was a quick task. With care, Sylvain folded the letter neatly and evenly. He was patient as the wax melted beside him, and--with more practice than he'd care to admit--he pressed his seal directly into the center of the wax.

While the wax cooled, Sylvain looked at the seal itself with some disdain. Of course the family seal was that of the Gautier crest. it was as if his father couldn't do anything without reminding everyone of their heritage. Not that Sylvain was really much better. It wasn't like he really went out of his way to change it.

Taking the letter into his hand, he tossed the spoiled one into the fireplace. It was considerably cooler as he stepped from his room into the hall, but he didn't particularly mind it.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to drive away the last signs of boredom and exhaustion. He paused at one of the windows. Outside, he could see it snowing again. A little late for the season, but not uncommon. Besides, it wasn't as if it was heavy enough to lose track of the time of day. If he had to guess, it seemed no later than early afternoon.

So, if he sent a messenger now, they would probably reach the emperor within a couple days. They would be slowed by the snow, of course. Depending on how urgently they needed his men, though, it would probably just be best to send the message with the reinforcements.

"Yeah, I heard she was pregnant." A maid whispered to her companion, voices barely bothering to be within the register of a whisper.

He rolled his eyes. Why should they be surprised that another one was pregnant? The castle was no friend to warmth, and the season didn't help that. Of course people would start to cozy up. And, well, there were some fun ways to be cozy.

"Who?" One whispered.

"Margrave, she said."

Sylvain frowned. This was not the first time he'd been accused. Almost every time a servant got pregnant, his name was the first that had come out. He'd been accused of all sorts of things--taking them when they bring him dinner, or when they're helping care for his horse in the stable, or sneaking into their beds as they sleep.

It was always obvious that they were lying the second they learned the infant hadn't even the barest trace of a crest.

With a snort, Sylvain continued down his path, at the very least to spare himself from their gossip. The truth was: he hadn't touched a woman since the day he became a Margrave. Not just that, but it had been years since he had even flirted with, pursued, or dated a woman.

It had been all fun and games at school and during the war. It had been an easy way to keep his distance, to keep anyone from getting too close. But that was just reinforced by geography now. Besides, the whole game turned into something much heavier for the Margrave than it had ever been for Sylvain. It was a weight he didn't want, and an expectation he'd prefer to disappoint.

If he showed favor toward anyone, then they'd find a way to being his wife. Then he'd be expected to have crest babies everywhere. The very thought makes him want to retch.

He sighed. Felix always told him that there would be consequences for being so insatiable. His lips curled into a smile. Insatiable. Yes, that was right. After all, how could one ever truly be sated if they weren't pursuing what they wanted in the first place? What he was after was never a woman. It was someone to use him, yell at him, hit him, even. Anyone who could make him pay the price for his crest.

What he really wanted was . . .

Sylvain glanced across the Great Hall. Usually there was a pile of papers and letters for him to go through--an inane mixture of domestic affairs and national requests. His place at the table would be covered in them in a desperate attempt to ensure they would be addressed. Sometimes he just ignored them for fun.

But there weren't any old ones left to occupy that place, and nothing new from the morning. Instead, there was just a single sword.

He stepped closer to it, humming as he looked it over. There was no one else in the room who it could possibly belong to. Besides, the colors were all wrong. They didn't match that of House Gautier, so the blade couldn't have belonged to anyone who served his house. Plus, it was far too plain, so that clearly put it out of that potential.

But it still seemed far too familiar. Sylvain put down the letter and brought the sword into his hands. His thumbs brushed over the minor detailing. His lip pressed out in a pout as his mind worked.

Fingers stilled immediately as his mind flashed over the owner. This blade had always been at Felix's side. It was always there, but Felix only really ever bothered using it when the situation was really desperate. He was strongest with it, though the skill required seemed more burdensome than Felix was willing to deal with.

But still, it was the only blade that Felix would never relinquish to anyone else. Sylvain recalled Felix's response when he had so much as complained about the fuss around Dimitri just holding the damn thing. He had earned himself an earful then. It was the work of a master craftsman. Not just anyone could wield it.

And yet, it was sitting on Sylvain's table.

His heart pounded in his chest. There were only two possibilities. Well, there were a dozen, but only two that were actually feasible.

One, Felix was actually visiting. After far too many years, Felix was finally back. Probably to mock him, or challenge him to a duel. Or to demand work, since it was likely in short supply elsewhere.

Two, Felix was--

Sylvain broke himself from that thought, raising his hand to summon one of the servants as they passed through the adjacent hall.

He glanced over at them. "Where did this sword come from?"

The servant looked perplexed. "It was left upon the doorstep, so to speak."

"The owner?"

"I . . . don't know, sir. There wasn't one. Only the blade was there."

Sylvain could taste acid on his tongue. He hunched over the table, everything seeming to spin around him.

"Sir? Are you unwell?"

"Dismissed." He hissed, ignoring the venom in his tone. The servant scurried away, but he could hardly care.

His fingers wrapped around the scabbard. They grasped and pressed until it felt like his fingers would snap. He had to be wrong. Felix just couldn't be dead.

Chapter Text

It was kind of dumb, when he thought about it, what initially made Sylvain join Edelgard's cause.

Was it creepy that a dragon had been influencing them all for millennia? Absolutely.

Did it make sense to join a cause that loathed crests and the whole social system that had been the source of his misery since birth? Totally.

Was it the reason he joined up in the first place? Not really.

Word had spread quickly once things had gone to utter shit in the holy tomb. Secrets from all sides had been rather violently exposed. It was only natural that it would spread out from there, bursting across the school.

Archbishop Rhea, the very leader of their religion, wasn't a human. No, she had been manipulating humanity from the start--a dragon bearing the disguise of those whom it guided.

Edelgard was the Flame Emperor--the very person who had caused far too many troubles for the academy for months now, without regard for the innocents hurt along the path. And she wasn't just emperor in name. She had (likely forcefully) placed herself at the head of the Adrestian Empire, and was no doubt going to proclaim a war against the church.

And the professor, the Archbishop's clear favorite, picked Edelgard.

Since there had been little point in hiding the whispers, it seemed as if both groups were pressing with all their might to reinforce alignments. The Knights of Seiros reiterated Rhea's words--it was in their best interest that they follow the Church, that they follow the goddesses will. Edelgard had performed too many atrocities under the name of the Flame Emperor--both in her willing sacrifices of the public and her heresy against the Church.

Edelgard's methods were a little more covert. Her manifesto had appeared among his things without him really even noticing, and he was reluctant to follow Dimitri's example and just toss it into the fire.

In the secrecy of his room under the candlelight, Sylvain had to admit that her words were rather honest and persuasive. Her thoughts of crests, religion, their entire social structure--well, it didn't really deviate too far from his own. But it was one empire against what might as well have been the rest of the continent, so it was incredibly unlikely that her dreams would ever reach fruition.

During the day, it was increasingly difficult to ignore the darkness tainting Dimitri's disposition. The prince began to curse her for everything. Blame her for everything. Once, he even tried to pin the Tragedy of Duscur on her (though, Sylvain noted, she would have been what? Fourteen at most? Possible, but not entirely plausible). He tried to convince the others that all would be resolved and back to its normal ways if they just could stop her (kill her, specifically).

Sylvain slowly distanced himself from the boar that he was sure Felix had always been grumbling about. He stuck to the edge of the room as the students debated and muttered among themselves. Many were still wavering and hesitant to make their choice. Some were of a low enough rank that they had the option to simply remain neutral and return home.

For nobles like Sylvain, he didn't imagine they had much of a choice at all.

Those nights had become rather sleepless ones for him, unable to block out the prince's frustrations on the other side of his wall. Sylvain was left to wander about--hoping he might run into someone pretty to flirt with. Otherwise, he'd just find a sanctuary in the library.

It was mere chance that Felix passed by him, completely oblivious to Sylvain's presence as he kept to the shadows. He was too focused on his path, eyebrows knitted together and lips scrunched into a scowl. Sylvain followed as Felix took the wide way around the monastery, avoiding the guards as he made it to the front gate. And then slipped into town.

Sylvain hesitated behind one of the market stalls. Felix didn't go out, especially not at night. Which meant he was headed straight for Edelgard's cause.

In a way, Sylvain supposed he could have expected it. He hadn't really considered what Felix might have thought on the matter--didn't even think to ask him. Part of him thought that Felix would just remain loyal to his homeland. The more realistic part knew that Felix would do anything to get away from the ties that killed his brother, and that would likely get him killed, too.

So Sylvain had a choice. He could stay, follow the Prince, and probably get himself killed for a cause he never really believed in. Or, he could turn his back on their families and friends for another cause he didn't wholly have faith in. But there he could do it by Felix's side.

Sylvain followed Felix into the darkness.

When he arrived at Edelgard's temporary base, he supposed that he looked almost as lost and uncertain as most of the people there. All of them had made their choice;with the odds against them, it was only natural to wonder how long their futures would last. And to wonder if it was truly worth it.

"You're looking for Felix, I take it?" The professor asked from behind him.

Sylvain jumped, forced smile immediately on his face. "You know how it is. Turning against your country, you always look for that familiar face."

The professor raised an eyebrow, expression flat (then again, it was always flat). He tried not to think about the last conversation he had with her. Foolish jealousy back then would probably get him cut down the second she even considered that she didn't trust him.

She crossed her arms and tilted her head toward the back of the grounds. Sylvain's eyes followed, falling upon the familiar blue.

"I'm relying on you in the upcoming battle." She said. "I need you two ready."

Sylvain nodded, stepping past her and toward the familiar face.

Felix looked absolutely miserable. He was practically slouched as he leaned against the stone wall. His head was dipped low, eyes somewhat unfocused. Arms crossed tightly in front of his chest, fingers clenching and unclenching around his sleeves. His bottom lip was red from probably biting it too many times.

"You know, you're supposed to hold your head high when you commit treason." Sylvain joked, trying to keep his tone as light and airy as possible, but it fell horribly flat. He rested his hands behind his head to try and look carefree. "Makes everyone think you know what you're doing."

Felix's glare snapped up. Sylvain half expected him to punch him, or storm off, or both. Instead, Felix's gaze slid back down. His shoulders slumped. Slowly, he slid down against the wall until he hit the floor. Hands clenched tightly in his lap, a tremble barely visible.

Sylvain took the moment to sit down beside him.

"Why are you here?" Felix muttered, looking away.

Sylvain smiled. "A moment to look heroic and get all the ladies? How could I resist?"

Felix responded with a glare.

Sylvain's smile fell. Slowly, he brought his knees closer to his chest. "Honestly? I just didn't want to be the one who had to fight you." He sighed. "Besides, this isn't the worst thing I've fought for. It's half-decent, as far as causes go."

Felix huffed a short and harsh sort-of-laugh. "I liked your lie about the girls better."

With a laugh, Sylvain wrapped an arm around Felix's shoulder. It earned him an elbow to the gut, but he would not be so easily deterred. His arm remained, even though his ribs ached. And at least Felix didn't hit him again. He relaxed, if only slightly.

"We made a promise, you know." Sylvain muttered. He could feel Felix tense beside him. "And, since I don't want to die any time soon, I need so make sure you don't when you decide you want to duel the world."

"Hmph." Felix shook his head. "I don't need to be protected by someone who skips training." His words seemed to lack the usual venom, even though they were still a shot straight through the heart.

Sylvain laughed. From the edge of his eyes, he watched as Felix's hand brushed over his favorite sword's pommel. It hadn't had the opportunity for too much use recently--but Sylvain knew that would end soon.

"I suppose," Felix muttered, looking off across the grounds, "I'll have to keep you alive too. I have no plan on dying yet."

*

Sylvain's grasp tightened around the grip as he looked at his reflection in Felix's sword. He hadn't the willpower to unsheathe it entirely, just enough to see his own eyes glaring back at him. The reflection itself was practically perfect--Felix had always taken better care of his equipment than he had ever bothered to take care of himself.

Sighing, he brushed his thumb over the edge. The blade sliced a thin line easily into his skin, almost immediately drawing blood. He hissed as the pain followed soon after, and brought his thumb to his lips to try and staunch the bleeding.

He had to laugh at himself--what kind of idiot would forget that a sword was sharp? Felix's sword, especially.

His eyes flicked back to the blade. It was sharp. Probably sharp enough to make Sylvain keep his promise. After all, wouldn't it be so poetic, to die upon the same sword that Felix likely died alongside?

Such thoughts were meant for those without responsibilities. He still had his lands to take care of, his duties as Margrave Gautier.

Then again . . . how much would it matter if the last Margrave was found, fallen upon his blade? Emperor Edelgard's system made it easy to find replacements. She would just find someone else to fill the arbitrary title of 'worthy'. They would likely need a crest to use the Lance to actually protect the area--and really anyone with a crest could use it. They might not be as effective as a Gautier with it, but--really--when was the last time he ever had to use its full potential?

The world could keep spinning without Sylvain Gautier in it.

Sylvain snapped the sword back into its sheath and shook his head. He was notoriously bad about keeping promises.

With a sigh, he rose from his seat. It was a bit of a fumble to tie the sheathed sword to his belt, but he managed somehow.

When was the last time he had even held one, let alone wield it in combat? To be fair, the professor had never hesitated to tell him just how bad he was with one. Once, she even told him he would get himself killed if he kept trying to use it to look heroic in combat.

He hummed. Now there was a thought.

He stepped out of his room, feeling a little unbalanced with the unfamiliar weight at his side. But he would leave his spear before he ever left the sword behind.

He ignored the uneasy looks as he passed through the hall, his head high. He barely spared a glance at his discarded letter still sitting upon his table at the Great Hall. Outside the castle, his men stood, eyeing him warily.

"It'll be a two day ride to Enbarr." He said, patting his horse's side before mounting. Sylvain Gautier vanished, and Margrave Gautier took command. "Let's move."

The snow was admittedly harder to traverse than anticipated. It wasn't a problem--Gautier forces were accustomed to the snow and storms. It was more of a burden, really. Sure, they would probably still make it in two days, but it would be far later into the second than anticipated.

For the sheer sake of maintaining morale, Sylvain had allowed them to make camp early under a large outcropping in the cliff side. The snow was considerably thinner upon the ground here, and the rocks themselves would protect them from any snow that fell overnight. Besides, there was plenty of fallen lumber in the area from recent storms, so they would have enough to keep the fires going all night.

He had to be impressed at the Gautier efficiency. All of the men worked as well-oiled machines, quickly setting up their tents and getting the campfires hot and large. They gathered among themselves and laughed as they ate around the fire. Sylvain had over-allocated their rations this trip, so of course they had cause for revelry. Of course, none of that reached where he set up his camp.

He brushed his fingers over the minor details on the scabbard. Had Felix ever done this, when he was uncertain or nervous?

Sylvain huffed out a laugh. As if Felix was ever anything but stubborn. If he ever allowed himself to feel anything else, even for a moment, he'd try to train it out of his system.

With a smile, he rested his chin on his palm. A shock of cold shot up his cheek and straight into his brain, his foolish self forgetting that metal could get quite cold in the snow. He sighed in relief when he found that it wasn't cold enough to stick. Even so, Felix would have hated being out here.

He groaned, brushing his fingertips through his hair. Was this was Dimitri meant when he spoke about the old ghosts that haunted him? Memories tugging at him at every waking second, making it impossible to think of anything else? It was almost as if there was Felix standing behind him, pulling harshly at his hair until Sylvain could deign to pay attention. It was horrible.

But--reluctantly--Sylvain admitted that he didn't mind it. If Felix's ghost wanted his attention, then he would have it.

After all, wasn't it this cold when Felix started to build those walls that made him practically unreachable?

*

Even though it had been a few years now, Sylvain could remember those icy days like it was just a month ago. It started the month of the Lone Moon. It wasn't snowing where they were, but the air was cold and the atmosphere even colder.

Felix had been training hard--even harder than usual. The training dummies didn't seem to stand a chance against him, practically dissolving under his blade's strikes. Their mission for the month was to take the Silver Maiden. But that wasn't what had motivated him. Word had reached them that Rodrigue would be there to oppose them.

Felix was frustrated, even though he wouldn't outright say so. Sylvain couldn't tell who it was he was really frustrated with, though--his father, for continuing to follow some inane notion of chivalry as the Shield, or Felix, for still being determined to slay his own father. Felix's sharp retorts became even sharper than normal. His rage was exerted on anyone and everyone who so much as bothered to be in his way. So Sylvain had no choice but to take the hit for the sake of everyone.

Felix never turned down an excuse to spar, so he accepted every single time Sylvain offered. The beginning of the month had been brutal. They fought for hours, until the exertion had Sylvain practically collapsing on the ground. Felix tried to force Sylvain to concede, but he always refused--if he didn't, he knew Felix would continue on his own until he collapsed himself. But if Sylvain got him tired enough, Felix would give in and allow Sylvain to drag him to dinner and rest.

By the end of the month, that was hardly necessary. Felix's moves were easier to dodge, and much simpler to predict. Felix blamed the fact that Sylvain was actually consistently training for once (if Sylvain recalled correctly, Felix had explicitly said 'this is what you'd fight like if you weren't so preoccupied with dragging us down'). But Sylvain wasn't fooled. The bags under his eyes were deeper, he ran out of breath faster, and his moves were much much slower.

Sylvain had begged the professor to find some way to leave Felix out of the battle. When the facts weren't convincing, he tried every trick he could possibly think of. He even tried a few lies. Anything to keep Felix out of the fight.

But she hadn't budged. She understood the situation--sympathized with it, even--but the fact was that they couldn't afford his absence. Felix was their best swordsman. Without him, the formation would suffer. Very likely, they would lose more men than they could afford at the moment. Possibly, they would lose the Silver Maiden.

So when the day of the battle arrived, Sylvain took it upon himself to look out for Felix, since no one else would.

He didn't regret it.

He blatantly disobeyed orders, taking far longer in his combat than necessary. It stalled his part of the advance, but it kept him closer to the center of the fight. Ferdinand would have to pick up his slack on the right flank. Not that the guy would probably mind--he'd likely proclaim later that it was the "noble thing to do".

Along the stone corridors, the Fraldarius blue hair stood out. Sylvain could see Rodrigue charge directly at his son, who had the misfortune of being assigned that path. Words were exchanged that Sylvain could not hear. When neither seemed satisfied, their rage-fueled blades clashed.

To Sylvain's horror, it was clear early on that Felix was losing. His skill had always been a touch less than his father's. But they had always bet on his youth and determination to give him the edge. In comparison now, though, Felix's attacks were woefully slow, the strength of each strike practically inconsequential.

Was Felix trying to die?

Rodrigue didn't take immediately fatal strikes, but clearly took pride as he kept forcing Felix back. His men's skill made it impossible for Felix to get any support from his battalions. He tried again and again to convince his son, only for his frustration to increase with each failure. Soon, his patience would run out, and he would take the easy kill that he'd been blatantly ignoring.

When Felix's footing faltered and he stumbled to the floor, Sylvain acted without thinking. He charged forward, thrusting the Lance of Ruin directly through Rodrigue's chest. The former Shield of Faerghus slumped forward, crumpling completely to the floor when Sylvain removed his weapon.

"Are you alright?" Sylvain gasped.

Felix, still on the ground, covered in his father's blood, looked at his fallen father. Then he looked up at Sylvain, eyes wide in horror.

*

It was the same when Dimitri died. No, it was worse. Much worse.

The core of the Black Eagle Strike Force was too focused on handling Rhea and her supporting knights. Though not in her dragon form, her strength was far more than they had anticipated. So the Black Eagles needed as much support as they could get. Edelgard lead their charge.

Originally, Sylvain had been tasked with joining Felix and the Professor in attacking Dimitri directly. But when Dedue . . . transformed . . . Felix and the professor were the only ones with enough speed and skill with the blade to handle him without getting killed.

Which meant that Sylvain was solely responsible for getting through Ingrid's guard and to Dimitri.

Part of Sylvain had been bitter about this. The part that knew the professor had foreseen this--she had reallocated his battalion and replaced it with a group of archers (who puts archers with a cavalry unit?). She had ordered him to keep his men safe as they charged through the Kingdom's front line. She acted as if it was only natural that he proceed to fight his former king--after all, he was completely useless against the former Dedue. If she trusted him, or if she tested him, he didn't know. He was a soldier regardless, and he followed his orders dutifully.

The other part of him was relieved that Felix wasn't there to listen to Ingrid beg as she halfheartedly fought against him and blocked his path. She tried to convince him to rejoin the Kingdom--Dimitri would understand, would forgive them. They could still all be together again. They could still all win. If he had any honor left, he would.

But Sylvain knew that Felix would never rejoin the boar. Despite Ingrid's beliefs, Felix wouldn't follow if Sylvain changed sides. And Sylvain would not fight Felix.

He refused. To remove any of her lingering hesitation, he appealed to her rage. The Kingdom was losing. The only purpose they had left was to serve as a distraction for the Church as Rhea fled.

Ingrid charged with an angry scream, and Sylvain signaled for his archers to fire. Sylvain turned his head to face his former king's wrath.

When the battle was over, Sylvain returned to his allies, covered in the blood of those who had once been his best friends. It sunk deep into the fabrics beneath his armor, their expressions sinking into the depths of his soul. His fingers shook, but his grip around the Lance that killed them was strong enough to keep it hidden. He tried to smile everyone's worries away.

He looked to the only true friend he had left.

Felix looked at him like Sylvain should have died instead.

*

After that, Felix was unreachable. For a month, the swordsman seemed only to dwell on the fact that he could have stopped Dimitri. That he could have saved him. That, somehow, if it had been Felix there instead, he could have convinced Dimitri to acquiesce to Edelgard. He could have tried to save the boar he had once loathed.

Indirectly, Sylvain knew what Felix was thinking: Sylvain, you could have tried harder.

Felix retreated into training, allowing little else in. Sylvain took that as his cue, and kept his distance. He avoided the training grounds altogether. If he needed to train, he did so in the Knight's Hall. If he needed to sleep, he'd use one of the abandoned rooms downstairs. Felix wouldn't have to look at the person who killed his friends.

Sylvain's attention shifted to what was next for the Adrestian Empire. He volunteered for even the most absurd of battles that the professor needed aid with. If there wasn't a mission that Felix would attend, then Sylvain would be there. If Felix was there, then Sylvain would not protest when the professor put him on the opposite end of the battlefield.

If Sylvain died, well, if was probably better for Felix, anyway.

*

The professor greeted them in the Adrestian Capital with a soft smile as she stood at the gate of the Imperial Palace. It seemed that emotions were much easier for her, now that the pressure of the goddess was gone entirely. Or, perhaps, her time with the emperor stifled whatever had made emotion impossible before.

He returned her smile, though there was much less life to his. Perhaps, in some small way, his expressions were even more emotionless than hers ever were.

He signaled for his men to disperse as they waited for further orders. The officers would regroup here at day's end when Sylvain had a better idea of what was expected of them. The soldiers were free to enjoy what Enbarr had to offer, so long as they stayed out of trouble. Then again, with Sylvain's reputation, 'trouble' was a little vague. So long as none of them were arrested, and all of them were back at their camp outside the capital at sunset, he didn't really care.

"I was surprised you came, instead of a letter." Byleth said, eyeing him as she led him down the halls of the Palace.

"Seemed urgent." Sylvain replied blandly.

Her footsteps paused, and almost immediately Sylvain found himself pulled back to a sudden stop. He nearly fell backward. Then again, even if he did, she could probably keep him upright on her own. "You hadn't come before."

He smiled at her, though it was too toothy. "People would complain if I started sending all my best men off to battle some mysterious force, while I stayed home to sip wine."

Her blue eyes pierced into him, eyebrows knitted together. The hand on his arm gripped just a bit tighter. Sylvain kept his smile. He had found her perceptiveness admirable before. Now it was just irritating.

But then the professor's arm shifted downward, hand dropping. Whatever she was thinking, it was left behind as she continued down the hall.

Sylvain stepped to follow after her, reveling in the silence.

Before, he loathed the lack of noise. That meant that poor thoughts and old memories could come filtering in. The more noise there was, the more he could drown it out. Now, silence invited that which filled the void more than noise.

"Wait in here." Byleth said, motioning to the War Room. "As enough people are here, El--Emperor Edelgard will be in shortly."

"I'm guessing dinner's off the table, then." He teased with a wink. It was a pathetic flirtation, even for him.

Byleth fixed him with a glare. He raised his hands in defense, backing into the open room.

"Oh, look Bernie, it's Sylvain!" Dorothea's voice rang throughout the room like a bell. "Barking up the wrong tree."

Sylvain winced. Lovely. Two of the ladies he most certainly didn't want to see. Exhaling softly, he turned around, smile plastered onto his face.

"Oh, Dorothea, I would never dream of trying with anyone but you." He said, leaning onto the edge of the table. "You're the one shining star among thousands of pebbles."

"Oh, Sylvain," Dorothea smiled, radiant as ever. "Come sit with me."

"What sane man would refuse?" Sylvain chuckled, stepping around the table. It looked like most of the old Strike Force was in there--Dorothea, Bernadetta, Jeritza, Caspar, Petra, and Ferdinand. They seemed entirely entranced with their own conversation, and completely disinterested in him. That was good.

He slid down in the seat between Dorothea and Bernadetta, probably intentionally left empty by the latter. No, definitely left empty on purpose, judging by the way Bernadetta squeaked. He chuckled, shifting his chair closer to Dorothea--at least to make everyone a little more comfortable.

"You're out of practice." Dorothea whispered, patting his leg.

"Me?" Sylvain attempted to look appalled. "Never."

She raised a brow at him, fingers clasped together in front of her. "I'm sure I can guess why." She teased. She tapped her lower lip. "Someone special back home?"

He shrugged. If there actually had been someone waiting for him, then he wouldn't be here. Especially one person in particular. "Oh, come on." He chuckled. "How could I settle anywhere when the prettiest flowers in all of Fodlan are here?"

Dorothea swatted his arm, laughing. "Oh, be serious."

"I am." Sylvain hummed, resting his chin on the back of his hand. "No one's waiting for me."

Across the way, Caspar was still bothering Jeritza, but Ferdinand's attention had shifted to Petra. It made sense, he supposed. They all seemed to fit into their right places here. And Sylvain was fitting properly into his--flirting, being generally intolerable, et cetera.

A hand pressed on the back of his shoulder.

"Um . . . Sylvain?" Bernadetta leaned a bit on the table, as if scrunching herself against it would make her smaller.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. Direct eye contact always made her flinch. "Yes?"

"Um, I thought Felix would have come with you?" She was looking down at her hands clenched in her lap. "I found something that he--" She flushed immediately. "N-not that you two are always together. I certainly didn't think that! Not me! You definitely wouldn't know what he's up to or what he's interested in. Only an idiot would think that. I mean you have your life and he has his and it was so stupid of me to just assume that you two would--I'm sorry!"

Sylvain lightly patted her hand, the motion cutting off any additional apologies she had planned to cram into the next sixty seconds. "I haven't the faintest idea where he is." Technically true.

Bernadetta paled, looking as if she might start the stream of apologies again. Sylvain grimaced.

"To be fair, we all kind of assumed that you two were still in contact." Dorothea interrupted, shifting a little in her chair. She began to play with the ends of her hair, toying with it into a braid. "The way Felix talked, it was as if he had just been with you."

"Oh? And how's that?" He couldn't hide the bitterness in his tone.

"Well, he always seemed to know whether or not you'd be able to send in help. And whenever By suggested summoning you, he'd always have some reason or another why you couldn't come. We just assumed . . . "

His stomach lurched. Not only had Felix been avoiding him, but he'd been purposely pushing him away. Everyone else had just assumed that he had known better. Of course the slacker Sylvain wouldn't come. Of course he wouldn't go out of his way to leave Gautier territory. The Empire didn't suffer from his absence. But, even when they had considered his presence, Felix stifled it.

"H-he almost conceded to have you come last time." Bernadetta muttered.

Sylvain blinked. "Last time?"

Dorothea's fingers paused. "Edie needed someone to scout for our mission. Felix volunteered, since he said the pay would be good for his men. We offered to go with him, too, but . . ."

"He must have thought I'd be useless, worthless, hopeless." Bernadetta practically bawled. "He wouldn't even let me finish my sentence before he rejected me."

"I did want to teach him a lesson today." Dorothea scowled. "He might no longer be a noble, but that gives him no right to be rude."

"Y-you don't need to do that!" Bernadetta panicked. "Truly. He must have been right. I mean, who wants a poor, meek recluse of an archer to help on a scouting mission? He probably wanted Sylvain to go with him. I'm definitely no substitute for that. Nope, not Bernie!"

Dorothea sighed. "No, he rejected that one, too."

Of course he did.

"He almost didn't!" Bernadetta protested. "He almost said okay!"

"Are you talking about Felix?" Ferdinand asked from across the table.

"Oh! Ferdie, you'd know!" Dorothea grinned. "Do you know where Felix is? It's not like him to be late."

"I'm afraid I don't, Dorothea." Ferdinand frowned. "His last report arrived two weeks ago. I hadn't heard anything from him since."

"What did it say?"

"I did not read the contents. It must have been enough to allow us to mobilize now."

"Hm," Dorothea sighed. "It must have been done then."

"Oh no." Bernadetta gasped. "What if it wasn't done? What if he was killed? What if it's a trap meant to lure us from the safety of our homes? To trap us deep into the depths of the earth and take over the world! They won't trick me!"

"Oh, Bernie, don't be silly." Dorothea chuckled. "Felix wouldn't--"

It suddenly became quiet. Sylvain could feel the three gazes upon him. No, upon his hand. When had he reached for Felix's sword by his side? How long had his hand sat there, gripping the pommel until his fingers became numb?

"Sylvain," Dorothea's voice was all sympathy. She reached for his hand, but he flinched away. It didn't seem to bother her. "I'm so sorry."

His heartbeat thrummed in his ears. It felt as if all the blood had rushed from his face, just to make it beat all the harder. Beside him, he could see Bernadetta start to fret, but he couldn't so much as fathom what she was saying. His thoughts were spinning too fast.

He had been doing so well. Playing his part. He had pushed thoughts of Felix away. And now, as if they were only being held back by a speck of sand, they were just flooding forth. He could feel the start of tears stinging at the corners of his eyes.

"I believe that's enough chatter." Hubert's voice slid in as he did, darkly and without much warning. "We have business."

As unpleasant as it was, Sylvain clung to Hubert's words, looking up at the man. He ignored the gazes of the women beside him, didn't even try to address their whispers. With a focus, the rest of the world could slide away.

Sylvain paid more attention to this than he ever bothered with during his academy days. Their target was Those Who Slither--the last obstacle to humanity truly ruling themselves. They were the other, darker half to the Church of Seiros--the cause of the misery and pain that Rhea had once combated with faith and obedience.

The Church had been their first obstacle. The final one would be to eliminate the last source of chaos right where they slithered from. It was likely that no one who took on the mission would survive the assault. The Emperor made it clear that she would hold no grudge against those who did not wish to join.

Sylvain was the first to volunteer.

*

Admittedly, in this lightless city, Sylvain could see how Those Who Slither had managed to manipulate and control so much of Fodlan. Their fighters were on the same level as Rhea's, both strong and fast. Their technology was beyond anything the upper world of Fodlan had ever dreamed.

It was his responsibility to protect the professor's right flank as she targeted the leader. It was a duty that Sylvain took seriously, but one that was draining him far more than he had anticipated.

In the narrow halls and steep steps, a horse was useless, so he had to leave it behind. It took far more energy than expected to traverse this--Sylvain was far too accustomed to being a member of the cavalry. Granted, upon a horse, he would never have been able to avoid the near-constant assault of the beams of light. Between avoiding those, and eliminating the impossibly overabundant levels of reinforcements, any normal man would be dead. After all, behind him was the proof--the bodies of Gautier's men who had agreed to join the fight.

Without the Lance of Ruin's power, he would be dead. But the Lance's power was not unlimited, and he knew that. If he pressed it too far, it would either refuse to grant him its power--or perhaps it would make him follow his brother's footsteps. So he could only fight for as long as the Lance still functioned, however long that might be.

But that was okay, wasn't it? Even if Sylvain could hold it no longer, Ferdinand and the Emperor had cleared their sides with considerably more success. So long as Byleth could eliminate the slithering leader, then they had a clear path of escape.

Panting, Sylvain leaned heavily against his Lance to support himself. It was impossibly draining, fighting here. The darkness seemed overwhelming, infinite. He was really only able to fight because of the reflection of the unnatural light in his enemy's armor. Without it, he imagined they could strike him down before he even knew they were there. The blood loss probably didn't really help his situation, but the healers were preoccupied with more significant targets.

The flash of metal signaled another attack, and Sylvain swung his spear with all the force he could muster. The warrior flew back--bloodied and defeated. Their death cry very nearly blocked the creak of metal against metal.

Sylvain jumped out of the way as a Titanus swung down its immense blade to strike where he stood. The sheer burst of air made Sylvain tremble. The ground beneath him rumbled as the sword dug into the ground. The sheer muscle memory of his dancer days was the only thing that made him keep his footing.

These things were intimidating, but they weren't necessarily strong. Magic had seemed the most effective--but he had already wasted it on two of the machine's siblings. The Lance had done decently well against its kind, but close range was risky against these things. And, with the way the Lance of Ruin thrummed weakly in his hands, he didn't imagine it had more than one or two strikes in it. Not enough to fell this thing.

The Titanus struck down at him again, once more barely dodged. Sylvain hopped backward, hoping distance would give him time to think. His breath caught when he wound up slamming hard against the wall behind him. It wasn't enough distance, and he would certainly wind up struck if he tried to flee in any other direction. He probably wouldn't survive another hit.

Sylvain's grimace slowly slid into a smile as he pressed back against the wall. If ghosts existed, well, it seemed like he'd soon be listening to Felix berate his stupidity for all eternity.

Really, that didn't sound too bad.

His breath was knocked from his lungs as he was slammed aside. A beam of light struck down where he once stood, the heat radiating through his armor. He tried to blink away the stars in his vision, but his mind was still processing.

Sylvain groaned, trying to shift and finding his limbs rather useless. A heavy weight set against his chest. It was hard to breathe, the sound exhausted and overworked. Except, there was too much noise for it to be his own breath. Which meant that someone was on top of him.

He glanced up, seeing the Titanus move to slice down once again.

He was okay with dying. He wasn't okay with someone dying with him.

Sylvain reached his hand up, summoning every last inkling of magic he had in his body to cast a Thoron spell. It burned down his arm and through his fingertips like a raging blaze--blistering places already scarred--and blasted into the machine. Shrapnel splinters rained down, and Sylvain wrapped his arms around his protector's head to try and shield them from it.

The Titanus collapsed, leaving two still-alive bodies lying there, gasping for air.

"You . . . half wit."

Sylvain blinked, the voice registering in a way that nothing else had for years. Slowly, he removed his hands, barely daring to hope even as he saw a familiar shade of blue beneath his fingertips. The feeling was much harder to suppress as the person shifted their head to look up at him. The eyes were too familiar. The scowl downright nostalgic.

He must be dead.

It was said that ghosts might be able to see their bodies right after they had died. Curious, Sylvain glanced over to the charred spot where he had once stood. But there was no body there. Which meant he had to be alive. Which meant--

"Get up, you idiot." Above him, Felix shifted to prop himself up. His scowl deepened as Sylvain's armor made it quite difficult to properly sit up. When he tried to use his sword arm to balance himself, he fumbled. The annoyance in his eyes dissolved into horror.

Eyes wide, Felix's gaze flicked to his arm, and Sylvain's followed. The arm had been singed, but the shoulder itself was burned far worse. A dark splotch rested directly where the beam of light must have shot through.

Without thinking, Sylvain shot up, grasping Felix in his arms. Felix struggled, but it only made Sylvain hold on tighter. Whatever exhaustion there had been was completely replaced by a nauseating mix of exhilaration and terror. His head snapped around as he looked for a healer--a gremory--anything! Something to help.

But the world seemed to be crumbling around them. In the distance, Byleth was yelling. Yelling at him. Telling him to run and escape. To take one of the routes out and to not look back.

Well, sometimes Sylvain was actually decent at following orders. He took the nearest route, ignoring any lingering enemies. The rubble could take care of them.

His legs throbbed beneath him, but he only pushed them to run faster. His chest hurt from the exertion, but it didn't keep him from whispering "you're alive" again and again. His heartbeat thrummed so loudly in his ears that he couldn't hear Felix's protests.

Perhaps, though, Felix wasn't saying anything at all.

*

Sylvain groaned, head pounding as he tried to sit up in his bed. It had been like that for several minutes now, making it impossible to fall back asleep. He ached desperately to return to dreams, but his head wouldn't allow it. And it lacked even the decent courtesy to diminish the pain when he finally relented. It was as if it knew how badly he wished to return to his dreaming. And thought it would be a more fitting punishment if he wasn't allowed to.

It was unfair. True, his dreams had always been taunting. Teasing. Reminders of past mistakes, or nearly-forgotten misery. But never had his mind been cruel to itself. He swallowed hard as his throat tightened. It took all he had to resist tears, and he scrunched his eyes closed.

"Does it hurt that bad?" A voice beside him asked.

On instinct, Sylvain smiled and waved his hand. It was probably pretty pathetic though, eyes already feeling as if they were puffy. Keeping them closed was probably the wisest move to avoid giving himself away. "It's nothing."

"You were about to cry." He could practically hear the scowl.

"Oh, come on." Sylvain laughed. "Me? I never cry!"

"Hmph."

That sound. That unforgotten sound. Sylvain blinked, eyes finally snapping to his neighbor.

Felix sat in the bed beside him, scowling. His eyebrows were knitted together as hazel eyes glared over at Sylvain, lip twitching in annoyance. His hair was down--goddess, Sylvain couldn't even recall the last time he had seen it down--but it was short--as short as it had been when they were kids. He seemed pale, but no more so than when Sylvain had last seen him.

What was more noticeable was the intense amount of bandaging that covered Felix's right arm. He was bandaged practically from fingertip to neck, held in a sling. There were a few other bandages as well, including one that covered a rather large spot on his cheek. But none really seemed to have the same sort of significance as his arm.

Sylvain practically fell out of his bed as he scrambled to Felix's. No, he definitely fell out. His legs gave out the second any weight had been put on them, joints crumpling as if they were made of jelly. But at least the bed was close enough where he didn't really need to crawl. Though it was a bit of an awkward mess as he tried to pull himself upright by gripping onto Felix's blankets with his only good hand.

Felix's eyes were wide as Sylvain's bandaged fingers searched for Felix's free one. The very moment they touched, Sylvain clasped it like his very life relied on it. It hurt--oh, it hurt far more than he had anticipated--but that just meant that this was real.

"I thought you were dead." Sylvain had tried to keep it together, but his words came out as a whimper.

He pressed his forehead against their hands, already feeling his shoulders and lip trembling. He hadn't cried during his academy years. He hadn't cried when he had to kill his friends. He hadn't cried when Felix's sword came to his doorstep. So it seemed he had earned the right to cry now.

Felix said nothing as Sylvain's tears flowed as if they had actually been saved for all those years. He didn't comment on Sylvain's pathetic sniffling, or his incoherent mumbling. He didn't even complain as Sylvain occasionally squeezed his hand, as if to reassure himself that this was real.

He only spoke when the sniffles finally died down. "Why?"

Slowly, Sylvain shifted his face to look up at the other. He tried not to show his surprise, but he could hardly recall the last time Felix was so flushed. He was pink from ear to ear, eyebrows scrunched in a frustrated bewilderment.

"You left me your sword." Sylvain said, the residual hollowness in his chest resonating in his voice.

Felix blinked, the words seeming to catch him off guard. Slowly, his eyes shifted over to Sylvain's bed. Past that, to where his armor had been set up against the chair, where the Lance of Ruin and Felix's sword rested.

Felix's expression seemed to harden, but it didn't quite seem like the wall had returned. "That's not what I'm asking. Why did you even . . ." Felix couldn't seem to complete the sentence, so he finished with more of a tsk.

Sylvain's lips parted slightly, mind sliding over the question. Ah, that's what he was asking. "Well, I did make a promise." He smiled. "I was just . . . delayed."

Felix paled. Sylvain lamented the loss of the blush. "You would have . . ."

It was too hard to put words on the thoughts in Sylvain's head. So he nodded.

Frustration returned to Felix's features. "Why?"

Sylvain knew that there were words to describe what was buzzing in his chest and mind. He was well-read; poets had written about it for centuries. Hell, some of the lines he had probably used once or twice as pick up lines. But nothing really seemed appropriate. So he smiled.

Immediately, Felix looked away. Off at the closed door, toward something invisible in the distance.

Sylvain yelped as Felix's fingers dug into his. Unintentionally, he pulled away, hand throbbing. Hissing, he cursed himself for ruining the moment. For letting such little pain ruin whatever it was that was finally being allowed to pass between them. He had experienced worse--so why was he being so pathetic now?

He gasped when he felt Felix's fingers brush over his knuckles.

Slowly, timidly, Felix cupped Sylvain's hand in his. He held Sylvain as if he might shatter. Even so, Sylvain could still feel the trembling in his fingers. Sylvain glanced up at him, wary.

"Idiot." Felix hissed, but there was no malice in it. "If I survived, I was going to . . ." His eyes shifted over to their hands. "I was going to come back. I left it so you'd know that I'd . . . If you wanted my services, I was--ugh, I never once thought." He scrunched his eyes shut, clearly frustrated at the lack of continuity in his thoughts. "Of course you thought the worst. I'm such an idiot."

Sylvain smiled. "We're a classic pair of idiots." He teased. Though his smile fell into a pout brought about by confusion. "Why wouldn't I have you?"

Felix looked away. "I . . . I'd let you hurt yourself for me. Take blows so I wouldn't have to. I thought . . . Eventually you'd learn some sense and hate me. But you still seem to be an idiot."

Sylvain blinked. They had always taken hits for each other, even in their student days. Sure, Sylvain tended to take more for Felix than vice versa, but that was hardly ever a problem. The look in Felix's eyes made that clear that wasn't what he meant, though.

"Oh." He muttered, suddenly understanding. Ingrid, Rodrigue, Dimitri. Those were the hits he thought Sylvain eventually couldn't bear. He sighed. "Yeah, definitely still an idiot."

Felix scowled. "It doesn't matter now, anyway."

"Oh?"

"There's no point in hiring me."

Sylvain couldn't resist the frown. "Why's that?"

Felix's eyes shifted back to his sword. An almost wistful expression danced over his features before it soured again. "I no longer have any services to offer you."

Sylvain's eyes immediately flicked to the bandages on his arm. The way his bandaged fingers hadn't moved even once in their conversation. With how miserable Felix looked, Sylvain didn't need him to say it.

Slowly, he crawled up onto Felix's bed, wrapping his arms around the smaller man. His own injuries throbbed, but he pressed them back into the far recesses of his mind. He tried to keep his touch delicate, uncertain which bandages were preventive, and which hid pain.

Felix stiffened at first. But it was temporary, momentary. His shoulders softened. His forehead pressed against Sylvain's shoulder. His good arm slowly wrapped around Sylvain's waist.

"I don't want your services." Sylvain whispered, pressing his cheek against Felix's hair. "I just want you home."

He could feel Felix nod slightly against his shoulder. "Don't regret it."

Sylvain huffed a laugh. "Regret you? Never."

Chapter Text

Felix practically snarls as he storms out of the training grounds, hands clenching at his sides and footsteps heavy. He ignores the other student's gazes at they look at him--questioning, judging, pointless.

The thing is that he's not really mad at them. Hell, he's not even really mad at the boar. The boar acted as the boar normally did--nothing was out of the ordinary for him. Felix is mad at himself.

For a second, just one second, he let himself think that he was actually talking to Dimitri. For a second, he let himself think back on the older days, when House Fraldarius had laughed at poor Dimitri's broken sword, and teased him almost relentlessly about it. For a second, he thought it was Dimitri in front of him, actually starting to be flustered by old memories. He had thought it wasn't the boar in front of him, a beast with Dimitri's face.

He startles immediately when an arm wraps around his shoulders. On instinct, he twists his arm and jabs his elbow back, making forceful contact with the offender's ribs.

Sylvain groans, his weight a little heavier around Felix as he doubles over. "Is that really necessary?" His hand falls over the abused spot, likely still sore from this same act yesterday. "What if I was a pretty girl? She'd never talk to you again."

Felix's eyes narrow, and he attempts to walk away. Sylvain's arm keeps him more in place than he'd like to admit. "At least she'd have the sense to stop bothering me." He retorts.

"Aw, come on Felix," Sylvain whines, "why are you being such a grump?"

"I'm not being anything." Felix growls. He tries to remove Sylvain's arm, but Sylvain has always had more strength than sense, so it's sticking firmly in place.

Sylvain smiles. Felix hates that smile. It always feels like Sylvain knows what's in his head, and is aching to tease him relentlessly about it. "Is it about Dimitri?"

Felix considers hitting Sylvain again, this time with the pommel of his sword. "Mind your own business."

Sylvain chuckles, starting to walk down the path alongside the dormitories and dragging Felix alongside with him. "So what was it this time?"

"Nothing."

"See, you say that, and I'll think he rejected your confession of love." Sylvain's lips quirk up. "Or, you tell me what really happened."

At this point, it seems more appealing to straight up stab Sylvain, rather than bruise him. "He wanted to use my blade."

"I take it you said no."

"Of course. The boar would break it."

Sylvain sighs, much longer and more drawn out than necessary. "Always you and the swords. You know, one of these days I should just steal them, just so you think about something else for a change."

Felix stopped, glaring at the redhead. "I'll know it was you. And you'll pay for it."

Sylvain sighs again, but this time it's short and resigned. "Of course you'd know. Wherever that sword goes, you'll follow."

*

Felix keeps his strikes quick and precise against the training dummies, preferring those to overly powerful swings. There's no point in bruising his arms when he just wants to exhaust his body until his mind stops thinking. Maybe drown out all the surrounding voices, too.

The ball is soon. At the end of the month, specifically. It's hard not to remember, even harder to forcefully forget. The whole school is whispering about it every waking moment--in the halls, over meals, even in class--and not even the training grounds is safe from the torment. He had hoped that people would be more focused about more important things (like the Death Knight, for instance). Apparently not.

The thought of having to dress up and dance is agonizing. He'd rather be here. Even worse--and really what he's trying to get out of his system--is the other related event.

The White Heron cup. That ridiculous dance competition. Felix had joked about it to the Professor, but what's worse is that the professor actually considered it. It's nauseating, when he thinks about it. There's a big difference between dancing at a ball, and being in the center of everyone dancing in a competition. Unfortunately, there's still time to determine the representative, and Felix doesn't have enough confidence that the Professor won't select him.

There's a heavy sigh behind him, and Felix doesn't have to turn around to see who it is.

"Hey, Felix," Sylvain asks, voice laded with more uncertainty than usual, "do you think you could help me practice?"

Felix pauses in another set of strikes. "Looks like you finally decided to take training seriously."

When he turns, the first thing he notices is that Sylvain has the slightest blush on his cheeks, just above a rather lopsided smile. The second thing is that Sylvain isn't holding a training weapon.

Felix crosses his arms. "You're forgetting something." He grumbles.

Sylvain's smile falters a little. "Um, not that kind." He winces. "Dance practice."

"No."

"Aw, cmon! Please? At least think about it!"

Felix's lip curls. "Why should I suffer because the Professor chose you?"

Sylvain's hands go behind his head, looking terribly relaxed even though is expression is strained. "I volunteered, actually."

Felix steps across to the weapon racks, putting his away. There's no way he's going to be productive at all here. "Even more reason for you to do it alone."

Sylvain's eyes follow, but he doesn't step closer. "Would you dance with me if I told you I volunteered because of you?"

Felix huffs a disbelieving laugh.

"It's true! I volunteered so the Professor wouldn't pick you. Frankly, I think you owe me."

Felix pauses in his steps, glancing over his shoulder. If it's an attempt at a tease, it's a bad one. But there's something in the way Sylvain smiles that makes Felix hesitate.

Internally, he curses himself. "Okay, fine."

Almost immediately, Sylvain has grabbed his arm and is practically dragging him out of the training grounds. It takes too long for Felix to register, and he's almost halfway to the exit before he regains a sense of self.

"What are you doing?" He hisses, yanking his arm away as hard as he can.

Sylvain blinks, looking at his now empty hand and then Felix's growing fury. There's a barely-visible pout, and Felix likens him to a puppy that's just been yelled at.

"What?" He hisses.

"Well, I just thought you might not want, you know, everyone to see you dance with me." Sylvain says, shrugging.

Felix immediately feels his face heat up at the thought. If he doesn't want to dance, he definitely doesn't want everyone to see.

Sylvain's expression slides into a sly smile. "Unless you do. Aw, Felix."

Felix acts on instinct, if only to spare himself the heat in his face. He kicks, swiping Sylvain's feet from under him. He hits the ground, hard. Felix almost feels bad--almost.

But Sylvain just laughs. "You're always so mean."

"Hmph." Felix storms out of the training grounds. Behind him, he can hear steps quickly follow. So much for avoiding dance practice.

Felix realizes, very quickly, that dancing with Sylvain is not quite as bad as he thought. No, it's worse. So much worse.

Somehow, he's wound up coerced into the girl's part. It only made sense, according to Sylvain, since he'll be judged on how well he manages the lead. It would be like deciding to train in the training grounds to be a better swordsman, but taking up the part of the dummy.

Felix isn't particularly fond of the analogy, but he can't argue against it.

But the more he takes on this role, the more uncomfortable it is. It feels wrong to have one of Sylvain's hands on his waist, the other hand cupping his fingers gently. He's keeping time by tapping his fingers against the back of Felix's hand, but it's completely useless to him. Felix is too distracted by the way breath tickles the hairs behind his ear as Sylvain mutters the steps to himself.

It feels as if he's on the verge of being ill. His heart beats too fast and too hard in his chest, and his stomach's contents feel like they're flipping over a dozen times with the clear intent of making him hurl. His face is hot, as if he's gotten a fever that's set in far too fast to be anything safe.

"Did you know," Sylvain whispers, stepping Felix back along their impromptu dance floor, "when you're really really blushing, it goes all the way to your ears?"

Something in Felix snaps. He shoves Sylvain away, glare pinned to his expression. "Do this on your own." He hisses, and storms off.

*

It's positively infuriating when, after the ball, that sensation in his stomach returns after Sylvain has announced that he'll be practicing as a Dancer the next few battles--just to see if it sticks. The thought of Sylvain in that (frankly ridiculous) outfit has his heart pounding again, which is just as irritating.

Sylvain jokes that his moves might attract more girls, which enrages Felix almost as much as Sylvain winking at him does.

*

His strikes against the training dummies have a little more force than he's been using for the last few months. It's exhausting, but he knows he has to push his boundaries if he wants to survive. Only an idiot wouldn't see war looming on the horizon. And, with it almost here, he has to be ready.

"Hey Felix," Ingrid's voice jolts him out of his pattern, ruining the whole set, "can you join me for lunch?"

Felix grumbles, squaring his shoulders as he turns to face the dummy again. "I won't eat with the boar."

A sigh. "He wouldn't accept either." He can practically hear the grimace in her voice.

Mentally cursing (Goddess forbid he actually curse in front of Ingrid), he turns to face her. It's an odd expression on her face, one he's not wholly accustomed to. It's a strange mix of concern and confusion, but not for either of them. No, likely reserved for the boar.

"You know, you really shouldn't skip class." She says, voice carrying that mothering tone that he's really been trying to avoid.

"What's the point?" He shrugs. "The Professor isn't teaching. It could hardly be called 'class'."

When she doesn't respond, he turns back to the training dummy. "I have better things to do."

Thinking it the end of the conversation, he continues with his set. Fast, slow. Slice under the armor. Disarming strike. Repeat.

He's a little breathless when he finishes his set, and finds himself only somewhat annoyed by Ingrid's lingering presence. The remainder is actually concerned--while Ingrid does often agree with the merits of training, she hardly ever just watches. For her to still stand there and neither join nor depart is unsettling.

"Felix . . ." she shifts uncomfortably, "what happened after the Holy Tomb . . . is that what you meant when you said . . . what he's doing now, is it--"

Felix snorts. "What I see is worse."

For a moment, his mind flickers back to the rebellion. To the expression on Dimitri's face, the way he seemed only sated by the blood pooling around him. The bodies piling behind him. He shakes his head. Striking the dummy again helps filter the image out.

"Let me guess," He says, scowling, "he's prowling the classroom, gnashing his teeth like the beast he is."

Ingrid gapes at him, which serves as much an answer as anything. Slowly, her expression settles, and she ducks her head. "You should still join us. Everyone's anxious. Maybe . . . maybe if we're all together--"

He doesn't let her finish. "I will not be in the same room as that boar."

Her hands clasp in front of her. It should be concerning that she's being so restrained, but Felix is too annoyed to care. "Look, Felix, I'm afraid. Afraid we might have to face our classmates, if this does turn into war. And . . . and it seems like there's something just on the edge, something we just don't know yet. And I'm honestly, really afraid about what that is."

Felix scoffs. "Then go talk to Sylvain about it. I don't want to hear it."

"Sylvain won't talk to me, either."

The statement catches Felix off guard, and he almost misses the dummy entirely. Sylvain always, always wants to talk to women. Even if that woman is Ingrid. Even when he knows it will earn him a slap in the face.

Ingrid frowns. "Times like this, we should be sticking together. Instead, it feels like we're drifting apart."

Felix recovers from the surprise and continues his training. He doesn't grace Ingrid with a response.

She sighs. "Okay, Felix, I get it. But it's still our duty--our legacy--to protect his highness. It's what a good knight would do."

When she leaves, Felix pauses in his strikes. Glenn was a good knight. He had protected Dimitri. And look where that ended. Death, and naught but the return of a beast wearing their prince's skin. But a good knight would follow and protect Dimitri regardless--just because he is Dimitri. Not because he is a man they want to follow.

Felix bites the inside of his cheek and decides quite easily that he will never be a good knight. Just as easily as he decides that he will not die for the boar.

The day before his departure, he decides to test his sanity. He's rash, sure, but he's not an idiot. An idiot would let anger fuel every decision. Felix decides to be sure--just in case--that his anger is justified.

When he enters the classroom, he blatantly ignores Ingrid's smile. It's positively infuriating that everyone, even the people he doesn't outright dislike, is acting like everything is normal. Like they hadn't seen what happened in the Holy Tomb (well, they technically hadn't, since Felix was only helping that mission, but that wasn't the point). Like they didn't know their prince was losing it.

Sylvain, it seems, is the only one who isn't treating this like it's normal. He's moved himself to the back of the room, practically in front of the door as if he might run at any moment. There's a smile on his lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. It makes Felix's stomach sink when he realizes just where he's seen that look before. But it was a long time ago, with waterlogged memories that would best be forgotten. But the combination of gaze and smile is foreign to Felix, and he can't stand to linger on it for long.

When Dimitri walks in, his state is worse than Felix's imagination. There was barely even the facade of a prince there. No, that thing is almost entirely the beast Felix saw at the rebellion. This time, the blood the beast demanded is Edelgard's head.

Felix would never admit he was scared, not even to himself. But this, somewhere in his heart, terrifies him.

He expects it to be equally terrifying when he leaves Gareg Mach. Or when he enters the Black Eagles' current base of operations. Or when he tells the Professor that she can rely on him. But those things are manageable.

What's really frightening is the moment that Sylvain stands in front of him, a stupid and completely fake smile on his face. He can feel it settle in the pit of his stomach as they sit against the wall, Sylvain's arm around his shoulders.

There's a smile in Sylvain's voice, but it's strained. "We made a promise, you know. And, since I don't want to die any time soon, I need so make sure you don't when you decide you want to duel the world."

That damned promise. In the years since, Felix has hoped that Sylvain might have forgotten. But of course he didn't. Of course, Sylvain broke every single promise except for this one. Which means that, of course, Sylvain followed.

It makes Felix feel sick.

He tries not to laugh when Sylvain comes up with the excuse that he just "didn't want to be the one who had to fight you." That is bullshit.

It's clear to Felix that Sylvain thinks he still has to protect him, just as he used to when they were kids. Always looking out for the guy he had endearingly referred to as a "baby brother". Even if he lacks the training and dedication that Felix has been working toward for years.

He shakes his head. "I don't need to be protected by someone who skips training."

It's annoying with Sylvain laughs, like there's nothing wrong with being so hopelessly unprepared at the cusp of war. No, it's absolutely infuriating that Sylvain is taking this so lightly. As if he doesn't think Felix would ever hold up his end of the promise.

What that means is that Felix will have to make up for this. He'll have to look out for Sylvain. He places a hand on his sword--a comfort more than anything else. But he can do it. He has faith in his own skill.

"I suppose," Felix mutters, looking off across the grounds, where others seemed equally as oblivious as Sylvain to their impending demise, "I'll have to keep you alive too. I have no plan on dying yet."

*

The Shield is the Shield for a reason, Felix knows that. Only a fool would think otherwise, would be deceived by the formality and bluster.

When Glenn had become a knight, everyone was focused on his skill and ability. When Felix was crushing opponents in the tournaments of their school years, and decimating foes in their more recent battles, everyone assumed that it was solely from his constant training. But even Felix can't deny that both he and Glenn had to give some credit to their father's blood coursing through their veins.

So naturally, Felix knows what his father is capable of. He knows that his father is stronger than he is. That the decades of difference between them marks a significant gap in their respective skill. But Felix also knows that he's faster--that age had dulled his father's former advantage.

It seems reasonable enough to assume that Felix can win, at least with enough focus, enough training. It requires that characteristic speed, finishing the job fast, but it's feasible. If he's not fast, then his father and the Fraldarius men will crush him.

But his body is sluggish. It doesn't obey as quickly as he'd like. It doesn't move in the right way, with the right strength. It feels as if he's trying to fight surrounded by water pulling at every limb. The battle doesn't go on for long before he's already panting hard, chest aching as if he can't get enough air. And Felix knows it's entirely on him--his father hasn't cast a single spell.

It's frustrating, how weak he still is.

Another strike of his is parried, and it takes everything Felix has to keep steady.

"Felix," his father mutters, voice edging with desperation, "please."

"Your begging falls on deaf ears." Felix growls, attacking again just to prove his point. "I won't serve the boar."

He's practically thrown back by the force of Rodrigue's attack. The assault becomes relentless, and Felix finds himself on the defensive, steps forced to retreat slightly each time.

"It's a father's duty to settle his child's failures." Rodrigue says, eyes darkening with purpose.

The attacks intensify. Felix feels nauseous as he suddenly realizes that his father has been going easy on him.

"Tch." It's all Felix can manage. He can barely keep the blade off his skin, blocking at the very last moment. He's not used to needing to defend himself. It feels like each time he's grasping at just another second to survive--and soon he'll find only air between his fingers.

Something behind his feet is just a step too high, and Felix runs into it. The world practically spins as he tumbles.

"Damn." He curses, arm throbbing from the awkward landing. His sword is out of his grasp, and he's not entirely sure where.

He's not even given the chance to look before his father's lance is pointed at his throat. Felix refuses to give his father the pleasure of any doubt to his purpose, and raises his chin slightly. His eyes rest on the blade, not even wanting to give the impression of hesitation or concern.

"Felix . . ." there's a crack in his voice. The same one he had let linger when Glenn's armor had first been delivered to their doorstep. The one that Felix desperately wanted to keep hearing after that moment, instead of bloated ideals about chivalry.

The lance raises, and Felix sneers at the feeling in his chest.

"You must die here and now."

There is the splash of blood, but Felix immediately knows it's not his own. It's so obvious, with the Lance of Ruin's tip sitting inches from his face.

His gaze follows up the lance, to where it has split through his father's chest, to his father's face. Despair mixes with pain in his expression, and a trembling hand reaches out to touch Felix's face. It falls, just as he does, before he ever closes that gap entirely.

Felix's attention shifts to Sylvain, so high above him upon his mount. Sylvain is distracted, looking across the battlefield, possibly for whatever might remain of the Fraldarius battalion.

There's a tightness in his chest as he realizes just how much blood covers Sylvain's armor. True, not all of it can be his, but the damage to his armor implies a rather worrying level of injury. He should be hurrying over to a healer, or finding a way to pull back from the conflict. And instead he is here, saving Felix's life. How much of this damage had he taken merely from coming to Felix's aid?

His mind flickers to a rather disturbing reality: he should not be concerned about Sylvain.

Felix looks down, seeing the blood sinking deep into his clothes, ruining them. He can see his father's lance near his foot, a pool of blood seeping into the wood of the pole. There's still a hand upon it, but it belongs to a lifeless body. His father's corpse.

He knows he should be bothered by this. He should be mortified at the sight of it. He should be tearing at his clothes, desperate to get out of the blood-soaked garments. At the very least, he should be angry. Angry that his father still clung to useless ideals and died for them in as equally a pointless way as Glenn had.

But he doesn't feel much of anything. It feels as if . . . as if Rodrigue was no more than a common Kingdom enemy. Like he was just another man in the way of their goals. Someone who had to die so they could keep living.

"Are you alright?" Sylvain asks.

He feels sick. Why isn't it bothering him? It can't be possible that he is becoming like--

He looks up, and this time Sylvain is looking at him. And his stomach clenches, like a fist in his gut. Sylvain's always been good at managing his expressions--it's something that Felix has envied--but it's unguarded here. There's something broken behind his smile.

Broken as if he has just killed the man who pulled him out of that damned well. The man who tended to him until the fevers had subsided. Who scolded Felix for pestering him, but never made him leave. Who always opened his doors to Sylvain, regardless of circumstance. Who only laughed when he found that Felix had crept into Sylvain's bed, crying over some nonsense. That man.

Like he had just killed that man for Felix.

*

Felix is practically pacing a hole in the dirt as he prowls in front of the Black Eagles' temporary camp. He's chosen this spot for a reason--he can see everyone coming in and out. It's ridiculous to try to enter any other way, since they've been properly fortified on each side. They would have to really, really try to avoid the front for him to miss them.

And yet Sylvain still isn't here.

"Can't you just sit down?" Dorothea sighs, sitting by the fire while Lindhart tends to an unfortunate gash she has on her arm. "You're making me tired."

"Then look elsewhere." Felix hisses, hand sitting on the hilt of his blade. It still aches.

"If you think I don't have enough energy to Thoron you until you sit down, you're sorely mistaken." She threatens.

Felix scowls, but acquiesces to an extent. He leans against a nearby tree, where the entrance is still in view. It's just far enough where he can look away and entirely ignore any of her further complaints.

His hand throbs again and he hisses. He hadn't realized he's been clenching it.

It's the Professor's fault, really. For all of this. He'd curse her, but there's not a lot of point when she isn't here to receive his abuse.

She should have made Sylvain stay back and fight alongside them. Sylvain's foolhardy, but he wouldn't have been stupid enough to do anything explicitly dangerous when they fought Dedue (a bear to fight as a man, a near-impossibility as a beast).

Then again, Sylvain had proved him wrong on that too many times.

Fine, then she should have let Felix go with him, instead of making Sylvain go off on his own. She didn't need Felix to help her beat Dedue. Sure, it made it easier and reduced her injuries, but it wasn't even like she continued to fight after Dedue had fallen. So she could have taken it on her own.

Except they couldn't afford to lose the Professor, and the risk would have been beyond stupid.

Fine. Then she should have let him pursue Sylvain after their minor victory. The distance between them and where Dimitri fought was relatively significant, so Felix could have caught up. He was fast enough, and Sylvain was a clumsy fighter against both Ingrid and Dimitri. There would have been enough time for Felix to intercede and make the final blows. He was the better choice for it--he had been mentally preparing himself for weeks, hardening his heart so that he could kill his oldest friends, while there was no way Sylvain had. But the Professor had blocked his path, saying he was more likely a hindrance than an aid.

Which, in theory, is true. Dedue had completely crushed Felix's sword hand in their fight. It took two healers to set it right. And it still hurts.

And Sylvain is taking way too long to come back. He bites the inside of his cheek.

Perhaps Ingrid and Dimitri are fleeing, following Rhea's cue. No doubt they know that she had simply used them as a tool for her escape. She has no loyalty--so why should they? Sylvain could possibly be following for a little while, but there's no way he can keep up with a Pegasus. So he's maybe slow on the uptake and has gone too far out. So of course it's taking him longer to come back.

Or, perhaps, Sylvain has had enough with this whole thing. Ingrid has always been able to push the two of them around, and no doubt she's able to force her point with Sylvain. He might be reluctant at first, but no doubt he knows he might live longer if he allies himself again with the Kingdom. After all, what exactly is there in Edelgard's forces that's keeping him here? Felix tries to ignore that familiar sensation in his chest, and clenches his injured fist again just so it's easier to.

Felix doesn't even want to consider that they might have killed him. Dimitri is a beast, but he's . . . no, Felix can't even try to convince himself that Dimitri is anything otherwise. Reasonably, Dimitri would have no qualms killing Felix. But Sylvain has always been a different matter. He couldn't . . . probably couldn't . . .

There's cheering in the distance, but even from here Felix can tell who it is.

Caspar, the absolutely inevitable irritation, shouting at the top of his lungs. "The last man made it intact! Yes!"

The words make Felix's gaze snap up. There is Sylvain, raising an eyebrow as he chuckles at Caspar's reverie. He dismisses his archers with a wave--the battalion mostly intact. He grins at the others, makes some sort of comment to Dorothea that makes her scrunch her nose.

Normally, Felix would be annoyed that he's being so casual. That he's been ignoring the fact that others were worried about him. But he can't bring himself to be angry.

That's because Sylvain is covered in blood. His hands shake, even the one gripping the Lance of Ruin. True, he's bouncing from person to person, but it seems a weird dance for him. A movement away from a crowd of inquiring Eagles, even when he's wrapping a soiled arm around one of them to laugh before stepping back.

"Completely without tact." Dorothea scolds.

"Aw, come on Dorothea," Sylvain laughs, "we all survived, didn't we? I think that's what matters here."

The air feels frigid the second Sylvain's smile turns Felix's way.

Sylvain has always hidden behind smiles. Felix knows that. He's familiar with it, and even familiar with what most of them mean, and there's not really a reason to be annoyed about it. It's the same way Felix hides behind his anger and annoyance (well, he doesn't hide--that's just ridiculous). Their relationship has balanced out enough where at least they don't call each other on it, even when it seems right there clear as day.

And yet, this smile is completely foreign to Felix.

He can kind of pick apart the pieces. It's broken, hollow, despairing--but in a mix that should seem impossible. And it's almost as if Sylvain can feel it there, and is pushing it away for as long as physically possible.

What's chilling isn't that Felix can recognize those parts, that the feeling is there in his (now) oldest friend. It's because he's never really seen any of them on Sylvain, not to this depth. No, those sensations were from Felix's own past, his own memories.

They were what Felix had seen in his own expression in the mirror after Glenn died.

The thoughts dig into him at every waking moment, like claws gripping at his shoulders and threatening to shred away his skin. Felix should have been the one to kill them, and now Sylvain is bearing the burden of their friend's blood. All because Felix isn't strong enough.

He's not one for obsessing, but he can't shake the thoughts that chase him wherever he goes, whatever he does.

Could he have done anything different? Maybe, if he had beaten Dedue faster, better, he could have interceded. Maybe he could have reached out to the beast. Maybe he could have stopped the battle entirely by pulling on old memories to convince them. Maybe Dimitri could have conceded to Edelgard. And, if not, if they both went to the Kingdom's side, then he could have saved them all.

But it seemed late for that. So maybe he couldn't have stopped the battle. Maybe Dimitri could never trust them. In that case, he couldn't have saved Dimitri. But he could have protected Sylvain.

The guilt is eating at Sylvain--Felix can see it clearer than he can see anything else. He can see it across the war table, even when Sylvain sits as far away as physically possible. Sylvain's smiles are just a little less--even the fake ones. Especially the fake ones. His hands are constantly clenching and unclenching, even when there's nothing around to grab onto. He hasn't bothered fixing the damage to the armor--almost as if he stopped right after cleaning out the blood.

And it's Felix's fault. He blames himself, and knows it's the only sensible thing to do. Admittedly, it's surprising that Sylvain must have come to that conclusion as well. He avoids Felix at every possible moment, excepting the situations where they absolutely have to be in the same room. But, in that case, Sylvain distances himself as much as possible. And Felix knows better than to close the gap.

Felix minds, even though he tries to remind himself that he doesn't--that he shouldn't. Sylvain's reaction is completely correct. And there is nothing Felix can do to fix that.

But there is one thing he can do. He can train so that Sylvain never, ever, has to do anything like that again.

*

Felix expected many things when he returned to Gautier lands. The bitter cold. An unbearable wind. Some good fights.

What he doesn't expect are the rush of sentiments thought long-buried the moment he sees Sylvain on his bed. He'd laugh at how small it makes Sylvain look in it, but the situation has made pretty much everything entirely humorless.

"Nah, I won't die on you. I promise. You think something like this could kill me? No way. " Sylvain smiles and does that stupid dismissive wave. "A little magic will take care of the wound. Some bed rest then I'm good to go out and do it all over again."

His skill with a smile has improved, but Felix still knows it's a lie.

The sensation in his chest feels so foreign; it's been so long since he's allowed himself to feel it. It sparks when he sees how pale Sylvain is, even against white sheets. It's practically aflame when he lets himself think about how heavy Sylvain was, practically draped over Felix's shoulder as he dragged his limp body to a healer. His breath was so faint then, almost imperceptible. That feeling is unbearable as his mind still lingers on that thought that this was how Sylvain Gautier would die.

He shoves those thoughts back and hisses. "Sylvain!"

Sylvain just laughs. It's still hollow, but there's an echo of what once was there between them. "Oh, come on. That was funny."

It's not funny.

Sylvain's expression shifts. It's the closest to a genuine smile Felix has seen in over a year. "It's not like you to be so concerned."

Of course he is concerned. Felix can feel the scowl on his face. It was why he had taken this job in the first place. It was a reckless one, with not good enough pay, and with conditions bad enough to make it hardly worth the effort.

But Felix can't deny that Sylvain's foolishness has been tugging at him almost constantly, even though they hadn't seen each other since Felix had abandoned his birthright. At that point, he was desperate for any excuse to just come here--anything that Sylvain couldn't reject and that Felix could take on with little ceremony. It's shameful, really, that he would have taken literally anything if it meant he could just--for a moment--make sure Sylvain is alright.

This situation now it's . . . not what he expected, and certainly not what he wanted. He has to collect himself, trying to push away the shame into a far corner of his mind.

"You really are a fool. The biggest in all of Fódlan. I thought something was off. There's no way you could die from such a small cut. You're so reckless and inattentive, I thought this might be divine punishment."

Whose punishment it was had yet to be determined.

"Hey! That's not nice! You should be thanking me."

Felix can feel the blood rush from his face. He should be. He should have thanked Sylvain a thousand times by now, and he should be working on thanking him at least a hundred times more. Sylvain has protected him so many times, more than he's likely to ever realize. Sylvain has been so many things that Felix has needed, without ever realizing it.

He feels so small when he speaks. "I am grateful. You've been doing this ever since we were children. You're constantly fooling around, but then showing up and helping when we really need you. "

When I really need you, when I won't even admit it.

Felix glances up, a little afraid to see what's on Sylvain's face. But there's that smile, forming into something even more genuine and astounding. It's the first time he's seen that smile since Dimitri died. Old feelings clench around his heart like a fist, and it nearly takes his breath away. He hasn't felt this strongly since that day they danced together.

Words slip out out his mouth before he even realizes. "I'll admit, seeing that smile on your face, I almost want to . . ." He bites down hard on his tongue before he says more.

The smile is gone, but Sylvain's expression is so open, innocent. Like they're kids again, and Felix has just suddenly spit out to Sylvain that he absolutely cannot die without him. "Want to . . . what?"

There are a lot of things Felix wants. So many things that he really doesn't deserve--not after what he's put Sylvain through. Primarily, he wants that gap closed between them. Physically and emotionally.

But to do that would make things go back to the way they were. To Sylvain looking out for him. To Sylvain taking every possible hit for Felix.

Their battle against Sreng proved that Sylvain would do that in a heartbeat.

"I wish you a speedy recovery, Sylvain." Felix says, turning back to the door. His resolve will shatter if he keeps looking at Sylvain. "Get some rest."

He doesn't wait for Sylvain's response before he leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him. The second-in-command of his men is looking there, vaguely disinterested as he leans against the wall.

The man tilts his head back a little as he smiles at Felix. "We've been paid, sir. The boys are good to move out at any time, but we can--"

Felix frowns. "We're leaving."

The statement catches the other off guard. Good. "Sir?"

Felix exhales softly. This is the way things should be. "Prepare to depart."

*

Felix likes to think that's he's not really one for nostalgia. Even less partial to 'what ifs'. But, sitting among the Black Eagles at their new War Table in Enbarr is inspiring a bit of both. If he stayed a duke, this probably would have been his future. Sitting here, listening to the others discuss and debate. Biding his time with his sword ready to act on their decision.

It seems that thought has crossed their minds, too, considering how often they've been inviting him to join lately.

It kind of seems like his separate futures are converging here. Outside of this secret operation of the emperor's, the world itself is finding a balance. There's a low demand for mercenaries. Most companies have left the business, so to speak, and others are practically dying out because there's not enough work to survive. Felix's men are among the latter, for the moment, but they're only able to survive off of what the Empire is still offering.

Which means, once this situation is resolved, there will truly be no need for mercenaries. Well, it's not like Felix has hidden that fact from his men, anyway. They all know they'll likely need to disband soon.

With a sigh, he rests his chin on the back of his hand. He's not really sure where he'll go, if he's no longer a mercenary. If he tried being a sellsword on his own, he'd likely die of starvation. There are probably a couple other options, but most of those come right before sleep, when Felix is too tired to fend them off.

"Is Sylvain joining us this time?" Dorothea asks, leaning far too close to Felix for his liking.

He scowls, leaning away from her. He's not particularly opposed to Dorothea now. They seem to agree on some things. But her inability to mind personal space is absolutely infuriating. It reminds him so much of Sylvain that it's been a personal hell.

His eyes flick across the table to the map. This time of year, Sylvain will be busy handling minor incursions from Sreng. He had inadvertently hired a couple of Felix's men to help with that (a benefit of Felix not being arrogant enough to name his men after himself), and they'd recently confirmed that there was enough burden from Sreng to merit the two of them staying through the season.

"He's busy." Felix says, looking disinterested. "Sreng."

She sighs. "Well, can you at least tell me how he's doing?" Her arms cross in front of her.

Vaguely, Felix can recall that they were close (which shouldn't be surprising, considering their habits), but apparently not close enough for Sylvain to reach out to personally.

When he doesn't answer, she continues. "He must be lonely up there, all by himself. But I suppose he has you to keep him company sometimes, so it can't be too bad. For whatever reason, he likes you."

Honestly, Felix isn't entirely sure where Dorothea's assumption came from--about the keeping company thing, anyway. But it's not really an inconvenient one. He hasn't argued against it before, and he has no plans on doing so any time soon.

He glances away. Part of his mind wanders, wonders. It's not hard to think about what Sylvain looks like now, or what he's doing. He's thought about it more times than he'd like to admit. Probably ladies hanging all over him. Stubble on his chin to look just a bit rugged. Hair a little longer, maybe tied back so that it's not a burden. Built out a bit more, from actually having to fight to stay alive.

That feeling simmers in Felix's chest again, and he scowls to drive it away. "He still has that stupid smile all the time." He mutters and shrugs. "Still does the same stupid things."

Dorothea laughs. "Well, why don't you just stay there to keep him from doing said stupid things?"

Felix's gaze slides over to her, shifting into a glare.

"Think about it." She continues. "It would be a lot easier than trying to make the mercenary thing work. And you'd never run out of battles, considering how often Sylvain seems stuck dealing with Sreng."

Felix looks away and to the rest of the room. Dorothea isn't quite at the same level as Sylvain, but she's still perceptive enough to be irritating. He's concerned at what she might see as his mind rolls over the possibilities.

If he tries, it's likely that Sylvain will outright reject Felix. Between the hurts Sylvain endured before and during the war, plus the way Felix left . . . it seems kind of inevitable.

But, if he accepted . . . then Felix wouldn't hesitate to work for Sylvain. Watch out for him as his guardian (knight is probably the most appropriate word, but Felix would rather die than call himself a knight). It would be a good way to return everything Sylvain has done for him--he could fight, and Sylvain could be safe in the castle. Doing Sylvain things. Things Felix would rather not think about. Regardless, Felix could do that, and he could do that without his mercenaries.

His mind regains focus when he hears some intriguing details from Hubert's report. The mission he describes is clearly meant to appeal to Felix, even though he never explicitly says it. But it's implied well enough with how much Hubert emphasizes the heavy risk and equally heavy reward. Since the others have their positions, the idea of a grand reward could be meant for no one else.

So Felix reluctantly takes the bait. For a last mission, the reward will allow them all the luxury of security to go their own ways. It will at least fill their bellies long enough to find another purpose for themselves. Besides, his men are skilled, so a high risk isn't really all that intimidating.

"W-would you want me to join you?" Bernadetta asks as Felix looks over the mission summary.

Felix glances over at her. "I didn't think you were keen on leaving your shelter."

"Well, yes, I mean no! I don't like leaving! It's dangerous out there!" She practically trembles as she stands at his side, but she hasn't fled yet. "But you're my friend. You can't go alone! You might need the help! What if they're expecting you and they ambush you and you need Bernie's Secret Technique to escape but then if you don't have Bernie--"

Felix sighs. "Bernadetta."

"Eep!"

He scowls, shoving aside any trace of affection in his expression and tone. "I don't need your help."

A part of him feels guilty at how quickly her expression crumples. Bernadetta whispers a dozen apologies before she vanishes.

So much for the hard work in their war years of befriending her, and getting her to warm up to him. Oh well. It's better this way. At least, this way, she won't get hurt trying to 'help' him. He can't tolerate the thought of that happening again.

"Fine," Dorothea frowns, "then at least take Sylvain."

"And why should I do that?" Felix frowns, rolling up the mission in his hands.

"Get him out of that stuffy castle, for one." She shakes her head, curls bouncing with the movement. "Besides, you two always worked well on the battlefield. I liked watching you fight together. So, seems like you won't get killed if it's the two of you."

For a moment, just a moment, Felix lets himself consider it. It's true, he misses the feeling of them fighting together. Of watching each other's backs, filling the gaps that they didn't know they had. There's still that lingering sensation from when they fought together at Sreng--even though it's been years. It was a rush, like they had been together all their lives and hadn't been separated for months. It was absolutely exhilarating.

And then his mind snaps back to the image of Sylvain in that too-large bed, pale and smiling like an idiot.

What would be the point if Sylvain died partway through this mission?

"I'm leaving." He says, tone not allowing any argument. He glances over to Hubert. "I will send reports when I find anything useful."

When he tells the mission to his men and relays the plan, he's not surprised that not one is reluctant. Bandits are boring. A secret mission against an evil force? Now that sounds interesting. Felix very nearly smiles.

As the men prepare to depart, Felix pauses at an uncomfortable thought. Both Bernadetta and Dorothea had seemed rather concerned about him going alone. There's the distinct possibility that they would tell Sylvain. And, if Sylvain is still the one Felix remembers, he'll follow. Which is exactly what Felix doesn't want him to do.

But, if he can convince Sylvain that he'll be in Gautier lands soon, then maybe Sylvain will wait. Maybe he will be just a bit more patient. There has to be a way . . .

Of course you'd know. Sylvain's bored tone from so many years ago echoes in his head. Wherever that sword goes, you'll follow.

Felix smiles. Sylvain is smart--sometimes too smart for his own good. He hands his Sword of Zoltan to one of his messengers with clear instructions. Sylvain will know what this means.

*

Felix has felt worthless before, sure, but never hopeless. In that land without light, hopelessness seems inevitable, endless. It constantly threatens to rain down upon him, crush him in the caverns that he's trapped in.

Half of his men are dead. The other half have likely fled, probably killed the moment they're just far enough out of Felix's sight.

Of the latter group, Felix had sent a message with them. The only message he's really managed this whole time. One he has hoped (but had little faith) would make it to the empire. A pinned location, an indication of the forces that awaits them. It's been at least a week since then. It's so hard to tell in the darkness.

A noise bounces off the walls of his hiding place, making its way to him. It's faint, but Felix can recognize it. The clear sound of conflict.

He doesn't dare hope, but he does move from his hiding place, out of the recesses of his cavern sanctuary. Toward the target that had found him far too quickly.

And there he sees it, a blaze of fiery hair that kindles life back into Felix. Fighting like he has no fear of death. Crushing his enemies in a bloody dance across the battlefield. A true force to reckon with, with a ferocity that Felix doesn’t recognize from Sylvain.

And, slowly, he realizes. It's not that Sylvain is fighting without fear. It's that he's fighting as if he knows he'll die, and that he wants to make that death as fantastic as possible.

Felix runs without thinking. As fast as he can, as hard as he can. Slicing down everything that even dares to be in his way.

In the distance, he can see that irritating machine moving. Toward Sylvain. He runs even harder.

This time, he can be the one protecting Sylvain.

*

Felix's eyes slide shut at the familiar feeling of fingers in his hair. They're gentle but purposeful. They press at his scalp, from the nape of his neck up to his temples. It's a massage masquerading as a simple hair routine.

Almost as if they can sense that this distraction will only be allowed for a few moments, they shift to their proper purpose. They gather his hair up, tying it off behind his head in a short ponytail. A few still-short strands fall forward, brushing against his cheekbones.

With a hum, the hands take one side and coerce them into a thin braid, tucking the end into the ponytail's tie. The other side is left free to get in Felix's face.

"And done." Sylvain practically sings, far too cheery this morning. "I think I've finally got it this time."

Felix opens his eyes. He tilts his head, evaluating Sylvain's work in the mirror.

The care is far more than Felix would have ever bothered with. It's tidy and neat--the only hairs out of place are those Sylvain purposely left out. It will probably last all day without any part of it falling out.

Behind him, Sylvain is beaming with pride.

Felix only hums an affirmation. In the reflection, he notices Sylvain admire his own work in the mirror for a little longer than necessary--but there's not much point in commenting on it.

Sylvain lightly pat's Felix's arm and turns to the door and leaves. He has to put on the remainder of his gear, after all. The parts he left off because it's just too difficult to do hair with it on.

When the door shuts, Felix's eyes shift back to his own reflection. He's been reluctant to admit it, but he certainly looks more alive now than he has the last few years. Probably because he's not fighting constantly, he gets to eat every day, and is able to avoid most of the cold. With each passing month, his hair is growing longer, healthier--actually able to grow long again.

To an extent, he looks far more relaxed. Then again, part of that could probably be attributed to the massage (not that he'd ever tell Sylvain that).

It seems a bit silly, going through this ritual every day. Sylvain coming in when morning comes, putting up Felix's hair before he handles pretty much anything else. It would be easier to just crop it, really. But a moment of weakness had drawn him into an irritating arrangement. So long as Sylvain prevented Felix's hair from being a bother, Felix wouldn't have it cut. And--likely due to Sylvain's inane attachment to his hair--Sylvain had kept up his end of the bargain every day. So Felix had to keep his.

He scowls. If only the ritual weren't necessary. Slowly, he allows himself to look at his right shoulder. The quilted sleeve hangs limply at his side. His fingers clench against the desk.

I am sorry, Sir Fraldarius. The doctor had said. But there's nothing we can do to restore use or sensation. What caused this is . . . well beyond our abilities. I know it's not a desired option, but--to prevent infection--you should--

"Is it hurting today?"

In the reflection, Felix can see Sylvain peeking in the door, like a child afraid to get caught. A lot of good that does, when Sylvain always inevitably opens his mouth. Felix almost wishes he could lock the door, just so he could avoid looking at the concern plastered all over Sylvain's face.

It's the same expression he had when Felix agreed that his arm needed to be removed.

"Hmph." Felix stands from his seat and grabs his coat, sliding it and his cloak on with a motion that's getting easier to manage each day. He uses his teeth to pull on his glove--Sylvain has learned well enough by now that he'll get hit if he tries to help.

The boots are a more frustrating piece. It's not hard to put them on and pull them up. But Sylvain still has to help with the lacing. Before Felix can even open his mouth, Sylvain's already crossed the room, laces between his fingers as he works. At least he's not making any inappropriate comments this time. Which is a grand improvement, since it earned him a swift kick to the crotch the last time he decided to open his mouth.

When he's done, Sylvain stands with a sickening level of flourish, offering his hand to Felix with a wink. It earns him a scowl, though Felix takes it anyway.

The two of them walk along the parapets, side by side. The path has been traversed enough to keep the snow from their boots. And, at least for now, the snow has stopped falling. The weather had been uncooperative in the last few weeks, so this return to their old routine is somewhat relaxing.

Felix can see his breath as he looks across the Gautier lands. He used to the cold enough now, even though the immense landscape covered in ice and snow forces an involuntary shiver.

It's been a while since Sreng has sent any forces. But it only makes sense--even if both armies are accustomed to the environment, it's only asking to lose more forces than strictly necessary. They probably have a couple more months before they need to really watch the horizon.

He glances over at Sylvain. As much as he'd rather Sylvain be quiet, sometimes he can't help but wonder what's going on in the other's head. But Sylvain hasn't noticed his gaze, and is instead looking far off in the distance. There's a soft smile on his face, like a secret joke that he won't share with anyone. Not knowing is irritating, and Felix turns away, continuing down their path.

Sylvain complains, but there's enough distance between them to muffle it. Sylvain doesn't run to catch up, but Felix can tell by the crunch of snow that his steps are broader, quicker, as if he can hide the effort.

It's too early to be annoyed, but Felix manages all the same. He had been repaid for his early departure with Sylvain shoving snow down the back of his coat. Felix wants to blame that for why his writing is so shaky, why each letter looks clumsy and childish. But the shudders had faded a long time ago, probably around the same time Sylvain stopped complaining about his sore cheek. But, in truth, it's because he's still not used to writing with this hand. He should consider himself lucky that Sylvain has a scribe that will turn this mangled mess into something proper.

There's so much work left, and it seems almost endless. It's not entirely Sylvain's fault--he knows that. As much as he wants to blame the redhead's laziness, it seems like he's been so overwhelmed that he has to take things reactively instead of proactively. And it's not like the former Margrave ever would have bothered to teach this (he distinctly recalls his father having equal frustrations there).

Felix will never say it, but Sylvain has managed relatively well, considering the circumstances.

Lips pressed together, he looks up across the table. Sylvain has been hunched over his set of documents for the last hour. His cheek is pressing hard against his fist. He must be so horribly, awfully bored.

But, even bored, Sylvain's hands are always moving in some way or form. And yet his other hand is still. With a scowl, Felix leans closer, tilting his head to try and get a look at his face. It's just chance that his eyes fall over specific . . . features. For a man so obsessed with getting Felix's hair perfect, Sylvain's is rather unkempt. It's far messier than the wind would have caused, sticking up in places it certainly shouldn't. He never let it go this bad during their school days, and certainly not during the war--no, it was a manufactured mess then. And there is just the slightest trace of bags beneath his eyes. Sleepless nights, like when he always seemed to preoccupy himself with prowling the halls or the town. But it's not like he's been prowling his own castle. Sylvain has made it clear (far too emphatically, really) that he's not interested in the women there, so it's not like he has reason to.

He otherwise looks fine, though. Looks the proper Margrave, really. But it still seems so unsettling.

"If you keep looking so close," Sylvain murmured, voice so soft that Felix might have missed it if he wasn't so close, "I might start thinking you're in love with me." He opens only one eye, a playful smile growing upon his lips.

Heat flushes immediately to Felix's face, and he bolts completely out of his seat, slamming his hand on the table. "If you're comfortable enough to nap, then clearly you don't have enough work." He practically hisses. "Do this on your own."

He storms out of the room. He can hear Sylvain shout behind him, but he refuses to stop. If he stops, he'll have to deal with that thumping in his chest, or the heat refusing to leave his face. Before . . . before he would have trained it out of his system. Hit the dummy until the ache in his bones was all that his body could bother with. But that's well out of the question now. He has to just accept that stomping down these unpleasantly cold halls will have to do.

He only allows himself to stop when the fluster is completely gone. He can blame the racing of his heart on the pace.

The cold stings his face, and it's a little surprising. The castle air he's used to, but there shouldn't be this sort of chill unless he's outside.

Felix glances to the side and frowns. It has been so long, and yet still instinct guides him. He's made his way to where the castle leads to the Gautier training grounds. The grounds are currently unoccupied, even though the inhabitants could stay there without any fear of snowfall. It's a shame, really, since it's always been a rather productive place to train--well equipped and the grounds covered by a decent roof.

He's been avoiding this for a long time now. He's even taken alternate paths just so he wouldn't have to look at it. It makes his chest ache, but in a different way. A more uncomfortable one.

Well, he's here now.

Swallowing thickly, he steps out of the castle and into the training grounds. His feet bring him immediately to the weapon rack. Tentatively, his fingers go up to brush over the pommels. The swords are completely inelegant, but they're well-cared for. It's not a school, and the soldiers are expected to have some level of skill, so it's live steel. Not sharp, but certainly not reflecting any neglect.

It's been so long since he's had a sword in his hands (well, hand) that he can't resist. He reaches out, and takes one from its place.

It's weird, foreign in his grip. He's never really had to bother holding one in this hand, so his hold is awkward and uncomfortable. He struggles to keep the tip level--it keeps dipping. The angle is wrong, too.

Rage bubbles in his chest. His teeth grind together. What was the point of all that training? Of years spent avoiding others just so he could be the strongest? What did it matter, when it was so useless to him now?

Felix doesn't cry. He never cries. But his eyes still sting with threatening tears.

A hand slides over his, wrapping around the grip. A head rests upon his shoulder, though there's little weight to it. Tenderly, another hand rests on his waist. If Felix weren't accustomed to this specific touch, the offender would have gotten an elbow to the gut--and probably clumsily stabbed as well.

"Wrist like this." Sylvain hums, his forehead nudging slightly against Felix's temple. He turns Felix's hand with his.

With his other hand, he guides Felix's hips to shift just a bit more at an angle. He adjusts the angle of the blade again, but only slightly. When he seems satisfied, he pulls them both through a single swing.

Admittedly, it's better than Felix had expected. But it doesn't take very much to be better than nothing. It's just wrong. Impossibly wrong. His hand drops.

"Hm?" Sylvain hums.

"What do you think you're doing." Felix hisses. He wants to turn on the other, rip away his hand. But, at this moment, Sylvain is the only thing keeping him grounded. A part of him is terrified that everything will shatter if he pulls away.

Sylvain shrugs in response, but doesn't say anything. He slowly removes his hands, and only watches when Felix returns the sword to its proper place. Even though Felix avoids direct eye contact, he can tell that Sylvain wants to say something. And it doesn't look like an apology for being an irredeemable flirt.

But Felix doesn't have the patience to wait.

"I'm going back inside," he growls, "there's work to be done."

*

A sigh passes Felix's lips, heavy and drawn out. Even now, he just isn't used to being in a bed. It's not that it isn't comfortable--it very much is--but perhaps the problem is that it's too comfortable. He's used to hard stone or dirt, where the biggest luxury was grass. Sure, inns were an occasional treat back then, but he had an equally difficult time sleeping there, too. It was more comfortable to sleep outside the town, even while his men enjoyed the comforts.

He glances over the edge of the bed. Sleeping on the floor won't help. He's tried that once, only to have both a miserable night's sleep and an irritating scolding from Sylvain.

He exhales. Even his breathing seems to be breaking into the silence. Perhaps that's the problem: it's just too quiet. There's no one moving nearby, no trees rustling in the wind. Sure, quiet is supposed to mean safety. But those few weeks in that city without light had done a number on him. To him, it made darkness and silence feel like something's slithering in from the outside, ready to strike.

The sound of wood brushing over stone alerts Felix to his door opening. He tenses, reaching under his pillow for the small knife there (an old habit he refuses to be rid of). His angle is awkward and his hold unsure, so he will have only one chance to get it right. It's hard to stay still as the intruder approaches, but he waits. The footsteps are quiet, but the otherwise overwhelming silence makes them stand out. When they're just near the edge of his bed, he swipes up in a single quick motion.

His arm halts immediately, breath catching. It's fortunate that he's been awake so long, that his vision is acclimated to the dark. Otherwise, he would have cut Sylvain's throat.

But Sylvain doesn't look surprised. He doesn't even have his hands raised in that stupid way he does when he's trying to avoid getting hit. He doesn't even smile. He just looks . . . tired.

"You absolute imbecile." Felix growls. tucking the dagger back under his pillow. "I could have--"

"Can I stay here tonight?"

Felix blinks, unsure if he heard the question correctly. He turns to look back at Sylvain, but his expression hasn't changed. "What?"

"Just let me lie there with you, please."

Felix's face instantly turns red, and he has to thank the goddess that it's still dark. "I'm not lying with you."

By now, Sylvain normally would have laughed, saying it was a joke. Or he would have given up, and retreated back to wherever he came from. But he's still standing there. His expression has fallen more, shoulders slumping. And he's looking away. "Not like that." He mutters.

Felix practically growls as he sighs. He shifts over, pulling up the covers so Sylvain can sleep at his right side. "Whatever you touch me with is getting cut off." He threatens.

There's a smile, but it's so small and so brittle that it looks like it could fracture at any moment. "No funny business," Sylvain says softly, "I promise."

Sylvain slides into the opening, shifting onto his side the moment he pulls the covers over himself, his back to Felix. Felix looks at that broad expanse of shoulders for a moment, dreading anything Sylvain might add in this situation. But he's quiet. His breaths have already settled into a normal pace, even though it's clear he's not asleep.

With a sigh, Felix slides back down into bed and rolls so his back is to Sylvain. It's a bit of an awkward shift to make sure their backs aren't touching, but at least the beds are broad enough that it's possible. Felix grumbles--well, it wasn't like he was sleeping anyway.

Except . . . there's something to the rhythm of Sylvain's breathing. The subtle way it makes the bed move, the soft sound of each breath. The comfort of someone else's presence. It's like a lullaby. Very quickly, Felix finds himself drifting to sleep.

He's not sure how long he's been asleep when he's startled awake. Sylvain is twitching behind him, practically shaking the whole bed. It's irregular and, when it's not stopping after a couple minutes, it's absolutely infuriating. What is he doing?

Felix sits up abruptly, glaring down at his friend. But he's caught off guard when he realizes that Sylvain isn't even awake. He's hugging himself tightly, shoulders trembling as he mutters to himself. And yet very soundly asleep.

Felix shifts, leaning a bit over the other. Sylvain's face is contorted, like a blade has been stabbed into him and twisted. It's like he's in immense pain--and yet there's nothing there that could be causing it. When Sylvain mutters to himself, Felix leans in a little closer.

"Felix, please . . ." Sylvain whimpers.

Felix colors a bit, but he's not entirely sure if it's embarrassment or indignation. The bodily response and the words don't match up, and it's bewildering. Felix has given Sylvain his fair share of hits, sure, but he's never done anything--

Sylvain's voice cracks into a near-sob. "Please don't go."

Oh. But he had done something, hadn't he? Felix left for years without contact, thinking he had been keeping Sylvain safe. Physically, sure. But he had very nearly shattered this . . . this weird bond between them. And then, for a bit, Felix was dead.

Originally, Felix hadn't thought much of Sylvain's response, back when they shared an infirmary room. He thought it had been relief, maybe shock. A bit of lingering sadness from thinking that he had to bury an old friend. But it couldn't be that deep, since Sylvain never spoke of it again. Never gave a single inkling that he was still torn up about it.

And yet here they are. And it is still his fault.

With a sigh, Felix lowers himself back into bed, shifting so that his front is pressed against Sylvain's back. It's an awkward position, but it allows him to wrap an arm around the broader man. Sylvain's heart thumps rapidly against his hand, breathing feeling far more unsteady than it sounded.

"I'm not going anywhere." Felix whispers. "I'm here as long as you'll have me."

Beneath his fingertips, Sylvain's heart rate settles. His breathing falls into the lull that had eased Felix to sleep earlier. The muttering stops, and slowly, so slowly, Sylvain's body begins to relax. When the shuddering finally settles, Felix drifts back off to sleep.

"So, who again needed to keep his hands to himself?" Sylvain teases, patting Felix's calf as he finishes lacing his boot.

Felix resists kicking him in the face and stands abruptly, storming off to their office.

Would he do it again? Absolutely.

He questions the sanity of his decision later, while he's working out the details of a temporary trading agreement between two Gautier villages. He makes the unfortunate decision to look up from his work to seek out some more ink, and finds Sylvain lazily staring at him.

"What?" He growls, reaching across to grab the inkwell.

Sylvain just smiles, and watches as Felix takes the inkwell and starts writing again. His eyes are only focused on the writing itself for a little while, before they go back to considering Felix's face.

Out of consideration, Felix has been patient with Sylvain. He pardons some of his more annoying habits, and allows others to linger for a little longer than necessary (sometimes in the vain hope that Sylvain might realize his own actions). But then the staring continues to drag on, and Felix's patience dwindles.

"Ok, hear me out." Sylvain says, just before Felix snaps at him. "You and I train every day until your left sword arm is as good as your right used to me. No, scratch that, better."

Felix blinks, hoping that might encourage some coherent thought. When that doesn't work, he just stares.

And, since it's not explicitly a 'no', Sylvain takes it as a 'yes'. He snatches the pen from Felix's fingers and runs around the table. He's too easily able to drag Felix out the door by his wrist. They're halfway to the training grounds before Felix's brain catches up. By that point, it's determined to be resigned to Sylvain's whim, and so he allows it.

And so their lessons begin. It's a struggle at first, and completely awkward, but it's far from pointless. Sylvain is a patient instructor. The quality of his guidance is of a nature completely unexpected for one who constantly skipped training. Felix entertains the thought that Sylvain actually had absorbed all of Felix's pointed guidance from their past times fighting together. And, since Sylvain is making good use of it (though he's far more patient than Felix ever would have been), he lets that thought settle as truth.

By the end of the day, Felix is able to swing his sword without feeling like he'll topple over.

*

And so their routine continues. When the sun's up, they spend half the day doing paperwork and fulfilling the demands of their roles, and the other half practicing with the blade. As time goes on, Felix's skill and comfort increases. It will take a long time for him to be the warrior he once was, but at least it seems more an inevitability than an impossibility. A goal to look forward to--where he can protect the Gautier lands and Sylvain by Sreng's next assault.

At night, Sylvain sneaks into Felix's room. It was rare at first, but the frequency increases as months pass. Sometimes, Felix pretends to be asleep. It makes it easier to avoid the awkward dance between them--Sylvain bordering between flirtatious and insulting, and Felix stepping between annoyed and embarrassed.

On those nights, Sylvain often starts at his side of the bed. But when he does that, he can't fall asleep. He tosses and turns, sighing and running his hands through his hair. It continues for a while, until--eventually--Sylvain reaches an arm out and brushes his fingers along Felix's shoulders. When Felix doesn't respond (this strategy never works if he does), Sylvain (probably) takes that as a sign that Felix is sound asleep. Slowly, carefully, he shifts to Felix's side of the bed, and wraps an arm around his waist. His forehead presses against the back of Felix's neck. And, within minutes, he's soundly and peacefully asleep.

*

Dawn's light creeps in through the window, falling directly into Felix's face. He groans; if he could shift, then he could sleep in for a little longer. Unfortunately, with Sylvain's arm wrapped around his waist, there's not much opportunity for movement without either falling off the bed, or winding up with his face uncomfortably close to the redhead's.

Behind him, Sylvain sighs a soft and contented sigh. He nuzzles his face against Felix's hair.

It takes great care to remove Sylvain's arm from around him without waking him. Felix has nothing but time, so he is slow to crawl out of bed to avoid shifting it too significantly. Sylvain's eyebrows scrunch, but he's still asleep.

He's used to the buttons on his nightshirt now, and removes it with ease. He's mastered the technique with putting on his other clothes . . . for the most part. His boots still mock him at the end of the bed. There's no point even trying with them until Sylvain is awake.

Sighing, Felix goes to take his place at the mirror, sitting in the chair before it. His hair is an absolute disaster; his long bangs have decided that they should be on top of his head, and the rest of his hair is sticking out in every other direction. It's an inevitability of it being allowed to grow so long; he vaguely recalls a similar problem back in his student days. But Sylvain is still insistent, so Felix refrains from having it cut.

Felix reaches into the drawer beside his seat. There's no telling when Sylvain will wake, so he can at least try to tame the mess beforehand. He's hardly ever had to pull the hairbrush out, though, so he tries to be quiet as he shuffles through the drawers. Almost the second he has it, though, the brush is plucked from his hands.

Familiar fingers slide through his hair, massaging along the nape of his neck. Then the brush slides in, and the normal rhythm falls into place. Felix closes his eyes. Sylvain can focus on detangling the mess that was likely his fault to begin with.

And then the reverie is interrupted when Felix realizes that he can feel the slightest tremble in Sylvain's fingers. It's faint, barely noticeable, but there all the same. His lip twitches, but he says nothing. He can wait. If Sylvain wants Felix to know, he'll tell him.

Of course, Felix has never been known for his patience. He opens his eyes, and looks at Sylvain in the mirror. Sylvain is focused, working on a small braid along Felix's crown, so he doesn't notice. Sylvain looks miserable. Not tired, just . . . Felix can't even really put words to it. He just knows that looking at it makes his chest ache. As if on reflex, he scowls.

But the scowl immediately falters the second Sylvain finishes the braid and kisses the top on Felix's head. His lips hardly move from Felix's hair when he whispers, very nearly inaudibly, "I thought you had gotten tired of me and left again."

Felix blinks. It never really dawned on him that Sylvain usually stirred first, with Felix to follow. In a half-asleep haze, perhaps an empty space beside him--still warm--would have felt like abandonment. If Felix was far enough out of sight, then Sylvain was just enough of a worrier that he probably would have panicked.

The fact that he even thinks it a possibility, though, is infuriating.

The second Felix's hair is done being tied up, he whirls on Sylvain, jolting up to his feet with a glare. In his head, this motion would have been more effective--but the height difference between them kind of makes it moot. He growls. "Shut up, you idiot."

Sylvain gives a kind of crooked smile. And, even though he opens his mouth, he seems miraculously at a loss for words.

Since it seems a time for miracles, Felix keeps his glare and continues. "You're insufferable, constantly slacking, and you always try to take on more than you can handle. But, in spite of that, I still love you. So you can stop being an idiot and stop thinking that I'm going anywhere."

Sylvain blinks. Then, like in slow motion, a bright flush crawls up his neck and across his cheeks. That lopsided smile, so insecure, brightens into something almost too intense and genuine to look at directly. Felix actually has to look away before his heart thrums out of his chest. 

Without warning (or, perhaps, the smile was a warning), Felix finds himself fully enveloped in Sylvain's arms. They've not hugged since they were children--at least not in their waking hours--and so it's both a bit of a shock to the system, and yet a mixture of nostalgia and warmth that Felix has been desperately craving.

Of course, since Sylvain hardly ever does anything in fractions when it comes to Felix, it's a little stifling and almost too much. Almost.

"Sylvain." Felix grumbles, voice muffled against Sylvain's shoulder. He's bright red, he knows it, and there's hardly any way to hide it. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

Sylvain hums, the delight in his chest reverberating in Felix's from the sheer proximity. "Don't you remember, Felix?" He dips his head so his lips are by Felix's ear, and his hug tightens. "You once called me insatiable."