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It’s Dimitri’s fault, and Sylvain will die on this hill. He loves the guy, sure, but if he didn’t beg for Sylvain to come sit across from him, and instead just dealt with his feelings like a normal human being, none of them would be in this mess at all.
There are three things that one must know to understand how they’re here, and what’s about to happen.
One: Claude von Riegan knows how to throw a fucking party. It’s probably a combined effort of all that crew, but von Riegan’s the ringleader in it all, and he’s the one who announces it. He’s got a house this year, apparently having taken over the lease from upperclassmen when they graduated. Said house currently throbs like a heartbeat, the music heavy in the air. The colorful lights are on low, doing little else than outlining people in muted neon tones, and the drinks are superb, considering the fact that they’re coming from a college party. (You learn not to expect much.)
There are also people milling around just about everywhere. Not an unmanageable amount, but enough to lose track of someone easily in the groups stringing off into rooms like little pods, chattering and laughing over the music. Some dance. Others don’t.
Sylvain is not dancing. Sadly.
Two: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is awkward. Like, a Catholic middle school winter dance multiplied by three. He’s a great guy, bless his heart, but he can’t for the life of him go a single day without eliciting a cringe or grimace with his words. It doesn’t matter who’s doing the cringing; it could even be Dimitri himself. The heart of the matter is: no one should expect him to be able to handle a crush. Like. At all.
So when said crush personally asked him to join a neon-shaded house party, everyone in the world should have expected it when he said (and Sylvain quotes: ), I would be delighted to, may I bring my friends?
(Claude did not, in fact, mention Dimitri’s friends. Dimitri had to ask for their entry himself. Because he can’t take a hint. Claude said yes, for the record, but Sylvain holds that he didn’t mention them for a reason.)
Three: Sylvain considers himself to be a phenomenal wingman. This is both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing because, let’s be honest, everyone needs a friend like Sylvain, alright? They need someone to come around and hype them up so they can get the girl (or guy, or nonbinary friend) without making a total fool of themselves. His skills lean more toward the bar hookup area of wingmanning, but he can work with real love, too. Sometimes. Maybe.
It’s a curse because Dimitri is the only one who ever takes him up on his wingmanning efforts, and as implied by point two, Dimitri is the worst person to wingman for. He denies a wingman when he needs one, and he insists upon having one when he definitely, under any circumstances, should not have one.
He asked Sylvain along to this party because he believed he needed one. Perhaps he did. Perhaps he still does. The only thing Sylvain knows is that, when Claude invited Dimitri to somewhere more private, Dimitri made the worst decision in the world to tug Sylvain along with his stupid blue puppy dog eyes. But was Sylvain going to make a scene in the middle of the party and inevitably have to explain to Dimitri that to get some, you have to be alone? No. That would be too mortifying for even Sylvain to bear, and the fact that Felix was right next to him would have spelled certain doom if they actually took that branch of conversation.
Oh, right. Three-point-five: Felix Hugo Fraldarius is here, as well. Because Sylvain (optimistically) expected Dimitri and Claude to roam off for some alone time, and he wasn’t about to be left to the wolves like that. Not tonight. Another night, with a few more drinks, probably. But it was easier to call in a favor and get Felix to accompany him.
That, and for the past few months, Sylvain hasn’t been able to flirt with strangers as he has been known to do without wishing they had long, dark hair and amber eyes that flashed in that I’d sell you to Satan for a single corn chip kind of way. Looking back, he’s amazed he was able to distract himself from his massive fucking crush with shallowly flirting with strangers (an act that, as he realizes now, was not a nice or even good thing to do for any parties involved). Now, though, it’s like a fucking light switch has gone off, and he can’t not think about that damn corn-chip-threatening gaze—well.
Basically, Felix is Sylvain’s plus-one. Sylvain is Dimitri’s plus-one. Dimitri is Claude’s VIP invite.
And so here they sit.
Once Claude realized their situation, he apparently abandoned the plan to get away from the party, because now they’re in a room doused in neon blue light, settled in surprisingly empty seats. Dimitri and Claude take up the loveseat (if that doesn’t tell Dimitri anything, Sylvain gives up), and Sylvain’s stuck in an armchair across from it.
Felix leans against the arm of said chair, perched like a cat ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Sylvain tried to offer the chair, honest, but Felix insisted on resting on it like some kind of stupidly hot gargoyle.
God. Here they are, huh? At least the chair’s comfortable, and Dimitri looks blissfully unaware of how terrible this is. Maybe, just maybe, if Sylvain can somehow tap into that blond head of hair, he could forget the fact that Claude’s got a look in his eye.
A look that Sylvain recognizes acutely, because he and Claude have a similar penchant of starting shit.
“Glad you two could come,” Claude says, smooth as silk as his gaze passes from Sylvain to Felix.
“Yeah,” Sylvain says before Felix can mutter something venomous, “thanks for having us.” Even though you didn’t invite us specifically, and that’s very obvious, and God I wish I could have warned you just how oblivious our mutual tall-pale-and-handsome friend is.
“Gotta say, I am pretty curious about you two,” Claude says, leaning forward. He’s sitting like he’s the king of this place (which, he is , so) and Sylvain and Felix are the newest court jesters. “Mitya tells me plenty about you, you know.”
Mitya? Sylvain raises his eyebrows at Dimitri, who averts his gaze to the wall with the subtlety of a rock. “Uh, anything specific you wanna know? I’m an open book, but Felix—”
“Don’t even try it,” Felix interjects.
“Well,” Claude says, not even remotely perturbed, “I hear you two are practically joined at the hip. Made a hockey team together, yeah?”
“I mean, I guess,” Sylvain says as Felix rolls his eyes and mutters, “It wasn’t just us.”
“But, Felix,” Dimitri says, and Sylvain prays for him to shut up, “you were going to stick to fencing until Sylvain talked you into joining our recreational team.”
Sylvain cautiously leans against the arm of the chair Felix isn’t perched on because, yes, he can feel him bristle. “It wasn’t hard,” he says. “All I had to do was mention how hockey would help keep his legs toned while fencing worked his arms.” It was easy to find that reason, partially because he’s kind of been obsessed with Felix’s legs for at least a year. And yes, hockey has exacerbated that obsession. He doesn’t know why he did that to himself.
“Both of you,” Felix says, threateningly calm, “need to shut up.”
Claude looks delighted by all of this. So delighted that he doesn’t see how Felix, though calm in tone, has murder in his eyes. Or, maybe he does and he’s just really keen on lighting this particular powder keg. He says, “Cute.”
Felix shoots to his feet. Sylvain automatically grabs his wrist, but it gets him an angry Felix hissing back at him. “Let me go.”
“Nope,” he replies, smiling easily. You’re not out of this yet.
“Would you really attack your host?” Claude says, eyes wide in that disingenuous way that Sylvain recognizes from his own endeavors. Dimitri sits beside him, eyes wide in that comically genuine way that only Dimitri can really pull off.
Felix just huffs, and Sylvain doesn’t feel like correcting Claude because, actually, Felix would storm away and Sylvain would have to go find him in some dark corner, or worse, marching home on his own with little regard to the chill outside. “Would you provoke a guest?” he asks instead. Felix finally rips his arm away and resumes perching on the arm of the chair.
“‘Provoke’ is such a strong word,” Claude replies, leaning forward and gently resting his hand on Dimitri’s thigh. (Dimitri’s eyes get even wider.) “But I’m sorry. Tell you what, I’ll get out of your hair. Dimitri and I have an experiment we want to try, anyway.”
Dimitri’s gulp is audible. “Experiment?”
“Y’know,” Claude says, his grin turned feline, “with your friends, here? Seven minutes…?”
Sylvain doesn’t like the sound of that.
“Oh!” A pause. Dimitri doesn’t look at anyone, eyes glued to Claude’s hand. “Oh.”
Claude stands up and gives a little clap of his hands. “Well! Let’s get to it, then.”
“What’s up?” Sylvain asks, desperately trying to prove his own intuition wrong.
“Take one more step if you dare,” Felix says, actively making the situation worse.
Claude just smiles, serene in his shit-stirring, as Dimitri rises beside him after a moment’s pause. Sylvain doesn’t know if he has ever felt quite so betrayed in his life. (But, given the things he used to do for girls when he was younger, he supposes he can’t fault Dimitri too badly.)
That’s how Sylvain and a hissing and kicking Felix get manhandled into a closet, receiving one last friendly shove before the door shuts behind them with a click and a more telling thunk. Sylvain can see Felix’s vibes, outlining the door in red hues. Or, maybe that’s just the party outside… Either way, there is murder in the air as Claude and Dimitri supposedly walk away.
Felix tries the door, to no give. He growls, jostling it against its frame and managing to elbow Sylvain in the process. “Ow, hey—” Sylvain says, at the same moment Felix bites out, “Get your own space—”
“Fine,” Sylvain says, raising his hands in surrender and stepping as far away as he can. To make his point clear, he even reaches out and draws a line in the air between them, earning him a roll of the eyes. “Look, we each have our own little pocket of heaven.”
Felix scowls, still jiggling the handle. “Whatever.”
The closet itself isn’t exactly spacious. It’s your standard coat-closet affair, with a rod hanging at the top for, you know, coat-hanging. Sylvain, sadly, is much too tall to avoid that rod, so he’s standing at an angle, propped against the wall with his head bowed to avoid giving himself a mild concussion.
Felix doesn’t have to stoop so much to avoid it, but the slouched posture makes his glower that much more pronounced when he gives up on the door, even in the dark. Despite their situation, Sylvain mentally laments the fact that there’s very little light in here, so he can’t see how the different shades play in Felix’s hair or tint his eyes. Actually, maybe it’s better that he doesn’t have that particular view, because he knows for a fact this entire thing would be that much harder—
“What are you staring at?”
Sylvain blinks. “You?”
Felix’s mouth twists. “Stare at something else.”
Sylvain sighs out a laugh. “There’s not much in here, Fe.”
“It’s not my fault we’re in here in the first place.”
“Are you saying it’s mine?”
“You were the one who dragged me along.”
“I called in a favor, Felix. You still owed me for saving your ass on that calculus exam—”
“Shut up,” Felix hisses, and Sylvain does.
Instead of opening his mouth and pissing Felix off further, he allows himself to sink down the wall, legs folding in front of him in the cramped space. His ass lands on something soft, and he tries not to think too hard about what kind of ancient coatwear he just sat on. How long has it been since this place has been cleaned? When he looks up, Felix still has eyes on him, narrowed and stern like the set of his mouth.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting.”
“Why?”
“Well shit, can I do nothing right tonight?” It’s out quicker than he can catch it, snapping like a whip, and he sighs, staring at Felix’s knees. “... We’re stuck in here for who knows how long. Might as well get comfortable, right?”
Felix goes quiet. The entire closet is quiet, honestly. Music filters in through the door, but it’s dulled down, not so sharp and throbbing. It gives Sylvain room to think about how yes, this is a compromising position, but he’s dealt with worse before—
There’s a shifting, dragging sound as Felix lowers himself to sit against the opposite wall in their little prison, feet knocking against Sylvain’s. “I can hear you thinking.”
Sylvain snorts. “Me? No. I’m an idiot, remember?”
“No you’re not,” Felix replies, quiet, and his face is where his knees used to be, so Sylvain gets to see how he frowns when he says it. Not the harsh line Felix normally has, but something softer. Thoughtful. “You just like when people think you are.”
Yeah, Sylvain has probably admitted that once or twice, drunk and hanging off of Felix and babbling to keep himself from saying something actually incriminating. Something like your hair is so pretty, I wonder how soft it is, wonder what noises you would make if I took hold of it and pulled it back and—
Sylvain shrugs, and that’s that. This time, the silence settles over them like a wet blanket— heavy, stifling, raising goosebumps on Sylvain’s skin as the moments tick away because what else is he supposed to do in this situation? The answer comes easily: he’s the talkative one. He should chatter his way through this situation until they’re let out and he acts like he wasn’t fantasizing about pressing Felix deeper into the dark and relying on each bitten-off noise he’d make to know what to do and where to do it.
He closes his eyes, leans his head back against the wall, and counts to ten. He regrets ever calling in that favor, because now he's almost certain that it will be the death of him.
Felix says, "You're upset."
Sylvain smiles. It's a tired, sloping thing, and his eyes remain closed when he replies, "Now, why would I be upset?"
"You're stuck in here instead of out there. No— no girls. People to flirt with."
And oh, Sylvain would kill to see the face Felix makes when he says that. But he knows looking at Felix right now is about as self-destructive as staring into the sun, so he says, light as anything, "You're in here, aren't you?"
It's supposed to be flippant, an easygoing tone to relax the stiff atmosphere and settle it into something more familiar. Something where Sylvain is nothing but a philanderer and Felix is his begrudging pal being dragged through it all, rolling his eyes the entire way. But it doesn't come out that way. No, Sylvain knows he says it too softly, with all that sincerity he was supposed to lock away bleeding into his tone. He silently counts to ten once again.
Felix scoffs on count one and cuts off Sylvain's perfectly even numerical exploits on count three. "I'm not one of your— your catches."
Funny that he's using a fishing metaphor, because that stupid line about there always being more fish in the sea has never worked to dissuade Sylvain from wondering how Felix's heartbeat would feel if he pressed his lips to that thin skin over his wrist's pulse and thanked God for every beat. "I know you're not," he says, and the idea of playing the insincere card goes out the window. "That's kinda the point, isn't it?"
"... What do you mean?"
Sylvain won’t answer that one, because he knows this is a terrible place to spring anything like that on Felix, who’s liable to either attack or bolt. There’s nowhere to bolt, here, and Sylvain feels like leaving this closet alive, thank you very much. He opens his eyes and pulls his phone out of his pocket, opening up a text to Dimitri in a plea: hey if ur not playin tonsil hockey would u mind letting us out before felix mauls me? The sudden bright blue light stings in his vision, but he probably deserves it.
Then, because apparently he wants Felix to maul him (which, let’s be honest, he probably does), he asks, “What base do you think Dima and Claude will hit tonight?”
Felix chokes. Sylvain can tell, he hears it. “Excuse me?”
“Y’know.” He smirks. “What base? My bet’s on them barely getting to first, but only if Claude’s willing to deal with Dimitri’s… everything.”
Felix puffs up, indignant with a look of disgust on his face. “How depraved are you?”
“Answers vary. Could always do some experimenting yourself.”
Felix scoffs, his legs kicking out to knock into Sylvain’s. Which, ow. “Shut up,” he says. “Shut up, shut up, God you’re so— so!”
“So what, Fe?” Sylvain asks, propping his chin in his hand with a grin more mischievous. Sharper.
Felix stands with a huff. “Infuriating.” He tries the doorknob once more, then rears back—
“Wait, Felix, don’t—”
—and he crashes against it with a clatter, solidly rattling the wood, which doesn’t budge otherwise. There’s no change in the party’s chatter outside, no record scratch, and Felix looks furious. “Fucking bullshit fucking closet with the fucking door—” He takes the tiniest step back, about to ram it again, but his foot catches on what appears to be an ancient scarf to match the ancient coat, and he gasps.
Then, it’s basically slow motion. Felix, scrabbling for the doorknob to steady himself. His foot, sliding across the small space on the damn scarf and sending him reeling backwards. His body, twisting in the air as he tries to land on all fours like the cat he almost certainly was in a past life. His hissed swearing, harsh even for a Fraldarius’s mouth.
Sylvain, sitting and watching this with wide eyes, holding his arms out to steady him.
Felix lands on him, solid and surprisingly heavy, and Sylvain yelps at impact. Then it’s a scramble. Felix lashes out, rabid and frankly a little terrifying as he tries to resituate himself away from Sylvain.
“Hey, hey, chill,” Sylvain coaxes, hands on Felix’s waist solely to help lift him away.
Felix’s hair tosses with a sharp turn of the head, those copper eyes much easier to see now that he’s so close. They’re narrow, a glare much like most of this night has shown, and he spits, “You chill.”
God, he’s really pretty.
Felix shifts once more, then freezes. Sylvain follows suit, realizing that in his struggle, they’ve found themselves in a much more… scandalous position, with Felix sitting over Sylvain’s thighs. And Sylvain’s hands are on his (narrow but sturdy) waist.
God.
Sylvain takes a tiny breath, steeling himself. Then he grins and coos, “Wow. Falling for me, huh?”
The clash of mortification and rage on Felix’s face should be put in a museum. “Fuck off.”
“That’s no way to talk to your knight in shining armor. I valiantly saved you from knocking your bony ass on the ground with my god-like thighs, and you tell me to fuck off?”
Felix is visibly biting on the inside of his cheek, like he’s restraining himself from going for the jugular.
“What?” Sylvain asks, relaxing his hands on Felix’s waist. Not removing contact just yet, because, you know, but still. “Was it the thighs thing? Listen, I’ve heard they’re pretty—”
“Sylvain,” Felix says, strangled.
The hands start to hover. “Yeah?”
Felix takes a breath of his own, then rolls his eyes. “I’m not some damsel in distress.”
“Then who’s still in whose lap, huh?” There’s a flourish in Sylvain’s chest at his own words, like he’s still working through their current positions and realizing that, yeah, this is definitely a view.
“Give me ten seconds, and I’ll swap us.”
Now, that’s the most ominous thing Sylvain has ever heard. “Promise?”
Maybe his voice is a little too low. Maybe his eyelids are a little too heavy for the darkness of the closet. Maybe he’s very loud when he tries not to be, and Felix is just now noticing it, because a blush darkens his cheeks, and Sylvain drinks in the sight.
He counts to ten.
Then, easing away, he raises his hands away from Felix’s body entirely. He can’t lean back too far because, wall, but he tries his best, swallowing and forcing a more neutral tone. “Sorry, that was too far. I’ll—”
“Sylvain.”
He blinks. “Felix?”
Felix’s hands frame his face, sending a jolt down his spine. He mutters, “Shut up.”
Then, he kisses him.
There have been many times Sylvain has imagined this happening. The daydreams where Felix initiated, however, were few and far between, and he has never been more pleasantly surprised than when Felix presses his mouth to his, firm but not teeth-clashing. Well, maybe shocked is a better word, because Sylvain freezes entirely at this for at least two seconds before he starts to melt, the warm press electrifying him in every way he’s never experienced with anyone else. (And he’s kissed a lot of people.)
Sadly, the end of that second second is when Felix pulls away, searching Sylvain’s gaze. His eyes, which were burning in Sylvain’s bloodstream and setting off a slow fuse to light his entire body aflame just a moment before, are now hooded, widening just a bit more to study him. They trail molten copper over Sylvain’s face, to the hands cupping it, down to his mouth where they’re hot enough to cast a mold of Sylvain’s lips. Each moment that passes raises his shoulders higher.
“Was that too far?” Felix murmurs, his gaze sliding away like quicksilver.
Sylvain feels a rush in his veins, crawling to his heart. It skips a beat, and he can’t speak, and so he leans forward instead and takes Felix’s lips again.
Felix sighs against his mouth, audibly relaxing as those hands become more gentle, tracing the curve of Sylvain’s cheeks, and he can’t think of a time he’s felt… treasured, like that. Not that Felix is a particularly gentle kisser. He’s stern and unyielding, as he is in most things, but he’s slow in the action, too. Careful. Sylvain gives as best he can.
“Idiot, you—” Felix lets go of his face and reaches for his hands, planting them back on his waist. “There, now—”
“Now,” Sylvain echoes, and pulls him further forward to kiss them both breathless. He’s the one who grazes his teeth over Felix’s lower lip, glazing over it with a swipe of tongue right after to make up for the subtle sting. When Felix gasps, the sound deep and rattling in his lungs as his hands fly back to Sylvain’s shirt, Sylvain feels his own breath leave him as his heart swells and presses all the air out of his chest. It’s a wonderful feeling, something he could get used to every day for the rest of his life, but now he needs air. Pulling away is like pulling a comet out of its orbit. He tears himself away from Felix, whose eyelids flutter for the millisecond it takes Sylvain to realize he doesn’t need air with that sight. He’s back in quickly, and this third kiss is… more. Slick, open, Felix biting Sylvain’s lip until he has to open his mouth to let him lick inside. Such a contrast to how his nose breathes warm and gentle over Sylvain’s face.
Sylvain’s the first one to make a sound. It’s a wretched, desperate thing that he doesn’t recognize as his own until Felix hums in response, sucking on his tongue. In retaliation, Sylvain moves his hands down a fraction, gripping Felix’s hips (narrow, again) and surging forward, prepared to make good on that fantasy of pressing Felix into the wall. It’s a bit of a crawl, but Felix helps him, scooting back on his ass and shifting his legs with arms thrown around Sylvain’s neck. A soft, pleased noise leaves him when his back hits the opposite wall, and Sylvain tries to lock it in his mind as he presses in as close as he can get. He crowds into Felix’s space, now straddling a slim thigh and sliding a hand up the other. He gives it the barest of squeezes, trailing his kisses down to Felix’s jawline.
When he pushes his own thigh forward, Felix moans, pulling away to duck his head in the crook of Sylvain’s neck. Sylvain feels the kiss of his breath there, a fuck barely audible. “Felix,” he says, and he doesn’t know why he says it, just that it feels right. “Babe.”
Felix hmphs at that, biting right above Sylvain’s collar. “‘M not,” he mutters, “one of your babes.”
“No, sweetheart, never,” Sylvain breathes. He feels like the sun right now, ever-glowing and shining on the moon below him. “Fuck, do that again.”
They’re in a closet. Objectively, not the best place for a romantic rendezvous. But it feels like it’s only them, alone with nothing but the dulled party sounds outside to keep them company. When Felix bites down again, sucking and causing Sylvain’s hips to stutter forward with a hitched breath, it’s easy to tune even that out.
“We’re gonna—” Sylvain says, and Felix surges back up to kiss him once more. His next words are stuttered between kisses, when he can pull away for a split second to get them out. “Gonna— talk— about this— right?”
That’s fun. He’s never wanted to talk about things before.
Felix, always so predictable, looks annoyed despite the flush to his cheeks and how his eyes have darkened considerably. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, and one of his hands twists in Sylvain’s hair to tip his head back. “Later.”
Sylvain has known this was a thing for him for years. Combined with Felix, however, it would have sent him to his knees if he weren’t already there. He moves with the pull on his scalp, eyes fluttering shut, and when Felix returns to his neck with gentle, hot kisses, the yeah he sighs out sounds like smoke. Hot, cloudy, a little raspy.
Felix grins against his neck— he can feel it, the exposure of teeth against him, oh God. “Who’s in whose lap?” Felix asks, smug.
Sylvain opens his mouth to respond with something witty, but Felix’s hand is still in his hair and he’s having a hard time summoning any blood to his brain to even think of responding.
Then, a knock.
They freeze.
“Yoohoo?” a singsong pitch calls. “Sylvain? Felix? You two in there?”
Sylvain scrambles up, trying to will his knees to not be water right now as he tries to stand and look even semi-presentable. Not for his own image, but because even though he’s been kissed stupid, he knows Felix would be mortified to be found in this sort of… state. Sadly, he has been kissed stupid, and his vault to his over-six-feet-tall height sends him right into that dumb rod at the top of the closet, setting stars flying in his vision as he cries, “Ah, fuck!”
Felix looks up with wide eyes, something like concern mingling with the whole ‘kissing Sylvain stupid’ look.
And the door swings open, revealing a bubblegum-pink-haired woman with her phone in her hand, one manicured nail tapping in quick succession as her other hand stays on the doorknob. She’s got a full-body-halo of neon lights, but the music is quieter now even without the door muffling it. She glances at Sylvain, at Felix, and cocks her head with a sigh.
Sylvain at least has the courtesy to blush.
“C’mon,” she sighs, sounding annoyed as her nail taps quicker. “Claude owes me, leaving me to clean up his messes.”
“Sorry, Hilda,” Sylvain says, and he shoves his hands in his pockets to, y’know, hide things. Fuck, his head hurts. “Party over?”
“Over enough. Especially if this—” Hilda gestures to their everything “—escalates.”
Felix makes an indignant noise, still flat on his ass with legs askew, hands planted on the ground.
“Yeah, gotcha.” Sylvain looks down at Felix (a little too quickly, now he’s dizzy all over again and not just because post-makeout Felix looks like every dream Sylvain’s had for two years). “Wanna blow this place?”
“Maybe don’t phrase it like that,” Hilda says oh-so-helpfully.
Sylvain ignores her and gives up on hiding things, extending his hand to Felix. Felix has less composure, huffing at her as he uses Sylvain as a pole to vault himself back into a standing position. He avoids the rod, though, because apparently only Sylvain was the one that was kissed stupid.
Then Felix mimics Hilda in his low voice, a sneer on his face, and Sylvain stands corrected. Felix only resorts to that kind of mockery when he can’t think of any actually good comebacks. “C’mon,” he says, and it’s then that Sylvain realizes Felix didn’t actually let go of his hand because now he’s being dragged out the closet as Hilda steps away politely.
“See ya, Hilly,” Sylvain manages with a little wave.
“I’m not your Hilly,” she responds with equal affection, her thumbs taptaptap -ing.
Sylvain remembers he’s waiting on a text, too, but either his phone hasn’t vibrated since he sent that plea to Dimitri, or he was a little too distracted to recognize it. He digs into his pocket to grab it, prompting his steps to slow enough for Felix to look back at him.
“What is it?” he asks, imperious.
Sylvain stares down at his empty notification box and pockets the phone again. “Nothing,” he says, looking back at Felix and still trying to process the splash of red across his cheeks. “Hey, uh, maybe we shouldn’t interrupt Dimitri—?”
“Who says we’re interrupting him?”
Sylvain blinks. Flicks his gaze down to Felix’s hand so insistently gripping his own. “Uh. I just— I thought you were bringing me along to maul him.” It’s maybe a little too honest, now that he’s thinking about it. “Because you’re… y’know.”
Felix drops his hand as if it burned him, jaw clenching. “If you don’t want me touching you—”
“No,” Sylvain says, and immediately goes to grab the hand again. “I do, I just…”
“Just what?”
This is not the conversation to have in the last dregs of a college party. Sylvain asks, quietly, “Are you dragging me to go murder our best friend?”
Felix’s eyes roll to the ceiling. “No. No. I’m— you—!” He scoffs, his free hand rubbing down his face. “You,” he repeats carefully, not meeting Sylvain’s gaze as he comes back to studying their fingers. “And me. Us. We’re leaving.”
It’s not the most coherent sentence, but Felix has never been particularly eloquent. “Oh,” Sylvain says.
“Together,” Felix clarifies.
“Yeah.”
“And we’ll talk about it. This.” Felix raises their hands a bit and lets them fall again. Us is left unspoken, but Sylvain pretends he hears it anyway.
He nods, almost too vigorous. “I’d love to,” he says with as much conviction as he could say anything, and Felix’s face blooms dark once more in the odd lighting. “Uh. Wanna— get dinner, maybe?”
Felix scoffs, but Sylvain has known him for too long to miss the slight curl of his lips. “It’s late.”
“I’ve got food. At home.” And then, because Sylvain needs to make sure he doesn’t turn this into a complete mess: “Nothing else, just. Food. Dinner. A movie?”
Felix sighs, and Sylvain’s certain he can hear fondness there. “Moving a little fast, huh?”
“Me?” he asks, and it’s easy to grin and bear the fact that he’s got his heart on his sleeve right now, beating for anyone to see, when Felix meets his gaze. “Never.”
Felix gives him one more tug, and they leave the party.
Later on, after a less-than-stellar college student’s home-cooked meal and the first half of a mediocre movie, Sylvain will share a couch with Felix, who will promptly pass out against the opposite arm. They will not have talked about them yet, but their legs will tangle in the middle, and Sylvain will take that as a good sign. He’ll take a candid picture of Felix slumped against the couch pillow, the movie’s light flashing over his face in not-entirely-flattering shades, and grin at it.
He’ll debate sending it to Dimitri, eventually foregoing sending the image and sticking to just the caption: made it out alive. more than, actually. thanks
It’s his fault, after all.