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“Okay, take off your shirt.”
“Excuse me?”
Sylvain sighs, and raises the small jar of ointment Mercedes handed him earlier. He distinctly remembers the pleasant smile on her face when she said Good luck! and the underlying message that came with it: You’re going to need it. “Mercie’s orders, Fe. We need to re-dress the wound before keeping it wrapped in those old bandages does more harm than good.” As if citing Mercedes will make Felix any less stubborn.
It doesn’t. Felix’s scowl deepens, and he eyes the jar like Sylvain’s holding a beating heart. “I don’t need it,” he says, brusque as ever as he returns his attention to polishing the sword at his desk. The scent of oil dances in the air. “Tell Mercedes I’m fine.”
“You know I can’t lie to her. She sees right through me.”
Felix doesn’t look up, instead leaving Sylvain to stand in the middle of his room with the damned jar and the open satchel at his side.
Sylvain huffs as the beginnings of annoyance tug at his mind. “You let me in, you know. You haven’t been outside all day. You’re being a shitty host.”
Felix tilts his head towards his bed that’s thoroughly covered in rags, weapons, and half-gone bottles of polish. “By all means, have a seat.”
“Felix.”
Felix’s dark hair falls from where it’s tucked behind his ears when he whips his head up to glare at Sylvain. It’s then that Sylvain can see how his eyelids flutter with the movement, how his lashes against his skin look even darker than usual with how pale he has become. “Sylvain,” he says, promptly knocking Sylvain out of his analysis, “what do you want?”
Sylvain waves the little jar. One last try. “To keep you from hurting yourself. Now take your shirt off and let’s get this over with, yeah? Thoron’s no joke.”
Their eyes remain locked for a moment more before Felix huffs. He tosses his hair in an attempt to catch some strands behind his ear as he tilts his head back down to inspect a spot on his sword to polish for what feels like the fifth time over. Classic dismissal tactic.
Sylvain will not be dismissed. He stuffs the jar back into his satchel. In two steps, he’s looming over Felix and grabbing for that damned wrist that’s working the rag over the blade. He grips it hard, pulling it away with his expression shifting into stern stone. He’s expecting Felix to fight back, to yank his arm away with a snarl on his lips and demand that Sylvain leaves.
Instead, Felix hisses, dropping the rag in from spasming fingers as pain flashes over his eyes and through his gritted teeth. He freezes right after, wide eyes meeting Sylvain’s in a gaze that dares Sylvain to say anything.
“How bad is it?” he asks, measured and low. As he speaks, he loosens his grip, keeping his fingers looped around Felix’s wrist gently. It allows Felix’s sleeve to slip over the knob of his wrist, revealing the beginning of carefully wrapped bandages. That’s not right— he thought it was just a chest injury, it shouldn’t have—
He remembers, then, reading of the effects of Thoron with Annette while sticking around to help her study. With such a rush of energy, the passage read, there must be some way for it to expel. In a living target, this usually manifests in a limb. If caught close enough, one may even lose an extremity.
Felix continues to bare his teeth, though Sylvain can’t tell if it’s from pain or anger. “I’m fine,” he manages. “Let me go.”
“You have one more chance to let me help you.”
“Or what? You’ll call Mercedes on me? I’ll tell her what I’ve told her a dozen times already— I’m healing.”
“Which means you’re not better yet, so you should be resting—”
“Like hell I’m resting in a war!” Felix’s legs shift, balancing the sword on the tops of his thighs precariously. He’s got his free hand on the hilt, which is about as threatening as a toothless dog snarling right now. When Sylvain refuses to let him go, refuses to back down, Felix tries a different tactic. “Listen,” he says, in the beginning of a bargain. “Just leave the salve and bandages here. I’ll deal with it myself, alright?”
Felix has never liked to look weak. Not after the Tragedy, when he took all the news with only a few tears and a blank, hollow countenance that Sylvain hasn’t forgotten, even a decade later. Now, though, Sylvain can’t help but notice just how drained he looks. His pale countenance is less of a choice and more colorless, a fact that even the setting sun filtering through the window can’t hide. His hair is down, Sylvain realizes, because he can’t properly tie it up in his state.
“Sorry, Fe,” Sylvain says, and he means it. “You’re going to need someone to get all of it— you shouldn’t be twisting around as your burns try to heal.”
Felix’s brows furrow, and he glares down at the sword in his lap. “Fine. Fine. Get off of me so we can— get this over with.”
Sylvain releases him, reaching to slide the satchel’s strap over his shoulder and lower it onto Felix’s desk. He has to clear a space from the pile of vials, rags, papers… this part isn’t a break in routine— Sylvain always finds himself tidying up Felix’s space when he’s allowed in it. Like, if he could clear out a big enough nook, he could fit in it forever.
He hasn’t been able to clear away that much clutter yet.
When he turns his focus back to Felix, he has only managed to sheathe his sword and set it leaning against the desk. His hands twist in the hem of his tight black undershirt— now that Sylvain inspects it, he realizes how bad of an idea it is to wear that with a healing burn wound. Felix has only succeeded in suffocating the bandages around his torso, no doubt— and now it’s basically plastered to his body, and he can’t even lift his arms to get it off.
“Fe,” he says softly, “need help?”
Felix’s fingers dig further into the black fabric, and he takes a slow breath. He doesn’t answer verbally, instead nodding once in curt agreement as he slowly releases the hem and lets his arms fall to his sides.
Sylvain figures that’s as much permission as he’s going to get. He turns and crosses the room to Felix’s bed. He sets the swords away, arranges the vials of polish on the bedside table, and puts the rags into an offhand basket whose purpose he deems as laundry.
“What are you doing?”
“C’mon,” Sylvain says, crossing back to retrieve his satchel once more and gently urge Felix on. “This will be easier if we’re both sitting.” That, and something about treating Felix while standing over him feels so… impersonal and imposing. (Not that this needs to be personal, but— it feels wrong, especially when Felix has already relented into letting Sylvain help care for him, to keep the two of them on uneven ground.)
Felix looks over his face as if he’s expecting it to break out into a grin— a hah, gotcha! He finds none, and stands to walk over and sit imperiously on his bed, arms crossed. He doesn’t make much sound other than an indignant sigh.
Sylvain grabs a hair tie from Felix’s desk, rolling it over his wrist before coming to sit next to him. He sets down the satchel. “I’m gonna touch you,” he says, “alright?”
Felix’s face tints. “Don’t say it like that,” he hisses.
“Right, uh—” Yeah, this will be the end of Sylvain. He goes ahead and goes for it, reaching for Felix’s shirt gingerly. It’s the one he always wears under his usual garb, with the high neck and tightly knit fibers. As such, it clings to Felix like a second skin, and as Sylvain starts to ease it up, Felix flinches.
Sylvain pauses.
“Keep going,” Felix mumbles.
He does. He tries to go slower if even possible, easing it up and over Felix’s form. “Gonna have to lift your arms, Fe,” he says in an equally quiet tone.
Felix winces, but holds his arms up as Sylvain eases the rest of the garment off. With it gone, the scent of Mercedes’s salve invades the air around them in faint wisps— just a hint of what it must have been when first applied. It’s herbal, strong, and nearly stings Sylvain’s nostrils. He sets the shirt aside before turning his attention to Felix’s injuries.
It is, in fact, worse than he had been led to understand. Bandages wrap around the entirety of his torso and curl down his right arm like thick ivy. They’re nearly the color of it too, stained with ointment and whatever other fluids have been introduced to the healing process. “Felix,” he breathes.
Felix crosses his arms over himself in a flash, though he grimaces once more at the quick movement. “Shut up,” he says. “It’s not that bad, I—”
“Mercie only mentioned your chest.”
After a moment, Felix’s shoulders lower. “Y— People would have worried if told anything else,” he says, careful and… almost apologetic?
Something turns over in Sylvain’s stomach. It’s easy to picture Felix making Mercedes swear not to reveal the extent of it, Or I’ll walk out of here right now. He clenches his jaw and tries to push down the urge to scold Felix further. He gets about halfway there. “We worry more when we can’t trust you to be honest about this, you know.”
Felix doesn’t respond to that, instead picking idly at his sheets.
Sylvain digs around in Mercedes’s satchel, the fabric rustling much like Felix’s sheets as he retrieves a pair of dainty scissors to cut away the bandages (better than slowly peeling them off in an unending loop, he would think). “Here,” he says, reaching once more for Felix. He goes about cutting away the bandages slowly, so as not to irritate any wounds, but he can tell Felix isn’t the biggest fan of the idea by how he squirms and shuffles his feet against the floor. “Easy,” he murmurs, and Felix seems to make a conscious effort to relax. It’s not a very successful one, but Sylvain can appreciate the thought.
The bandages coming off are probably the worst part. They part from Felix’s skin with a damp squelching sound, peeling away and revealing traces of ointments and, well… the wound itself. Sylvain doesn’t allow himself to balk at it until the bandages are completely off, and that includes quietly winding the rest off of Felix’s arm. Felix remains quiet and stiff the entire time, like he’s a child waiting to get reprimanded.
Sylvain has half a mind to reprimand him, really, when he gets a look at the wound in full. Some skin is still charred, some bright red and healing, all moist under the salve. Spiderwebs of a Thoron strike crawl down Felix’s torso and string over his arm. It looks like it hurts like hell, and Felix shudders now that the bandages are off and the open air cools his skin. Good thing— Sylvain can feel residual heat radiating off of him from where he sits.
“I don’t understand why they couldn’t just heal me,” Felix says, breaking the tense silence.
Sylvain knows why— healing magic isn’t meant to be perfect. It’s quick, messy, and can scar if not kept under careful watch. Mercedes was trying to do Felix a favor by allowing his body to heal on its own with salves and vulneraries, and he has staunchly tossed that favor aside and exacerbated the situation.
Despite it all, though, Felix doesn’t seem to have done irreversible damage. Not yet— at least, to Sylvain’s amateur eye. He sighs. “I’m gonna start putting on the salve, alright? Mercedes said it might—”
“Chill and tingle, yeah.” Felix sniffs lightly. “I know.”
Sylvain nods. Felix isn’t looking at him, so he can’t see it, but it makes him feel better at the very least. He puts the scissors back, lets the used bandages pile on the floor (he’ll just have to come back and clean this all once Felix is truly healed), and brings out the salve. Once the lid comes off, the strong, herbal smell pervades the room again. It’s green, smooth, and when Sylvain dips his fingers in, it’s cool to the touch.
“Don’t hit me,” he says.
“I never would,” Felix mutters.
“Sure.” Sylvain slathers the salve on his hands and presses them to Felix’s skin.
“Ah, fuck—” Felix shivers, and Sylvain raises his eyebrows. “Okay, shut up, I’m ready now.”
“Didn’t say anything,” Sylvain replies, and proceeds to gently apply the salve as he knows how. A nice, even layer everywhere— it gets all over his hands and even starts to go up his arms, making them feel slimy and cold, but that probably doesn’t hold a candle to what Felix feels right now. He can grin and bear it, studying Felix’s skin. Below the healing burns, there are old scars. A slight gash along his left side— a close call. A divot below the left side of his collarbone— a well-timed arrow. The twin crescents on his chest— a personal choice. So many more, so many that Sylvain doesn’t even know the stories behind them because they popped up over the five years he barely saw Felix.
One day, he wants to trace each and every one of them. What’s this? he’ll ask, fingertips grazing them, mapping out Felix’s body like he has wanted to for years. What about this one? And this? And he’ll kiss every one, press as much love as he can into Felix’s skin and hope that, even if they can’t patch over the marks of pain, they can prove that there’s at least one person in this world that cares that there are scars at all. One person who’s glad they exist, because the existence of scars means that Felix healed. He’s not gone. Not yet, even after being struck by a Thoron within a way-too-close range. And Sylvain’s content with that knowledge, for now.
This isn't how Sylvain wanted to see Felix disrobed, but he can put aside his daydreams to take care of the subject of each and every one of them.
“Let me see your arm,” Sylvain coaxes, reaching for Felix’s right arm. He probably should have sat on that side, now that he thinks about it, but Felix obliges him, turning slightly to hold out his arm. Their knees touch. That, somehow, feels more intimate than Sylvain tracing Felix’s silhouette with his bare hands.
He takes Felix’s arm and works in the salve, moving all the way down to his wrist. He presses his thumbs into the tendons there— it’s one of the few places he’s touched that isn’t marred by wounds, so he feels the need to rub some sort of comfort in, even if Felix doesn’t recognize it as such.
Then he’s done, pulling his hands away from Felix’s. If his fingers brush against Felix’s calloused palm, neither of them acknowledge it. “How is it?” he asks.
Felix lowers his arm, looks down at the layer of translucent green on his skin. “Smells like shit,” he says eloquently. “Cold as hell. But…” And this is where finally, finally his eyes meet Sylvain’s again, copper sparking something in his heart to make it skip a beat. “It, uh. It numbs, for a while. So it feels… better.”
A moment more, and Sylvain holds his breath waiting for him to continue. He folds his slimy hands in his lap to keep from reaching to tuck Felix’s hair behind his ear. The sun has long set, casting them in moonlight’s shadows, and he’s so, so tempted to see just how the earthy tones in his eyes flare in the blue glow.
Felix averts his gaze once more, studying his arm. “I can’t fight like this,” he murmurs.
“You don’t need to. No one expects you to— we don’t want you to.”
“You need me,” Felix says, and there’s no cockiness in his tone.
“We need you alive, Fe.” And oh, Sylvain hopes he’s able to strike some chord in Felix with those words. “More than anything else.”
He doesn’t know what effect he has, aside from making Felix go quiet again. Time passes. Distantly, the monastery’s bells ring to announce a new hour, and dinner.
“I need you alive,” Sylvain admits, and the words are so quiet he finds himself hoping the bells drown them out.
They don’t. Felix looks up at him again, and Sylvain sees the cogs working in his mind. He has known how to read Felix since they were kids, he can see that there’s something burning in that gaze that Felix is trying to figure out how to vocalize. The bells go through their last chimes, and still nothing comes.
Once the ringing fades away, Felix’s voice curls around their feet like smoke. “You haven’t put the bandages on yet.”
Sylvain huffs out a laugh, incredulous. “Right. I haven’t, huh? Let’s... Let’s fix that.”
Wrapping Felix up again is less of a tedious process, as jostling the wounds don’t hurt him as much. Sylvain makes sure to pull them snug but not stifling, relying on knowledge in wound treatment he’s learned in practice rather than formally. Mercedes gave him a few tips, but not a full textbook on the art. He likes to think he does well, anyway, and soon the thick smell of the medicine fades into something more like Felix. A scent he hadn’t realized when he first walked into his room; pine, cedar, an underlying spice to it all.
Sylvain puts on a grin as he admires his handiwork. “Not bad, huh?”
Felix moves his arm, experiments with twisting around. “Yeah,” he says absently.
Silence. Sylvain doesn’t know if he can handle any more tense pauses with Felix fidgeting right there, so he directs his gaze to his own hands to figure out what to say next. His eyes light upon the hair tie. Right. “Hey,” he says. “Turn around, would you?”
Felix’s brow creases. “What?”
Sylvain wipes his hands off on a stray bandage, lifting his wrist to show the tie. “I’ll put your hair up for you.
Conflicting emotions pass over Felix’s face, but then it’s turned away as he shifts on the bed to turn his back to Sylvain. “Go on, then.”
Sylvain refuses to be shocked at how easy that was, instead reaching forward to gather Felix’s hair away from his face and pull it back. It’s still growing out, not long enough yet for anything fancy, so he rolls the hair tie onto a simple tail and tries desperately not to fixate on how a shudder trails down Felix’s spine when he accidentally brushes his ear with the pads of his fingers.
“You never told me why you cut it,” he muses.
Felix turns his head slightly to acknowledge the question. “You never asked.”
A rueful smile lifts Sylvain’s lips. “You’re right. Why did you cut it?”
Felix seems to realize the error of his ways, turning his head back to face forward. “After five years, I still couldn’t find the— Dimitri,” he says, stumbling over his words as he struggles to get back into better habits. “I couldn’t find anyone. It felt like a haze, searching day in and day out…” He trails off, and the sheets rustle as he clenches his fists in them. “One day, I saw someone else in my reflection. So, I cut my hair.”
There’s only one ghost Felix would even remotely look like with long hair. Sylvain doesn’t prod the topic further, though. “Well, hair’s up. Now you look like public Felix.”
Felix snorts and turns back, a half-smile on his face. “I don’t have a shirt on.”
“Maybe there were a few improvements.”
Felix blinks. Sylvain blinks and settles his hands back in his lap.
The moment passes. Sylvain stands and starts gathering his things back into the satchel.
“Can you get dressed again?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, come to dinner when you do. Or else I’ll be forced to bring you something to eat.”
Felix smiles, slow and soft, and the sight melts Sylvain into a warm puddle of affection.
Saints.
“You should, uh—” He gestures vaguely. “Rest, y’know? No training, keep that arm safe. And—” He snickers quietly as he reaches for the used bandages. “Goddess, wear something other than those tight shirts of yours. The wounds are wrapped, but they can’t be suffocated.”
Felix says, “Thank you.”
Or, that’s what Sylvain hears. He looks back to Felix. “Excuse me?”
Felix’s face has tinted red again, and he’s staring intently at the satchel instead of meeting Sylvain’s gaze. “I need you, too,” he says, moving through the words like they’re a prepared speech— slow and careful not to misspeak. “Don’t make me say it again.”
Sylvain desperately wants to make him say it again. But he doesn’t. In his effort to keep from immediately asking for a repeat, he is unable to hide the grin that breaks out over his face. “Careful, Fe,” he says, swinging the satchel back over his shoulder. “You’ll make me think you want a hug.”
Felix’s lips quirk again. “Almost,” he amends.
As Sylvain finds his way to the door, hand on the knob, the grin he bears becomes something hidden all to himself as he murmurs, “Yeah. Almost.”