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The charm the merchant urges at them is nothing more than a small cloth amulet embroidered with foreign characters, threaded with string. “Ward away bad luck!” the merchant repeats, voice ever-chipper. “Keep your loved ones safe from harm on dangerous quests!”
Annette makes a polite refusal for the both of them, choosing instead to study something else in the merchant's stall, but once they've walked safely out of earshot she huffs. “That's horrible, preying on students with that superstitious garbage,” she declares.
At the next vendor, however, Felix catches her taking surreptitious looks back at the eastern merchant, biting her lip and shuffling on her feet. Felix has never been good at reading people; on the other hand, Annette is easy to read. It's one of the things he likes most about her. “Just go back and get it,” he sighs.
Annette seems at first like she's going to put up a bit of a fight, looking back at him wide-eyed. “I never-” Then the fight goes out of her all at once. “It's stupid,” she mutters. “Why am I being stupid? There's no way those things even work! It's just a waste of money, when we could be buying food, or, or weapons-”
“If we both buy one, will you quit being embarrassed already?” he asks, in his best put-upon voice.
That does the trick. Annette visibly brightens, clapping her hands together. “Aw, Felix! Okay. I guess we can both be silly together.”
And so that's how Felix has ended up here, sitting on the edge of his bed, weighing the (useless, superstitious, very lightweight) charm in his hand, wondering just what the hell he's going to do with it. And pretending like he doesn't already know the answer.
The merchant had been happy to give them an enthusiastic primer on the proper usage of the thing, once he'd seen Annette and Felix (skipping, trudging, respectively) their way back to his stall. All one had to do was affix the charm somewhere on their person, and it would call upon the power of the Goddess (“this part is probably adapted for Fódlan!”, Annette had whispered excitedly to him) to protect the wearer in battle. It was easy to be skeptical, but Annette reasoned they needed all the help they could get in this war, even if it was just in the power of positive thinking.
(Still, ever the pragmatist, Felix had brought it before the professor, seeing if they had anything to say about its actual defensive properties, and Byleth hadn't been able to detect anything, and so it seems they most likely were scammed in earnest.)
He should throw it in the trash. Or hide it away in a drawer, a keepsake of his not-unpleasant afternoon spent with Annette. Instead, like a whole entire fool, he finds himself loitering by the stables.
Ferdinand is there. The man is giving him what appears to be a suspicious look. That's fair, Felix supposes. It's not as though he's ever had reason to come to the stables before.
“That's Duchess,” Ferdinand pipes up very helpfully at some point, just when Felix is trying to be stealthy, tying the tiny charm to some hidden spot on her saddlebag. “She's a little bit testy. That would be Sylvain's horse, you know!”
“I know whose horse it is,” Felix growls back. He doesn't offer any explanation for why he's here or what he's doing. He knows the pompous idiot will chalk it up to more Faerghus nonsense, anyways.
It is nonsense, that much is true. Felix looks forward to forgetting all about it.
“So, you were busy yesterday,” Sylvain says, that familiar teasing singsong in his voice.
“Rmm.” It isn't a question, so Felix isn't going to answer it like one.
“What were you up to?”
“Shopping.” He doesn't offer more than that.
“Shopping with Annette,” Sylvain all but sings, and Felix hates the way his heart clenches painfully at his easy tone.
If he knew in the first place, why bother asking? “Yes,” he mutters.
Sylvain sighs theatrically, leaning back from his food (two-fish saute, one of the only tastes they have in common) and taking a conspirational tone with the professor, sitting across from them. “I still haven't figured out how to make this guy talk,” he laments.
Byleth turns to Felix, now. “Was this related to that charm you asked me about yesterday?” they ask, and now Felix is hating the way he can feel himself turning red at the ears, though it's not as if they know what he'd intended to do with the charm - or where it's currently hanging, for that matter.
“C'mon, professor, you're focusing in on the wrong part of the question here,” Sylvain chides with a laugh. “But, wait, yeah, what's this about a charm? Doesn't really sound like your style, Fe'.”
There it is – the nickname. Sylvain doesn't know how much he damns him by using it. Felix is rapidly needing to not be sitting here anymore, but he acknowledges there's no way he can make a graceful escape without digging a hole deeper for himself. “None of your business,” he attempts, evenly.
“I'm curious about that kind of thing, too,” Byleth says. “Just because I couldn't detect any kind of magic from it doesn't mean it has no purpose or power. Was Annette there when you bought it, Felix?”
Felix nods, wishing someone would hurry and change the topic. “She reasons we need all the help we can get in this war,” he says, unable to help a small smile as he says it, “even though she wanted to be skeptical.”
He's aware of Sylvain looking at him, for a beat too long. It makes him uncomfortable, so he focuses on his food and tries to ignore it.
When they've parted ways with the professor, he still feels like Sylvain is waiting to say something, and finally Felix snaps. “If you have something to say, just spit it out,” he barks.
“Nothing, nothing,” Sylvain responds, defensively. “Not trying to rile you up.”
“I'm not... riled up.”
“I know.” Sylvain is unusually reticent as he idly kicks at the dirt beneath his sabatons, gazing up pointedly at the sky around Garreg Mach. “Hey, just so you know, I think it's nice. What you've got going with Annette.”
Felix's head whips up fast. He's still floundering for a response when Sylvain continues. “I get why you wouldn't want to talk about it. With me.” He gives Felix a cocky little wink that is, they both know, 100% fake. “Knowing me, I'd probably just find some way to mess it up for you, eh?”
Sylvain's playing the whole thing up as a joke, but Felix knows him well enough to know when he's bullshitting (which is: nearly all the time), and more importantly, when he does it to cover up some sort of feeling that's ripping him up. “Don't be stupid,” he barks in response, too harsh, but he can't help it. “You're too hard on yourself. It doesn't benefit anyone, least of all you.”
He doesn't deny what Sylvain says, about his feelings for Annette. He was sure he liked her. Had been sure he could like her, once.
“Yeah, I guess I was getting a bit intense there,” Sylvain says, apologetically. “Sorry. Should've known you can always see straight through my bullshit.”
Felix nods, satisfied. He lets a tiny smile creep back onto his face. “That's right. Don't forget it.”
There's more he knows he'd like to say, and there's more that Sylvain probably needs to hear from him, but as always, Felix is a coward when it comes to honesty. “Come to the training grounds with me,” he says instead, blunt, though he knows Sylvain will refuse him. He's likely got a date in town, more girls to handle carelessly.
To his surprise, though, “Yeah, ok,” Sylvain sighs, something more like a real smile beginning to take root on him. “Not like I've got anything else going on.”
The battle had been grueling, and furious. Felix hadn't seen Sylvain fall taking a hit for him, but he'd been there in the aftermath, cursing him out with every foul word under the sun as his eyes drifted constantly back to Mercie, her calm gaze, her unwavering hands as she attempted with her magic to stitch Sylvain whole again.
The rest of it is a blur. Felix remembers pacing outside Sylvain's room in the monastery, pushing his way in only to find him as alive and insufferable as ever. Then he'd chewed into him for even thinking of breaking their promise.
White magic seems to have done its wonders on him, but Sylvain still needs his rest. When Felix leaves his room he heads straight for the stables, though he doesn't realize what his feet are doing until he finds himself eye-to-eye with Duchess. Goddess be good, she hadn't been harmed in the fight. Sylvain hardly needed one more reason to hate himself.
Ferdinand isn't here today, a small mercy. Felix calms Duchess with one steady hand on her nose, the way he's seen his father and Ingrid do, and then goes to inspect her saddlebag.
Immediately his mouth curls. He sees a splash of blood – Sylvain's? - on one corner, missed by the stablehands. Someone should have this cleaned for him before he goes into battle again, he thinks with annoyance. A concern for later.
Fishing around the sides of bag for where he'd hidden the charm, he stops as his wandering fingers find it. It's soaked with dried blood, its simple embroidery half-unreadable, now. Felix yanks it from the saddlebag before he knows what he's doing.
Now he finds himself back at the markets. He thrusts it out in front of him for the merchant to inspect. “It didn't work,” he gruffs out, as the merchant peers cautiously into his open hand.
“Did the wearer survive?” the merchant asks.
“Yes – barely,” Felix sneers. “Hardly 'safe from harm', as you claimed.” It wasn't fair of him to take his anger out on this peddler, as if he hadn't gone into the transaction knowing full well he was being swindled – but it still brought him some relief.
“The Goddess shows her hand in mysterious ways,” the merchant tells him, letting his voice lilt mysteriously. “Death did not take the one you love. Rejoice in that! That amulet did the trick, after all.” He points at the amulet's silky cloth, the places where it's soaked through with blood. “See this? That is where it took the harm in your friend's place.”
Felix hadn't said anything to that, only scoffed and set the bloodied charm down on the stall's counter. He didn't bother to ask for his money back.
Before Felix had left his room, Sylvain had asked him for a favor – some kind of special herbs from Manuela. “She'll know what you mean”, he'd said. Probably some kind of contraceptive, Felix thinks bitterly, but nonetheless he'd promised his injured comrade this favor, and so upon leaving the market he heads down to the greenhouse, after failing to find the professor in the infirmary.
As expected, Manuela is here, tending to a delicate-looking sage shrub with care. When Felix asks her for Sylvain's herbs, the professor gives a pitiful-sounding sigh. “That poor boy,” she cries, which of course forces Felix to ask what she means. She's already moving to another corner of the greenhouse, busy with her shears and with a small packet she holds open in one hand. “I told him to ask for me if the pain became too severe. Here – brew these up for him. They'll put him out for a while, but it should lessen the pain while he's awake.”
Felix nods numbly as the packet of herbs is deposited into his hands. The thought that Sylvain is, even now, in severe pain – from that decision to protect him - is suddenly the only thing on his mind. “If that injury had gone any deeper or any lower, well,” Manuela laments, trailing off, though it doesn't take an active imagination to guess at what she might've said. “I think the Goddess was looking out for that boy, out on the field,” she concludes, thoughtfully.
Felix suddenly finds it difficult to swallow, taking the herbs with a simple thanks and making haste back to Sylvain's room.
Annette finds him that evening, and flags him down in the courtyard, luring him back to her bench to sit with her. She has one of her books half-open on her lap, though she's clearly willing to be distracted from it.
“How is he?” she asks, quiet, after they've sat in companionable silence together a while.
Felix controls his voice carefully. “Asleep,” he says at last. At least, he had been when Felix had left his room, and from the looks of things he was going to be sleeping deeply for some time.
Once he'd returned from Manuela, Felix had brewed the herbs into a tea and stayed with him until the effects had taken hold. Sylvain had been too drained to contribute much to the conversation, but had listened attentively as Felix attempted to distract him with poorly-recounted ancedotes from the training yard, and then when he'd run out of those, an even poorer account of the plot of one of Ashe's novels, remembered secondhand.
“He cares about his friends so much,” Annette smiles. He really would die for you, she doesn't say. “He's rough around the edges, but you can tell he loves you and Ingrid more than anything.”
“Yeah,” Felix grunts out, unable to deny it, though truthfully it hurts to think about the responsibility. Would I die for Sylvain? He thinks he might, in the heat of things, but he isn't sure. Anyway, Sylvain isn't the one I'm supposed to be ready to die for, he thinks bitterly.
“So,” Annette begins, sounding a bit mischievous now, “Who'd you give your omamori to? Do you... mind if I guess?”
The look in her eyes tells him all he needs to know. About what she already knows. He hunches his shoulders and sighs, awkward. “Was he wearing it out there?” she asks, softer this time.
Felix shakes his head, not able to look at her. “I stuck it on his horse,” he blurts, cringing.
“Fe-lix!” she scolds him. “That's now how it works! You can't just secretly attach it to his horse without telling him.”
“Kept the horse pretty safe,” Felix muses, not humorlessly.
Annette laughs at that, a beautiful, soft sound. “Who'd you give yours to?” Felix asks, suddenly very curious. “Mercedes?”
“...Yeah.” Now it's Annette's turn to look shyly at her feet. “I-I know the professor would never put her in harm's way, but... I have nightmares. Nightmares where she's gone, or where we're... forced to hurt each other.”
Just nightmares, perhaps, but still, it hurts to hear it. Felix knows full well the power of horrors that linger after waking. “How did she react?”
“To the charm? She thought it was sweet.” Annette smiles. “She said of course she'd wear it. And that she'd try her best to stay safe for me.” There's another long pause as she turns to contemplate her feet again. “...And I bought another one. For my father.”
“Oh.”
“I haven't given it to him. I don't know if I will.”
That he understands too. He wonders if it'd be strange to take her hand. He settles on sitting with her in silence again.
“You should buy another one. For Sylvain.” Annette says at last. “Ask him to wear it. You know he will.”
“I think that scammer in the marketplace has gotten enough of the Kingdom's money.”
She laughs again, though she surely sees it for the evasion it is. “Well, you're probably right about that.”
What Felix doesn't tell Annette is that he fully intends to patronize the merchant's booth again. If there's even the slightest chance that what Manuela had said was true – that the Goddess really had been looking out for Sylvain in that moment -
It may be ridiculous, but he's willing to feel a little ridiculous from time to time. Annette really was getting to him.
The following Sunday, he bites down on his pride and maintains a neutral expression as the merchant gives him a knowing smile.
Superstition is one thing. A willingness to be a little ridiculous is another thing. But this-
Felix isn't sure what to call this. He's sitting on the floor of his room with Sylvain's teal tasset-skirt in one hand and a needle in the other. When the door opens, it's not just Annette whose eyes he meets.
“Ingrid,” he all but chokes. He can see by the look on her face that she isn't in the mood to hear nonsense today. If only he had something else to offer, he thinks miserably.
“I'm sorry, Felix,” Annette flushes, “But you know I'm terrible at lying and-”
“It's not Annette's fault,” Ingrid interrupts, hands on her hips. “Sylvain told me you challenged him to a match to see who'd do the other's laundry, and then lost on purpose.” She sits down heavily on Felix's bed, arms crossed. “Just so you know, he thinks you're mad at him, though he has no idea why.”
Felix tries not to let it show as he cringes internally. “I don't know why he would think that,” he grumbles.
“He thinks maybe you're going to brine up his clothes or something. I don't know, when he doesn't understand what you're doing he kinda defaults to thinking you're mad at him.” She lets out a long sigh. “And don't be mad, but I get why.”
“I'm not mad!”
“What are you doing, anyway?” Ingrid slides down off the bed and sits next to him, picking up the edge of the teal fabric with one hand. Then she sees the charm lying next to Felix's knee. “What is that?”
Felix can't do this. Annette swoops in to save him. “It's a good luck charm,” she chirps. “One of the merchants is selling them in the marketplace.”
“A good luck charm?” Ingrid echoes, curiously. Now it's clear she truly has no idea what to think.
“A protective amulet,” Felix mutters, quietly. “It's nonsense being peddled to the students.” He is full and painfully aware of the irony of saying so, what with the position he's currently in, but he can't help himself.
Ingrid considers things for a long moment, and it makes Felix want to hide from everyone forever. “Felix,” she suddenly says, and he's brought back to the past, like they're children again. He feels like she can see past his skin into his bones.
“Stupid,” Felix mutters, not to anyone in particular, except himself. Horrifyingly, he feels pinpricks at the edge of his eyes. He can't imagine anything more humiliating than being seen like this.
“...You were going to sew it in like this?” She's still looking between the needle in his hands and the charm. “I think he might feel it sitting down.”
“It's mostly flat. And the material of the skirt is thick.” Felix is glad to have something else to focus on, trying with all his might to be here, mentally, in the year 1186.
“What's in it, anyways? It looks like some kind of bag.”
“The merchant said it contains a blessing,” Annette says, “a blessing of the Goddess. It's just written on some paper apparently, but you're not supposed to let it out, or it won't work anymore.”
Ingrid - horribly perceptive Ingrid – leans closer to him, and then takes the needle and thread from his hands, as well as the charm. “I'll tell you now I'm no good at this,” she says, all business as she prepares to start stitching.
“Thank you,” he manages.
The sounds of Ingrid's busy needlework fills the room. Her movements are unpracticed and a bit rigid, but steady. To fill the silence, Annette tells them a story from the dining hall earlier that day, when His Highness had made a bit of a silly fool of himself in front of the Professor. Felix tries to smile, though he feels a bit more like vomiting than laughing.
When the job is done, Ingrid stands, stretching as she prepares to leave. “Felix,” she says, hesitating at the door. “What happened to Sylvain... that wasn't your fault.”
“Rmm.” He can't give any other response honestly.
“I hope the Goddess cares about us,” she continues, “and I hope our cause is just. But... it's up to us to protect each other out there. That's what Sylvain was doing, you know. He was protecting you.”
“You think I'm not aware of that?!” Felix snarls.
He regrets snapping at her immediately, but it's too late to retract it. Ingrid, who has known him since they were both toddling around behind Sylvain, simply gives him a long-suffering look. “I suppose it's useless to say you could just tell him you worry about him,” she sighs. “But still... think about it. It might do you some good.”
When Ingrid is gone, Felix flattens one hand against his forehead and pulls back at his hair. Annette is giving him a look like she's waiting to assess his mood before saying anything.
“We should get some sleep,” she says at last, rising to trace Ingrid's path. “The Professor would want us to be well-rested for tomorrow.”
“Right.” He nods stiffly. He can return Sylvain's clothes in the morning. “...Good night.”
“Good night, Felix.”
He folds Sylvain's clothes (adequately laundered, as he'd promised) with as much care as he can muster and prepares to turn in.
Ingrid was right, of course. The Goddess hadn't cared when she'd “taken” Glenn. And the Goddess hadn't cared when she'd decided that his father would have to die, too. Why would she ever decide to care about Sylvain?
She didn't. She could reach out and take him at any time. Just like she could take Ingrid, or Annette, or Ashe, or Mercedes or even Dedue-
He's spiralling like this, and he knows it, but the thought finishes all the same. Or Dimitri. He frowns. Or the professor. Or me.
Of course something as simple as a charm has no power in a world like this. He knows it logically. But when he thinks of Sylvain wearing into battle something that he'd given him, even unknowingly -
Well. It's not a bad thought, is what he supposes.
It's been a long ride, and they're preparing to go out into battle again. The last month has seen plenty of skirmishes with bandits and other petty concerns, but this is their first big engagement with the Empire in some time. In body everyone is fighting fit and ready for action, but it's easy to see at a glance that all would rather be anywhere but here.
He's already said his piece in the presence of the other Lions – that tense moment before the battle where they all looked into each others eyes and tried to hide the fact that they were memorizing each others' faces, voices, in case it was the last time – but now he's privately caught up to Sylvain, on some pretense or another. He's with the rest of the cavalry, standing next to Duchess, and Felix bids his own platoon to hold while he's here.
“It really doesn't get better, does it?” Sylvain asks, suddenly.
“What?”
“Before battle. The waiting. I swear it's worse every single time.”
Felix can't say he knows exactly what he means, but he knows his own relationship to war is kind of unique. He feels a strange sort of calm, holding his sword, knowing he has no obligation to come back to himself until he's either dead, or hearing the Professor's bellowing voice coming to collect him. “Don't tell me you're nervous,” he says.
“Who, me?” Sylvain laughs, in that easy way he has, which he knows full well that Felix knows is utter bullshit. “You know I'm always ready to skewer some Imperials.”
Felix can't help it – he frowns. He hates to hear that subtle waver in Sylvain's voice. He always lies worst when his mind isn't well, and he can tell Sylvain's mind is not well right now. “I'll be right behind you, so don't get bold,” he says. “Let my unit do our job. Keep your distance with magic if you have to.”
“Very chivalrous of you, Felix. But I seem to recall you were the one needing some assistance last time,” Sylvain jokes, giving him a wink. “Just say the word and I'll come running.”
“That's not funny,” Felix bites out, putting his very best scowl on his face to make sure he gets the picture. “If you try and take another blow for me, I won't lose sleep mourning you.”
“Ouch,” Sylvain says with a laugh, and Felix feels vaguely guilty again. Maybe it shows on his face. “Hey, I know you worried about me,” Sylvain smiles, his voice gentle. “Remember, when I was stuck in bed waiting for those herbs to kick in and you kept me company telling me the plot of one of Ashe's novels? Don't think I don't know how few people you'd have done that for, Fe'.”
“Tch.” Felix doesn't have it in him to contest the truth of Sylvain's words. He only hopes his face isn't as red as he suspects it is – or if it is, that it'll at least be masked in the reddening tones of the evening.
A horse whinnies nearby, and Felix starts. He realizes now that while they've been standing here, the other riders are saddling up all around them. He can see Ingrid taking to the skies, can hear the Professor giving their first orders. There's a strange, almost uncomfortable moment dragging between him and Sylvain, and Sylvain hasn't moved yet to get up on Duchess.
He considers sending him off with a simple be safe, or see you after, or any of the other phrases he uses when parting from the people he cares about, when Sylvain rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, breaking eye contact for a moment. “Hey, uh, would you forgive me if I did something stupid?” he asks.
Felix tries to capture his gaze again. “As long as it won't get you killed,” he settles for saying, unable to interpret Sylvain's body language, as hard as he tries. “Will it?”
“Maybe. I'll, uh, I'll let you be the judge.”
And then Felix's mind loses track of anything but Sylvain's hand, suddenly at his shoulder, now at the back of his neck, pulling him in for a – it has to be a -
Sylvain's face hesitates in front of his for a moment, and then he's pressing his lips against Felix's cheek, pulling away almost before Felix has had time to register what's happened. He stares openly at Sylvain, unable to look away, his mouth hanging uselessly as words don't come. “Sorry,” Sylvain chuckles softly, and he really does sound apologetic, already saddled on Duchess now as Felix watches helplessly. “You can yell at me for that later. Don't die, okay? I mean it.”
Felix watches him ride away for a second longer than he should, before remembering himself and turning back to his unit. He has to push away the thought of what's just happened. He weighs the cold steel in his hands and prepares to engage.
It wasn't Byleth's fault. He knew that. The professor did what any commander had to do: they weighed the odds and took a calculated risk. Felix knew they'd never throw him and his platoon into battle recklessly, not without at least a gut feeling that they'd win. The professor was many things, but what they weren't was the kind of commander that bet their odds on acceptable losses. They hadn't lost a former student yet, after all.
When the axe connects with Felix's back, it wrecks him to know that he might have to be the one to break the professor's perfect record.
The blow bodies him, and he is knocked flat on his stomach in the dirt. His head is ringing and his vision is swimming, but he doesn't feel pain. Shock, he knows. Then he brings one hand around to his back, but he doesn't feel any blood or external damage.
The blunt side of the axe, then. He'd gotten lucky, but that luck has a short lifespan. The axe's wielder is rounding up on him again, as his unit keeps Felix's at bay. The man is coming to kill him.
Survival instinct digs in its powerful claws, and Felix grabs at his sword and manages to right himself, but the world is still a rotating blur and it's a struggle even to remain on his feet. He manages to dodge the man's next swing, but leaves himself wide open for the follow-through. It's going to cleave him right in two and there's not a damn thing left he can do about it.
The next few moments move impossibly slowly, Felix watching the incoming swing of the axe as his mind readies itself for death. Going to be sent home in pieces just like Glenn was, he catches himself thinking, with no one left to mourn over my body, or be proud over how I died like a true knight. Would Dimitri care? That one was tough to say. Felix was sure he'd pretend to, at any rate, especially in front of the professor. Ingrid would care. Annette would care. Sylvain would care. He thinks of the brush of Sylvain's lips at his cheek, impossibly fleeting. The opportunity had been there, to pull him in and kiss him properly, and he'd missed it.
Would Sylvain find the charm stitched into his clothes one day? Ingrid will tell him. And if she doesn't also tell him about Felix's true feelings, then Annette definitely will. Somehow it's kind of comforting to know.
In what feels like the split second before the axe connects, a burst of magic sends the assailant staggering backwards. The brute of a man hasn't even hit the ground before Felix feels a rough pressure on his arm and shoulder, the feeling of being hoisted bodily into the air, and then he's moving, fast, registering the jolting strides of a horse's gallop beneath him.
He watches the site of the skirmish as it retreats into the distance behind them. Ranks of allied cavalry are descending upon the axe-wielder and his unit, giving much-needed relief to his own troops.
“Felix,” he hears Sylvain's voice somewhere above him, and there's a weird timber to it that strikes even Felix's spinning brain as odd. “We're going to Mercie now. How bad is it?”
“I'm fine,” Felix manages to croak out. He realizes he's propped up partially against Sylvain's chest, back against his front as they ride. “Not injured. Need to go back.”
“I saw you go down,” Sylvain insists, sounding upset. “I saw the way you were moving after, you could barely stand-”
“Knocked the wind out of me.” Felix winces as Duchess' long strides jostle him. It was embarrassing to be seen like this, not even injured and almost incoherent. Then a thought occurs to him. “You were watching me,” he accuses. He tries to put some backbone into it.
“Yeah I was, that guy the professor sent you up against was like three thousand pounds and armed to the teeth.” Sylvain sounds – angry. “Looks like Dimitri made it through, though.”
Ah. That's right. The entire reason he'd been sent to bait the big brute in the first place. “Good,” Felix manages. At least it wouldn't have been a total waste. He squirms a little in his seat.
“I know you don't think you're injured,” Sylvain says, looking focused and intense as he charts a careful course through the smoldering field (over bodies of allies and enemies alike)- “but please don't move until we reach Mercie. Please.”
It's a plea. There's no humor in it. Only – something like fear. This more than anything convinces Felix to put up with Sylvain's coddling, for once, and he ceases his movement, feeling surprisingly content to lie back against the warmth of his friend's chest and forget the battlefield around them. It strikes him after a moment that this feeling is probably bad, and more than likely, a sign that Sylvain is on to something. He focuses now on staying alert.
They reach Mercedes, at some point. Sylvain handles him so delicately as he lifts him off Duchess' back, handing him off to one of the other healers as they work together to gingerly lay him on the ground. Mercedes bends over him at once, her hands glowing white as she traces them over his back. “There's internal damage,” she confirms after a moment, “but we can fix it.”
“I love you, Mercie,” Sylvain cries with a laugh.
“Tsk, Sylvain, don't say things you don't-” Mercie's voice suddenly trails off. Felix opens his eyes enough to see the suddenly horrified look on her face. “Did you ride here like this?!”
She isn't looking down at Felix anymore. She's looking at Sylvain. Felix strains over to get his first proper look at him. As out of it as he'd been, it had been easy not to notice the arrow sticking straight out of Sylvain's back.
The sight is what overwhelms him at last, and he loses consciousness.
When Felix comes to, the battle is over. He's lying in a cot in Manuela's infirmary back at the monastery. His back is sore, but he can feel all his fingers and toes. Suddenly he remembers with a jolt Sylvain, and the arrow, and he jerks upright.
Or attempts to. A flare of pain wracks through him and he's forced to lean back against the pillow with a grunt. He hears a soft laugh somewhere to his ride side and turns to see Ashe. He's reading in bed as best he can with what appears to be a recently-mended arm.
“I'm glad you're awake,” Ashe says, earnestly. “Don't worry, you only lost a few hours, and everyone else is just fine.”
Felix is so grateful that Ashe doesn't mince words right now. “Sylvain?” he attempts.
“He's fine. He's awake. Professor Manuela is working on him right now.” Ashe laughs quietly. “I guess you saw the arrow before you passed out.”
Felix grimaces. “Yeah,” he admits. “What happened to you?”
“Blast of magic got me, fell off my wyvern,” Ashe admits, sheepishly. “Rattled me up pretty good. I'll be catching up on my reading, though.” Felix doesn't ask about the flowers by Ashe's bedside. He thinks he can guess, but it's not his business.
“Felix!” he hears Ingrid's voice. She's closely tailed by Annette and Mercedes, the former looking positively ebullient to see him awake. “We're so glad you've joined us again. Honestly, you had us so worried!”
“You did!” Annette scolds, close enough to his bedside now to gently shove his shoulder. “Mercie told me what happened. When she saw the look on Sylvain's face she wasn't sure if you were already dead or not.”
The appearance of so many doting faces at his bedside is already getting him a little flustered. “I'm fine,” he manages. “Took a hit, that's all.”
Mercedes looks ever-serene as she shakes her head. “It was bad, Felix,” she says.
“...huh?” he distinctly remembers her face and her words on the battlefield. There's internal damage, but we can fix it. “It didn't seem serious when you were examining me.”
“Giving either of you the details didn't seem necessary at the time,” Mercedes replies.
Ingrid crosses her arms. “Professor Manuela was complaining that you'd been beaten into mince-meat. I hope you plan on thanking her and Mercie, by the way.”
Receiving aid from Mercedes in battle was so second nature for all of them by now, but still Felix finds himself shamed for not acknowledging it earlier. “Thank you,” he mumbles to Mercedes, bowing his head lightly, and she giggles. “The – the report of the battle-”
“We won, if that's what you're asking,” Annette hums. “The rest can wait, don't you think?”
Felix grunts, but doesn't complain. He knows better than to try and fight Annette on anything – he just doesn't have the will to win against her. “The professor must be happy, then,” he speculates.
The three girls shoot each other – and Ashe – looks that immediately tell him the existence of something he doesn't know. “What?” he demands.
“It's nothing,” Ashe says, way too quickly, but the girls seem to think better of dancing around it.
“The professor is angry at Sylvain,” Ingrid sighs. “They don't want to be. They're trying not to be. But they are.”
Felix stares numbly at her. “Why?” he asks.
“He broke ranks to save you,” Annette explains. “His platoon was supposed to be covering Ashe. He left Ashe exposed and charged right past an enemy sniper.” Felix flinched. That would certainly explain a few things.
“That idiot,” he mutters. He rubs at his own forehead, feeling glum. If only Sylvain hadn't needed to save him.
“For what it's worth, I forgive him,” Ashe pipes up. “We're all alive, and that what counts in the end. I'm glad he made it to you in time.”
“Hey ladies, is this a special occasion or what?”
They all turn at the sound of Sylvain's voice. Felix stares as he walks through the door. He's wearing an open shirt that hangs loosely around his body, a webbing of bandages around his upper torso. He's still dressed for battle from the waist down.
“There you are, you- great big idiot.” Ingrid sighs, running over and looking as if she's going to embrace him, although she clearly thinks better of it, seeing the bandages. She awkwardly pats him on the elbow, instead, even as he opens his arms as if in invitation for a hug. “The professor's hopping mad. You might want to tread carefully for a while.”
“Yeah, it's gonna be hard to stay angry at a guy who saved your best swordsman, I think,” Sylvain replies breezily. He sees Ashe in the bed over on Felix's right and offers up an embarrassed grin. “I knew you could handle yourself, Ashe,” he says. “I know I shouldn't have left you and your squad to fend for yourselves. I'm not sorry for doing it, though.”
“I'm not sorry you did, either,” Ashe answers.
Annette suddenly clears her throat. “Hey, Ashe,” she says, “Do you feel well enough to walk to the dining hall with us? Ingrid, Mercie and I were thinking of having a late night snack.” Felix thinks he knows right away what she's doing and colors. She's so obvious about it.
“That's right,” Mercie chimes, blithely.
“Oh, we are?” Ingrid asks, turning. “Oh, are you two cooking? Goddess, please say you are.”
“I could definitely go for a snack! It would feel good to stretch my legs, too.”
Before long, the four of them are shuffling out the door. Felix tries to miss the way Ashe gives him a pointed wink as he leaves the room. Asshole, he thinks with no real malice.
Sylvain laughs awkwardly as he approaches Felix on the bed, sitting beside him heavily. “Annie's subtle, huh?” he asks. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I've been clobbered with the blunt side of an axe,” Felix deadpans. Truthfully, he'd been trying to draw a smile out of Sylvain with that one, but it's like Sylvain doesn't even notice his attempt at a joke. “And you?”
“Never better.” Sylvain pats his bandaged shoulder and instantly winces. Felix smirks.
“Sounds like it serves you right for leaving yourself open to attack,” he chastises him. “I told you not to risk yourself for my sake, didn't I?”
It's bait for more banter, but it seems like Sylvain doesn't have it in him. He's staring at his knees, or the floor, seemingly lost in thought. “I didn't think we'd make it in time,” Sylvain mutters, rubbing one of his elbows absently. “Poor Duchess. I don't think I ever rode her so hard in my life. But we did it.” He laughs quietly. “The Goddess really smiled on me back there. Finally some good luck, eh?”
Sylvain's words feel like they stop his heart for a moment. Good luck. The favor of the Goddess. He thinks of the charm that even now must still be clinging somewhere around Sylvain's waist.
“This is a weird time to bring this up, but, lately there's no time like the present, right?” Sylvain begins again. “Mercie was showing me something earlier. Annie got her some kind of good-luck charm. For protection, and stuff. She said you bought one too... for me.” Felix instantly colors, watching as Sylvain's body language grows unsure again. “But, you never gave me anything like that, so... so that means you gave it to someone else, right? I promise we don't ever have to talk about this again, but-”
“Sylvain.”
“I think if we just clear things up right now-”
“Sylvain.”
“I distracted you, right?” Sylvain stammers. “When I– back there. Before the battle, I shouldn't have done that. I-”
“Take this off,” Felix interjects, hooking one finger over the belted part of the cloth tassets. Sylvain's eyes grow cartoonishly wide. “Don't get the wrong idea,” Felix murmurs, blushing more furiously by now, he's sure. “Just do it.”
Obediently, Sylvain unbuckles the teal skirt and steps out of it, holding it out in front of him for a moment as if offering it to Felix, but then something catches his eye. “Hold on, what's this?” He burrows into the fabric a bit, and Felix sees the moment where he registers what he's looking at. “Is this...?”
“Yeah,” Felix mutters. He can't possibly get any more embarrassed at this point. He might as well offer Sylvain the truth. “Ingrid stitched it, by the way.”
“Yeah, the stitches are terrible,” Sylvain agrees. He hasn't taken his eyes off of it. “You should've asked Bernadetta, you know, I hear she has a steady hand with a needle.” He sounds so normal that Felix is unprepared for what he sees when Sylvain lifts his gaze to look at him again. He seems almost like he's going to cry. “This was when you weirdly all but offered to do my laundry, huh?” he asks, not attempting to hide it as he swipes a hand at his eye. “I really thought I'd done something to piss you off.”
“I'm sorry,” Felix says, though he isn't really sure what he's apologizing for. For being the kind of person that causes Sylvain to think things like that, maybe?
“I'm still just surprised. I didn't know you were on board for things like this.”
“I wasn't, at first,” he admits. “I bought one to make Annette feel less stupid. But then I attached it to Duchess's saddlebag-”
“...hold on, you what?”
“Then you tried to protect me, and nearly got yourself killed,” Felix mutters. “Although the important part is that you survived, I suppose.” He nods towards the teal cloth in Sylvain's hands. “Hence...”
Sylvain looks almost overwhelmed as he continues turning it over in his grasp. “I had no idea,” he says. “I'm happy. I wish I'd known before.”
“What, that I don't want you to die?” Felix attempts another joke, which is maybe a bad idea given his track record.
It was a bad idea, because Sylvain says the worst thing in response. “...Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Yeah. I... I like knowing that.”
“You should have known that,” Felix urges. He's sitting up straighter in bed, and one of his hands is bunching in the sleeve of Sylvain's shirt. “I told you not to die for me,” he insists. “What else could you think I meant?”
Sylvain shakes his head. “I wanted to believe you, Felix,” he smiles, mirthlessly. “It's just, you know, this guy gets pretty convincing too sometimes, you know?” he taps his forehead wryly.
Without thinking about it too closely, Felix puts a hand around Sylvain's neck and reels him in. Sylvain's eyes have gone wide again as Felix presses his lips to his forehead, the briefest touch, to mirror the kiss from before.
“There,” he says, somehow out of breath. “Now we're even.”
“I love you,” Sylvain admits.
Felix pulls him back in and lets their lips meet properly this time.
Annette finds herself averting her eyes as they pass Gilbert across the courtyard. The knight gives no indication of having seen them, though of course she knows he'd been watching.
She and Mercie make it all the way to the library before she lets out the breath she'd been holding.
“You don't have to give it to him,” Mercie hums, “if you think he hasn't earned it.”
“I don't know,” Annette laments. She's grasping the charm tightly in her hand. “I don't know. I can't do it. But... he's still my father and I don't want him to get hurt.”
She can't help a smile when she feels Mercie's arm grasping warmly around her waist. “I know you'll do what feels right, Ann,” she murmurs, and Annette manages a small giggle as she slides the charm back into her pocket.
They read for a few hours in easy silence before heading back down to the lower levels. Annette spies Felix and Sylvain emerging from the training grounds and can't help a chastising frown. “Come on,” she urges Mercie, and they approach them.
“Felix! Sylvain!” she calls, until the four of them all stand face-to-face. “It's a little soon after your injuries to be training, isn't it?” she accuses.
“Ah, you see, we did only the simplest exercises, My Lady,” Sylvain explains with a flourish, and Annette rolls her eyes with a groan.
“I hope you're happy, Felix,” she teases him. “You signed up for this, you know.” Her eyes jab in Sylvain's direction at the word this.
Felix only laughs, a small “heh”, not dodging away from the question or hiding from their inquisitive looks. He's glowing with the recent exercise, Annette notices. Or maybe it's just something that comes alive in his eyes when he's with Sylvain. Annette supposes they are pretty cute, even if she still loses patience with every other thing out of the other redhead's mouth.
“Have you considered a trip to the sauna?” Mercedes asks them, her sweet voice all innocence. “I bet it would be nice to feel clean after all the exertion.”
“Yeah,” Annette echoes, a germ of an unhappy thought suddenly occurring to her. “From all the... training, you guys did in there.”
“What?” Sylvain puts on his best offended face, laughing. “We were training, you know. Damn, Annette.”
“Hrmm,” Felix agrees, vaguely. Then he turns his face into Sylvain's neck and gently bites.
Annette's jaw drops. She might be about to scream a little bit.
“Holy shit,” Sylvain mutters under his breath, moreso to the Goddess herself than anyone standing here. Then, louder: “Well, sounds like you ladies have some girl time to catch up on.” He drops them both an exaggerated wink. “Don't have too much fun, okay?”
Annette struggles to regain her composure as the two of them walk away. Beside her, Mercie gives them a serene little wave.
Then her hands finds Annette's hip again and she pulls her close, nuzzling into her shoulder and humming. Annette squeals a little bit, resting her face in the pillowy wonderfulness of Mercie's chest.
She thinks she'll express her thanks to that merchant by buying some of that expensive crescent-moon tea her girlfriend likes so much.