Work Text:
Molinaro’s isn’t a place you go when you’re looking for help on the up-and-up. That’s only part of the reason Sylvain had sought the place out when he left the family business. Mostly it’s because he likes Dedue, and because he agreed to leave Sylvain’s last name off the door. It’s precisely because of their carefully cultivated shabby, semi-shady appearance that Sylvain’s feet come off his desk like the goddess herself bumped them off when Mercedes bursts into his office followed by none other than Dorothea fucking Arnault-von Hresvelg.
It’s a good thing she has two last names because up close Dorothea is a babe and a half. Brown hair, healthy in a way that makes Sylvain feel like a medieval peasant looking at a life of privilege he’d never achieve; body wrapped in red and fur, always faux if the interviews are to be believed; green eyes equal parts sparkling and sharp; and legs. Sylvain can’t even think about the legs as she drops into the chair in front of him. Dorothea is a married lady, which she reminds him as soon as she speaks.
“I’m here for my wife.” It’s one sentence with more than one meaning. It means keep this quiet, it means don’t fuck this up, and more importantly it means I’ll pay you handsomely. Sylvain leans forward.
“I’m listening,” he says, even takes out his notebook and flips performatively to an empty page. He never takes notes, but he pretends to. Puts the clients at ease, makes them feel heard.
Dorothea tilts her head. “If you listen hard enough,” she says, “you won’t need to write things down.”
Fair enough. He drops the pen, steeples his hands under his chin. “All right,” he agrees. “I’m listening very hard.”
“I’m sure you are.” Dorothea examines her nails, and Sylvain gets the sense it’s not at all dramatic. She holds all the power. “As I said, I’m here for Edie. There was a break-in at our place last night. We can’t keep it quiet much longer, the staff are nervous, the campaign staff are panicking. So we’ll be calling the cops.”
“We don’t usually work with the cops,” Sylvain warns her.
“Precisely.” Dorothea leans forward now. Even up close her makeup looks perfect, not one smudge out of place, not one stroke too light or too heavy. Sylvain’s mouth waters a touch. “We’ll be informing the police about the break-in, and we’ll be telling them that nothing was stolen. That’s not strictly true.” She pauses, sighs a little. Her lips pout just a bit. Sylvain thinks that, were he lucky enough to be Edelgard von Hresvelg, he too might be risking it all to keep this woman happy and well-cared for. “I don’t exactly understand it, but it’s important to Edie. The thieves stole a… a weapon of sorts.”
Sylvain frowns. Edelgard’s platform is built on being straightforward, transparent, above-board. “She running guns or something?” he asks, doubtfully, and Dorothea’s eyes flash to the ceiling. Like only an idiot would ask that.
“Of course not.” Her tone underlines her expression. “It’s more sentimental than that. A dagger. I think its value mainly comes from its owner, and her willingness to get it back. Edie and I would both rather have that money go into the hands of someone we choose, rather than some fence or back into organized crime.”
“So, you chose us,” Sylvain infers, and then Dorothea surprises him.
“No, Sylvain,” she says. “We chose you.”
“What do I have to do with all this?” he asks, on his guard but trying not to show it. She smiles and it’s like melted butter.
“Edie told me the dagger was a gift.” She’s rising from her chair, no doubt satisfied she’s convinced Sylvain to take the job, watching him fight to keep any tell out of his eyes. He doesn’t follow her, this angle gives him a better view of her as she turns toward the door — he’s only a man. “A gift from someone you know.”
When Sylvain does leave his office, only a few minutes of getting his composure back later, Mercedes and Dedue are sweet talking each other over her desk in the entryway. He clears his throat purposefully before he’s in line of sight, watching them jump apart like they’re keeping any kind of secret.
“My, Sylvain,” Mercedes says in that sweet voice that can calm frantic clients and threaten vengeful dastards all with the same tone, “what an exciting visitor!”
“Indeed,” Dedue agrees. He always agrees with Mercedes. It’s easy enough to fill them in on the situation, and when Sylvain is done Dedue is frowning, as he often is. It’s a good look, a convenient look, and by the time their interviewee figures out who the real bad cop is between them it’s too late for them every time. “Surely she could only have meant…”
“Yeah,” Sylvain agrees. Mercedes looks between them like the crowd at a tennis match. “I’m thinking we have to go see Dimitri.”
//
Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd doesn’t look like a politician, not at very first glance. He has an eyepatch, a terminal case of resting bitch face, and the shoulder to waist ratio of an isosceles triangle. But then he sees you looking and it’s like flipping a switch, blue eyes and carefully kept blonde hair and a wide, white smile.
“Sylvain!” Even his voice is perfect, deep but bright, earnest as a schoolkid. Even if he wasn’t a friend of a couple decades and change Sylvain would want to trust him. He goes for a handshake, then claps his own forehead and leans in for an embrace. He’s strong. Sylvain sits across from him, Dedue next to him after his own firm clasp. “And Dedue. It is wonderful to see you. How is business?”
“It is business that we are here to discuss,” Dedue says. They order gimlets. Dimitri is drinking water from a tall glass and exactly one finger of whiskey from a much smaller one. “We are looking into a matter that I believe you are connected to.”
Even his frown is perfect, like he’s taking you seriously, like he’s listening closely. “Nothing untoward, I trust,” he says. There’s a hint of that other side in his voice. Dimitri hasn’t gotten where he is by fear but he benefits from it anyway.
“Nah, don’t worry about that,” Sylvain says. “Dorothea von-Yadda Yadda stopped by our place last night.”
“Dorothea?” Dimitri repeats. “Intriguing. I hope everything is all right for her and Edelgard.”
“It is not.” Dedue’s voice is quiet. It might seem like secret-keeping to an outsider but Sylvain knows well enough by now it’s just how he is, all visual bark and absolutely no bite, the complete dictionary definition of a gentle giant. “This information is not public, but we feel it is relevant to share it with you. There was a break-in at their home earlier this week. They were the victims of a robbery.”
Dimitri frowns. It’s an unfathomably frightening thing, even after twenty-odd years of seeing it in different iterations. “A robbery,” he repeats. It’s to give him time to think. No one ever accuses him of being cunning. “But if you’re telling me, it must be—”
“Yep.” Sylvain pops the last letter, draining the rest of his moderately glorified gin in one gulp. It’s a bit of a waste, baring his throat like that. There’s no one at this table who’ll take him seriously. “They stole the dagger.”
Dimitri is fair-skinned already, the unfortunate luck of blond hair and blue eyes, light eyelashes and brows Sylvain knows he darkens just a little any day he’s likely to be seen, but at this he pales noticeably. Sylvain knows the basics of the dagger, something Dimitri had given Edelgard at the end of their ill-fated summer of actually trying to be a family, before things had gone belly-up between Lambert and Patricia and Edelgard’s uncle had whisked her away, back to the Adrestian region, fating her to grow into Dimitri’s rival instead of his friend. Things between them have always been complicated, even before they’d risen to become the scions of opposing political parties vying for control of Fodlan. He doesn’t know the specifics, like what happened between the two of them to necessitate the exchange of gifts, like how Dimitri instinctively or not knew that she was leaving for good at the end of that childhood season.
The wipe of pallor is gone in a moment, just enough time for Sylvain to guess they both care enough about this to take it seriously. Dedue too. He and Dimitri had met more recently, no heavy years between them to add weight to their relationship, but enough time spent with Dimitri would make anyone want to dedicate themselves to him.
Plus, Mercedes likes him. She’s nothing if not an excellent judge of character.
“I haven’t seen that in years,” Dimitri says at last. The knuckles around his whiskey tumbler are white still as he swallows it all. The lighting is dim and the music is quiet. It feels more private than it is, but Dimitri knows the hulking bear of an owner and vouches for him. “I didn’t realize she had kept it.”
“The police will be informed of the break-in, and told that nothing was taken,” Dedue explains. “Sylvain and I will discreetly attempt to locate and recover the dagger.”
“Figured we’d let you know ahead of time in case you ended up hearing that we were sniffing around,” Sylvain says, then lets his voice go serious. “We’re going to find it, Dimitri.”
“That dagger…” Dimitri starts then stops, like he can’t find the words or the courage. It’s surprising. He’s not the most loquacious politician ever (that had to be the asshole from the Alliance territories that reminded Sylvain of a tuna sandwich fro some reason) but he can make a pretty damn good speech when the occasion calls for it. Sylvain glances at Dedue, who is stirring his drink calmly and unnecessarily. Raphael’s makes the most thoroughly mixed cocktails in the city. “If that dagger falls into the wrong hands, with the right information, it could be significantly troublesome for me, and for Edelgard as well. To that end, I would like to help you recover it.”
Sylvain’s eyebrows shoot almost to his hairline. “That’s a little high-profile for us, don’t you think?” he asks.
“Not like that, as fun as it may be to revisit our childhood hijinks,” Dimitri says, with a soft smile. It’s a nice one, not the political one he wears on the debate stage, and even after all these years Sylvain finds himself charmed. “I would like instead to make contact between you and another friend of mine from a long time ago.” His voice is a little wistful now, eyes a little sad. “He works… well, I’ll just say he may be able to help you.”
“Sounds great,” Sylvain affirms. “Always happy to meet one of your friends.”
Dedue’s voice is tactful as he asks, “I assume his occupation may have something to do with why he is not so much a current acquaintance?”
“That’s part of it.” Dimitri signals the waitress, a surprisingly youthful-looking girl with earrings shaped like fish, and asks for the check. “I shall ask him to meet you at Dorothea’s later tonight.”
“That quick on the draw?” Sylvain asks. “Must not be that far out of touch then.”
“What is the point of having connections if I do not use them?” Dimitri says, and his grin is back for a moment.
//
The Meteor is loud when Sylvain and Dedue arrive, as it almost always is. The lighting is low and cool, blue and red only where it meshes to a soft purple, and the redheaded singer on stage is crooning appropriately. Sylvain has seen her perform here before, he has no doubt things will pep up soon if she’s had any input on the setlist. She goes by Fantine on the stage but her real name is Annette, he’d found out over a sweet set of Manhattans. Raphael’s cocktails may be thoroughly shaken but Dorothea’s taste the best, no question. Not that she has much to do with the making of them, she leaves that to her sly-eyed bartender. Sylvain thinks it might be a keep your friends close and your enemies closer thing sometimes.
“Please do not make an ass of yourself,” Dedue says in Sylvain’s ear, but he’s already sounding resigned, and he frowns up at his taller partner, following the tilt of his head, “but I believe that is him.”
Sylvain scans the room until he finally finds who Dedue is indicating, and unfortunately he indeed feels a rising need to make an ass of himself. Dimitri’s friend is lit by those twilight bulbs, shadowing a jawline that Sylvain feels like he might cut himself on if he’s not careful and cheekbones that might be visible from the top of a skyscraper. His hair is dark, long enough for a ponytail high on his skull that bares just a bit of back of his neck over the collar of his shirt, shining just a little in the dim light of the club. Most appealing of all, maybe, is the single-minded focus he’s watching Annette perform with, and even if Sylvain has lost him before he’s even had him he can’t help but feel kinship with someone who admires her this much. Dedue puts a hand on his shoulder, somehow manages to convey disappointment with the weight of it, and guides Sylvain to the empty table next to their contact.
Sylvain lets Dedue take the side closer to him. Better safe than immediately sorry, plus it makes it harder to stare at the set of long, slim legs crossed under his table, the strong-looking arms crossed over it, elbows propped behind what looks like a gin and tonic. Handsome, understatement of the century, and with good taste. Sylvain is fucked.
“What did I just say?” Dedue says, quietly under the music, shaking his head.
“Can’t help it, partner,” Sylvain replies by way of an apology. “I’m only a man.”
“A man at work,” Dedue counters. Sylvain is cowed, enough to hide in a sip of his own gin and tonic. Dedue has a martini, the glass comically fragile in his big hands. He looks preeminently like he belongs here.
Unfortunately, it’s only a minute or two after Sylvain finishes his first drink and the more bubbly portion of Annette’s performance has begun that someone is suddenly leaning on the back of his chair. The exasperated look in Dedue’s eyes tells him all he needs to know. It’s an equally unfortunate low tenor in his ear, then. “I couldn’t help but notice we’re drinking the same thing.” Sylvain has to stiffen his own neck to keep him from whipping around to look at their contact. Up close he’s kind of devastating, sharp and smart-looking, like the crack of a whip formed into human shape. His eyes are like the fossils Sylvain has seen in museums, enthralling, encased in amber. His mouth tips up just slightly at one corner, like a smirk in a chastity belt. To reiterate, Sylvain is fucked. “Maybe you’d like another one.”
“Uh,” Sylvain offers, eloquently, and Dedue actually puts a hand over his eyes, turning back to Annette, “fine by me.”
“Wonderful.” He stands to his full height again and Sylvain estimates he’s shorter than he is, lithe and all in black. Wonderful indeed. “Be back shortly.”
“Well,” Dedue says, when his dark hair is out of earshot, “at least we have made contact.”
Sylvain fans himself with his hand, hoping it comes across as funny, self-deprecating. “It’s not every day we have someone enjoyable to work with in this gig,” he says. “I’ll savor it if you won’t.”
“We do not even know what he is like,” Dedue counters, and it’s practical but Sylvain is so far from the realm of the practical that it washes in one ear and out the other. “Perhaps you should reserve your judgment.”
“You’re probably right,” Sylvain says. He’s far too weak to reserve much of anything right now. It feels like an interminably long time before he’s returning to their table, sitting himself in the chair on the side perpendicular to Sylvain and Dedue, balancing a bar tray onto the smooth wood with an ease that has Sylvain wondering all kinds of things. He has their gin and tonics plus a refill for Dedue. Sylvain is liking him more and more every minute.
“The boar says you’re looking for something for him,” he says when they’re settled. No bullshit. Has Sylvain mentioned he likes him?
“Boar?” repeats Sylvain, finally over the shock of the guy enough to speak like a normal person.
He rolls his eyes, which sets Sylvain’s shock recovery back just a bit. “Sorry. Bit of a nickname between us.” He rolls his glass between deft-looking fingers. “Might as well come out and say it, I’m a fence. The — Dimitri, thought I could help keep an eye out for whatever you’re looking out for.”
“Not worried about us ratting you out?” Sylvain asks, for some inexplicable reason, and Dedue shoots him a look. But their contact just fixes him with a look that he thinks could cut glass.
“Plenty have tried,” he replies. That settles that.
“You may be helpful,” Dedue agrees, and Sylvain looks at him for just another moment in time before turning to his partner. He’s maybe being too generous to himself by thinking he holds Sylvain’s gaze for that moment too. “I suppose it may be useful for us to have someone looking out for the lost item.”
“Lost,” he repeats, skeptically.
“Stolen,” Sylvain clarifies. “It’s gonna be hard for us to get in touch with you if we don’t know your name.”
Dedue is frowning, Sylvain knows he is without looking, but it’s a reasonable question. Maybe the first reasonable thing Sylvain has said all night, honestly. By this point Annette is dancing around the stage, not even losing breath. She’s crazy impressive.
“You’re right,” he says, a weighty last sentence before Sylvain knows what to call him in his head, what name his thoughts might later be labeled with. Might as well face facts. “My name is Felix.”
“That is your real name,” Dedue says. It’s not a question.
Felix, Sylvain is thinking. Goddess it sounds good on him, sharp sounds for a sharp face and sharper voice.
“It is,” Felix confirms. “Dimitri can’t keep a secret to save his life so there’s no point in subterfuge with people who know him.”
“That is correct,” Dedue says. “I am Dedue Molinaro.”
“Yes, I know,” Felix snaps, waving a dismissive hand. “Everyone in my line of work knows Dedue Molinaro.”
“Flattering,” Dedue comments, flatly.
“It should be,” Felix argues. Sylvain flips between them like he’s watching the world’s most enthralling tennis match. “Your reputation is good. All the right people are afraid of you.”
“Anyone want to know my name?” Sylvain asks cheerfully, and Felix’s eyes snap to him.
“We know you too,” he says, derisively. “Sylvain Gautier, failed family heirloom turned private eye.”
“Okay, ow,” Sylvain says, leaning forward onto his elbows against the table. “There’s definitely more to me than that.”
“That’s enough, Sylvain,” Dedue cautions, but Felix is leaning in too, dangerously close, close enough for Sylvain to watch his mouth as he speaks.
“I’m sure there is,” Felix says. “You just don’t care to show it.” He drains his gin and tonic, sets it back on the circular tray at the center of the table. “Dimitri says you’re looking for a dagger.” He stands from his chair, and again it’s like, even though he’s shorter than Sylvain, somehow his legs look longer, and his body is lean and he’s wearing a turtleneck snugger than Sylvain thinks should be legal, and he kind of feels like his mouth is watering even or especially after the dressing-down he’s been dished. “I’ll look too.”
He doesn’t wait for Annette’s set to end. Sylvain counts that as a win.
//
Unfortunately, not every part of the job is meeting ridiculously handsome fences, and that’s one of the reasons Sylvain finds himself in a diner across from Dorothea’s frightening bartender. He’s known to have contacts everywhere, practically runs a second business out of The Meteor, which Dorothea turns a blind eye to for as long as he doesn’t reach public consciousness. Not that Yuri Leclerc isn’t handsome, in his own glamorous and somewhat scary way, he just wasn’t made directly by the goddess to please and frustrate Sylvain.
“So,” Yuri says, stirring a heavily sugared coffee, fingernails gleaming a little in the fluorescents, “to what do I owe the honor of a visit from Sylvain Gautier himself?”
“Maybe it’s friendly,” Sylvain teases. They get along okay. He gets along okay with anyone who’s with Dorothea. “Ever think of that?”
Yuri scoffs. “You’re the farthest thing from friendly,” he says. “Just tell me what you want.”
“Harsh,” Sylvain counters, “but fair I suppose. I’m not exactly here for pleasure.” He winks, unsure why he’s trying to play this game with someone he knows can go toe to toe with him in it. “I’m looking for something. A weapon of sorts.”
Yuri frowns. “I thought you and that hunk of a partner you run around with were already armed,” he says. He sips that sludgy coffee. He’s right on two counts — they are armed, and Dedue is a hunk. Sylvain will let him in on one.
“He is dreamy, isn’t he? It’s why we’re so successful,” he coos. “Fainting maidens can’t resist coming to him for help.”
“I certainly hope you’re not the one in the front office,” Yuri says, flashing a grin that is definitely icy.
“Nah, Mercedes is far more charming,” Sylvain replies. Enough yapping. Yapping with Yuri is high risk, middling at best reward. “It’s a dagger. My client misplaced it.”
“Interesting,” Yuri says, which is not a good sign, absolutely. “I heard from our mutual friend in the police force that there was a break-in a few days ago at the Hresvelg household. This wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would it?”
Ingrid, damn it. She’d probably told him at the very performance where he’d been too busy simpering over Felix, she’s friendly enough with Annette to be invited at least, and he knew she knew Yuri, even liked him. Liked him enough to spill official business, which was remarkably stupid. Maybe Ingrid likes Yuri more than Sylvain thinks. He smiles to smooth over all this thought. “I don’t know,” he says, hopefully more convincing than he feels. “Maybe you could tell me.”
“Don’t be simple,” Yuri says. “You already know I know. Perhaps you could think about spending more money on Ingrid than I do.”
“Oh,” Sylvain says, before he has a chance to think about how risky he’s being, “I could never give Ingrid what you do.”
Yuri’s gaze freezes over like a lake in the Faerghus winter. “Fine,” he says. “I haven’t seen your damn dagger. But I’ve heard about the break-in, before Ingrid even. So don’t go lecturing her about it, okay?”
“Works for me,” Sylvain agrees, easily. “So what birds were singing for you?”
“The birds don’t matter,” Yuri says, “the song does. You might be especially interested,” he adds, a sinister turn to his voice suddenly. Sylvain feels his heart thud in his ears. “I didn’t hear much, just that someone with red hair and a big scar was looking for a potential buyer for something. Don’t know what but it doesn’t take a lot to guess.”
Fuck. That one lands, though Sylvain tries not to let it show. “That’s not a lot to go on,” he says. He finishes his own cup of joe in one sip. It’s time to leave.
“It’s enough for you though, isn’t it?” Yuri asks, and the grin he gives him is sly. “So long, Sylvain. Tell Dorothea I say hello if you see her first.”
//
“It’s Miklan.”
Mercedes’ eyes widen, and Dedue leans back in his chair, which is as much shock as either of them will ever show. It’s reassuring in a way. “Goodness,” Mercedes says. She reaches for Dedue’s arm, clutches it for a moment likes she’s forgetting herself, then drops it. Sylvain rolls his eyes. It doesn’t matter how serious the moment, it’s ridiculous that these two think they’re keeping anything secret. “He stole the dagger?”
“I doubt it was just him,” Sylvain says, “he’s not the most light-footed. But he was involved.”
“How do you know?” Dedue asks. It’s a more than reasonable question, information in this town is hard to come by even when it’s false.
“Dorothea’s bartender,” Sylvain explains. It’s enough. They’ve worked with Yuri before for information. “Plus, you know. Experience.”
“Sylvain,” Dedue cautions, a hint of warning in his voice. Yeah, enough of that dug up past for now. “What do you propose we do about it? If he is involved, you may know better how to handle the situation.”
Sylvain turns that one over in his mind for a moment. He hasn’t had contact with Miklan for a long, long time, long enough that he’s avoided crossing paths with him even in his professional line of work. Usually if he sniffs out the rotten stench of his older brother he steers himself, and Dedue for good measure, clear. This time, though, it’s too personal to back out. Edelgard will pay them handsomely enough to turn down another handful of jobs with Miklan’s stink on them, Dimitri is too close to turn the gig over to someone else. But he remembers enough about him, Miklan’s cruel cunning, his hard violence, to make headway. He’s sure too that he would work well enough as bait to run him down if it came to that, not that that’s something he’d let Dedue know about.
To spare him the burden of speaking, the phone on Mercedes’ desk rings, cutting through the weighty silence forming between them. She’s professional in an instant, lifting the receiver and in her sweetest voice announcing, “Molinaro’s, private eye.” She pauses for a moment, glances warily at Dedue, then turns to Sylvain, putting a hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s for you,” she says, holding it out to him.
Time to lighten the mood. Sylvain takes the receiver in his hand, stretching out over the clearest portion of Mercedes’ desk, relishing the chuckle hidden in her palm. “You’ve reached the most handsome member of Moliaro’s,” he croons, again relishing in Dedue’s sigh.
“Tch.” It’s a small noise but it sends Sylvain shooting up, straight as if steel is run up his spine. Felix, from the club. Mercedes and Dedue are both laughing at him now. “That’s a tough sell considering your partner.”
“Are you saying he’s better-looking than I am?” Sylvain asks, trying to stifle the pounding of his heart. This is way too strong a reaction to a guy he’s met exactly once, who’s essentially a coworker. Sylvain tries not to think about that too much.
“I didn’t call to flirt,” Felix says, which is only a little disappointing. Okay, it’s a lot disappointing but Sylvain feels like they have time to work that out. “I heard someone is looking to sell a dagger that sounds an awful lot like the one you’re looking for.”
“Really?” Sylvain asks, thankfully recovering a little of his professionalism. “I don’t suppose you have anything else to share.”
“Not yet.” Felix’s voice is somehow just as appealing on the phone as it was in Sylvain’s ear in person at The Meteor. “I was thinking I might meet you later and discuss what I do have, what we might do to get more information.”
“You’re awfully helpful,” Sylvain says, smiling without thinking.
There’s a moment of silence. Then, “The Meteor, tonight.”
When he puts the receiver down, Dedue and Mercedes are both staring expectantly at him. He grins again, like a high schooler who’s just gotten off the phone with his crush. “Sorry, y’all,” he drawls. “I think I’ve got a date tonight.”
//
Felix looks just as good as Sylvain remembers sitting at the same table, listening to a showy blonde on the stage with far less interest than Annette had garnered. So maybe she is special after all. Sylvain will just have to try harder. In the spirit of that, he approaches Felix with two gin and tonics, setting himself down next to him, replacing the already empty tumbler in front of the dark-haired siren. Okay, siren might be a little too on-the-nose with the vocals echoing through the club, but Sylvain certainly feels ready to throw himself on the rocks.
“Nice to see you,” he says, like that’s nearly enough to convey the stars poking through him at the sight of Felix, all pointed and beautiful under the club lights. “Even under the circumstances.”
Felix scoffs, the same noise from over the phone, and it sends just as strong a shiver down Sylvain’s spine. “The circumstances,” he repeats. “Sure.”
“So,” Sylvain says, with consummate professionalism, leaning again over the table and not thinking about how strong the pull is to be close to Felix, “you’ve got some news for me?”
“Something like that,” he says. He picks up his glass, and something unusual in the bend of his fingers has Sylvain scanning the room in the lowlight. “I think one of the thieves is among us tonight.”
Sylvain’s eyes rake over the audience, faces he recognizes and ones he doesn’t, hair and eyes and people listening to the warbling singer on Dorothea’s stage. She’s not nearly as good as Annette. “You think, or you know?”
“Technically, I think,” Felix confirms. His fingers are still odd around his glass, and Sylvain’s eyes follow the direction they point, more solidly this time. They land on a woman with hair red like wine, eyes sly, next to someone Sylvain knows better than the back of his hand. “But I know.”
“You know the guy she’s with?” Sylvain asks, casting a line, and Felix throws him a frown. Shit.
“You don’t recognize him?” Felix counters.
“Sure, I do,” Sylvain says, suddenly unable to see the appeal of lying. “Just wondering how well my brother has done for himself.”
Felix’s glare is absurdly penetrating, like a skewer through a roasted vegetable. “So,” he says, “is that why you’re involved?”
“If you’ll believe it,” Sylvain says, “this is one of a few reasons.”
There’s another moment of silence, or rather the farthest thing from it with the blonde on stage warbling into the microphone. Maybe it’s one of Edelgard’s friends, Sylvain thinks suddenly. Dorothea has better taste than this. “I do believe it,” Felix says. “Her name is Monica. She reached out to a friend of mine about selling a weapon.”
“Von Ochs?” Sylvain asks, and Felix shoots him another sharp look. “I know a little about her. She knew Senator von Hresvelg when she was a child. That’s all I got.”
“Interesting,” Felix replies. His gaze is back to the singer. “I’ve heard she has connections to someone in the boar’s group.”
Sylvain almost drops his empty glass back on the table at that. It would be nonsensical, thinking this had all somehow come together in a complete circle, that someone who knew Edelgard had stolen something connected to Dimitri, who had something to do with someone orchestrating it. “That seems hard to believe.”
“Maybe.” Felix leans in toward Sylvain, unfairly close. “Do you believe me though?”
Sylvain considers it, and unfortunately has to admit that he does. “If I did,” he begins, supporting himself on his own wrists where his elbows press against the table, closer to Felix still than he had come, “is there anything waiting for me at the other end of all this?”
“Meaning?” Felix asks. He’s still very near, lips slick in the low shine of the interior twilight of The Meteor. Sylvain thinks of Dedue, tries to imagine how he might be acting.
“Meaning am I going to see you again if I live through all this.” It’s a little bold, sure, but Sylvain has gotten over his own self-sacrificial instincts, just lets them ride at this point. Dedue and Mercedes might lecture him when he returns to the office, probably justifiably, for throwing away their head start for a pair of sharp eyes and long legs. “I’m not going up against just anyone, even if you don’t count my own brother.”
Felix stares at him for a moment, extending forever under the dim lights and the warbling voice filling the club with equal force. Those museum-grade eyes rake Sylvain’s entire face, slow and steady. “You’re probably right,” he says, in the end. “You’ll need my help.”