Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sylvain Gautier and Felix Fraldarius are living it up on their pre-season break and we want in

They might not play for the same football team anymore but that hasn’t stopped Fhirdiad midfielder Sylvain Gautier and Garreg Mach United winger Felix Fraldarius from maintaining a close friendship.

So much so that the famous footballers were spotted enjoying a holiday in Eivissa together with some friendly ladies on Monday.

The stunning gang set temperatures soaring as they hopped on board a luxury yacht for a day of fun in the sun together as the players enjoy the last of their summer break ahead of pre-season training.

Gautier, 22, and Fraldarius, 20, chose to chill out in the most exclusive summer vacation spot in Fodlan, and it’s safe to say they were living their best lives while doing so. Gautier was spotted enjoying drinks and a spot of PDA with a few local ladies in bikinis.

*

Sylvain had said come on holiday with me and I hardly ever see you anymore and he wore Felix down until he agreed.

Felix's still not sure what possessed him.

At first he'd just been bored and annoyed and trying to pretend the sight of Sylvain coming out of the waves dripping water down his chest and stomach hadn't hit him like a punch. You'd think he'd be used to it by now after all this time. Maybe being apart softened him; made him weak again.

That has to be it; otherwise he has no excuse for what happened next. Felix hadn't even been drunk. It might've been easier if he had something else to blame for the most ill-advised night of his life so far, a disaster so complete it leveled everything in the vicinity, every sweet and awful moment carved into his memory.

Afterward, they both acted like it hadn't happened. Sylvain went back to Fhirdiad. Felix went back to Garreg Mach.

He regrets it, most of the time. Other times he thinks it might have been worth it, if that was the only chance he'd ever get. But not if it means losing Sylvain. He'd cut off his own arm first.

He could still play football with one arm.

*

Back at United pre-season training, everyone wisely gives Felix a wide berth. Everyone that is except Claude, the nosy motherfucker, who takes one look at Felix's face and sits down next to him. "You look terrifying. Something happen over the summer?"

"Go away."

"I'll figure it out, you know," Claude says, alarmingly. He pulls out his phone and starts typing.

Felix feels a sliver of something close to panic. Claude is a witch when it comes to people; he just might. "Fuck off."

Claude ignores him in favour of scrolling on his phone. "Aw, you say the sweetest things."

"Von Riegan - "

Claude stops scrolling suddenly, and Felix knows better than to assume it's because he's finally decided to listen. That would be letting him off far too easy. He's not that lucky.

"You all right?" Claude asks, after a long pause, in a very different tone.

"Fine," Felix says. "Stop asking."

Miracle of miracles, Claude does.

*

It's not entirely a lie. He's mostly fine, except when anything at all reminds him of Sylvain - his name in a line-up, a Fhirdiad number 8 shirt on someone walking down the street - and then he can't think of anything else but the wreckage of Eivissa. When one moment of weakness overtook him, after all these years when he'd successfully kept it hidden, kept away.

He's spent years trying not to think about it and failing and now he knows exactly what it's like to have Sylvain's hands on him. Maybe it'd be easier if it had been bad, or even mediocre. Nothing to write home about. But it hadn't. It had been better than good. Perfect.

And then, after -

*

Dimitri:

Whatever happened between you this summer please talk to Sylvain.

Just to be clear I do not wish to know what happened.

 

Felix:

Thought I told you to lose my number

Felix takes to avoiding social media all together, which isn't that difficult for a dinosaur like him who doesn't even run his own twitter or instagram.

The tabloids, though, are a lot harder to escape.

So he sees in gory detail most of Sylvain's escapades that season: the partying that gets him a fine from Rodrigue, the club outing the night after an embarrassing loss that earns him no end of abuse from the Fhirdiad fans, the threesome that results in a tell-all Felix has to hastily look away from. And then the injury, which is shitty enough to make Felix voluntarily pick up his phone.

Felix:

How bad is it

Sylvain doesn't reply for a day, which is enough of an answer in itself. He's had the same persistent muscle problem for years, and sometimes it flares up with any old movement. The worst of the Fhirdiad fans attribute it to his partying, as if that makes any sense.

Felix thinks it's that Sylvain's used to pushing his body past its limits, just like all the rest of them.

They teach you how to do that at Fhirdiad City, and how to want to do it, if nothing else.

Sylvain:

Two months

 

Felix:

Sorry

 

Sylvain:

Why?

Not your fault

Isn't it, though?

*

There's a photo of the five of them as kids from the time before that Rodrigue keeps on his mantle. They're all in royal blue Fhirdiad kits. Black shorts that season, controversial because any hint of change is controversial in amber-frozen Fhirdiad.

Ingrid's grin is already strained, fierce. Fhirdiad doesn't have a professional women's team and unlike the rest of them she's already under pressure to pivot, do better in school, get a real job.

Dimitri has his textbook smile on. He's still got both parents and he has football and nothing else in the world matters.

The shot catches Glenn side-on and mid-gesture, with his hand on Dimitri's shoulder. He's taller than the rest of them, confident and solid and annoyingly full of himself.

Sylvain's not looking at the camera, too busy laughing at whatever terrible joke Glenn just told. It's much better than one of his usual fake smiles. Felix still remembers thinking that.

For once, Felix's smiling too, just a little. He's not looking at the camera either. He's only got eyes for Sylvain.

[twelve years ago]

When Felix thinks of his childhood, he mostly remembers football.

Training, kickabouts with Glenn. More training. The grass-covered backyard of their big echoey house on the outskirts of Fhirdiad, Rodrigue running Felix through drills, watching him dribble past cones and take shots at the half-size net.

"Don't shoot with your right foot," Rodrigue says, when he starts making most of the shots. "Use your left."

"But I'm better with my right," Felix protests.

Rodrigue smiles. "You'll never play for Fhirdiad with one foot."

He likes to say that when Glenn or Felix act up. You'll never play for Fhirdiad if you don't eat your vegetables. You'll never play for Fhirdiad if you don't go to school. Usually it works.

Felix gets better with his left foot.

*

The problem is that everyone at Fhirdiad already knows who he is. Ah, Rodrigue's little one. After a while he's also Glenn's little brother, the baby Fraldarius. They all think they know everything about him before he's spoken a word, kicked a ball.

He's the son of the legendary Rodrigue Fraldarius, the best midfielder Fhirdiad ever produced. Baby brother of the youngest goalkeeper to start for Fhirdiad in its long history.

Felix starts out at striker. When he doesn't grow the trainers move him to the wing, to use his speed better they say, but he knows the real reason. That's just fine. He can do a lot of damage there.

He just won't play any further back. Rodrigue was the best midfielder they ever saw in Fhirdiad, everyone says. The comparisons are bad enough as it is. No wonder Glenn went all the way back and became a goalkeeper.

Every time he does something good he hears ah, it's those Fraldarius genes, until he wants to never hear the sound of his own last name.

He trains until he can't. Let them see what it really takes, the sweat and hours and pain he's put in to be where he is.

Then the youth team coaches say I know we can expect great things from you and Felix knows he's meant to say thank you but he can't make his mouth form the words.

It afflicts even Dimitri, the princeling, the sun whose gravity traps every single other player in the youth teams in his orbit. Most of them are just hoping for a bit of that light to reflect off them. Felix's no different, really, for all that he bristles every time Dimitri says your brother or your dad.

At least that's how it is until he's twelve, and the boy with red hair and shining eyes says: "hey, what's your name?"

Like he really doesn't know.

No one ever asks, but he does. This is what Felix will always remember about the first time they meet.

"Felix. Who are you?"

That and his smile. His real smile, crooked and hard-edged, even then, just another kid on trial at the biggest club in the region.

"Your new teammate," Sylvain says, and he makes it true.

*

So the first thing Felix learns about Sylvain is that he sees more than he lets on. The second is that he's a liar.

He smiles and smiles at adults, at their teammates, at any girl who will give him the time of day, and it's always fake, and Felix can - somehow - always tell. There's something hollow about it.

Maybe it's because he sees the real thing, the first time they win a game together.

They're basically expected to win all their regional league games. Everyone's within 2 years of each other at this level, and Fhirdiad has the best.

Felix is already smaller than some of the other kids and Glenn won't let him forget it, gleefully circling his face on every single team photo and chortling at the sight of him standing next to Sylvain.

Not that it matters, and Glenn knows it. He'd been on the cusp of too small for Fhirdiad to sign, and maybe they wouldn't have if they didn't have live evidence that he'd grow, but the game's not about that. What matters is that he's fast, and precise, and he can strike a ball from anywhere.

He doesn't have to be big. Or so Felix tells himself, over and over. He's as tough as any of these bigger kids. Tougher. He'll prove it, too.

The left-back marking him is bigger, stronger, and he can't turn like Felix does, on a dime with the ball at his feet. He looks up and sees a flash of red hair, whips the ball toward the box, and Sylvain meets it with an inch-perfect header.

Felix loses track of the next thirty seconds or so and comes to with his arms around Sylvain's neck, yelling into his face. Sylvain's yelling right back, grinning fit to burst. He picks Felix up by the torso and spins him, ignoring Felix's yelp.

"What a fucking cross, Felix, you crazy genius!"

He sounds different, too. Happy.

That's how Felix knows. He's collecting all these pieces of Sylvain despite himself, without even trying.

*

Sylvain doesn't sound happy often. He has a brother who failed his Fhirdiad trial, and his father was a footballer too, just like Felix's, but only good enough for the second division, and he talks to Sylvain like a coach scolding a bad player. Felix wants to hit something every time he overhears.

Sometimes when Sylvain comes to training he already has bruises. But always with a smile to go with the black eye or split lip and an easy lie for any adult who asks.

Took a tumble running. Tackle went wrong. Stray elbow.

"Just tell me if someone's hurting you," Felix says. He's been itching to say something for weeks and the spectacular bruise he can see on Sylvain's knee is apparently the last straw.

"What, so you can go beat them up?" Sylvain says mockingly.

Felix sets his jaw. "I'll go tell Glenn and he can beat them up."

Sylvain laughs and laughs at this until Felix gets mad at him for not taking it seriously and calls him a jerk, and then he puts his head down and gets all quiet.

"You can't tell anyone about this."

He's never sounded so serious. It's kind of scary. "I won't. But -"

Sylvain grabs his arm in a grip just this side of too tight. "You can't, all right? I may be good-for-nothing, but at least I have this. Let me have this."

"I don't think you're good for nothing," Felix says fiercely, and Sylvain's face crumbles alarmingly like he's going to cry before he pulls it back together, and he looks so grateful that Felix has to look away before his face does something unacceptable.

"If you say that, then I must be all right."

*

Felix sulks for an entire week until Glenn straight out asks what crawled up his ass and died.

"S - Someone's in trouble and I don't know why he won't let me help," Felix blurts.

"Maybe Sylvain doesn't want you to think of him as weak," Glenn suggests with a suspicious twinkle in his eyes.

"I don't! He's not weak!" Felix declares, and then he claps a hand over his mouth, realising what he's done, and narrows his eyes at Glenn.

Glenn laughs at him. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

It's such a stupid idea. Sylvain's the furthest thing from weak. He's the one who always knows what to say, the one who can break a silence, bridge a gap.

On the pitch he's brilliant. Not the strongest or the fastest or the most skilled, although he's plenty of all three, but he's got killer vision and always knows what to do. Rodrigue calls him the smartest young player he's ever seen, a marauding midfielder, a throwback. Kind of like Rodrigue himself.

Felix knows he's going to make it, just as certain as he'd been about Glenn and Dimitri; more certain than he is about himself.

*

The coaches start making them roommates for tournaments. They say that Felix is a good influence on Sylvain, which is so clearly bizarre and wrong he doesn't know where to start. He's never been able to make Sylvain do anything.

Hell, he can't even make Sylvain stop talking and go to sleep when they have a 5AM wake-up call.

"Do you think they'd promote me if I threatened to leave?" Sylvain says, out of the blue. Casual as anything.

"No. They'd just let you go," Felix replies. It's true, and he doesn't believe in sugarcoating. He's seen it happen plenty of times.

"Ouch. Brutal. They'd promote Dimitri."

"They're doing that anyway. What's wrong?" Felix demands, over the sudden thumping of his heart.

Sylvain's the oldest in their group by far, and in a different team maybe he would be getting the occasional first team call-up. Maybe he's restless.

"Nothing. Just thinking out loud," Sylvain says dismissively.

"Don't. I'm trying to sleep."

Don't you dare.

"Hey, promise me something," Sylvain says, just as Felix's about to doze off.

"Will it shut you up if I do?" Felix mutters.

"Cross my heart," Sylvain says, and Felix can hear the laugh in it.

In the dark, he can just barely make out the shape of Sylvain in his bed, curled up under the thin blanket. He sleeps like a much smaller kid, like he's trying to hide.

"What is it?"

His own voice comes out hushed, this time.

"Stick with me," Sylvain says. "Let's make the first team together."

Felix doesn't hesitate. In one of Gilbert's many lectures about the Fhirdiad spirit he'd said something about how their teammates should all be people they'd go into battle with; Felix had rolled his eyes but he'd also immediately thought of Sylvain. "Yeah, of course. You and me."

Why would he want to play with anyone else?

*

Most of the guys on their team give them a wide berth outside of training and games. Dimitri's too intimidating no matter how nice he is and Felix is a brick wall. Sylvain's the only one they even bother inviting to anything.

"Hey, Gautier, wanna come out with us?"

Sylvain smirks at the mirror, where he's trying to wrestle his hair into submission post-shower. "Nah, can't. Got a hot date."

Felix could've told them that just based on what he'd changed into.

"Is this the young lady I saw you with last week?" Dimitri asks, because he's secretly a forty year old woman and also Sylvain's mom.

"Nope! Why? She was pretty cute, if you're into that kind of thing. I think I still have her number, hang on - "

Dimitri ignores him. "I wish you'd be more discreet. You can get away with it now, but what if you make it into the first team? Every single one of these is a scandal waiting to happen."

He's so goddamn earnest. Felix would've blown a fuse if Dimitri tried to lecture him like that, but Sylvain's so used to it he actually preens.

"Scandal's a strong word. It's not a crime to have one night stands, last time I checked. Did I miss a clause in the team rules?"

Dimitri shakes his head. "Surely you can see that it's unseemingly to be photographed with a different person every week. Do you want to be seen as a - a - "

The entire team stops talking and changing in favour of watching him struggle to find a polite old fashioned alternative to manwhore, all the while blushing up a storm.

Sylvain waits with raised eyebrows until it's clear Dimitri isn't going to find a word he wants to say out loud. "C'mon, you can say it. The kind of girls I date don't really want me, anyway. They just want to fuck a footballer. So what does it matter?"

"Gross," Felix mutters. He mostly means that the bitter twist to Sylvain's mouth makes his stomach clench, but of course that's not how Sylvain takes it.

"Yeah, I know, I'm disgusting," Sylvain grins, draping an arm around Felix's shoulder. "I don't know why you choose to hang out with me."

*

Puberty's an absolute train wreck. All of a sudden he's constantly aware of things that never mattered before.

Mostly it's Sylvain. His smile, the line of his back, the things the training shorts do to his thighs. It doesn't help that he's so tactile. He never stops touching Felix. A hand on his, a casual arm around his shoulder. Ruffling his hair and laughing at Felix's glare. Cupping his face and giving him shit about non-existent stubble while Felix tries not to blush hot enough to fry an egg. All the innocent touches become absolute torture.

Felix gets fixated on those hands, a little. How big they are, how warm, firm but always so careful. There's no escaping it, either, not when they spend so much time together.

Felix devotes an absurd amount of energy to keeping a lid on it. He's not going to ruin the best thing he's got, the only thing that's truly his, over stupid hormones. So he doesn't say anything. But he's young and stupid and can't help but hope. In a few years time, maybe -

In a few years time, they'll both be in the first team, and Sylvain will know without Felix having to say a thing, and it'll be perfect.

Except of course Sylvain doesn't know. For some goddess forsaken reason Sylvain doesn't even seem to have the slightest inkling. If he did he wouldn't keep talking about girls in front of Felix. He's not that type of guy.

He'd probably let Felix down easy, and that thought makes him want to scream.

*

Dimitri starts for the first team at 16. The youngest ever, of course, and any suggestions of nepotism dissipate into thin air as he blows through teams like a hurricane, like he's the adult and they're the kids. It's almost comical. Felix would laugh if he weren't so jealous.

The youth team still has him and Sylvain. They don't win as ridiculously as they used to, but they do win.

They win the regional cup final against Arianrhod, a game so scrappy Felix's still shaking with adrenaline 10 minutes after the final whistle. Sylvain's not much better off when he bumps into him; his arms go around Felix a little unsteadily and the kiss he presses to the top of Felix's head lands on his eyebrow.

"You all right? Bastards kicked you pretty hard."

"Fine," Felix says roughly. Normally he'd shrug Sylvain off, but it was a long, tough game, he's bruised everywhere, and he can't muster up the energy to pretend.

Sylvain picks him up, bridal-style, and Felix makes a sound perilously close to a squeak. "Put me down right now."

"Ooof, somebody's bulking up. You're heavier than I remember," Sylvain says, ignoring him.

"I will punch you," Felix says, this time actually meaning it.

Sylvain can hear it, too, and he lets Felix go.

Felix waits til he's back on solid ground, plants one foot and hooks the other around Sylvain's ankle, intending to trip him; except Sylvain hasn't let go of Felix and they go down in a tangle. Felix lands half on top of Sylvain, bracing his hand against the turf just in time to avoid headbutting him.

Their mouths are very close, close enough for him to feel Sylvain's harsh breaths, see the indentation left by his teeth when he bites his lip, the lighter flecks in his wide eyes. Close enough to kiss. He can picture it - tangling his hands in Sylvain's hair, pulling him into it.

If Felix were an entirely different person, maybe.

He's frozen long enough for Sylvain to recover and smirk up at him, a dare in his eyes, and it hits Felix like a jolt. He scrambles off Sylvain like he's on fire.

*

Ingrid takes him - just him - out for a coffee, which is weird enough that Felix almost asks if Glenn put her up to it. He's always saying Felix is poorly socialised and needs help. As if he's much better.

Then she just sits there in awkward silence for a good fifteen minutes while Felix sips his coffee until even he can't take it anymore.

"What's wrong?"

Ingrid sets down her cup with a clatter. The determination on her face reminds him of the Ingrid he'd first met, an outstretched hand and more than a hint of ferocity.

"I'm leaving," she says evenly.

Felix lets out a relieved breath. "Good for you."

Finally, he doesn't say. Fhirdiad still doesn't have a professional women's team. She's been hanging around out of a misplaced sense of loyalty and no matter what he says he can't dislodge it. She just gets angry and sad when he brings it up, so he'd stopped. Eventually.

"You're not mad?" She asks, a hint of uncertainty colouring her voice for the first time.

"Why would I be mad? Where are you going?"

"Enbarr offered me a professional deal. Not much money, but - it's better than nothing."

It's much better than nothing. Enbarr has the most well-funded women's team in Fodlan. Ingrid can't do much better, but she still looks stricken, guilty, because they got to her good in the Fhirdiad academies and she thinks she owes the club something.

At least she's actually doing it. Felix, for all his big talk, hasn't even considered an offer. He tells himself it's to spare them all the inevitable fights with his dad, but that's not really it. One of the reasons is sitting right in front of him.

"They should build a team just for you," he says.

Ingrid stands with a loud scrape of metal and he stands too, alarmed, but she just throws her arms around him, squeezes tight enough that it hurts a little.

"Thanks," she whispers into his shoulder.

"I mean it. You deserve it," Felix says gruffly.

*

FHIRDIAD MANAGER LAMBERT BLAIDDYD CONFIRMED DECEASED IN HORROR ACCIDENT

- Calls for investigation into safety of flight chartered by club

- Son and Fhirdiad starlet Dimitri in stable condition

Dimitri's not the same, after. How could he be? The club he loves killed his father. Sometimes Felix thinks they might as well have lost him that day too.

The new Dimitri is strange and withdrawn and single-minded like never before and his occasional smiles make Felix shudder. He trains like a madman and sprouts like a weed until he towers over Felix and almost everyone else, and he becomes even more of a terror on the pitch. Half gangster, half ballerina, some reporter says in a salivating profile, and the description sticks.

Fhirdiad love it, of course. It's the ultimate morality play, a perfect demonstration of unconditional loyalty. Overcoming tragedy, the club coming together like a family, and hey, we still have the full set of Fraldariuses, dad and the kids.

Felix is sick of it, all of it, and he hasn't even made the first team yet.

"You're even more verbally abusive than usual," Sylvain says, not without cause. "You need to loosen up, let's go out. Find you a girl."

"Go away," Felix snarls, which is the opposite of what he wants. He doesn't mean it, and surely Sylvain can tell. He can usually tell when Felix's heart isn't in it.

Then again, lately Sylvain's barely been there himself. He doesn't do well with being cut loose. With Ingrid gone and Dimitri off in his own world, he's in trouble more than ever. Breaking curfew, going out when he shouldn't, partying, girls. He's already more famous for off-pitch escapades than his few first team appearances.

Everytime Felix sees a photo of him hanging off some beautiful woman his heart clenches and he doesn't know how long he can keep pretending it doesn't. He doesn't blame the women for falling for Sylvain's act. He's not a hypocrite.

The ties that once bound Felix so tightly to Fhirdiad despite himself snap almost all at once, that year. Felix's not the sentimental type, but it catches even him off guard.

When Garreg Mach United approach him, he all but bites their hand off.

*

He doesn't know how to tell Sylvain.

Hey, you know how much it sucks that Ingrid left and Dimitri's barely there now. Surprise!

Instead of fronting up he waits and waits and lets the rumour mill do it for him, like a coward. That way he doesn't have to see Sylvain's face when he realises, the split second of hurt he can't quite hide behind one of those hollow smiles.

He doesn't expect Sylvain to turn up at his house in the middle of the night, shell-shocked like he'd been the night of the plane crash, pale and wide-eyed and staring at Felix like his world's ending.

"Is it true?"

Felix nods.

Sylvain laughs. "I told Dimitri, you know, there's no way. Felix wouldn't do something like that without at least telling me first. We're friends."

Every word is bitten off, sharp. The room suddenly seems very cold.

"I know. Sylvain - "

It comes out pleading, pathetic, and Sylvain jolts like he's being shocked, the hard lines of his face softening.

"What are you doing? How's ditching everyone you know going to make anything better?"

"I don't have to explain it to you," Felix mutters to the floor.

He can barely explain it to himself. Felix may be an asshole, but he's not going to tell Sylvain one of the things he's running away from is him.

"You're the one who's leaving." Sylvain heaves a deep, defeated sigh, the anger draining out of his voice. "We promised, remember."

"Yeah. I'm an asshole. I know."

Felix turns away so he doesn't have to look at Sylvain's face any longer.

"That's not - Felix, please."

Sylvain's voice breaks in the middle and Felix has to dig his fingers into his side so he doesn't open his stupid mouth. There's no fixing this, anyway. He signed a contract.

Rodrigue's cold disappointment had been easier to face than this.

"Don't."

They don't talk for a while after that.

Chapter Text

His new United shirt says FELIX, and beneath that, 7. He'd fought them hard on having Fraldarius on the back.

It's white with silver trim. He looks like a ghost with it on, all washed out. When he closes his eyes he can't stop seeing it in royal blue.

Felix tells himself to get over it. He's not a kid anymore. No time for childish dreams; there's just the chance he's been given and proving himself worthy outside his family's shadow.

Which means doing what he has to do. Even if what he has to do is a mandatory photoshoot.

United have pride of their youth system and newly minted starlet Claude Von Riegan and his extremely symmetrical face, which should really be enough to spare Felix the torture. But he's new and barely in the first team. He can't afford to break any rules.

The flash goes off, the camera clicks.

"Hey, Claude, can you kiss the badge for us?"

Von Riegan grins and obliges with a wink. The cameras flash again as Felix grits his teeth. He hates this shit. Never did it while he was back at Fhirdiad, either, and boy did that make him popular with the marketing people, who positively salivated at the prospect of putting him in photos with Glenn and their father.

Dimitri just let them pose him like a Ken doll, and Sylvain of course ate it all up, so what did they need him for anyway.

Felix's an adult now. He can admit it. The problem's not really Von Riegan. They haven't known each other long enough for Felix to feel anything other than wariness. It's not his fault he reminds Felix of both the surface polish of Sylvain and the golden boy shine that never rubs off Dimitri.

"Felix, give us a smile!"

Felix bares his teeth. The overdressed young man behind the camera blanches, and then he smiles, almost predatory.

"Actually, why don't we try that again - just look at me like you were before."

"Like you want to tear his throat out with your teeth. But in an attractive way," Von Riegan adds helpfully. He holds his hands up as Felix transfers the glare to him. "Don't waste it on me!"

Sylvain:

Hot. You look like you want to murder the cameraman.

It's the first time they've spoken since he moved to Garreg Mach. Felix's so relieved he replies straightaway.

Felix:

I did.

*

The United locker room can't get enough of the photos. Someone who obviously thinks they're clever sticks copies on their lockers - Von Riegan's with a soft filter and hearts drawn in marker, and his with a bloody sword photoshopped in.

Felix flat out ignores the ribbing. They're a rowdy, unruly group, United, especially when Balthus gets a head of steam - Dimitri would probably kneel over if he had to listen to their so-called banter - but they usually stop when he fails to respond in an entertaining way.

Von Riegan's different. He likes a joke as much as the rest of them; he just makes the dirty ones seem more poetic with that lilting Leicester accent. Felix wouldn't let anybody get away with some of the jokes the others make if they'd been about him, but Von Riegan never drops the affable facade, not until Balthus says something about his hot mom and the entire locker room goes quiet.

"Balthus," Von Riegan says, just that word with an unmistakable bite to it, like when he tells them where to go for freekicks. His eyes gleam.

Balthus actually takes half a step back, holding up his hands. "Yep, got it."

Felix decides he doesn't want to know.

*

They're an unbalanced team, awkwardly disconnected from front to back. The best thing is that they're bad enough for Seteth Cichol to be desperate (the press says visionary, Felix says desperate); desperate enough to let snot-nosed brats like Felix on the pitch when he'd never get a regular start anywhere else.

With him and Von Riegan they at least have some idea what they're doing in attack, and that's enough to make the fans hope. Youth's good for that, at least.

The first time Felix scores for United, it's at home. The Monastery's smaller than Fhirdiad's Pride Park, the stands almost vertical, packed so close to the pitch that the roars of the fans echo.

Von Riegan plays him a perfect through-ball, slicing the enemy defence apart like a surgeon wielding a scalpel, and Felix has always been calmest in moments like these.

There's ice in the boy's veins, Rodrigue used to say. He sees it all in slow-motion - the pass, the goalkeeper shifting his weight, the defender rushing in to block, the increasingly narrow angle, the almost impossible shot.

You'll never play for Fhirdiad with one foot, Rodrigue says in his head, and Felix strikes the ball perfectly with his left.

Felix isn't in love with the game the way Dimitri is. But he almost gets it, then. This is what he's meant to be doing.

Sylvain:

Nice goal

Von Riegan seems friendly

 

Felix:

Annoying

Like somebody else I know

Claude is actually a little too much like Sylvain. Felix likes him better in the moments he's not, when his voice sharpens to a whip crack, his eyes too piercing for such a young face.

Sylvain:

Don't go replacing me with other midfielders now

For some reason that makes Felix furious. Like he could. Like he's spent a single day without thinking about what Sylvain's doing and who he's doing it with.

Felix:

You better get in the first team then

 

Sylvain:

Watch me

*

[Footage from pre-match press conference, Garreg Mach United v Fhirdiad City]

Question: Felix, I imagine you've had a lot to talk about with the boss?

Felix Fraldarius: Like what.

Q: Well, your father Rodrigue is the manager of the opposition tomorrow, and you grew up playing for Fhirdiad. You've got the inside track.

FF: I don't talk to my father.

Q: How does it feel to be home?

FF: As far as I'm concerned it's just like any other game.

Q: Well, you are the one that got away -

FF: They didn't owe me a first team spot and I don't owe them a thing. They're the ones who decided they were fine with me leaving.

Q: Would you celebrate if you score?

FF: Of course. Why not?

*

The press officer puts him up before they play Fhirdiad away like he's doing Felix a favour.

That leads to a fun phone call from Rodrigue that Felix picks up for once, because I don't talk to my father was a bit much even for him.

They stop letting him do press after that.

Luckily for him, Claude's doing press too, and he's much more obliging. He's just had a fight with some local politician on twitter, so they're all over him about that. Then there's the inevitable questions about Dimitri and the time Claude took him out and got him drunk and it ended up in the papers.

Sylvain had laughed himself sick over the photos, not to mention the hysterical coverage.

"Not sure what the fuss is about," Claude says airily. "I gave him back the way I found him. Only a little worse for wear. He's delightful."

That's not what most people say about Dimitri, post-plane crash.

"Apparently it's your fault an adult man got drunk," Felix mutters.

Claude shrugs. "Of course. You'd think I'd deflowered him in public or something. Don't any of you know how to have fun? Gautier, I guess, but even that doesn't look like fun."

Felix's not touching that one, even if he kind of agrees.

"Don't look at me, I'm not one of them."

Claude raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you?"

"Not anymore. Isn't that the point?"

Fhirdiad City News and Opinion @RoyalBlueFC: What price respect? We discuss the GMU game and my cohost calls Felix Fraldarius an ungrateful little b****** play.acast.com/FCPodcast/FraldariusGate #FC #GMU

Felix pointedly ignores Rodrigue when he walks through the tunnel on the way to the home dugout.

Glenn stops by quickly and ruffles his hair, which makes him feel all of five years old again. Dimitri manages a stiff smile, which Felix takes as the compliment it is - Dimitri tends to be a bit of a demon on match days. He has to choke back a laugh when Claude greets Dimitri with a firm hug and a kiss on the cheek which produces a blush and a look of absolute bewilderment.

The thing about Claude is that Felix can't be sure he didn't do it just to throw Dimitri off his game.

Then Sylvain's ambling up the tunnel and the sight of him in the famous royal blue kit hits Felix like a punch to the gut. It's everything he once wanted in one package and he has to turn away to get his face back under control.

"Felix," Sylvain whispers in an oddly uneven voice. He's staring at Felix like he's never seen him before.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself," Sylvain says, and his arms go around Felix like they belong there. "We made it."

Felix nods into Sylvain's shoulder. It's not how he imagined it - when he'd pictured this as a foolish, naive kid, he'd been wearing royal blue too - but they're here.

Sylvain pulls back just enough to look him over, his gaze heavy as a touch, lingering on the United badge over his chest and the grey stylised 7 on his shorts.

The silence suddenly feels charged, dangerous.

"Don't think I'll be going easy on any of you today," Felix manages.

Sylvain laughs. "Wouldn't dream of it. I know you've been dreaming of scoring past Glenn for years."

Felix's been trying to score past Glenn all his life. By the time he got good enough to do it, Glenn was already keeping goal for Fhirdiad, and he'd promised himself it wasn't going to happen in a kickabout.

It's a perfect day for it. The papers would lap it up, the prodigal son doing the damage past his own brother. Except a part of Felix still thinks he's going to take one look at Glenn in the black keeper's kit, larger than life and impassable, and fuck up the shot.

"Fraternising with the enemy, Fraldarius?"

Claude has evidently grown bored of tormenting Dimitri and ambled up to join him.

"None of your business," Felix scowls.

"Didn't say it was. Just thought I'd come say hi," Claude says mildly.

"Look at that. Already making friends," Sylvain says, looking between them, his tone unreadable.

"With his sparkling personality? Of course," Claude says with a pleasant little smile.

For some reason that makes Sylvain put an arm around his shoulder. He's always run hot, even on this typically shitty Fhirdiad day, and it's all Felix can do to not turn into it like a starving man. It hasn't been that long. He needs to stop being so ridiculous before Sylvain notices.

"Oh, I know all about that," Sylvain says, with an odd edge beneath the layers and layers of playful bullshit. His body is a single line of tension against Felix.

Claude just smiles wider. "You're adorable. They should sell posters. Don't worry, Gautier, we're not all as bad as the press makes us sound. There's no debauchery in Garreg Mach. Promise."

What a bizarre thing to say to Sylvain of all people.

Felix snorts. "Go away. You're not helping."

"Seriously. Posters." Claude makes a frame with his fingers and mimes taking a photo. "I'll leave you to it. Team talk in five, Fraldarius."

Felix gives him the finger, but of course he's already making a beeline for Dedue and could care less about Felix's feeble abuse.

"What the hell was that about?" Felix says. He should really shake Sylvain off. Any minute now.

"Nothing," Sylvain says, but he seems inordinately pleased with himself. "He really doesn't deserve all that tabloid notoriety, does he."

"What, compared to you?"

"Definitely compared to me."

He's not wrong. Sylvain's the reigning champion of tabloid nonsense. Compared to him, Claude's a monk. But Garreg Mach's media is even more puritanical and sex-obsessed than Fhirdiad's, and the rest of them can only be secretly glad Claude's there to soak up so much of their attention, positive and negative.

*

Fhirdiad's Pride Park is a hell of a stadium, even drafty and creaking and in dire need of a fresh coat of paint, a cavernous fortress that prides itself on extreme and overwhelming hostility. Felix's been to hundreds of games here, the first before he could walk, and done his share of yelling. Whatever the reception, he's as ready as anyone can be. Or so he thinks.

The Fhirdiad fans have brought banners with his name on them. His name, and not that of his father or brother, and normally he'd take some satisfaction in that, but it's alongside words like disrespect and betrayal.

The crowd whistles when his name is read out, when he walks onto the pitch to warm up, and Felix feels his back straighten. He pulls on a smile that feels vicious, knife-edged and can't helping giving a little wave. Let the cameras catch that.

Three replays later, he's being whistled every time he touches the ball, as loud as the whistles for Claude.

Felix goes over to the corner flag to grab the ball, where he's joined by a poorly aimed water bottle, an apple core and an empty can raining from the stands. He's almost tempted to throw the apple core back, but that would really start something. There's a game to win.

He turns back to the pitch, ready to take the throw-in, only to spot Sylvain and Glenn running past him and right up to the stands where the hardcore fan groups sit, pleading with them to stop. Sylvain's face is the blank mask he usually has on for games. Glenn on the other hand looks like he's two seconds from biting someone's head off.

Felix can't help but laugh. Like the crowd's in any mood to listen, riled up like this.

Even without the fan nonsense, it's not a great game. United just don't have enough in midfield and attack to stand up to Fhirdiad's power and pace and they get drawn into a scrappy war of attrition.

Then Dimitri's storming past with the ball and Felix loses his head and tackles him high and late, laying him flat.

He doesn't even wait to see the ref raise the red, just turns and starts walking off.

The boos and jeers crescendo. Felix ignores them.

*

Glenn:

You okay?

I'm sorry about today

 

Felix:

Fine

Tell dad to stop calling me

The sports pages next day run with two photos, depending on how much they like Fhirdiad. There's a lot of DISGRACEFUL SCENES and calls for a stadium ban and photos of the food and bottles thrown onto the pitch. Then there's a photo of Sylvain and Felix after the final whistle. They're looking at each other, Sylvain's big hands gentle on his face, Felix's arm around Sylvain's middle, and his face -

Felix can't look at it without going red. He's so fucking obvious, it's embarrassing. It's a wonder Sylvain can't see it from the moon.

Someone's left a copy of the back page of the local paper on the breakfast table - probably Seteth, come to think of it, as some sort of punishment for their ill-discipline - and Felix's fighting the urge to bin the whole thing when Claude plucks it up delicately and turns it over.

"How're we doing?"

He sounds like he barely cares about the answer but Felix still can't help bristling. "Stop feeling sorry for me."

Claude shrugs. "I don't. You'll be fine. You're Felix Fraldarius. By next week it'll all be forgotten and they'll be onto the next outrage. You could've just humoured the Fhirdiad press a bit and saved us all the drama, you know."

Like he has any room to talk.

"I wasn't going to lie and say I owed them anything. It's all bullshit anyway," Felix says. "The clubs aren't loyal to us. They can't get enough of you here now but they'd dump you in a heartbeat if you got injured and lost form."

"Less than a heartbeat. They'd jump at the chance," Claude agrees readily.

Felix glances at him, surprised. Although he probably shouldn't be - Claude may be the pride of the United academy but they don't exactly treat him the way Fhirdiad treats Dimitri.

"I don't regret it. Just to be clear."

"Right. So what's eating you if it's not that?" Claude flicks a glance at the newspaper and looks back at him like he can see right through him. It's unnerving. He's too young to look like that. "Is it like that, then? Gautier? No wonder he wanted to bite my head off."

Felix can feel his face heat up. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't."

"What is wrong with you."

Claude laughs. "Careful, I tend to take that as a compliment."

*

FREAK TRAINING GROUND ACCIDENT LEADS TO HORROR INJURY FOR FHIRDIAD CITY GOALKEEPER

- WATCH: video footage of the key clash between star striker Dimitri Blaiddyd and goalkeeper Glenn Fraldarius

- Club yet to issue medical report on extent of Fraldarius' injury

- Blaiddyd offering no comment on sequence of events

"I wanted you to hear it from me," Rodrigue says gravely, never mind that he waited long enough Felix already has ten texts from Sylvain and Ingrid.

Felix should really hang up. If he opens his mouth he's going to say something he regrets.

"You wish it was me, don't you."

A sharp intake of breath. "Why on earth - "

"I left."

Rodrigue's never forgiven him for leaving Fhirdiad. He'd known that was the price to begin with and didn't mind, because he's always been secondary, and Glenn is Glenn. Or was.

Dimitri:

Please pick up.

I'm so sorry.

It's not his fault. One day Felix might even tell him that.

CvR:

Saw the news

Just go

I'll deal with Seteth.

 

Felix:

Thanks

The sight of Glenn hooked up to an IV with both legs wrapped in casts is surreal. He can't quite process it.

"How. How is it."

"Doctor says I probably won't play again. Not at this level, anyway," Glenn says.

Felix hasn't cried, properly cried, since he was a child, but the thought of what Glenn lost - what they'd all lost - is enough to make him want to. He's so young. Some goalkeepers play til they're 40, and Glenn takes care of himself. He should've outlasted Felix. Broken appearance records. Captained Fhirdiad. Lifted trophies.

Someone's taking loud heaving breaths, like the aftermath of a crying fit. It takes Felix a moment to realise it's him.

"It's not so bad," Glenn says.

"Bullshit."

"I mean it. I like football but being a goalie sucks."

Felix thinks of the frequency with which Glenn screams blue murder at his entire backline and manages the shadow of a smirk. "Yeah. I get that."

"Maybe I'm okay with being out of, and I quote, an industry held up by our broken bodies."

Felix flushes. He'd yelled that at Rodrigue, years ago. It had been about Dimitri, back then, but he'd been thinking of all the scars Rodrigue had, the pain he's constantly in.

"I can't believe you remember that. I was such an idiot."

Glenn manages a shadow of a smile. "Of course I remember. I've never been more proud."

Felix has to swallow past a lump in his throat. "Shut up."

"Hey, don't be upset. I'm fine. See? I'm thinking of going for coaching badges," Glenn says the last part quietly, like he's confessing a secret.

"Here?"

They'd probably employ him in a heartbeat. The Fhirdiad family and all that.

"No. Taking a leaf out of your book."

There was a time when Felix would never have imagined Glenn saying anything of the kind to him. Especially not about leaving Fhirdiad. Glenn hadn't spoken to him for almost as long as Sylvain.

"You'd like it, I think, being out of dad's shadow," Felix says carefully.

Glenn laughs outright. It's not his usual bright, boisterous laugh, but it's something. "Why do you think I became a goalkeeper?"

*

Rodrigue resigns as manager not long after that. The end of the Fraldarius era at Fhirdiad comes so quickly it takes everyone by surprise.

That summer Sylvain says come on holiday with me and for some goddess-forsaken reason Felix agrees.

[present day]

FourFourTwo @FourFourTwo Is Sylvain Gautier still worth the trouble? Our expert argues that Fhirdiad should cash in now. #FC

Sylvain all but disappears after the injury. Rehab at home, the club says, which is probably not a lie. No one's photographed him out partying, either, and he's even gone dark on social media.

(Felix has a private Instagram account he only uses to follow Sylvain and Ingrid. He checks his feed every few days as he's falling asleep and never reacts to anything.)

After two weeks of this unnerving silence Felix's determination to leave well enough crumples.

You're the one who's leaving, Sylvain had said. Except Felix never really left. He'd taken the parts of himself that were still his, and left behind the parts that belonged to someone else already. Try as he might, those parts were rooted too deep to carry away.

Felix:

You home?

 

Sylvain:

Only if you're the one asking

Sylvain had his own place earlier than any of them, as soon as the youth team started paying him real money. Felix can still picture that apartment, a shoebox in a convenient part of town, not much to it but always spotless.

The place he'd brought with his first professional paycheck had made Glenn snicker and call him a hipster with its big open spaces and sea views. It's nothing like the shoebox, except for how it's also sparkling clean, and the Sylvain who greets him at the door seems at ease in a way he seldom sees in the outside world. Warmth and strength and everything Felix's ever wanted.

Sylvain plucks Felix's beanie off with one hand and sets to fixing his hair with the other, ignoring Felix's feeble attempts at batting him off.

"Beanie and sunglasses, really? You're far too famous to be this bad at incognito. Anyone recognise you at the airport?"

"Dunno."

"There'll be rumours."

"I don't care."

Sylvain's sudden grin lights up his face. "It's good to see you."

Just Sylvain's eyes on him, lingering, just that makes heat spark up his spine, makes him think of those eyes on him half-lidded and ravenous as Felix took off his shirt, the Eivissa sun bright on his pale skin through plate glass. As if he hadn't seen the same thing a hundred times.

It's not the same, he'd said. Fuck, Felix, I can't believe you -

They didn't talk much, other than that. Maybe they should have.

Felix swallows. "How's the leg?"

Sylvain shrugs, leading the way into the apartment and dropping into a loose sprawl on the leather coach. He's at least moving smoothly.

"Who even knows. I get better, they let me back in training, I get worse. You know."

Felix hisses a breath out through his teeth. "You're always like this."

"What, unreliable?" Sylvain grins. "Stop looming over me, sit down."

Felix can loom and glare just as well sitting down. "No. Reckless. Take better care of yourself. Don't let them rush you back before you're ready."

It's easier said than done, he knows. Everything they get taught encourages the opposite. It's especially difficult for Sylvain, now, with the push to get him out of the Fhirdiad team, almost as if the situation's been especially designed to press on all his old wounds.

"It's the same old. I'm a screw up, good for nothing and I let down everyone who's ever depended on me, you know how it is," Sylvain says, right on cue.

"Stop that. I didn't come here to listen to you sprout bullshit," Felix says impatiently. "You're not good for nothing."

He might have hit Sylvain over the head, going by his pole-axed reaction. "Right. Right."

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

It's not at all the way he looks when he's flirting - Felix's seen enough of that. More like he's afraid Felix will disappear if he blinks too hard. It's unbearable.

"Get better," he says instead.

A flash of Sylvain's usual careless-bright smile. "I will."

*

Sylvain gets better and fights his way back into contention for a starting spot, but it takes him being announced as a starter for Fhirdiad in their home game against Enbarr for Felix to feel something that had been coiled tight inside him loosen, like he'd been holding his breath for months.

He doesn't make a habit of watching Fhirdiad play; too often he'll catch himself rooting for them and hating the instinct and not being able to stop. But it's easy enough to justify doing it for Sylvain. He's just checking in. Just to see how he's doing. It'll be more accurate than asking him and expecting a straight answer, the big liar.

Inevitably he spends the entire game tracking Sylvain by the mop of red hair visible from outer space and the way he runs, with his head up, like a hunting dog. Always in the right place, always trying something different, chipping away at Enbarr and probing for weakness. Waiting for the one slip that'll translate into opportunity.

Today it's scrappy, a corner and an in-swinging ball that Sylvain gets to before anybody else, and there's no contest here, no fighting it - Felix wants the ball to go in, as much as he's ever wanted anything. When it does he leaps off the couch, in time with Sylvain running over to the cornerflag, smiling into the camera.

He makes a 7 with his fingers. It looks fucking stupid, and Felix snorts even as his heart flips.

Idiot.

*

Of course the press ask Sylvain about it after the game.

"Can you tell us about your goal celebration?"

Sylvain laughs, not his usual insincere, sunny laugh, and says, "yeah, it's for my friend Felix."

"Oh, of course, Garreg Mach's no 7. Your old teammate."

"Yeah, he's from here but he's playing for United now and sometimes it just feels like he's so far away. It makes me feel closer to him to do things like this."

Over in Garreg Mach, Felix feels a pronounced sense of foreboding.

*

Garreg Mach haven't won a thing in the two years Felix's been there aside from plaudits for being entertaining, mostly in the good way and sometimes in the bad.

Felix grew up having it drummed into him that there was no such thing as individual glory, only the team. It's a nice sentiment. If it were true he wouldn't be suffering through mandatory attendance at an awards show.

Sylvain might've made it too if he hadn't had such a spectacularly disastrous start to the season. Dimitri's attending, of course; he'd been top scorer last season. He's suitably imposing in a severe black suit, or he would if he wasn't trying so hard to meld into the wall.

"Aw, you match. You two look like implausibly attractive mafia dons," Claude says, nevermind that he's wearing a massive gold and green Almyran scarf draped over his suit like a cape and looks like a visiting aristocrat. "I'll leave you to catch up."

He's gone before Felix can protest the idea that he'd ever want to be left alone with Dimitri. Going by the look on Dimitri's face they're at least agreed on that.

Dimitri eyes him like he's eyeing up a rabid animal that might bite.

"What."

"I'm sorry," Dimitri says gravely. "When I saw you were coming I tried to refuse the invitation. Gilbert didn't agree."

He means it, too, the noble idiot.

Felix snorts. "Next time just do what you want. Don't let anyone tell you what to do."

"Even you?" Dimitri asks wryly.

"No. You should listen to me."

It's probably too late for Dimitri, who grew up being fed stories about Fhirdiad and carefully shaped into the train wreck he became. But Felix's never been one to leave well enough alone.

Dimitri's entire face brightens. "Sylvain said - but I thought perhaps he was just saying it to console me - "

"He's right."

"Occasionally," Dimitri says, now grinning outright.

"Rarely."

"Felix, I - "

"Save it."

Felix narrows his eyes at Dimitri, praying he'll take a hint and stop talking. If he makes Dimitri shed so much as a tear in public he'll probably never be allowed back in Fhirdiad.

Fortunately a handler appears to drag Dimitri away, and the next person through the press gauntlet isn't a photographer but Ingrid, marching into the corridor in a spectacular white suit and the same stiff smile she's worn in every photo since they started taking photos of her.

Enbarr Women had an even better season than the men. Unlike Felix she's almost guaranteed to actually win something tonight.

"Congratulations," Felix says with an awkward wave.

"Felix!" He submits to her usual enthusiastic hug, her arms almost lifting him off the ground. "It's been too long. Answer your damn phone."

He deserves that. Especially this season, because he'd been afraid of what he'd blurt out to her. Not that he'd ever admit it.

"Who talks on the phone? Are you forty?"

Ingrid smacks him on the arm. "Don't be a dick."

"You've met me," Felix says.

Ingrid can't quite bite back a laugh at that, and he feels lighter in the few moments before her face sets again. "Actually, I should thank you. You were right, back in Fhirdiad. About me leaving."

Felix nods. "Is it what you thought?"

"Yeah. I'm happy. Are you?"

He's never been able to hide from those seafoam eyes. Felix opens his mouth with no idea of what's going to come out. "I - I don't know."

*

When I tell female colleagues I'm interviewing Gautier, it results in a barrage of suggestions. One of them tells me to look at his Instagram account. Most footballers' Instagram feeds are soothingly boring and predicable, full of platitudes and family photos. Most don't run their own accounts. Gautier's is an exception, an odd mix of selfies in various states of undress - I believe the term is thirst traps - and the occasional book and movie review. It's the account of a young man who happens to be an elite footballer in his spare time.

In person he's tall, strapping and disgustingly handsome. The woman who brings our drinks asks him to sign her shirt. He flashes that famous smile and I might as well not exist.

"Are you looking at the moment?" I feel obliged to ask.

"Usually am," he says. "I don't see any point in being shy about it."

There's a game on while we talk. Garreg Mach United is playing, with his friend Felix Fraldarius patrolling the right flank. Gautier's attention wanders away from the waitress and fixes on the TV.

His manager had told me he was a football nerd at heart. He laughs when I bring this up.

"You're going to ruin my image! Seriously, though. If I didn't like it I wouldn't be doing it."

"You're a big Felix Fraldarius fan?"

"Well, we're old friends. He stole my heart from the moment I met him."

"How do you think he's doing at GMU?"

"I'm really proud, you know? I always knew he could make it. If he'd stayed with us he'd be in the first team too."

He'd be a good fit for this Fhirdiad team, I suggest a little mischievously. Gautier brightens.

"Yeah, of course. Felix would do really well back here. I think we should try and sign him. Bring him home."

*

The photos that go with the splashy interview are just as bad. There's one of Sylvain's bare back, showing the spread wings tattooed across his shoulder blades. Another one with his shirt open to show the other tattoo, the one that says 'only the goddess can judge me' in High Adrestian.

Sylvain had gotten that one done in a drunken haze, and Felix fell over himself laughing when he finally saw it. Now he wonders what prompted it. Back then Sylvain had been angry too, just less visibly than Felix, and he'd channeled it into different things.

Felix isn't one for regrets or what-ifs, but sometimes he does wonder if the past few years might not have gone any better if he'd lost his nerve and stayed in Fhirdiad. If they'd have just drifted further and further apart, instead of being held together by Sylvain's sheer bloody-minded persistence, his refusal to give up on Felix.

Felix:

What are you doing?

 

Sylvain:

Being honest

Felix hits dial almost on autopilot.

"You're going to get in trouble, you idiot," he says, all in a rush.

The first thing he hears is Sylvain's laugh, familiar even on a tinny line. "Hi, Felix. Do you know what time it is?"

Felix rolls his eyes. "I know you sleep like clockwork. Don't try to change the topic. Are you trying to get in trouble?"

"I don't care," Sylvain says immediately. Then there's a pause, and his voice is different when he speaks again, softer. "Remember the promise we made when we were kids, about sticking together?"

Yeah, of course. You and me.

"Yeah, I remember," Felix says roughly.

"Me too," Sylvain says. "You don't have to say or do anything, all right? This is just me. Showing you what I mean."

Felix's too old to believe in promises made by stupid kids who had no idea about the kind of world they were stepping into. Especially after everything that's happened between them, the broken and hastily mended parts and the wounds still fresh.

Or he should be, anyway.

*

Felix only finds out that Glenn's shadowing Seteth for two weeks as part of his coaching course when Glenn shows up at Garreg Mach.

"Why on earth are you here? What's so great about Seteth?"

"Yes, why on earth would I choose something that means you have to tolerate my presence and do what I say for two weeks," Glenn grins.

He looks exactly the same as before, at least in full-length trousers, the same imposing presence that can easily fill a room or a goalmouth. Like nothing's changed. It's doing a number on Felix. Fortunately, he can argue with Glenn basically on auto-pilot.

"I don't have to do what you say. That's a lie."

"That's not what Seteth told me," Glenn says smugly.

Felix narrows his eyes. "I'm leaving to get away from you."

"Transfer window doesn't open for months."

I'm going to get a mysterious injury, Felix almost says. Thankfully his brain catches up in time and he clamps his mouth shut, horrified.

Glenn mistakes his silence for something a lot more serious; he drops the grin. "Is it really so bad? You'd think you ran away from home just to avoid me."

He still sounds like he could be joking, but Felix knows better. "I didn't."

"Then what? I know we were all hard on you - even dad gets that now - "

Felix snorts. He'll believe that when he sees it. "That's not it."

"No?"

"Not all of it. Dimitri - "

Glenn winces. He's always been the world's biggest Dimitri fanboy. It's maybe the most embarrassing thing about Felix's too-cool older brother. "But you're good now. Right?"

"None of your business," Felix says, but Glenn must read something off his face; his frown eases a notch, and the next thing Felix knows, he's being put in a headlock and Glenn's big oaf hands are vigorously ruffling his hair.

"Get off!"

"I'm your brother, everything is my business," Glenn says, shifting to avoid Felix's flailing arms. He's still got a massive reach advantage, the bastard.

"I'm going to hurt you," Felix says through gritted teeth, and Glenn finally turns the headlock into a hug that Felix reluctantly submits to.

"All right, all right. I'm not like dad, you know. I just want my brother to do well. Doesn't matter where or how. Life's too short."

*

[Instagram post by @Sylvain8Gautier of a photo of a framed Garreg Mach United shirt with FELIX 7 on the back]

Sylvain8Gautier Good luck to my friend Felix in the FFA cup final!!

TrueBlue3817 Wtf are you doing cheering for GMU scum

Sylvain8Gautier @TrueBlue3817 I'll cheer for whichever team Felix plays for until he comes back to Fhirdiad :)

Fhirdiad News @BoysInBlue Are you all seeing this on Gautier's Insta? Wouldn't mind Felix playing for us, but this isn't the way to go about it. Gilbert should have a word.

United We Stand @GMUWS The FFA should investigate Sylvain Gautier for tapping up Felix Fraldarius. RT if you agree!

*

Eventually some enterprising reporter catches Felix in the mixed zone before he can slip off.

"Felix, Sylvain Gautier said, and I quote, 'Felix would do really well back here. I think we should try and sign him. Bring him home.' He's been posting about you going back to Fhirdiad on his social media. Is he tapping you up? Has Cichol spoken to you about this?"

Felix's face does something utterly unacceptable and he mutters no comment and leaves before things get any more embarrassing.

*

YOU'LL WIN NOTHING WITH KIDS: THE PROBLEM WITH SETETH CICHOL'S YOUTH ARMY

The fact is, you win nothing with kids alone. The Fhirdiad of Rodrigue Fraldarius and Lambert Blaiddyd won because they had a blend of youth and experience. Every title-winning side needs balance, something that is in short supply at Garreg Mach.

Felix Fraldarius and Claude von Riegan may weave pretty patterns but the likes of Balthaus von Adalbrecht hardly convince at the back. They're fun to watch, there's no doubt about that, but it takes grit and solidarity to win trophies. The likes of Von Riegan the part-time footballer typifies the problems of this United team - all flash and no substance.

It doesn't help that the bigger vultures in the league are now circling their young stars, hoping to turn their heads. Neither Von Riegan nor Fraldarius have done anything to quell the constant swirl of transfer rumours.

*

Felix shoves the paper back at Claude. "I can't believe you read that garbage."

The problem with United is that the same pattern repeats over and over: they win a couple and get a head of steam up and then get sucker punched. No matter how many goals Felix scores there's no helping that, not when the defence collapses like a house of cards with the slightest provocation.

He doesn't see how that's got anything to do with age.

"I can't believe you don't. You're going to get asked about it."

"I don't do press."

"That's right, you run your mouth too much." Claude laughs at Felix's glare. "What? I'm just jealous you can get away with it. I can't open my mouth without three columns spontaneously appearing in the Herald back pages."

Felix's been around long enough to know that this is only a slight exaggeration of the truth. Just watching the circling vultures with their never-ending appetites and demands makes Felix nauseous. It's exactly the kind of thing he left Fhirdiad to escape.

"They'd find someone else to talk about if you left," he says. A part of him expects Seteth to materialise out of thin air and execute him on the spot for even daring to give voice to the idea. It even cracks Claude's cool, distant facade, his eyes going wide and flickering as if he's also expecting some form of divine retribution for entertaining the notion.

When nothing happens, Claude's shoulders visibly untense. Felix's annoyed to realise he'd tensed up too.

"Maybe I should. Do you think I'd be happier?"

Felix is surprised to realise that Claude seems to genuinely want to know. "Don't get your hopes up. Every club's the same. Different place, shame bullshit."

"You're breaking my heart," Claude says evenly, not even trying to sound like he means it. "Wasn't just asking for me. I always thought we were alike, you know. But maybe that's not true."

"What are you talking about."

"I go after what I want. Doesn't matter what anyone else thinks."

That's something Felix himself might have told Ingrid or Dimitri. But it's always been easier to say than to do.

"What makes you think I want anything else?"

"That reaction, for one. Wanting something better isn't a crime, Felix. That's just a lie they sell us to get us to behave."

"I thought I was the one making trouble today," Felix says, taken aback.

Claude smiles. "It's not trouble I want. It's change. Aren't you after the same thing?"

*

At Fhirdiad, they don't say that you should want better things for yourself. Humility, hard work and loyalty comes first, and the rest will follow. The most a player is allowed to want is to get better. No wonder, then, that all of them turned out the way they did.

They aren't supposed to want anything else and they especially aren't supposed to talk about it. Now Sylvain's gone and changed the rules on him. He's laying siege to Felix's defences with infinite patience, pushing forward inch by inch and just waiting for a breach, a gap for him to slip through. Or a surrender.

Felix:

Do you think Fhirdiad would have me back

 

Sylvain:

Yeah do you want me to talk to the boss

Felix are you serious

Just give me the word I'll make it happen

 

Felix:

I'm always serious

*

Felix leaves Garreg Mach like he arrived - without great fanfare or ceremony. It helps that Claude's taking up all the air trying to get a move away to Derdriu, and everyone's too busy yelling at him and calling him names to spend much time getting mad at Felix.

"You should send him a thank you note. Maybe some flowers," Sylvain says. "Imagine if all they had to talk about was whether you were coming here."

He keeps glancing at Felix and smiling, it's unnerving as hell. Like he's going to disappear if Sylvain looks away for too long.

"Whose fault is that? Half of Central Fodlan wants your head on a pike, you dick."

Sylvain's eyes flash. "I don't care. I would've sawed off my own leg if it brought you back. Nothing else matters. Do you get it now?"

They're in a windowless dungeon of a room deep in the bowels of Pride Park, waiting for Felix to sign his contract and smile (or more likely bare his teeth) for the cameras. Of course Sylvain would say something so crazy when it's not the time or the place.

The hope he'd tamped down painfully until it was mere embers flares bright, a flash of warmth in Felix's chest.

"But - you said - when we - you said it didn't have to mean anything."

"I was lying," Sylvain says to the floor, his voice very soft. "I do that sometimes because I'm a dick. And scared to death. I had no idea if was an experiment or if you'd hate me - "

Felix's breath catches. He's an idiot. They're both idiots.

"You're an idiot."

"Hey - "

Felix gets a handful of his hair, yanks his head down and kisses him. Sylvain's frozen for a long moment, and then he's kissing Felix back, eager and hungry like the first time, like he never wants to do anything else.

"I told you. I told you it'd always be you and me, how long ago? There is no one else."

Sylvain - grins, bright as the sun at noon. Like the day they'd met.

"Felix. Goddess, Felix. Is that - I'm an idiot."

"Yeah. You are," Felix agrees. "You're lucky I like you."

He can't quite catch his breath and the words come out soft, like a confession, the furthest thing from flippant. He can't bring himself to care.