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Tuesdays and Thursdays at 9:40 AM, plus or minus two minutes. Fridays around 8 AM, but he always takes it to-go. Sundays at 10:30 AM if you’re lucky, and in those lucky cases, he stays for three whole hours.

Sylvain loved Sundays. That’s because every few Sundays, Felix walks into Blue Lion Coffee Co., grabs his drink, and works at the second rightmost table from the wall for three whole hours. This pattern has been going on for a little over three months, at the start of the fall semester of Garreg Mach University. Blue Lions Coffee Co. was located just around the corner from campus, so pre-med student Sylvain felt pretty lucky to have secured a part-time job there. He wasn’t expecting to come across the man of his dreams while working as a barista, which is exactly what happened. That wasn’t in the job description.

There’s not much that Sylvain knew about Felix from his observations. The receipts didn’t even show his last name, so he remained mononymous, an added dash of mysteriousness. Sylvain knew how to prepare Felix’s drink with his eyes closed (yes, he actually attempted this) because of how frequently he visited. He knew that on Fridays, Felix takes his coffee to-go, and grabs a lid and cardboard sleeve from the stack at Sylvain’s counter, giving him a chance to admire him up close. But out of sight, of course. Whenever Felix was at his counter, he would hide in the space under the sink; from there, he still had a view.

And what a magnificent view it was. Beautiful brown eyes set against lustrous skin, skin that flushed pink in the cold winter air. A jawline and cheekbones that could slice Sylvain like an onion. He kept his dark hair in a messy, yet unfairly sexy knot, but if the universe decided to be nice to Sylvain that day, Felix wore it in a heavenly braid over his left shoulder. Oh, another great thing about Sundays: on Sundays, Felix wore his hair down, a little damp, and a little wavy from a morning shower. It was always tangled, and Sylvain wondered if Felix even owned a hairbrush. Sylvain could be his hairbrush. Whatever that even means.

Sylvain had many precautions in place to keep his crush a secret. The cafe bar had an assortment of espresso machines, blenders, and other contraptions, so the counters had high walls to ensure the machines didn’t fall to the floor in an expensive manner. Sylvain often used this to his advantage: should Felix look up at the bar, Sylvain could duck behind a wall before he was caught staring like the creep he was. In addition, Felix always placed his order about ten minutes in advance through their mobile order system. He’s an efficient man, a man who thinks ahead. Sylvain liked that in a man. He would make Felix’s drink (with utmost care and infallible devotion), leave it on the mobile order rack, and retreat back to his station before Felix walked into the cafe to pick it up. 

It had worked splendidly so far; Felix seemed to have no idea that Sylvain existed. However, the turkey had turned into a partridge and god did Sylvain want to be wifed up for the winter holiday season. He wanted to be wifed up so badly.  But there was only one person he wanted to snuggle in front of the fireplace he did not have. 

Sylvain slammed the frothing pitcher down on the counter. “I’m gonna do it. Gonna do it today.” He mumbled this to the espresso machine, white knuckles gripping the counter’s edge.

Ingrid rubbed at her eyes. “Gonna do what? Finally shut up for once?” 

It was 6:55 AM, and Ingrid was not a morning person. Working at a coffee shop wasn’t one of her greatest ideas, but the owner paid a dollar over minimum wage. It was more like fifty cents, because being Sylvain’s coworker cost her peace of mind.

Sylvain slid over to her spot at the cash register and grabbed her by the shoulders, a glint in his eye. “I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna shoot my shot.”

Ingrid squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. “Syl, whatever convoluted plan you have to get at that weasel boy, it’s not going to work.”

“He’s not a weasel, he’s immaculate,” Sylvain whined. “And who are you to tell me how to flirt? Do you know who you’re talking to?” He snapped his fingers and pointed up at his face, which was pulled up in a smirk.

“An insufferable whoremongerer?” Dedue chipped in, slipping out of the stock closet with a sack of coffee beans.

Annette looked up from her employee-gratuitous caramel frappe (the first of the five she will have during this shift). “I think he’s more like a serial womanizer.”

“Womanizer and maninizer, excuse you.” Sylvain twirled back to his station, hearing Dedue mumble something along the lines of ‘not even a real word’ under his breath. “And for your information, I have not dated a single person since I laid my eyes on Felix! Not one!”

“So, you’re really serious about this complete stranger?” Annette asked sarcastically. Sylvain nodded eagerly.

The stage was set, and the clock struck seven. Doors opened. Now all there was left to do was wait an entire hour until Felix graced their presences. Sylvain was naturally an anxious person, but this was another level. Every minute felt like an hour, each one spent pacing, drumming his fingers on the counter, or completely messing up someone’s order. And perspiring.

“So what’s your plan, sweaty?” Ingrid wiped his forehead with a bar towel. It was ten minutes til eight, and there was a ping from the register. A mobile order for a medium dirty chai, with no sweetener, from Felix. Just as expected.

Sylvain took Ingrid by the hand and waltzed her over to his station. “I’ll show you.”

There was a cup on the counter, presumably for Felix, already topped with foam. Sylvain looked extremely proud of himself, leaning confidently against the counter.

Ingrid raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. “Well?”

“Look inside the cup,” Sylvain said, not even trying to restrain his goofy grin. Ingrid hesitated, already knowing that whatever was inside that cup was going to be dreadfully embarrassing. Sylvain was bouncing up and down. “Go on! Look inside.”

Ingrid bowed her head and looked inside the cup. She grunted, as if she were about to say something, but instead heaved a great sigh. She stood up straight, eyes closed and fists balled at her side.

“Sylvain?” Ingrid muttered, “In the twenty-one years of life I have been granted on this earth, I have never met anyone as idiotic as you.”

There, in Felix’s cup, was Sylvain’s phone number, swirled into the latte art foam.

Sylvain threw his arms into the air. “Aw, come on! It’s genius. It’s legendary. It’s discreet and sneaky—”

“This is not discreet, Sylvain!” Ingrid barked, a little too loudly, judging by the disapproving raise of Dedue’s eyebrow. She hissed, “This is stupid.”

“I suppose you have a better idea, then?” Sylvain put his hands on his hips. Before Ingrid could retort, the cafe door opened, and Sylvain started hyperventilating once more.

“The cup—shh! Put the— put the cup,” Sylvain whispered frantically, eyes locked on Felix. Ingrid begrudgingly, yet gently, picked up the cup from Sylvain’s counter, and placed it on the mobile order rack at the other end of the bar. This was Sylvain’s cue to duck behind the counter and watch his brilliant plan unfold. 

Today Felix was clad in an indigo parka, and had his hair pulled into a long braid. Sylvain’s knees went weak. Felix strode over to the mobile order rack, skirted his eyes over the cup labels, and picked up his cup. Sylvain’s heart was pounding in his ears. At any second, Felix was going to look down at his cup and seal their destiny.

But Felix took one step after the other, still not glancing down at the foam. Another step, and another step, until he reached Sylvain’s station. He took a lid from the stack, clapped it onto the cup, took an enormous swig as he walked out the door, and officially ruined Sylvain’s life. After staring at the doorway, jaw on the floor, for a few minutes, Sylvain slowly turned around.

Ingrid was rubbing her temples. Annette had her hand clasped over her mouth, poorly stifling her laugh. Dedue didn’t even try to hide his smile. He just stood there, arms crossed, with a grin on his face, pleased to see Sylvain’s wings combust as he plummeted from the sky. 

Sylvain sighed and roughly rubbed his face. “Alright. I’m open to other ideas.”

“You’re still gonna keep going? After that trainwreck?” Annette pointed at the door, appalled.

“Of course I’m gonna keep going!” Sylvain stated, as if it were obvious. “I want that guy! I want to take that guy by the hand and bring him to my family holiday dinner! I wanna cuddle that guy in front of my fireplace with George Michael blasting from my laptop speakers!” He was yelling now, and repeatedly jabbing his finger toward the door to emphasize his point.

“You hate your family. And you don’t have a fireplace,” Dedue countered. “It sounds like a Hallmark movie.”

Sylvain groaned. “It’s a metaphor!” It really wasn’t. “Anyways, I know you cynics had other ideas, and I need them now. It is my most desperate hour.”

“Every week you have a ‘most desperate hour,’” Ingrid sighed. “Whatever. Syl, if you legitimately can’t figure this one out, I’m going to clown on you for the rest of your miserable life.”

“Ingrid, please please please tell me whatever that big beautiful brain of yours is thinking.”

Dedue’s eyes widened. “You really can’t figure out a more effective way to communicate with Felix other than putting your phone number in his latte art?”

“Can we give him a hint?” Annette leaned into Ingrid.

“No. He’s a big boy.” Ingrid sneered, her arms crossed. Sylvain began to rip his hair out.

“Guys, I am begging—”

“My god. Sylvain. Write your phone number on the cup.” Ingrid gritted.

—

It was Thursday morning, a week after the latte art debacle, because Sylvain’s ego needed to recuperate. It was ten minutes until Felix’s arrival, and Sylvain was filling up a cup with his phone number scrawled on it. There was no way Felix could miss it: big black Sharpie in Sylvain’s obnoxiously loopy handwriting. It spanned half the cup. There was absolutely no way this could fail.

“There is absolutely no way this can fail,” Sylvain announced haughtily.

“I can think of one way,” Dedue said. Sylvain looked puzzled. Dedue continued. “Rejection.”

Sylvain knew that, but hadn’t wanted to admit it out loud. He knew that a rejection was more likely than not. Normally, he’d be okay with it. He was used to people not liking him, giving up on him, and then leaving him. His personality was sort of like a reverse gravitational pull. In fact, maybe an outright rejection would be the better outcome. Felix might just leave in the end as well, and that would hurt less the earlier it happened.

Two minutes until showtime, and Sylvain’s heart was in a duel. He could easily remake Felix’s drink. Or, even simpler, pour the current drink into a new cup; it’ll mess up the foam, but it was made very clear last week that Felix did not care about foam. 

Then again, this was his only shot. Winter recess was approaching quickly, and Felix may never show up at the cafe again after it. Sylvain walked up to the rack, took a deep breath, and put down Felix’s drink, phone number and all. As expected, the man himself came through the door and grabbed his drink. For a moment, Sylvain lingered by the rack, just taking in the sight of him. Sometimes the fear of failure is worth the prospect of victory.

The four baristas stood shoulder to shoulder, peeking over the counter. Felix walked to his usual table, sat down, and opened his laptop. He went to pick up his cup from the table, but froze. He stared blankly at the cup. Suddenly, he lifted his head and stared straight at the bar. The baristas split.

“Play it cool, play it cool,” Ingrid whispered, as she feigned typing on the register. Sylvain waited a few minutes, wiping the milk frother, before risking a glance up. 

Felix was typing on his laptop, sipping his coffee, as if nothing had happened. Just like any other day. He did this for the duration of his visit, up until he stood to leave, throwing the cup in the trash. 

Well, at least Sylvain tried. He was sure that the pain would fully register tonight.

The sun hung low in the sky as the final customer exited the cafe. Annette shut the door, leaning her back against it for a second. There was a sad pout on her face. “I’m sorry, Syl.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Sylvain laughed. “He’s just a guy. Happens all the time.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been pining over him for months.” Annette hopped up to sit on a table, but Dedue gently picked her up and placed her on back her feet before he flipped the chairs on top of it, so Ingrid could mop without obstacles. 

“I think the best plan of action is to try and get your mind off of it,” he murmured, brow furrowed in concentration. “Is there anything going on tonight that we can take Sylvain to?”

Sylvain huffed. “Guys, c’mon. I’m perfectly fine! You don’t have to—” 

“Don’t have to what? Don’t have to keep you from going home and crying your eyes out on the couch for the next few weeks?” Ingrid asked. “We’re going out tonight, and you don’t have a choice. Because we love you.”

Sylvain might not even make it to his couch to cry, because he was feeling pretty teary at that very moment. 

“Aw, you guys…” He opened his arms wide, and they all closed in for a group hug. Although he couldn’t win Felix over, he always had his friends to support him, an even greater prize.

“Alrighty then,” Sylvain mumbled into someone’s shoulder, “Where are we going?”

—

It’s December. You know exactly where they’re going.

“You know, this really isn’t fair,” Ingrid called from a bench. “A three-to-one vote is outrageously unfair when there’s only four of us. Oversampling!”

Dedue tucked in the laces of his skates. “Who knows? You might encounter a horse out there.”

“There are no horses on frozen lakes!” She complained. “And stop associating me with horses! I have other hobbies, you know.”

“Yeah, like falling on your ass on the ice,” Sylvain muttered, making Annette giggle behind her glove. Ingrid glared at him, dragging a finger across her throat. He expertly glided to the edge of the ice, taking her by the hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. We’ll take it slow.” He smiled as she apprehensively clunked onto the ice. Despite the constant bickering, Ingrid and Sylvain’s love for eachother always triumphed in the end.

The four baristas varied in ice skating prowess. Ingrid was, without a doubt, the worst, maneuvering the ice centimeter by centimeter. When they all went ice skating last winter, Ingrid had somehow gotten herself stranded in the center of the frozen pond, and it took two hours to get her back. Dedue was perfectly fine at ice skating, his technique sound and meticulous. The problem was that he was huge. The bigger you are, the more momentum you gain, and before you know it there's a stack of ten felled skaters with a Dedue on top. Annette was highly dangerous, but somehow she’s let back on the ice every time. She skated like a bird of prey, but one that always slammed head-first into the ground. 

That left Sylvain, who was on a figure skating team as a child, in accordance to his mom’s wishes after she had watched a very riveting Winter Olympics performance on TV. Few knew this, and Sylvain much preferred it that way; he would rather help his friends learn the ropes than show off like a prick, despite the narcissistic persona he parades around. Still, he couldn’t completely hide his talent, because his friends hype him up and coerce him into doing cool tricks every time. He secretly enjoys it. Just a little.

The rink was a vast lake, shallow enough to freeze over quickly and evenly. Alpines dusted with snow hugged the perimeter, save for a clearing that gave a breathtaking view of the mountain range, stark and bright against the evening sky. There was a wooden deck a little ways away from the lake, which housed the skate rental booth and a snack bar, along with some benches, tables, and lamp posts. Many of Sylvain’s favorite college memories took place at this lake.

Sylvain slowly guided Ingrid along the edges of the rink, teaching her how to push herself forward on the ice, while Annette wormed out of Dedue’s grip and set off to cause problems for everyone else. 

“You know,” Ingrid started, “this isn’t the first time you’ve downplayed your skills.”

Sylvain laughed. “Okay, fine. I am a competent ice skater.”

“No, not just with ice skating. I mean everything else.” Ingrid sighed, looking up at Sylvain with concern. “Why do you always think so little of yourself?”

He didn’t answer, so the two stopped to lean against the perimeter barricade. He pursed his lips. “My motto is ‘set people’s expectations as low as possible, so they are always pleasantly surprised.’”

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Syl, that’s messed up. If you have the potential, then you should be using it for—”

“See, that’s what I don’t understand,” Sylvain interrupted. “You’re always so bent on doing what’s right. Overextending yourself. You do it a lot, and it worries me, because I can tell that it exhausts you. Sometimes you need to put yourself first, Ingrid, even if it makes people hate you.”

“Yeah, but the thing is you’re actively trying to make people hate you, Syl. You’re putting yourself last.”

They sat with that for a while, Ingrid staring at the mountains, Sylvain biting his lip. Ingrid spoke up. “Look, I’m sorry I got into this, especially on a night that’s supposed to make you happy. I just…I love you a lot, and I want you to love yourself too. Is that too much to ask?”

Sylvain smiled, his eyes crinkling. “I feel the same about you.” He leaned in with open arms, but Ingrid scuttled away, fearful of losing her balance in one of Sylvain’s famous bear hugs. Sylvain pouted, but began to guide Ingrid along the ice once more. After a lap around the rink, Dedue suddenly materialized at their side, so silently and sneakily that Sylvain nearly yelped when he spoke up.

“Let’s go eat.”

Ingrid and Sylvain stared at him, aghast. “Are you kidding me? We’ve only been out here for, what, fifteen minutes?” Sylvain laughed incredulously.

Annette popped up behind Dedue, and this time Sylvain really did yelp. “No, I agree. We should go eat.” For some odd reason, both her and Dedue’s eyes were wide with what seemed to be panic, and their shoulders were tense.

Ingrid scooted to their side to bump them on the hip. “C’mon, don’t you think it’s too early to—” She abruptly fell silent, and the color drained from her cheeks, adopting the same stance as the other two.

“Yeah. Let’s go eat,” she stated.

“What the actual—” Sylvain made to turn away back toward the rink, but was immediately gripped by three pairs of hands, each owner exclaiming “NO!” in unison.

Dedue grabbed Sylvain by the elbow and started to glide him to the rink exit. “Let’s all have a nice, stress-free snack at—”

“Okay, now you guys are being really weird,” Sylvain muttered, shaking out of Dedue’s grip. He spun around, everyone gasping in terror, and saw exactly what the others were trying to prevent him from seeing. It made Sylvain really, really want to leave the rink and eat. Or leave the planet completely.  

There, a few yards away, was Felix, coolly leaning back against the barricade, like the sexy motherfucker he was. He was chatting away with three others: two guys, and a girl. The first thought that popped in Sylvain’s head was whether any of them were his significant other, but then he remembered that he’s supposed to feel shocked and terrified first. Jealousy can come back out and play in ten to twenty minutes.

“I, uh...um...I— food,” Sylvain managed to string together a few noises, but the crew was already dragging him backwards by the elbow, hobbling as quickly as they could to the snack bar.

—

“Why? Why? Why does every single higher power in this universe want me to suffer?” Sylvain solemnly shoveled chili fries into his mouth.

“Aw, Syl,” Annette patted his arm from across the splintering picnic table. “The world doesn’t really hate you!”

“Well, I hate the world,” he uttered bitterly. “Also, this was supposed to be my distraction after he clawed my heart to shreds! This is a bad distraction! This is...it’s assurance!” He pounded his fist on the table to punctuate his point, causing the plastic silverware to dance.

Ingrid mumbled, “We could just leave.” Everyone shot her a mean look. They came to ice skate, and they will ice skate. 

“We’ll simply keep to the side of the rink opposite him,” Dedue stated. He sipped his tea. “Should be easy. It’s a large rink.”

Sylvain was vibrating with so much nervous energy that Ingrid clapped her hand on his shoulder to still him. “It’s fine, Syl. He probably won’t even notice you’re here.”

“Oh yeah, that makes me feel loads better,” Sylvain whined, collapsing to the table like the drama queen he was. After a minute of moping, he sighed, inhaled the rest of his fries, and stood confidently. “Alright. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it now before I start sobbing and back out.” The team cheered, and made their way back to the lake.

Sylvain busied himself with attempting to teach Annette the thing she saw Nathan Chen do at the Pyeongchang Olympics. He tried to tell her it was quite challenging (his way of saying downright impossible) to learn how to do a lutz, let alone without years of practice, if you skated like she did. Like a maniac.

“We can start by learning how to glide backwards,” Sylvain said, holding her hand as they began a steady pace.

“Syl, that’s boring,” she huffed. “Just do the thing and I’ll copy you!”

He tried to retort, but her tiny frame adopted its alpha stance. Sylvain sighed, and started his wide loop, Annette watching eagerly from the center. After building enough momentum, Sylvain took a deep breath, reached back, and vaulted up from his right foot. He managed three tight spins before landing cleanly. A triple lutz.

Annette clapped and hooted loudly, as if Sylvain were an Olympic competitor himself. He felt his cheeks flush. The warm bashfulness didn’t last, however, because as their lesson continued, it became less and less about guiding Annette through the concepts, and more and more of Annette forcing him to perform the jump over, and over, and over again. When Sylvain was starting to feel really sore, he began to think that Annette hadn’t even wanted to learn anything in the first place. She just wanted to watch him do cool tricks, like a pony. Ingrid was wrong: there were indeed horses at the lake.

The repeated long strides that the move required had caused the two to traverse the entire length of the rink. After an extremely laborious lutz (barely two rotations), Sylvain bent over with his hands on his knees, still gliding. “Annie, I’m starting to think that—”

Annette screamed, and before Sylvain could react, an unknown force plowed into his side, knocking the wind out of him. He skidded a few yards until the weight of his assailant smashed him into the barricade, where Sylvain then proceeded to fall on his ass. 

Blinking the stars out of his eyes, he hadn’t even noticed that there was a person lying on top of him, gloved hands pressed against the barricade behind either side of Sylvain’s head. 

“Shit. I’m so sorry…” a voice uttered, a little bit raspy.

“Nah, don’t even worry about it. I always crash into…” Sylvain trailed off after he lifted his chin, looking at his company’s face.

Wow. Sylvain thought that you had to commit manslaughter in order to deserve karma this awful.

“Uh...uh...I uh,” Sylvain sputtered as Felix’s eyes stared into his own, just inches away. His angular features were blanketed in a bright red flush, and wisps of hair, pulled loose from his ponytail, hung over his face. The cold air made his breath visible in short puffs. They sat there for who knows how long, enraptured, until Felix became aware of the fact that he was sitting in Sylvain’s lap, boxing him in with his arms.

Felix scampered off of Sylvain, sliding off a little to the side. “Sorry. I was, uh, distracted. By my thoughts,” he blurted, speaking a little too quickly.

Sylvain hadn’t yet broken from his reverie, so he continued to sit there, staring at Felix as if he were the eighth wonder of the world. He could be. Felix cleared his throat, and Sylvain became competent. 

“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine,” he panted. This was a confusing situation, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do next, so he went with the basics. “I’m Sylvain.”

He held out his hand, which Felix considered for a bit before shaking. “I’m Felix,” he mumbled, his brow furrowed. “You look familiar.”

Okay, an extremely confusing situation. How could Felix not recognize him, when he trashed his phone number literally just hours ago? Was Sylvain really just that mundane-looking? Forgettable?

“Huh. I feel like I’ve seen you around somewhere too.” The understatement of the millenium. At this, Sylvain heard a faint giggle from his left, which was immediately stifled and followed by a shush. Out of the corner of his eye, Sylvain noticed three figures huddled together, whispering. One tall, one medium-height, and one short. Like coffee cup sizes. Those brats.

Sylvain pushed himself up to his feet, and extended his hand. “Need a lift?”

Felix looked up and scowled. “No.” He made to stand, but toppled back down like a baby deer. He turned an even brighter shade of red. 

“...Yes,” Felix muttered reluctantly. He reached up and grasped Sylvain’s hand, who then pulled him to his feet. That’s when Sylvain realized that Felix was a little shorter than him, the top of his head just below his eye level. Felix had to tilt his head up to meet his gaze, and Sylvain was ready to melt into the ice and be claimed by the lake.

Well, there was only one way to go in this interaction. “Uh, my friends are over there, so I’m gonna…” But before Sylvain finished, he realized that his friends had disappeared, and were nowhere to be found. Man. Those wenches definitely did that on purpose. 

“...Well, never mind. They seem to have ditched me,” he continued. How awkward. Sylvain tried to act chill, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning against the barricade. 

Felix scanned the lake from beneath his dark lashes. “Can’t find mine either. Guess that makes two of us.” 

Oh god. Felix just said ‘us’. There was an ‘us’ now. 

Before Sylvain could combust, Felix continued, “I saw them leave the ice when I crashed into you. I think they went to the food thing. They probably think I went to the bathroom, or something.” Felix kept his eyes downcast, and his arms tightly crossed. Sylvain wondered if he was cold; Felix was wearing at least three different jackets, and didn’t have much body fat, if any. Not that Sylvain ever looked at Felix’s body, anyway.

This turn of events opened a new door, and Sylvain wasn’t sure if the destination was going to be wonderful or disastrous. Still, he had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

“My buddies might be over there too, actually. Do you want to head over together?” Sylvain suggested, as casually as possible, considering his brain was screeching.

Felix blinked a few times. “Yeah, sure. But I, uh…” he bit his lip and turned red again, looking to the side. After a few moments, he mumbled, “I’m...not very, uh, good. At...uh,” Felix waved his hands in the general direction of the rink exit.

For a second, Sylvain stood there, perplexed, but smiled warmly when he understood. “Don’t worry, I’m a reasonably mediocre skater. I’ve got you.” He extended his hand once more, and this time Felix was less hesitant to accept it. Felix was a bit shaky, but they glided over without incident. 

Upon arriving at the deck, Felix groaned. “Nope, they’re not here. They’re definitely hiding from me.”

“Why would they be hiding from you?” Sylvain asked.

Felix’s eyes widened, then narrowed in yet another scowl. “...No reason,” he muttered, twiddling his thumbs. Sylvain was glad that his friends were not the only ones with an ulterior motive. 

“Well, since we can’t do anything but wait them out, do you want to grab something to eat?” Sylvain nodded his head in the direction of the snack bar, and Felix conceded. Felix ordered chili cheese fries (clearly a man of good taste, but Sylvain was lactose intolerant, and would opt out from cheese), and Sylvain got a cup of coffee.

“Coffee? At seven in the evening?” Felix asked incredulously, as they sat across from each other at a table.

Uh oh. Coffee was dangerous conversation territory. Proceed with caution. 

Sylvain nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I drink a lot of coffee. Probably two cups a day, seven days a week.” He poured an unreasonable deluge of sugar into his cup, and Felix grimaced. Sylvain laughed. “What? You don’t like sweet stuff?”

“No. It’s disgusting,” Felix said, and Sylvain gasped. He knew this of course, because he made Felix’s sugarless drinks every week. Still, he wanted to be careful not to show that, for the past three months, he had obsessed over every single one of Felix’s traits that were perceivable by the human eye.

He failed immediately upon asking his next question. “I’m surprised you said you weren’t good at skating,” Sylvain said, stirring his coffee. “You seem athletic, and that usually translates well to that sort of thing.

Felix squinted. “How would you know that I’m athletic? I’m wearing three layers of clothing. I could easily be a pile of bones.”

Once, Felix came into the cafe from what seemed to be a workout, wearing a loose band t-shirt, with the sleeves removed and cut-open sides. Sylvain saw those deltoids and abs in his sleep for weeks. 

Damn. Sylvain desperately tried to cushion his fall. “It was, uh, just an assumption. You’re...wearing gloves that say Adidas on them.”

Terrible. Absolutely abysmal. However, it was good enough. “Oh yeah. These are my goalie gloves,” Felix said, turning his hand over a few times. “I don’t play that position anymore, but the gloves are padded, and I thought they’d be good for when I inevitably busted my ass on the ice.”

Sylvain couldn’t help but laugh at that, and he caught the tiniest smile on Felix’s face. At that moment, he realized that he had never seen Felix smile before. 

“So I was right, you are an athlete,” Sylvain said proudly, at which Felix scoffed.

“Yeah, okay, fine. You win,” Felix laughed dryly. “It’s irritating, though; I thought ice skating would be easier, since soccer is all in the footwork.”

Sylvain shrugged. “Ice skating is still super hard, regardless.” 

Felix was now glaring at him, so Sylvain recoiled. “What? What’d I do?”

“‘I’m a reasonably mediocre ice skater,’” Felix made air quotes with his fingers, but they didn’t really work since his gloves were so stiff. It just looked like he was making two peace signs.

“Hey, I’m just being honest!” Sylvain sputtered.

“Come on. I saw you doing the spinny things with...that girl.” 

“Oh, so you were watching me?” Sylvain smirked, leaning forward.

The furious blushing had returned to Felix’s face. “No,” he spat, “you were just obnoxiously taking up the entire rink. It was impossible not to notice you.”

Warmth bloomed in Sylvain’s heart, which in turn started to pump a little faster. Felix had noticed he was there. In your face, Ingrid. Either way, that didn’t answer the overarching question of how Felix had blatantly rejected Sylvain at the cafe, but was now smiling shyly as Sylvain started to steal some of his fries. 

“If you let me take you out onto the rink, I can show you how to do those ‘spinny things,’” Sylvain suggested. Felix turned even redder.

“It’s not my fault that I don’t know what they’re actually called. And I can barely skate in a straight line. That looked like it took years of practice.”

Sylvain stood abruptly, an excited glint in his eye. “Well, there’s no better time to learn than the present, eh? Come on!” 

He jogged away excitedly, stopping to wave his arm, beckoning Felix to follow. For a moment, Felix stayed seated. Then, he began to laugh, and he stood up to run after him.

—

The rink was scarcely populated now as the evening transitioned to dusk. The sky was a rich purple, with a sliver of bright orange beyond the mountains, the final hurrah of the sunset. Sylvain slid over the ice, offering his elbow as Felix scooted his way on.

They made their way to the barricade, facing the center of the rink. Sylvain clapped his gloved hands together. “Okay, you said you know how to skate in a straight line, so I’m going to teach you how to turn. Example!” 

Sylvain pushed himself off the wall, glided in a pin straight line, then made a tight curve in the direction he came, stopping on a dime. Felix gave a long, sarcastic wow as Sylvain bowed exaggeratedly. However, Felix’s unamusement transformed into panic when Sylvain pulled him, hands on both shoulders, off of the barricade.

“This is a terrible idea,” Felix concluded, his eyes darting frantically.

“A terribly wonderful idea,” Sylvain said goofily, making Felix groan. The two were stanced so that they faced each other. This was because Felix could simply look down and imitate the inverse of Sylvain’s footwork, and not because Sylvain wanted to spend every waking moment looking at Felix’s face. And definitely not because it gave Sylvain an excuse to have one hand entwined with Felix’s, and the other on his waist.

Sylvain guided Felix through the ins and outs of turning, skating across the entire rink as they made loop after loop. Felix was a quick learner: after only a few snakes around the rink, he was already carving through the ice like a pro, matching Sylvain’s strides with ease.

“Felix, you’re doing wonderfully!” Sylvain beamed.

“Shut up,” Felix mumbled, bashfully turning his head away. However, Sylvain swore he felt Felix grip his arm a little tighter. 

“So mean!” Sylvain pouted. “Now let’s see you do it on your own!” At that, Sylvain released Felix, who was now gliding all by himself.

“Wait, wha—shit, Sylvain!” Felix exclaimed angrily. Regardless, the sound of his name coming from Felix’s lips made Sylvain swoon.

He called out after him. “Don’t worry! Just turn and come back, I know you can do it!”

This was quite a dick move, but Sylvain was absolutely positive that Felix was capable of turning on his own. Just before the barricade, Felix took a deep breath, and swept around in a full 180 degree turn. Sylvain pumped his fists in the air, cheering, and Felix was failing to suppress his smile. He continued to glide back at full speed, and Sylvain waited for him to stop, until he realized it was completely intentional. Felix crashed into him, less gracefully than his turn had been, and the two collapsed against each other in laughter.

“You’re acting like I just did a backflip or something,” Felix stuttered between his laughs, a shining grin on his face. “Either way, I didn’t think I could do it.”

As if on instinct, Sylvain brushed a lock of hair from Felix’s face, tucking it behind his ear. “Hey, it took me weeks to learn how to turn. You only needed, what, fifteen minutes? Yuzuru Hanyu is quaking in his skates right now.” 

That got Felix laughing even harder, and Sylvain was enraptured. For a split second, he forgot all about the rejection, the confusion, the anxiety. In this moment, where he had his arms wrapped around Felix, watching him laugh with unrestrained glee, Sylvain knew that all of those months of pining weren’t wasted. This moment, albeit short, was more than worth it. 

The two spent the rest of the hour gliding across the ice, embraced as if it were a dance. Sylvain did manage to twirl Felix once, but got yelled at afterward. As they talked, and skated, and talked some more, Sylvain was shocked at how natural it felt to talk to Felix, to be with Felix, despite having just met (sorta). He couldn’t help the pang in his heart when he imagined being able to have Felix like this every day.

“Sylvaaaaaain! Get over here!” bellowed a woman’s voice. He turned to look in its direction, and saw Ingrid, Dedue, and Annette at the other end of the rink. They were squatting, and Annette was holding her ankle.

“Oh, crap. I…” Sylvain’s head snapped back to Felix. His expression was puzzled, maybe even expectant, but he nodded quickly in understanding. Sylvain sighed in relief. “Thanks. I’ll be back in a few!” He skated backwards, waving goofily, watching Felix’s figure grow smaller as their distance widened.

Annette’s eyes shone with excitement. “Oh my god, Sylvain! Sylvain! You two were—”

“Hold up, before you continue, let’s size you up first.” Sylvain cracked his knuckles, activating his pre-med powers, while Annette continued to babble. “I even took pictures of you guys!”

Ingrid interrupted, “she fell when she was making fun of your double-double animal style twist jump, or whatever it’s called. We think it’s just sprained, but you know more than we do.”

“I’m flattered.” Sylvain fluttered his eyelashes at her. “Anyways, where did you guys go? There’s literally nowhere to hide around here except the forest, and I know Annette wouldn’t be caught dead in there.”

“We went to Taco Bell. Felix’s friends were there too,” Dedue said, rubbing his chin. “All three of them gave me their phone numbers, strangely. Not sure why.”

Sylvain’s jaw dropped. “Taco Bell? You guys actually drove off and left me here? What if I had died?”

“Well, you would’ve died happy.” Ingrid wriggled her eyebrows.

Sylvain made an exaggerated frown. “Not funny. Anyways, yeah, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just sprained, but you still shouldn’t walk on it.” He hoisted Annette up, carrying her bridal style. “No more ice skating for you, princess.”

“Oh, thank you, big and strong Sylvain. I don’t know what I would do without you,” she deadpanned, the four stepping off the ice. 

Sylvain handed her over to Dedue, who settled for a more effective piggyback ride. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta exchange phone numbers with my soulmate, once and for all.”

Unfortunately, when Sylvain turned to the rink, it was empty. They quickly scanned the deck, but Felix was nowhere to be found. Everyone turned to look at Sylvain, their eyes filled with remorse. Sylvain stood there with a blank face, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked to the car.

—

“I am completely, utterly perplexed. Dumbfounded. Bamboozled, even. I am simply lost at sea.”

“Overcompensating with your obnoxiously large vocabulary just makes you more annoying,” Ingrid said, taking a swig of beer.

It was eleven at night, and the gang was sprawled on the floor of Dedue’s apartment, very inebriated. Well, everyone except Dedue, because Dedue was indestructible. Also, he was cooking, and thus was too busy to participate in such tomfoolery. 

“He just left me, Ingrid!” Sylvain whined, and climbed up onto the couch. “He left me at the altar!” 

“His buddies probably just wanted to go home!” Annette said. She was splayed out on a beanbag. “Who even is this guy, anyways?”

“FELIX! Feeeeelix. You know who he is. God, Felix…” Sylvain was about to start crying, plastered out of his mind. He laid across the couch and covered his face with his hands.

Annette huffed, “no, I know who he is, but, I don’t know, like, who he is.” 

It didn’t make sense in the slightest, but through some convoluted telepathy, Ingrid understood, and pointed her finger at Annette. “I get it. I get it. Take out your phone. Sylvain, tell us absolutely everything you know about Felix.”

Sylvain was actually crying now. “Wh-why? I’m never gonna see him again,” he sobbed, as if Felix did not come into the cafe he worked at three times a week. Nonetheless, Annette and Ingrid combined their already-paralyzing glares, and Sylvain started rambling.

“His name is Felix, and he is a small man with brown eyes, so beautiful, a-and long black hair that looks kinda blue in the cafe lighting, and it’s so pretty, and it’s always so tangled—”

  Annette sighed exasperatedly. “Not that kind of information. We need cold, hard facts, buddy.” She shook her phone with every syllable.

“Why are you doing this? Why? To make me sad? So sad…” He began to cry even harder, flipping himself over (with his jacket under his face; even while drunk, Sylvain was polite, and he didn’t want to drench Dedue’s couch with his tears).

Ingrid rose and sat on Sylvain’s back, who let out a big fat oof. She tapped away at her phone. “Nope, nothing,” she announced. “I can’t find his Instagram.” Sylvain’s oof turned into an ohhhh.

“I understand. My brain is so big right now. He plays soccer, which he needs gloves for, for some reason...and he dresses really cool, he’s so cool...his muscles are big...t-they’re so big…”

“Spiraling. You’re spiraling again,” Ingrid slapped his cheek repeatedly, but it didn’t matter because Sylvain was, you guessed it, crying again. His sobs sounded so fake, but Sylvain’s genuine cries were just naturally that dramatic, just like everything else he did.

Annette groaned loudly, and flung her phone. It landed two inches away from Dedue’s cat’s litter box. “It’s no use,” she cried. “I tried every username possible! @felix, @felixsoccer, @felixlikessoccer, @felixlikessoccerandmymusclesaresobig—”

“I just don’t think he has any social media. Some people are like that,” Ingrid spoke over Sylvain dreamily mumbling “he’s so mysterious, he’s not like other b—” 

Dedue’s voice called from the kitchen. “His full athlete’s profile is on the GMU soccer team website,” and the three drunks started screaming. They huddled around Annette and stared down at her phone while Dedue massaged his temples. 

“You’re a genius, Dedue. How did ya even find this?” Annette gaped.

With a pot of cioppino and a bundle of utensils in his arms, Dedue entered the room. “You said he played soccer, so I assumed he was on a team. Seeing as he comes to the cafe frequently, and the cafe is close to GMU, I looked at the GMU soccer team’s website. His profile was featured on the front page.”

Everyone stared at him, their jaws on the floor. Dedue sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It took me ten seconds, at the most.”

Before they could bow and kiss Dedue’s feet, Annette exclaimed, “I got it! I found the page!”

On her phone was a terribly formatted webpage with a brief biography, oodles of game statistics, and, most importantly, his portrait. While Sylvain was busy sniffling and stroking the screen, Dedue snatched up all of the bottles of alcohol and hid them away in the kitchen. Nonetheless, just because the other three were hereby banned from alcohol, didn’t mean that Dedue was. He popped open a cider, downed it like a legend, and then knelt down to look at Annette’s screen with the others.

“Felix H. Fraldarius,” he read aloud, “Center midfielder. Awarded Midfielder Of The Year 2018. Started in all GMU matches his first year—”

“Cut the boring crap, where’s the juice?” Annette scrolled frantically. “Ooh, here’s something! ‘Pursuing a bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering’...did you hear that Syl? You guys are going to be rich as hell, a doctor and an engineer!”

But Sylvain wasn’t listening, and was lying on his back, limbs stretched like a starfish.

“It doesn’t matter…’s no use,” he slurred. “He doesn’t want me.”

Ingrid threw her head back and groaned loudly. “Are you still on about the phone number thing? You guys were all over each other earlier!”

“Just talk to him the next time you see him at the cafe,” Dedue suggested, but Sylvain shook his head vigorously.

“But what if at the cafe he looks at me and realizes it’s me from the ice rink but now I’m the me from the cafe who he rejected and doesn’t like me again because I’m the me from the cafe?”

Ingrid looked ready to wring his neck. “Sylvain. They’re all the same person.”

“Well not to him, apparently!” He flung his arms into the air. “One day he’s throwing my phone number in the garbage, the next day he’s talking to me about spinny things and his feet as I hold him in my arms…”

“Okay, if you’re not going to talk to him, you can at least try the phone number thing again,” Ingrid grumbled as she crawled around on the floor, peeking under furniture. She had finally noticed that her drink was missing.

“It’s pointless. I already tried, and he didn’t want me. I’m ruined! I’m ruined!” Sylvain rolled over and yelled into the carpet. Dedue rubbed his back.

Annette asked, “are you absolutely sure that you wrote the right phone number on the cup?”

“Yes! I wrote my phone number, no more, no less! It doesn’t matter, he’d have thrown it out anyway.”  

Everyone fell silent, save for Sylvain. “What? Why is everyone looking at me? Am I really that ugly?”

“Sylvain, are you saying that all you wrote on the cup was a phone number?” Dedue murmured into his clasped hands. Sylvain nodded heavily. Again with the telepathy: there was an unspoken thought in the air, and Sylvain couldn’t grasp it.

Dedue continued, as softly as before. “Sylvain, how many baristas work at the Blue Lion Coffee Company?”

Sylvain scoffed. “Six. C’mon, I’m not stupid.” 

He was stupid, and he was drunk. “Wait, I mean five. Four. Four? Whatever, I don’t see—oh.” The wave of understanding was more like a sixteen-wheeler filled with bricks. “Oh.”

—

Friday morning, 7:57 AM. A cup of dirty chai with no sweetener. On the cup, Sylvain’s phone number, and this time, a message that pointed out which damn barista wrote it. ‘The Redhead’, with a heart next to it, because Sylvain was a flirt.

The whole barista crew was on edge with anticipation, but Sylvain was feeling good. Nervous, but not as nervous as before; there was absolutely, positively, no way Felix could misinterpret this one, so Sylvain should finally get his answer. If it didn’t go well, then it didn’t, and if it did, hell yes. 

He set the drink on the rack, and a few minutes later, Felix walked in. His hair was lazily pulled in a knot, and his cheeks were pink from the cold, as always. He picked up his drink, and the plan was in action.

Except it wasn’t, because it was a Friday, and Sylvain had made an enormous mistake. Felix takes his drink to-go on Fridays.

Felix was already approaching Sylvain’s counter, and it wouldn’t be long before he grabbed a cardboard sleeve and slid it right over the Sharpie inscription, hiding it for all eternity. Without hesitation, Sylvain leapt to his counter, yanked the stack of sleeves off of it, and hid under the sink. Crisis averted.

“Syl, you idiot,” Ingrid knelt down and whispered harshly, “now he’s going to ask for a sleeve, and you’re gonna have to talk to him.”

Crisis amplified. Felix was at the counter, and Sylvain was not there to answer. However, Annette sprinted over from the opposite end of the bar, skidded to a halt, and nonchalantly leaned on the counter. “How can I help you?” she asked, her voice an angel’s chorus in Sylvain’s ears.

“Hi, uh, do you have those sleeve things?” Felix tapped his cup, and Sylvain remembered that his life was over. Annette was stuttering, glancing at Sylvain out of the corner of her eye, who was shaking his head like a wet dog.

“Oh, sorry! I’ll, uh, check the back room for you?” No. No.

Sylvain flailed his arms and screamed NO, but without sound, his face contorted in panic. Dedue, who had somehow made his way onto the floor as well, chuckled quietly. Annette, looking guilty as hell, was about to dash into the supply room, but stopped in her tracks when Felix spoke up.

“Actually, it’s fine. I uh, yeah,” Felix murmured. He was looking down at his cup. A line of Sharpie peeked out from under his palm. 

Felix slowly walked out the door, still staring at the cup, and leaned against the wall opposite the cafe. He was clearly visible through the window. He turned the cup over in his hand. He read the message, and he read it for a long time. His eyebrows were raised, and his lips were pursed. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

Sylvain’s phone vibrated on the counter, and everyone lost their shit.

Annette was screaming, “Get the phone, get the phone, get the phone!” Ingrid grabbed it and thrust it at Sylvain, but he squeezed his eyes shut and recoiled.

“Oh god, I can’t read it. Somebody else read it—Dedue!” Sylvain swatted the phone, as if it were a bug, and it slid across the floor in Dedue’s direction. “You read it.”

Dedue picked up the phone, and looked down at the screen. Everyone was silent, still, staring at the phone with rapt anticipation.

“Sorry, I’m gay,” Dedue stated in a leveled tone.

Sylvain moaned so frustratedly that it was more like a growl. “Gay people can still read!” he exclaimed, pulling at his hair.

Dedue shut his eyes, trying his hardest to project himself to a plane of existence far, far away from Sylvain. “I did read it. That’s what the text says.” He held the phone up, and the others crowded round to look at the screen. There was one little gray text bubble:

Unknown Number | 8:02 AM: Sorry im gay

This moment was also silent, and it was also still, but this time because nobody had a clue what the hell was happening. It literally did not make any sense; Sylvain was not a lady. Also, he had clearly written ‘The Redhead’ on it. With a heart!

But then, Sylvain looked up from the phone, and at Annette’s hair.

For god’s sake.

“Sylvain, wha—” Ingrid started, but Sylvain was already walking, his face uncharacteristically serious. He pressed his palm to the counter and vaulted himself over it. He sprinted to the door, and ran through it with such fervor that a chunk of wood flew off of it with a loud crack. Felix was a little far, but he whipped around at the sound of the door breaking, and the sound of frantic footfalls on concrete. His eyes shot open, but he looked more irritated than terrified, as most would be if a six foot tall man were flying towards you at the speed of light.

Now just a few feet away from each other, Sylvain rested his hands on his knees, panting. He pointed his finger at his chest repeatedly, and he yelled, exasperated. “Not her! Me!”

Felix’s confused look slipped off of his face, and was replaced with complete shock. “Oh my god, it was you?” he asked incredulously.

Sylvain was still winded, but he stood up straight, panting. “Yes! It’s me! The barista! The ice guy!” He waved his hands around, as if that made anything clearer.

Felix blinked. “I had no idea you worked here. I come here a lot.”

Sylvain threw his head back. “Yes! I know you do! I’ve had a crush on you for three whole months, and to think that you didn’t even recognize me at the ice rink! The barista who makes your drink every Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, and the occasional Sunday!”

Felix was blushing furiously, and he chose not to address Sylvain’s blatant confession. “Then you know I always do mobile orders. I go to the rack and I pick up the drink. I see nobody.”

“How can you not know what we look like after coming here for three months?” Sylvain exclaimed.

“Because you guys are always hiding behind the damn counter for some reason!” Felix spat, then drew back. “Those counter walls are really high.”

Sylvain processed that for a few moments, hands on his hips, before Felix spoke up again. “So,” he murmured shyly, “did you write the number on the cup last week too?”

Sylvain nodded. He elected not to tell him about the foam fiasco.

Felix was trying extremely hard not to laugh. “So you watched me read it and throw it in the trash?”

Sylvain nodded again, and Felix didn’t even try to keep himself from laughing this time.

“No, it gets worse,” Sylvain muttered, once Felix had calmed down a bit. “When you rejected me, the other baristas wanted to treat me to a night out to take my mind off of it. You wanna guess where we went?”

Felix was tearing up, laughing breathlessly. “Oh god. Stop.”

Sylvain continued. “They took me to the ice rink. And you wanna know who was there? The guy who had just stabbed my heart and desecrated my soul. That’s you.”

Felix had lost his shit, and was laughing so hard that he wasn’t even making sounds anymore. It could’ve been mistaken for sobbing, if you were to ignore the wide grin on his face. “I am so sorry,” Felix said, “but you’re the one to blame. I had no idea who put the number there. And now you just did it again, and you thought it was gonna work, and it ended up even worse!”

The last sentence trailed off into giggles halfway through. Felix wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I don’t see why you didn’t just come over and talk to me,” he said.

“Imagine a random barista walks up to you, in the middle of the cafe, and starts flirting with you. You would not like that. Nobody would like that.” Sylvain said matter-of-factly.

Felix raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but that doesn’t explain why you still did the phone number thing today. You knew I knew you for sure, and I thought we had…” Felix paused, glancing to the side. “...fun. At the rink.”

He waited expectantly, but Sylvain was looking at his feet. “Sylvain. Why didn’t you just come up and talk to me today?”

“Because that’s too scary!” Sylvain blurted, balling his fists. Felix stared at him, appalled, then bowed his head.

“My god. You sure are strange.”

Sylvain crossed his arms. “I go through all of this trouble, this hardship, just to ask you on a date, and you’re standing here laughing at me.”

Felix leaned in, his eyes narrowed. “All that talk and you still failed to ask me out? Pathetic,” he challenged with a smile on his face.

“That’s literally what I’m trying to do right now!” Sylvain wrung his hands.

“Then do it.”

Sylvain groaned, pacing in a circle with his hands on his head. “You are making this so difficult,” he shouted.

“Coward—” Felix started, looking smug, but Sylvain rounded on him. They were so close that their noses nearly touched, and it wasn’t because they were about to kiss. Well, maybe. But no.

“Would you like to go on a date with me, Felix?” Sylvain gritted through his teeth.

“I’d be delighted to, Sylvain,” Felix snarled, scowling. 

“Fine,” Sylvain spat.

“Fine,” Felix retorted.

And on that note, they both spun around on their heel, and stomped off in opposite directions. 

Then they scuttled right back, and spoke at the same time.

“I, uh, don’t have your phone number,” Sylvain muttered, fidgeting with his hands. “To set the...the date.”

Felix looked at his feet, and mumbled, “I threw the cup away and I...kind of forgot to write down your number.”

They stood awkwardly gawking at the sidewalk. The very second their eyes met, however, they pulled each other into a hug, shaking with a final, raucous fit of laughter.

—

Tuesdays and Thursdays at 9:40 AM, plus or minus two minutes. Fridays around 8 AM, but he always takes it to-go. Sundays at 10:30 AM if you’re lucky, and in those lucky cases, he stays for three whole hours. Nothing had changed in the routine, but if you were to step outside of Blue Lion Coffee Co., just for a moment, you would find that all of the remaining hours in Sylvain’s week were still filled with Felix, and always would be. Nonetheless, Sylvain didn’t want it any other way.