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This challenge is a very, very bad idea.
Sylvain had known this since he’d woken up with his back to Ingrid, his eyes opening to Felix’s gaze already intent on him from the next bed over, stark and hungry. Dorothea is nowhere to be seen—though she be but little, her beauty routine is fierce, or whatever the fuck. Probably not a good look that she and Felix don’t even play at being a real couple, but they’ve been about friendship from the start. If that starts to become a factor in the next recoupling, it will be a tight race to the bottom for them and…
Well, for them and for Sylvgrid, which is a very cute name, thank you very much. At least Sylvain can fake some sort of chemistry, though.
Regardless, when Dimitri turns over and reveals that Marianne’s phone has been chiming for god knows how long. Sylvain’s stomach drops, and not just because Felix rolls away from him. Dimitri slurs out something that almost sounds like I got a text, and when Marianne reaches over to read it out loud, Sylvain swears violently all the way to the restroom.
This sucks.
So what if they’re supposed to be at a villa, living the hot young single life as they make cutthroat maneuvers to ensure their new friends don’t win the grand prize and/or fall in love? This is decidedly not what Sylvain had signed up for.
“I’m going to win,” Felix swears as they look out at the makeshift boxing ring that will play host to their challenge. He looks like a gym bro messiah, which does nothing to boost Sylvain’s confidence. “I’m going to kill you.”
“Hey, buddy? You don’t have to kill me to win.”
Felix’s eyes spark like flint against stone. Mark Sylvain down as both scared and horny; when he’s off this show, he’s gonna need years of therapy to deal with the things Felix has awakened in him. “Well, you didn’t have to couple up with Ingrid, but here we are.”
And okay, maybe he deserves that. Before the last recoupling, Felix had finally made good on all their stealth-flirting and kissed him where no cameras could see. He’d tasted like salt and vinegar chips and smuggled cigarettes; somehow, it had been the best kiss of Sylvain’s life.
Then the recoupling had happened, and both Felix and Sylvain had stayed where they were. Sylvain hadn’t even had the luxury of blaming the girls—it had been men’s choice, and, like a coward, Sylvain had chosen the comfortable, stagnant path.
“I don’t want Ingrid to go home,” he’d said, but Felix has been able to see through him since day one.
He’d been scared.
Honestly, he still is, but somehow the threat of familial disgust and hatred after officially coming out on international TV seems flimsy, especially when compared to the wicked arch of Felix’s brow and the hungry tilt of his mouth.
The objective for this challenge is clear: don boxing gloves covered in paint, then try to cover your opponent in as much of your color as possible until time runs out. Behind each side are shallow pools filled with more paint to resupply as necessary.
Hence Sylvain’s nerves and Felix’s antsiness. Felix is literally going to kill him.
“He has speed, you have strength,” Ingrid says, sidling over from where she’s been talking to Dorothea. She’s wearing that particular look he recognizes from every other time it’s been his turn to compete; it reeks of the urge to shove him out of the way and do it herself. Between her and Felix, Sylvain is beginning to be concerned that his time left on this earth is very, very limited. “Knock him on his ass and go to town.”
“Did we switch shows when I wasn’t looking?”
Ingrid’s natural glare hones in on him; Sylvain’s dick might actually be shriveling from the force of it. “Do not be a bitch, Gautier.”
“Feels like everyone is telling me that lately.”
“Probably because you aren’t listening.”
What is it about him that attracts people who hate bullshit? They should be repelled at this point. Either way, he sends a beseeching glance at Dorothea to exert her limited influence to spare him. She glances away, disinterested, so he’s just set himself up for some bullshit love triangle editing for nothing. Great. It won’t even be for the right partner.
Finally, he’s ready to go: when he steps into the ring, Felix all but leaps in after him. The other contestants form a loose ring around them, and Sylvain gets the eerie sense that Felix is more than used to fighting for a crowd.
Has he mentioned that he’s going to die?
Ingrid wasn’t kidding—a buzzer sounds, and Felix lands a solid hit to his chest before he can blink.
“Fucking come on, Gautier!” she screams from about ten feet to his left, and he decides to heed her advice before he gets beaten up twice in one day.
He feints; Felix, clearly not expecting anything approaching tactics from him, falls for it, and he manages three quick blows that catch him off-balance before he can recover. He’d mitigated the force of the swings, though, unwilling to really risk hurting Felix. Because of this, Felix doesn’t fall.
This turns out to be a fatal mistake.
Felix, genuinely pissed now that Sylvain has proven to have even the slightest bit of backbone, is relentless in his pace and clearly not suffering from the same hang-ups as Sylvain. He’s brutal, merciless, unyielding.
Sylvain thinks he might actually, genuinely be in love.
This is a hell of a time to come to terms with that; Felix catches him on the chin in his daze, although he has the decency to look apologetic for half a second. Ingrid has given up on yelling at him, and he can picture her all but crumpling in on herself in frustration. He doesn’t feel too bad. If she hasn’t figured out by now that he only wins when gossip or smooth-talking is the game of choice, that’s not his problem.
Never let it be said that he isn’t adaptable, though; his head snaps to the side, facing the paint. His paint.
All around them, the other contestants start to count down. It’s now or never, and as much as Sylvain likes the cocky little smirk Felix wears when he wins a challenge, he also can’t stand his shitty, smug attitude when he beats him.
Fuck it. Felix is already pissed.
Felix swings again; through some minor miracle, Sylvain dodges around it, managing to turn their orientation enough that Felix is closer to the paint than he is. For a moment, Felix looks confused; when understanding—and warning—dawns on his face, it’s already too late.
Sylvain rushes Felix like he’s a goddamn bull, and he can only hear the briefest start of Ingrid’s anticipatory victory yell when he sends the possible man of his dreams ass first into purple paint.
The buzzer sounds. At least half of Felix’s back is covered in a violent shade of orchid.
Sylvain wins.
“That,” Felix says, looking dazedly up at him, “Was kind of hot.”
Sylvain doesn’t win the whole challenge, of course; in the next round, Hubert had immediately gone for the crotch, which was a dick move, but a totally understandable one. Ingrid hadn’t been too irritated, though. One round was probably more than any reasonable person should have expected out of him, anyway.
Dimitri wins the whole thing purely by virtue of being built like a tank (and also because he can be lowkey terrifying when he really gets going, but like hell Sylvain is gonna admit that to anyone, much less viewers). He wins a date out of the villa or some shit, but honestly, Sylvain thinks the real prize had been Felix’s accidental, adrenaline-fueled confession.
They’re dismissed, but the cameras keep rolling, tracking Felix and Sylvain in particular. Sylvain is drawing their attention further by making a beeline for him, he knows, but he can’t help it.
Besides, maybe it’s worth it.
“Hot, huh?” he asks, grinning wildly as he falls into step with Felix.
Felix scowls. “I’m glad you got hit in the dick. I hope it’s broken.”
“Aw, come on, babe. That would only hurt us both.”
Felix sets his jaw in the way he only does when he’s gearing up to be particularly nasty. Sylvain moves his hands in preparation to block another crotch shot, just in case. “Would it? Because last I checked, you’re a pussy anyway.”
What an asshole, Sylvain thinks fondly. Out loud, he says, “Can I convince you to stave off my well-deserved castration until after the recoupling? Let me at least give you the chance to see what you’d be missing.”
“Disgusting.” The response is automatic; when Felix registers what he’s said, his eyes go wide. “Wait, repeat what you just said.”
“Let me at least—”
“Not literally, jackass.” Ten minutes ago, Sylvain would have been hard-pressed to say that anything about Felix could ever sparkle; now, looking at his expression is like glitter in the sun: painful; blinding; mesmerizing. “You want to couple up with me?”
“I have pretty much since day one.”
“And Ingrid?”
“She can figure something out. She’ll probably be glad to be rid of me.”
Felix looks at him for a long moment, face set in something almost like a smile. He’s never quite at ease when he can see he’s being filmed, but there’s something striking about him even in discomfort, something that had ensnared Sylvain immediately and shows no signs of letting up.
Then Felix socks him in the arm, which is its own form of striking, he guesses.
“Ow! What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I hate you,” Felix explains, his tone alarmingly close to affectionate.
Maybe Sylvain really is as stupid as he pretends to be, because he can’t stop smiling. “I like you too.”
And it’s true, even if Felix pouts all the way back to the villa, even if Sylvain’s dick might actually be broken, and even if they run the risk of getting booted off the show immediately after the next recoupling. Sylvain likes him a lot. He loves him, even, though it’s a little soon to admit out loud.
Doesn’t mean the challenge didn’t suck.