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“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sylvain brags, “I’m fine. Things need to get done, and I can handle those things.”
Felix looks Sylvain up and down one more time, just to confirm what he already knows: “You’re dead on your feet.”
Sylvain covers his heart in mock offense, but even his theatrical jaw dropping gives him away. The dark bags under his bloodshot eyes stand out against his pale skin. He can’t open his mouth all the way because his chapped lips threaten to crack at the corners. Sylvain is usually an excellent actor, only giving himself away to the people who know him the best, but in his current state Felix thinks even the newest soldier would recognize something’s wrong with him.
“Don’t even start,” Felix snaps before Sylvain has a chance to come up with some smooth response. “Anyone can see you haven’t fully healed yet.”
To his credit, Sylvain doesn’t deny it. “It’s not that bad,” he says, “It’s just some bruising —”
“You lost a lot of blood,” Felix cuts him off, “I can see that. Give me those documents.”
“But —”
“I said don’t.” Felix pulls the pile of papers out of Sylvain’s arms and says, “If you were at your best, you would have dodged that.”
“Not fair,” Sylvain pouts, “You’re too fast.”
“You’re too slow.”
Felix passes Sylvain before he can utter another protest. This conversation isn’t over yet.
“Go to bed.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Sylvain says with a flimsy attempt at a grin, “It’ll go quick, I promise.”
Felix’s patience, already thin, is growing threadbare bit by bit. He pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “No.”
Even if he were to entertain Sylvain’s idea of okay, Felix can’t excuse the shoddy work he’s doing while clearly sleep deprived and in pain. The potatoes he was tasked with peeling are miniscule after he shaved off half their outsides, and the carrots are in even worse shape. Felix doesn’t want to think about what may happen if Sylvain tries to cook meat in his state.
“Look, it’s all going fine —”
“It is not.”
“— and I’ll be done soon! Look,” Sylvain gestures at a basket that’s easily holding a dozen potatoes, “See?”
Felix points at the basket, then to the peeled potatoes, and says, “I can see the pebbles you’ve created out of those.”
“Huh?” Sylvain looks down at the half potato in his hand. “Weird. I didn’t realize this one was so small.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Well, it’s fine.” He turns the potato over and finds another piece of skin. Carefully, with the dexterity of a toddler, he gouges out a bite-sized chunk of potato and half of the remaining skin. Then he goes back for the other half of the skin and carves out an even larger piece. He sets it down on the world’s smallest pile of potatoes, and before he can grab another one from the basket, Felix rips the knife out of his hand.
“Felix!” Sylvain exclaims, but it takes most of his energy and the next words come out slurred, “Thassnot safe.”
“You holding a blade isn’t safe,” Felix says. He picks a new potato out of the basket and peels it with sharp precision without a thought. “Go the fuck to sleep.”
Sylvain huffs out a weak laugh. “Yeah, sure,” he says, and Felix thinks he’s successfully worn him down. “I’ll head back to my room.”
“And you’ll sleep,” Felix calls over his shoulder. Then he shudders. When did he get so overbearing?
Felix doesn’t trust Sylvain with his wellbeing any more than he trusts Annette in the kitchen. He doesn’t go to his own room; instead, he walks past his door to the end of the hall and stops to listen through the door.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Sylvain thrashes around in his sleep. It makes a huge mess that Sylvain cleans up every morning, and it leads to random girls sneaking out of his room at all hours of the night when they get fed up with it. If his room is silent he’s either dead or he’s faking it.
“I’m coming in,” Felix announces, not bothering to hush his voice, and he pushes open the door.
A pause.
“I’m going to kill you.”
Sylvain lifts his head in slow motion and blinks. “Huh?” he asks, voice bleary and eyes unfocused. He’s sitting at his paperwork-covered desk with a pen half-gripped in his hand. Ink splatters the page as well as the wood underneath. His pillows lie strewn across the floor with his blankets that he didn’t have the energy to put away in the morning.
Great. Perfect. Felix loves picking up after a grown man. He tries not to think about the state of his own room as he tosses Sylvain’s pillows and blankets back onto his bed in an approximation of what a bed should look like.
“There,” Felix says, brushing his hands off on his pants. “Get in bed.”
It takes a moment for Sylvain to respond. “But —”
Felix wrenches the pen away from Sylvain and shoves all the paperwork into a haphazard pile on the corner of his desk, just far enough that Sylvain would need to lift both his arms to get it back in place. He’s betting on Sylvain’s exhaustion winning over his constant desire to be useful, needed, and productive.
“You’re fucking up more than you’re helping,” Felix points out, gesturing to the top page half covered in ink. “You’re making more work for everyone, even the healers taking care of you.”
A wave of relief washes over Felix when Sylvain doesn’t protest. Sylvain takes one step, two steps, from his desk chair and falls into his bed like a boulder, his head falling into place approximately where the pillows landed. Felix rests the back of his hand against Sylvain’s forehead. It’s cold. Not that he expected anything less, but it’s still unsettling.
“I’ll be right back,” he mutters. Sylvain grumbles something that gets lost in the covers and Felix returns to his own room, picks up his own blankets half hanging off his bed, and returns to Sylvain’s room to throw them over him. Sylvain doesn’t respond.
“Can’t even be grateful,” Felix says to himself, but he can’t really be mad. If Sylvain’s not fighting against being helped, then he’s finally asleep.
It’s a messy job, but it’s done. The blankets may not be aligned but they’re on top of Sylvain and that’s what matters.
Then Sylvain kicks and they all fall on the floor.
“For fuck’s sake,” Felix groans, picking all the blankets back up and throwing them over Sylvain, only for him to kick the other way and send them into the gap between his mattress and the wall. Felix leans over Sylvain to pull them back over and gets a face full of fist. “Fuck!”
Sylvain mumbles in his sleep. Felix ignores him. He briefly considers tying the blankets around him in a makeshift sleeping bag when a thought occurs to him. It’s dangerous, but it may be necessary at this point.
“If you make fun of me for this in the morning I’ll kill you,” Felix says to an unconscious Sylvain. He settles the blankets over Sylvain for what he hope will be the final time, and then he climbs into the bed himself, over the blankets, before turning over and sitting with his back against the wall and his legs over Sylvain’s thighs. This time when Sylvain kicks he doesn’t get very far, and the blankets stay put.
Felix crosses his arms. He should have brought a pillow, but he’s slept in worse places. He leans his head forward, and he closes his eyes.