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In one hour, Miklan Gautier would be put to death. If it were up to Felix, it would be a celebration. To Sylvain, it was anything but.
While execution had always been the consequence of Miklan’s agreement with Dimitri, Sylvain never believed it would come to that. His eyes had sparkled with the hope that Miklan could be better.
Years of hatred bloomed in Felix’s chest at the sight. Miklan Gautier proved to be nothing more than a beast, a man who had been stripped of his familial rank because of horrendous acts committed against Sylvain. How many bruises and cuts were left upon Sylvains’ body growing up? How many chances had he been given only to be the exact thing Felix knew he was?
The man had not changed despite the Boar’s attempt at triggering reform. When he had announced the idea in the war room, Felix nearly split the table in half.
Miklan has connections to the outliers, he said. He could help us obtain the numbers for our army.
Did you ask, Sylvain? Felix had countered. Dimitri never did anything half-assed so of course he had, but he wished for that roadblock despite himself. He wished for Sylvain’s resistance. Instead, Miklan was introduced to the camp the following day and Felix made sure to complain about it any chance possible.
Miklan’s behavior towards his brother had never been a secret. When he left Sylvain to freeze to death atop a mountain, and subsequently, when he tossed Sylvain down a well, both Dimitri and Felix understood they could lose him without intervention.
Then what?
Perhaps, Dimitri had forgotten that feeling. The stupid Boar—launching headfirst into his revenge, casting aside common sense. What would he do without Felix’s unflinching nature to look him in the eye and redirect it?
They were not kids anymore.
Dimitri wore a crown and Felix a sword. And the crown had made a mistake, one that planted the seeds for Miklan’s deluded revenge.
He grit his teeth at the memory, cramming it into a box otherwise he would never finish getting ready. Goddess, he wanted to be the one swinging the sword against Miklan’s neck. Instead, he donned the Fraldarius colors—a long teal blue tunic, dark blue trousers, and light blue cufflinks. Clipped at the neck and draping down his back was a cloak stitched with his crest. Felix sighed as he scraped stray hair into his ponytail.
This was going to be a long day.
With some time to spare, he sought out Sylvain. The grounds were alive with chatter and clanging. Miklan and his rebellious mercenaries had set fire to several of their shops and housing arrangements. A battle broke out in the main square, casualties suffered on both sides. Thankfully, they had suppressed Miklan’s forces, but it unsettled Felix how easy it had been. How he had fallen for a trap because his feelings were so obviously written on his sleeve.
If Felix had taken a step back, he could have foiled Miklan’s plan.
You failed. A rhythm that occupied his mind. You failed, failed, failed.
Just like you failed Glenn.
As he approached, Matthias stepped out. A troubled expression rested on his face, one that dragged every feature downward. He had always been a man of hard edges, a contrast to Sylvain. “Ah, Felix.”
He nodded. “Margrave.”
They stared at one another. Felix could offer condolences, but Matthias knew better than to expect them. This outcome had always been a possibility.
“Sylvain’s inside.” An acknowledgement and permission wrapped into one sentence.
Another nod and Felix entered Sylvain’s tent. Under normal circumstances, Felix would make conversation. Matthias had always gotten along with him and his father. When Glenn died, he had been there to help pick up the pieces. But Glenn was nothing like Miklan. One deserved to be mourned.
“Dad, I said I don’t want to—” Sylvain’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Hi, Fe.”
Felix suppressed a shudder at the childhood nickname. It was only uttered when Sylvain needed his attention, needed him. It still shocked him that Sylvain stood there alive, with only a raised scar stretched across his neck as proof anything had happened at all. If Felix had been a better healer, even that would not exist.
He didn’t understand why Sylvain hadn’t asked Mercedes to get rid of it.
“You’re not ready.” Felix said, a matter of fact. Sylvain’s undershirt and pants were on, but he had yet to put on his black tunic or the Gautier cape.
Sylvain’s gaze went to his clothes which were draped across the mattress. He blinked, once, twice, three times. “I don’t know how to be.”
Discomfort knotted Felix’s stomach. It would be so much easier if Sylvain cut out the love he had for Miklan. He didn’t deserve an ounce of it. Felix wasn’t even certain Miklan knew it existed, so consumed by envy. And yet, that didn’t change the amount of pain rippling through Sylvain.
He picked up the tunic and tilted his chin up at Sylvain. “Let me help.”
“Okay,” Sylvain breathed, bending down so Felix could slip the tunic over his head. Once smoothed out and tightened with a belt, Felix picked up the cape. He clipped it around Sylvain’s neck, his fingers grazing the too fresh scar.
Two days ago, Sylvain had been sprawled on the ground, his throat cut clean across. Scarlet fed the insatiable dirt. Blood spilled from Sylvain’s hands, which were clasped around the wound. So much of it. Too much. Caked into his nails. Smeared across his face.
Felix had scrambled towards him. Sylvain’s hazy eyes widened ever so slightly as they landed on him. “Fe...lix.”
“Shut up.” Felix tore the sleeve of his shirt and pressed it to Sylvain’s throat. His hands immediately grew slippery, steadied only by Sylvain’s brushing against his. The makeshift bandage did nothing to help, and Felix could barely think with the pounding of his heart in his ears. Sylvain was going to die, and he hadn’t—he couldn’t even attempt to be any of the things Sylvain wanted.
Sylvain gurgled. More blood spilled. The makeshift bandage fell to the wayside.
He had seconds to save him, so Felix used the only thing left in his arsenal. Magic. It had never been his best skill, but he had learned the basics from Mercedes. She overworked herself so often, the more help she had the better.
His crest had come to life under his desperation. It was too early for him to live without Sylvain. Mercedes insisted magic was about belief and Felix believed in Sylvain, in their promise as kids. Though streaks appeared in his vision and his bones felt like they were about to crumble to dust, the wound closed.
Not seamlessly.
But enough for him to give into the exhaustion. Dimitri had found them both unconscious, Felix strewn across Sylvain’s chest.
He cleared his throat and put some distance between them. This wasn’t the time or place to relive the nightmare, even though he could never forget it.
“Thank you,” Sylvain whispered, turning towards Felix. His eyes were underlined red. The corners held trapped tears.
They were tiptoeing around the enveloping darkness. Felix needed to address it, no matter how bad he was at this, no matter how much he would prefer to never think or speak about Miklan again. He had been fortunate to have a brother who loved him, who he missed terribly. Every milestone he reached, he longed for Glenn. It didn’t matter how many moons passed.
“I know you didn’t like Miklan.”
An understatement—one that Felix did not respond to.
A weak chuckle escaped Sylvain’s lips. “You should see your face right now. All crinkled up like it usually is when you get angry.” He plopped onto the bed, cradling his head in his hands. It took Felix a moment to reconcile the somberness with his usual upbeat tone, the performer in him. He could pinpoint when Sylvain switched it on, when his smile grew too wide and his gestures more animated. This was the real Sylvain, the one Felix had privy to. “I should hate him, but he’s…my brother. I spent so much time trying to appease him, trying to make him like me. Look at my reward.”
“He made a mistake, hundreds of them, by casting you aside,” Felix spat. All Sylvain did was wave a white flag, no matter what Miklan did. It took ages for him to even tell his parents of Miklan’s abuse, despite his friends’ repeated begging. “Had he taken a second, he would have learned you never cared about a crest, or a title, or the standards society set for you. But he didn’t. This is not your fault, Sylvain.”
Miklan was part of a larger problem. People looked at Sylvain, the only heir of House Gautier bearing a crest and assumed compliments and flirting would grant them a chance at royalty. He’d seen women twirl their hair and casually touch Sylvain as if he were an object to be admired. It cut into Felix over and over again, partly because he wanted that sense of ease, that sense of confidence, and mainly because Sylvain played into it. He bought them gifts and took them to his room. While Felix stayed in Sylvain’s life since it had been years since seeing each other, he wouldn’t deny how fucking tired it made him.
The list of fights over the subject were endless. Sylvain would suggest he find Felix a girl, and to save Sylvain a black eye, Felix stormed off.
It got better once they left the monastery. Sylvain’s focus had pivoted to what came after the war, to supporting his friends, to his fighting style. Ingrid often teased him about how long it took compared to the rest of their group. Felix’s relationship with him improved drastically, feeding his delusions.
You’re in love with my brother. I guess you didn’t break that habit from your childhood.
Miklan’s voice the night he tried to kill Sylvain, the night he taunted Felix into leaving the camp so he could do it without interruption.
That son of a bitch.
A soft hiccup brought Felix back to the present. It dissolved the anger, leaving behind Sylvain’s grief. “I want…to believe that so bad. It just feels wrong, that soon my brother will be d…dead. What am I supposed to do after that?”
Kneeling, Felix forced Sylvain to look at him. He thumbed away tears. “When I heard the news about Glenn, the color drained from everything around me. I couldn’t accept it. I thought my father lied to me. It hurt. However, I wasn’t alone. You won’t be either. I loathe Miklan with every fiber of my being for what he did to you, for how I almost—I will be here. One day, you will wake up and your chest won’t be as heavy. The next day, it’ll be even lighter. Small increments until it no longer eats at you. Trust me.”
Sylvain pressed his forehead to Felix’s. “I trust you, Fe. I trust you with my life.”
The world spun on its axis. He dug his toes into the dirt to keep himself upright. This was too gentle, too much. He stood as if lightning had struck him. He began to pace. “You shouldn’t. I’m the reason Miklan found you. I’m the reason he—”
“What are you talking about?” Sylvain leapt to his feet, following him. Just like he always did.
Felix threw his arms out. It forced Sylvain to stop, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “I was training when Miklan approached me. He asked if I had seen you that night and when I told him to leave, he said if he did that, I wouldn’t know what happened to you. He told me you were on patrol, and I was—I thought he hurt you, so I didn’t think past those words. It was after the third lap around the camp I realized it had been a trick. In that time, he let the mercenaries in. He slit your throat because I wasn’t there.”
He expected an outburst. He expected Sylvain to revoke his kindness, their friendship. Instead, Sylvain said, “You saved my life.”
“If I had been a second later—”
“You weren’t.”
“I could have been!” Felix shouted. It reverberated through the tent. “Then, you’d be in a grave like Glenn. I needed him and he left. I needed you and you almost left without knowing that I—I couldn’t even heal you the whole way through for fuck’s sake!”
Sylvain’s brow nearly disappeared into his hairline. The gears turned in his brain and Felix couldn’t be here for Sylvain to reach his own conclusion. The words had spiraled out, quicker than he could catch them. They weren’t even a full confession and they wreaked havoc on his body. His pulse thrummed beneath his skin. His lungs hurt from how fast he needed to breathe.
You’re in love with my brother.
Yes, he was in love with Sylvain Jose Gautier. He always had been.
It was selfish to run, sure, cowardly without a doubt. He didn’t have another option. “I shouldn’t have said—you have other things to focus on.”
Sylvain grabbed his wrists, forcing him to stay. It would take less than a second to break the hold, but Felix resigned, even though it only enhanced everything he felt.
A few seconds of silence spread between them and only when Sylvain seemed convinced Felix wouldn’t fight, did he let go. His hands did not fall to his sides as expected. They crept upward, cupping his cheeks.
Normally, Felix hated any kind of touch. It was too intimate, too disarming—this checked those boxes. Sylvain peeled back, observing him with an intensity he had not seen before, the kind that threatened to seek out his very soul. No way would Sylvain ever look at him like that. There had to be an ulterior motive.
A roundabout version of pity, maybe.
And yet, Felix didn’t recoil. His heart was a no-good traitor.
“Without knowing what, Fe?”
His tone was so careful, so inviting. It threatened to crack Felix in half. It was too good to be true. As far as Felix was aware, Sylvain didn’t even like men. He would embarrass himself and then attend this goddess forsaken execution. If only Sylvain didn’t know all his tells.
In this game of chess, Felix had no moves left to play.
“I…” Never once had Felix struggled this much to share his thoughts. These were sticky, unable to come up.
Sylvain waited because why not make this whole thing worse with his understanding? And he still touched him.
Could it be?
No.
Absolutely not.
The truth proved keen on suffocating him, pressure building and expanding. Worse than when he healed Sylvain, when Mercedes scolded him because he had only fumes of a life left. This was an implosion. “I love you, okay? There. I didn’t want you to die because I hadn’t been able to work up the nerve to tell you. Now, just tell me to fuck off so I can pretend this never happened and—”
“I love you too, Fe.”
Felix’s spine straightened. He narrowed his gaze, hoping to intimidate Sylvain into admitting his bluff.
Sylvain smiled—the real one where wrinkles appeared by his eyes—before pressing his lips to Felix’s. They were softer than anticipated, exploratory. Every nerve fired at once, filling him with static. White noise.
He became an apparition, floating between this world and the next.
Once he processed the kiss, he wouldn’t let it go to waste. Felix dug his nails into Sylvain’s hips. He lessened the gap between their chests. “How long?”
“What?” Sylvain asked, albeit dazed.
“How long?”
Clarity dawned. “As long as I can remember.”
Hunger clawed out from the depths of Felix. It made him push his tongue into Sylvain’s mouth. It made him swallow the soft moan that Sylvain gave in return. It made him not care that his hair came undone from deft fingers.
Time bled together. The walls surrounding them and what was to come faded. His lips felt swollen, and Sylvain’s actually were when they finally parted. Scarlet stained his neck and the bridge of his nose. Felix had made Sylvain Gautier blush.
Was he blushing too? That needed to be corrected.
“You could have told me,” Felix huffed, though his words lacked their usual jagged edge.
Sylvain groaned. “Right, since you’re so approachable and forthcoming all the time.”
That earned him an eyeroll. Sylvain may be right, but now Felix could only wonder how long they had danced around each other, how many missed opportunities there were. And how the chosen opportunity had been today.
It gave Felix pause. What if Sylvain wasn’t thinking clearly? His emotions needed somewhere to go. Felix had given him that by showing up, by offering sympathy he did not spare for many. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “This isn’t a one-time thing, is it?” He hated how wobbly he sounded, how much power he placed in Sylvain’s care. Love made you weak. Love made you grovel. Felix wanted to break things to regain some semblance of control. “You need comfort and I’m the only person around, willing to—”
He cut himself off as Sylvain scowled. His twisted mouth didn’t look right. In any other situation, it would be comical, unflattering. Felix couldn’t look away. He held his breath as Sylvain cradled the side of his face, as he wound strands of hair around his fingers.
“Do you really think I’d do that to you? How stubborn can you be?” The questions came out sharp, venomous. A challenge. Felix would have preferred a punch to this version of Sylvain.
Maybe, this, was Felix’s answer. The aloof nature of this boy he had grown up with stripped away to prove this point, to rub up against Felix’s unwavering temper. They had an innate ability to smooth over any fight, any discrepancy, because Sylvain was persistent and Felix yielded so Sylvain would never up and leave, for good.
He did not make anything easy. For his family. For his friends. For Sylvain.
“No,” Felix conceded. “I just had to be certain.”
“How’s this for certain?” Before Felix could think, Sylvain’s mouth sought his again. Fists balled up the edges of Felix’s tunic. The kiss was harder than the first, as if Sylvain was trying to mold them together, stitch them into the tapestry of the universe. It felt like a duel. Well, he could handle that. His hands tugged at Sylvain’s hair. He captured his lower lip between his teeth, biting firm enough that he might just draw blood. Sylvain didn’t resist. Instead, he reciprocated. Stars burst behind his eyes.
Every second they spent like this, Sylvain carved his name further and further into Felix’s skin, his soul.
He could not start again or wrench this secret from the surface after it had seen the light.
A bell chimed. Felix discarded it at first.
The second chime broke through, a signal for everyone to come to the main square. The happiness and shock dissipated from the room. They weren’t immune to the outside world. At the end of the day, their duties remained.
“Goddess,” Sylvain uttered, his own version of a prayer.
Felix quickly tied up his hair and shook out his shirt, all too aware neither would be as neat as before. He looked to Sylvain—who had shrunken in on himself—and took his hand.
A squeeze came in response.
“I’m here,” Felix said.
That got him to move and together they stood before the hastily built stage. Matthias took his place beside Sylvain, Rodrigue beside Felix. Shoulder to shoulder. Father and son. Rodrigue’s gaze trailed to their threaded fingers. He offered a ghost of a smile.
Felix didn’t need his father’s blessing but appreciated it all the same.
The wood creaked as Dimitri stood over a crouched Miklan, whose wrists were tied behind his back.
With his sword unsheathed and the determined set of his jaw, he could not be mistaken for anything other than a king. “What do you have to say for your crimes of a coup, of murder, and of attempted murder of your brother, Sylvain Gautier?”
Miklan laughed, a rumbling, unhinged noise. It belonged to a man whose blackened heart had won. “I did what I had to do. It’s simply a shame I didn’t finish the job.”
Matthias winced, quickly replaced with feigned indifference.
Sylvain shook his head. Felix ran his thumb along the hills of Sylvain’s knuckles—the last remaining tether in a situation that deemed him powerless.
Any sympathy Dimitri might have had extinguished. His raised his sword. “With an admission of guilt, I sentence you, Miklan Anschutz Gautier, to death.”
The afternoon sun reflected off the swinging blade.
Sylvain’s eyes slammed shut.
Felix kept his open.