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Felix glared daggers at Claude as he escorted the Professor onto the dance floor. The Golden Deer leader seemed to anticipate this reaction and shot a cheeky wink his way.
What absolute bullshit.
It wasn't that she was dancing with Claude. She was an adult and could dance with whoever she wanted.
It was about boundaries-- Claude had just pulled her out without asking. No one ever thought about how she felt-- as if she couldn't possibly care about anything just because her emotions were outwardly muted, as if her lack of protest justified taking advantage of her. She hadn't had any choice in most of the events of her life, and it pissed Felix off.
Claude had to know that the Professor never learned these traditional dances. Felix knew that painfully well-- after all, she had selected him for the stupid White Heron Cup specifically because he'd already known how to dance. She spent their extra practice time showing him how to adapt the footwork to swordplay.
She'd grown up rough even for a commoner, and he knew it made her self-conscious suddenly having to navigate the world of nobility-- royalty, even-- with no training. Having them all watch while she struggled to waltz would undoubtedly embarrass her.
She'd admitted feeling like a fraud to him once, a common mercenary among the elite. As was his wont, his reassurance bordered on being an insult, chastising her for buying into idiotic noble etiquette standards when she was objectively better than the lot of them.
(He'd had a delusional few seconds where he swore she blushed at his words, but no, that was impossible. The Ashen Demon didn't blush.)
Not to mention, she wasn't politically savvy enough to understand the optics of the future Alliance leader choosing her for the ceremonial first dance of the Garreg Mach ball. Ever since she pulled that ugly sword out of a casket, she'd become a symbol of the church, of the goddess' power, of a crest's strength-- none of which she gave a single shit about, like him. This dance previewed a future of transactional marriage proposals and charlatans trying to curry her favor. She didn't deserve to be dragged into all that bullshit.
Her own house leader had picked someone perfectly innocuous, some distant Dominic relative, impossible to paint as politically scandalous, so the contrast was conspicuous-- and controversial.
Of course, Felix is sure that if the Boar had his way, Byleth would be in his arms, which was even more sickening. The prince was at least selfish enough to recognize that dancing with her would give everyone else in the ballroom an excuse to ask her out, when they would have hesitated to approach a professor otherwise. And as expected, when Claude was finished using her as a prop, she didn't have a moment to rest between back-to-back-to-back dances.
But again, it's not about her dancing with Claude, Dimitri, or anyone else.
And it definitely had nothing to do with the... other thing. The extremely annoying thing that had gone on long enough that he had to swallow his pride and ask Sylvain about it.
"Well, there's only one way to get over someone," the buffoon had said, and Felix just knew he was about to say something asinine. "Ya gotta get under someone else," he finished with a suggestive tone and his arms outstretched like he'd just imparted the secret to life.
"Forget I asked," Felix said, and moved to leave.
"Fe, wait! Wait!" The redhead grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around. "Every good joke is built around a kernel of truth. If you want to move on, you need to find someone else. And what better opportunity than the ball?"
What stupid advice that had turned out to be. Guilt wracked his conscience while dancing with Annette. She was friendly, and pretty in a completely different way, plus she sang those funny little songs he liked. After a rough start to their relationship, they had become friendly during their magic study sessions-- the professor had forced him into it, but he had to admit he was starting to see the benefits.
(Of course she'd been right. She had never steered him wrong.)
So, why not? He could go out with Annette and hopefully banish the inconvenient feelings that had taken root in his heart without his consent. It's not like it was a big deal. People dated all the time.
But as they twirled around the floor, doubt flooded him. What if she started to like him, and he didn't feel the same? Was he supposed to lead her on even if he felt nothing? Let her remain ignorant that he was always mentally comparing her to someone else?
So he'd said the dance was a thank you for the magic lessons and left it at that. Maybe Sylvain could treat women like playthings, but he didn't have it in him.
It was those distressing thoughts swirling around his mind when the Professor found him in the Goddess Tower, where he'd retreated to hide. Off balance, he hadn't exactly handled the encounter well.
Which is to say, it was a disaster of a magnitude even Sylvain would find impressive-- if Sylvain ever found out, that is, which he definitely would not.
Felix had started talking about surpassing her skill. It wasn't a new sentiment for him, but he went over the top, claiming he'd never get caught up in love and romance, that he preferred his sword to a woman's company.
That would've been true a few months ago, but now there existed a glaring exception, one particular woman whose company he surprisingly enjoyed-- and she didn't even ask him to put down the sword.
After Glenn's death, when his insatiable pursuit of strength first began, he never considered that someone could join him on that path. He never thought that someone like the Professor could even exist-- a person who not only liked the same things he did, but also challenged him, pushed him to be more, with the added perk of being not-annoying to spend time with. He didn't even mind the damn tea parties.
She was possibly the one woman that could ever understand and tolerate him, and here he was, working overtime to push her away, to convince her and himself that he didn't care about her. Why was he like this?
After his spectacularly embarrassing and rude display, he excused himself to train. It was the eleventh bell, and she surely knew he was full of shit, but he had to escape the shame.
"Wait!"
His instincts told him to keep going, to run away and never see her again so he wouldn't have to face the humiliation. But she never let him run away. When he pulled away, she reached out, every time, without judgment. At that moment, he realized he wasn't capable of defying her. He never would be. When he turned, those ridiculously large doe eyes were full of concern. For him.
"If you're going to train, do you want to spar with me?"
Incredulously, he asked, "You're not going back to the ball?"
Her micro-expression revealed a cute little pout that he'd never seen before.
"I danced for over an hour, with 13 people. Is that not enough?"
He huffed. Of course, of course, she would count them, would approach a ball with the same single-minded determination with which she did every other unfamiliar task the monastery had thrown at her. A ball was just a different kind of mission, enduring hostile terrain and enemy traps.
It hadn't been about her dancing with other people, but even so, it soothed his heart to hear that she'd hated it. That she was like him after all.
"You've done more than enough for those hangers-on. In fact, you should have knocked Claude on his scheming ass."
She chuckled, unfortunately covering her mouth with her hand so that he couldn't see the accompanying smile.
"I'll just have to take my frustration out on you, then." She passed the point he had reached on the steps and threw back over her shoulder, "Better hurry. You wouldn't want anyone to mistake me for your lover."
Luckily the tower was dark, so she couldn't see that his face was lobster-red-- from the hot, crowded ballroom, of course. It had nothing to do with the way her voice dropped to a sultry tone on the word lover. Since when did she make jokes?
It wasn't until they entered the training grounds that he realized his oversight. As usual, he was in his academy uniform. He had clothes specifically designed for training as well, but he'd trained in his uniform plenty of times.
The Professor, on the other hand, only wore the student-style uniform for more formal events-- like, say, a ball.
The key to her regular mercenary clothes-- which he had analyzed for tactical purposes-- was the suggestion of nakedness. If asked, many people would say it was a revealing outfit. Still, when you looked at it (again, for tactical reasons), there wasn't a lot of bare skin-- a small amount of her chest, her cleavage blocked by her huge medallion, a tantalizing sliver of her stomach, and the barest impression of creamy, toned thighs through her tights.
Tactically speaking.
Importantly, that meant that when they sparred, he never actually touched her. Their bouts frequently turned into hand-to-hand combat, which involved grappling in several areas that would end in him skewered on her sword if touched at any other time. Still, they were at least spared the awkwardness of skin-to-skin contact.
But in the student's uniform, her legs were almost entirely bare. She'd discarded the constricting jacket, and in just an undershirt, her forearms, neck, and a distracting amount of her chest were also uncovered.
He let out a sharp breath through his nose. It was fine. He just had to ensure she didn't disarm him, and then he wouldn't have to worry about touching... anything.
Thing was, he was always trying not to get disarmed. No one wanted to be disarmed, but it happened anyway, especially if you were up against the Professor. And, of course, she knocked his sword out of his aching hand this time as well-- it was just that kind of night.
He'd later tell himself that she bested him in grappling precisely because he was trying to be gentlemanly and keep his hands off her, but the truth was she just kicked his ass, like always. With pride, he noted that he'd at least made her work for it, evidenced by her heaving breaths, but there was a problem.
Someone with a mind like Sylvain thought getting pinned while grappling was inherently sexy, that you'd end up straddled by a beautiful woman, face to face, bodies flush and ready to kiss or... whatever.
The reality was so much worse. If she just jumped on top of him and held his hands, he'd easily be able to toss her off. He was bigger and stronger than her, so she used holds that allowed her to use the floor or his body for leverage.
One of her frequently used holds was called an armbar, which involved pinning his arms behind his back from behind, resulting in an almost-embrace with her, uh, chest squished up against him. Feet near his head, she would then roll him over and hold him down, so the weight of both bodies was pinning his arms to the ground.
The details didn't matter. The Sylvain version was this: her head ended up near or even under his ass, while her legs straddled his head, groin hovering just above his face.
She didn't give a damn about the propriety of it. Her only concerns were skill and survival, which why he admired her. That said, it was bad enough with a face full of her shorts and lacy tights. In her uniform skirt, it was nearly pornographic. His head was up her skirt. He could make out the color and cut of silky things he should know nothing about, breathe in the heady scent of things that were entirely too intimate. All he'd have to was tilt his chin up, flick out his tongue, and--
"Yield! I yield!" he shouted, springing up and away the instant she loosened her hold.
He kept his back to her, trying desperately to calm all his body's systems that her touch had sent racing--his lungs, heart, and... well. He wasn't Sylvain, but he wasn't dead.
"Are you all right?" she asked. Her tone was mostly flat, but after months of spending so much time with her, he could discern the note of concern in it.
"Yeah," he answered without turning back around. To his dismay, the word came out clipped and irritated. Normally he didn't care what his conversational partners thought of his tone, but when it was her... He forcibly calmed his voice and added, "Just catching my breath."
She hummed, unconvinced. "Why didn't you dance with me?"
The question caught him completely off guard, striking where he was most vulnerable-- her specialty, with or without a sword. With no chance to put up his walls or plan a proper defense, he let slip something he didn't want to-- the truth.
"I didn't want to be just one more person taking advantage of your kindness," he said. "It wouldn't have been... special."
"Oh," she whispered, barely audible.
Why did he say that? Had he not made things awkward enough in the Goddess Tower? He needed to know her expression but was afraid to look, lest her face reveal disgust or disappointment.
But when he dared to turn around, the sight of her took his breath away. She looked to the side, unable to meet his gaze. Her cheeks were dusted with pink, and she wore a pleased little smile. The deep blue of her hair glittered in the moonlight as she tucked a lock behind her ear, threatening to outshine the midnight sky itself.
She looked for all the world like a village girl charmed by one of Sylvain's better lines, but that couldn't be. He wasn't Sylvain, or Claude, or any of the other students smitten with her-- with their flowers and chocolates and romantic declarations. No, he was all thorns, and bitter coffee, and rants about swords.
They asked her to dance in the ballroom, when all he'd ever asked her was to fight in the dirt.
She was pulling her jacket back on as she headed for the door, and he felt a pang of disappointment that his time with her was running out-- though it was probably for the best, since he couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut tonight.
She paused when she reached him, though, and he felt her small hand on his shoulder.
"You're the only one that got a midnight spar, though. That makes you special."
"Heh. I guess you're right," he said. A smile bloomed on his face despite his embarrassment. "Goodnight, Professor."
"Sleep well, Felix."
Maybe it wasn't about the activity. It didn't matter that they sparred instead of danced, or gifted whetstones instead of flowers. Things were different between them. No one rlse knew him like she did, her eyes able to see through the walls of bullshit he'd erected around himself to hide from his emotions. And he liked to think he knew her as well.
They fit together in a weird, awkward, special way.
As he crossed the now-silent grounds to put their training swords on the rack, dopey smile still plastered to his face, Sylvain's idiotic advice came back to him. Felix definitely hadn't gotten over her this night. Yet again, he'd gotten under her. He was starting to think that might be just where he belonged.