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For all their years of make-believe code words and wartime ciphers, Sylvain would bet good money that no other duo can say so much in as obfuscated a manner as himself and one Duke Felix Fraldarius.
They've never been ones for anything direct— at least, not with one another. Sure, Sylvain spent his younger years declaring his crass intentions with any lady he saw, and not a single one of his classmates would ever claim Felix has a penchant for subtlety, but, when it comes to each other, there’s something else. If saying want you mean is a dance, he and Felix have been stepping just where the other's foot left long since the band stopped playing.
And it works for them. Sylvain has never been good with commitments; they're weighty things, with too much room for a misstep that lands you on your partner's toes. Felix knows this, of course he figured it out, and so their years spent together have been framed as anything but an intentional commitment. Their joint attendance at friends' weddings became competitions to bring the best gift, and their holidays were spent together because the other option was visiting Ordelia territory with Annette, and Goddess knows the two of them will clog my arteries with baked goods, so unless you'd like to cash in on our promise early, we're going somewhere in the opposite direction this moon. Sylvain says yes and plays along every time, the easiest rhythm he’s ever fallen into.
As for Felix, he never quite took to running the Fraldarius estate; it's an eerie type of empty, filled only with echoes of a quick-witted family and the politics he loathed but couldn’t ever outrun. Sylvain knows this, Felix wears it on his face, and so he comes along for the first hunt of every year, and he insists their old classmates celebrate Founding Day at Fraldarius rather than the stuffy monastery because the Archbishop deserves a vacation, too. Felix puts up with it all like it kills him, like the way Sylvain hosting on his behalf is a nuisance or a bother or anything other than the quiet relief of new life in a long abandoned home.
So the years have gone, and so they go still. Sylvain and Felix don't ever talk about it. They don't need to; it's all been said otherwise.
Except, of course, for one tiny, little detail—one that makes Sylvain's hand curl around empty space, that tugs him toward Felix like he is caught in orbit, that leaves him warm after innocent dreams, and that drops the contentment from him like a freefall when he remembers the truth of the waking world he lives in.
One tiny, little detail: he is in love with Felix Fraldarius, and to say so would have them tumbling out of step and ruining the dance that single handedly makes Sylvain's life worth living.
It simply isn’t worth pursuing. Felix makes him happy, so damn happy, in ways he never imagined he could feel, let alone deserve. Their companionship is special as it is, sacred and long since abandoned the pretense of a normal friendship, and he treasures that. He survived a goddessforsaken war for this.
Sylvain left his recklessness behind, shed it off sometime around the early years of peacetime when he realized he’s better off trying to live than waiting for another time to die. He won’t throw away this gift of Felix’s smiles and treasured time spent doing nothing together for something he doesn’t need, for something that might ruin everything else.
He is fine dying together with Felix as what they are now. More than fine—he has never felt as sure of anything as he is of this. As he is of Felix.
Despite the many visits full of opportunities to become acclimated, Sylvain is still as weak as ever when he sees the way Ingrid’s kids hang off of Felix like squirrels on a tree who refuse to budge.
“I can hold on longer!” Her son shouts, sticking a tongue out at his older sister.
“Not true! I held on twice as long last time!”
“You’re both very strong,” Felix says impatiently, frowning down at the both of them. Sylvain still sees the fondness in his eyes. “Please let go now.”
“We’ve got to head back to your parents,” Sylvain says, finally done relishing the moment, and he plucks them off Felix, nestling one in each arm. They both moan, and Sylvain jostles them playfully until their disappointment turns to giggles. “What if your baby sibling arrives before we do?”
At that, Ingrid’s daughter gasps and bursts from Sylvain’s hold to mount her horse. “I’ve got to be there!” She shouts, determined. Sylvain can’t help but laugh; Ingrid isn’t due for at least another moon, but her first two are young and impressionable enough that it makes his job as the fun uncle easier.
He and Felix have been staying at Ingrid’s estate for two weeks now, keeping her kids busy as she works on setting up Galatea for her upcoming absence. Felix claims she owes them, whereas it’s obvious Sylvain adores being here. He can’t help it. It’s all the joys of parenting without the worries he’ll ruin a little child the way his family did to him: a test run of raising kids with the greatest mom Sylvain could imagine as a fallback should he be terrible at it.
As it turns out, taking care of these two makes him think he wouldn’t be half-bad at it. Getting to imagine it’s Felix parenting alongside him only makes the fantasy all the sweeter.
They start the second half of their ride, heading back to the estate, and Sylvain wills himself to rid away the thoughts. He will have these moments with Felix for years to come; there is no need to long for more.
Ingrid’s son shifts his weight back into Sylvain and mercifully pulls him back to the moment. Now nestled in his lap as they ride, he looks up to Sylvain with a conflicted expression, reminiscent of both eating a sour treat and knowing he’s about to get in trouble.
Sylvain cocks an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Well…” his nephew says slowly, voice warbling up and down as he thinks. “Do you and Uncle Felix like Galatea?”
Sylvain glances to where Felix rides further ahead, pointing something out to Ingrid’s daughter next to him. “We do.”
“I knew it!” He explodes with glee, shouting and wiggling until he’s now facing Sylvain, leaning up on his knees. Sylvain drops the reins with a hand to hold him steady; he’d rather not be maimed for dropping Ingrid’s child off a horse today.
“You should move here forever!” He continues to exclaim, near vibrating into the sky. “And then you never need to leave!”
“Aw, buddy,” Sylvain says with a small smile. “That would be fun, huh? But your uncles have our own territories, just like your mama does.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he says, leaving no room for doubt.
“Oh yeah? And when did you learn more about being a margrave than me, huh?”
He rolls his eyes, an uncanny vision of his mother. Sylvain feels an age old fear rise in his bones just at the sight. “You’re not getting it. You’re married. Mama and Papa say they can do all sorts of stuff because they’re married.”
Sylvain’s brain short-circuits. He clenches his fist on instinct, and his horse whinnies and glares back at him until he forces his grip loose to give her slack.
“We— we aren’t married.”
There’s a gasp so loud that birds flee from the trees, and then: “YOU’RE NOT MARRIED?”
The Goddess must hate him because Felix looks back at them with a devilish smirk. “What are you two talking about over there?”
Sylvain pulls the kid’s face into the fabric of his tunic before he can say anything. “Nothing! I was just telling this one it’s actually quite a good thing that I am not married!” Felix raises an eyebrow, and Ingrid’s son manages to look at Sylvain again, skeptical.
“It’s true!” Sylvain insists, desperately scouring his brain for any sort of way to keep Ingrid’s son from repeating his interpretation of their decidedly-single marital status. “You see, uh… Well, if I was married, I couldn’t come visit you with Uncle Felix as often.”
“Oh,” he says, mulling this over as if Sylvain has just revealed some great ultimatum. “I guess it’s good that you aren’t then.”
“Yep!” Sylvain chirps. He glances at Felix anxiously to find he’s no longer looking at them. He’s staring to the side in his prickly way, but not his usual prickly. This is his sad prickly. Sylvain’s stomach drops, an automatic instinct fine-tuned to Felix’s mood, but then the kids start shouting to each other about whether or not a monster lives in the woods and if it likes to eat annoying little brothers, and they don’t talk about Sylvain or marriage any more.
A week later they’re stopped at the splitting point in their journeys home, only a few hours away from the Fraldarius estate. Sylvain finishes tying up his share of their travel rations to a mule when Felix approaches. He’s unusually quiet as he tests the quality of Sylvain’s knots—sturdy and without reproach, thank you very much—and so Sylvain waits.
Eventually, Felix takes a slow breath. “Would it really be so different, if you were married?”
Sylvain blinks. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but Sothis knows it wasn’t that.
“Well, yeah,” Sylvain says dumbly. Felix huffs and gives another tug. “What is this about? Marriage changes every aspect of life for a nobleman. You know that. I couldn’t travel with you nearly as much if I were to get married.”
Felix relents with his inspection and merely glares at the mule, not once looking at Sylvain.
“It does,” Felix eventually concedes. He stalks away and climbs atop his horse without another word.
Sylvain watches Felix leave, his feet stuck still. Had Felix never thought about what would happen if either of them were to wed? Of course things would change.
And then it hits Sylvain: things would change. They would change, and Felix would hate that because he prefers them as they are now.
Sylvain wasn’t holding out hope, but his heart aches from the realization nonetheless.
In the years that come to pass, they don’t speak of marriage again. Sylvain continues to politely decline the offers of daughters from the many nobles, long resigned to hold a torch for an impossibility until it burns out alongside him. And if Felix receives any proposals—which he must, he’s a duke, and Sylvain knows the women of the Kingdom are not blind—he never mentions them.
And to be honest, Sylvain’s glad for it. He’s not sure what he would do if he had to hear Felix talk about his prospects, much less pine or want after someone. It’s another nail in the coffin of his unrequited feelings when he thinks how Felix managed to listen to years of Sylvain’s skirtchasing without casting Thoron on himself when Sylvain wouldn’t last five minutes of the same.
Fortunately, it is easy to talk of things other than romance and marriage when you’ve had two decades and some change worth of practice.
“How many more years need to pass before we can move the anniversary to happen once per decade? Maybe even once per century?”
Felix shoots him a look from the doorway as he re-enters his study. He throws the towel around his neck at Sylvain, who can’t be bothered to move from his spot sprawled out on the sofa by the fireplace. “Look up the definition of the word anniversary sometime, you dolt.”
Sylvain grunts and shifts to his side to revel in the warmth of the fire on his face. “Well, call me treasonous, but Founding Day is too much work for what little fun it really is.” Felix settles into a chair across Sylvain with an amused huff and lets the topic drop in favor of settling in. It was a long day of ceremonies and scripture readings, and Sylvain wasn’t kidding when he wished to be done with it.
But then, it did lead him to this: staying late into the night in Felix’s quarters, lounging by bright flames that danced off Felix’s hair, still damp from his evening bath. And really, how bad could any bureaucracy be if it allows him to revel in a warmth that burns equally hot within him and staves off the many lonely colds native to Faerghus.
But stay too late and he risks being burnt—either by long-avoided rejection or the devastation of his own wanting roaring up in his chest. Sylvain doesn’t know which would hurt more.
“But I suppose it was nice,” Sylvain says because self-sabotage is an old habit and an older friend.
Felix turns from the fire just to stare at Sylvain, all quiet contentment with edges smoothed by tiredness. Sylvain’s fingers itch to trace his jaw, to run through any knots in his hair until the motion has him falling asleep in Sylvain’s arms. He wonders if he’ll drive himself mad, dreaming of something as mundane as being lucky enough to braid Felix’s hair before bed.
“I enjoyed it,” Felix eventually agrees. He blinks slowly, and Sylvain figures he’s got no more than two minutes before there’s a sleeping Duke on his hands. He stands slowly, letting out a pleased hum as his neck cracks from the stiff position, and gestures to the window behind them.
“The snow’s just starting. I’d better head out now if I’m to make it to Gautier before it worsens.”
Felix follows Sylvain’s motion and stares at the dark landscape outside, the fire occasionally catching on a wayward snowflake. Sylvain waits for Felix to tease him for being afraid of such a light snowfall, but Felix remains quiet to the point where Sylvain thinks he might have fallen asleep with his eyes still open.
“Felix?” Sylvain asks, softer.
“You know you can stay.”
Sylvain blinks. Of course he knows— they’ve practically got their own guest rooms at each other’s estates, they’ve visited so often. He opens his mouth to say as much, but before he can, Felix adds, unusually cautious: “You can always stay.”
His breath falls out of him, clumsy and heavy like his lungs finally lost their hold on it. He wants Felix to be saying one thing, more than anything, but if he isn’t— if he doesn’t mean that, doesn’t realize what he’s saying…
“I know,” Sylvain says, throat dry. He swallows thickly and continues: “But I’m headed to Sreng soon for another diplomatic visit next.”
Felix nods. “Right. I’ll see you out then.”
He crosses to the door, waiting until Sylvain joins him, and something in Sylvain’s stomach twists once more at Felix’s unreadable expression.
“But perhaps you could meet me afterwards?” Sylvain offers, much quieter than he meant.
Felix’s face relaxes once more. “I look forward to it.”
“Good,” Sylvain says, not caring how relieved he sounds. Felix’s lips curl into a grin, and the heat from before washes over Sylvain once more, like he’s feeling the first rays of the springtime sun warming his skin. And later he’ll blame it on the firelight on Felix’s face and the hours spent fulfilling his duties as margrave, but here in this moment, Sylvain can’t help the words that spill out of his mouth.
“I’m glad we’re able to spend so much time in each other’s company,” he confesses. “There really is nothing else I love more.”
Felix’s eyebrows inch up on his forehead, but he’s smirking all the same as he steps closer to Sylvain. “For as loud as you are, I’m not fond of the silence you leave behind.”
“You couldn’t just say ‘me too’?”
“That’d be too easy.”
And then Felix laughs, relaxed and fond and vulnerable in this space between them where they aren’t Margrave and Duke, aren’t crest bearers and former generals and anything that requires the carefully laid walls between them and the world, and all Sylvain can think is damn, I want him to sleep well. I want him to have nothing but these long rewarding days and restful nights and to always look like this, just like this.
Sylvain wants and wants and wants and not even for him. Just for Felix.
His happiness is all that I need.
It’s the easiest thought he’s ever had. It’s the oldest one, too.
Sylvain places his hand on Felix’s jaw and leans down to press his lips against Felix’s forehead. "Goodnight," he says softly, lips brushing against skin.
When Sylvain pulls back, Felix leans into Sylvain's hand, just slightly, so light that Sylvain wonders if Felix even realizes. He stares straight into Sylvain’s eyes, like he’s waiting for Sylvain to finish a sentence he’s sure he’s never started. And it should make Sylvain anxious, but he isn’t. Instead, he feels something serene, like they’re removed from time altogether, just here in this touch. Sylvain runs his thumb along Felix's cheekbone and marvels at how it's only grown more defined since their youth.
He leans over slowly to kiss Felix's other cheek and feels the fire's lingering warmth against his lips. “Goodnight,” he repeats.
Now, when Sylvain moves to step away, Felix places a steady hand on the back of his neck, keeping them close. Sylvain’s eyes slip closed, and as he feels each of Felix’s exhales dance across his cheek, Sylvain realizes Felix couldn’t say me, too because they never say I love you so simply.
But they say it— they’ve said it for so long, haven’t they.
Feeling the weight of the world just behind his eyelids, Sylvain tilts his head and meets Felix in a feather-light, impossibly familiar kiss.
When Sylvain opens his eyes, Felix is there. Just the same.
And when Sylvain returns from Sreng, Felix is there to welcome him. Just the same.