Work Text:
Nothing Claude does is an accident, except, maybe, for this. For all of the plots and contingencies his brain can form, the rest of his body has chosen to mutiny and plot its own course. If he were the romantic type, he might say his heart is steering the ship, so to speak. Though romance has never appealed to him, even he can’t deny that his feelings are, how should he put it… thrown into a tizzy worse than a diva before the curtain rises? Yeah, he needs to workshop that a little more. He hasn’t got time to think about it, though, because Sylvain makes a half-coherent noise that probably means he’s waking up.
Claude’s intuition proves true as Sylvain rolls over, shoving his face into Claude’s chest. With a fond laugh, Claude pats his hair, which looks every bit like a bonfire in this morning’s sun with last night’s bedhead. “Good morning, beautiful,” he greets, getting a sleepy whine in return. Sylvain is so not a morning person, but after having been to Faerghus, Claude can’t blame him—there’s nothing to ‘rise and shine’ for in that frozen wasteland. At least he’s up in time for breakfast, which is more than can be said for certain other wyvern-riding axe-wielding noble brats in this army.
Today is an exception to that rule, though if they hurry out the door, they’ll probably be able to snag a couple plates of leftovers from the Monastery kitchens. Yet Claude’s not in the mood to go anywhere fast, and if he’s honest, he isn’t hungry. He’s too nervous for that.
Despite the suave image he carefully maintains, it’s not a new feeling. Anxiety and him are old friends, going wayyyy back to the very first attempts on Claude’s life, when he was Khalid, in Almyra. Internally, he debates whether to keep his crazy feelings to himself, to hide his cards, to play it safe. Then Sylvain kisses his jaw, soft lips tempered by scratchy stubble, and Claude’s heart whirls faster than his mind. Childlike giddiness fills the spaces where his racing thoughts have peeled away like new varnish on an old painting. Sylvain likes art, Claude remembers. Maybe one of these days, he can teach him all about it.
“Hey, you,” the man says now. “You doing alright?” His tone is flirtatious, but Claude is touched that he cares enough to ask. But of course Sylvain would be the perfect gentleman the morning after waking up in Claude’s room. If not because that’s just who Sylvain truly is as a person, compassionate and sympathetic and warm, then because Claude’s imported royal mattress would make any lover in their right mind want to stay in his good graces.
“All the better for waking up next to you,” Claude says, matching Sylvain’s tone though he cannot match his mood. He feels, vaguely, like the world outside his bedroom door, or damn it all, even the world outside his periphery might not be real. Maybe while watching Sylvain breathe he’d actually fallen asleep and this is but a dream spun from his nighttime fantasies. That sure would make speaking his mind easier. What is he saying? For all the speeches he gives about forging a new path forward, he really is a coward.
“Uh oh,” Sylvain announces, then taps Claude’s nose with his finger, catching him quite off guard. “That’s ‘thinking Claude’ face.”
The nerve! “This is just my normal face?”
“Nope. From one bold-faced liar to another, I can tell when I look in your eyes.”
This, too, surprises Claude, and he needs a moment to gather himself before he can think of a response. During this time, he shifts back to look into Sylvain’s eyes, half as a challenge, wholly because he finds them pretty. The kohl he uses to line them has smudged in his sleep—woe be to Claude’s pillow—making him resemble a handsome desert rogue. Offhandedly, Claude wonders how many freckles Sylvain would get if he spent all day in the sun. “A guy could get used to waking up with this view,” he flirts.
Sylvain’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Is that an offer or a promise?”
“It can be both, if you want.” Feeling warm and gooey like honey in the sunlight with Sylvain’s body pressed against him, Claude decides to be brave. “You want to hear a secret? Lying here with you, waiting for you to wake up, I realized I trust you. I feel like I could tell you just about anything.”
Pleased, Sylvain hums, then leans in close. “You wanna hear my secret? I love you, truly, passionately!” Surging forward, he nips at Claude’s ear.
This whole routine is old hat, so Claude shoves him back without any real effort. “You stole my secret.”
“No way! This comes straight from the heart,” Sylvain counters, eyes wide in mock surprise as he props himself up on his elbow, hand to his chest. Counting seconds, Claude holds still until he sees the moment Sylvain processes what he’d actually told him. “Wait, say that again? I don’t think I heard you right.”
“You heard me,” Claude confirms. “I love you.”
With the back of his hand, he strokes down Sylvain’s arm, tracing his profile. The man stares at him in confusion. “I thought you said you couldn’t fall in love.”
“Let me explain.” He rests his fingers at Sylvain’s elbow. “I still haven’t fallen in love yet. I’m not sure that I ever will. But I love you, because love is more than romance. I dream about you, about moments just like this one. I want this—us—to be a part of the new world I’m building.” Brushing Sylvain’s wild hair out of his face, Claude makes his offer: “Could that work for you, too?”
Without another word, Sylvain flings himself onto his chest. The sun sets his eyes ablaze as he stares up at Claude, cheek smushed by his pectoral. “That’d be perfect,” he finally answers. Looking into his eyes, Claude knows he’s telling the truth.