Chapter Text
Living with Felix could be… trying. Glenn knows as much because they spent fourteen years growing up under the same roof; what with being brothers and all. He gets his first break away from the guy when he finishes high school and blindsides the family with the news he’s accepted a fencing offer from Enbarr State University. He was expected to go to The Royal University of Fhirdiad; where their supposed legacy belongs. His father breaks out into one of his tried and true lectures on the Fraldarius family's strong bonds to the Royal Family of Faerghus. Glenn’s heard them all—he made his decision in spite of it, even. Felix had kept his head trained straight ahead and slightly downcast at the time, but it’s clear he was watching Glenn out of the corner of his eye.
“What the fuck am I going to do if you’re leaving?” He’d ask when he stormed into Glenn’s room at quarter to midnight that evening.
“Figure it out I guess,” he’d said. It probably wasn’t his finest moment, but he’d been worn thin by their parents expectations and Glenn really just wanted a break.
The plan at the time had been to do a year at Enbarr State, and transfer to Fhirdiad at the beginning of his second. It was a lukewarm rebellious era, where he gets to have a year away from being Glenn Fraldarius—eldest son of the third most important person in Faerghus.
Two problems: Jeralt and Byleth Eisner.
Jeralt’s Enbarr States new fencing coach. Byleth is his kid—in the same year as Glenn—and the only person who ever bested Glenn in a spar. So naturally, that was the moment he knew if he wanted to be named to Faerghus’ national team, and maintain his advantage over Felix who’d been nipping at his heels since he turned senior; he needed this coach.
It was the right decision too, because Felix’s fifteen during the Olympic year. Glenn only outranks him nationally in saber by an uncomfortably close two points, and he’s not quite ready to concede that Felix is the better fencer of the two of them. He had his heart set on one more gold medal before letting the kid dominate the sport for the foreseeable future.
He soft-retires from fencing at the ripe age of twenty-two, when he gets his letter of acceptance into medical school. Byleth takes an assistant coaching position with their father immediately after graduating. It’s late May when Felix calls him in the middle of the night in one of his foul moods.
“Byleth Eisner is trying to scout me.” Glenn should have known, his entire senior year Jeralt and Byleth had been needling him about Felix.
“…and you’re pissed at me because?”
“The old man’s gonna lose his shit if I accept it.”
“Who cares? If you’re committed to it then you need to prioritize your own training over dad’s alma mater—besides it's not like the Fraldarius fencing legacy doesn’t live on regardless of the school.”
Maybe if Glenn had more foresight, he’d have realized it was inevitable he’d end up living with Felix if he accepted the offer. He certainly doesn’t try to talk him out of it anyway, and come July his apartment's second room is occupied by a prickly, feral cat. Which is fine, he can live with it. Felix lives a spartan lifestyle; he owns very little and occupies negligible space.
One problem: Felix conveniently failed to mention that it was less about fencing, and more about following Sylvain Gautier to Enbarr State University.
Sylvain’s presence has always been enormous. Glenn can walk into his apartment and know he’s there before he sees him. He’s a collapsing star—a void expanse—extinguishing all the light in the room. There’s an ever present misery that threatens to swallow and destroy anyone who orbits too closely. His instincts have been screaming at him for years of the danger he poses; his red hair is a herald.
He can remember the terror he caused nearly every single young woman in high school. More than once he had to intervene before a boyfriend, or brother put him in a hospital bed with two broken legs. He’ll never forget the times he had to drive to the middle of nowhere at night to retrieve the teenager; beaten and bloody and liquored up beyond coherency.
Glenn has seen every mask Sylvain has ever fabricated as he cries for help—he’s seen through every lie he’s told to evade the safeguarding intended to save his life. For as long as Glenn has known Sylvain, he has longed for someone to wrought mutually assured destruction on him; a desire that’s magnified since his brother left a festering lesion in his chest.
And yet, and yet, and yet, there’s a serenity to the man in the presence of only one. Moments of reprieve where the light flickers back into existence; when the face he wears is real. Where there is a want and will to live—no matter how fragile the spark driving it is.
Even a blind man could see it’s only ever been Felix; tragic that Gautier is both blind and stupid.
So he’s become an unwilling front row spectator to Felix and Sylvain circling each other. Glenn has half a mind to ask if the guy’s homeless, for how often he’s commandeering every bit of space inside his Goddess damned apartment. He gets home from a particularly long day of labs only to be walloped by the sexual tension they exude after they’ve been fighting about one of Sylvain’s stupid trysts again.
“You promised me none of your fucking girls would bother me.”
“I swear Felix, I don’t know how she figured out your schedule!”
“She interrupted my practice today to pull me aside to accost me about you.”
Ah so that’s what this was about then. Glenn grabs his phone from his coat pocket as he drops his bag onto ground, it’s heavy and the thump it makes gets both men’s attention.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account, I have plans,” He lies, partially, because he’s shooting off a message to Byleth to see if they’re free. If they are, he definitely has plans—the talking shit about his brother kind of plans.
Felix crosses his arms over his chest and huffs, he’s wound tightly and ready to snap at any moment. If he doesn’t get a handle on his anger it’s going to negatively impact his performance—assuming it hasn't already—and they’re creeping ever closer to the end of the current quad. If he wants to represent Faerghus as saber at the next games, he needs to get fucked or get over this. Honestly, Glenn hasn’t the slightest clue which one of those is the path of least resistance, because Felix is always enormously difficult.
He gives the two of them a two finger salute when Byleth affirms they’re free, and escapes to let them go back to their bickering match.
“I think I miscalculated,” Byleth says when Glenn slips onto the stool beside them at the campus bar.
“That’s a rare admission from you, what’s the occasion?" He asks, flagging down the bartender to order a gin gimlet.
“As you know, when you announced your hiatus from the principal team we were required to seek a suitable replacement.”
“Which you found, with my brother.” Glenn thanks the bartender when they reappear with his cocktail and he leans back and turns slightly to the side to face Byleth whilst nursing the drink.
“There were others on the shortlist. We decided to go all in on Felix when we found out his close friend was enrolled at the university.” Byleth’s finger idly traces around the rim of their glass.
“Ah. Gautier. They were fighting about the interruption at practice when I got home today.” Glenn sighs and shakes his head.
“University of Derdriu’s recruited the Almyran Crown Prince as their new saber. Adrestia Imperial College still has Yuri Leclerc, Royal University’s got their sights set on Ashe Duran next year.” Byleth’s lips twitch downwards. “Felix is better than all three of them, he’s better than both of us. However, since he arrived his form’s been lacking and he has no focus—he’s unrecognizable from the athlete I scouted last spring—and I suspect Gautier is at the heart of the problem.”
Glenn laughs softly as he places his drink to his lips and takes a sip, “never one to mince words, huh, By?”
“You wouldn’t appreciate it if I did.”
“Suppose not, what would you like done?”
“If he cannot fix what’s ailing his mind, I need him to be able to disconnect from it when he’s practicing and competing.”
“Fair enough. Let me guess, you don’t want to regret not bagging the Almyran prince for yourself.” He flashes Byleth teeth and receives a whisper of a smirk in return.
“What can I say? Perhaps I have a thing for smarmy aristocrats with dark hair and light eyes,” Byleth says flatly, making Glenn chuckle.
“Let me talk to him about it and see what can be done.”
Byleth hummed in assent, “it must be difficult, being in love with a man like that.”
“I promise you, it’s far more difficult to witness their combined idiocy,” he grumbles and it causes an actual laugh to escape from Byleth’s throat.
Their conversation deviates away from Felix to more jovial things. The principal women’s team Enbarr State has assembled this year is a shoe in for the collegiate title. They’re all newcomers Byleth assembled themself: Edelgard von Hresvelg as épée, Leonie Pinelli as foil, and Petra Macneary as saber. All three of these women are capable of making even Felix break a sweat in a bout—it’s promising after years of crushing defeat and poor results. As for the men’s: Emile von Bartels remains in play as the épée, and Ferdinand von Aegir replaces Hubert von Vestra in foil. He’s first alternate by his own request; or so he insists. On paper at least, Enbarr should dominate the circuit this season.
When they move away from fencing, Byleth asks how his classes are going, and about his brood of plant clones he’s been recording the progress of on his instagram. Byleth tells him about their last fishing tournament with their father where they managed to net some monstrous catch. It’s a reprieve from the shards of glass he’s probably going to have to help pick up when he gets home.
They go their separate ways before it gets too late. Glenn has to study for an upcoming histology exam, Byleth has to make preparations for their next practice. There’s a promise to keep each other updated on Felix, before they split apart at the train station to go to their respective platforms.
His apartment is quiet when he steps through the door around half past eight. Sylvain’s not here because the energy isn’t stifling. He tosses his keys on the counter, slips out of his jacket, and kicks off his running shoes before padding across the floor into the living room with his bag in tow. Felix is sitting crossed legged on the sofa with a physiology textbook on his lap. He doesn’t seem upset, at least.
“You good?” he asks, dropping down beside him on the sofa.
“As good as I can be, just Sylvain’s typical bullshit becoming everyone else’s problem,” he mutters, then sighs and slouches into the back of the couch. “It was wishful thinking he’d cut it out when I got here.”
“You can’t change people who don’t want to be changed, Fe.” Glenn sighs and rummages around for his histology book and tablet. “Anyway I was out with Byleth—” he paused when Felix visibly cringed, “—and from that reaction I suppose you already can guess what they said.”
“My form’s been utter shit and I can’t focus on matches—because my brain feels like it’s a runaway train with seized brakes,” Felix says and massages his temples.
“Have you considered meeting with one of the sports psychologists? I saw one in my first year when I was struggling with balancing my course load and extracurriculars.”
“I don’t think that’ll help, it’s not school that’s the issue.” It’s Sylvain, because when isn’t it? They pine for each other, they circle around each other terrified the other doesn’t reciprocate their feelings, and then self-destruct in their own unique ways. Felix isolates; he becomes angry, unfocused and full of spite. Sylvain tries to fill up the emptiness it leaves him with by sleeping with whoever will have him—and most women who know who his father is—will have him.
“Well if there’s anything I can do to help, tell me, yeah?”
“Yeah, whatever.” That’s more a no than an affirmative, and Glenn thinks perhaps desperate times call for desperate measures. So in lieu of studying he begins to scheme how to get the most stubborn and dumbest men alive, respectively, to talk about their feelings. There’s actually a remarkably obvious solution when he thinks about it.
Friday evening finally comes along and Felix stomps in after practice. Felix discards his equipment on the floor, and tosses everything else onto the counter before storming into the bathroom and slamming the door. It’s the only time he allows himself the indulgence of soaking his aching muscles. He’s always said it’s pseudo-meditative, and he refuses to bring any potential disturbance in with him. So his phone is sitting abandoned where Glenn can grab and unlock it—they’ve always known each other's passcodes, in the event of an emergency.
Without hesitation he opens up Felix's text messages with Sylvain—emulating his text tone and cadence in the way only an older brother could—he shoots off a message not requesting, but demanding, he come over immediately. The affirmation comes within seconds because Sylvain Gautier is the most predictable dog Glenn has ever met. He’d probably drop a woman mid-fuck, and ask: how high? If Felix told him to jump.
Felix finishes his bath and silently vanishes into his bedroom, wearing nothing but an oversized shirt and shorts. He’ll be in there for a while meticulously combing out his hair and applying some ludicrously overpriced product in it. Sylvain quietly arrives at the apartment and looks at Glenn leaning against the kitchen counter. He raises his eyebrows and receives a shrug and hand wave in the direction of the bedroom. The fact he’s not at all suspicious—when Felix’s phone is very clearly resting beside Glenn—is a testament to the man's stupidity.
He doesn’t notice Glenn following him as he walks towards the bedroom and pushes open the slightly ajar door. “Hey—”
“—What the fuck do you want?” Felix hisses, cutting Sylvain off.
There's a pregnant pause before Glenn shoves Sylvain through the door, following him. When he shuts it, he locks it with a click and leans against it. “I’m not letting either of you out of here until you sort out this mess you’ve made.”
Sylvain stares at him in horrific revelation—Felix looks like he wants to kill him. It’s standard fare.
“You didn’t text me did you.”
“Why the fuck would I text you, Sylvain?”
“Well someone invited me over,” he says, looking warily at Glenn. They’re both silent.
“You’ve never had any courtesy for me in the past, so I don’t see any reason for you to start now. Talk and get it over with,” Glenn says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Oh fuck you, what would you know?” Felix hisses, scowling but unmoving from where he sits.
“I know that it’s a fucking mystery how either of you got into university considering how daft you both are.”
Sylvain snorts and Felix glares at him when he says, “What? Maybe he’s got a point.” It’s almost identical to the typical self-deprecating bullshit he does, but there’s this bitter edge to it that seems targeted towards his brother. Glenn wonders if he gets some sick thing from that Felix clearly doesn’t understand why he drowns himself in women he hates. Goddess they both give him a headache.
“Maybe you’re an idiot, but I’ve hardly done anything to warrant being demeaned like that.” Felix scowls.
“Haven’t you?” Glenn asks, lips tugging upwards. “Seriously. We can stay here all night, all weekend, even. Talk.”
“I have nothing to talk to him about,” Felix snaps.
“Is there something in particular you think we need to discuss?” Sylvain asks.
“Are you offering for me to start you off?”
“Sure why the fuck not the sooner you wrap up your little game the better,” Felix grouses. He leans back on his bed, balancing himself with his hands behind him.
“Don’t say I didn’t give you the opportunity to speak for yourselves then,” he says, rolling his eyes, then staring the two of them down. “Felix’s fencing performance has declined noticeably. Because he’s been in love with you since before he even knew what puberty was, and all your stupid whoring around with women over the years has been a death by a thousand cuts—” Glenn pauses and points at Sylvain, “—and you’ve been besotted with Felix for as long as I’ve known you, and you only keep whoring around because you think Felix doesn’t feel the same.”
It’s so silent you can hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen.
“What the fuck?” Felix says eventually. It’s not directed at Glenn.
“I—” Sylvain flounders. For all the stupid mind games he likes to play with people, and all the drama he’s caused over the years, he’s never had someone air out his own dirty laundry so spectacularly.
“I don’t care what the two of you do, date, never see each other again—you can ask me to leave and jump each other's bones for all I care—but you’re not fooling anyone but each other, and frankly I'm sick of living with it.”
The silence continues. Sylvain fidgets; cracking his knuckles, and running his hands through his hair. Felix stares him down like he’s a prey animal he’s sizing up before he pounces. He slowly shifts his focus to Glenn, looking no less predatory.
“You can leave, we’ll talk.” It’s fairly clear Felix has absolutely no intention to talk—at least with words.
“Goddess, fucking finally.” Glenn exhales and pushes himself away from the door and unlocks it. “If you make a fucking mess, clean it the hell up,” he adds before shoving his way through the door, slamming it behind him. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and shoots Byleth a text:
Which is Glenn’s cue to get the fuck out of dodge.