#sylvixweek

Sylvain is next to him. Sylvain’s sixteen, taller and bigger, and he thinks wiser. He probably is, despite what people think. Felix knows him, he knows him so well. They’ve been attached at the hip since he could walk. Sylvain is this unwavering pillar that Felix can just hold onto.

But he doesn’t anymore, because he’s thirteen and he’s officially old enough to be beyond the need of physical comfort.

Everyone is gone. There’s a coffin in the ground, fancy and expensive, delicately carved and ornately decorated. Worth of a knight , his father had said to him.

But to Felix, it’s only a box, and it’s empty. There wasn’t enough left of his brother’s body to even bury.

Felix stares at the turned soil of the ground, at the flowers littered the area, at the marble headstone with empty words--

Warm fingers wrap around his cold hand, and Felix finds that he can’t pull away.

“I hate him,” he hisses instead.

“Yeah,” Sylvain replies.

“I fucking hate him.” It’s the first time he’s ever used the word, even if he’s heard Sylvain sputter it plenty of times.

“ Yeah .”

Sylvain squeezes his hand, and Felix finds that he doesn’t want to pull away. In fact, he squeezes back.

What a strange feeling, this thing that slowly drowns out the hate.

It rains when Sylvain kills Miklan the beast.

They’re covered in mud and guts and blood, and now there’s rain to wash it all away.

Sylvain heaves heavy breathes, lance heavy in his hand, red splattered across his dented armor. Felix stands to the side, his sword still held at the ready, just in case because you never fucking know .

Sylvain stands there for too long, staring at his dead brother. It’s familiar to Felix, the pain. He hates that Sylvain has to feel it. He is relieved that he’ll no longer be the only one.

It’s a sour thought the burrows deep in his heart, and he does the best that he can to forget it.

Later that night, Sylvain refuses to leave his room. He won’t let Felix in, but instead of feeling hurt, he’s angry. It’s also the perfect opportunity to practice that new certification that he’s been working on. He kneels before the door, lockpick carefully in hand at he works at the lock. After a long and frustrating moment, the tumblers fall with a click .

He practically kicks open the door, the word pathetic about to tumble off of this lips but--

Sylvain is crying.

Felix falters at that. At the tears that stream down Sylvain’s face, leaving wet tracks that glitter in the firelight. His eyes are red rimmed and his breathing is panicked and--

Felix shuts the door behind him and is immediately at his side. “Hey,” he says quiet, and he wants to reach out but--

He’s not thirteen anymore, and it’s not that he doesn’t want to touch, it’s that he does . There is nothing more that he wants to do, than soothe Sylvain. That threat of physical affection isn’t gross any longer, it’s morphed into something more.

Sylvain chuckles, but it’s dark and full of anger. “I hated him, Felix,” he says.

“Yeah.” The word is familiar, and maybe that’s a comfort but Sylvain looks so conflicted.

“I hated him so much, Fe. He tried to kill me. So why do I--” His words cut off, strangled in his throat. “ Why do I care?”

Felix’s heart cracks . “I know, Sylvain,” he says, reaching out and rubbing his back. Sylvain rests his head in his heads, fingers curling into his hair, pulling at it. “I know,” he repeats. His hand goes round and round in soothing circles. “I know, I know, I know,” he says, his voice calm.

Sylvain reaches out to grasp his other hand, squeezing it, holding onto him like a lifeline.

Felix doesn’t let go.

It rains when they bury Felix’s father.

Felix is tired of the rain. He’s tired of the bone-weary feeling of water pelting him, and he’s tired wishing that it will just wash away the hurt .

It doesn’t. He doesn’t think that it ever will. He doesn’t know why he keeps wishing for it.

Unlike Glenn, his father is in that box. He shouldn’t be, but his father is-- Felix pauses and shudders-- was the stupidest man alive, and that’s including Sylvain. Unlike Glenn, Felix barely feels a thing. There’s no anger. No hate. There’s nothing.

He’s empty.

Sylvain is quiet when he moves to his side. He forgoes words, instead grasping for Felix’s arm and yanking him close. And he holds him there. He presses his hand against the back of his head, guiding it to the crook of his neck.

“It’s okay,” Sylvain promises. His fingers card through the long and oily strands, because Felix can’t be bothered to even bathe properly. “Fe, it’s okay, I’m here.”

Well, at least someone is. And yeah, he’s the preferable one of course, this red-headed idiot. Felix sinks into the touch, fingers curling into the rough material of Sylvain’s linen shirt. Sylvain hums lightly. It’s not a real tune, but Felix likes it, he focuses on it, he tries to remember it.

Because at the age of twenty-two, he’s given up on ignoring it and opts for cherishing it instead. It’s weird to think it’s love, but it is, not that he’ll ever tell Sylvain that. Sylvain, who wears a new girl everyday like a pair of drawers.

Sylvain who could be anywhere at that moment, but he’s there , with him . Felix buries his face into his neck, breathing in the smell of sandalwood and leather conditioner.

“I don’t feel anything,” he murmurs against Sylvain’s skin.

Sylvain scratches at his scalp lightly, before pulling back to look at his face. “That’s not true Felix.”

He’s about to deny it, but then he realizes that Sylvain is right. It’s not nothing he feels, it’s pity . He pities his father most of all, and it makes his skin squirm.

“I don’t want to feel anything,” he says, and Sylvain’s expression is unreadable.

“Yeah,” he responds, leaning forward, pressing a kiss against his forehead. That’s new. “Yeah, I know.” His lips linger there, the words traced into his skin.

Felix wants them to stay there.

It rains when Edelgard loses her head.

It rains all day, through the night and into the next day. And the next. And the next.

By now, Felix hates it. He cannot stand the feel of it, the sound of it, the idea of it.

The war is over, the Empire has lost and Faerghus’ King has returned. Things should be loud and riotous. But they aren’t. They’ve returned to the safety of the monastery for the time being and it’s preternaturally quiet.

He’s always liked the quiet, but Felix feels as though he’s had his fill for the rest of his life.

“Gold for your thoughts?”

Felix relaxes the moment he hears Sylvain’s voice. He’s in the training hall, but under the overhang because who wants to slip in the mud, while holding a weapon . It sounded stupid when Sylvain said it as a child, but Felix has seen men slip in the mud and fall on their own swords during battle.

It doesn’t sound so stupid anymore.

So he sits on the step and watches the rain instead. He doesn’t know why, he still hates it. Sylvain drops beside him, his long legs stretched out. It’s weird to see him without armor on. He’s worn it everyday for a year and it’s hard to remember that he owns regular clothes as well.

“It’s too quiet,” Felix tells him. Sylvain hums at that. “It’s like I expect the warning bell to go off at any moment, or the empire to crest the hill or--”

“ Yeah ,” Sylvain interrupts. “I get it.”

“The Bo--” Felix pauses. “ Dimitri ,” he amends, because he’s been trying to get better at it-- “Will be leaving in a few days for Fhirdiad.”

“Will you go with him?” Sylvain asks quietly, and while it isn’t accusatory, it’s stilted enough the Felix narrows his eyes.

“I have things to attend with back home.”

Sylvain’s mouth parts in a silent ah . “I do as well.”

Right, the thing that Felix dreads, because the last time Slyvain went home , they didn’t see each other for five years . And when you’re desperately in love with someone, that’s five years too long.

Felix stands abruptly, not wanting to think about it, not wanting to talk about it--

“Felix--” Sylvain starts, following suit.

But Felix is already walking. He’s already into the rain, crossing the grounds, wanting to get away--

Sylvain’s hand clasps around his arm, and he stops dead. The rain pours. It’s loud in his ear drums and his skin stings under the drops. “Felix,” he begins again, his voice so quiet that Felix can barely hear it over the downpour.

“Sylvain, whatever it is--”

“Come back with me. To Gautier.”

Felix glares at him incredulously. “ What ?” he hisses.

“What is there for you, back home?” Sylvain says it so simply, that Felix can’t think of anything else in that moment. It makes sense, it makes so much sense .

But instead he responds with, “My people .” His voice snaps out like a whip, more vicious than he wants, but when you’re trying to nip something in the bud, it’s easier to be ruthless.

Because if his heart is going to break, he might as well do it to himself.

“I’m not there,” Sylvain answers, and Felix falters. “I don’t know what I would do, if you aren’t by my side, Fe.”

“Don’t say such ridiculous things, Sylvain.” The words sound harsher than they did in his head, but Sylvain marches onward.

“Marry me.”

Everything comes full-stop, as they stand there. It’s like he can’t hear the rain anymore, all he can focus on is the stupid red-head before him, and that ridiculous smile spread across his face. Sylvain makes it look so easy, wearing his feelings so openly.

Twenty-five years old, and Felix still hasn’t quite learned that it’s okay to love someone.

Which is probably why he responds with, “Why on earth would I do that?”

Sylvain isn’t mad. He sighs wistfully though, his grip on his arm tightening. “Because I’m hopelessly in love with you.”

Felix cries. Felix feels the tears slip from his face before Sylvain has even finished his sentence, because Goddess above, this wasn’t how this was supposed to go . He never cried for Glenn. Or his father, or their lost friends or the roar.

But he cries for Sylvain and his love.

“Hey, hey,” the other man shushes, reaching up and pressing fingers to his cheek. “Don’t--”

“It’s nothing , you oaf.” Sylvain wisely, doesn’t mention the crying again.

“We’ve been through a lot together,” he says instead. “I just want to go through the rest of life with you.”

“Your father--”

“ Fuck my father.” Sylvain shifts, and suddenly he’s holding Felix’s cheeks between both of his hands. They’re large and warm, and Felix wants him to never let go. He thumbs at the skin under his eyes.

“I’m so broken,” Felix says.

“Broken things can be repaired.” He ducks down, but hesitates. His lips are close, yet so far. But Felix wants this. He wants . “Felix, you’ve lived your entire life for everyone else. It’s time to live for yourself .”

Felix kisses him. He leans forward, pulling at his close, bringing Sylvain closer. His lips are chapped, but Goddess he smells good, tastes good, this is literally everything he’s ever dreamt it would be. Sylvain angles his head differently, his tongue brushing against his lips. Felix gasps, and Sylvain licks into him Felix presses closer, pulling closer, trying to lose himself.

He does. He does for a long time, and he doesn’t care that they’re soaking wet, or that anyone could come in, or that Sylvain is laughing against his lips.

When they part, Sylvain presses another kiss to his forehead. “Is that a yes?”

Yes . “ Moron ,” is what he actually replies.

Felix loves the rain in that moment. He loves Sylvain, and the way that he looks at him. The way that his hair is darkened and wet, hanging limply around his face. He loves the dimples around that infuriating smile.

He loves that the pain in his heart as been filled instead with something else.

Live for yourself , suddenly seems a lot more like love yourself.