#sylvixweek2020

i.

Felix really should have known better.

He should have known that this joke, this mockery of his pent-up feelings, would become more than a one-off thing. But he is weak; so very weak to Sylvain and even if he could, Felix doesn’t think that he would have put a stop to it anyways because despite all his hissing and cursing, he really is touched starved for the fool.

Yet here they are again, about to ride off into yet another battle – because that’s what war is; just a never ending string of blood and death and loss – and Sylvain is leaning down from atop his warhorse, looking every bit the intimidating Dark Knight that he is with his black armor shining boldly in the afternoon sun, and threading one large hand between the inky strands of Felix’s hair to bring his face closer to his prize.

Felix has lost count how many kisses Sylvain has bestowed upon him in the calm before the storm. It’s a testament to just how many battles they have gone through together, how many wordless promises they have made to each other to come back alive and whole after the blood has finished soaking into the earth beneath their feet.

However, no matter how many times Sylvain brings his warm, soft lips to Felix’s own rough, chapped ones, Felix still feels the strength drain from his legs and all his senses hone in on the heat of lips on lips, sliding easily over each other with practiced movements slicked with spit.

“Come back to me alive, yeah?” The words are murmured so close to him that Felix can feel the brush of Sylvain’s lips even as the hot air escapes between them, flushing both of their faces with soft crimson.

Felix scoffs – a typical Felix response – and that’s more than enough of a promise for Sylvain who straightens back on his horse and gives his lance a practice twirl with a grace that belied his fierce strength.

“I always do. You’re the one who needs to be careful, what with your dismal training regimen.”

And it’s true. Felix always keeps his promise and comes back to Sylvain. After all, he thinks to himself, he still has yet to confess his feelings for his childhood friend and Felix knows, just as he knows that the sky is blue and that Sylvain’s hair is more beautiful than any sunset will ever be, that he will always come home; home to Sylvain.

How else will he get another kiss?

ii.

Felix is weak for Sylvain.

But then again, that was something that Felix had already established early on in his life – even before they had made what Ingrid liked to call their ‘morbid childhood death pact’.

Not many could say that they could annoy the Fraldarius heir to the point of sputtering without making an immediate acquaintance with the sharp end of a blade. Even fewer could get away with initiating physical contact with Felix outside of training, much less casually throwing an entire arm around his shoulders and then proceeding to whine like a child about anything and everything.

But the most telling sign of Felix’s softness towards Sylvain is the fact that the Gautier heir is the only person who is allowed to touch his hair.

“Tilt your head down a little.” A calloused broad hand cradles the back of his head gently and pushes Felix’s forehead to meet the warm muscle of Sylvain’s shoulder. They must make an intimate picture, Felix thinks to himself as he inhales the warm citrusy scent of bergamot and honey that he has come to associate with his childhood friend. They are in Felix’s room behind closed doors and it is still early morning. Were anyone to enter his room, the sight of Sylvain kneeled at the edge of the bed between Felix’s legs with his hands buried in raven locks and Felix with his face in Sylvain’s shoulders would have invited more than a few salacious rumors to the monastery grounds.

“Ow. Be careful.” Felix hisses at the not-so-gentle snag of fingers against a tangle.

“Sorry, Fe.” The puff of hot air grazes the back of his neck and sends shivers down his spine.

In the back of his mind, Felix recognizes that it’s probably a colossally stupid idea to let Sylvain tie his hair up every morning while he is recovering from a broken arm. The fact that the Fraldarius heir allows himself to indulge in their pre-battle kisses is already torture enough; but letting Sylvain run his long fingers through his raven strands to pull and tame them into his customary ponytail?

It isn’t an exaggeration to say that Felix’s nights have since gotten more restless.

“Your hair is longer now.”

It’s a plain statement. Neutral grounds in terms of speech, but the sinful way Sylvain tugs his hair, landing a little on the side of deliciously hard, makes the words drip with suggestion and invitation.

Felix must be going crazy if he thinks he can hear anything other than plain, factual observation in Sylvain’s tone. But if it is the madness that conjures images of the Gautier heir yanking his hair to expose the expanse of his neck and suck his claim… then he decides that insanity must not be half bad.

It is both an eternity and not long enough when Sylvain finally announces that he is done with a breathy whisper. Reluctantly, Felix pulls back and reaches his good arm up to pat the neatly tied strands under the pretense of checking Sylvain’s work. If Felix secretly revels in brushing his fingers along the lingering warmth clinging to his hair, then that is his own business.

A familiar strip of leather lays on the desk to the side.

“You didn’t use my normal hair tie.”

Sylvain smiles as him just a little too wide. Wide enough that Felix is suspicious.

“Yeah. I figured it was starting to get really old so I got you a new one.” Sylvain says very matter-of-fact. The sincerity in his voice sends Felix’s heart thumping wildly in his chest and he feels the heat in his cheeks even as he scowls.

“I am perfectly capable of buying my own hair ties.”

As usual, Sylvain is an expert in understanding Felix-speech and simply laughs. You’re welcome rolls off his tongue with ease born from years of enduring harsh words and learning to read the subtext behind barbs.

Even as they walk through the monastery hallways together down to the dining hall, Sylvain rolls with the punches and their conversation doesn’t so much as falter for even a moment, instead slipping into a familiar and achingly comfortable banter that hides years of unspoken emotions.

No one mentions anything about how Sylvain seems to stick more closely to Felix now that his arm is in a sling.

No one mentions the bright Gautier-red leather strip that stands out so glaringly obvious against the dark canvas of Felix’s hair.

No one mentions anything when Felix hands Sylvain that same hair tie the next morning to complete their new morning ritual, the unspoken subtext wrapping soothingly around them as Felix once again bows his head in the only surrender he will ever acquiesce.

I’m yours.

iii.

“Felix!”

Pain. Screaming. Panic. Sylvain.

Where is Sylvain?

“Fe! Fe, stay with me. Don’t you dare die, you stubborn asshole!”

The part of his mind that is still rational and conscious tries to cajole the rest of his body into letting out an indelicate snort, but all that comes out is a wet cough that sends pain and blood spilling out his mouth.

“Mercie? Lin? Marianne? Healer, please, anyone! I need a healer!”

Felix’s arms feel more like dead weight than limbs at this point given the numbness of his extremities, but that doesn’t stop an agonizing lance of pain from shooting through him as he feels his body lifting up and being cradled against a cold metal chest plate.

A low moan manages to slip its way unbidden past his chapped lips.

“I know, Fe.” Warm honeyed words wash over him. Even in his half unconscious and delirious state, Felix can hear the unbridled fear that lurks beneath the forced calm. “You’ll be okay. I’m gonna get you to Mercie and she’ll fix you right up, okay? Stay with me.”

Sylvain’s voice cracks at the end along with Felix’s heart.

He doesn’t like it when Sylvain is in pain.

With herculean effort, Felix manages to pry his eyelids open just enough to look at the underside of Sylvain’s clenched jaw.

Huh. When did he get on a horse?

“Are you… okay?” The words are harder to wheeze out than Felix is comfortable with, but he forces his lungs to work with him because above the pain and fear for his own life looms the overwhelming need to make sure that Sylvain is unhurt.

Otherwise the axe he took to the side would have been for nothing.

Sylvain lets out a choked laugh, “yeah. Yeah, of course I’m alright. Fuck Felix, you shouldn’t have pushed me out of the way like that.”

You should have trained more, is what Felix wants to reply, however his mind and body are no longer working in tandem and somewhere along the line his heart decides to step in instead.

“Don’t…cry, Syl…”

In all their years together, Felix can count on one hand the number of times he has seen Sylvain cry; most of them in their childhood before Glenn dies. The last time Sylvain had allowed his emotions to bubble up to the surface was the day he shoved his lance into Miklan’s chest in an attempt to give him a merciful ending rather than living on as a demonic beast.

But none of those times can compare to the wrecked look and unending rush of tears that are carving their way through the grime and gore on Sylvain’s cheeks.

Felix doesn’t hear the reply that Sylvain gives, but knows that he must have said something given the comforting rumbling he feels against his cheek.

The world is dark now. There is nothing but a large black pool of nothingness and Felix can feel himself slowly sinking down, down into the depths.

He does not know how much time passes, but through the empty void Felix can hear fragments of words from someone he knows is important, but for the world cannot seem to remember.

Stay with me, sweetheart.

Don’t leave me, please. I can’t do this without you.

I love you.

Come back to me, Fe. My heart.

Felix clings to those words and the warmth that they bring. It takes an eternity, and slowly but surely, he manages to pull himself from the darkness and into the light.

When he wakes, he wakes with a full body ache and in the familiar arms of his crush, who apparently is still dripping salty tears on him and refusing to let him go despite Mercedes insisting that he’s fine. Of course that idiot is too busy sniffling to notice that he’s no longer unconscious.

“I told you to stop crying, didn’t I?” Felix croaks, bringing both Mercedes’ and Sylvain’s attention to him.

A new batch of tears well up in his favourite honey brown eyes and piercing relief crumples Sylvain’s expression like a house of cards in the wind.

“Fuck, Felix. Don’t ever scare me like that again.” Sylvain’s voice wobbles as he clutches at Felix just a little tighter, pressing his head to his chest as if trying to hide him away from the world.

The rapid staccato thumping against his cheek stays Felix’s hand and he lets himself (in what is starting to become a concerningly frequent habit) indulge in the physical display of affection, not caring that the rest of the world inside the infirmary can see them.

Right now, there is only Felix, Sylvain, and their beating hearts. And if that’s what Sylvain needs to chase away his fears, then Felix will happily concede because there is nothing that he wouldn’t do to protect Sylvain from the world and his own demons.

iv.

For a person born in the second coldest region of Faerghus, Felix does not do well when the temperature plummets.

Although his regular outfit consists of at least three separate layers - one of which is fur lined, for crying out loud – the cold somehow still manages to seep its way into his bones, rattling his entire core with shivers.

“Shitty night to not have a tent, huh?” Sylvain laughs humorlessly from where he is huddled up beside him, his long legs folded up as close as possible to his chest to conserve heat; his Gautier crest emblazoned cloak is thrown of his shoulders as are two more thin blankets that also cover Felix as well. Their sides are pressed together like two halves of a whole and on a regular day, Felix would have spontaneously ignited at their close proximity, but right now the heat that is radiating off of Sylvain is the only thing that keeps his body from succumbing to the cold. At their backs, Sylvain’s trusty warhorse acts as a third source of heat and also as a sturdy wall to lean against.

“Fucking bandits just had to torch our shit.” If they weren’t already lying six feet under buried in a shoddy, half assed grave, Felix would have personally saw to it that every single one of them died a horrible and painful death by his blade.

All around them their friends and comrades sat in huddled pairs, much like him and Sylvain. The sad, dismal fire they had managed to start did little to stave off the chill, but when literally everything around you is wet with sleet, it is already a small miracle that there is any fire at all.

“At least we’re together and alive though, right?” Sylvain smiles at him and it’s the small genuine one that Felix recognizes is specially for him; the one where burnt sienna glows molten and the corners of his eye crinkle with rarely used crow’s feet. “It was a pretty nasty ambush and we’re honestly pretty lucky that we had a small enough unit to quickly mobilize and pivot.”

Felix scoffs but it comes out as more of a pathetic chattering of teeth.

He doesn’t know when it happens, but he and Sylvain have become closer over the last few weeks. Close enough that Sylvain’s eyes no longer hold a shadow of doubt whenever he leans in for his pre-battle kiss, as if he now knows that Felix will give into him even as obligatory protests escape his lips. Close enough that Sylvain doesn’t even ask for permission anymore, but instead just silently reaches over to play with stray locks of hair that have escaped his updo after a long day.

Close enough that Sylvain now just takes whatever he wants from Felix because there is a mutual, silent understanding that no matter how much Felix protests, Sylvain just needs to look into his golden irises and find all the consent he needs from there.

“Come here, Fe.”

Felix often forgets that despite his awful training schedule, Sylvain is still a soldier through and through and is much stronger than Felix thinks. Such strength Sylvain currently demonstrates as he is quickly lifted like he is no more than a sack of potatoes, and gently deposited in a very warm lap.

If it weren’t for the cold, Felix would have run his childhood friend through with a sword for his audacity.

Of course, it’s only because of the darned cold that Felix’s hands slip under the outer layer of Sylvain’s armor to fist themselves in the fabric of his undershirt.

And it’s only because of the darned cold that Felix instinctively cuddles up to the human furnace next to him and presses his nose into the warm divot at the base of Sylvain’s throat, causing the older man to shiver at the hot puffs of air against his neck.

Yes. It’s only because of the darned cold.

“Better?” Sylvain’s voice is rough even as his words smooth over Felix like a balm. The one hand that isn’t curled around Felix’s back and supporting him reaches over to pull the two blankets around them so that they are swaddled in a little cocoon of warmth, leaving only their heads visible above the swathes of fabric.

Although a large part of his brain is screaming that this is wrong, dangerous, and too close; Felix cannot stop his body from betraying him as the shivers slowly subside and he begins to melt into Sylvain. Underneath the blankets and hidden away from the world, a gloved hand moves to settle near his upper thigh and rubs hot little circles that sends heat of a different kind flushing through him.

It’s unfair how his heart and body have decided to stage a mutiny against his mind.

Fuck Sylvain and his stupidly beautiful smile and his stupid velvet voice.

“Yeah.” Felix mutters, squeezing his eyes tight against the orange glow of the fire.

He practices counting his breaths using the meditation technique Glenn taught him back when he was only ten years old and manages to wrangle his heartrate into less of a sprint and more of a steady gallop. Whether Sylvain notices or not, he makes no indication that he can feel Felix’s heart trying to escape his chest, though Felix is pretty sure he can tell based on their proximity.

Instead, Sylvain lets his body curl loosely around Felix’s until his chin rests on the crown of midnight hair, barely disturbing the tresses even as his breath evens out and he falls to the persistent clutches of sleep.

Of course, it’s because of the darned cold that eventually Felix also lets himself be dragged under into dreams of memories long past when he never used to be fear being touched.

v.

It was quite well known that Margrave Gautier was not a patient man.

It has not even been three moons since the fall of Enbarr when a letter arrives at the Fhirdiad castle sealed shut with ink the color of crimson and emblazoned with the Gautier crest.

“Father wants me to return home to meet a potential suitor.”

The teacup clatters loudly against the table, spilling Almyran pine over the dainty white tablecloth. In the pits of his stomach, Felix can feel the claws of jealousy and anger sink into his gut and travel up into his throat.

Perhaps it is because his mind is still in a daze trying to process the fact that the war is finally over, or maybe it is because Felix is half delirious from lack of sleep (no one had told him how much more exhausting cleaning up after a war would be than actually fighting it) that the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I’ll go with you.”

And fuck if Sylvain doesn’t light up like he was just told it’s his birthday, the millennium festival, and Valentines day all in one.

Felix is weak for Sylvain.

No matter how many times Felix repeats it in his mind, that statement has gone far beyond simple fact now into the realm of absolute truth. And it is exactly because it is an absolute truth that Felix rides with Sylvain non stop through the night all the way back to Gautier castle, and it is because it is an absolute truth that Felix finds himself eavesdropping outside the large oaken doors leading to Margrave Gautier’s study where he is introducing some noble girl to Sylvain who looks like he would rather be anywhere else.

“Olivia here is the daughter of a minor lord from the Gideon territory. Their family has done well with managing their lands and they have also made a name for themselves through the war.”

The margrave prattles on, completely ignoring the increasingly uncomfortable look on Sylvain’s face even as he tries his best to plaster on his signature fake smile.

From his position, Felix can only see Sylvain and his father through the tiny gap where the door sits ajar, but thankfully he does not need to strain to hear the conversation.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Gautier.”

Of course her voice sounds like wind chimes. She’s also probably fucking beautiful too given the Margrave’s tastes. It makes Felix want to dry heave just listening to this and he can’t imagine how Sylvain must feel having lived this exact situation hundreds of times.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Sylvain replies without missing a beat even though his voice comes out a bit strangled.

“The war has been rather unfortunate with our people and crops this year, but Olivia’s father has mentioned that their lands have an overabundance of yield that he has agreed to share with us should the wedding take place before the first snowfall.”

“What?” For the first time, Sylvain’s mask falters and there is an abject look of horror in his eyes.

“Preparations will need to be made immediately, but –“

“Father, this is too sudden. I cannot –“

“You will hold your tongue and stay silent. I have given you time to find your own wife, but you have done nothing but squander my generosity. This is no longer a choice you get to make.” Venom coats his words and the poison seeps into Sylvain’s veins as his mind automatically falls back to the terrified little boy who could never disobey his father.

Sylvain is pale and shaking, his eyes darting around frantically looking for, at the very least, a physical escape from this hell that he has walked into.

“As I was saying, preparations will need to be made immediately. I have already sent for a caravan to retrieve the dowry, but when it arrives, you will need to accompany them to ensure that they return safely. I expect that you will inform his highness of your engagement prior to your departure so that he has ample time to ensure his attendance.”

“I… no – this… I don’t…”

“Shut up, boy. I am your father and you will do as I say.”

“Like fucking hell he will.”

The door slams loudly against the wall and all three occupants jump at the sound. They whip around to stare in various expressions of shock as Felix stomps up to them burning with a fury that he has never felt before.

His heart is pounding out of his chest like it wants to escape, but the only thing Felix can focus on right now is trying to stifle the overwhelming urge to draw his sword and cut down the Margrave where he stands.

“Fraldarius.” Like the reptile that he is, Margrave Gautier hisses his surname and spits it out like venom.

“That’s Duke Fraldarius to you.”

Sylvain chokes on his own spit.

“Duke Fraldarius-” ugh, just hearing his voice makes Felix’s hand twitch for the hilt of his sword. “-I would implore you to keep your nose out of business that isn’t yours. This is highly improper to interrupt-“

“I don’t fucking care if it’s improper.” Shifting slightly, Felix positions himself closer to Sylvain while engaging in a stare down with his father. Eye contact be damned, Felix will not let himself lose this silent battle of wills even though all he wants to do is look away. “Sylvain is not marrying this girl.”

“Oh? You dare to come to my home and tell me what I can and cannot do with my son?”

His blood is boiling and images flash across his mind, filling his head with memories of a younger Sylvain looking so scared and sad every time the summers came to a close and he has to return home.

No. Never again. Felix will never let Sylvain go back to a life where he is shackled and beaten into submission by a family that only conditionally tolerates him and uses him for their own benefit.

“Sylvain is not marrying this girl,” Felix repeats adamantly.

“And why not?”

This is the moment.

Felix can feel the tension in the air; he can feel the Margrave’s furious and challenging glare on him, daring him to speak and make a fool of himself; he can feel Sylvain standing rigidly next to him, barely a hair breadth’s away watching with wide, fearful eyes (Nonono Fe, stop it please, I can’t let him hurt you too. Never you).

It might be 26 years late, but Felix finally figures out how he can give Sylvain the home that he has always deserved.

“Because…”

Confidence blooms in his chest and Felix is proud when the gloved hand he extends to tangle in the collar of Sylvain’s jacket does not shake nor tremble under the weight of what he is about to do.

“…he’s mine.”

Felix yanks and tilts his head up to catch Sylvain’s lips as he stumbles forward, their noses slotting against each other like two puzzle pieces and their lips meeting in the same practiced way they’ve done hundreds of times.

The kiss lasts only for a moment, but when they part, Sylvain is gasping for breath like Felix has stolen all the air from his lungs. Honey brown irises are nearly eclipsed by blown out pupils and the strong jaw that Felix so desperately wants to nibble is hanging agape in shock.

Felix doesn’t wait around for the aftermath of his actions. Immediately locking his fingers with Sylvain’s, his cloak flutters around him as he spins on his heels and proceeds to walk out the door with a shell-shocked Gautier in tow.

Later, it occurs to Felix that he didn’t even spare a look at the girl, so he will never really be able to confirm whether or not she was beautiful.

Not that it matters.

Right now, as Felix makes a beeline for his guest room to retrieve his belongings, the only thing that matters is getting Sylvain out of this wretched place and back to Fraldarius where he will never have to deal with that pathetic excuse of a father ever again.

“Felix, wait. Felix!” Sylvain tugs on his hand forcing him to turn around when they are finally behind the safety of closed doors. “Holy shit. What the… holy shit.” Reluctantly, Sylvain releases Felix and instead settles one hand in his own hair, tugging on it as if trying to ground himself with the pain.

“Go pack your things, Sylvain. You’re not staying here with that pathetic waste of space anymore.”

“What? But where are we going?”

For the first time in years, Felix allows the walls around his heart to come down as he looks as Sylvain. He has wasted too much time already punishing himself by depriving himself of the one thing he thought he could never have, but after five years at war with only stolen moments to motivate and push him towards survival, Felix would be a fool to ignore this bond between them any longer.

“What do you mean, where are we going? We’re going home, idiot. Back to Fraldarius.”

Sylvain freezes for a second as if he has misheard, but when auburn eyes detect no hint of a lie, the smile that blooms on his face is one that Felix has never seen before. It is radiant and genuine and everything beautiful that Felix knows is Sylvain.

And just like that, Felix is falling for him all over again.

“Hey Fe?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“…I love you too, you idiot. Now go pack.”

 BONUS:

Halfway to Fraldarius territory, Sylvain hums thoughtfully and turns to his now-boyfriend.

“Hey Fe?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I be your trophy husband?”