Chapter Text
A string band was welcoming midnight with a love song. Felix could tell they were out-of-towners – probably fugitives from the empire – by the way they plucked their instruments. The foreign fluidity of the sound. Every note warm and full-bellied.
Why they would come here of all places was anybody’s guess. Faerghus was hostile to artistic types, especially in the winter. Stick around too long and your strumming hand would go stiff, your romantic ideals snuffed out soon after by a near constant shroud of darkness.
The band crooned on in earnest, utterly unaware of this approaching fate. It was almost enough to put Felix off his drink. Almost.
This tavern was his territory. This was the fortress in which he waited for the war to end. Time would probably pass faster on the front lines, but his father had claimed he was not needed there. Instead, he had assigned Felix the only task he was certain he couldn’t screw up: taking care of his mother. Misplaced faith, evidently, considering how often Felix stumbled out of the family home in search of a stiff drink and something to fuck.
To Felix’s credit, he had been steadfastly glued to his mother’s side for most of the war. Most of his life, really; his childhood spent clinging to the tail of her skirt while his father and brother ventured out into danger. It was only on her orders that he’d started getting out of the house more. “I’m sure I’ll survive a few hours without you,” she’d said, ushering him towards the front door. “Go spend some time with someone your own age.”
Felix knew that brief trysts with men he had no intention of seeing again were probably not what his mother had in mind, but they were better than nothing, right?
The band moved on from one song to the next as Felix sipped his wine. It was sour stuff, but he’d had five, all paid for out of his own pocket. He usually would have flagged down a willing benefactor by now – someone to ply him with free drinks and empty chatter until he thawed out enough to go home with them – but no such person had materialised tonight. Something had thrown him off his game. Maybe it was the music, he thought, poisoning the salacious air with saccharine optimism.
He knocked back the last of the wine and sighed. The barkeep responded with a cheerful, “Another, sir?”
Felix masked a wince. The only reason anyone ever called him sir was as a proxy nod of respect to his father; respect that he presently did not feel worthy of. It took a pointed cough from the barkeep to remind him that a question still hung in the air. “Uh,” he mumbled, shoving a hand into his pocket. The lack of complementary beverages had left him atypically short on change. “Actually, I think I’ll-”
“Make that two.”
Coins clattered on the counter. Felix followed the sound to the hands of the speaker – large, weather-beaten hands attached to sturdy forearms. This man was big. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His shadow could have eclipsed Felix entirely, perhaps even erased him from existence if he willed it.
There was something familiar about his voice – and the copper hair that peeked out between strained shirt buttons. Had they hooked up before? ...No. Felix would definitely have remembered that. The mere sight of this guy set his blood on fire, and that was only the neck down view.
When it came time to check out what the neck up had to offer, Felix nearly fell off his stool.
“Sylvain,” he choked out. He might have been too drunk to recognise Sylvain from his body, but the dopey grin was unmistakeable.
“Hiya,” Sylvain said, infuriatingly casual in the face of Felix’s panic.
Felix rubbed the inner corner of his eye until satisfied he wasn’t dreaming. He had a lot of dreams about Sylvain these days, his subconscious mind overcompensating for the unusual absence. If this had been a dream, he’d probably have told Sylvain how much he’d missed him. Instead, he said, “You need a haircut.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sylvain said, bringing a self-conscious hand to his forehead. He brushed the stray curls off his face and Felix had to look away. Dream Sylvain didn’t have nearly as many scars as the real thing.
Silence fell. Even the music stopped, the band pausing the tune up their instruments. Sylvain’s stool squeaked as he sat down. Their drinks arrived, and Sylvain watched in awe as Felix knocked his back in one.
“I didn’t know you were such a big drinker these days,” Sylvain remarked.
Felix wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “I’m not.”
“No? How many have you had?”
“It’s rich of you to question me about that when you showed up out of nowhere and headed straight for the nearest tavern instead of – oh, I don’t know – visiting one of your friends?”
Sylvain could have corrected Felix on this detail quite easily, but he chose to lean into his assumptions, smirking all the while. “Come on, Felix. I think we both know no one comes to this place for the drinks.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that.”
As though summoned specifically to illustrate Sylvain’s point, a man appeared at Felix’s shoulder. He was practically salivating before he even spoke, eyes lighting up as soon as Felix deigned to glance at him. “Hey, gorgeous,” he greeted. Felix cringed away as he moved closer. “Long time no see. Can I get you a drink?”
“No thanks,” Felix replied, sharp and cold as an icicle to the heart.
The man glanced over Felix’s head and found Sylvain looking back at him. In Sylvain, he saw a more refined echo of his own features. The same shade of ginger hair, but more lustrous. The same smattering of freckles, but more ornamentally placed. He was adequately tall, but Sylvain was taller. He was serviceably handsome, but Sylvain was downright devastating. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, shrinking back. “You’ve got company. Later, maybe?”
“Maybe. Bye.”
“...Yeah. Bye, Felix.”
The man retreated, shoulders slumped. Sylvain restrained a laugh, only releasing it once the man was out of earshot. “So,” he trilled, prodding Felix’s shoulder with the tip of his finger, “who was that?”
“I don’t know,” said Felix.
“Yeah, right. You clearly fucked him.”
Felix’s flushed face blanched in an instant. His mind raced in search of a clever retort but all that came out was, “No.”
“Why else would a guy like that know your name?”
“...I’m a duke’s son. Everyone knows my name.”
Sylvain snorted but didn’t argue. He knew from the miniscule twitch of Felix’s brow that he was lying, but he was willing to let him off the hook. It was a selfish decision more than anything. Hearing confirmation would probably be as painful as it was gratifying.
Felix tapped his nails on the rim of his glass as though willing it to refill. He spoke before Sylvain could change the subject. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“About what? About you sleeping with guys?”
“Mm.”
“Do you want me to be surprised?”
The band started up again, louder this time, sparing Felix the indignity of attempting to answer that question. Their next song was a familiar and rowdy one that cajoled half the patrons into dancing. Even Felix ended up tapping his foot, albeit nervously.
“Really though, who is that guy?” Sylvain asked eventually. He couldn’t resist. Ever the author of his own torture.
“Huh?”
“Like, is he anyone special? What’s his name?”
Felix’s hand tightened around his glass. He circled back to his original answer. “I don’t know.”
There was no twitch this time, nor any other telltale sign of dishonesty. Sylvain almost choked on his drink. “My god, Felix. I didn’t know you had it in you. Don’t you remember or didn’t you ask?”
“Probably both. It’s usually both.”
Sylvain brought his hand to his heart in mock disgrace. “Usually? Felix Fraldarius, are you trying to usurp my hard-earned title as the biggest scoundrel in Fodlan? I’m astounded.”
Felix shrugged. He, as attuned to Sylvain’s micro-expressions as Sylvain was to his, noticed a curl of upset behind the mockery; something raw and smarting he wanted to poke at until it bled.
“How many?” Sylvain asked.
“I’m not answering that.”
“Because you don’t want to or because you’ve lost count? Let me guess – both?”
Felix glared at Sylvain – or rather he attempted to glare but was tripped up by the curious gaze he received in return. Time apart had eroded his immunity to those treacly brown eyes. He was disarmed in an instant. “You of all people have no right to judge me,” he grumbled, directing his words towards the floor. “I’m sure I’ve barely scratched the surface of your exploits.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Sylvain said, forcing out a laugh. “I dated around, I’ll give you that, but I knew all of their names.”
Felix’s scowl faded to neutrality. It was an empty expression he reserved for when he was really hurt, an expression Sylvain had managed to elicit only a handful of times in all their years of friendship. “Hey,” Sylvain uttered, scooting closer. “I’m kidding. I would never judge you, Fe. I’m just surprised is all.”
“What’s so surprising about it?” Felix questioned.
“Well, I just-”
“Can’t imagine that many guys being interested in me, is that it?”
“No!” Sylvain broke out, loud enough that a few nearby couples stopped dancing to look over. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “No, that’s not it. That’s the part that makes sense. Why wouldn’t they be interested in you?” His mouth dried out, and he grabbed for his drink. “I mean, um... People have always been interested in you. You just used to ignore it. Like it was beneath you.”
“It was beneath me.”
“It’s not now?”
“Nothing’s beneath me now.”
Felix’s enjoyed another drink on Sylvain’s dime. It conspired with the rest to blur his peripheral vision, leaving only Sylvain in clarity. Behind them, the band were whipping the crowd into a frenzy of clapping and cheering. It was a clumsy and overly intimate affair, bodies crashing into bodies until you couldn’t tell a stranger from a lover from a friend. The music swelled and sank in Felix’s ears.
“I know this song,” he said. The words wobbled out of him, almost a question.
“Yeah,” Sylvain affirmed, brightening. “They played this at the ball. It was just after my date ditched me for Claude, remember?”
Felix made a noise of recognition. He did remember that. Quite vividly, in fact. He remembered some Black Eagle girl flinging a corsage at Sylvain’s face with such velocity that it left a mark. He remembered a serene smile on Sylvain’s face, as though by causing him pain the girl had given him exactly what he wanted.
Sylvain was still talking animatedly. “I think I’d already burned my way through half the girls in the academy by then. I had to beg Mercedes to dance with me so that I didn’t look like a total idiot.” He paused, assessing Felix’s glazed over eyes and slumped posture. It was a fairly safe bet that this conversation would be forgotten by tomorrow. “It's funny,” Sylvain continued, emboldened, “I almost asked you.”
“Asked me what?”
“To dance with me.”
Felix’s expression was unreadable. “Why didn’t you?”
“Figured I’d had my fill of rejection for one night, I suppose.”
“How do you know I would have rejected you?”
“Oh, please. I saw countless people ask you to dance that night and you refused every single one in favour of sulking in the corner. You even turned Ingrid down, and she only asked you so that she’d have a good excuse not to dance with Lorenz. I don’t think she’s forgiven you for that to this day.”
Felix shifted in his seat, feeling a little unsteady. Thinking about Ingrid brought him a few steps too close to thinking about Dimitri, and that was the last thing he could stomach right now. “It’s no wonder your date ditched you,” he said bitterly, “considering you were clearly paying more attention to me than you were to her.”
That shut Sylvain up rightly. He couldn’t bring himself to admit to the accuracy of that accusation, even if Felix was too drunk to commit it to memory.
The song ended and with it their reminiscence about Garreg Mach. Sylvain glanced back at the crowd. Some couples were stumbling back from one another, their brief relationship ending with the final crescendo. Others didn’t even seem to notice the music had stopped, still swaying cheek to cheek and chest to chest to their own imaginary rhythm.
By the time Sylvain turned back around, another man had been drawn into Felix’s orbit. This man was different from the first – older and more rugged – and was whispering in Felix’s ear. “Not tonight,” Felix said eventually, gracefully sliding out of his reach.
“Can’t take my eyes off you for two seconds, can I?” Sylvain said. He intended it as a joke, but it came out a little sharp.
“This one brought me a present,” Felix said, sliding a fresh glass of wine over to Sylvain’s side of the table. “I’m too drunk already. You have it.”
Sylvain was happy to oblige. Felix watched him take several consecutive gulps, following the path of every swallow from his parted lips to his contracting throat. Did it taste different, Felix wondered, knowing the drink had come from one of his admirers?
“Do you remember that one’s name?” Sylvain asked.
“Only because he just told it to me. He’s new.”
“What did he want?”
“Well, he didn’t want to dance with me if that’s what you mean.”
Felix’s words were flat and colourless, but Sylvain had no trouble filling in the gaps. The man’s right hand running through Felix’s dark hair, the other pinning him against a dark wall in a dark room with dark intentions.
“I can go,” Sylvain said. He meant to swallow those words with the wine, but they sprung out like a misfired arrow.
“What?”
“If you want to... Y’know. I can go.”
Felix grimaced. “Are you serious?”
“I just thought-”
“No, Sylvain. No. I don’t want that. I told him to get lost for a reason.”
Sylvain set down his empty glass. He wasn’t as drunk as Felix – not even close – but he could feel the alcohol in his blood, spurring him towards irrationality. “You didn’t say that,” he argued. “You said not tonight. If you’d said get lost I’d assume you want nothing to do with him, but not tonight makes me feel like I’m getting in your way.”
Felix rolled his eyes. “I’m just keeping my options open. It’s not like Faerghus is crawling with gay men... especially not now that all the good ones keep getting shipped off to die.”
This last comment was tacked on so dryly that Sylvain didn’t know whether to be amused or horrified. He studied Felix’s face for any trace of real emotion, but his features were obscured by the flickering candlelight. What had he missed in the time he’d been away? What had Felix been through?
Instead of asking either of these questions, he asked another ridiculous one. “Wanna dance?”
“Huh?” Felix mumbled.
“With me, I mean. For old time’s sake.”
Felix blinked slowly, the world rapidly coming in and out of focus. He had only one question in his mind, a question he’d kind of missed having to ask: What the fuck is Sylvain’s problem?
Sylvain might have wondered the same if he’d given himself any time to think. Instead, he kept talking. “I shouldn’t have just assumed you were gonna say no last time. I should have asked anyway. Not that you can’t say no this time. You can say no if you want to. I know it’s not really your th-”
“Sure.”
“...Oh. Really?”
“Yeah. Why not.”
It had been years since the last time Felix held Sylvain’s hand. As children it had been a constant and natural gesture, necessitated by Felix’s penchant for running off in pursuit of butterflies and stray cats. Now it was neither constant nor natural, but it was necessary. Felix could hardly stand up straight without assistance, never mind dance.
The band announced that this song would be their last. It was a jovial crowd-pleaser, mercifully eliminating the possibility of an awkward waltz. Sylvain studied the people around them and copied their patternless swaying, dragging Felix along with him. Felix, who was not a gifted dancer at the best of times, stared at the whirling tiles under their feet, trying to keep up.
“Our adolescent dance lessons were wasted on you,” Sylvain jibed, guiding Felix away from stepping on a woman’s foot.
“I can hardly see,” Felix retorted, stepping on Sylvain’s foot instead. “What’s your excuse?”
“Out of practise. You’re the philanderer these days, remember?”
For a moment Sylvain was worried that he’d ruined everything, but then Felix’s consternation gave way to a fit of giggles. He clung to Sylvain a little tighter, looking much more like the carefree little boy who would have chased an insect off the edge of a cliff had Sylvain not been there to hold him back. Sylvain placed a possessive hand on his waist and pulled him closer. The music provided a welcome camouflage for the acceleration of their pulses.
Sylvain peered over the top of Felix’s head, searching the men who’d approached them earlier. Whatever his reason for doing this – simple curiosity or some errant desire to inspire jealousy – he did not spot either of them. This impulse satisfied, he returned his attention to the man in his arms. “Think you can handle a twirl?” he asked.
Felix considered this as coherently as he could. “I think so,” he said.
Sylvain was not entirely convinced. Still, he gave it a go, gently spinning Felix away then winding him back in. When this went down without a hitch, he tried again – faster this time. The third twirl was timed perfectly to the apex of the chorus. It was then that Felix lost his balance, crashing squarely into Sylvain’s chest.
“Shit,” he muttered, touching the back of his head.
Sylvain grasped him by the shoulders. “What’s wrong? Are you gonna be sick?”
“No. I think my hairpin fell out.”
“Oh,” Sylvain sighed, relieved. “Stay there. I’ll look for it.”
Sylvain looked down at the floor. It was greasy and peppered with ash, but amidst the grime he caught a glimpse of something pointed and sparkly. He knelt down to pick it up. The hairpin was delicate yet intimidating; pure silver fashioned into a miniature sword. There was no mistaking who it belonged to.
“You might wanna rinse this off before you use it again,” Sylvain said, standing up straight. He wiped his hand on his shirt. “Kinda sticky down there.”
Felix didn’t reply, too busy fussing with his hair. It was longer than Sylvain remembered – much longer. It ran far past his shoulders, blending into his dark clothes like spilled ink. It was a wonder the small hairpin had managed to restrain it.
He was so beautiful. He always was, of course, but it was no longer possible to avoid thinking about it. New shadows had fallen upon his face, sharpening his features, darkening his amber eyes. Sylvain felt like just another desperate suitor, lucky to be allowed more than a minute in his presence.
“Is it really awful?” Felix asked, noticing the stare. He continued preening obsessively. “It never sits right when it’s been up all day.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It looks great. You’ve missed a bit though. Here, let me.”
A singular tress hung over one of Felix’s eyes. Sylvain stepped forward and reached for it, sweeping across Felix’s browbone to tuck it behind his ear. He lingered beyond what was necessary, the hot tips of his fingers grazing Felix’s earlobe. From this close he could see the wine stain on the inner rim of Felix’s bottom lip.
“I need to go home now,” Felix said suddenly, jolting back.
Sylvain withdrew, frowning. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. It’s just... My mother. She waits up. Won’t sleep till I come home. She’s... Well, you know how she is.”
This was true. Sylvain had known Isolde Fraldarius for as long as he’d known her son. He’d witnessed countless instances of her protectiveness, and he’d received countless orders to take care of her baby in her absence. If it was a lie, it was a good one.
“Alright. I’ll walk you,” Sylvain offered.
“No, thank you.” Felix said, too quickly, as though he’d anticipated it. Noticing Sylvain’s wounded expression, he added, “Come see us though, won’t you? How long are you in town?”
“Few weeks.”
“You could come tomorrow. Or, uh, whenever, really. I... My mother would really like to see you. Asks about you all the time.”
Sylvain swallowed hard. He wanted to insist upon walking Felix home, or – better yet – grab him by the collar and convince him to stay. Ultimately, the coward in him won out. “Tomorrow,” he said dully. “I’ll be there.”
Felix closed the front door as quietly as he could, but there was no escaping his mother's notice. She was in the hallway before he’d even taken off his scarf.
“Hi, mama,” he greeted warily. He straightened, attempting to feign sobriety. This attempt fell through when he started unbuttoning his coat, the buttons slipping out of his fingers repeatedly until she, taking pity on him, took over the task.
“You’re home early,” she observed.
“Am I? It’s after two.”
“I know, but I thought you’d be out all night since Sylvain’s home.”
Felix flinched. “How do you know Sylvain’s home?”
“Didn’t he tell you?” Isolde said, undoing the last button. “He came by looking for you. I told him where you were, and he went there instead. He was dying to see you.”
Felix’s insides lurched. He’d believed that Sylvain had been in that tavern for the same reason he was, and that their running into each other was entirely coincidental. The truth proved dreadfully difficult to stomach. He shoved the coat off his shoulders and flung it on the nearest hook. “I’m going to bed.”
“Are you sure? I can make you something to eat.”
He made a noise of dissent and whipped towards the stairwell. Then, remembering he was no longer a moody teenager, he turned back around to kiss his mother on the cheek. “Goodnight, mama.”
“Goodnight, my darling. Sweet dreams.”