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The day starts perfectly normal, as all days do. Morning training, followed by a breakfast that can almost be called pleasant, and then numerous meetings that have Felix seriously regret not simply running off to the woods to become a nomad. It’s barely lunch before he contemplates murdering a lesser lord for, once again, suggesting that their meetings would go so much smoother (meaning, they’d have a much easier time exhausting Dimitri into submission) if Felix just had a wife to help him relax.
The man isn’t dumb enough to elaborate, but Felix gets the insinuation well enough to know that the man smiling at him is a dead man walking.
Or he would be, if Dimitri didn’t call for a break (‘so he could consider the options’ he says, but Felix knows it means ‘so we don’t need to work blood out of the paperwork’). As the others leave, Dimitri doesn’t mention the problem—and he shouldn’t, since he handles the same suggestions about as well as Felix does—but Felix definitely can tell that he’s not helping the situation here. Getting nobles to agree is about as effective as herding cats…and herding cats with a cat is impossible.
So Felix doesn’t get mad when Dimitri passes him a pile of papers and asks him to look over them—he doesn’t. And he certainly doesn’t imagine Dimitri getting overwhelmed now that the damned wolves will notice that Felix is missing when the meeting resumes. And he’s definitely not so distracted that he misses when Sylvain saunters into the room, a whistle on his lips.
“Morning, Felix,” Sylvain says, his words so bright that it’s nearly unbearable.
“Mn.” Felix grumbles, rereading the letter in front of him for the fourth time. Something about…goats. Probably.
“I need a favor,” Sylvain continues, undeterred as ever as he leans against Felix’s desk.
Felix doesn’t glance at him.
“I need you to be my husband.”
Every muscle in Felix’s body goes rigid. It’s not because he hasn’t thought about it—he most certainly has—but such things are confined to his dreams and idle imaginings. After all, Sylvain is still a well-known womanizer, flitting from woman to woman with ease. And Felix has had years to accept the fact that he’ll be alone and miserable.
So a part of him wants to pass that on—to yell at Sylvain for being an imbecile. To scold him for practicing on Felix, especially if he’s trying to woo someone else (and he’s trying very hard not to think about that). A part of him just wants to throw his quill at Sylvain and hope that message comes across perfectly clear.
Instead comes out a very elegant, exceedingly articulate, “What.”
Sylvain stares at him, that stupid smile still on his face, completely oblivious to the fact that his words have Felix questioning whether or not his ears are working at all. After all, Sylvain isn’t really one for pranks—and Felix is certain that there’s no way he’d even consider this as a prank if he was. It’s too close to home.
Slowly, though, as Felix stares at him and apparently his brain begins to function, Sylvain’s expression drops. A bright blush spreads across his cheeks, his fingers curling into tight fists. And then—like a coiled spring—he leaps away, his hands waving in front of him like Felix was the one who had embarrassed him.
“S-sorry, that came out wrong.” Sylvain turns away, pinching the bridge of his nose as he begins pacing. “My brain’s not been…right…lately.”
Felix snorts. This is more normal. He knows how to handle this. “It never was.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Sylvain glances at him, almost looking hurt, “give me some credit.”
Felix rolls his eyes. He looks back down to his paper, but he’s just as productive with it as he was before. Except now he has to deal with the word ‘husband’ echoing in his head…which is going to be a nightmare. Maybe he needs to take a break and go train early—usually that gets Sylvain’s words out of his mind.
“Hey, you listening?” Sylvain snaps in front of his face, his voice tinged with just a bit of concern.
Felix hadn’t even realized he’d been talking. He slaps Sylvain’s hand away, scowling at him. “I’m busy.”
“With what?”
Felix glances down at the paper, only for Sylvain to snatch it away. “Sylvain.”
“C’mon Felix,” Sylvain says, his smile wide and amused, “what’s it about?”
Felix can’t lie to save his life, and Sylvain knows this. There’s no point in even trying. “Drop it.”
“Uh huh. Thought so.” Sylvain slides the paper back in front of Felix, his finger tapping a line three paragraphs down. “Here, for your reference.”
Okay, so it’s not about goats. It’s just a request for some forces, since the trade routes have still been a bit unreliable so close to the war’s end. A reasonable request, really, since there are plenty of men bored out of their minds in Fhirdiad.
“You really need to get out,” Sylvain muses, shifting so he can sit on the edge of the desk. “Which, coincidentally, might just work with my favor.”
Considering Felix apparently added the word ‘goats’ to a document that says nothing of the sort, Felix can’t even reliably be sure he heard Sylvain’s favor correctly. And, at this point, he’s too afraid to ask. So, instead, he glances up at Sylvain, a frown firm on his lips.
“I’d like you to come with me to Sreng,” Sylvain says, his voice light. “We’re finalizing the treaty out there.”
As far as Felix is aware, the dealings with Sreng have gone remarkably well. Perhaps it helps that Sylvain has been addressing it with more determination than he’s ever handled anything, and it really shows. Felix still isn’t sure whether he should be annoyed or not that Sylvain has always been capable, and has simply never bothered.
He sighs, dropping his quill into its stand. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Well, it’s not…exactly…” Sylvain rubs his face. It’s rare for him to be at a loss for words, his eyes scanning the bookshelves like they might hold an answer. Felix can’t really deny that he likes the way Sylvain looks when he’s thinking.
“Get on with it.”
“Okay, listen.” Sylvain swallows audibly. “The last time I went, Nuada—that’s their leader—he suggested that we, uh, do another sort of arrangement to solidify the deal.”
Felix blinks. “Like what?”
“Marriage. He meant marriage, Felix.”
“You should have said no.”
“Yeah, tried that. Do you know how hard it is to tell someone ‘no’ when they’re kinda implying that months of work will go down the drain without it?”
Felix glances at him, ignoring the way his heart twists in his chest. “I suppose I should congratulate you.”
“First of all, not funny,” Sylvain says, a scowl on his lips. “I told him…that I was engaged. And that’s…where my favor comes in.”
Suddenly it clicks. And Felix’s lips act before his brain does. “No.” Frankly, it’s probably a good thing. After all, Felix is a horrible liar.
“Felix, please. He said in his last letter that he wants to meet my fiancée. And I need—”
“Then ask Annette,” Felix says. “She’s a good actress.”
“That’s the thing,” Sylvain says with a frown, “it has to be a guy.”
“Why?”
“Well, they’re not exactly…uh…one man, one wife sort of deal. And Nuada has a daughter. Not a son. So…you know…I thought it would be better if I said…that my fiancée was a man?”
Felix’s eyes narrow.
“You know, if I’m not into girls then I don’t have to marry one?”
Felix freezes as the realization dawns on him, staring at Sylvain for a long moment before reaching for his quill once more. “Then ask Ashe. Or Dedue.”
Felix doesn’t get to his quill. Instead, Sylvain’s hands are wrapped around his, his hold surprisingly firm. “Felix. It has to be you.”
It’s a miracle that a blush doesn’t rise to his face. Though part of it, he knows, he can just blame on his sheer irritation. Of course he’d only be considered when it has to do with Sreng. And of course it would only happen when Sylvain wants to avoid marriage. It would be unthinkable otherwise.
“No one knows me like you do,” Sylvain continues, his voice soft. “You’re the only one who can pull it off.”
A part of Felix wonders if that is worse. It’s more likely to ruin the lie than to save it. “You’ll regret it.”
Sylvain smiles brightly. “I won’t. I promise.”
*
“Gautier!” It’s almost impressive that the warlord’s smile is still visible behind the immense beard on his face. A part of it is probably due to the fact that he has it braided by his lips, but even then the sheer volume seems impossible. “Good to see you alive!”
“Nuada!” Sylvain takes the man’s bear hug in stride, even though it’s a clear display of strength more than anything amiable. But, since the warlord isn’t much bigger than Sylvain—and certainly not taller or broader than Dimitri or Dedue—Sylvain is likely practiced enough to appear unfazed. “I’m almost insulted you think I’d die so easily.”
“You know as well as I that battles grow fiercer in times of peace.” There’s a crinkle at the edges of Nuada’s eyes. “Our fathers knew that very well, I think.”
Felix’s lips curl. It’s not hard to recall that the margrave slaughtered the current warlord’s father early into the war for Fodlan. Sreng had thought that the war would make Gautier weak—not realizing that the margrave cared more for his borders than he did his country. The loss of their leading warlord and the high casualties had deterred Sreng from assaulting the border for much of the war, though it was likely that they were dealing with as much of a powergrab as Fodlan had been.
For this man to succeed his father as leader of the Srengi tribes…it probably means that he’s an impressive diplomat—or perhaps an even more impressive warrior.
Felix doesn’t twitch as Nuada’s eyes fall on him. He’s getting used to the look of being sized up—always evaluated as far less than he is. He has his genetics to blame for that, he’s sure. A part of him wants to prove otherwise…but this is an important treaty on the line. Felix knows its significance far outweighs his pride.
“Ah, right,” Sylvain smiles, the expression almost sheepish, “this is Duke Fraldarius.”
Nuada tilts his head. “Fraldarius…the Shield of Faerghus, yes?”
“That’s correct.”
“If I recall, your king is not small.”
“Er…no, he’s not.”
Nuada laughs. “He needs a bigger shield. This one is too small.”
A heavy hand lands on Felix’s shoulder just as rage flares in his chest. Sylvain’s words are already in the air before Felix can even snap at him. “Mind yourself,” Sylvain says, something dark in his voice that actually sends a chill up Felix’s spine, “this is my fiancée.”
“Oh, I meant no offense,” Nuada continues, a broad smile on his lips. “Your titles are just so amusing. I could not resist. Do forgive me.”
Felix does twitch as he feels Sylvain’s gaze on him, his grip tightening slightly. Sylvain is going to owe him for years. He brushes off Sylvain’s hand and shrugs. “It will take more than that to offend me.”
“I am glad,” Nuada says, motioning for the two to enter the camp. “We will get along well, then.”
Felix tries to be subtle as he looks at the features as they pass by, but it’s hard when everyone they pass stares at them—half in curiosity and the other half barely containing a desire to murder. But he figures they’d see him the same way regardless, so he chooses to disregard them. Instead, his attention falls to the numerous large tents that are scattered throughout the camp, each one made of far thicker stuff than the tents Felix is used to. It’s possible they’re pelts and leather instead of cotton, just to survive the snow and storms. Though clearly they aren’t too concerned about the cold—there aren’t as many fires around as Felix would expect, and yet the people are handling their work and enjoying idle conversations all the same. And none of them are bundled any more than Felix is.
Logically, much of the layout makes sense. Aside from far superior supplies and setup, ultimately this isn’t too different from the way he’d set up in Fraldarius if he was out hunting game.
The thing that doesn’t make sense, though, is that the numbers here are too few. There’s no way this place could support the men needed to make any sort of difficulty for Gautier. Hell, it’s barely enough to protect their leader. Felix knows that—between him and Sylvain—they’ve handled greater numbers than these in any one battle.
Still, he doesn’t expect Sylvain to look as unfazed as he does—surely he notices as well as Felix does. Instead, every step is full of confidence, even enjoyment. It’s like he’s reveling in the attention, uncaring of whether it’s good or bad. Felix even catches Sylvain as his eyes fall across the way to a couple of women who are whispering and giggling as they busy themselves cleaning what was likely a recent kill. And of course he smiles at them.
Felix glances at him, unable to hide his disdain. It will be hard to pretend they’re a couple if even Sylvain can’t keep his act together. When Sylvain looks back, Felix’s gaze snaps away, focusing very intently on the back of Nuada’s head as the man leads them through the camp.
He simply nods as Nuada motions for them to enter a tent that’s far larger than the others. As much as he’s loathe to, he even waits for Sylvain to hold the flap open before he steps in.
The inside of the tent is impressive. Large pelts spread across the floor, overlapping just enough that Felix can’t see the ground below. A long and short wooden table is placed in the center, with a few pelt pillows around it in a clear attempt to make sitting more comfortable. An oil lamp sits in the center of that table, the small stream of its smoke winding up to a small hole in the center of the tent that reveals the open sky. It’s warm enough in here that Felix almost considers removing his cloak, though he’s experienced enough to know he’ll regret it if he does.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Nuada says with a smile, nodding at the pillows as he makes his way back out of the tent. “I wish to bring my partner and our papers.”
“We’ll be here,” Sylvain says, his smile bright as Nuada leaves.
Felix frowns, his arms crossing. It’s clear they’re supposed to sit, but he can’t entirely make out where. In Faerghus, the seating is always clear; one place of honor, with everyone else placed in a lower position from there. But all of these pillows are in the same position around the table, with no clear significance between them.
“Hey,” Sylvain places a hand on Felix’s shoulder, the smile on his face almost fond. “Not interested in sitting?”
Felix’s lips curl into a deeper frown. He very much wants to. The road had been uneven and unpleasant, and his hips are throbbing from the fact that it had been so long. And the ache is only getting worse from the cold.
But also the last thing he wants to do is ruin Sylvain’s hard work by something as inane as sitting in the wrong spot.
Still, there’s something utterly childish about saying ‘I don’t know where to sit’ that makes it impossible for him to voice.
“How about here?” Sylvain asks, pointing to a pillow near the middle of the table as he takes one beside it. “It looks fluffy.”
“I don’t need to be coddled,” Felix huffs.
“No. But you’re starting to show a limp. Don’t worry, no one else can tell.” His smile is soft and sweet, and it’s hard for Felix to feel insulted when he knows it’s true. “It’ll get better if you get off your feet for a bit. So why not on the comfy one?”
Felix frowns. It’s hard to tell if this is a suggestion just to be nice, or if there’s a significance to it that he’s missing. Being near the middle has to be important, somehow. A part of him feels like it’s where Sylvain should be.
But, realistically, Sylvain knows far more about Sreng than he does. So he can’t really argue and takes the seat. The relief on his joints is instantaneous. He can’t help the small sigh in relief.
Sylvain leans close, his shoulder bumping against Felix’s. “Before you ask,” he whispers, “this isn’t like the equivalent of Fhirdiad or anything. Just a hunter’s camp.”
Felix’s fingers clench in his lap. That rings a bit of an ambush—though he knows Sylvain isn’t dumb enough to ignore that possibility as well. “Why are we handling the treaty here, then?”
“Same reason we’d do it in Gautier and not Fhirdiad if we were doing it in Fodlan, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“They can’t take us to the city because it’s…it’s a tradition or something.” Sylvain’s lips press together. “I never heard of it, but Nuada insists. I think he’s afraid the people there will try to kill us. Which, honestly, fair.”
Felix frowns at that. “Like they wouldn’t here.”
“C’mon, you could take them in your sleep.” Sylvain grins, and Felix can’t deny that the praise goes to his head a bit. Just a bit. “It’s just him and his best here. I think the rest are waiting for him in the city.”
Felix considers that, his fingertips tapping against his thigh. “I thought they were nomads.”
“Yes and no. Able-bodied people travel in hunting parties, getting supplies and the like. The city is for the diplomats and those who can’t hunt anymore. There’s not as many cities as Faerghus, but there are at least three. I think.”
Felix hums. “You sure know a lot about this.”
“I have to. His Majesty is expecting me to do a good job.” He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “And…I’m tired of fighting.”
It doesn’t surprise Felix that Sylvain wants to be done with fighting as quickly as possible. He said the same thing a dozen times over the war. Felix doesn’t doubt that the blood and death weigh heavily upon him—as does the legacy that it's clear he doesn’t want. Felix can’t relate, but at least he understands.
Sylvain leans against the table, his smile soft. “What are you thinking about?”
A part of Felix is thinking the obvious: he doesn’t want to fuck this up. Clearly Sylvain has come prepared, and Felix is as blind as a newborn. It would be too easy for him to ruin everything.
Another part of him, though, can’t unsee the way Sylvain smiled at those girls. He figures he’s entitled to be a little petty about it. “That you won’t be able to convince anyone if you keep flirting with girls.”
Sylvain blinks. “Who?”
“The ones we passed. I’m sure you would have winked if it wouldn’t have frozen your eyelashes together.”
Sylvain laughs. “Are you jealous?”
“No,” Felix is glad that he’s at least able to sound serious, and not particularly petulant. “I’m here for a job. And, unless you actually want to marry a girl, I suggest you remember that.”
Sylvain tries to hide his smile behind his hand, but he fails miserably. “I wasn’t flirting with them.”
Felix rolls his eyes.
“I caught what they were saying,” he says, his voice softening again. “That’s all.”
Felix frowns. It had been too far away for him to hear…though he was sure a part of that was just his irritation. But still, if it was anything like the rest of the camp, it was unlikely they had been speaking in Fodlan’s tongue. “Since when do you speak Srengi?”
Sylvain’s smile widens. “I’ve been studying. I think it’s what got me in here in the first place. A Gautier speaking their ancient adversary’s tongue? Really makes one curious.”
Felix rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”
Sylvain leans in that impossible bit closer. “Do you want to know what they said?”
If it’s anything like the rest of nonsense gossip that Felix is constantly subjected to, the answer is exceedingly clear: “No.”
“Aw,” Sylvain pouts, still leaning closer. This close, Felix can feel his breath on his ear, and he’s sure he’s going to combust. “It wasn’t bad, you know.”
A biting curse is on Felix’s tongue, but it’s cut off by the sound of approaching footsteps. All he can manage is a sharp shove, desperate to get Sylvain away from him. The last thing he needs is for his feelings to be obvious to everyone in this damn camp.
He almost feels bad as Sylvain topples back, nearly falling off his pillow. He doesn’t, though, since it’s not like they’re that far off the floor. And Sylvain has certainly endured worse from Felix.
“Oh!” The voice is feminine, and there’s something to it that reminds Felix of Ingrid. Soft, but not in the way that most of the noble girls pretend to be when they’re flirting with him or Dimitri. Just generally pleasant. “I am not interrupting, am I?”
“No.” Felix says, perhaps too brusquely.
To his luck, it doesn’t seem like she notices. Instead, she walks across the tent, taking a place across from them. There is an impressive stack of papers, an inkwell, and a couple quills—all laid out in meticulous order in the center of the table.
“My partner will be here soon,” she says, picking up one of the papers and looking it over.
Really, she doesn’t look that much older than Felix or Sylvain, though there are a couple wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes. There’s not a single strand of gray in the thick dark hair she has pulled back into a braid, making her brightly-colored eyes stand out even more. Even when focusing, her lips are formed into a slight smile.
She sets the paper down, adjusting the hood of her thick fur coat. “He thought you might be cold, so he is making tea.”
“That’s kind of him,” Sylvain says, his smile sweet. At least it’s not his flirting smile, Felix notes. He wouldn’t entirely put it past Sylvain to sabotage a treaty by flirting with the other party’s wife.
“He seems to think so,” she muses, shaking her head fondly, “but I suggest drinking it quickly. He likes it horribly bitter.”
“Good to know.”
Her gaze finally flits to Felix. “So, will you not introduce us, Gautier? I have heard that is your custom.”
Sylvain looks more amused than Felix has seen in a while. “Your land, your rules.”
“Oh! Well then, it appears I have been stalling for nothing.” She smiles brightly, her head nodding toward Felix. “I am Ainge. Nuada is my partner. And what shall I call you? If I recall, you pass your ancestors’ names as signs of ownership, yes? I certainly cannot call you both Gautier.”
Felix tries not to frown, but he’s sure he does, anyway. “We’re not married,” he says, before he remembers to add, “yet.”
“Still,” her smile is unfazed—making her almost as impressive of a match to Sylvain’s constant smile, “I would like to think us friends. We do not need to be old enemies like our partners.”
To argue is a bad idea. Felix knows that. The whole point is to show that they’re amiable, that they can become proper allies. “It’s Felix.”
Ainge nods, her hand on her heart. “It is a pleasure to welcome you to our camp, Felix.” Her smile brightens considerably. “I hope I can see you more often.”
It’s entirely unlikely, Felix knows. Once the treaty is signed, there’s little reason for Sylvain to visit, aside from any occasional holidays to keep Sreng appeased. And, of those few cases, there’s absolutely no reason for Felix to be here alongside him. Still, he nods—because, once again, good relations.
Ainge opens her mouth to say more, but her gaze flicks up to the tent’s entrance. “Ah, took you long enough.”
Nuada laughs, the sound loud and completely unhindered by any sense of decorum. His steps across the tent are just as loud, as is the click of the large metal platter as he sets it upon the table. It can’t be terribly aggressive, though—the steaming liquid barely moves within their cups.
With a small huff, Ainge takes one of the cups, quickly bringing it to her lips. She’s barely managed a sip before her face is scrunching up. She does, however, also manage a wink. “Quickly, mind you.”
Nuada looks at his partner, his mouth agape. That she’s entirely unfazed as he glares at her is also immensely impressive. “I never thought I would know such betrayal so young,” he laments, before slowly falling into his place beside her. He takes the cup in his hand, staring at the liquid as it swirls with the smallest shift of his wrist. “May you two never know such sorrow.”
Felix can’t resist the small smile as he reaches for the cup. The smell is strong, but it isn’t unpleasant. He can’t exactly argue that it’s probably over-steeped—the aroma is more bitter than anything else. But there’s also a spice in the back that is pleasant, warm compared to everything around them. It’s tempting, especially since the wind has picked up outside—the thought already making him cold.
A part of him should be concerned. Sreng still technically isn’t an ally, so there’s the possibility of poisoning. It’s a little more backhanded than they’re known for—certainly such tactics are more an Adrestian specialty—but it’s not entirely impossible.
But Felix also knows that they aren’t fools. If anything happens to him and Sylvain, the Kingdom will blame Sreng. And the forces are strong enough now that it could reasonably lead to a slaughter. Frankly, it’s probably that same knowledge here that has them in the hunter camp. If it was Felix leading, the men would be here for his guests’ protection, not his own.
When he brings the cup to his lips, he’s a bit surprised that it’s not actually that bad. Dimitri has certainly served far worse. Besides, its natural warmth is pleasant, and the spice makes the warmth linger even longer. It’s far more than he’s expected, so he sips it slowly to make it last.
“Gautier, I like your partner,” Nuada says, laughing. “Perhaps we should trade.”
Ainge’s face twists and she swats at her partner just as Sylvain’s hand clamps over Felix’s thigh—Felix’s hands too occupied with the cup of tea. It’s almost insulting that he thinks Felix would be so easily offended.
“You bonded with me,” Ainge reminds him, her knuckles rapping against his leather armor, “you are stuck with me.”
Nuada takes her hand, a smile on his lips as he presses small kisses to each knuckle. “And I would not trade it for anything.”
She sniffs in her annoyance. “You had best remember that.”
Felix merely sips his tea. He’s never really been one to admire others’ relationships—they’re usually more in the way than anything—but he admits theirs is an interesting one. It’s certainly different from the usual fare back home. It’s almost amusing to watch.
“I meant no offense, Gautier,” Nuada says, when his partner elbows him. “Merely in jest.”
“Oh, I know.” Sylvain’s smile is forced. Any pleasant distraction from watching the couple dissolves completely. Not even the bitterness of the bottom half of the tea is enough distraction. “Felix would never take you up on it, anyway…no offense.”
“Are you saying I am not appealing enough for a partner?” Nuada grins. The challenge glimmering in his eyes is painfully familiar. A taunt, one that Felix isn’t sure Sylvain can manage without utterly giving up the game.
Felix sets the cup down. “Sylvain knows where my interests lie.”
It’s simple, but it’s true. No one knows him as well as Sylvain does. And, even if he doesn’t wholly understand why, Felix imagines Sylvain knows that no one here would interest him.
For Felix, no one else has compared—and the goddess knows he’s looked everywhere. But nothing can match the bright look in his eyes when Sylvain smiles, or the way he somehow knows both how to annoy and relax Felix at the same time. It’s the best and worst thing all in one package
“Oh my.” Ainge tilts her head, her eyes wide. “You two are quite close, aren’t you?”
Sylvain’s hand squeezes a bit tighter on Felix’s thigh. Not to calm his temper, then. Perhaps a warning? They really should have discussed signals before all of this. It’s uncertain enough in meaning that Felix lets Sylvain do the taking.
“Kinda have to be, don’t we?”
“What I mean is,” she taps her fingers on the table before scooting her half-empty cup to her partner, “I am surprised you are not already bonded.”
Sylvain swallows harshly. “It’s…complicated.”
Felix can’t help a snort. That’s one way to put it. This whole damn situation is complicated.
She merely tilts her head. “How so?”
“Well, um,” Sylvain swallows. He hasn’t considered this. Of course he hasn’t.
Felix, unfortunately, has. A lot. “Marriage in Fodlan is usually for Crests and heirs,” he explains. “And we’re the last of our line.”
He feels Sylvain go still beside him. It’s fine. He’s probably just shocked that Felix has the answers he doesn’t. It will fade soon enough.
“I suppose that makes sense,” Nuada muses. “I must ask…how did you manage to surpass it?”
Felix glances at Sylvain, but he’s just staring at Felix. Surprisingly speechless. Felix almost wishes he would be like this more often. Maybe it would teach his heart to learn some sense. “My line will die with me,” he says, “and the king has accepted this outcome.”
It’s not untrue. While his uncle is capable of taking over—should Felix die young—the Fraldarius line is ultimately going to go extinct. His uncle has no children, and Felix refuses to father any of his own. And, with the path Dimitri hopes Fodlan will follow, that’s fine—the Crests will someday become obsolete. Heritage won’t matter.
“Sylvain’s fate,” Felix continues, “depends on the outcome of this treaty.”
He’s not immune to the fact that everyone is staring at him; his skin is crawling and he wants nothing more than to step into the snow and fight the sensation out of his system. But that isn’t how this works.
Besides, it’s also true. “If there is no conflict between our people,” Felix muses, “then there is no need for a Gautier to protect the border.”
He and Dimitri have discussed it before, particularly early in Sylvain’s attempts to secure Sreng’s trust. It’s never been lost on him that Sylvain’s position is far different than their own. While Felix can go between his territory and Fhirdiad as he pleases, Sylvain can’t. His absence leaves Gautier too vulnerable.
But, without the war, he has the same freedom as Felix. Still a responsibility to his land and his people, but he’s no longer chained to it, either. A part of Felix wants Sylvain to take that freedom to be with him—to be like he used to be when he was younger. The more realistic part still knows better.
“So this arrangement between our peoples,” Nuada muses, “is partially self-serving.”
“All treaties are,” Felix replies bluntly. Between Faerghus and Adrestia and Leicester, he’s had plenty of exposure to know. “Whether it’s to stay out of battle, or to keep your children from dying, or to improve the resources available to you, or to let you marry who you please—a treaty is always designed to serve yourself first. A good one just also happens to help your people, too.”
“Do you think this is a good one?” Nuada presses.
Felix presses his lips together. Alone, he’s looked over it a hundred times in a hundred different variations. With Dimitri, it’s probably been that twice over. Fodlan is giving more than he’d prefer, but he knows that Sreng is giving much, too. It’s not perfectly balanced—it couldn’t be—but Felix can’t deny that it’s broad enough to help most of their people. “I do.”
“So certain. Are you sure you are not biased? It is your future partner’s work.”
Sylvain snorts a laugh, suddenly shaken from the emptiness that has been dominating his mind. “If anything, he’s biased against me.”
Felix rolls his eyes.
“No one’s harder on me than Felix,” Sylvain says, though it certainly sounds softer than his usual whining. Which is good, since he always sounds like a petulant child whenever he spouts that around Felix. “So, if he says he thinks it’s good, he means it.”
Ainge smiles. “You two really are close. It is pleasing.”
“Of course,” Sylvain says, his hand slowly removing itself from Felix’s thigh, “we’ve been friends since we were kids.”
“I have seen that often drive people away from each other,” Nuada notes. “What makes your bond different?”
Sylvain swallows. At this angle, Felix can see his hands clench into fists in his lap. “I think…we’re losing track of our reason for being here a bit.”
“I disagree,” Nuada presses. “My people and I are only strong because of my bond with Ainge—that is the nature of our partnership. And thus, should our agreement be with a land that also nurtures such bonds, then I can have confidence that our treaty shall be just as strong.”
Ainge hums. “And he is immensely interested in the affairs of others.”
“Love,” Nuada huffs, “you are a cold woman.”
She laughs, the sound light and playful. “Am I wrong?”
Nuada sighs. “No, but, it is more than that.” He leans against the table. “I will be honest with you, Fraldarius. I only know Gautier as much as he shows me. And we have been enemies for far longer than we have been allies. It would be…comforting…to see him from another perspective.”
And that hand is back to Felix’s thigh. Felix is actually contemplating murder. Next time, he’s telling Sylvain that he needs a different signal—something that doesn’t include a hand on him. That is, if he’s stupid enough to accept a next time.
“If that’s all,” he mutters from around the rim of his cup, hoping he can excuse the warmth on his face as a side effect of steam.
“Indeed. And no one would know him better than his partner,” Nuada says, his tone light. “If you would indulge us.”
Felix sets the cup down on the table, daring a glance at Sylvain. It’s not hard to miss the worry on his face, even though he hides it behind that stupid smile. Felix is not a dishonest man by nature—and Sylvain knows that.
He told Sylvain he’d regret this.
“I’ve known Sylvain my whole life,” Felix says, looking away from the man in question. “Because our borders touch, our fathers made sure of it.”
“So you know him very well,” Ainge notes.
Felix nods. “He’s always had potential. Could do anything without even trying. And yet, he’s always been lazy and generally unreliable with things we had to do. He ran off with girls more often than he ate meals.” That hand squeezes hard on his thigh, but Felix is undeterred. If they want his opinion, they’ll have it. “It used to infuriate His Majesty and everyone else to no end. It still does, when he chooses…hm…distractions…over our work. But,” he stares down at the tea, his face still warm but tolerable, “I’ve always been able to count on him where it matters. I know without looking that he’ll have my back. And I know there’s more to him than he wants people to think…and it makes me…glad…that he lets me see it.”
There’s more to it. There’s so much more. He knows that there are few people Sylvain actually smiles at—or those that he chooses to bear his heart to. Felix knows he’s among those numbers, and he knows he’s there because, if nothing else, he’s always been the one person who won’t lie to Sylvain. He’s the one person who will look at him and say exactly what he thinks. And he knows Sylvain values that, even if he makes few attempts to remedy what Felix scolds him for.
And, as much as he hates it, he knows that Sylvain is too much like him. Willing to fight to the death if it keeps everyone else alive. It is, perhaps, what makes their promise so twisted in its nature; he knows he’d do anything to make sure Sylvain didn’t die first.
But that isn’t what they’re asking.
“I have known Sylvain longer than anyone else, and better than anyone else,” Felix continues, his thumb brushing idly along the cup’s edge, “and I have never seen him as devoted to a cause as he has been with this. Not even our own war.” He shrugs. “Perhaps if he had been, he wouldn’t have been so useless as a sparring partner.”
“Hey!” So that’s what gets Sylvain to open his mouth.
Felix glances at him, feigning nonchalance. It’s a good thing he does, too, since Sylvain has put on such an impressive charade that Felix is sure he would have sputtered like a fool.
“I’m not that bad,” Sylvain protests, a pout on his lips and an impressive flush across his cheeks. He looks like he wants to be upset, but can’t quite keep himself from smiling. The smile shows more in his eyes than anything else.
But that’s not saying much. Felix once saw him pretend to cry just to get a girl to join him for dinner.
Felix huffs a small laugh. “Is that so? You pretended that you sprained your ankle when I challenged you to a spar two weeks ago. With your specialty.”
Sure, Felix is horrible in his lancework, but at that point he was so desperate to remove the image of Sylvain kissing some random ambassador from his head (did he have to do that in front of Felix?) that he would have taken anything. Even hand-to-hand. Besides, he was sure he could beat Sylvain with that, anyway.
“I did sprain my ankle!” Sylvain huffs.
“Your gait is impressive, then. That ride should have crippled you.”
“I went to a healer. You know, the person we’re supposed to go to when we get hurt? That you skip all the time?”
Felix’s lips curl. “I’m not wasting my time.”
Sylvain pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.”
A laugh makes both of them twitch, loud and full and impossible to ignore. It’s only then that Felix remembers that they’re not in Fhirdiad—and that he’s supposed to be on his best behavior.
“I understand now,” Nuada says, his smile broad. “And, I admit, I’m far more at ease than I was before.”
Sylvain tenses. “You…what?”
Ainge nods. “You have always been so…formal. Yes, that’s the word. It has made it hard to know whether or not to trust you. But to see you like this, I think it makes it easier to understand. Your future partner has made it easier to see you as no different from us.”
With a small flourish, Ainge reaches for the papers, dividing them into two clear stacks. Like this, Felix can tell that they’re identical—at least on the first pages.
Sylvain’s gaze slowly falls over the papers. “So, you mean…”
“I believe we are ready for this treaty.” Ainge motions to them. “The papers here are no different from our last discussion, but you are welcome to read to be sure. If you are satisfied, then we wish to sign with you.”
Sylvain nods, taking a stack in hand. It’s impressive how quickly his eyes scan over the pages, his expression surprisingly neutral as he reviews the contents. Almost as soon as he starts, he sets the papers down and looks to the others. Felix isn’t sure if he’s just doing it for show or if he can actually read that fast.
“They look right,” Sylvain says, his voice dropping into that tone he used to only reserve for his father: so formal that it’s nearly painful.
“Good.” Nuada takes one of the quills, flipping to the last page of each stack before signing with an impressive flourish. He then passes the paper to Sylvain. “If you would, Gautier?”
Sylvain nods, his hands shaking slightly as he brings ink to paper. But his signature is flawless, the same flourish there as he’s always had.
And then it’s done. The two stacks are piled, one held in Nuada’s arms and one in Sylvain’s. Sylvain swallows thickly as he slides the document into a leather folio before sitting it into his satchel.
“So that’s it,” Sylvain says, his voice a little unsteady. Felix can’t blame him. He knows there’s far more invested here than the months he’s formally been responsible. Felix just doesn’t know how much.
“That’s it.” Ainge says with a smile, as her partner seems preoccupied with staring at the pile of papers in front of him. “Although…we would like to extend an opportunity for you to stay during the celebrations.”
Sylvain tilts his head. “Beg pardon?”
“Oh, yes. In a way, this is like…ah…when we welcome a new tribe into our own. Yours is just the first of this size.” She smiles warmly. “We celebrate. With food and revelry. It would really mean much if you joined us. It would make the people more comfortable.”
Sylvain clears his throat. “We didn’t really…bring the right gear to stay the night.” They’ve already stayed far longer than Sylvain had initially proposed. It will be a miracle if they can get into Gautier lands before nightfall. But at least their supplies will be able to sustain them if they do.
“Nonsense,” Nuada says, his voice still surprisingly soft. “We have a place where you can stay for the night. And your horses will be well-tended to.”
Sylvain grimaces. “I’m not sure…”
“I assure you, no harm will come to you.”
“No, it’s not that.” Sylvain laughs weakly. “I promised Felix I wouldn’t take more than a day. I don’t really want to—”
“It’s fine,” Felix says, crossing his arms. The last thing they need is a conflict over a stupid party. “It’s just a day.”
Nuada smiles. “It’s settled then. You will stay. Come, I will show you to your tent. Then, when you are settled, come to the bonfire. And you will see that Srengi celebrations are second to none.”
*
Felix sighs, looking over his bag. He’s always overly prepared, so he has enough to manage for the extra time here. He’s even half-considering leaving his dagger beneath his pillow—just to be safe—but he’s not entirely sure that he wants to humor that thought. After all, Sylvain will probably chide him about it.
Still, he digs through his bag anyway, wondering what else might be useful for the night. It’s far better than looking at the feature in the middle of the tent—that is, to the pile of pelts and thick blankets that make up a single bed. A single bed that they’re expected to sleep in. Together.
He’s been trying not to think about it, but he’s been failing miserably. It’s not like they didn’t used to sleep in the same bed as kids. They did all the time. And they even shared a tent during the war, when the supplies got dangerously low. But this is different. And the thought of Sylvain there beside him, his warmth filling the blankets, makes Felix’s face heat up immediately.
He’s already dreading what will happen. Sylvain is a deep sleeper—he wasn’t before, but he’s gotten more careless in the war’s end. And, sometimes, he talks and moves in his sleep; he’s always had the bedroll to keep him confined, though. But, under one blanket, where he might possibly dream of a girl and…and think Felix is…
He can’t even finish that thought. There’s a good chance he’ll combust on the spot.
And what’s worse is that Felix can’t rely on himself to be under control, either. He knows he’s thought about Sylvain far more than he should. And he knows there have been a few instances where he’s dreamt about his best friend, only to be grasping tightly onto a pillow. With Sylvain there instead…there’s no chance Felix’s affections won’t be discovered.
He just can’t sleep. That’s the only possible solution. If Sylvain moves, Felix can sleep outside the bed. At least the cold will keep him awake.
“You know,” Sylvain says, his voice a soft rumble, “you almost had me convinced in there.”
Felix swallows, shoving the thought of Sylvain in bed away again. “About what?”
“You know…the whole…,” he sighs, “nevermind.”
Felix glances over at him, but Sylvain isn’t looking at him. He’s still staring at the folio containing those life-changing pages. Like this, it’s hard to tell what expression is on his face.
“I just stated the obvious,” Felix says instead, grabbing his thicker coat and wrapping it around his shoulders. “I said nothing you don’t already know.”
Sylvain sighs, sliding the folio into his bag and pulling it back around his shoulders. “I guess you’re right.” He stands, dusting off his pants before glancing back at Felix. The smile on his face is uneasy, but it’s not hard to guess why. “You good to, uh, continue the charade?”
*
Felix plucks another bite of roasted meat from Sylvain’s plate—or their plate, he supposes. Plenty of couples around the fire appear to be sharing a plate, and there’s a few groups of multiple people doing something similar. Just another of the many things Sylvain neglected to explain.
But he’s not really in the mood to complain about it. For the most part, Sylvain has filled their plate with meats and the like, and he’s munching on the vegetables first—leaving plenty of the better food for Felix.
So, instead, Felix lets his gaze fall over the rest of the camp as they chatter and laugh around the bonfire. The tension from before is gone, the people far more relaxed than they had been before. He can still feel the mistrust lingering in the air, but it’s muted for the most part. More like the normal atmosphere of nobles before a debate than enemies plotting murder.
A familiar sound draws his attention, though, not far away from the fire. If he angles himself right, he can see a ring of torches. And, within those confines, a glint so familiar that it makes his fingers curl in his lap and his spine straighten. He aches to get closer, to join the small crowd that surrounds the torches, but he’s not sure it’s acceptable to rise before a meal is done. But still, his curiosity burns far more than his hunger.
“Oh, that’s one of their older traditions,” Sylvain whispers, his breath warm against Felix’s ear. “A lot of hunters have matches during big celebrations. Helps them determine their rank among the others. It’s supposed to last throughout the season…at least till the next one.” He hums. “And sometimes it helps them earn a partner.”
Felix frowns. It’s not hard to tell from Sylvain’s tone that those are two reasons he’s not supposed to go and join. It just makes the sword at his hip feel heavier.
“Ah, Fraldarius,” Nuada takes the open place beside him, “Interested in our sporting?” There’s no plate in his hands, and it’s clear that his partner is on the other side of the bonfire speaking with a few other people. So…if a meal is done they can move. It’s good to know.
“Just…curious,” he mutters. Of course it’s his luck that Nuada is here to rub it in.
“You are welcome to join, if you wish.”
Felix can feel Sylvain tense beside him. He has to be glad that Sylvain’s hands are too preoccupied to grab at him again…particularly because he couldn’t bring himself to talk about it in the tent.
Still, if Sylvain is tense, then, “I was under the impression I should not.”
“Nonsense. It’s a friendly competition.” Nuada waves his hand. “Merely a mark of honor.”
Sylvain’s knee nudges Felix’s. Fine. “It’s fine. I was merely curious.”
Nuada frowns, his eyebrows scrunching together. “What if you did it as a favor?”
A favor was the thing that got him into this mess in the first place. Still, he can’t outright say no like he did to Sylvain. “How so?”
“You see, I have been thinking ever since you spoke of Gautier earlier.” Nuada taps his chin, his gaze flitting across the fire to his partner. “And I have been speaking to Ainge about it. We are curious, for we have seen Gautier in battle. If you think he is lacking, we can only wonder what you are capable of.”
Felix’s jaw clenches tight. He knows the sound of a challenge. It’s not a question of his skill, either—it’s a question of his courage. If he’s brave enough to get into a fight amidst a camp of people foreign to him. If he’s confident enough that he can win without inflicting fatal damage.
And Felix can. He knows he can. It doesn’t matter that he’s never fought a Srengi warrior—he’s fought plenty of people whose skill he couldn’t anticipate before. It’s one of the few things that makes his blood properly flow through his veins, that makes him feel entirely at ease. And the harder the challenge, the better the rush.
“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Sylvain says, his voice low. “We did have a long trip…”
Felix glances over at him. There’s no missing the warning in Sylvain’s gaze. He knows. He knows. But the thrill of even the possibility makes Felix ache. The idle training back home could never fulfill the need—not like this has.
But he agreed to this. He agreed he would do what he could to make this possible for Sylvain. He promised.
He sighs, shaking his head. “Perhaps another time.”
Nuada’s expression falls. “Ah, I see.” His fingers run through his beard. “I admit, I expected more of you. I did not expect you to be so…cautious.”
Sylvain is quick, his fingers curling into Felix’s sleeve and pulling him close. His breath is warm against Felix’s skin. “Show them what you’re capable of.” He says, his voice nowhere near a whisper.
*
Felix tests the sword in his hand, the weight a bit unusual. It’s unbalanced, and Felix can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. But he’s sure he’ll be able to accommodate it.
“Why’d you change your mind?” he asks as he passes Sylvain his coat. There’s no reason to have extra weight in his way. And he’s sure the exertion will help him warm up soon enough.
Sylvain’s expression twists as he drapes the coat over his arm. “Cautious means ‘coward’. I…figured you’d be pissed if you realized you were insulted like that.”
Felix hums, swinging idly and glancing across the ring. It looks like they’re still deciding on a fighter. “My pride’s not so fragile.”
Sylvain smiles like he doesn’t believe him. It’s almost fair, considering how much Felix’s temper flares on a normal basis. “Sure. Okay.”
“I’ll make you eat those words, Gautier.”
Sylvain laughs. And then it breaks, just as quick, into something serious. “Also, uh, when you win, don’t get mad at me. Okay?”
Felix’s face scrunches. “Why would I—”
“Fraldarius!” Nuada’s voice booms across the ring, far louder than it needs to be. The man beside him is large—but Dimitri is much bigger. “Are you ready?”
Felix shoots Sylvain a smile before crossing into battle.
*
The fight is by no means easy, but Felix has certainly had more difficult battles. Granted, those battles tended to be with people with Crest blood in their veins, or demonic beasts, but still. Since Felix isn’t the one collapsed on the ground, panting with a multitude of bruises forming already, that’s all that matters.
Sure, he can definitely feel a bruise forming on his arm where his opponent had grazed him, but he’s had worse. Right now, he’s little more than out of breath, his heartbeat so loud that it’s thrumming in his ears.
“Do you yield?” he asks, watching the way the man’s body shudders against the ground. He’s already asked twice, and each time the man has stood he was easier to beat. It’s hard to imagine he has much energy left in his body.
The man reaches for his blade, but his hand falls away. “I yield,” he grumbles, bringing a hand to cover his face.
The audience falls quiet. It’s almost deafening compared to the absurd ruckus they’d been making the whole fight. It makes Felix wonder if he’s gone too hard, or if there’s something to a yield that is far worse than merely rendering one unconscious.
“Felix!” Sylvain’s voice is far closer than Felix anticipates, and he’s spun around before he even has time to think. His eyes can only widen as Sylvain grips his chin in one hand, a whisper of “please play along” somewhere between them before Sylvain’s lips are on his.
A part of Felix wonders if he’s the one who lost. If he’s sprawled out on the ground, half-conscious and fantasizing. The same part wonders if, when he closes his eyes, he’ll open them to find nothing but open air.
But there’s no denying the sensation of harsh wool gloves scratching against his chin, or the light brush of Sylvain’s fringe brushing against his forehead. There’s no denying the slight chap to Sylvain’s lips, or the warmth of his tongue as it runs along Felix’s in a quiet bid for permission.
Play along, Sylvain had said. Felix’s lips part, his free hand clinging to Sylvain’s coat. His brain buzzes, too slow to properly register the way Sylvain’s arm wraps around his waist to bring him close, preoccupied with the way he can’t even begin to match the way Sylvain moves.
And, as soon as it starts, it’s over. Sylvain pulls away, his gaze so warm it’s practically molten. That, or Felix’s brain is absolutely fried and he’s really imagining things.
But Sylvain looks away quickly, a confident smile on his face as he looks to Nuada. A fake one, Felix realizes, his heart dropping into his stomach. Whatever heat is on his face fizzles out, replaced only by annoyance.
“Satisfied?” Sylvain asks, his hand resting idly on Felix’s hip.
“I admit,” Nuada helps his man stand, his smile broad and amused, “your partner fights better than you do, Gautier.” He nods toward Felix. “I am glad we are not enemies. I would not anticipate facing you.”
Felix hums in acknowledgment, nodding slightly. He doesn’t argue as Sylvain leads him from the ring, the area being tidied before another set of fighters step in to spar with each other.
Felix is used to the adrenaline after a good fight. He usually revels in the buzzing in his fingertips, the way his mind always seems so clear. But it’s gone now. He doesn’t even have the energy to fight Sylvain as he’s led back to their spot around the bonfire. He’s just…numb.
He hates it.
“Sorry about that,” Sylvain whispers, wrapping an arm around Felix’s shoulders. “It’s…kinda a tradition. Sharing victory between partners.” He rubs the back of his neck. “They would have suspected something if it didn’t look convincing.”
Felix doesn’t pull away, instead watching the flames. There’s at least something calming about that. “Hm.”
“Are you mad?”
Felix wants to be. He wants to tear Sylvain a new one for doing this to him. For taunting him with something he so desperately wants, only to remind him that it’s fake at every turn. He wants to swear that he never wants to talk to Sylvain ever again. That he’s endured too much today for their friendship to survive.
But he can’t. Instead, he just keeps finding himself wishing for another tradition that will let him taste this, just for a little while longer.
Perhaps he is mad, just not in the way he wants to be. “It’s fine.”
“Fe—” Sylvain twitches as he’s cut off by Ainge saying something in a language Felix doesn’t recognize. Instead of saying whatever he was going to, Sylvain’s attention diverts entirely to her.
It should annoy Felix that he can’t understand them—that he can’t be a part of their conversation. But it’s fine. It leaves him only with his own thoughts…and at least he won’t accidentally say something stupid when dealing with them.
*
“Felix?”
Felix urges his horse on more, doing perfectly fine in pretending that he hasn’t heard Sylvain at all. It’s better to just focus on the road ahead of him, where things are clear and nothing is in question. Felix will be in Fhirdiad, Sylvain will report to Dimitri then return to Gautier. There will be no more stupid thoughts, no more situations that will get him into more trouble.
Things will go back to normal, and it will be fine.
“Felix, stop.” It would almost be impressive how quickly Sylvain is able to block the path with his own horse, so easily forcing Felix to a halt—except Sylvain’s skill far exceeds Felix’s, and that’s when Felix isn’t already drowning in his own thoughts.
“What?” he growls between grit teeth.
Sylvain’s expression is pinched, entirely devoid of his usual stupid smile. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”
Felix wants to be mad at him. He wants to so badly that it makes his whole body ache. At least, then, this all would be easier.
But he can’t be. Everything from the prior day had been perfectly bundled in the ‘act as my fiancée’ deal. If he didn’t have this crippling crush to handle, Felix probably would have been able to act like nothing was wrong at all. He probably would have reveled in the opportunity it offered him—an easy way to guilt Sylvain into training with him for at least a few months. Now, he’s not even sure he can even face Sylvain without making an utter fool of himself.
“Just drop it,” Felix says instead, urging his horse past. It’s at least somewhat gratifying that his mare is almost as stubborn as he is, brushing by the other with a little effort.
“You know,” Sylvain mutters, “last night was the first time you threatened me and I actually had to take it seriously.”
Felix swallows, but he doesn’t stop. It wasn’t that his mood had really soured last night…but instead that fear had taken a hold of him. His imagination had spiraled as his exhaustion pulled at his limbs. And, when Sylvain joked about ‘snuggling for warmth’, Felix had quite simply replied with: “Anything you touch me with gets cut off.”
It had come out meaner than he intended. But, with the kiss still buzzing in his mind, he couldn’t trust himself to act sensibly if Sylvain did touch him.
Not that Felix had really slept at all, regardless. A part of him just wants to get home as soon as possible just so he can collapse in his bed. He knows that Dimitri won’t pry—simply saying “Sylvain” will serve as explanation enough.
“I didn’t mean to make you so mad,” Sylvain continues, urging his horse to follow Felix’s pace. “I should have…I should have warned you first. About all of it.”
Felix swallows. A part of him agrees—if he’d known what all of this would entail, he would never have agreed to it. Or…at least he thinks he wouldn’t. Though…with that kiss echoing in his mind, he can’t even be sure of that anymore. Still, ignorance had likely kept him from plummeting headfirst into these situations, just for the opportunity.
“It doesn’t matter,” Felix says instead. “It’s done with.”
“I guess.” Sylvain frowns, glancing at the road ahead. “But next time—”
Felix’s body goes rigid, his face immediately on fire. No. There can’t be a next time. Felix won’t survive it. “There won’t be a next time,” he hisses, hoping that his flustered shame is veiled just enough behind his anger.
Judging by how violently Sylvain winces, it must be. He turns his head away, looking anywhere but at Felix.
The space around them falls to silence. No talking, no breathing, nothing. Just the sound of their horses’ hooves crunching through snow, occasionally snorting their displeasure at the slow movement.
The silence is fine. Sure, it makes Felix’s heartbeat sound louder in his ears, and it makes him far too aware of the guilt twisting in his chest. But, at least in silence, he can’t make it worse. He can just slowly wrap up it all, shoving it far back into the abyss where it belongs.
“Was it really so bad?” Sylvain asks, his soft voice shattering the potential peace like glass. Because of course he can’t be quiet.
Felix’s hands clench tighter around the reins. “We’re not having this discussion.”
“C’mon. Be honest. Was it really so bad to pretend to be with me for a day?” There’s something in Sylvain’s voice that Felix doesn’t recognize. “Just one day?”
And that’s the problem. It’s not that it was bad to pretend to be Sylvain’s—Felix knows he fell into that role far too easily, his doubts and worries aside. And he knows he could spend every moment of the future being Sylvain’s, and he wouldn’t regret a lick of it. Hell, he practically is already.
But that’s the problem. He might be Sylvain’s, but Sylvain isn’t his. And he never will be. And every moment of pleasure simply serves as a reminder that—when they’re back home—Felix will be alone with only the memories to comfort him. And the reminder is killing him.
And Sylvain, he knows, is only asking as a matter of his pride.
“Yes,” he says simply, refusing to look at Sylvain.
“I see.” He laughs softly. “I guess I was…the only one enjoying myself. I should have known better.”
Felix didn’t think it was possible to get more tense, but he does. His head snaps to Sylvain, his hands gripping so tightly around the reins that he’s sure his palms are probably bleeding. Because Sylvain is sitting there, gaze downcast, and a blush on his cheeks. Like he’s actually hurt.
And it doesn’t make sense. Every touch was a reminder not to fuck it up—Felix knows that. Anything else—the kiss especially—was just a means of adhering to Srengi traditions. There’s no possible reason for Sylvain to have enjoyed himself—and therefore there’s no reason for him to be upset that Felix didn’t.
“That’s not funny,” Felix says, wishing there was enough energy in his body to sound anything other than numb.
When Sylvain smiles at him, it’s fake. Horribly, painfully fake. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”
That guilt twists harder in Felix’s chest. Guilt turns to hurt, and hurt to anger.
Because it’s not fair that Sylvain is making him feel like this. Sylvain was the imbecile who thought this favor was easy for Felix. Sylvain was the one who tormented him the whole day. Sylvain was the one who touched him and teased him and kissed him without being fazed at all. And Felix, trying to be a good friend, had endured it all.
So to be blamed for knowing his limits—for knowing he can’t handle this again—is unfair.
“You don’t get to do that,” he hisses, his fingers curling into Sylvain’s collar and pulling him close. At this point, he doesn’t even really care if Sylvain falls off his horse. Maybe it will knock some sense into him.
“Hey!” Sylvain squirms in his grip, but he lacks the leverage. “What are you—”
“Do you have any idea what you—what that—what I—” Anger far exceeds Felix’s ability to think, and it should be embarrassing that he can’t even string a sentence together. Right now, though, he’s too mad to even be embarrassed.
Perhaps, though, he can't spout an accusation because this isn’t Sylvain’s fault. Sylvain only did what he’s always done: enough to accomplish what he wanted. And he cannot be blamed for relying on Felix—because Felix has always been there for him to lean onto. He cannot be faulted for something Felix has always offered.
“Forget it,” Felix growls, shoving Sylvain away.
But Sylvain catches his hand. “No,” he says, holding Felix’s hand firm against his chest, “tell me what I did. Why are you so mad at me?” He swallows. “It’s not because I didn’t tell you—I can tell. So what. What is it?”
Felix wants to punch him. He wants it so badly that he can taste it. Still, there’s a better way to punch him, he realizes, and it’s not like their relationship isn’t ruined anyway. Felix already knows it can’t go back to the way it was.
“Because,” Felix says, his voice low, “when we get home, you’ll get to go back to normal. And I can’t.”
Sylvain’s eyes widen. “Wait…”
“I did this as a favor, Sylvain,” Felix says, snapping his hand away, “but I can’t do it again.”
“Why?” Sylvain asks, his voice soft. There’s something in his gaze that terrifies Felix.
Felix looks away. He can’t stand that look. He can’t take the way it makes his heart thud harder in his chest. “Drop it.”
He can hear Sylvain swallow. “What would you do if I kissed you again?”
The words on Felix’s tongue come out bitter. “Is that another Srengi tradition?”
“No,” Sylvain leans closer, his glove gently brushing along Felix’s jaw—a request to turn, to look at him, “I just want to.”
When Felix turns, an insult already prepared, he finds Sylvain’s lips pressed against his once more—but this time more insistent, more eager. There’s a desperation to it that Felix can’t fully understand—but he also can’t help but be fully enveloped by it as well. It has him meeting Sylvain this time as his tongue peeks out, wanting so badly to taste and to imprint every sensation into his mind.
But he has to breathe, and when he pulls away he finds himself panting and clinging to Sylvain’s sleeve. It’s pathetic, he knows, making the flaming flush across his cheeks all the hotter. But, at the same time, he wants more—to revel in it again and again until there’s absolutely no chance that he could ever forget.
When he looks up, Sylvain is smiling, and Felix’s heart drops.
What it means, Felix realizes, is that Sylvain knows. Felix’s face burns with shame—burning even hotter as he realizes that this is why he was chosen in the first place. Sylvain needed someone to be his partner in front of Sreng—someone he could reliably trust to be convincing. And there was no one better than someone who was in love with him. He just had to pretend that he felt the same—a tactic Felix knows he’s perfectly capable of, considering his dating history.
“How long have you wanted to do that?” Sylvain asks, his smile wry and amused.
“Drop it,” he mutters, his voice weak.
“Can I guess?”
Felix would rather die. “Sylvain.”
“I wonder,” Sylvain’s thumb traces just beneath Felix’s pout, sounding far too pleased with himself, “just when you fell head over heels for me.”
Felix should pull away. He should make it stop. But he’s been yearning for this for longer than he cares to remember…
And it’s fake.
Felix snaps away, the motion ripping a hole in his chest. “Drop it,” he repeats, “please.”
Sylvain blinks, the smile fading slightly. “Felix…”
“You got what you needed,” Felix says, wishing he didn’t sound half as bitter as he does, “now leave me be.”
He snaps his gaze back to the road, his fingers trembling around the reins. He wants so badly to blame the cold, but he can’t.
But Sylvain doesn’t leave him alone because of course he doesn’t. “You know what I thought, when Nuada first asked me if I was open to bonding with his daughter?”
“I don’t care,” Felix spits.
“I thought of you.” Sylvain laughs, soft and uncertain. “I know it was stupid. But I did. I kept thinking I wanted to be able to look at them and say that I was already taken. That I was yours, and just yours.”
Felix can’t look at him. This is another lie, it has to be.
“So I told him I was going to propose. That, if I was lucky, I would bring the man I loved with me.” Sylvain sighs, running his hand through his hair. “I only realized what a colossal idiot I was when I got home. When I realized you’d never look at me twice…”
Felix swallows. He keeps trying to repeat that it’s a lie in his head—a vain attempt to heal what’s broken between them—but he can’t get himself to focus properly.
“I knew I didn’t have enough time to try and court you properly. So I…I came up with this. I thought maybe…maybe it would help me see if you liked me or not. I didn’t think…I didn’t think it would hurt you.”
Felix can’t look at him. To look would be to concede that he believed him. And it would only leave him even more vulnerable when Sylvain admitted that it was a lie again.
“If you let me,” Sylvain reaches for his hand, but Felix jolts away at the touch, “I want to court you. Properly.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Felix says, his voice weak. He’s capable of fighting dozens of soldiers on his own, but he can’t endure this.
“I’m not,” there’s an assurance in Sylvain’s voice that Felix almost wants to believe. “I…if I’m lucky, I want to bring you to Sreng again. When we’re actually married.”
It feels like time freezes. Felix isn’t even sure his heart is beating. Slowly, so slowly, he looks at Sylvain, his eyes wide. “What?”
Sylvain’s expression is as serious as it had been across the treaty table. “Someday, when you’ll let me,” he reaches for Felix’s hand again, smiling softly as he takes it and brings it to his lips, “I want to marry you.”
Felix swallows, his mouth horribly dry. “You…”
Sylvain smiles against the glove. “Will you give me a chance?”
Felix looks away, unable to form a proper frown on his lips. “You’ll have to work hard to make up for yesterday.”
A shudder runs up his spine as he feels Sylvain place a hand on his thigh to balance himself, his breath warm against Felix’s ear as he whispers: “I look forward to it.”