Chapter Text
Sylvain is not having a good week.
He’s had worse weeks. Every single week of his life before he left home, for a start. But things have been better since he got to Garreg Mach. He’s getting spoiled, probably. Let a guy eat too many meals without having to comb the mashed potatoes for shards of glass, and he’ll start feeling entitled to it.
Now that he’s several hundred miles away from the nearest Gautier, even Sylvain's problems are trivial. Not ‘someone filled my boots with pigshit’ or ‘sorry I’m late, I got shoved in a well,’ but ‘my crush is mad at me.’ Poor, suffering Sylvain. How is he supposed to survive such hardship? Won’t someone give him a medal, or at least a shoulder to cry on?
Sylvain isn’t an idio— Well, okay, maybe he is an idiot. But he’s not a masoch— No, you know what, he’s probably a bit of a masochist, too. But even he’s not dumb enough to ask his friends for help. Ingrid would heap all the blame on him before she’d even heard the whole story (which, sure, fair, but not exactly helpful). And Dimitri’s the last man alive who should ever give anyone advice on how to handle Felix. Mercie would hear him out, probably. But Sylvain would rather die than drag her into his pathetic little problems. Every time he hangs out with Mercedes, he winds up feeling like the scum of the earth, just by comparison.
Luckily, he’s already got the perfect sympathetic ear, and the perfect shoulder to cry on. Several dozen shoulders, in fact! All conveniently lined up at chin-height. Sylvain grew up around horses. He likes horses. They’re soft, and they smell nice, and they don’t know what Crests even are, much less who’s got one and who doesn’t.
Students aren’t supposed to wander the grounds after quiet hours, but what are they gonna do? Expel him? He’d like to see Seteth try to tell the Margrave that his perfect little crest-spawn got kicked out of school just for crying at a few horses.
Still, as funny as it would be to get expelled, he might actually have to go home afterwards. And that would be a lot less funny. So Sylvain keeps his head down as he slinks past the fishpond and pads across the darkened marketplace.
He sidesteps into the stables as discreetly as anyone can while 6’1 with hair like a signal fire. Unfortunately, it’s not till after he pulls the door shut behind him that he hears a loud, phlegmy sniff.
Sylvain freezes.
With slow, deliberate movements, he leans down and closes his hand around his hunting knife, the one he started wearing in his boot after the well incident. In his big dumb clown’s hands, the blade feels like a child’s toy. Not a good feeling. And to be totally honest, Sylvain isn’t great with close combat. He does a lot better when he can keep the other guy at the other end of a polearm. Unfortunately, you can’t hide a silver lance in a bootsheath.
At least he’s still got the element of surprise. Sylvain slows his breath and listens.
“—what I did to earn such loathing,” the midnight sniffer is warbling, in a voice so thick with misery as to be nearly unrecognizable. “It is not as though I have ever mistreated him, or his damned precious Edelgard! With all due respect! It was the same when we were children, you know, the two of them always whispering… About me, I can only expect. And for what! In recompense for my—my friendliness? For my honorable nature?” Another noisy sniff. “If you would turn your head, I could brush your other flank. Yes, my darling, just like that. Oh, aren't you lovely? Aren't you perfect? You would never treat a fine young noble so callously, would you, sweetness?”
Ah. Okay, cool. The good news is, Sylvain is probably not going to have to gut anyone with his hunting knife. The bad news is, this stable’s already taken. Apparently, he’s not the only one pathetic enough to spend his nights pouring his heart out to a bunch of horses.
Sylvain hasn’t really spoken to von Aegir, the pompous, puffed-up son of the Imperial minister. They’re in different classes, for one. But it’s mostly ‘cause Sylvain always got a bad vibe. Von Aegir is always going on about his nobility like it’s something to be proud of, and not just a participation trophy he won for the honor of being born. Not exactly Sylvain’s cup of tea.
But to his horror, when he moves to slip out the way he came, the door lets out a high, horrible crreeeeak.
“Who’s there!” von Aegir demands, like Sylvain had stormed into his estate uninvited and not caught him crying alone in a horse barn. “Show yourself!”
Yeesh. Von Aegir sounds about two seconds from rounding the corner and running him through. Briefly, Sylvain weighs the pros and cons of explaining his presence here vs. literally dying. Reluctantly, he opts for the former.
“Uh,” he says. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.”
A moment later, von Aegir pops up from one of the stalls like a massive, strawberry-blonde gopher. Sylvain suppresses a cringe. The kid has definitely been crying. Not like it wasn’t already obvious, but. Now it’s visibly obvious.
For a second, von Aegir just stares, dumbfounded.
“—Gautier,” he says at last. Sylvain tries not to be offended about how long it took von Aegir to remember his name. “I—ah. I was only—” He clears his throat. “I wasn’t…”
Sylvain never particularly liked the guy, but he’s not made of stone.
“It’s cool,” he cuts in. “I talk to them too.” He puts on his most self-effacing smile, the one he uses to show girls how open and vulnerable he is. “Think we might’ve come for the same reason.”
To his embarrassment, von Aegir lights up. It might be the most transparent expression Sylvain's ever seen, and he's best friends with Felix "Never Heard Of Subtext" Fraldarius. (Or you were, anyway, he reminds himself, giving the knife in his chest a cruel twist.)
“You understand!” von Aegir literally shouts, beaming like Sylvain just got down on one knee and proposed. “These horses, they are wonderful animals, are they not? So intelligent, and very sensitive, as well! My fath— That is to say, some people cannot see the merit in airing one’s troubles amongst those who cannot reply, but my Calliope is a wonderful listener.”
Von Aegir talks like he’s selling punctuation, and exclamation points just went on clearance. Every word out of his mouth is its own! Emphatic! Statement! In spite of himself, Sylvain finds himself grinning. It’s hard not to. Like trying to glare at a puppy.
“Hey, their loss, right?” Sylvain is already turning to go. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Ah—” von Aegir says.
Sylvain crooks an eyebrow at him.
“Well,” von Aegir mumbles. “That is to say… It is not as though I have any better claim on this stable than you have.”
“Neither of us have any claim,” Sylvain points out. “We’re both supposed to be in bed.”
When von Aegir’s cheeks flush pink, Sylvain is forced to concede that the minister’s son is cute, in an exuberant, bloom-of-youth kind of way. Not his type, respectfully. Sylvain is more about the cold, controlled, sharp-as-folded-steel type, himself. But definitely not un-cute.
“That is assuredly true!” von Aegir admits. What was his first name again? Something with an F. Fradigast. Frenelope. Ferdinand, that was it. “But that is all the more reason to, ah—declare an accord, so to speak! Which is to say… I have had ample time already to enjoy the pleasure of Calliope’s company, and would gladly step aside, should you wish to be alone with your thoughts. But. If you did not altogether object to human company, I would… also not object, myself! And should I inadvertently overhear any confidence, I swear to take it to my grave.”
Sylvain finds himself smiling again. An actual smile, not the one he wears to impress girls. He should probably know better, given what everyone thinks about him, but he might’ve judged Ferdinand a little early. In the flesh, von Aegir seems sweet, if a little dense.
Besides. If he's totally honest, it wouldn’t be awful to have someone to talk about this stuff with. Ideally someone from outside of his house. Someone with no ties to anyone who talks to anyone who talks to Felix.
“Hmm… I dunno,” Sylvain muses, mostly for his own amusement. “Can you really keep a secret?”
Ferdinand straightens so fast, you can practically see him vibrate. “I swear it on my life! And my House, and my name as a noble! And… I swear it on my horse!”
“Wow,” Sylvain says, both sarcastically and genuinely impressed. “Well, I hear Calliope’s a great listener.”
###
If you told Sylvain that he was going to make a habit of discussing his personal life with Ferdinand von Aegir, son of the Imperial minister and living symbol of everything he hates about the nobility, Sylvain would’ve told you to get fucked. (Unless you were hot, in which case he might’ve said, Wow, really? That’s sooo interesting.)
But to his surprise, that’s exactly what he does.
In his defense, talking to Ferdinand is weirdly easy. Conversationally, the man is intent, intense, and almost aggressively supportive. He sympathizes, like Mercedes would; but unlike Mercedes, he’s not a living, breathing fucking saint. Ferdinand is just another hapless idiot who was born with a crest and wound up a little fucked up because of it. Like Sylvain. (But not exactly like Sylvain, who is, for the record, very good at reading a room.)
Besides, Ferdinand makes for a surprisingly sympathetic shoulder to cry on. Not that Sylvain is actually crying. He’s heartbroken, not pathetic. Okay, so maybe he’s pathetic, but—Look, you get the idea.
The point is, there are some things you can only talk about with someone who’s almost a stranger. The point is, when Sylvain explains that Felix is avoiding him, Ferdinand doesn’t say, “Well, you probably chased him away with your reprehensible behavior and horrible personality.” He doesn’t say, “You too, old friend? I have been deliberating on how best to regain his trust, myself. Do you think he would like it if I arranged a visit from his father?” Ferdinand doesn’t say, “Oh, Sylvain, I’m so sad for you I could weep, even though your problems are a drop in a bucket the size of the ocean compared to the lifelong suffering that I never even deign to complain about.” Or something much nicer, but with the truth of that hanging heavily hanging over them.
Ferdinand says, “Well, that sounds terribly confusing! And he hasn’t told you why?”
He says, “How vexing! I can relate, myself. Are these scoundrels incapable of explaining their grievances outright?”
He says, “...Perhaps it’s unrelated, and you’ve merely been caught in the crossfire?”
At that last one, Sylvain barks a laugh. “I wish. But yeah, no. Fe and I are—” Something like family. We promised to die together. “—close. He wouldn’t shut me out for nothing. I would’ve had to do something—” wrong, obviously; how else could that sentence end?
Ferdinand is frowning. “And you don’t recall anything amiss? Anything of note which might have preceded the schism?”
Schism, Sylvain repeats to himself. Some people open their mouths and a whole dictionary rolls off of their tongue. Is that how he would have sounded if he hadn’t spent his entire adolescence flirting with his tutors? And what was the question, again?
Anything ‘amiss’ before Felix started ducking around the corner whenever he saw Sylvain coming? No. Not that he knows of. That’s the really confounding part: Sylvain still doesn’t know what he did wrong.
He and Felix fight all the time. It’s never been an issue, because it’s usually really easy to figure out why Felix is mad. Felix is a man of few words, but unlike Sylvain, he’s direct. Unlike Sylvain, he’s honest. If Felix isn’t voicing something, it's usually because he doesn't know about it himself.
Not that Sylvain would know what Felix is or isn’t voicing. Sylvain hasn’t heard a word from the guy in six days.
Sometimes Felix will sulk for a couple days after a mission, if he thinks Sylvain didn’t show enough “self-preservation instinct” or whatever. And if Sylvain fucks around in a way that makes a mess for someone else, Felix will turn his back on him, sometimes. But six days ago… There wasn’t even a mission! Sylvain hasn’t even gone home with anyone in weeks (unless you count his standing arrangement with Hilda, or that brief, drunken shuffle with the Gatekeeper. Which Sylvain doesn’t.)
What happened the day before Fe started ignoring him? Literally the same stuff that happens every day. Sylvain dragged Felix to the dining hall. Felix dragged Sylvain to the training grounds. Felix kicked his ass. Sylvain spat blood and grinned. Then they went to bed.
“Nothing,” he says grimly, tightening the tie strap on Ember’s saddle. Lately, he and Ferdinand have taken to venting their troubles on their morning ride, instead of at one in the morning when their horses would rather be asleep. “Totally normal day.”
“I can relate,” Ferdinand sighs. “Why, just yesterday, I arrived at the dining hall to find it empty save for Hubert. Naturally, I took my seat at his table—as is only common courtesy! And do you know what he said?”
“...Probably something mean?”
Ferdinand scowls thunderously. “He informed me that I’d ‘ruined his appetite,’ and proceeded to knock his plate onto the floor and stalk away like a great damned cat! And who do you think cleaned up after him?”
“Aw, Ferdinand,” Sylvain says sympathetically, nudging Ember into an easy trot. “You didn’t have to do that, man.”
“And leave it to the cleaning staff?” Ferdinand gasps. “What could be more ignoble?”
###
From the roof of the stable, Felix watches Sylvain ride out.
Felix isn’t here to watch Sylvain. He runs the rooftops before sunrise sometimes. It’s just another exercise to train agility, the ability to use his environment. And he likes how it feels. Felix likes the early early morning, before the rest of the campus wakes up. The air thin and clear.
And sometimes, like now, he’ll run into Sylvain.
He's been avoiding Sylvain since that night at the training ground, when Sylvain said all that stuff. It's... not awful, seeing him. Especially because Sylvain doesn't know Felix can see him, so Felix isn’t gripped by the instant, clanging compulsion to disappear.
The biting morning chill has reddened Sylvain’s ears and pinked his cheeks. Is his hair getting longer? No. That's stupid. It's only been six days.
It would be ridiculous to miss someone after six days, so Felix doesn’t miss Sylvain.
He’s still crouched on the roof, watching, when another bright red head rides out after Sylvain’s. Not Annie. Not anyone from their class. Someone else.
Felix’s eyes narrow.
###
“What does Ferdinand want with Sylvain?” Felix demands.
He’s cornered Hubert von Vestra outside the training hall, and is glaring up at the gangly, pasty beanpole of a man through eyes slitted with distrust.
Hubert lifts one eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“They share some kind of—” Felix gestures disinterestedly. “Relationship.”
“Relationship?” Hubert echoes. He sounds frigid, even for him. Felix gives him a brief, suspicious squint before writing it off as indecipherable.
“They’ve been riding together,” he says. “And sometimes they meet up at night. I thought you’d already know. Never mind. This was pointless.”
“At night?” Hubert repeats, a few notes shriller than usual. “Why would I know?” he snaps, before Felix can slink off.
Felix frowns. “I don’t know. Because you’re always looking at him?”
“I beg your pardon?” Hubert looms with deliberate menace, his tongue now barbed and dripping black.
The Fraldarius boy looks on in disgust, as though Hubert were something he found seeping from his wound dressing. “What are you getting upset for? You watch all of them, don’t you?”
Hubert’s scowl deepens. Unnerving that an outsider should notice, but... not entirely inaccurate. Hubert keeps a close eye on all of his compatriots. He is ever tracking their loyalties, monitoring any attachments which might lure them away from Lady Edelgard’s cause.
—Is Ferdinand really cozying up to the heir to Gautier? A disreputable rake by all accounts, and furthermore, in all likelihood, an inevitable obstacle to Lady Edelgard's cause?
Dangerous attachments, indeed. Hubert’s lip curls into a sneer. He’ll have to keep a close eye on this most compromising affiliation. And if Gautier proves a threat to his lady’s cause, well… Hubert certainly knows how to deal with that.
###
Stomping home after a thoroughly unhelpful conversation, Felix scowls at his feet and wonders, only in passing, if he maybe shouldn’t have consulted Hubert.
Whatever. It's probably fine. What’s the worst that could happen?