#Sylvain trying to get up on a table but Dimitri breaks in in half because he was arm wrestling | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

philliamwrites · 3 years

Text

The Dawn Will Come [Chpt.4]

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings

Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content

Words: 7.7k

Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.

Notes: Chapter 3 | Chapter 5

Chapter 04: Demands of the Faithful

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

[Alfred, Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H.]

“I’m glad you could make time,” Byleth says, carefully placing her fine cup on the small bottom plate. If she notices how uncomfortable you feel, sitting in the centre of the yard, drinking tea, she ignores it. “Let’s think together about what we want to teach during the mock battle.”

“This is a bad idea,” you say, nibbling on your cup. “A very bad idea.”

The late afternoon hours are quiet, but it certainly helps that the tea arrangement is tugged away in a far off corner in the courtyard, hidden behind tall hedges that allow privacy. The sweet smell of chamomile tea and strawberry pastry is a nice exchange from the usual savoury smells you’re used to in the cafeteria. All around you, the high, spiky roofs of the monastery’s towers stand out against the fiery, orange sky, throwing longer and longer shadows as the sun sets behind the mountains. The clouds are soft, pink cotton-candy, blushing at the warm touch of the sun.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Byleth continues, cutting through a piece of cake with her fork. “We’ve seen what the house leaders are capable of. It’s time to see what the rest of the students can do.”

“Don’t take me wrong. I think a mock battle will help them grow,” you agree. “I just don’t really understand why it’s me who has to lead the Blue Lions.”

“I think Professor Hanneman is not present at the day of the mission,” Byleth explains. “It seems on the last day of Lone Moon he always leaves the monastery for a private reason. And I assume Lady Rhea means to see the extent of your power.”

That’s what you expected as well. In the last couple of days you realised your power is a muscle, to be exercised daily, never to be pushed to the extreme. It was a strenuous task to try out how much is too much; where there’s still room. Under the keen eyes of Hanneman, you two practised day after day, trying to figure out how much your body can take before exhaustion sweeps over you and renders you immobile. Crests usually don’t have a limit; depending on their nature they grant a permament boost to the bearer’s abilities. Muttering under his breath, Hanneman had made quite a show to remind you what a curiosity the Crest of the Herald is. Like you wouldn’t know.

“Since we’re going to be on the field as well, you might want to get more practice with the sword,” Byleth proposes, and you groan. She has a way of being brutally honest, and so far no one’s been spared to get the brunt of it. “I’m not letting my students hold back. Not even against you.”

“You really are a voice of confidence, you know.” Shoulders drooping like someone took the wind from your sails, you throw your head back and drink the rest of your tea. Byleth’s expression doesn’t change, and you wonder why you even try being funny around her.

After clearing the table, Byleth accompanies you to your next lesson hall. It’s nice in theory, but her vigorous way of trying to drill sword techniques into your head on the way doesn’t hide her true agenda. Only slowly, you begin to realise that is maybe her way of caring for someone. Brutish in appearance, but once you look past the first impression of indifference, Byleth’s silent demeanour speaks louder than words.

Students linger in small groups in front of the class rooms, their exhausted faces from a full day of lessons and hard training visible in the way they carry their bodies. If you had a say in it, you’d cancel the evening lessons and let them rest; a reoccurring debate inside the faculty that doesn’t go anywhere. Byleth stops in front of the class room, surveying the students with a cool gaze, when suddenly Claude and Hilda jog towards you, and by “jogging” they decided Hilda to be the only one running while carrying Claude bridal style like he weighs nothing. As they pass you, Claude tips an invisible hat in your direction, calling “Hey, teach,” and then immediately “Bye, teach!” as they cross the courtyard.

Your gaze follows them. “What just happened.”

Byleth doesn’t even bother to look. “Claude and Hilda happened.”

Heavens, you don’t know if you’re able to handle them later.

After exchanging goodbyes with Byleth, you tackle the next forty minutes with a belly full of sweets and a mind occupied with worrying about everything you might do wrong next week. Forming two groups, you hand out two different manoeuvres you dug out of books, and present the task, “Work out the pros and cons of each battle tactic, and present them to the class. Explain where you would have done things differently, and why.”

Sylvain raises his hand.

“Yes, you can leave to bathroom breaks without asking me,” you say.

Sylvain drops his hand. Then raises it again.

“No, you can’t bring animals you find on your way back to your seat,” you say.

He drops his hand. Beside him, Ingrid fails to stifle a groan.

Twenty minutes later, the first group stands in front of the class. Mercedes’s steady hand draws the perfect copy of the manoeuvre on the chalk board while Annette recites every step flawlessly. They’re a powerful combination, and that’s only half owed to their friendship. Mercedes is soft; she’s the silk hiding the dagger that Annette’s sharp mind is. There’s strength in kindness, and both have honed this ability to a razor-sharp weapon. There’s still a pouch of unfinished cookies Mercedes has baked for you left in your room, something to keep in mind for the next tea hour with Byleth. Felix and Dedue don’t add much, and you’re a little afraid to ask, seeing how Felix’s eyes burn holes in the back of Dedue’s head. There’s been rumours going on about a dispute, but no details, and you gladly leave that sort of teacher-student business to Hanneman.

The remaining students do their job almost just as good. But the thought of children being so confident in ways of war and killing leaves a painful twinge in your chest. You wonder what will become of them all in a few years, what battles they will win. What battles they will lose—this fear lingers at the edges of your consciousness like an ever-present shadow. To push it away, you try to refocus on the task at hand.

“Look at the battalions you have,” you advise, tapping a finger against the cool surface of the board. It comes away white with chalk, leaving a white smudge on your robe as you wipe it off. “Where are they placed?”

Ashe clears his throat. “Two Lance Soldiers, that’s Infantry. One Magic Squadron, also Infantry. The latter is stationed far northeast on that island. Two Pegasus Corpses, which are Flying Types. We put them behind the mountains to ambush the enemies on their way to one of our Infantries.”

“A good idea in theory,” you acknowledge, and don’t miss how Ashe exhales in relief. “And where are you enemies?”

“They’re facing our Infantry and the Squadron,” Dimitri steps in now. “The Flying Unit engage from the back. After their victory, Infantry and Flying close the last opposite unite off on the bridge, and join the Magic Squadron in fighting.”

“Okay, okay,” you nod. “And now look at the terrain of this last unit you want to take on from the front and back. The one on the bridge moving towards the Squadron.”

The room is quiet for a minute, and then a silent “Oh” from Ashe.

“Yes. Oh. The Magic Squadron moves slower through the woods. You’ll lose them. And one of the Lance units is probably the next to go.” You draw sharp lines across the board with red chalk, changing the battalion’s movements. One goes across the whole board, crossing out the word Sea. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to have your Pegasus Companies move this way across the water, join the Magic Squadron and then close in from the right to join the Infantries?”

“But Herald.” Ingrid raises her hand, but doesn’t wait for you to pick her. “If Infantry and Flying take out the first enemy, we’ll still win. The remaining unit will be trapped on the island without a possibility to retreat. Wouldn’t it be wiser to sacrifice the Magic Squadron just for that?”

“I agree with Ingrid,” says Sylvain. He’s sitting on a desk, and swings his legs back and forth. “With or without them, we won the battle, and that’s what matters.”

You turn back to scan the manoeuvre one more time. They’re right—blocking the enemy’s escape routes off proves a solid guarantee to win, and yet you’ve somewhat hoped they wouldn’t settle on this option. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, turning your lips upside down as if you’ve bitten into a lemon.

“Sometimes, you don’t want to win the battle,” you start slowly, the thought blossoming from a dark place deep inside you. “Sometimes you want as many as possible to live.” Which is easier said than done, and no one in the room agrees on your statement because they know just as much that such a choice isn’t always granted. Before the silence stretches on too long, you quickly add, “I guess it is more important to know there is no right or wrong answer. You make decisions later on that will either grant you victory or death, and you will have to live with those decisions.”

Unanimous murmur sounds from the students, a topic nobody wants to dwell on too long, and you grant them that wish; this precious little time they’re still allowed to be children and make mistakes before responsibilities catch up to them. The rest of the lesson flies past without disturbances, and when the bells announce the break, they jump from their seats and scurry outside.

“Don’t forget there’s going to be a test after the mock battle,” you call after them, knowing they’ll forget anyway and then boycott. The Lions are finally done with lessons, but there is the Deer House who have the misfortune to attend the last period of the day. As you prepare their unit of instruction on different terrains, Dimitri approaches you, his expression a mixture between confidence and tension.

“Herald.” He stops in front of your desk, shoulders squared into a declaration of deference. “I have prepared instructions on everyone’s weaknesses and strengths. Please, do consider to take a look. Since one of the rules is that only six units will be stationed on the field, I hope this will make your decision easier who to choose.” Placing the papers with outmost care on your table, Dimitri hesitates a moment before continuing, “What you said earlier … truth be told, I think the same. To limit the loss of lives as much as possible should be a priority to a leader as well. To hear that from someone like you … I was quite glad.”

“Someone like me,” you repeat, but you’re more surprised to feel your fingers itch to take the papers and get a first read on everyone. After going through similar notes from Linhardt, you’re now excited to learn more about your proteges, and with luck someone from the Golden Deer students might provide you with a first survey as well.

“Someone responsible for tactics and strategy,” Dimitri quickly clarifies. “Someone tasked with bringing absolute victory.” He gives you a look that is somehow both caressing and calculating at the same time. “I understand that those sometimes compete with one’s own beliefs regarding the value of life. One’s conscience is as much of a weapon as a sharpened blade. If it breaks, what use is there to a person.”

“Those are … some mature thoughts.” You don’t know where this observation goes. Of course he is mature, he has to be as the successor of a noble lineage. “For someone your age.” You press your mouth into a thin line, cursing your inability to think of a better response. But Dimitri simply smiles—a smile that is like a light suddenly being turned on in every room of a dark house.

“Oh, but I do not want to bore you with such matters. I just wanted to add, I really do look forward to have you on our side during the mock battle.” He gives a little courtesy bow. “Let us discuss the details on the day before the mission. A good evening to you, Herald.”

Dimitri leaves with a little bounce to his step. It’s probably better he’s in high spirits, even though you aren’t sure what exactly made him happy. It would be a real shame to extinguish his excitement by being an utter failure during the battle, so you make sure to read whatever he managed to put together about his classmates as soon as possible. There’s still some minutes left before the first Deer students will enter. Exhaustion lulls you into resting your eyes, and the moment your head is cradled in your arms, you doze off.

It’s the third time you have this dream after joining the Officer’s Academy, though calling it a ‘dream’ is a stretch—there is nothing happening, nothing to see. Only white, as pure and unblemished as a young lily blossom in early spring. Only this time this picture—maybe a memory, but of what or where you can’t say—is different.

Wake up, a voice whispers, barely recognisable and dull, spoken behind a wall of water. Wake up.

Your hands weigh a ton. Unable to reach out and grasp it, the dream blurs, slipping through your fingers like sand.

Wake up.

“Herald, wake up,” Claude persists. “You’re drooling on my test papers.”

His hand brushes your shoulder and you jump, all focus on the dream dispersing. Multiple voices fill the room in a shower of sounds, not helping to regain your senses of where you are. It doesn’t help that your right eye throbs dully, and as you rub it to somehow reduce the sensation, white spots dance across your vision.

“So sorry, Herald,” Claude smirks with his hand still hovering over your shoulder. “Didn’t mean to wake you from your beauty rest, but Hilda planned to draw obscene things on your face, and we can’t have that now, can we.”

“Liars never prosper, Claude!” comes Hilda’s response from somewhere in the back of the room. You groan, narrowing your eyes at him. Going back to sleep and stumbling about to try and figure out what’s going on sounds more pleasing than dealing with Claude’s shenanigans.

“Man, what a bummer you won’t join our House during the mock battle,” he continues as if Hilda hasn’t said anything. “If someone asked me, I think to have you fight for the Blue Lions is cheating.”

“But no one asked you?” you offer, indulging him with a weak smile.

“The audacity, right?” Claude rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, leaning against the teacher’s desk. “Just imagine the brilliant schemes we two could work out. Oh, I have an amazing idea. How about you ask Lady Rhea—”

“I’m not asking to be by your side during the battle.”

“Ouch.” Claude places a hand over his chest, right above his heart. “Immediately shut down. Who knew our dearest Herald would be such a heart breaker.”

You shoo him away, not only because he’s getting on your nerves, but there’s also Ignatz and Raphael standing in line, waiting for your attention.

“We’ve heard the students from the other Houses gave you some insight in their abilities,” Ignatz says, tugging a stack of papers to his chest. “We decided to give you one as well.”

“I’m sure you’ll like them,” Raphael chimes in, looking more excited than usual. “I gave Ignatz instructions on how to make our report the best. Forget boring words, Herald, we’ve prepared the real deal!” He rips the papers from Ignatz’s hands and slams them on your table. A crack sounds on the underside, and Raphael leans his whole weight upon the surface, completely oblivious to the protesting creak of the wood.

“Here, we started with Claude, since he’s the big shot and all that,” he explains, opening the first page. It shows Claude, a surprisingly accurate portrait of him, if not a little bit scrawny. He’s wielding a bow, nocking multiple arrows. Seems like Raphael wasn’t the only one giving instructions.

“And here is Leonie, and there’s Lorenz, and oh! That’s us working together as a team!” Raphael beams as he turns the page. In this picture, everyone is assembled, fighting against angry looking soldiers and horned monsters. There’s Lysithea and Marianne shooting lightning bolts from their hands, zapping their opponents. Raphael is carrying a huge stone, on top of it stands Hilda, wielding a mighty axe.

“These are the most accurate file reports I’ve seen,” you say for lack of better words. “It really is a shame I can’t join you for the mock battle.”

“There’s gonna be a next time, no worries!” Raphael gives you a thumbs up, then retreats to his seat, Ignatz by his side. They’re a funny duo, not just because of their different build. Their personalities seem the complete opposite, and yet strangely fit like a child’s box to sort blocks into the right shapes.

The difference between the Golden Deers and Blue Lions, for one, is the noise level. Instead of waiting for you to call them up one by one, they love to shout answers whenever they see fit. Judging who was the first isn’t really easy when four people scream at the same time, so you’ve given up on that—Claude’s policy whoever screams loudest didn’t help all too much as well. Maybe it’s time to ask Byleth about some tips how to handle them. When the bell tolls for the last time for this day, announcing everyone to be relieved of their work, the student clear out faster than during fire drills, leaving you with a turmoil of thoughts and worries and two little voices bickering about how much of a disaster next week is going to be.

After seven days and nights of restless sleep and vigorous training under the vicious supervision of Byleth, the green fields stretching before you end boarding on lush woods, its treetops protruding into the sky. It’s a wonderful day you would enjoy much more without knowing this is a battle field, and the people behind you wait for your command.

“Black Eagle and Golden Deer are in position. Captain Jeralt said the mock battle begins in roughly ten minutes.” Dedue gives you an expectant look, and you give him a curt nod, your mouth dry.

“Thanks. We’ll have a last briefing. After that, we’ll deploy our units.”

Dedue joins his classmates, leaving you to your troubled thoughts. With luck, none of your opponents will reach you, and you won’t have to fight. It’s as if you can feel Byleth’s taste for your blood all across the field, even though right now she’s just a blurry, dark blob in the distance, surrounded by her students.

“Do not worry, Herald.” The hard metal of a gauntlet on your shoulder makes you flinch, backing away from Dimitri. The worry on his face is a mirror of your own, albeit for different reasons. “Everyone will do their best to follow your orders, and fight with everything they've got. Your leadership will lead us to victory.”

“Oh, yeah!” You don’t meet his eyes. “For sure.” Zero pressure and all that. You don’t say that, seeing that most of the students don’t appear to be as nervous as you. Confidence is key, and even though you see none of it in tangible proximity, you can at least fake it until you make it.

Six minutes left. With a deep breath, you try to get hold of yourself, and face the Lions.

“Since we don’t know who will be deployed by Manuela and Byleth, prepare for everything. I want to split the group. Dimitri, Dedue and Mercedes move to the northern forest. Felix, Sylvain, you’re moving west with me.”

Felix pulls a grimace, but before he can say anything, Sylvain throws an arm around his shoulders and leans on him, gracing you with a full grin. “We got your back, Herald.” He earns a whack on his back from his friend.

“Why are we splitting up if our plan is to take out each group separately?” Dedue inquirers. “Isn’t that what we agreed on before?”

“I think the Herald plans to let our opponents think we plan on taking them both on at the same time.” Dimitri throws a quick glance at you. “We’ll draw them in our direction, and once they are near, we close in from both sides.”

You nod. “Precisely. We know the Black Eagles will start far north from us. The Golden Deers are northwest. As soon as one of them moves towards us, we’ll have to defeat them immediately. It will be easier fighting one House, not both at the same time.”

“Look at you, Your Highness.” Sylvain pats him on the shoulder, looking proud. “Someone’s been paying attention in class!”

“Sylvain—” Dimitri’s chiding meets deaf ears as Sylvain already turns away, checking his lance for a last time. But he does beam a little, you think. Or maybe it’s just the sun making everything look much brighter. It’ll go into your report nonetheless. Chances of a victory look good—even if you have to retreat, the Blue Lions might make it on their own.

The bressy sound of a horn echoes across the valley, reverberating in your bones. The mock battle begins.

The weight of the wooden training sword hanging from your hip is foreign; it’s as though you only expect to trip over it. Determined to keep it in its holster, you approach the grove, flanked by Sylvain and Felix—and not a minute too soon. Moving towards you is the first line of enemies, Ignatz, Lorenz and Marianne.

“I think they didn’t see us—” Sylvain starts just as the first arrow flies past his head and hits the trunk beside him with a thunk. For safety purposes, all arrow’s tips are wrapped up in stiff cloth, not intended to leave permanent wounds but surely still capable to deliver nasty bruises like the training swords and lances.

“I think they saw us—” Sylvain’s brilliant new observation ends in a yelp as Felix shoves him out of the line of fire.

“Get down, dumbass!”

You three duck behind bushes and trees, cautiously observing how the others advance, their weapons drawn.

“I’ll go for Ignatz,” you say. “Felix, you’re fast enough to reach Marianne and take her down before she starts healing everyone.”

“Fine, we’ll try your plan.” Felix has his sword drawn already, gripping it tight enough his knuckles turn white. “Try not to get kicked out too soon, will you.”

You blow a strand of hair from out of your eyes, squinting at his back as he jumps out of cover. The last couple of weeks you’ve put in some extra hours of sword practice with Felix. As an exceptional swordsman, noble and diligent in his training unlike anyone else—safe maybe for Dimitri—you imagined no one could teach you as much as possible in the short amount of time until the mission. It took some convincing, but the decisive argument that sold him was your desire to become better to finally have at least a chance against Byleth. If she is stern during practice, Felix is vicious, exploiting the tiniest opening you give in order to make you learn from your mistakes. Your body was a medley of pain and aches after every evening, but now the memory of that very same melody is your marching song towards battle. Then there’s always the knowledge that if you three can distract them long enough before the rest of the Golden Deer students arrive, Dimitri and the rest will close in on your position, and taking down your opponents won’t be difficult.

“Sylvain, Lorenz is yours.”

He answers with a simple salute, grip tight around his training lance, and as you both follow Felix out in the open, an image flickers before you, there and gone like a flame going out with a last glint. An arrow, headed straight at you. Your body moves in instinct, dodging the projectile not a second too late. Judging from the direction of its origin, Ignatz must be just beyond the rocks only a few hundred yards away. You throw a MiasmaΔ in his direction, the black ball carving its path across the grasslands. It hits the stone, chipping parts away and revealing Ignatz, crouching behind it. He looks up, dirt on his cheeks, and adjusts his glasses before ducking out of his cover, another arrow already ready on his bow.

Another arrow hits him on his back, hard enough to get him down on his knees. Mercedes’ accuracy isn’t as good as Ashe’s, but the determination carved into her face makes up for lack of skill. Dimitri and Dedue are right on her heels, but a single look thrown over your shoulder shows that Felix and Sylvain have everything under control. Coming out victorious as well, save for Sylvain pressing a hand against his ribs, they were still complete. The knowledge of that makes you sigh in relief, a new surge of hope soaring inside you.

“I knew we shouldn’t have listened to Claude’s dubious plan.” Lorenz’s bickering is still audible, even as the three proceed to leave the battle grounds to meet up with Jeralt. You’re really curious to see what exactly Claude had in mind, but diverting your focus for just a second could become dangerous. Instead, you turn towards the students.

“Stay close,” you order, waiting until Mercedes is finished checking Sylvain's injuries. “We’re going to move further towards the Golden Deers and eliminate them first.” Flexing your fingers against the slow growth of getting used casting spells, your group begins to move further north.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you notice Dimitri buckling and unbuckling his spear from his back. Out of lack for the right words, and because the first rush of adrenaline still courses through your body, you jostle against him, wearing a grin on your face.

“Look lively, Your Highness,” you advise. “All that nervous fumbling isn’t what a leader is supposed to do.”

A tiny gasps leaves him, more an exhale than anything else, but he turns towards you, slightly flushed. Bringing his hands to his sides, it’s too obvious he’s tensing his body so they don’t stray again—like a statue that’s on the edge of shattering at the tiniest movement.

“You’re right, of course.” He lowers his head a little. “I just keep thinking that the Black Eagle students wait for us in that direction as well. Some are surely moving towards us as we speak.”

“Are you worried about Byleth?” you wonder, and more as an afterthought add, “Or Edelgard?”

“Anyone who is not worried about Byleth is a fool, if you ask me,” he replies with a crease between his pale eyebrows. “And well, this is our first chance to prove ourselves, being the heirs to the ruling factions. I know Edelgard is exceptionally strong. And Claude surely has an ace up his sleeve. You are right, Herald. Nervousness is a sign of hesitation, of weakness. I will be better than that.” A new fire comes alive in his eyes as he strides onward, catching up to Mercedes and Sylvain to compliment her on the excellent shot from before.

The epiphany really comes only now, fast and hard like a lightning bolt, that these children will drink in everything you have to offer—advices, orders, simple words of encouragement—simply for the title that is strapped around your neck. The weight of that responsibility slows your steps, which allows for another worry to quickly catch up: has everything you have taught them so far been right? Do they really know how to exploit the advantages certain classes have over others; will a strategic retreat even occur to them in the right time before it’s too late.

Doubt is like poison, slowly eating you from the inside. This mock battle won’t just be a lesson for the students. It will also test if you have put them on the right path, and the realisation unfolds a new conviction inside you, breathing new wind into your sails.

You quickly catch up to them, another rush of encouraging words on your lips when another image flickers on and off, painting your sight red. You freeze, raising an arm, hand formed into a fist.

“Halt!” you shout, processing what you just saw. The students pause, forming a loose circle around you. The throbbing from before settles back in, more persistent now like someone’s knocking against the back of your skull to get your attention. You try to ignore that and focus on categorising every student’s ability in alphabetical order.

“Linhardt,” you gasp, eyes wide open and glued on Dedue.

The students exchange worried glances. Sylvain is the first to speak. “No, Herald,” he says. “Linhardt’s the pretty boy with all the books, you know. Who sleeps just about anywhere, like a cat. That’s our Dedue here.”

“No, I mean Linhardt has Nosferatu,” you quickly explain, flailing your hands in hope to express yourself better. It doesn’t look like it helps. “Linhardt is the only one left who can use Nosferatu, and he’s going to land a good hit on Dedue. And with good, I mean bad. If he hits you, you’re down, Dedue.” Because only that makes sense, as Marianne is already standing on the sidelines and you haven’t heard about anyone else learning the skill. Undoubtedly a Nosferatu will hit Dedue if you don’t change course or take the spell caster out first.

Dedue steps forward. “Should it give us an advantage against our enemy, I will gladly face the opponent and go down if it means it won’t interfere with our progress towards the Golden Deer students.”

“Sacrificing yourself for a mere praise from the boar, is that what you hope for?” Felix demands, or more like snarls, his handsome face crumpling into an ugly look of contempt. “Pathetic.”

“Sacrifice is a big word to throw around during a mock battle, don’t you think,” Sylvain unhelpfully throws in, his posture a little too relaxed in the light of the conflict that’s about to break out.

Dedue shakes his head. “I am simply fulfilling my duty,” he states. “Anything that will bring His Highness victory.”

“You would also run head first into an ambush and get yourself killed, is that it?” Felix grimaces. “Blindly following orders—”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Your raised voice makes them pause, and you use that second to grab lead of the conversation. “We don’t even know if Linhardt is going to be alone or joined by other Eagle students. What do you think will your little act accomplish, Dedue?”

He sets his mouth into a grim, hard line, unable to come up with a satisfying answer that isn’t a repeat of what he just said.

“You’ll have a tough time going against Black Eagles with all their magic users, so stay with Dimitri. Go and deal with the rest of the Golden Deer students. And you—” You meet Felix’s glare with narrowed eyes. “A battlefield isn’t the place to throw around petty disagreements. You would do well to remember that.”

“Understood.” He rips the training sword from its holster. “But let me go take down that mage. I’ll cut him down swiftly.”

“We’ll go together. I’m not leaving any of you on your own. Take care of Claude,” you tell Dimitri, showing with a nod that you fully trust in his leading ability. “We’ll meet east from the barricades in exactly one hour.”

He doesn’t shy away from you glare. “Understood. Take care you two.”

Felix takes the lead with long, eager strides. As you follow him, you rub your eye, wincing at the pinprick-like pain. The dull throb doesn’t cease this time, and if you had to take a guess, there’s only once left for the Crest to activate before you reach your limit. So far, nothing has helped you to ascertain when exactly a foresight occurs, and leaving it to pure chance is like grasping a loose rope in hopes that it is tied to something somewhere as you take the leap. Maybe Hanneman will make more sense of it laters.

“You should have stayed with the others,” Felix says after a moment, scanning your surroundings for any sign of the enemy. It sounds more like a simple statement than an accusation. “I can handle someone like Linhardt on my own.”

“I said before, we don’t know if he’s alone. I highly doubt it.” It’s like Dimitri said before: Underestimating Byleth will surely end in casualties and defeat. You don’t consider it far-fetched that she has sent a non-magic class with Linhardt, but who that will be is left to be determined.

“No matter how many accompany him. Be it two or three or all of them, I will take them down.”

“It takes more than one person to win a war.” Though you don’t doubt Felix might try it by himself anyway. “You’ll notice soon enough that you will rely on your comrades.”

“I will rely on them as long as they don’t get in my way.”

“So charming,” you mumble to yourself as you two round a mound. It really is none of your business, but you're actually curious about what is going on between him and Dedue. The moment you finish outweighing the pros and cons of trying to go down that rabbit hole, the air around you changes, barely noticeable save for a change of wind—it completely stills for a second, but that is enough to realise what’s happening.

“Felix—” you manage before the Nosferatu explodes in front of you, knocking you to the ground. Before the mock battle, all magicians were instructed to weaken their spells; no lasting damage should befall any of the participants. Only because of that you manage to climb back on your feet, only left with dizziness that makes the world spin. The jarring sound of metal clashing against metal clears your mind a little, and when you turn around, Felix and Ferdinand are clashing blades.

You turn further, and there he is, a hand raised in your direction. “Sorry, Herald,” Linhardt says. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “The professor threatened with extra homework if we would hold back against you.”

“Of course she did,” you mumble, grabbing your sword with sweaty hands. Two against two is fair, and you have no doubt that Felix will hold his ground against Ferdinand. The only solution to your little problem named Linhardt is to get as close as possible, and make use of your advantage in meagre sword skills.

Another Nosferatu is sent your way, but this time you dodge, the hair on your neck standing on end. Somehow your body automatically shies away from Faith magic like a cat fleeing from water. Just one more hit will surely be enough to throw you out of the mock battle, and you can’t have that, not when the picture of Dimitri’s resolute expression is carved into your mind.

You close the distance, all nerves tensed in anticipation, completely focused on trying to feel where the next spell is going to land. As Linhardt retreats into the woods, his sight obscured by trees, you dive after him, shoving twigs out of your way. A shadow moves through the undergrowth; every muscle in your body locks up, but you plunge forward, sword raised—

Linhardt gasps when he finds himself pressed against a tree, your sword at his throat. With both hands up, he doesn’t move an inch, simply blinking at you. Somewhere above you, a bird cries out; a branch breaks. Linhardt makes a face like he jammed his foot in a door he slammed shut himself.

“I surrender,” he says. “Getting beat up and spending time in the infirmary doesn’t sound as good as reading tomes in the library.”

“You sure?” Your heart beats so loud in your chest, it’s a miracle it doesn’t break through your ribcage and fly off. “Byleth might drown you in homework for that.”

He shrugs. “I call it a strategic retreat. I’ll just have to—” A yawn. “—convince the professor.” Another yawn. You begin to see the ulterior motive behind his surrender. Squinting at him, you proceed to bind his hands with a dark spell. Black shackles appear around his wrists, locking them tight together. As you make your way out of the grove, you hope Felix had the same success.

That thought immediately dies when you return to the plain and see Jeralt heaving an unconscious Felix on the back of his horse, a battered Ferdinand by his side.

“Ah, Herald.” Even though beaten up black and blue, Ferdinand still manages a smile. It looks a little lopsided with his swollen cheek and the dried blood on his upper lip. “I don’t mean to offend, but I hope you return because Linhardt defeated you in mighty combat?” A second too late he sees the magic binds around Linhardt’s wrists. His face falls. “My, Linhardt.”

“You don’t quite look so good yourself,” Linhardt throws back without any heat in his voice. He sounds rather bored. Tired.

“Excuse me, but what happened. What’s wrong with Felix?” you ask, turning to Jeralt. Before he can answer, Ferdinand chimes in, “He fought splendidly! Though I had no doubt in that, he is a noble after all. Yet, after ringing me to the ground, he lost consciousness. By my honour as the heir of House Aegir, I cannot take advantage of that. We both shall step out of battle.”

“He passed out?” Now that you take a good look at him, he’s still pale, unhealthily so. Slick sweat glues his dark hair to his forehead, and the skin beneath his eyes shimmers slightly blue—lack of sleep.

“Overexertion, I guess,” Jeralt says now. He pulls Linhardt to his side, and gives his shackles a thoughtful look. “I’ll take these three with me. You go and continue the mock battle, Herald.”

“But…” It doesn’t feel right to leave Felix alone. Even though he technically isn’t, you imagine it would be better to wake up to a friendly face.

“He’ll be fine.” Jeralt gives you a strange sideway glance. “The other brats rely on you right now, don’t they? Go to them.”

He’s right, of course. The mission isn’t over yet, and with a strong combatant like Felix missing, victory has just slipped from your grasp.

There is the meeting point. There it is, and no student from the Lion House is in sight. The minutes pass in long stretches, ticking away until it’s impossible to tell if time moves on or holds still. Holding out between the trees, you look in both directions—for your comrades and the enemy. For whatever reason, Byleth has decided not to advance to your position, and you aren’t sure what that’s supposed to mean. More minutes pass in aggravating silence, heavy and oppressing, and then—

“Herald!” Dimitri’s voice rings through the woods. Your head snaps to him, and there they are, the Blue Lions tearing through the woods, a yellow flag with a deer on it waving behind them.

“You did it!” Joy and relief spreads through you as you stumble towards them. “You guys really did it!” They shuffle around you like kittens searching for warmth, and something tight uncoils inside your chest. Is this what Byleth always feels when she’s in front of her class?

“Hilda and Claude were mighty opponents, but nothing we couldn’t handle,” Dimitri reassures, but then a shadow jumps over his features. “Unfortunately, Mercedes had to leave. We couldn’t reach her in time to step in.”

“Step in,” Sylvain repeats, muttered under his breath as he brushes red locks from his sweaty forehead. “I want to see you stepping in when Hilda swings that axe like a lunatic and not scream like a little girl.”

“Where is Felix?” Dedue inquirers, ignoring Sylvain.

Your shoulders drop. “Well, Linhardt was accompanied by Ferdinand, and while I pursued Linhardt, they fought. None of them emerged unscathed, although I feel Felix drew the shorter straw.”

“Felix?” Dimitri repeats. He sounds as if you just tried to convince him it’s going to rain butterscotch pie later. “Our Felix lost?”

“Not exactly the fight, but I’m sure his pride took a hard beating.”

“Well, that leaves four against four.” Dimitri brings a hand up to his chin, a worry crease between his eyebrows. “And they still have Edelgard and the Professor.”

“And we got the Herald and you!” Sylvain beams. “I say we wrap this up and celebrate our victory with a nice dinner and maybe some ale? How does that sound?”

“Sacrilegious.” Your voice is drier than the crisp leaves cracking under your feet. “Aren’t you too young for alcohol?”

“Too young and irresponsible,” Dimitri agrees with you, looking tired of Sylvain’s antics. “But I don’t object to a celebratory dinner.”

“That is, if we win.” Dedue reads your mind, and brings the conversation back on the right course.

“I assume the Black Eagles are holding position. They’re waiting for us,” you say, briefly checking everyone’s state. Safe for dirt and scratches, they’re still doing good, though having fought already, the Blue Lions are on a slight disadvantage. You can only hope some of Byleth’s students dropped out facing the Golden Deers.

“We shouldn’t keep them waiting then.” Sylvain winks, playing with the grip of his lance. The smile that flirts with his lips is threatening.

“Keep your guard up.” Dimitri shares a single, meaningful glance with every one of you, then leads your little group out of the forest. Whatever Byleth has planned, you hope that you’ll be ready for it.

52 notes · View notes

allbrainrot · 4 years

Note

Sjfkskd I immediately thought of Ashe for 🖤 from your FE3H prompt list!! If you don't mind adding hcs for Dimitri and Sylvain to the list as well I'd love to see your take on them but just Ashe is okay <3 thank you!!

Woo Allister here!! Heck yeah, I just started this blog two days ago so I totally have time to do all three! I always have time to write Dimi lmao that’s my emotional support Dimitri!! 😭🩹

Ashe:

- you’re catching up over lunch with the blue lions and someone (we all know it was Sylvain) asks you if you’d spare a dance for them at the upcoming ball.

- you casually reply that you’re actually not going, much to the surprise of your house members. Sylvain is probably incredibly dramatic about it and tells you that you’ve wounded him. Mercedes and Annette will try to get you to change your mind because they were excited to get ready with you, but when you tell them that you’d have much more fun chilling in your room they accept it.

- Ashe on the other hand, is suddenly staring very intensely at the table and silently panicking. He’s been trying to think of a way to confess to you for weeks, and was slowly building up the courage to tell you after asking for a dance. While he internally freaks out, he’ll probably pick up a nervous habit and fiddle with his fingers or the hem of his shirt WHAT THE HELL WE GONNA DO NOW.

- Dimitri is the first to pick up on it, since he knows a thing or two about troubling thoughts. He starts to ask Ashe what’s troubling him, but, being snapped out of his thoughts, Ashe just sort of nervously blurts.

- ‘are you certain you’d really be alright missing such a big night?!’ You’re a little surprised at having elicited such a response from Ashe, but you assure him that noble events just aren’t your thing. ‘Oh but umm you know that I’m not a noble either! We er-we can work our way through a little party! You really don’t even have to stay long-’ followed by a lot more rambling of Ashe trying to string together reasons that you must attend. You tell him you’re not so sure about that...

- oh this boy clings onto that little sliver of a response and all week he’s constantly proposing new reasons that he thinks you should come. At this point, any member of the blue lions that wasn’t already aware has definitely picked up on the fact that he’s pining for you. Some might even try to help out and encourage you to go just to hang out with your friends. You, however, long ago made up your mind that you weren’t going anywhere near the stupid dance and instead you’re just growing concerned at Ashe’s increasing distress and exasperation for you to go.

- you adore the sweet archer, you really do, but you just refuse to ever attend a ball. As the week goes by with this boy following you around with a very cute pleading look, you start trying to cheer him up in other ways. When he stands in front of you and asks you about attending again, you take his hands in yours and give them a reassuring squeeze as you reaffirm that you’ll be lounging in your room. When he sits next to you while you’re feeding the cats to ask again, you lightly pet his hair. You start sitting next to him with your knees touching in hope of providing comfort, and have even started holding hands when he trails behind you in town. Although your firm answers still make Ashe’s stomach drop, it doesn’t compare to the butterflies he gets when you start giving him affection. Maybe he’s starting to cling by your side more to get pats and hand holds than to try and convince you to go to the dance...

- tonight is the night. You’re finally comfortably leaning against your bed while drawing/reading/sewing (whatever you do in your spare time) as the footsteps of the dance goers fade away when you’re shocked by a gentle knock on your door. When you open your door to see a very blushing Ashe, you’re rather taken aback, but you gently take his hand and lead him to sit beside you in front of your bed. He takes your hand in both of his own and stares down at them sheepishly as you ask him what he’s doing here when he still has the whole night to ask someone to dance. He clears his throat and squeezes your hand a little more before telling you that, with you in your room, he has no need to be at the dance and must be here instead (if it’s ok with you). You are super confused, but tell him he’s welcome to keep you company before asking why he’s suddenly skipping the ball after being so hellbent on it all week. It’s then that he takes a deep breath and looks up at you, his face bright red. He finally confesses and explains what was going on all week, and how he had found he appreciated your affection so much more than any dance.

- you’re very surprised, but you tell him you reciprocate and pull him into a warm hug in front of you. You spend most of the night talking with him in your arms, and you both eventually fall asleep on the floor with him curled up into your chest. It’s a good thing no one there has a camera because when someone came to check on you later, man that would’ve been a wild photo.

Sylvain:

- you’re probably walking down the halls of the monastery when he approaches you, leaning on the doorway in front of you. Gives you a bright smile and tells you he’s looking forward to nothing more than a dance with you at the end of the week, if you’ll indulge him.

- when you laugh at his usual antics and tell him that you’ll be skipping out on the dance, he probably gives you the same reaction of being a drama queen and you punch him lightly on the shoulder before walking past and telling him you’re sure he’ll be plenty busy with any other female in his line of sight.

- once he’s alone though, he’s definitely pretty stressed. Probably tugs at his hair or clenches his fists as he beats himself up for his own actions and the impression they’ve given you.

- when you and Sylvain first started becoming friends, it became pretty quickly clear that you weren’t trying to cozy up to him for brownie points with his family. And by that I mean, you masterfully skirted around any advances he made and teased him about trying it out on every other female at the monastery, much like you had just done.

- because of that, you actually ended up becoming pretty close genuine friends. You were just a cool person being friendly because that’s just how you were. You started sitting next to him in class and giving him a heads up on notes, assignments or tests that he may have forgotten about while spending every hour flirting with someone new. He even started proposing to actually hang out with you as bros. It was pretty sick, until he caught feelings..

- from the moment he caught himself yearning, he knew he was in deep shit because you’d never believe him. In the meantime, you still shut his flirting down, but as close friends you really didn’t mind things like sitting knee to knee with him or leaning on him. You even occasionally ruffled his hair and indulged him in leading you through town by the hand when you needed to get somewhere. You had always thought of it strictly platonically; you just figured he loved physical affection and getting to receive it from a friend was a win-win because he didn’t have to bother courting someone. Well, you were half right.. Sylvain does seek affection from you all the time, but not because you’re friends..

- oh boy as this little crush got worse and worse, Sylvain has to physically restrain himself from showering you in cuddles and kisses. You’re just so cute and every little action drives him crazy! So he’s devised a plan: he’s going to be with you every second of the ball. Dances only with you, talks with you in the corner, follows you outside if you want a break, he figured this was the perfect way to confess to you. Surely you’d have to realize how hard he’s pining for you if you saw his commitment and the contrast to his regular behavior, right? Welp now we officially have a code red for the ONLY plan and Sylvain is freaking out.

- it’s only after a day of darting around the monastery like a headless chicken and baffling everyone with his antsy behavior that he leans against a wall, takes a deep breath and realizes that he may be a little dumb. Well, more like he can’t think straight when 99% of his brain is occupied by you. He’s going to be just fine, plans have just changed a little last minute. What’s the difference between being glued to your side at a ball and being glued to your side in your room? It spares him from the possibility of being interrupted, but it’s still a pretty grand gesture for him of all people to skip.

- tonight is the night. While everyone else sways around some daunting, packed room with people they probably don’t even actually like, you’re sitting cross legged on your bed flipping through Alois’s ‘hilarious’ joke book that you managed to snatch with everyone else occupied. You almost wish someone else was here to witness this (no one would even believe how ridiculous that book was without seeing it for themselves), when you hear two knocks on your door, a code you’d set a while back. At first you were taken aback and thought it might be an angry Allois, but you mutter a ‘you can come in’.

- you were even more caught off guard by the fact that it was Sylvain and he looked..incredibly shaky. He almost stumbles on his way to plop down next to you, and the anxious face he’s making confuses you to the max, but out of concern you ask if he’s ok. He looks at the ceiling and mumbles a broken yeah to you, and it’s then that you realize you think he’s..trying not to cry?? Your head is spinning, having never seen him like before, when you put together a narrative of what you assume happened, given the context of this night. ‘Holy shit, Syl are you ok? OH MY GODDESS did you catch feels for some chick?? AWWW MAN did-did she reject you??!’ you’re sputtering out words way faster than he can even start to respond to you, but at your last question, he actually starts to laugh a little at the irony. A bitter laugh, probably mixed in with a little bit of crying out of hurt.

- you instantly wrap yourself around Sylvain, petting his hair and doing anything else you can remember that he loves as he hesitantly wraps his arms around you to keep you in place. When he’s calmed enough to speak, he mumbles into your hair ‘1.) yes, and it’s been a disaster, so I’m a mess. 2.) I guess..not yet? But I’m almost too afraid to even ask, knowing the odds that it’s not reciprocated.’ It takes you a moment to realize that he’s just answered you while you sit on his crossed legs, pressed against him trying to be good emotional support. You think on what he’s just told you, and eventually give the best advice you can, ‘Hey, you can’t think of it that way! Walking away from a chance is much harsher than the possibility of being rejected.’ He sighs deeply before replying slowly ‘Have you ever just, theoretically imagined..dating me?’

- WHAT? Ok, that’s definitely the most unexpected question possible, it’s gonna take you a second to get over the shock. When you’re grounded in reality, it’s actually a pretty easy answer, ‘Well sure, after we first started talking, but naturally I made myself forget about it because it couldn’t truly happen.’ At this, he perks up quite a bit, and you can feel a little bit of his confidence returning to him as he holds you tighter. Time for him to play his cards, ‘So..let’s say, if you ever believed that I was seriously committed, would you have dated me?’ Alright this man may have just officially made this the strangest night of your life. ‘Ummm, I mean sure I guess, if I had believed you I’d have liked to date you.’ BINGO FOR SYLVAIN!!

- ok, it’s now or never for him, ‘So, do you believe me right now?’ he says in the sweetest tone you’ve ever heard from him. OK THIS IS OFFICIALLY BONKERS. You can’t help but tense up and widen your eyes as the realization of the true meaning of this conversation dawns on you. When you come to, your face is burning up and you throw your arms on top of his shoulders and bury your face into his neck to hide your embarrassment. ‘Syllllllll good goddess I’ve never been so utterly shocked!! Goddess, I guess I really do have to believe you after all this insanity!’ This makes him laugh, but a happy, genuine laugh this time, and he flops backward onto the bed with you still on top of him, clutching you close and rocking with joy/relief. At this point reader either conks tf out with Sylvain or lowkey has a makeout sesh idk man I’m tired LMAO imagine as you please

-future note after writing: OK SO it was really a challenge to write how Sylvain would wrap his head around confessing pre-timeskip so I lowkey wrote a wholeass character arc essay I have problem. I hope you like Ashe’s, but ima be posting a part 2 with Dimi because this post is like at its limit lmao!

#fe3h x reader #three houses reader insert #three houses fanfic #three houses x reader #fe3h imagines #sylvain jose gautier #sylvain x reader #ashe ubert #ashe x reader #fire emblem three houses x reader #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem fanfiction #self insert #fire emblem x reader #three houses #fe3h sylvain #fe3h ashe #ashe ubert x reader

134 notes · View notes

lumen-adstrum · 4 years

Note

sylvain x reader angst to fluff please! maybe they get in a fight and before they can resolve it something happens to s/o and theres a bit of a scare and then are able to resolve things

A/N: Thank you so much for the request! I tried to deliver as best I could anon, I hope you like it!

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

Ameliorate

Sylvain has never been... the easiest person to like. Many of his friends will say this with confidence, and hundreds of women would likely tell you just the same - if not insult him. Many would think that would be plenty for [Y/N] to keep their distance. However, somewhere in their daily banters of Sylvain mercilessly flirting and in turn being shut down in a witty fashion... feelings began to take root. At first, it was easy to ignore and pretend that things were fine, lunch table discussions flowed like normal despite the lingering gazes or internalized wonders of 'what ifs' and 'just maybes.'

No one tells you how quickly feelings develop, that one moment you're only noticing the small things and then it feels like only days later the mere thought of that person keeps you up at night day-dreaming in a lovesick daze.

Knowing Sylvain, [Y/N] knows just how much of a playboy he is, they know how he strings girls along, that he can hardly remember their names at the rate he goes through them. They know this, and yet still they find themselves hopelessly gripping onto a possible future where maybe he'd settle and be loyal to them.

With lunch hour at its busiest, people were bustling through noisily, loud chatter filled the room as people tried desperately to find their favorite dish. [Y/N] always arrived early, for the hottest plate and the best seat. Their friend, Ingrid, was usually hot on their heels, and today was no different. The usual food, the same spot, and recently the same conversation between transpired.

"Really... [Y/N] I think you should move on." Ingrid's voice was gentle with eyes shining full of concern. "He... Isn't likely to change. You're only going to hurt yourself." She had good intentions, trying to steer them towards someone more compassionate. "Ashe is a hard worker, he's also very kind. Why don't you consider someone like him?"

Before they could even protest, a familiar voice from behind them made their heart thump wildly in their chest. "Ooh, I see. Lucky for you, I stepped in at the perfect time. Sounds like someone's lovesick." Sylvain took his usual spot across the table, for a moment they worried he had overheard the entirety of the conversation and knew just who Ingrid was referencing in the start. "Who's the guy? Dimitri? I guess girls do love a dashing type." Well... He was onto something there. Sylvain was dashing himself, a true knightly personality, and chivalrous too. Although, one could say that was all an act to get girls to fall for him, [Y/N] knew better than that.

"No, it's not Dimitri." [Y/N]'s response was half a sigh, poking their spoon at the peach sorbet melting in its cup. They spent the entirety of the dining hall's lunch break together with Sylvain listing off members of the Blue Lion house one by one just to receive a denial in response.

“Oh come on [Y/N]! I’ve listed every Blue Lion student there is! You wouldn’t turn your back on us and find forbidden love in one of the other houses! ...Or would you?” Suddenly, his eyes are scrutinizing, as if to peer into the depths of their soul and pry the answer out that way. “Unless… You’ve fallen in love with me?” The words made their heart skip a beat, especially when he used that teasing tone of his. Ingrid’s worried glance to their warming face didn’t go unnoticed, and the silence that suddenly fell over the group made Sylvain reconsider the reality of that jest.

“Wait- wait. No. What happened to all that crap before? The ‘not even in your dreams Sylvain.’ This has got to be a joke. Us, together?” A joke… That was exceptionally cruel, as if [Y/N] would be so callous.

“It’s not a joke. Unlike some people, I’m genuine about my feelings and I don’t lie through my teeth to people just to break their hearts later.” Slamming their spoon on the table, [Y/N] stood from their seat just to turn their back on Sylvain and begin walking towards the exit.

“[Y/N]!” Ingrid and Sylvain spoke in sync, one a more accusatory tone while the other held concern. “That was horrible Sylvain!” Ingrid gritted her teeth together, voice a low hiss seeing as some curious people were now eyeing down their table with the hopes of overhearing what the newest drama was about. As if they clearly didn’t know with a certain redhead being involved.

“How was that horrible?! It was a genuine question!” Truthfully, he didn’t see where he had gone wrong, it was always that way with him. Women were too complex for him to understand, and Ingrid would never tire of saying it was simply because he was an idiot. He watched in confusion as the woman stood from the table with a heated glare. “Where are you going?”

“To comfort [Y/N], and until you figure out where you went wrong, don’t even bother talking to them.” With that, Ingrid was off to search the monastery. She found them at the stables, where they met time and time again with them caring for the horses together. She wouldn’t say “I told you so.” even if it was on the tip of her tongue. Instead, Ingrid laid a comforting hand on their shoulder. As if on cue, the figure collapsed against Ingrid with a helpless sob. “Oh, come now, it’s not that bad. Now you can move on, find someone worth the trouble…”

The sound of footsteps on cobblestone made [Y/N] stand straight, quickly wiping at their eyes and trying to look presentable. “Oh, good afternoon Professor… You’re looking troubled.” At Ingrid’s observation, they lifted their head to observe Byleth, and indeed he looked troubled with his brow furrowed and a slight frown.

“I’m afraid our mission for the month has turned dire, I need to round up a handful of students to leave immediately. Can I count on you two?” His voice was slightly sympathetic as if he knew the timing might be a slight annoyance.

“Of course, we’ll ready the horses and meet you at the entrance.” Under new orders now, [Y/N] quickly put on their brave face and saddled up on their horse with Ingrid quick to follow. Soon, they met at the front gates of the monastery with Ashe, Dimitri, Dedue, and Mercedes. It was a small group, but all capable if instructed well. Byleth was quick to reassure them all that Catherine and Shamir would be accompanying them and at their aid.

When Sylvain had found out about the mission, he was beside himself with worry for reasons he didn’t quite understand. “You’ve been pacing a hole in the floor for an hour Sylvain, sit down, it’s pathetic to watch.” Felix’s voice cut through with an edge to it. If anything, the swordsman was more annoyed at the fact they’d been left behind rather than worried for their classmates.

“Something has to be wrong, they should have been back by now if it was a small mission, right? Why didn’t they take all of us?” The worried fretting had Felix groan out and hold his face briefly, trying to compose his temper.

“Who knows how far out the location was, besides, the professor knows what he’s doing. Mercedes is there if anyone gets hurt.” While Felix had a point, there was still that nagging voice in the back of his head. Even Sylvain couldn’t grasp what had him so anxious, but as he glanced towards the gate, he could see the professor returning with the class. However, something was very wrong with the picture. [Y/N] didn’t sit upon their horse with a knightly air about them, instead, they were laying in a heap in Catherine’s arms.

“Shit!” Without warning, he was out of the entrance hall and meeting them at the gates. “What happened to [Y/N]?! Are they alright?!” Catherine stepped around him quickly, a brief warning look from Shamir directed at him.

“Out of the way kid. We’re getting her to the infirmary.”

It was Ingrid who rode up at his side, dismounting with a worried frown of her own. “[Y/N] took an arrow and fell off their horse. Mercedes closed the wound, but they hit their head pretty hard. We haven’t been able to get them to wake up, we were hoping Manuela might be able to reassure us or help in some way.”

How was it even possible? They were always so cautious and diligent on the battlefield… Sylvain was always left in awe half of the time. [Y/N] had the true makings of a vigilant knight, and while he understood everyone made mistakes… It was just unlike them. However, it didn’t take a genius to understand that their earlier conversation had affected their battle.

“Let’s just see what Manuela has to say.” Under Ingrid’s recommendation, Sylvain followed her quickly to the infirmary where [Y/N] laid unconscious. “How do they look?” As his friend did the talking, Sylvain took a seat next to their bed, watching intently as he awaited an answer.

“Well, the poor thing fell pretty hard… They’ll wake up, but they’ll have a concussion to worry about for a while. I've asked the professor to take it easy on them for the next month.” Ingrid breathed a sigh of relief as Sylvain took their limp hand in his own. His expression was grim despite knowing they’d be okay soon enough. What if that arrow had struck them somewhere fatal, or what if they had the potential of never waking after hitting their head so hard? What if they had died before they could properly talk? They were only students, but their responsibilities put them in grave situations. This school wasn’t as lighthearted and frivolous as he had once thought.

He sat there for hours, well past the visits of their classmates and the occasional check-in from Manuela. Not once did [Y/N] stir from sleep, and briefly, he worried there was that possibility they would never wake. With a heavy sigh, he trapped their hand between both of his and brought it to his forehead in a silent prayer to the goddess.

“[Y/N]... I wish it wasn’t like this right now… I’d rather have you mad at me in the stables than laying in this stupid infirmary bed. We’d bicker about the conversation we had earlier, neither of us would understand each other because I wouldn’t be honest about my feelings. Until eventually I’d tell you how much you mean to me and that it scares me. That I’ve never felt this way for someone before and that terrifies me.” He took in a shuddering breath, squeezing their hand just a bit tighter. “I’d tell you I love you.” His statement was hardly above a whisper.

It seemed all too unreal to him, the subtle scoff that caused Sylvain’s head to shoot up, staring at [Y/N] who laid with their brows furrowed and just a hint of a smirk tugging at their lips. “So it takes me getting hurt physically for you to confess?” Truly, he was a gawking mess now, enough to pull a laugh from his company’s lips. Sitting up from the bed, their hand brushed against his cheek gently. “Sylvain… I won’t forgive you if you hurt me like that again.”

Instantly, his hand found their’s, holding it to his lips and kissing the tips of their fingers. “I won’t. Never again, I promise. I’ll be honest from here on out.” He meant it too. Soon he dropped their hand to instead get a good look at their face. “How do you feel? Should I get Manuela so she can make sure everything is in order? Can I get you anything?”

“Well… I could use one thing right about now.” [Y/N] mused to themselves, and Sylvain was quick to lean in closer.

“What is it? Anything, and it’s your’s.”

“A kiss.” The answer was so simple, but it was clear the male wasn’t expecting it, and just even for a moment, his face almost looked red in his shock. He didn’t stay stumped for long, leaning over the bed and closing in to press a ginger kiss on their lips.

“Ah… Young love. Such a waste.” Manuela’s dry voice caused the two to break apart with a start. “Now out! I won’t tolerate this behavior here.” The way she swatted at Sylvain with annoyance caused [Y/N] to bubble out a laugh, gently pulling on his sleeve and leaning in.

“Oh, and one last thing… I love you too.” There was a dopey smile that spread onto his lips. As he was shooed out the door by Manuela, he stole one last glance with a promise that he would return first thing in the morning for them.

#fire emblem x reader #Fire Emblem Three Houses #feth x reader #sylvain x reader #x reader #x reader requests #fe3h x reader #sylvain gautier #gender not specified #gender nuetral #gender netural reader #request #requests open #requests #ask

106 notes · View notes

plumoh · 4 years

Text

[FE3H] keen ears and sharp eyes

Word count: 9103

Summary: Among the soldiers of their battalions, Sylvain and Felix's relationship becomes a topic of interest. A story of knights gossiping about their lieges. / Sylvix

Note: AO3 link. I love the idea of battalions! There are spoilers for the entirety of the Azure Moon route.

Richard Dumont is an average man, with average skills and average intellect. His blond hair cropped short on his head and his blue eyes aren’t what he considers his best physical traits. He’s not good enough to get into the Royal Guard, but he’s strong-willed and he wields a lance with accuracy, so that should count for something.

He’s been part of the knights of Gautier for more than ten years, ever since he was a squire in his teens, and he’s been assigned to Lord Sylvain Gautier’s troops for the past five years. He’s older than him, and yet it feels like there is a whole world separating them—even when he discounts the fact he’s the son of a minor noble and Sylvain is his lord. Richard isn’t someone who takes his ambitions too seriously, and he hates doing more than what is necessary, so of course, he thought he wouldn’t be too put upon to obey the orders of the infamous skirt-chasing, good-for-nothing Gautier heir.

“Stop complaining.” His friend Fabrice Bertin, also part of the battalion for the same amount of time as him, levels him with an annoyed look. “We’re all alive and well.”

“You can’t tell me you didn’t lose at least twenty years of your lifespan with all the shit he’s pulled,” Richard growls, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Obeying the orders isn’t hard; they’re knights, vassals who do the bidding of their lord. Obeying the orders while knowing full well that’s not going to end prettily calls upon his hardened determination to never waver.

“Next time he’s all yours, I’m not carrying his sorry ass back to camp if he wants to get injured or die so badly.”

Fabrice rolls his eyes and shoves his shoulder, clearly not as bothered as Richard is, which is kind of unfair and unrealistic because Lord Gautier has caused them so much grief ever since they’ve actively joined the war after the Millenium Festival of 1185. Richard thought that, as a noble heir with such a mighty weapon as the Lance of Ruin, his lord would value his life a little bit more instead of throwing himself into danger, like he knows someone will save him one way or another. Or, he doesn’t expect anything at all and is just that stupid.

“Please don’t be so rude towards our lord, people are going to think you’ll betray us,” Fabrice sighs.

Well, Richard might actually do that and defect to Adrestia if he starts getting gray hair at only twenty-nine years old.

***

When Richard has nothing to do in-between missions or training exercises, he walks around the monastery. There is always a cat or a dog to pet to kill time, or some people to spy on to obtain juicy gossip and entertain his dull life that only consists of fighting, drinking, and more fighting. He doesn’t have many friends in the army, not for lack of trying but he just doesn’t know how to strike up a conversation and… keep going.

This is about to change though, to his dismay, as the two knights hiding behind a big tree in the gardens are loudly whispering and wildly looking around, pointing to something at the tables. Richard slows his steps, curious and more bored than he thought he’d be.

“I told you he’d accept!”

“When has he not?”

“I clearly remember that one time he locked himself in the training grounds until morning and left Lord Gautier waiting for him.”

Richard nearly trips over his own feet, his head swivelling around so fast that he almost breaks his neck. It draws the attention of the knights, who turn their heads in his direction to stare at him. By doing so Richard has now a clear view of who they are spying on and—he’s not that surprised to see Lord Gautier with Lord Fraldarius, actually.

“Aren’t you guys afraid of Lord Fraldarius hunting you down if he has wind of your spying?” he blurts out without thinking.

The two knights share a look, communicating whatever they can with their eyes. Richard doesn’t give a crap if they get caught, but if his own lord is involved in gossip with Lord Fraldarius, then he needs to know immediately because that would be the most interesting thing he’ll hear all week.

“You… are a Gautier knight,” the girl says, frowning at his collar that sports a small Gautier coat of arms stitched on the fabric.

“And you guys must be Fraldarius soldiers,” Richard deduces by the teal of their clothes.

However, before they can continue the introductions, they hear chairs rattling and an angry shout that can be only Lord Fraldarius’s.

“I’m done. Come find me when you’ve stopped being an idiot.”

Lord Fraldarius turns on his heels and leaves the gardens, as Lord Gautier follows him.

“Come on Felix, I already apologized. It’s not like I do it on purpose! I’ll be more careful next time…”

They are too far away for them to hear any more, but Richard has a good idea of what this is about. He glances at the table they’ve left, still full of biscuits, two cups of tea with one empty and the other half-finished. Well, someone will have to clean that up and that’s certainly not Richard.

“They’ve been arguing about the last battle and what they should have done to avoid unnecessary injuries,” the man supplies with a small smile. “Lord Gautier seems to care a lot about Lord Fraldarius.”

“They’re childhood friends,” Richard answers with a shrug. “And here I thought it would be interesting gossip…”

“Oh, but that’s the second time today Lord Gautier tried to talk to our lord,” the girl retorts. “They always seem to be together, don’t you think?”

Richard shrugs again.

***

Sparring with Fabrice becomes increasingly frustrating because the guy has gotten faster and easily dodges every hard swing of Richard’s lance. Someone wielding an axe shouldn’t be allowed to be so light on his feet.

“You’re putting too much weight forward.”

Both Richard and Fabrice abruptly stop what they’re doing, nevermind accidentally stabbing each other when they lower their weapons, to stare at the girl judging their spar. Richard raises an eyebrow.

“You again.”

It’s the girl from the Fraldarius soldiers, from a few days ago. She still has that stern look on her round face that makes her look really older than she probably is. Richard is sure if she stopped frowning so much, people wouldn’t run away so fast from her. She has black hair cut in a bob, just above the shoulders and curling inward. She’s rather small, only arriving at Richard’s shoulders, but he’s learned not to judge on appearances, especially someone who is actively fighting in their army.

“Are you a foot soldier or a cavalryman?” she asks, gesturing to them without a care in the world.

“Cavalryman,” Richard replies. “Most of us Gautier knights are.”

“What’s your name?” Fabrice interrupts with a smile, ever the diplomat.

The girl seems to need only one look at Fabrice to decide she prefers him over Richard because her eyes lose their hard edge and wow, Richard feels so appreciated.

“Violette Moreau. I work for House Fraldarius.” She then turns to Richard. “I was saying you put too much weight forward, keep your legs steady and that should help you land more hits. And before you ask, I also use a lance in combat.”

Richard has met this Violette twice and he already feels annoyed deep in his bones.

“Do you need something or are you just here to lecture me on my skills?”

Violette rolls her eyes while Fabrice elbows him in the side.

“We should keep an eye on each other during battle,” she says. “I know our battalions don’t always fight alongside each other, but when we do, we should make sure our lords don’t do something too reckless.”

Richard doesn’t know if he should feel grateful there’s someone else who shares his opinion.

“They can take care of themselves,” Fabrice points out, putting the hand not holding his axe on his hip. “And we can’t be on the lookout for every one of their moves.”

“Well, that’s why I enlist your help,” Violette says. “I’m getting tired of seeing Lord Fraldarius yell at us in frustration whenever Lord Gautier covers for him.”

There is nothing Fabrice can retort to this, and while Richard still feels conflicted about the whole sharing the same opinion as a girl who probably should still be in school, he jumps at the opportunity.

“Deal. Lord Gautier has the nasty of habit of pretending he’s immortal, so we’re also getting something out of this.”

Violette laughs, loudly.

***

Defending the monastery is easier when they have clear directions, but also when Prince Dimitri is here to be a one-man army decimating his enemies before they know he’s reached them. Richard has seen the horrors of the battlefield enough times to be desensitised, or at least let his brain wander somewhere that is not the macabre sight of bodies littering the ground, but he’s still caught off guard when he sees his prince in action. Five years of hiding and survival, driven by vengeance, would do that, he supposes.

They finish the battle without a hitch; some people sustained non-lethal injuries and are resting wherever they can, and the healers must be quite confused if not relieved by the prospect of not spending two days straight mending cuts or keeping someone alive.

Richard and the rest of the battalion head for the stables, tired but satisfied and at ease, for once. Fabrice nudges his arm.

“I know you were busy reaching those ballistas so you didn’t see, but Lord Gautier behaved today,” he whispers, glancing around probably to make sure nobody is listening in. “You should have seen the way everyone looked at him at the end of the battle, we were all so surprised that he wasn’t bleeding!”

“We shouldn’t even be able to joke about it,” Richard grumbles.

“I know, that’s why I’m a bit hysterical about it.”

Fabrice is someone who is usually level-headed and composed, never straying far from the path of knighthood, but Richard knows that he conceals a lot of mischief underneath all that principled front he displays. Between the two of them, the biggest gossip is undoubtedly Fabrice.

They tend to their horses for a while, reveling in the peaceful atmosphere that always follows post-battle. Then, Lord Gautier saunters in, leading his black mare to her box to take care of her. He insists on doing it himself since he apparently wants to have the most beautiful steed to head into battle, so everybody just lets him do whatever he wishes.

“Excellent job everyone!” he praises enthusiastically, as if they didn’t just witness imperial troops being torn apart by their own prince. “I’m glad you’re all safe.”

“We’re glad you’re safe, Lord Gautier,” Richard mutters, then yelps when Fabrice stomps on his foot.

However, Lord Gautier laughs boisterously, waving a hand around, not at all taking offense to this jab.

“Get some rest after this, you all deserved it. I, for one, am glad I can sleep tonight in a nice bed with charming company.”

The rule within this battalion is to keep quiet whenever Lord Gautier brings up his unsavory habits, at least until he’s walked away. Richard is pretty sure their liege is doing this on purpose to fuel the rumor mill for some goddamn reason, but that’s not his place to call him out on it—Lady Galatea is loud enough for all of them.

***

Two days later, in the dining hall eating fish cooked with too many spices, Richard is rudely interrupted during his meal by Violette slamming her tray on the table next to him, also startling Fabrice mid-bite.

“What do you want?” Richard groans.

“Look,” Violette hisses, jerking her chin towards the back of the room.

He glances at where she’s pointing at, then looks back at her.

“Lord Gautier and Lord Fraldarius are eating together. So what?”

“Am I the only one who’s not blind?” Violette whines almost childishly.

“If you are suggesting what I think you are, please stop,” Fabrice sputters, running a hand through his unruly brown hair. “Not only is it unappropriate, but it’s also not our business.”

“What? What am I missing?”

Richard attempts another peek at the two nobles, but he’s too far away to hear what they’re talking about and he only has view of Lord Gautier’s face. He’s smiling brightly, unable to stop speaking as he seemingly carries a conversation on his own, though he does sometimes pause and nods. Lord Fraldarius hasn’t left the table yet so their squabble from a few weeks ago must have been settled, or he’s about to get up and leave any time soon.

“They’re childhood friends,” Richard repeats a previous argument.

“I’ve worked for House Fraldarius for two years now, and I’ve never seen Lord Fraldarius so comfortable around someone,” Violette tells them in a conspiratorial tone.

“They’re childhood friends, miss Violette.”

“Lord Gautier is friendly with everyone,” Fabrice adds helpfully.

“There’s something we have to protect! Aymon agrees with me!”

Richard guesses Aymon is the black-haired man who was also spying on them the other day.

“How old are you, eleven?”

“I’m twenty, thank you very much!”

Fabrice makes a pained noise, while Richard heavily sighs. He did see this coming.

“You’re still a fucking child.”

Violette growls, stabbing her fish very threateningly, and Richard thinks that maybe he doesn’t deserve to be roped into this mess more than he intended—and that all started because he was bored and wanted to hear gossip.

***

The problem is that now, he can’t unsee it.

Working for House Gautier comes with the privilege of being associated with House Fraldarius. That wasn’t always the case, according to history, but the past years and the war against the Empire have made it clear that Lord Gautier values his friendship with Lord Fraldarius a lot; the five years during which Prince Dimitri was presumed dead, the armies of both territories would go on missions together, after Margrave Gautier and Duke Fraldarius exchanged information. Richard is familiar with House Fraldarius’s fighting style, if not with their lords.

He also knows that Lord Gautier isn’t fond of training (or rather, excessive training), so he can’t hide his surprise when he sees him with a training lance in hand, grinning at Lord Fraldarius who, as usual, looks about to murder someone. Fabrice wants to watch, though, and Richard doesn’t deny he’s a bit curious.

It comes as less of a surprise when Lord Gautier gets his ass handed to him, because Richard has learned early on that people from Fraldarius like being stealthy, quick and sneaky—all soldiers don’t fight this way, but Lord Fraldarius sure follows that trend. Lord Gautier didn’t stand a chance, with his heavy hits and defensive stance that seem to hold no more secrets for the other man.

“Do you think Lord Gautier is losing on purpose?” Fabrice whispers, a hand covering his mouth.

“I don’t think so. I wouldn’t last two seconds against Lord Fraldarius.” Richard shrugs.

It keeps happening; after dinner, Richard sees them heading to the training grounds, even when their men are inviting them to drink in town. Despite all the whining and complaining, Lord Gautier never refuses a spar, as if he enjoys getting beaten or flung around. His pout easily transforms into a blinding smile when he trails after his childhood friend (not that Richard is paying clear attention to his face, not really), and they immediately get to work not to waste precious time improving their technique. Lord Fraldarius looks the happiest when he has a sword in hand, eyes glinting with drive and face bright with anticipation.

If they’re not training together, sometimes they are just sitting in the gardens or near the pond to talk. Lord Gautier does most of the talking, but there is not doubt Lord Fraldarius is sporting a smile of his own, relaxed in a way that he never shows in front of his troops. Even when people are surrounding them, they always seem to be in a world nobody else has access to. Arms casually brushing, sitting close together, leaning their faces close to whisper something. It’s a bit… nice to see, maybe, but mostly it’s embarrassing, because Richard feels he’s intruding on something that he shouldn’t witness, oozing familiarity and serenity born of years of trust, so he always quickly leaves before he starts feeling even weirder.

Richard doesn’t mean to follow them, he just happens to stumble upon their private meetings because apparently the Goddess has decided he will invest his entire time to collecting evidence of the strong bond between Lord Gautier and Lord Fraldarius. That doesn’t mean he believes they are a thing, since he can hardly imagine their fickle skirt-chasing lord settling down with anyone, but the more he looks, the more he realizes that Lord Gautier’s entire posture has rid itself of excessive pressure and that if he spends time with Lord Fraldarius, he has few opportunities left to go around picking up girls. It’s all hypothetical, of course, as Richard doesn’t keep his eyes glued to their every move, but perhaps there is some truth in their assumption.

And, well, at least Lord Fraldarius knows how much trouble Lord Gautier is.

***

Richard is going to lose his mind.

Not only are they boiling and getting cooked by the heat of the Valley of Torment and walking on the ground that is more lava than rubble, he has to listen to Lord Gautier’s complaining about being too hot when everyone is too hot. And they’re saving water in case something bad happens, as if they haven’t made sure their little expedition goes unnoticed.

“Shut up,” Lord Fraldarius growls, probably just as fed up with Lord Gautier’s voice as everyone else. “If you keep thinking it’s too hot, then you’ll feel it even more, idiot.”

“Actual advice from you, Felix? I’m touched.”

Richard wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and immediately regrets it when he remembers he’s wearing gauntlets and they fucking burn, Goddess fucking damn it.

“It’s my last advice to you, before I leave you here to rot.”

“You wouldn’t do that, you’d miss my presence that brings light to your life!”

“If you have enough energy to say nonsense, then you’re fine.”

Why did Richard decide to walk at the front? He isn’t even a high-ranking soldier in the battalion, he could have just stayed in the back rows of the battalion for his own peace of mind. Nobody is faring well enough to give a damn about formation, even Byleth seems to be focused on where her feet are carrying her while Sir Gilbert pretends he isn’t melting on the spot. Fabrice hasn’t said a word since they’ve entered the Valley, and Richard would have thought he got left behind if it weren’t for his hand gripping his arm from time to time for support.

“Are you seriously keeping your jacket? I can see smoke coming off your head, Felix, aren’t you hot?”

“Of course I’m hot, we’re surrounded by fucking lava!”

Richard tries very, very hard to invent telepathy by staring at the back of Lord Gautier’s head to tell him to keep his lips sealed, but unfortunately, he’s only a soldier wielding a lance with barely any affinity with magic.

“Not as hot as me!”

If Lord Gautier dies today at the hands of Lord Fraldarius, he probably deserved it.

The battle, though. Knights are trained to fight in all types of weather, but that doesn’t mean they’re good at it—it takes a huge toll on their body and their mind to so much as stay upright, so swinging around a weapon sounds like a tremendous effort. It’s regretful to see that House Rowe is the one who stands in their way, but at least they’re not better prepared than them in these conditions.

Richard didn’t bring his horse to avoid having another live being to give water to, so now he’s fighting alongside other foot soldiers, including Violette and Aymon, the latter holding a sword. The cavalrymen are trying to clear a path for them to finish off the enemies, which means that Lord Gautier is up there killing his opponents in one fell swoop with the atrocity that is the Lance of Ruin. Richard tries not to think about being impaled by the teeth of the lance and focuses on his own fight.

“You think you can shoot down that damn mage over the lava river?” he asks Aymon, who has a bow strapped to his back.

He nods sharply, and immediately switches weapons. Richard has been trying to dodge the thunderbolts but it’s getting increasingly frustrating to do so with all the swinging and the running around. He also doesn’t want to tempt fate and let the mage unleash a stronger spell to scatter their formation.

Violette is light on her feet, showing that despite her young age she knows what she’s doing and that she’s been training just as seriously as they have all been. Richard is impressed, but he isn’t going to tell her that.

“You take right, I take left?” Richard grins at her, and she huffs but doesn’t protest.

Their movements are sluggish at worst, and clumsy at best, but they still manage to make quick work of their enemies. Aymon has resorted to exclusively shooting arrows while Richard and Violette twirl their lances. The enemy forces are all over the place, probably panicked at seeing their numbers decreasing at rapid pace, so Richard thinks it safe to scan his surroundings to make sure no bad surprise will spring on him.

The surprise does stay away from him, but his eyes widen and his mouth is already forming words, but his warning comes too late.

“Lord Fraldarius, behind you!”

Lord Fraldarius whirls around, a flurry of blue and white, but he’s not fast enough to dodge the arrow that mercilessly gets buried in his stomach. Violette is cursing somewhere on his side and she rushes to her lord, while Richard and Aymon are left dealing with the remaining soldiers that won’t back down, even when they hear the arrival of Duke Fraldarius’s troops.

When Richard strikes down his last opponent, he hears the frantic galloping of a familiar black mare and he catches a glimpse of Lord Gautier cutting his way through people to get to Lord Fraldarius’s side, who stubbornly tries to stay standing despite Violette’s protests. Richard is too far away to know exactly what is going on, but he sees how agitated Lord Gautier is, hovering near his friend and wildly gesturing to his horse, most likely attempting to convince him to get on it. There is a lot of blood for a single injury, so maybe all this fussing is warranted if Lord Fraldarius is hiding further injuries. Richard surveys his surroundings one last time, then when he’s sure everything is fine, he pats Aymon on the back and he joins his liege, just in time to see him hauling Lord Fraldarius on his horse without a care in the world. Unsurprisingly, there is a lot of yelling involved.

“Put me down, Sylvain! The battle isn’t over yet!”

“Lord Rodrigue has arrived, things will be fine. You’re bleeding, do you want me to leave you here and die?”

“I’ve had worse in the past!”

“You’re already on the horse, Felix, stop arguing with me.”

Lord Gautier dumps Lord Fraldarius on his mare, mounts it and rolls his eyes when he sees Richard staring.

“You guys see what I have to put up with every day?” Lord Gautier chuckles, though his usual cheer is absent.

“I’m pretty sure we’re dealing with you in the same way,” Richard informs him flatly.

“Don’t talk like this to your liege,” Violette hisses.

“Nah, it’s fine, I’m used to Richard’s encouraging words.” Lord Gautier sounds a little more genuine. “I’ll leave the rest to you while I go look for Mercedes. Duke Fraldarius is taking care of the Gray Lion as we speak, go assist him if everything’s cleared on this side.”

He adjusts Lord Fraldarius in his lap, carefully not jostling him too much, almost cradling him with the way he’s holding onto his waist, while the swordsman seems to struggle not to cling to him for better purchase, all of this under Richard’s, Violette’s and Aymon’s eyes.

“Come on Felix, I’m not letting you fall but get a good grip on me, yeah?”

“Shut up,” Lord Fraldarius grumbles, but he does slump against Lord Gautier and one of his arm finds its way behind Lord Gautier’s back, his fingers curling around his waist.

Lord Gautier then kicks into his horse side and off he goes.

Richard is tired.

“Can I quit,” he says to no one in particular.

Aymon chokes on his snickering. “Can you do it after the war? You’re a good fighter.”

“Well, if these two men that are supposed to be our future leaders don’t kill me first, I hope the war will.”

“Stop saying nonsense and get to work,” Violette sighs.

***

Fabrice howls with laughter.

Richard thinks that he wouldn’t be laughing so much if he were there to witness the whole scene at the Valley of Torment. Some friend he is.

“Come on, don’t tell me you believe what Violette is saying,” Fabrice wheezes. “You seemed to find the idea preposterous.”

“I still do,” Richard grumbles, putting his face in his hands. “But I have to admit they’re driving me crazy. Their behaviors are driving me crazy. Look!”

The dining hall is full of soldiers coming from Fraldarius territory. Duke Fraldarius was seen with Byleth not long ago to discuss some plans or to deliver information, and it’s no secret that he doesn’t get along with his son. Lord Fraldarius has been avoiding communal places so naturally, Lord Gautier played the errand boy for him. Richard, once again, is definitely not eavesdropping, but he overheard his liege saying that Lord Fraldarius will starve if nobody takes care of him. He looked a bit too happy to do it.

Right now, they’re sitting side by side in the far corner of the hall, across Lady Galatea who probably has gone through their banter and their nonsense her whole life. They’re animatedly talking about one thing or another while Lord Fraldarius is shoveling food in his mouth, most likely to get out of here as soon as possible, shrugging off Lord Gautier’s hand that keeps falling on his shoulder to nudge him into the conversation. Richard bets his first born that anyone else would have had their arm chopped off.

Lord Gautier leans close, invading Lord Fraldarius’s space like he has all the rights to do so to whisper something, and that must have been one time too many because Lord Fraldarius puts his palm on his friend’s whole face to push him away, cheeks red and uncaring of the muffled protest tumbling out of Lord Gautier’s mouth. Lady Galatea sighs, and so does Richard.

“See? They’re acting like… like teenagers.”

“I think it’s nice to see them so carefree outside of battle,” Fabrice says, thoughtfully. “The war made us all grow up too fast, so we shouldn’t expect them to be so mature, even if they’re our lieges.”

Richard frowns. He glances back at Lord Gautier, his eternal grin plastered on his face as he dodges Lord Fraldarius’s batting. There is something easy in their interaction, not shackled by expectation or image. Faerghan nobility has always valued appearances and the prestige of their names, but war doesn’t care about these titles—they have to prove themselves and how helpful they can be during this conflict. Gautier and Fraldarius are the last resisting forces against the Empire, and they can’t afford to fail. Maybe everyone is fighting like it’s their last battle, though a lot of knights, the heirs of these Houses included, must fight like it’s the first to many others.

“Relaxing and being ourselves are our only respite,” Fabrice adds with a smile.

Richard relents. “Alright. If they’re still teenagers deep down, then there’s nothing else we can do to put them out of their misery.”

“You’re not that old yourself.”

“I’m a grown adult, thank you very much.”

Fabrice pats him on the back, chuckling to himself as Richard glances one last time at the two heirs, now comfortably pressed against each other, shoulder to shoulder.

***

“You… want to know what I’ll do after the war?”

“Yeah, I realized I haven’t been the most communicative with my troops.”

Lord Gautier is grinning from ear to ear, casually leaning against the frame of the wall where Richard is tending to his horse. It’s early in the morning, barely moments after the sun has risen, and Richard doesn’t remember a time his liege has gotten up so readily during those five years following the start of the war.

“I don’t know, we have to win the war first,” he answers slowly.

“Don’t be such a pessimist, just imagine victory is already ours and tell me about your plans!”

It’s a weird question, but a legitimate one. He’s brought up the topic with Fabrice once or twice, only to kill time, without any real intent to act on what they’ve shared.

“I guess I’ll keep being a knight, offer my services for the Crown and help where I’m needed. I don’t have much of an idea, really.”

Lord Gautier hums thoughtfully, looking at the sky and a finger tapping against his chin.

“I guess that’s what most knights will do,” he says. “The continent won’t be at peace right after we defeat the Empire.”

“That would be extremely naive of people who think otherwise,” Richard comments. “Why are you asking me this? Do you have something in mind?”

Lord Gautier shrugs, his smile fading a little but still firmly in place.

“Not a lot of people have told me they’re going to leave everything behind and start a family, or go back to their loved ones. I thought that they’d rejoice at the prospect of quitting and living peacefully.”

Richard has thought about this, of course. He has thought about living in a comfortable house, doing paperwork and going wherever he wanted to fulfill whatever whim of the day he feels. But he’s been raised as a knight, has shaped his entire life around the concept of knighthood, and after spending so much time swinging a lance and riding in terrible Faerghus weather, he doesn’t know how else he can live.

“Maybe those people can’t picture what this kind of life will be,” Richard suggests. “I can’t, for my part. If I had someone to return to or if I had a dream completely different from what I have now, maybe I’d quit to pursue it.”

He thinks about his conversation Fabrice, about expectations and staying true to themselves, and smiles at Lord Gautier.

“Some people want to do their own thing, others like being swept by the flow of life, even if that’s not what they truly want. For now I’m just content continuing what I’m doing.” He pauses, studying Lord Gautier’s face that betrays none of his thoughts. “Does that answer your question?”

Lord Gautier, Richard has learned in the past few months, is someone who thinks a lot. He likes displaying a happy front and the whole battalion pretends they’re sick of his exuberant behavior, but Richard knows they all appreciate it, himself included. Lord Gautier thinks a lot but doesn’t share how his mind works with his soldiers, so this little heart-to-heart is most likely the closest he’s allowing himself to lay bare his thoughts.

“Thanks for your honesty, Richard,” Lord Gautier says warmly, unsticking himself from the wall to clap him on the shoulder. “I hope you’ll keep working for me in the long run.”

“Well, I just said I don’t know what else I’d be doing if I quit being a knight,” Richard snorts.

And Lord Gautier laughs at that, waving with his hand held above his head even as he’s walking away.

***

On their way to Gronder Field, riding miserably in uncertain lands with morale at varying degrees, Violette slides next to him despite the fact her battalion is all the way in the back.

“I don’t like this,” she announces, face scrunched up and unhappy. “Lord Fraldarius is on edge. I think he fought with Duke Fraldarius and His Highness again.”

“That’s not unusual, why are you telling me that?”

“That means as a soldier of his battalion, I’ll have to work harder to watch over him, since he’s going to be more agitated.”

Richard knows he’s mocked her for her age, but to be quite honest, Violette is packed with more maturity and wisdom than most.

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Richard sighs, and Violette smiles gratefully at him.

When they set up camp a little after sundown, it’s Fabrice who tugs on his arm to point at Lord Gautier hovering near Lord Fraldarius. They are setting up their own tents, and even though Lord Fraldarius has his back turned to Lord Gautier, it’s evident he’s listening; his movements are brisk but his posture isn’t so stiff he’s rejecting the idea of conversation. They speak quietly, away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. The upcoming battle isn’t a nice one and everyone is a bundle of nerves waiting to explode.

However, Lord Fraldarius is slowly turning his head, facing Lord Gautier without lashing out at him, which shouldn’t feel as extraordinary as it does. Lord Gautier wraps an arm around his shoulders, and still lives. They are still murmuring, tents forgotten.

Richard averts his eyes. He’s seen enough of their familiarity and the intimacy of their exchange to know that it’s not his place to judge. There are some things he’s not aware of, some events he’s not privy to, so he can’t understand the extent of their relationship—and if they’re happy and satisfied with what they have, then he’s glad for them.

***

The Battle at Gronder is a mitigated disaster. The Prince of Faerghus has come back to his senses at the cost of many of their soldiers’ lives, including Duke Fraldarius.

Richard is too exhausted by the fighting and too relieved at seeing his companions alive to truly process what this entails. The journey back to the monastery is silent and oppressive, and it’s only when they’ve reached the gates that people really start talking. Byleth and the generals of their army don’t call for a war council right away, to no one’s surprise. They all spend a day recuperating and trying to put some order in their personal feelings.

“This sucks,” Richard mumbles, rolling a piece of bread between his fingers, sitting on the stairs facing the pond.

“I feel so bad for Lord Fraldarius,” Aymon sniffles. “We should have been faster.”

“The girl was already one step ahead of us,” Violette grumbles, but her voice is wavering. “I wish I knew what I could say.”

“Sometimes, words mean nothing.”

Fabrice is looking at the darkening sky, deep in thought. Richard has always quietly admired his friend’s resolve and strength in times like these, but maybe he only saw what he wanted to, since Fabrice is clearly not holding it together as well as he’s thought.

Nobody in the Gautier battalion comments on the absence of their liege for several consecutive days at meal times or in the stables. The most they see of him is a blur of red and black running from one point to another, giving a tight smile to whoever looking at him or a wave to people he’s closer to. Richard doesn’t have the heart to ask him if he’s alright, because the answer is obvious when Lord Fraldarius still hasn’t left the training grounds. There is no proof either of them is sleeping.

This doesn’t last long, though. A week passes, and Byleth organizes a strategy meeting which Lord Gautier and Lord Fraldarius attend to. While Lord Gautier offers a tired smile to his troops, Lord Fraldarius remains silent. He looks like death has nearly claimed him, eyes heavy with loss, body stiff and guarded. Lord Gautier sticks close to him and guides him towards the meeting room, although Lord Fraldarius draws away from the touch like he’s been burned. They don’t quite look at each other either, there are fleeting glances that everybody seems to notice but doesn’t acknowledge. It’s uncomfortable to watch, and Richard feels bad for being glad he doesn’t need to step into the room with them.

Fabrice taps him on the shoulder and they go wait in the knights’ hall. Violette and Aymon are probably training or having a meeting of their own with the other Fraldarius soldiers; Richard is struck by the thought that he now seeks their company, when all this started with something as trivial as gossip. They were bound to see each other around, given their affiliations with their Houses, but it’s… pleasing to think of them as friends.

“Goddess, let’s hope this war ends soon,” Richard deeply sighs, and Fabrice nods his assent.

When Lord Gautier announces they plan on taking back Fhirdiad, expression a bit softer than the last time they saw him, everyone’s shoulders sag with visible relief, and Richard wants to believe that maybe the end isn’t that far away.

***

Lord Fraldarius doesn’t act any differently—he’s still harsh, all sharp edges and not mincing his words, but the tension in his body has lessened somewhat, or so Violette reports. Richard knows that Lord Gautier isn’t glued to his side anymore, so maybe that’s a factor to take into account, though the most likely reason for this appeased Lord Fraldarius must be Prince Dimitri’s look that’s not haunted anymore.

Richard still keeps a close eye on Lord Gautier, because his tendencies to get injured haven’t decreased one bit and the elation at the prospect of saving their people is a bit too palpable in the air. Richard usually isn’t the one to remain clear-headed, but it’s never too late to start acting responsibly, he supposes.

They rush through the city and storm the castle as fast as possible, not wishing to inflict more pain on these people who have suffered at the hands of Cornelia for so long. Richard’s lance has never felt both so heavy and so light at the same time, driven by adrenaline alone as he follows orders without even thinking, trusting his commander to make the right decision at such a critical time. Fabrice is a constant at his side and watches his back; Lord Gautier is laser-focused, speaking clearly and swinging the Lance of Ruin for deathly blows. The assaults are effective, even when these magical defense mechanisms slow their advance.

They win. The roar of the battle comes to a halt when Prince Dimitri takes Cornelia’s life, and the entire army shouts with joy.

“We took our Kingdom back!”

“We should celebrate!”

And celebrate they do. Richard is sore and can’t feel his legs anymore after riding and fighting for such a prolonged time, but his face is stuck in a grin and he pats the back of everyone he comes across, ruffles Violette’s hair even when she yelps, and puts his elbow on Fabrice’s shoulder as he peers at the food they found in the castle, for a hastily made buffet to the delight of many.

Glasses of alcohol are served and eventually whole bottles are passed around, and Richard is too busy eating and drinking to notice that most of their generals are also enjoying themselves and loosening up. He suspects Violette possesses a sixth sense to spot him in crowds as she pushes her way through to stand next to him and aggressively points towards the balcony.

“They went outside,” she says in what should be a whisper, but comes out very loud.

Richard glances at the double doors giving on the balcony, then shakes his head.

“Leave them be, Violette,” he replies not unkindly. “Today’s a day of celebration. They probably have things to say to each other, or something.”

Violette bristles and she glares at him, folding her arms and not looking as intimidating as she wants to with the flush on her face.

“I’m just hoping they’ll do… something,” she mutters. “I want them to be happy.”

And Richard is reminded yet again of how young Violette is compared to him, but only a couple years younger than the people they’re talking about.

“You care for your liege, huh?” he asks gently.

“Of course I do, I’m supposed to fight and protect House Fraldarius. That’s how I’ve decided to live.”

“Then let them decide what they want for themselves at their own pace.”

They’ve reconquered Fhirdiad and they’ve had a taste of what victory feels like. Their minds are muddled with this euphoria and they’re only thinking about how good it is to have control over something in this war, especially after what happened at Gronder Field. It’s a natural reaction to what they’ve been through—so rushing into happiness and desires isn’t on anyone’s radar, especially not on Lord Gautier’s and Lord Fraldarius’s. There is still a shadow cast on their future and the outcome of this campaign. That’s what Richard thinks, anyway, in this party where it’s easy to indulge in small pleasures.

“I wouldn’t worry too much. They always will have each other.”

Violette frowns, though her features relax and she nods. Richard then shoos her away to get a drink, but she insists on having one herself, so he ends up making sure she doesn’t pass out in the middle of the hall all night, to Fabrice and Aymon’s amusement.

***

They save Claude von Riegan, and they get to enjoy a few days in Derdriu as they prepare for their next march. They don’t get to sightsee but they still enjoy the maritime air and the architecture of the city so different from what they’ve seen in Faerghus and everywhere else.

When they’re about to depart, Lord Gautier laments not being able to stay longer.

“It’d be nice to come back after the war,” he says, and smiles at the army, but he quickly turns his head towards Lord Fraldarius walking next to him.

“That’s assuming we win,” Lord Fraldarius grumbles.

“I feel confident in our victory, actually. We’ve come so far, we have to keep fighting and things will go smoothly. We need to have faith in ourselves, stuff like that, you know how it goes.”

Lord Fraldarius eyes him not with annoyance or skepticism, but like he’s assessing him to decipher the hidden meaning behind his words. Lord Gautier keeps smiling, and when the silence stretches for a bit too long, he reaches for Lord Fraldarius’s unprotected shoulder and squeezes, face a bit more open and sincere.

“Besides, Derdriu will make a good vacation spot, don’t you think?”

Richard shouldn’t even be expecting the old reactions, now, because Lord Fraldarius doesn’t snap at Lord Gautier, as he simply shrugs, voice calm and leveled.

“I guess. I’m not surprised you’d think about slacking off.”

“You know me so well, running away from my responsibilities is like a sports to me.”

“Don’t joke about that.”

Lord Gautier snickers, hand still on Lord Fraldarius’s shoulder, and they don’t say another word.

Richard remembers a conversation about pursuing dreams and knowing what to do, about following a pattern or carving your own path. He’s getting too old if he’s pondering on all those philosophical questions when it’s not even about himself.

***

Taking Fort Merceus is brutal.

Penetrating the city of Enbarr is worse, with Hubert von Vestra acting as a master of strategy and showing no mercy.

The battle at the castle of Enbarr is a painful endeavor that will go down in history not only for being the event that marks the dawn of the unification of Fódlan, but also for its gruesomeness leaving behind countless bodies and curtains stained with blood.

Richard can’t quite believe it. He stands with Fabrice in front of the throne room, guarding it with their lives while their future king seizes victory, and when the doors slam open, the two leading figures of their army emerging from behind, it feels like a dream. But it’s real, it’s the present they’re living in and the one they’re building.

“The Empire is no more,” His Highness exclaims. “Emperor Edelgard has been defeated.”

Richard closes his eyes and breathes in, as the roars or joy and celebration reach his ears.

***

There is still much to discuss and many details to take care of in Enbarr, but they all eventually need to go home in Faerghus to establish political plans and other noble affairs Richard isn’t privy to. Lord Gautier addresses his troops the morning of their march back to Gautier territory, bright as ever though Richard now recognizes how strained his smile can be.

“It’s time we go home. I know we just got out of a war, but I suspect we won’t be able to rest for a while. When has Faerghus or other parts of the continent ever been free of unrest?”

Some knights laugh nervously at the reminder of the situation Faerghus has been in ever since the death of King Lambert, and Richard has to admit he doesn’t remember a period of total peace. Living at the border with Sreng means the battles won't stop unless they agree on a treaty that will involve negotiations some higher-ups probably aren't ready for yet.

“However, if you wish to leave this life of struggle and battle behind, I won't stop you. You all deserve a future that's not carved in blood.”

He's giving them a choice even though he perfectly knows that a lot of them doesn't have anything else besides their weapon and his orders.

“Well, you've been informed of your freedom to choose to live in the woods among birds and fish instead of waking up every morning to go through drills that will make you sweat. I for one would love to sleep all day.”

This elicits a more genuine and carefree laugh, and Richard smiles.

The entire army moves back to Faerghus. Those who want to go back to their hometown leave one by one, Ashe Ubert returns to Gaspard, Lady Galatea takes her battalion to her territory, and Prince Dimitri along with Annette Dominic and Mercedes von Martritz, as well as Dedue Molinaro, take the path to Fhirdiad. Richard expects them to go too, but apparently Lord Fraldarius has matters to settle first in his own estate before joining His Highness for the coronation preparations.

However, Richard doesn’t raise questions at all when Lord Gautier doesn't lead them further North.

The Fraldarius Castle is big enough to accommodate them all, and the stables aren't of the quality of the Gautier's but they serve their purpose. Lord Fraldarius tells them they're free to do as they please so long they don't destroy property or do anything stupid, which means they should make themselves scarce.

It’s quiet. Winning a war and discussing the next political moves should have brought more chaos than this airy mood, but Richard isn’t complaining. As knights, they’re not at the heart of these meetings and they have no business knowing what is decided behind closed doors. He’s content just training and basking in the rays of sunshine they have at midday, and enjoying this new routine.

Violette is excited to show them around the castle, despite the fact she probably knows it’s not their first time setting foot here, but Richard lets her have her fun. They’re currently sitting at a table in the gardens, where she insists it’s fine for them to be, sipping tea and admiring the flowers that seem to have been carefully taken care of.

“Duke Fraldarius loved the gardens,” Violette informs them with a nod.

Fabrice makes small talk and Aymon is eager to tell the history of the estate, and Richard looks around, spotting two figures striding towards another part of the castle. Lord Gautier is talking earnestly with grand gestures, while Lord Fraldarius has his head slightly inclined but he’s without a doubt focused on the words he’s hearing. They make such a natural sight—walking side by side, looking at each other and listening to every word like they hold an universal truth in them. Lord Fraldarius turns his head and points to something, and Lord Gautier follows the finger with his eyes before he quickly drops his gaze and shifts his attention to the longer ponytail that’s bouncing with every step Lord Fraldarius makes. He casually brushes the strands of hair with his fingers and his mouth is moving, which must have been an unwanted comment because Lord Fraldarius startles and inches away, but Lord Gautier’s laughter resounds loudly.

Richard squints, as the two of them are drawing further away, but he catches the glimpse of a colorful leather band that he’s sure he never saw during the war. It’s a deep red that matches well with Lord Fraldarius’s dark hair, like it’s the only color he will allow on his person that’s not the customary Faerghus blue. Richard doesn’t believe he understands who Lord Fraldarius really is, nor does he pretend he fully understands his own liege, but at that moment, surrounded by familiar walls and an idyllic landscape, he thinks that it’s not strange at all to see them roaming Castle Fraldarius like they belong there.

***

Some people left for Gautier territory in advance and most likely won’t be present for the coronation ceremony, but it was their choice. Lord Gautier hasn’t expressed the desire to visit his parents despite the current situation, and the days pass until it is time to go back to Fhirdiad. Richard thinks that his liege has made a decision that goes beyond simple pettiness by not going home yet.

“Do you have dreams, Lord Gautier?”

They’re only a handful of Gautier knights left in Fraldarius now, so Richard isn’t too worried about potential eavesdropping and leaking information. The stables are big enough that their conversation won’t carry to other people’s ears, and judging by Lord Gautier’s easy smile, he knows it. There is something like approval in his eyes.

“Everyone has dreams,” he answers. “I remember you said you don’t know what else you’ll do if you weren’t a knight, but surely you look forward to something in life.”

“That’s another way to put things into perspective, I guess.”

Lord Gautier nods, crossing his arms over his chest, and waits. Spending time in Fraldarius without the heavy weight of immediate responsibility abated the guarded look he’s had on his face for months.

“I feel you have something else to say,” he points out, raising an eyebrow.

Richard grins. “I’m glad to keep working for you, milord. Your safety on the battlefield has always been my priority and sometimes you really made it difficult to keep you in one piece.”

Lord Gautier laughs at this, dismissing the issue with a wave of his hand like he didn’t cause major anxiety for his troops for years, but Richard doesn’t hold it against him anymore.

“I’ve followed your orders and I’ll continue to do so. If you decide that your dreams aren’t in Gautier territory and you need an escort, or someone to keep your secrets… well, let’s say you’ve gained some trustworthy soldiers in this army.”

This. This catches Lord Gautier off guard, painting surprise on his features as his mouth falls slightly open, though he quickly composes himself and puts his hands on his hips.

“What are you saying, exactly?” he asks, almost demands.

“I think you can follow your own dreams, and that you’ve already started.” Richard shakes his head. “I apologize if I’m being too presumptuous. I simply wanted to say that whatever you decide, there will be someone supporting you. As a knight, it’s not my place to tell you what you should be doing, but you are also deserving of happiness, Lord Gautier.” He pauses to take a breath, and smiles. “You’re comfortable here.”

Richard has no desire to push further. Lord Gautier is perfectly capable of choosing a path that will suit him without the meddling of one of his knights. Richard can only try to convey how much he believes in him.

Lord Gautier remains silent for a while, processing everything. He stares at a point past Richard’s head, but it’s not a vacant look like one would expect—it’s full of wonders, considering the meaning behind each word. Then the corner of his lips lifts up as he looks at Richard again.

“Thanks for your support, Richard. The world needs more people like you.”

Richard shrugs, but he’s still smiling. “I’m happy to help, milord.”

***

Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is crowned King of Fódlan, acclaimed by his people and counseled by his most trusted friends. Change is slowly brought into the continent, and it will be years before peace truly settles.

Some knights who fought in the war get promoted, others do quit to lead a life free of battle. Richard is one of the former, leading a small force of his own in Gautier territory to chase away bandits and to keep foreign invasions at bay.

Duke Felix Hugo Fraldarius is renown for his swordsmanship that makes every warrior in Fódlan tremble with fear, but his sharp tongue is another one of his weapons that nobles in court don’t wish to be subjected to. And Lord Sylvain Jose Gautier, son of Margrave Gautier, appears at his side more often than not, travels from one territory to another and stops by the capital, but never stays long in Gautier. When he does spend time in his estate, accompanied by Duke Fraldarius, it’s to travel even further North, to Sreng, for talks that Margrave Gautier can’t forbid. The negotiations will take even longer than peace to be agreed upon, but Lord Gautier is relentless in this battle that’s his to fight.

Neither Duke Fraldarius nor Lord Gautier married, despite the pressure their councils put on them. When Richard sees Duke Fraldarius in Fhirdiad or at the Gautier estate, hair tied in a ponytail with a red leather band, he smiles to himself and can’t imagine any other ending.

#fe3h #sylvix #sylvain jose gautier #felix hugo fraldarius #fire emblem three houses #my fanfic #i love sylvix so much i love these idiots

22 notes · View notes

missmarquin · 4 years

Text

Parallel (FE3H, Sylvix)

Parallel

--Fire Emblem Three Houses

--Sylvix

-- Oneshot, Rated T

-- Modern AU, Twlight Zone Inspired, Alternate Universe AU

Please read on A03 for better formatting! :D

###

Felix cuts a sharp figure in his slick suit, fingers wrapped loosely around the handle of his briefcase. His key slides into the lock and it turns, the door creaking open, as he slips into the foyer of his brownstone.

“Honey, I’m home,” he calls out, but there’s a bitter edge to his voice as he flips on the hall light. “Oh wait, that’s right. I live alone.” He drops his briefcase onto the table in the entryway and moves to loosen his tie.

Felix is used to being alone, he’s been alone for a very long time. His brother is dead. He doesn’t talk to his father. He spends his days analyzing numbers and taxes from nine-to-five, and then sipping at a decent whisky from eight-to-ten.

He doesn’t really cook even though he can, and when he slides into his sheets at night, clean and tired, he congratulates himself on a decent day of work. When he sleeps, it’s dreamless and dark, but satisfying. He wakes up with a slight crick in his neck, but it's because he’s too stubborn to replace his mattress, and he persists sleeping on his side, even if it’s the lumpy one.

It’s routine. It’s well-known. He likes having a schedule and expectations.

He hates how empty it feels.

The next day is a Wednesday. It’s full of numbers and taxes and names, and Felix tiredly rubs at his eyes as he tries to make sense of them. But his head hurts and his brain is barely working, and maybe he’s coming down sick and that’s why it’s hard to focus.

Still, he persists and it isn’t until Annette says something that he realizes he’s stayed over by an hour, back hurting from leaning over too long, eyes straining from the fine print he’s been pouring over.

“Felix,” Annette says to him, her sing-song voice at ends with her sad gaze. “I’m worried about you.” Of course she is, she always is. It doesn’t matter that she moved out nearly six years ago, or that her side of the bed still remains cold, she’ll always care .

And it’s not that he doesn’t care for her or anything, he loves her deeply. They just aren’t in love anymore.

“Nonsense,” he tells her. “I’m only tired.”

She watches him for a long moment, catching her lip between her teeth and chewing at it, then says, “Mercie and I are going for a drink. You should come.”

Felix almost says yes, but then he remembers that he’s thirty-two and too old to go out for a round or two and still wake up easily in the morning. As much as he loves Annette and Mercie, their company is draining and he isn’t in the mood.

“Thank you, Annie,” he says to her and while he doesn’t give her a smile, there’s a slight quirk of his lips, and she’s one of the few who gets that expression regularly. “But I think I’ll head home to bed. My eyes are burning.”

Annette looks like she’s about to say something, but she opts not to, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder instead. “All right then. Good night Felix.”

He offers her the same and leaves the building alone.

And drives home alone.

And slides the key into the lock alone.

The key turns and the tumblers with it, and he pushes the door open with his hip. His briefcase drops onto the entry table. The light switches on, and he contemplates his quiet existence and empty house for a solid moment before sighing, “Honey, I’m home.”

The rest of his ritual is already on his lips, but he doesn’t get to complete it because, before he can, there’s a clear and distinct answer from the kitchen.

“Oh good. I picked up some pizza.”

####

Felix freezes at the voice. It’s deep. It’s male. It doesn’t sound like Dimitri and he kind of wishes that it was, because it wouldn’t be the first time that he’s snuck into his home with his spare key and slummed it on the couch after fighting with Dedue and being too Faerghan to talk about it. Dimitri Felix can handle, even in his tired state. He’s not so sure about a stranger who’s broken in.

Felix adjusts the position of his keyring in his hand, cool metal sliding between his knuckles. He took kendo and is better with a sword, but he knows how to throw a proper punch without breaking a thumb. Gripping the keys tighter, he slowly makes his way to the end of the entrance hall, carefully peeling around the corner towards the den and the kitchen.

The man is tall. He’s slightly tanned, with wild and unruly red hair. He wears a burgundy plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up halfway. He’s… also wearing Annette’s old Kiss My Buns apron which is confusing, because Felix knows that’s packed away and stored in the hall closet and has been for years --

“Felix,” the man says with ease. With familiarity. With warmth . Felix narrows his eyes. It doesn’t make sense; he’s never seen this man before, but it’s clear that he knows him. It’s evident in his tone and in the way he moves through the kitchen with ease, because he’s having no problem finding dinnerware and utensils.

Felix pauses at that, watching him load a plate with a piece of pizza, only to set a fork and a knife next to it. How does he know his preferred method of eating such a thing? The man looks up and smiles, and Goddess it’s striking, wide and warm, and for a moment, Felix is jealous that a man can look so happy.

And then he remembers that this man has broken into his house.

“Come over,” he says, waving towards the plate set for him. “Eat. It’s gonna get cold if you don’t.”

The man unties the apron, folding it neatly before putting it in the wardrobe with the china and how the fuck does he know that’s where it goes when it’s not being used and --

This is madness. This is nuts. Felix must have fallen asleep at his desk and dreamt this wild fantasy up, because it’s too weird, it’s too uncanny, it feels--

Well, not wrong; it feels right, and it’s kind of freaking him out.

The man is staring at him, head cocked to the side, auburn eyes soft with affection, freckles dusting across his nose, lips parted slightly and then-- “Felix, are you alright? You look tired. Did work go okay?”

“I’m… tired,” Felix is unsure why he bothers to answer, because playing along can’t be safe.

“Is it the Von Aegir account? I know that man has a lot of things to shift through, but he’s at least easy to work with, right?”

Felix is absolutely certain he’s now dreaming, because there’s no way a stalker would know that. Half of his office doesn’t know that. His accounts are secret. He loosens his grip on the keys, dropping them in his pocket, before moving to sit down.

It doesn’t feel like a dream. He’s never had a dream so vivid, or where food is warm and steaming, or where he’s aware of just how uncomfortable these dumb stools are or--

The man slides a hand along his shoulder and squeezes gently before letting go. It’s a practiced motion, full of familiarity.

“This is going to sound odd,” Felix blurts, “But how do you know about that account?”

The man blinks at him. “You complain about it literally every night,” he says around a mouth full of pizza. “I can’t even read in bed before the lights go out, because you’re too busy harping about Ferdinand and his terrible tea choices.”

“We share a bed?” The words come before he can stop them and Felix hopes that he hasn’t royally fucked whatever this is up.

The man quirks his brows, mouth parted gently before it snaps shut in surprise. “I mean, yeah, for like four years.” Then his eyes narrow. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He reaches out, pressing his hand against Felix’s forehead, frowning. “You feel like you could be a little bit warm but--”

“What’s your name?” Felix regrets it, he really regrets it and he’s not hot because he’s sick, he’s hot because he’s flustered. But it’s probably easier to think that he’s just sick, because it’s the only explanation there is; how can he be sharing a bed with a man that he’s never met?

“Sylvain--”

“It was a joke,” Felix speaks over him, but it’s not because he doesn’t know a Sylvain . It doesn’t ring a bell, there’s nothing familiar which is a damn shame because Felix would definitely want to remember meeting this man.

Sylvain smiles but it parts his face only halfway, like he wants to believe Felix but he doesn’t quite. Something here is off, and for the first time since he’s stepped through his doorstep, Felix isn’t sure the stranger is the problem. The man sitting across from him is at ease here, he knows where he is; it's clear that he knows Felix.

And Felix has the distinct feeling that he’s the intruder here, even if that doesn’t make sense, because this is his home. Sylvain is quiet as he watches him eating, but the calculating gaze that he wears just makes the food in Felix’s mouth turn to ash.

“You know Sylvain, I’m not feeling very well after all. I think that I’ll head to bed.” He pushes away from his stool, but then pauses. “Thank you… for bringing home food. I’m sorry.”

Felix isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. He kicks open the trash can by the foot pedal and the pizza slides in with a greasy tumble. He sets the plate in the sink gently, before turning to leave the kitchen.

Sylvain is still watching him, chin in his hand, a little line furrowed between his eyebrows as Felix casts one more look at him. He shouldn’t feel guilty. This is his home, he doesn’t know this man but--

He feels weirdly vulnerable and it’s not because there’s a strange and beautiful man in his kitchen, it’s because that man knows him, Felix can tell this man knows him deeply. He brushes past without another word, trying to avoid the tense air between them.

“Felix,” Sylvain says quietly and Felix turns back. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks once more.

Felix seriously considers telling him the truth. He’s this close to just blurting that he has no idea who he is, that he wants him out of the house, that he’s tired and Sylvain needs to go. But he doesn’t, he can’t, something holds him back from hurting this man and he doesn’t feel in danger.

Felix can handle his own anyway.

He sighs. “Yes,” he says, and he hopes that this time there’s more conviction in his voice, but the moment the word is breathed, he can tell that he’s failed. Sylvain’s expression is pinched, but he doesn’t press. In fact, he doesn’t say a damn word, and for some reason, it speaks volumes more than any other thing would, because for the ten minutes that Felix has known the man, Sylvain doesn’t seem the type to keep quiet.

So Felix runs. He turns on his heel and retreats into the bedroom.

####

His bedroom is different and that’s how Felix knows this must be a dream. A wild and disturbingly vivid dream, but a dream nonetheless. The room isn’t chaos, but it’s well lived in. It lacks the clinical tidiness that Felix is prone to, because he works too much and is too tired to truly enjoy his home. There’s an extra dresser. Knick-knacks and pictures that Felix doesn’t recognize. A desk that he certainly doesn’t own, with an unfamiliar shirt strewn over the chair next to it.

He steps into the bathroom, gray tile cold underneath his feet like so many other things in his life. The bathroom is different too, with bottles of hair products strewn about, two sets of toothbrushes and the ugliest burnt orange shag bath mat he’s ever seen. He turns the water hotter than he normally likes. Felix strips and his hand lingers on the doorknob before locking it.

He stands under the boiling stream beyond the time it takes to run cold. Felix doesn’t pull himself out until his fingers and toes are ice, hair hanging limp and wet around his face in clammy strands.

The person that stares back in the mirror looks tired and haunted, circles bruising deep underneath his eyes. Felix tries to make sense of everything that is happening to him, from the handsome man that he’s created in his mind eye, to the brilliant vividness of this entire experience.

He opts not to blow dry his hair, twisting it into a wet knot to at least get it off his face. He slips into the soft pajama pants and plain T-shirt he’d brought into the bathroom with him. He brushes his teeth and moisturizes, slapping lightly at his cheeks like it’ll wake him up.

It doesn’t.

With a sigh, he unlocks the door, gliding into the bedroom that’s fallen dark. There’s a lump in the bed, nestled into the sheets on the side that isn’t Felix’s. Red hair curls around Sylvain’s face, brushing across his cheekbones. Felix watches him for a long moment before his gaze cuts to the empty side of the mattress.

He can’t sleep in here, he can’t share a bed with a man that he doesn’t know, dream or not. Quietly, he tiptoes around the edge of the bed to the closet. He pilfers a spare quilt, before grabbing his pillow from the bed and--

“Felix…”

Felix pauses at the quiet muttering of his name, hand on the bedroom door as he glances back. Sylvian is still asleep, brow furrowed, arm out and fingers fisting the sheets where Felix would normally sleep.

It doesn’t feel like a dream anymore; it feels too real and Felix feels like he’s an outsider intruding somewhere that he doesn’t belong. He slips from the room, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he can manage.

The couch is cold and uncomfortable, and the soft leather of it sticks to Felix’s skin. Still, he turns on his side, pulling the quilt tighter around him, pressing into his pillow. It doesn’t smell like him, he realizes, it smells like the other man. Sylvain , with his tanned skin burnished with soft brown freckles and easy-going demeanor.

Felix settles back onto his back, before he finally manages to drift to sleep.

He thinks he remembers a soft kiss on the forehead and the whisper of loving words, but he must imagine it.

####

Felix wakes up to the smell of bacon and he’s come to the realization that this isn’t a dream. He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he can feel it in his bones. He’s the intruder here and whatever Felix has made his life with Sylvain, has temporarily vanished.

There’s dread that settles through him, as he sits up. Sylvain’s poking around the kitchen in his pajamas, tongs in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, standing over the gas range. He looks just as tired as Felix feels, a slight raggedness to his form that makes Felix wonder if Sylvain realizes that there’s something off about all of this too.

The quilt slips around his shoulders as he yawns, and Sylvain looks up, eyes carefully hooded as he regards Felix. “I must have snored really bad last night for you to slum it on the couch,” Sylvain says, turning back to the pan to flip the bacon.

“Snoring,” Felix replies. “Right. Absolutely terrible.”

Sylvain hums at that. “Odd,” he says, “Considering that you’re the one who snores, not me.”

Sylvain knows, he definitely knows that something is off. Of course he does though. If Sylvain has a version of Felix he’s lived with for years, he would definitely know the difference. Still, it’s better to play sick than a different man.

“Sorry, I’m just---” Felix sighs wearily. “I’m tired and the bedroom just felt… wrong.”

Sylvain says nothing as he pulls the bacon off, setting the strips on a paper-towel lined plate. Felix watches as he sets about making another cup of coffee, setting a pod into a single-serve maker that Felix wouldn’t be caught dead owning. Once it’s done brewing, he doesn’t add anything, opting to bring it to him black.

The familiarity that radiates off of this man punches Felix in the gut. He takes the cup from Sylvain without a word, cradling it between both of his hands, leaning over the steaming liquid. Sylvain pulls a chair up next to him, dropping onto it backwards, arms draped over the spine.

“Felix,” Sylvain says, “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I-- nothing .” But the word feels like dirt in his mouth and he can feel the way that his lips tug downwards, and there’s no way that he sounds remotely convincing. Felix isn’t and will never be, a good liar. So he tries again. “It’s work-- and not just the Von Aegir account. I’m tired at looking at numbers all day and it’s starting to really sink in, I think.”

Sylvain takes a sip of his coffee, considering his words for a long moment as his eyes rake over Felix’s tired form, but he eventually nods. “Okay, Fe,” he says, and the nickname pulls at Felix. “Okay.”

Sylvain gets up, placing his mug back on the counter. “I made breakfast,” he says, and this time there’s a little more pep to his voice. “It’s only bacon and toast, but you still have time before you head into the office.”

Felix blinks as he watches Sylvain turn to pull two plates from the cabinets. He lifts himself from the counter with a sigh, retreating back into the bedroom. Sylvain’s tidied up a bit, dirty clothes properly thrown into the hamper and the bed made.

Still, he struggles to dress, staring into his closet blankly before he remembers that he’s trying to get ready. He looks worse than the day before, a ghostly image blinking back at him in the mirror. He doesn’t bother to brush his hair, even if he knows that it’ll knot. He ties it back hastily instead.

When he comes back to the kitchen, there’s a plate waiting for him, loaded with bacon and toast and that dumb red plum jam that he insists on paying way too much for. He’s surprised that he can eat, but maybe it’s because he’s starving, or maybe it’s because Sylvain has retreated to dress himself, or--

Felix doesn’t really know, he doesn’t seem to know anything in that moment. The bacon is well cooked and the coffee is exactly how he likes it, but he can’t even focus on them, because his mind is too busy trying to figure shit out.

When Sylvain comes back in, he’s scrubbed clean and smells like Aqua Velvet, which Felix normally hates, but on Sylvain he doesn’t. He kind of leans into it, when Sylvain bends over and pecks him on the cheek. And then he remembers that this man is a stranger and pulls back. Sylvain doesn’t notice, pressing another kiss to his forehead.

“I’m sure that I’ll be home before you again,” Sylvain says. “Would you like me to bring home dinner again? Or would you like me to cook?”

“I-- um, whatever works for you. I guess.”

Sylvain lets out a sigh, like he’s trying to figure him out but can’t, and says, “Alright, I’ve got it. You just worry about those dumb tax accounts, okay?”

“Yeah,” Felix replies. “Dumb.”

Sylvain laughs, full and warmhearted, and for a moment Felix can believe that this man actually loves him.

It bothers Felix how much he misses that feeling.

####

Felix learns that Sylvain isn’t a singular presence locked in at his home. Whatever it was that is happening, is happening everywhere , because Annette greets him by asking him how Sylvain was doing. Apparently, she misses his dumb butt .

“Annette, help me here,” Felix asks her later at lunch, “How did I meet Sylvain?”

Annette blinks back at him, and then bursts out laughing. When he blinks back at her, head cocked to the side, she sobers up slightly and says, “Wait, were you serious? Felix, how could you have forgotten?”

Felix rubs at his neck sheepishly. “Well, it’s not that I just-- look, I want to hear it from your perspective, I guess.”

Annette goes strangely quiet, eyes downcast and gaze contemplative. “Odd, that you would ask me that,” she muses, and it catches Felix off guard. “There wasn’t a lot to it,” she continues. “But I always told you that those track pants were too tight on you.”

Felix freezes, eyes narrowing. It was odd, how many similarities there were with his world and wherever this was. His favorite pair of running pants had been a size too small and she constantly complained about them.

“Track pants,” he repeats. “You always told me that I’d split them.”

Annette crosses her arms, smile spreading wide across her face. “And that’s exactly what happened,” she says, and Felix blanches because he’s mortified, absolutely mortified at the idea of it. “But how lucky you were that such a hot and studly man was right there, willing to lend you a sweatshirt. You looked ridiculous coming home that day, shirt tied around your waist and a sheepish stranger behind you.”

Felix falls very quiet. He and Annette had been together in this lifetime too, and he’d met Sylvain while they were still together. For a moment, there’s a horrible thought, a horrible, horrible thought that he’s the kind of man that could cheat and that Sylvain is the kind of man that could wreck a home but--

Well, Annette and him were still friends, and she looks upon this memory with a strange fondness.

Also, what a ridiculous way to meet a man.

“Annette,” he starts quietly, “Were you ever angry that…”

He doesn’t finish the question, but she seems to grasp what he means, and she looks surprised. “What, you and Sylvain? Felix, of course not.” Annette pauses and let’s out a long sigh. “You’re overthinking things like you always do. Sometimes things are simple and you just overlook them. Whatever fight the two of you are having, you’ll figure it out.”

“We’re not--” Felix sighs. “We’re not fighting, there’s just… I’m not quite myself.”

Annette hums at that. “Yeah, I noticed. You went for the red mug instead of the green one.”

“Er-- what?”

“I gave you the red mug nearly a decade ago, Felix, and while I’m glad that you still have it, it was really weird for you to use it over the one Sylvain gave you.”

“I just-- I guess I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll… it’ll be fine. I’ll get over this funk.”

Annette is quiet for a long moment, before she says, “I have a feeling that I’m not the one that you should be telling that.” She stands, before squeezing his shoulder affectionately. “Whatever it is, talk to him about it. Sylvain is the kind of person that will worry himself into his grave.”

For not the first time in his life, he curses Annette for how perceptive she is. At the same time, he loves that about her. “Thank you, Annie,” he says quietly.

“Of course.”

####

Felix doesn��t talk to Sylvain about it, mostly because he has no idea how to talk to the man.

Felix has a distinct type of person, when it comes to dating. Quiet, demure and definitely not male. Hell, he’s never even considered dating a man. But then again, his type clearly isn’t a standard, because Annette wasn’t any of those things and he’d nursed a ring for months with the intent of marrying her. Instead of saying yes though, she’d only replied with an Oh, Felix , and two months later she’d moved the bulk of her important things out of his home.

Sylvain doesn’t question him. As promised, dinner is taken care off, falling into his lap in the form of Chinese take-out from Wok and Roll. They forgo the counter and stools, settling into the couch, Felix as far to one side as he can manage and legs stretched out to keep Sylvain from snuggling too close.

This must be a familiar motion, because Sylvain just winks at him, pulling his feet into his lap instead, kneading at his tired arches.

Felix doesn’t stop him.

But then bedtime comes and he panics, citing that he’ll sleep on the couch again. Sylvain’s face falls, but when Felix tells him that his back aches from leaning over reports all day, he seems to understand.

“Let’s swap sides then,” Sylvain says. “I can handle the lumpy part of the mattress for a night or two.”

Felix hesitates. “No I-- it’s terrible, I can’t ask that of you. It’s fine, I’ll just sleep out here.”

Sylvain looks like he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it, and Felix takes the awkward moment to run into the bedroom and ready himself for the night. It’s the same kind of feeling as the morning really, staring off as he finds his sleep clothes, brushes his teeth and preps for sleep.

When he emerges, Sylvain eyes his pajamas with a frown on his face. Somethings off, something is wrong and Felix starts to panic--

Sylvain leans over with the intent to kiss him goodnight. Felix turns to the side though, lips catching his cheek, and he closes his eyes in a wince because that was absolutely the wrong thing to do. He can feel Sylvain stiffen against his cheek, and when he pulls back he doesn’t look angry, he looks sad. Lips tugged into the tiniest of frowns, his hands on Felix’s shoulders and--

Felix hates this, he hates hurting this man, because it isn’t fair to him. Whatever Sylvain has for his Felix, is real love; the kind of love that’s enviable, that people spend entire lifetimes trying to find, and it’s obvious in the way that Sylvain goes about everything in their carefully maintained life.

“Sylvain,” he blurts suddenly, “I’m-- I’m sorry.” The words are a harsh whisper and he watches Sylvain take a deep breath and sigh.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” he says quietly.

“No, I-- I don’t think I can tell you this,” Felix murmurs. “But it’s not you, it’s definitely me, and I just need… I need a little bit to sort it out.”

Sylvain is silent for a long moment, moving a hand to grip his chin gently, thumb sliding along the smooth skin of Felix’s cheek. “Okay,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead and Felix reaches out, one hand grasping at his shirt tightly. Sylvain is the perfect height to fall against, to be pulled closer, to just fall into and just disappear. His lips linger there, soft against Felix’s forehead, like he’s trying to savor the moment and he’s afraid that Felix will pull away.

“Okay,” Sylvain says again. “I love you.”

Felix wants to vomit; he’s going to, because he can’t say it back, even if he knows that the other Felix would, knowing that there’s no way he doesn’t love this man. But he can’t, he can’t, he can’t , even if only to pretend for Sylvain’s sake, because he doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve any of the wretched shit that Felix is being put through.

When Sylvain pulls back things are different than before. Sylvain is stiff and words are caught in Felix’s throat, because he knows that no matter what he says, he can’t fix the damage that he’s just done.

Felix lets go of his shirt, smoothing it out in a nervous gesture, unable to meet his gaze. It’s not him that retreats this time, it’s Sylvain, shooting him one last glance before he shuts the bedroom door behind him.

Felix needs to find a way back, because he can't keep doing this, he can’t just slip into this life that isn’t his. He’s going to wreck this wonderful foundation that Sylvain has built with someone else, and it’s because he doesn’t know him, and even if he’s Felix, he’s a different Felix.

He needs to sort it out. He’s got to find a way out of this, because it isn’t fair to break the heart of a man who doesn’t deserve it.

####

Sylvain doesn’t greet him in the morning.

He doesn’t make breakfast.

Felix’s coffee mug remains empty and cold.

Sylvain dresses in silence and doesn’t say anything as he leaves for work, and that’s how Felix knows he’s fucked up.

Later that night, after a long and grueling day of numbers and taxes, and one very annoying tea monger, Felix slips into the house quietly. When he walks into the kitchen, Sylvain is there, hands already in the sink washing up as he prepares to make dinner.

He barely glances at him.

“I know that you love me,” Felix tells him, and Sylvain pauses. “I know that you do, I know--”

“Felix--”

“And I just…” Felix shuts his eyes tight, taking a deep breath and-- “I love you too,” he tells him, hoping it’s as convincing as he’s trying to make it sound. “Things are weird now but--”

“Yeah, I know,” Sylvain interrupts. “It’s not me.” His tone is flat, but Felix can sense that abrasive quality there. Sylvain must not be the type to get angry often, because he seems almost unused to it.

Felix slides next to him, turning the faucet back on. “I’ll cook tonight,” he says.

Sylvain’s head snaps to the side in surprise, but he dries his hands on the dish towel. “Alright,” he says quietly. He hesitates and then leans down, kissing the crown of Felix’s head. “Thanks.” The words are soft, but they sound at least a little bit relieved, and Felix knows that he’s not just thanking him for dinner.

Fifteen minutes later, Felix is cutting up carrots and Sylvain watches him. He slides the knife along at an angle and that must be odd, because Sylvain’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Carrots, huh?” he finally asks.

Felix looks up, meeting auburn eyes, but instead of glowing with affection, they breed suspicion. Felix swallows thickly. “New recipe,” he mutters.

Sylvain doesn’t reply, but Felix knows that this time, he doesn’t buy it.

They eat a good dinner and watch a movie, but it’s with a quiet silence that fills the room. There’s room between them again with Felix stretched out like a cat to cover space, but Sylvain doesn’t pull Felix’s feet into his lap. He doesn’t move to rub at them. A palpable distance stretches between the two of them and it makes Felix sick.

“I’ll grab the quilt,” Sylvain says when he pulls himself from the couch.

“No--” Felix starts, and Sylvain stops, paused in the entrance of the bedroom, looking back over his shoulders. “I’ll… let’s go to bed.”

Sylvain lets out a short laugh, but it sounds annoyed more than anything. “That was the intent.”

“No, I mean…”

Sylvain is the one that sighs, before turning back towards him and leaning against the doorframe. “Felix, come here,” he says softly.

Felix does, pressing a hand to Sylvain’s chest. “I don’t want to sleep alone,” Felix tells him, and it’s true, he really doesn’t.

He hasn’t wanted to sleep alone for years, but there’s not anyone to share that with, because he’s so very alone. And now here’s Sylvain, who doesn’t love him, but loves something like him, and maybe it’s dumb that Felix feels like indulging in it for at least one night.

Sylvain’s hand hovers over his shoulder, almost like he’s afraid to touch him, but then he pulls him closer. “Yeah, okay, come here.”

Felix lets the man hug him and then they part, stepping into the room. Felix retreats to the bathroom to ready himself, and when he comes back, Sylvain’s already nestled into the covers. “Those are your pajamas,” he says. He sounds confused.

Felix looks down, fingertips roaming across the soft t-shirt and plaid flannel of his pants. “They’re comfy,” he replies.

Sylvain doesn’t elaborate on whatever he’s thinking. Felix slides under the covers and clicks off the lamp beside him, the room falling into pitch darkness. There’s light filtering through the window and he can see Sylvain’s pinched expression in the soft moonlight.

He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, rolling over instead. He’s in a T-shirt and boxers, and Felix stares at the wide expanse of his back, fingers itching to rub across his strong shoulder blades.

It’s not fair of him to feel like this, because Sylvain isn’t his.

Felix has never felt lonelier.

####

Two more days pass in a similar way.

Felix is starting to ease into the presence of Sylvain, but the other man pulls away slightly. He doesn’t blame him, because Felix knows that there are differences. He’s not the same man as the other Felix, and who better would know, than Sylvain who loves him?

Annette would have known in a heartbeat. Actually, Felix thinks that even now, even as just a friend, she still knows, because it’s evident in the way that she regards him with curiosity when she thinks that he isn’t looking.

When Felix comes home that night, it’s rinse and repeat. Sylvain makes dinner this time and Felix picks the movie. They sit on opposite ends of the couch. They barely talk. When preparing for bed, Felix doesn’t bother hiding in the bathroom, because there isn’t a point. Sylvain knows what he looks like and it’ll only drive the wedge between them even further.

He’s pulling on his pajama pants when Sylvain finally says something. “Those are your pajamas.” It’s not the first time he’s said it, and it’s still just as weird to comment on.

“You said that the other night,” Felix replies, fingering the soft cotton of his T-shirt.

“Since when have you worn your own clothes to bed?” Sylvain asks and Felix’s blood runs cold. “And that’s… that’s not the only thing that’s off,” he continues. “Cutting your carrots at an angle. I’ve only seen you do it in rounds. And sleeping on the couch? You hate that couch, and you constantly remind me about what a waste of money it was.” Sylvain sighs, dragging a hand down his face.

“You said you felt off and I believed you. You told me that work is commanding your attention, and it often does. But not stealing my clothes to sleep in? Showering alone? I always brush out your hair before bed. You always call me during lunch-- always-- and not a peep for days and then--” Sylvain’s words are coming a mile a minute and he takes a shaky breath, like he’s afraid to say whatever’s next.

“And then you tell me that you love me.”

Felix is confused. “But I--”

“Of course you do Felix, Goddess, I fucking know, but you never say it. I tell you that I love you and then you call me something stupid, like baffoon or sentiamental dolt or fool, and that’s the way you reply, because you-- that’s just what you do. ”

If Felix were to be honest, that sounds on brand for him and he’s a fool, an utter and complete fool to think that he can pretend to be the man Sylvain loves, for however long this farce goes on.

“I’m not me,” Felix says, and Sylvain laughs loud, bitter and angry and annoyed all at once, and it’s the ugliest thing he’s ever heard. “No-- I mean, I’m not-- look, I don’t know how to explain this but--”

“Am I not enough anymore?” Sylvain asks him, his voice barely above a whisper, and Felix’s heart clenches because no, no he can’t fuck this up.

“I’m someone else,” Felix blurts. Sylvain looks at him, head cocked to the side as a sneer falls across his face. He’s offended that Felix has come up with a ridiculous sounding excuse, even if the excuse is real. “Sylvain, I don’t know who you are-- I just met you. I came home the other night after living alone for years, and you were just there and I--” He’s the one to take a shaky breath this time and he knows that he sounds crazy.

“That’s not funny,” Sylvain tells him. He’s sitting on the bed, head gripped between his hands, fingers twisted in his brilliant red hair and Felix knows that the words coming won’t be good. “That isn’t remotely funny, Felix. That’s--” He stands abruptly.

“I’m going to Ingrid’s.” Felix has no idea who Ingrid is, but Sylvain’s already pulled out a duffel bag, stuffing it with clean clothes from the wardrobe and--

“Sylvain--”

“No,” Sylvain snaps. Felix halts, shying away from him like a skittish colt. “No, Felix, I can’t-- I can’t fucking do this.”

“Do what ?”

“Of all the things you can say, you go with I’m someone else? Goddess, Felix, I can’t even look at you right now.”

“It’s true,” Felix snaps right back. “What you have-- how much is it worth to you? Are you just going to walk out and not say anything?”

“What we have,” Sylvain replies. “It’s what we have and how much it’s worth to us , Felix. Together, as a couple. Four years together, and you’ve reduced everything that we’ve ever shared to something as stupid as I don’t know you . How can you even say that?”

Felix knows that it doesn’t matter what he says, because no amount of words or proof or anything, is going to change Sylvain’s mind.

“What about our promise, Fe?” Sylvain has zipped the bag up and thrown it over his shoulder, and now he’s looking at Felix, face wet and eyes red, and Goddess above, Felix is next. And Felix never fucking cries, but he wants to cry for Sylvain, because he’s a wonderful person that the universe has irrovacably fucked up.

“Sylvain, I…” But the words die, because he has no idea what Sylvan is talking about.

Sylvain pushes past him and out of the room, Felix following him close behind, but when he reaches the front door of the brownstone, he stops, turning back around. Felix hates the look on his face, he hates the raw and burning emotion behind it, and he suddenly realizes how lucky he was that he and Annette agreed on the break up, because he wouldn’t wish this kind of thing on his worst enemy.

“Felix, I love you,” Sylvain tells him, and it’s with enough emotion that it makes his heart stop, because it feels like he’s telling him , not his counterpart. It punches through Felix and he feels it in his bones, tugging at his core. “Goddess, I love you more than anything, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my fucking miserable life before you, it’s that it doesn’t matter how much you love someone, because they can still hurt you.”

“Sylvain--”

“You push people away, Felix. It’s what you’re best at, and if that’s what you want, then fine . You’ll work your job everyday from morning to night, and you’ll come home to an empty house and you’ll be alone . You’ll wallow in that loneliness forever, because you think that as long as one person puts in the effort, it’s enough, but it isn’t Fe. It never will be, and if you don’t learn that, you will spend the rest of your life miserable and without a single person by your side.”

Sylvain gives him one last look, and it’s sad, pitying and angry all in one go, before walking out. Tears finally slip down his face and there’s a pathetic sob that rips through him, uncharacteristic and burning, because this man has just analyzed him down to the very core, without even truly knowing who he is.

Sylvain knows him, better than he knows himself, and that’s when Felix realizes that no, he doesn’t want to be alone; he never wants to be alone again. He’ll do anything, if it means that he doesn’t live in that empty, vacant existence where he does nothing but barely live.

####

Felix has never been able to hide anything from Annette and that’s probably why they didn’t work out in the end.

Felix isn’t sure how much time passes before he calls Annette, but he’d sobbed some ridiculous, gut-wrenching words at her through the phone, and fifteen minutes later, Mercedes was at his door, pulling him into a tight hug and not letting go.

And now Felix is at their small kitchen table, a steaming mug of hot tea in front of him and a plate of delicious looking pastries cooked by Mercie herself. He knows he needs to eat something, but all he does is stare at it miserably instead, mind roaming a mile a minute as he tries to figure out what he’s going to do when he gets home. He’s not sure that he can fix things. He’s always been bad at that.

“Felix,” Annette says, rubbing at his back gently. Mercedes is on his other side, holding his cold hand in her warm ones, thumbs rubbing across the back of his palm. He’s dumb crying again, eyes red and face tired, nose stopped up and dribbling everywhere. He’s a goddess-damned mess and the last time his Annette had seen him like this, was when his brother had unexpectedly died, and he’d spent a week in anger before breaking down on the kitchen floor, tucked against a cabinet with a half empty bottle of scotch clutched to his chest.

It’s weird, that this feels way worse.

“Felix,” she says again, and her words are softer this time. “You seem… well, I haven’t seen you look like this since we um… well you know , and I found you...” But she sighs and Felix can’t help but let out a stupid little snort. He’d already known that they’d been together in whatever and wherever this is, but he’s struck by how typical he is, having fucked up things with her too.

“Annie,” he finally says, sounding nasty and pitiful and pathetic, but Felix finds that he doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t want to care about anything. “Do I push people away?”

“Is that what he said to you?” she asks gently.

“Everything that he said was true and I-- I’m so angry at myself,” Felix admits in a soul clattering confession. “And it’s unfair; it’s not okay. How can such a wonderful man love me? How can he even think that I’m worth anything like that. And even after all the shit this week, after everything, he still fucking says it as he walks out the door and it’s unfair. ”

Unfair, because he’s not the one that deserves Sylvain, he never was, and now that he’s had this weird taste of what could be domestic bliss, Felix kind of wants it back.

“Is this what happened to us?” he blubbers. “Is this why we didn’t work? Am I just incapable of--”

Annette doesn’t let him finish the thought. “Oh, Felix,” she soothes as she pulls him to her, nestling his face into her neck, her fingers combing through his midnight hair. He’s never really deserved her either, and that’s why he never married his Annette, because the moment she had met Mercie, he knew that she could do better.

“Don’t say such ridiculous things,” Annette tells him. “Some people aren’t meant to be, and that’s okay.”

“But Sylvain--”

“I was talking about you and I. Ignore the big oaf; he’s being dumb.” Felix tries, focusing on Annette’s soft comfort and Mercedes’s gentle hand on his back, rubbing circles, but it’s hard and it’s dumb.

It’s also dumb to think that maybe you can fall in love with a person in only a few days, but Felix has always doubted himself, and even moreso since this entire mess started.

“I ruined us, and now I’ve ruined him,” Felix says against her neck.

“No honey,” she says to him, lips close to his temple, and Felix is glad for her, he’s glad that he can still count on her. “And I’m going to tell you exactly why. You and I had our problems, but it was never you . Do you want to know when I knew that Sylvain would be the one?”

“No,” he groans into her neck, because it isn’t something that’s meant for him, the other Felix should hear this. But then again, the other Felix would have never let this happen.

“Too bad,” she laughs, and he’s not surprised, because Annette will always tell you how she feels, whether you want her to or not. “You had your gay panic,” she says, “Freaking out about liking a guy, and convinced that he’d never like you back, so you never asked him. You refused to, but then there was Ingrid’s Yule party that year, and he just couldn’t stop looking at you, or you him, and I just knew, Felix. It was never that we didn’t love each other, it’s just that you loved him more, and that’s why I told you to go after him.”

She had done what now? Whatever relationship Annette and Felix has in this life, clearly transcends all other friendships, because what woman tells her man to go after another man? Annette is an angel. She’s a Goddess, she’s something else entirely, and Mercedes too, because she sits there beside him, humming lightly.

“Your problem isn’t pulling away Felix,” Annette continues, “It’s that you love too fiercely-- so much so that you don’t know how to express it. You keep it wound so tight and when it comes time to show it you just… you don’t. It’s scary to love a person and it’s even scarier when they love you back.

“Sylvain is dumb, but he loves you more than anything; more than you and I ever did. Leave him be for the night and stay here. We’ll pile into the bed, we’ll watch something terribly sappy, and Mercedes and I will eat so many cookies that our stomachs will hurt. You will sleep in and when you sit here, eating lunch tomorrow, you will call him, understand?”

Felix nods against her breast, breathing out a sigh of relief. Annette and Mercedes drag him into the bedroom after making him eat the food on his plate. It’s dumb how much he loves the domestic coddling, laying against Annette’s chest as she strokes his hair. Mercedes is on his other side, hand on his shoulder gently, still rubbing those soothing circles. He falls asleep first, tired and exhausted and barely watching the movie on the television.

When Felix wakes in the morning, alone in the large bed and sunlight peeking through the windows, he feels more rested than he has in years.

####

The kitchen table is quiet, but it’s comfortable. Annette and Mercedes call in to work, despite Felix’s protests.

“No amount of work is worth losing the only thing that matters,” Annette said to him earlier that morning, when she’d dragged him from the bed. Felix knows her tones well, and he knows when it’s useless to fight her.

She sits to his left in fluffy pajamas, one leg crossed over the other as she reads the paper. Mercedes flits about the kitchen proper, fully dressed in a cream colored blouse and a soft-looking mahogany skirt. She drops a tea mug in front of Annette, leaning over for a gentle kiss and Felix’s heart twists at the sweet domesticity of it.

He’d fucking lost his mind last night, coming here but… he’d needed it. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t ever lose it like that -- it’s been nearly a decade since it’s been so bad. But he doesn’t regret it. His face hurts and his eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, but his heart feels light, like the years that have weighed him down are suddenly gone.

Or lighter. Felix is a work in progress.

Mercedes drops a cup in front of him next, followed by a plate of pancakes. Annette’s always teased him about refusing syrup, but he tucks in without a word, thankful for their kindness and their willingness to not judge.

Yesterday, Felix would have said that he doesn’t deserve friends like these.

Today, it’s not that he thinks he does, but he’s come to the conclusion that he’s done some pretty fucked up shit in his life, and that he needs to do better. He needs to be better, to the people in his life.

“It’s nearly noon,” Annette says. Felix sees that she’s dropped the paper to look at the clock hanging above the sink.

Noon means doom. Noon means calling Sylvain and trying to patch up whatever he’s fucked up, because if there’s anyone who doesn’t deserve what’s happened, it’s the only man who seems to truly know him, and his own personal Felix.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I’ll--” He looks at his plate and the pancakes the Mercedes has made for him. At his tea, perfectly brewed. “As soon as I’m done with this.”

He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t frown.

It’s a start.

####

Unlike Felix, Mercedes and Annette live in a proper house, with a proper backyard.

He sits on their porch, painted white but already chipped with age. There are plants everywhere, carefully tended to by Annette and her silly songs, watered and pruned with love and it shows, because they seem to thrive in bursts of bright colors.

He sits on the step, instead of one of the outdoor chairs, outfitted with soft cushions, made by Mercedes herself. In his hand, sits his phone, Sylvain’s number pulled up on the screen and his thumb hovering over it.

He’s not the right Felix, so he has no idea if he can fix this, but he’s sure as hell going to try. He’s tired of fucking things up, and leaving them fucked up.

He backs out of the phone app and pulls up the photo gallery. Felix isn’t one for pictures, but Sylvain seems the type to thrive on them. He slowly scrolls through them, one by one, taking in what kind of life they have.

He hates pictures, and maybe this Felix does too. But he’s in a lot of them. And he looks-- well, he looks annoyed in every single photo. Never smiling, always like he’s one moment away from strangling the other. Sylvain leaning over his shoulder, draped across him, Felix scowling in return. Sylvain doing something dumb, like flirting with a garden statue. Pictures with friends-- Annette, Mercedes, and a blonde woman that is probably Ingrid, mentioned the night before.

It’s odd, seeing his face, stare back at him from pictures that he’s never taken.

He comes across one and halts, thumb twitching as he regards it. Someone else had taken it-- probably Annette, because she likely knows his phone pass code. He never changed it after , so The Felix that belongs here was probably no different.

Sylvain chatting with friends, Felix off to the side, nursing a drink. He watches Sylvain in the picture, the harsh lines of his figure and face severe, but eyes soft and his lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, and it’s like his heart crashes all at once.

Felix knows he’s never looked at Annette like that, not even when he was on a knee, ring held out and asking her to spend eternity with him. And she’d known, she’d known , which is why she had said no, because this is what he’s supposed to look like when he’s with the person he loves.

He doesn’t love Sylvain, but this Felix does, and if he’s going to be stuck there for eternity… Well, maybe he can too. Eventually.

He doesn’t get the chance to think any longer on it, a call coming through with a picture flashing across the screen. Sylvain, sticking his fingers up his nose in a ridiculous fashion, eyes crossed and tongue sticking out, and it’s singlehandedly the most ugly and endearing thing that Felix has ever seen.

He’d pick the same picture, probably.

“Hey,” he answers quietly, pressing the phone against his ear.

“Hey,” Sylvain breathes on the other end. “I-- actually, I didn’t think you’d answer.”

Felix snorts at that. “Why would you think that?”

Sylvain hesitates and Felix can see it, him standing there, rubbing at his neck awkwardly. “Well I uh-- I said some pretty terrible shit to you last night.” He doesn’t apologize though, and Felix doesn’t think he should.

“Look, Felix,” Sylvain says, sigh cresting through his words and he sounds tired, he sounds so tired, just like Felix. They’re exhausted and not just from the fight the night before, but from a near week of dancing around each other like strangers. “I don’t know exactly what it is that you want.”

“I want to come home.” The words come easily, naturally, like he’s known Sylvain forever.

He can imagine the sheepish smile that Sylvain is prone to, even at the worst of times. Especially at the worst of times, if the pictures that Felix scrolled through told him anything.

“Oh, Felix,” Sylvain says quietly.

Oh, Felix . It’s what Annette had said to him, as Felix waited for an answer, knee already sore from the tile he knelt on, ring suddenly heavy like lead in his fingertips. Oh, Felix, we need to talk .

But Sylvain says something else. “Of course you can come home.”

And it’s dumb, that Felix is crying again, because Felix only cries when he’s in the midst of a massive, emotional breakdown. He definitely doesn’t cry for two men that he doesn’t know. He definitely doesn’t cry in relief.

Sylvain must hear his poorly kept hiccups through the call though, because then he says, “Darling, it’s okay. Come back home, okay? It’ll be okay.”

It’ll be okay.

For the first time in nearly a decade, Felix believes it.

####

Nearly a week ago, he’d lived an existence where he unlocked this door everyday, only to open it to a lonely, negative existence. When he’d locked it last night, he’d left behind an empty house, charged with angry energy.

Never go to bed angry, Glenn had once told him, and it’s one of the few things that he can remember of his brother that doesn’t bring up feelings of dread. Felix hadn’t gone to bed angry though, he’d gone to bed in the midst of his mid-life crisis, sopping wet with tears and snot.

Most people buy cars. Felix gets jettisoned into an alternate reality, where he fucks everything up for his counterpart and learns how to feel in the process. He already hates it, this soft, mushy feeling in his chest and he hopes that it’ll go away.

Felix slides the key into the lock with nervous energy. He steps into the home quietly, before dropping his overnight bag in the entry hall. He leaves the keys on the table by the door. His shoes are slipped off and carefully tucked away on a rack.

Sylvain comes running around the corner, sliding across the wooden floors in his socks. But then he just stands there, as if he’s afraid he’ll scare Felix off with the slightest movement.

Felix knows that he looks terrible, but he walks right up to him and pauses, before dropping his head against Sylvain’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and Sylvain reaches up to wrap his arms around him, pulling him closer and Felix can’t help but sink into him.

Felix has spent the week pulling away because he didn’t want to overstep boundaries, but he likes this, Felix likes the warmth that radiates off of him. Sylvain smells like sandalwood and cinnamon, and it’s unfair, it’s just unfair , because he doesn’t belong to him.

But Felix will let himself have this small moment of comfort, even if it isn't meant for him.

“It’s okay and I’m sorry too,” Sylvain whispers into his hair. “It doesn’t change what I said, but I’m sorry.” He pulls back to look at Felix, thumbing at his cheek, eyes red and puffy too. “We’re a mess.”

“Yeah,” Felix says. He reaches up, but hesitates. Then he grabs Sylvain’s hand. “Yeah we are.”

“Did Annette take care of you?”

“She’s the best.”

Sylvain hums at that. “She always has been.” Sylvain pulls away to take both of Felix’s hands, thumbing over the back of them. “Come on, I ordered food.”

“Please tell me it’s not pizza.” Because as far as Felix is concerned, he never wants to eat pizza again. Sylvain smiles at him, wide and and slightly lopsided before winking at him, and Goddess above, Felix isn’t remotely surprised that this man somehow warmed the ice-cold of his Felix’s heart.

When Sylvain tugs at him, Felix follows without a word.

####

Dinner is a quiet affair, full of well seasoned street tacos and orange soda.

Now, they’re sitting on the couch that Felix hates, but they aren’t a world’s length apart and trying to avoid each other, and Felix feels one part relieved and one part annoyed. Sylvain’s got his arm slung around his shoulders, Felix pulled close to his side as they stare at the television without really watching it. It shouldn’t feel so natural and effortless. Felix should push him away and maintain that distance but--

Sylvain’s fingers thread across the crown of Felix’s head, and he can’t help but sink into the touch, because it’s been far, far too long since he’s found comfort in intimacy.

“Felix, let me brush out your hair?” Sylvain asks quietly, mouth close to his ear. It sounds nice and domestic, and the kind of thing that a couple would do after a bad fight, so Felix nods, trying to keep up the facade of a man trying to patch things up.

Sylvain pulls away, giving Felix a long and appraising look, and there’s something there that strikes Felix as odd. Sylvain’s looking at him like he’s trying to figure him out, like he’s not quite sure what it is exactly that he sees. But then he smiles and leans forward to kiss his forehead. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers against the skin there.

Felix sinks into the couch, relishing the moment as he tries to gather his thoughts, but Sylvain returns surprisingly quick, a boar bristle hairbrush in his hands.

Sylvain’s Felix has taste.

Sylvain motions for him to turn sideways on the couch and Felix complies. Then Sylvain turns off the television and panic creeps into the pit of his stomach, because he can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t--

Sylvain’s fingers dip into his hair, pulling out the hair tie with careful ease and a softness that belies his large hands. “We need to talk about it, Felix,” he says quietly from behind him.

“Yeah,” Felix breathes, fingers fisting the soft material of his pajama pants at the thigh as the pit of his stomach sinks lower and lower.

Sylvain is quiet for a long moment, using his fingers to pull apart Felix’s hair, waving gently through the strands to separate them. “Things have been weird the last few days,” he says and finally he raises the brush, pulling it through a small section of Felix’s hair.

Felix is hard with his hair. He doesn’t take good care of it and when it comes to brushing, he yanks hard at it, because the sooner the chore is done, the better. Sylvain though, holds his hair reverently, one hand wrapped around the silky strands as the other tugs at them softly with the brush. He starts from the bottom, working is way up, gently pulling at the tangles.

“It must be weird for you too,” Sylvain continues. “Easing back into unfamiliar things.” His voice is soft and Felix is half compelled to think that Sylvain has figured it out too, with the way that he crafts his words around such a strained topic. “Too many work accounts. Ingrid’s wedding coming up. Dimitri and Dedue’s dumb housewarming party-- like I get it, they’ve bought a house, cool. We’ve never had one of those though, and it’s annoying. All of it is.”

“I’m just tired,” Felix says with a sigh, but the explanation is just as flimsy as the first couple of times he tried it, and he can tell that it still doesn’t work by the way that Sylvain’s hands pause in his hair.

“I would bet,” Sylvain finally replies, hands resuming. Felix wants to sink into the touch, head falling back as Sylvain parts off another section. “It’s exhausting when you have no idea what’s going on.”

Felix opens his eyes, mouth parted in a question, but he doesn’t ask it. He doesn’t want to breach the trust that’s been tentatively forged between them. So he says, “Exhausting isn’t the half of it.”

“It’ll be okay,” Sylvain says. Felix hums, closing his eyes, relishing at the tug at his hairline and Sylvain’s fingers as they comb at his scalp. “We’ve been through a lot, you know. There’s an entire story behind Felix and Sylvain, and it’s taken a long time for us to figure things out.”

Felix is silent as Sylvain brushes on, thinking back on everything that’s happened in the last few days. Sylvain was right; Felix did push everyone away, made a point of it even. Went out of his way to hold people an arms length apart, and it’s not because he’s afraid of commitment, it’s because Annette was right.

When Felix loves, he loves deeply, but it’s easier to pretend that you don’t; because when you do, people feel the need to comfort you, and it almost makes it worse. And even if you haven’t moved on, even if you’re alone in your pathetic misery, all you need is for people think that you’re alright and they leave you alone.

It’s easier, Felix thinks, to be alone, because then the only person that you can disappoint is yourself.

Sylvain is quiet, brushing with well-practiced and adoring ease. When he’s done, he braids Felix’s hair down his back, before tying it off with a hair band. He swipes it up, throwing it over his shoulder, fingers ghosting along the back of his neck.

“Felix, look at me, would you?” Felix does, shifting around on the couch until he’s face-to-face with Sylvain again. “How long has it been since someone’s taken care of you?”

He knows. Felix knows that he has to, from the question that he’s just asked, to the way his copper eyes pity him. He realizes that he hasn’t called him Fe , like before, not once that night, but--

Sylvain doesn’t broach the topic further, or imply anything else.

It’s unfair for Felix to feel attached to this man and his kind words, and the way that he wants to soothe him.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” Felix says quietly, and it’s like a weight has been crushing him for years and years has just been lifted. Tears don’t threaten, but his chest feels tight, and he can’t breathe and--

Sylvain reaches out for his hand, his skin warm and fingers soft. His thumb rubs circles across the back of his palm. “Felix, you--” A pause and then a sigh, like Sylvain’s thinking about the situation they’re in and the logistics behind it. His gaze is soft though, almost sad. “You aren’t. You don’t have to be.”

There’s heavy implication there. “Sylvain,” he breathes, but Sylvain interrupts him by bringing his hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to it.

“Let’s go to bed.” Felix can barely swallow around the lump in his throat, staring at Sylvain’s hands wrapped around his own, like they might burn him if he holds on any longer. “Felix,” Sylvain says, and Felix meets his gaze, warm and soft and inviting, and it feels like it’s actually meant for him .

Felix nods dumbly. Sylvain tugs at him lightly, pulling him from the couch, before slinging and arm around his shoulder. He leans down but hesitates, lips lingering just against his skin. Then he pecks the side of Felix’s head lightly. “Come on,” he says.

Felix follows him without a word.

####

Felix and Sylvain both go to work. They come home and share a quiet, but not silent dinner. Afterwards Sylvain watches television, while Felix reads through tax reports from work. Sylvain brushes his hair out silently, and they go to bed.

Then things shift.

Dinner turns from polite conversation to actual conversation, as days pass. They pick shows together to watch afterwards, lounging about with bone-weary satisfaction, Felix’s feet in Sylvain’s lap as he rubs at his arches idly.

Sylvain still brushes out his hair before bed, but he takes longer now, sweeping touches down Felix’s neck and across his shoulders that warm his skin.

Sylvain knows that he’s different, but he’s never commented on it, and Felix wonders if it’s because he wants to be wrong about his suspicions, or he’s figured out that Felix is the loneliest man alive. They’ve just gone about trying to live normally, which makes no sense, but it’s starting to work.

Felix… doesn’t hate it anymore, whatever this is. Sylvain’s an idiot, but he’s a comfortable idiot, and Felix has forgotten how nice it is to come home to someone every night.

It’s been about a week, and Felix closes his eyes, sinking into the soft touch of Sylvain’s fingers on his neck. The boar brush tugs gently, but the slight burn at his hairline is nice, and his hair hasn’t looked this healthy in what seems like years. The Felix that belongs here must not take care of himself either, because Sylvain’s motions are the practiced ones of a man who forces self-care.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Felix says. Because Sylvain is. He’s gotten so used to the constant chatter that streams from his mouth, that the sudden silence seems odd. But-- since when did he actually care ?

“I’m just thinking,” Sylvain says. He puts the brush down, rubbing at Felix’s scalp lightly before tying his hair into a sleek braid. “It’s nothing, just… Sometimes I think about things.”

Felix frowns, but doesn’t say anything, unfolding himself from Sylvain’s lap. He’s about to head into the bedroom, when he pauses to look back. “Look, I know that--” A sigh. “I know that things have been weird, and that I’m not the chatty type. But if you need to talk, I’ll listen.”

Sylvain smiles at him from the couch, small and lazy, but it looks content, and it makes Felix’s heart beat wildly in a way that he doesn’t like. He retreats before Sylvain can properly respond.

When Felix comes out of the bathroom, fresh and minty, he’s wearing Sylvain’s clothes to sleep in. It’s because his are dirty and the laundry hasn’t been done, and really, what’s a pair of boxers and a plain t-shirt in the grand scheme of things but--

Sylvain looks up from the bed, where he’s leaning against the headboard, book in his lap and a finger marking his place. His lips part slightly at the sight of Felix, swallowing thickly and--

Felix immediately bristles. “Mine are dirty.”

“No, I-- um , it’s fine. It’s nothing.”

But Felix knows it isn’t nothing, because even if he isn’t his Felix, he still looks like him, and Sylvain-- while a man of considerable and admirable restraint-- isn’t immune to the way that he looks in his clothes.

Felix sighs. “I’ll do the laundry tomorrow--”

“Felix, it’s fine. You can wear my clothes,” Sylvain says quietly.

Felix levels him with a quick look and then slides into the covers. Sylvain looks like he wants to say something else, but opts against it, turning back to his book. Felix watches him finish the chapter, before leaning over to turn out the light.

It should be awkward, sharing a bed like this, but it’s not. His side of the bed doesn’t seem quite as lumpy anymore, when paired with the warmth that radiates from Sylvian at his side, a veritable space heater in his own right.

Felix's chest aches at the feel of it. It aches because it’s been too long since he’s had this kind of domesticity. It aches because he misses it, the little things; sharing your day over dinner. Fighting over the television remote. Soft fingers smoothing through his hair with care. The way the mattress sags under another person’s weight.

He hates this feeling of affection, worming slowly through his heart, because it doesn’t matter how much he’s come to like this man, Felix knows that this is likely only temporary.

It hurts.

####

“You’re awake,” Sylvain says quietly into the darkness.

It’s been exactly two days, four hours and goddess knows how many minutes, since Felix has come to terms that he might might be falling in love with this fool.

“I can’t sleep,” Felix says, knowing there’s no reason in pretending.

“Seems to be pretty standard lately.”

So, Sylvain has noticed that Felix doesn’t sleep well, often laying on his side and staring at the broad expanse of his back instead, itching to reach out and touch it. It’s dumb. Felix doesn’t like men. Except Sylvain, and it’s not because he’s unfairly handsome and Felix is mildly curious.

He’s noticed that Sylvain doesn’t press the issue though, which is in it’s own way, a comfort. Felix hates pushy people. Sylvain rolls over properly in the bed, arm shoved under his pillow, head propped up so he can get a proper look at Felix. The light from outside the window casts an eerie glow, but it suits him, the soft moonglow that settles over his tired form.

Sylvain looks concerned, genuinely so.

“Sylvain, I--”

“I know you don’t do feelings well,” Sylvain interrupts. “But I promised that you weren’t alone anymore.” A pause, with that cute little furrow he gets, falling across his brow and then, “Come here, come closer.”

Felix hesitates, but shuffles closer to Sylvain, and he’s warm and he smells nice, and he takes a moment to sink into it. When he opens his eyes, Sylvain’s looking at him, really looking at him, soul searching and deep, and Felix can feel his bottom lip about to wobble, because he doesn’t do emotions well, and they’re welling up very suddenly.

Sylvain reaches out, hand soft on his face, thumb rubbing along the bottom of his lip, like he’s thinking about kissing him. Felix wants, he wants so many things. To fall into this, to feel that comfort and warmth, to forget about shitty things and tiring work, and how fucking lonely he’s been.

“Felix,” Sylvain says quietly, raising up on his elbow to lean closer. Felix grabs the front of his shirt, wringing the soft cotton tightly in his hands and Sylvain freezes, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and he moves to pull away like he’s embarrassed.

But Felix holds firm, pulling him back.

They’re both surprised, but Sylvain speaks first. “I miss this,” he says quietly. “I miss a lot of things about you.”

“Yeah,” Felix murmurs, and Sylvain takes his chin again, thumb barely pressing into the seam of his mouth. Felix misses it too; the connection and intimacy shared with another person.

“Felix, I really want to kiss you,” Sylvain breathes. Felix’s breath hitches slightly at the bold statement, but he wants, he wants, he wants--

“So do it,” Felix says with more conviction than he thought capable. Sylvain regards him carefully in the dim light, before closing the gap between them.

Sylvain’s lips are soft and pliable, and Felix sinks right into his presence, into the feel of him. He grips his shirt tight, pulling him closer, rolling Sylvain overtop him, hips cradled between Felix’s bent legs and--

Sylvain gasps into the movement, tongue sliding across the seam of his mouth. Felix responds in kind, opening up to him, opening up everything to him, and it’s scary; it’s really scary because this feels wholly different than other experiences he’s shared-- even with Annette. The woman that he wanted to marry . Maybe it’s because Sylvain knows what he likes already, or maybe there’s a real connection there, something something soulmates , but the idea sounds dumb the moment that Felix even entertains it.

The universe has never been on Felix’s side, but for this moment-- for this tiny moment-- it feels like it is, and he never wants it to end.

Sylvain pulls back, breath heaving against Felix’s face. He leans on a forearm above him, his other hand snaking up to brush Felix’s bangs back. “Felix,” he murmurs softly, eyes shimmering with hope and love and adoration, and for a moment, it feels like it’s truly for him , not the Felix that Sylvain has been in love with for Goddess knows how long.

“It’s the same,” Sylvain says, and it’s like he’s reading Felix’s mind, because the words are too on point for anything else, too close to home, and he thinks all sorts of things that he doesn’t want to, because if he does, it’ll be too hard to pretend in the morning when all of this is over.

Sylvain must see the apprehension that bleeds through him, because he plants his knees firmly into the mattress, gripping Felix’s face in his hands and repeats, “You’re the same.”

“Show me.” Felix’s voice hangs between them, Sylvain looking down at him like a man starved and wanting, hands cradling his cheeks gently. Felix doesn’t feel like this gaze is for someone else, he feels like it’s for him and that Sylvain’s words hold a deeper meaning, he knows it. He knows it.

Sylvain kisses him again, slower and sweeter this time, mouth slotting against his expertly. Sylvain lets go of his face, moving to grip at his hips instead, pulling them closer, pressing deeper and heat rolls through Felix, rising up and--

He moans and Sylvain smiles against his lips. “Fe,” Sylvain whispers, his breath lingering between them. His hand rucks up Felix’s shirt, pressing hot fingers against his hips, and Felix is burning, he’s burning up in the touch. “Fe,” Sylvain says again, and their eyes meet, Sylvain’s half-lidded and hazy.

Sylvain slides down, their eyes locked together, and Felix wants to throw caution into the sea and fly into the sun.

So he does.

####

Sylvain loves him.

Felix doesn’t know how he knows it, but he just does. It’s in the way he mildly flirts with him. The way that he handles chores and rubs Felix’s feet after work and lets him wear his clothes. It’s tattooed into his skin when Sylvain worships him in their bed, chanting his name over and over, as Felix presses himself deep into him.

Sylvain loves his Felix, but also him , and it’s enough to ease the pain of being stuck in this weird pocket of the universe for what seems like forever.

Felix has gotten used to it, he thinks, this strange reality and Sylvain, the man with a smile as radiant as the sun, and Felix feels himself slipping deeper and deeper and -

Felix pauses. When had it become their bed, not just Sylvain’s? Felix looks forward to falling asleep, Sylvain cuddled around him like he might disappear at any moment, sharing warmth and comfort and--

Felix knows this feeling that cracks through his carefully maintained facade, and it’s been a long time-- it’s been a really long time-- and Goddess above, Annette had been right when she said that some people just love others and that you’d know when it was different, when it turns into a matter of being in love.

Sylvain walks into the kitchen, khaki shorts and gray shirt covered in green stains. He leans over to kiss his cheek, smelling like fresh cut grass because he just mowed the lawn, and Felix’s heart aches for this man in such a good way that it rips right through him.

“Felix,” he says warmly, fingers curling into his long hair, before kissing his forehead too. For good measure.

“Sylvain,” Felix blurts, half surprised by his sudden appearance, warmed by his affection and--

He’s going to tell him, either by accident or in the heat of the moment, and Felix knows that it won’t fuck anything up anymore, which is the scary part. Sylvain pulls back, face expectant as he waits. But Felix doesn’t say anything, words caught as his throat tightens and this is what always happens. He’s never been good with feelings and he never will be.

But Sylvain knows that, and he knows Felix; better than Felix knows himself. So he presses a kiss to the crown of his head and says, “I know, Fe. You don’t have to say it.”

He should, he really should, because Sylvain is ever patient and understanding, and he deserves it.

“Sandwiches,” he says instead, pointing to empty plates and containers of meat and cheese on the counter. “Go pick something to watch, I’ll be right there.”

As Sylvain turns to leave the kitchen, Felix reaches out, grabbing at his shirt and says, “Wait.” Sylvain does, Felix pulling him back, hand fisted in the front of his loose shirt. Sylvain’s already smiling as he ducks lower to meet the kiss, short and sweet, and exactly what Felix wants. He can feel the way that his cheeks burn red, but the panic in his chest loosens, limbs crackling with heat, and it’s not just from something as innocuous as a kiss.

Sylvain tugs at a loose strand of his hair, smiling wide with practiced ease, and he’s perfect. Felix wants him, he wants to stay, he wants this life, and it’s terrible and it’s selfish, and he wills himself not to think about what’s happened to the man that he’s replaced.

Felix doesn’t want to leave, now that he’s found what he’s been missing in the huge, gaping hellhole that had been his life.

He makes the sandwiches in silence, looming over him like a threatening cloud. Mustard and turkey for Sylvain, mayo and ham for him. Two slices of cheese for the former, none for the latter. Sylvain’s cut in half, because he complains about having to hold a whole sandwich with two hands, when he’d rather hold Felix’s knee with one, as they sit side-by-side. Felix cuts his as well.

He has to say something, Felix decides, carefully taking the plates in hand. Sylvain deserves to know that this isn’t some one-sided and awkward fling, even though they don’t talk about the elephant lurking in the room.

Felix turns the corner to find an empty living room.

Not just empty, but different.

Sylvain is gone, no where to be seen.

“No,” Felix breathes. The rocking chair and handmade quilt, courtesy of Mercedes, is gone. The couch is still the one he hates, but it’s stiff because it’s never used, not because it’s got bad back support.

Sylvain’s things have vanished.

Felix drops the plates, not caring that the food tumbles to the ground, or that they burst apart in a shower of ceramic. He’s too busy searching their home, trying to figure out what’s happened and where everything has gone and where--

It’s his home, as it was before, back to the clinical and neat tidiness that’s more expected in a realtor's model house, than a place where someone actually lives. The bedroom is crisply kept with his boring furniture, bare of any personality.

“No, no, no,” Felix murmurs, sinking into the bed. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, there’s no sandalwood or cinnamon, and his heart cracks in two. Sylvain’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone , and he chokes on his tears, refusing to sob because he’s better than that , but the tears still slip down his cheeks.

The universe is cruel, Felix thinks bitterly, to let him taste happiness only to rip it right back. He doesn’t want to be here; he wants to go back, he wants to find his heart again.

But as it cracks open and bleeds, and he weeps, Felix wonders if he’ll even have a heart to fix, because he feels like he’s drowning. Drowning in feelings that he should have expressed properly, and now he can’t, because Sylvain never belonged here.

Sylvain had never been his, and Felix was a fool for thinking that he ever was in the first place.

####

As far as anyone was concerned, nothing had happened. Annette and Mercedes greet him normally at work, never once hinting that he’d been gone. His tax accounts have been worked on--oddly-- everything in proper order. Felix would have been convinced that the entire thing was a massive fever dream, if it weren’t for the spoiled groceries in his fridge, nearly a month past their use-by date. Or the small and random objects in odd places. Laundry that had been done, neatly folded but not put away, because his room is arranged just a little bit differently.

The other Felix must have been here, he surmises. Played with things that weren’t his, ordered out instead of cooked-- things that he would have done as well, in a moment of wild insanity.

The other Felix must have been lonely, and for some reason, the thought poisons the pit of his stomach. He wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone, no matter how much he misses Sylvain, with his warm, freckled skin and lopsided smile.

Annette is the first one to say something, because of course she is. Annette can’t keep her mouth shut for whatever it’s worth, and because Felix has spent nearly two weeks looking like a kicked puppy, she decides to be the one to broach the topic.

“Felix,” she says at lunch one day, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth as she shakes her salad box around to mix the dressing. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but you need to snap out of it.”

Felix immediately bristles, put on the offensive. “Nothing’s wrong,” he snaps, but he regrets his tone the moment he sees her face fall. It’s not fair to treat her like this, because the only thing that Annette has done wrong, is fucking care for him.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she repeats, and he knows that tone, the one her she sounds tired and her voice warbles just a little bit. She’s more worried about him then she’s let on. “Does this have to do with anything about your weird behavior this last month?”

“I haven’t been--”

“Who’s Sylvain?”

Felix’s heart stops at the name, because he’s made a point to not even think it. It hurts too much and it aches even now, his heart tipping to the side like it’s about to burst. He’s trying not to feel anything, he’s trying to be that pitiful, emotionless husk he was before, be he can’t .

He doesn’t say anything, and Annette pops open the lid of her salad container. “You asked me where he was weeks ago, and I had no idea who you were talking about. You were annoyed by that, by the way, but I would think that I would know if some man had entered your life. And I’d be hurt if you hadn’t told me--”

“Annie, please don’t,” Felix asks, weary beyond belief and not at all equipped to handle this conversation. “Just -- please .”

She reaches out, fingers wrapping around his hand gently. They’re cold, unlike the warm hold of Sylvain, but it’s nice, and he loves Annie, truly he does but--

He pulls his hand from hers and she looks hurt, but she doesn’t try again. “He’s no one,” he tells her. “Just a fling. It ended.”

“Badly?” Annette asks.

“No, it just-- It wasn’t meant to be, I think.” The words sound weak and pitiful, and they don’t make him feel better. He knows she’ll see right through him.

“Somethings aren’t,” Annette says. “But you and I know that better than anyone. Felix, look at me please.” He does and she tuts, seeing his red-rimmed eyes and ragged face. He looks like he’s aged years, probably. “I don’t know what happened, but I do know this-- You love more fiercely than anyone I know, and one day that’ll count for something.”

Felix laughs at her, and it’s bitter and acrid tasting in his mouth, and she looks at him like he’s an absolute madman, but he thinks it’s better than crying, because that would imply that he still had the capacity to feel such a thing like love .

He can’t anymore, Felix thinks. His heart’s too damaged to ever truly recover.

Annette purses her lips in annoyance. “Get out,” she says when he’s done. “Go do something. Take a walk. Run in those ridiculously tight joggers you’re attached to. Cooping yourself up and moping about it won’t help.”

He laughs again, this time a little chuckle as he shakes his head, but his lips curve into a little smile at a memory. At another Annette, saying something very similar. In fact, this entire conversation had been weirdly familiar.

“Thanks Annie.”

He means it.

It’s winter.

####

The air is cold, but Felix feels better. It’s taken months for him to properly take Annette’s advice, but that’s because he knew that she’d be right, and it thoroughly annoys him.

His track pants are stupidly tight, but they were expensive and given to him by Glenn, so like fuck he wasn’t going to make use of them until he can’t anymore.

Felix used to run in this park every morning, until his mornings at work got to be too early. Then it was late evenings. As his caseload got heavier though, and his hours longer, he’d stopped entirely.

It’s chilly and brisk and way too early to be up on his day off, but he felt like it. He doesn’t know why, really. Felix woke that morning with an urge to just go run out his frustrations. It's working. His lungs burn and his muscles cramp with expected soreness, but he feels more alive than he has for the better part of half a year.

It’s gotten better, kind of. But he’s not right and he doubts that he ever will be.

Felix taps his fingers against his thigh impatiently, taking in the coffee shop. It’s got a dumb pun for a name, but he thinks that a warm latte would be a nice end to a successful run, so he slips inside, standing in line.

Ten minutes and a take-away cup later, he turns from the counter only to slip in a wet spot, falling against a hard body, and shit it’s embarrassing, because Felix isn’t the type to slip on anything. His sneakers are supposed to have good traction and--

“Woah buddy, you okay there?”

Felix’s blood runs cold at the smooth voice and the way that it curls around words. He’s hearing things, he’s got to be, it can’t--

Sylvain stands before him, hair bright in the artificial lights, smile easy and wide under a spattering of freckles. Once he gets a proper look at Felix, he stiffens, fingers tightening around his arms as he steadies him.

Felix is going to vomit, he’s going to puke all over the floor, because this shouldn’t be happening, this can’t be happening. He must look ill, because Sylvain tugs him to the side. “Hold on, let’s get you seated okay? Yeah, just like that.”

The seat is cold and hard under him, but Sylvain’s hands are burning against his skin and when he lets go, Felix feels like he’s lost everything again and--

Sylvain only went to get a cup of water and as he sits, Felix sees that he’s covered in coffee. “I’m sorry--”

“Not a big deal,” Sylvain says, sliding the water to him. “I mean, I’ve had worse thrown at me, I promise you.”

Felix drains half of it, knowing that he must look ridiculous. Sylvain watches him carefully though, looking like he wants to say something but is unsure exactly where to start. So they sit there in awkward silence.

The vampiric barista brings Sylvain a new coffee, sneers at Felix, and sets about mopping up the mess. Felix sneers back. Sylvain laughs, wrapping his hands around the warm mug, eyes twinkling like he knows .

Felix does something really, really dumb. “Would you go on a date with me?” he blurts, and Goddess above he sounds insane, because who spills coffee all over a person and then immediately asks them out?

But Sylvain’s gaze softens, his smile affectionate and Felix knows that something weird is happening here, because he reaches out to take his hand, thumb soft as it rubs across his knuckles.

“Of course, Felix,” he says. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, actually.”

####

Elsewhere

Felix has come back to him. Sylvain doesn’t know how or why, but he’s there next to him in bed, reading over work reports with glasses perched smartly on the tip of his nose. Sylvain watches him carefully. Quietly. Like he’s afraid that he’ll disappear again.

The glasses had been the first clue, really.

That, and the fact that he’d never brought those sandwiches he promised, instead walking in through the front door in the worst mood that Sylvain’s ever seen him in.

“You’re staring,” Felix says to him, not bothering to look away from his work. Sylvain smiles, sliding closer. Felix immediately lifts an arm as Sylvain slots in next to him, cheek resting against his collarbone.

“I’m glad that you came back to me,” he murmurs sleepily. Honestly, it’s been a long month and Sylvain is tired .

Felix pauses before closing the folder. He pulls off his glasses, folding them gently before tossing them onto the bedside table. Then he digs into the sheets, fingers nestled into Sylvain’s hair as he cards through it.

“Me too,” he says quietly. And then, “I forgot how dumb you were, when we first met.”

Sylvain laughs into his neck, but he’s glad, he’s glad and happy and he can rest easily now. Well, maybe.

He waits a bit before asking, “Do you think they’ll be okay?”

Felix hums at that, fingers slipping down from his hair to his neck, cold against his hot skin, but soft as he rubs circles there. “Yeah,” he says.

Sylvain presses a kiss to Felix’s neck, slow and languid, the start of something that the both of them are way too tired for, but they’re kind of desperate. Felix rolls over Sylvain, hair falling in a curtain around his face, looking at him fondly.

“Yeah,” Sylvain repeats back, lips sliding into a devilish smile as he pulls Felix down to him. “Yeah .”

#fire emblem fanfiction #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #sylvain jose gautier #felix hugo fraldarius #felix and sylvain #felix/sylvain #Sylvix #sylvixfanfiction

14 notes · View notes

palendromicdragonrider · 5 years

Text

Turn Back the Hands - Part 3

“Okay,” Hilda grunted. “If anyone had said anything about climbing, I would not have made such an effort to look cute.”

Claude looked up at Hilda, the last of the trio to climb down the rope from Claude’s dorm room window. “If it makes you feel better,” Claude called up to her, “your ass looks great in that skirt.”

Hilda looked down and stuck her tongue out at him. “Respectfully, fuck you,” she said. Claude laughed. The girl may be lazy, but she had some spunk to her.

Beside him, Leonie tapped her foot restlessly, arms crossed over her chest to cover the low cut shirt that Hilda forced her to wear for the night. “I’m going to freeze in this,” she muttered for at least the third time.

“You’ll be fine. It’s a warm night, and dancing will certainly heat you up. If you really get that cold, you can borrow my cloak.”

Leonie huffed at him, but did not complain anymore. Claude watched as Hilda struggled the last few feet of the journey until he could help her the rest of the way down. “I hope you have a better way of getting back up there,” Hilda said as she readjusted her skirt.

“I do. It’s called, ‘if you’re too drunk to climb back up, then you’re free to ask everyone else how they intend to sneak back in and hope you can copy one of their ideas’.”

“Such a gentleman. Remind me, why does everyone think you’re such a great schemer again?”

“It’s not about the plan,” Claude said, looping his arms around Leonie’s on the right and Hilda’s on the left. “It’s about knowing when to take credit, and when to keep silent.”

“Ah, so that’s you secret,” Leonie said with a laugh.

“Just promise you won’t tell,” Claude teased. He winked at her and she rolled her eyes with a smile on her lips. “Come on, girls. We don’t want to miss the first dance.” I hope that Sylvain and Felix are already there.

The three rushed into town as they heard music beginning to play. The town square was well lit despite the late hour, and young men and women were packed in, looking for dance partners. Hilda let go of Claude’s arm nearly the second they reached the square, as a handsome young man with blond tousled hair asked her for a dance. Leonie shrunk into Claude, a slight frown on her face. “Care to dance, fair lady?” Claude asked her with a grin. Leonie looked up at him, her eyes wide. “What’s with that look? I told you I was bringing you out for a good time.”

“I just assumed you were being polite.”

“Polite? Does that sound like me at all to you?”

“Not at first glance,” Leonie laughed. “Though I don’t think you’re as bad as you want people to think you are.”

Claude laughed, surprised at how insightful Leonie’s comment was. “In truth, I’ve been looking for ways to get to know all of our classmates better,” Claude admitted. “And I figured you would appreciate a good ol’ folksie dance night.”

“Is that what you think of me?” Leonie laughed. “That I’m a backwoods hill-billy, or something?”

“I think you’ve got more moves than you let on, that’s all I’m saying,” Claude replied with a wink. “Come on.”

He led Leonie onto the open pavement where other young couples were swinging each other around to the beat of the music, played by a pair of fiddlers and a piper standing on top of a makeshift stage. Claude danced with Leonie in circles, letting her correct his steps when he did not move in the right direction at a change in the songs. It was not the same music Claude was used to dancing to back home, but Leonie knew the first three songs at the first note. Apparently they danced to the same songs in her hometown. When the fourth song started playing, though, she halted, tilting her head to one side. “Huh,” she panted. “I’ve never heard this song before.”

“That’s because it’s a song from the Empire, not the Alliance,” Edelgard’s voice said. Claude and Leonie both looked towards her as she approached, her vampire-looking servant Hubert half a step behind her. “The town here tries to play music from all over Fódlan so everyone recognizes at least some of the dances. Apologies, by the way. I would have come over to say hi earlier, but the two of you looked to be having a good time. I did not want to spoil it.” Edelgard looked from Claude to Leonie. “I do not think you and I have properly met yet. You are Leonie, correct?”

“I am,” Leonie replied, a hint of caution in her tone. “And you’re Princess Edelgard.”

“Just ‘Edelgard’ is fine.” Edelgard smiled pleasantly at her. “I have seen you training with Captain Jeralt. You have incredible technique with a lance, and I also understand that you are an expert hunter.” Hubert looked to Claude as if questioning why his precious princess was wasting her time with such idle chatter. Claude shrugged, having no answer himself. Beside him, Leonie blushed and laughed nervously.

“Please, I just do what I need to survive.”

“Don’t be so humble. You have a talent that others envy, embrace it,” Edelgard said. She turned back towards Claude, handing him the drink in her hand. “Hubert and I were going to dance for a song or two, but we have a table saved in the corner over there. You two look like you could use a break. Sit down, drink, relax! We’ll join you later.” Her eyes were icy with intent. Claude looked to where she had gestured and noticed who her table companions were. He smiled at her.

“Sounds like a plan. Enjoy your dance!” he beamed. He took Leonie’s hand and led her through the crowd of people toward the corner table, not taking his eyes off of Sylvain and Felix.

“So,” Leonie began when they were out of earshot. “Edelgard knows who I am.”

“Yeah, it appears that way,” Claude responded absently.

“I think she just wanted to impress you,” Leonie said. Claude looked at her with a furrowed brow. Seriously, what was with all of these girls thinking there was something going on between him and Edelgard after one civil discussion? He did not understand romance in Fódlan.

“Nah, we’re just trying to be more pleasant with each other after the mock battle,” Claude told her. Not necessarily the truth, but not wholly a lie, either.

“Right,” Leonie replied curtly. They were nearly at the table. Sylvain and Felix both had mugs in their hands. By the way Sylvain was swaying, Claude was certain he was drunk. Even Felix looked like he was barely holding himself together, much to Claude’s surprise. Beside them was a girl with blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid. Claude had seen her hanging around with the two and them and Dimitri before, but he could not quite place her name. Irma? Edith? He was sure it would come to him.

“Your majesty!” Sylvain slurred. “Come to join us for a drink?”

“From the looks of things, I have a lot of work to do to catch up. And don’t call me that. I’m not a prince of Fódlan.”

“Apologies for the morons,” the blonde girl said. “Don’t let their current appearance fool you. They’re both lightweights. Finish the drink in your hand and you’ll be caught up enough. Oh! Hi, Leonie.” She smiled suddenly. “I didn’t take you as the kind of girl to hang out with the riffraff.”

“Ouch!” Claude protested.

“Claude just dragged me along. This isn’t normally my scene.” Leonie explained, ignoring him.

“Mine, either,” the blonde girl replied, looking pointedly at Sylvain, “but someone has to be the babysitter. What do you say we leave the children at the table and grab a drink ourselves?”

“Sure,” Leonie replied. She unlaced her arm from Claude’s and patted him on the cheek. “Thank you for the dance. I’ll be back soon.” The blonde girl stood up, and the two left together. Sylvain looked like he wanted to join them, but standing did not seem like an option. Without any other options, Claude sat down.

“I’ve seen her around before, but I don’t think I’ve ever met—umm—“

Sylvain perked up, as if suddenly realizing Claude was there. “Who, Ingrid?”

Claude snapped his fingers. “That’s it, yeah.”

“What about her?” Felix asked almost lazily, taking another drink from his cup.

“She grew up with you guys, right?” Claude asked. He took a drink as well, figuring the conversation would not go his way if he did not appear casual enough. The last thing he wanted was for it to get back to Dimitri that he was interrogating his childhood friends for potential dirt on him. “The two of you, Ingrid. . . And Dimitri, right?”

Felix scoffed. “Yeah, the five of us were inseparable as children.”

“But there’s only four of you,” Claude corrected.

“That’s right,” Felix muttered. “Only four now. . .”

Sylvain glared at Claude and gestured for him not to broach the subject any further. It piqued Claude’s curiosity, but that was not why he was there. He took another drink.

“It’s amazing that you guys have stayed so close over the years,” Claude began again. “I don’t think I have any close friends from my childhood the way you guys do.”

Sylvain laughed, and his head swayed back and forth. He was definitely drunk. “It’s prob’ly more accurate t’say we’re still stuck with each other. Right, Felix?”

“Shut up,” Felix replied.

“Exactly!”

Claude laughed. If anything, the two seemed more like bickering brothers than friends. But perhaps that was why their friendship lasted so many years.

A serving girl came by with a new round of drinks. Felix offered to pay, and Claude thanked him. He was near the bottom of his cup, anyway. Claude smiled at the girl as he took the new cup from her. Another drink.

“Who was tha’ girl with you, Claude? Was that Leonie?”

“Hmm? Oh, umm yeah. It was.”

Sylvain leaned over the table as if to look for her, though by then she was long lost in the crowd.

“She’s a babe when she s’not in a school uniform,” Sylvain said. “Who knew she had tits hiding under there?” Claude grunted in reply while Felix rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long night if Claude could not get Sylvain’s mind off of girls. “Come t’think of it. . .” Sylvain added. He pointed a limp hand at Claude. “Your professor’s hot, too. Why’d we get the old guy? S’not fair. . . Even Manuela woulda been nice to look at—“

“Sylvain, shut up,” Felix said. He elbowed Sylvain in the ribs, which only seemed to piss him off.

“No, you shuddup! I have a question for Claude-y boy, here.” He leaned over the table, looking Claude in the eye with a surprising amount of sobriety for one who reeked so strongly of booze. “Rumor ‘round the church s’that Byleth had first pick o’ the houses. And she pick’d the Golden Deer for. . . What, you? What makes you so fuckin’ special, pretty boy?”

“It must be my charming demeanor,” Claude replied with a forced smile. This time he took a long, long drink.

Sylvain laughed loudly, slamming his fists on the table and causing Felix’s drink to spill in his lap. “Son of a—“ he muttered.

“That is true,” Sylvain continued, unaware of his friend’s irritation towards him. “You may be a sneaky bastard, but you have more pers’nality than Edelgard and Dimitri put together.”

“This conversation is getting ridiculous,” Felix muttered. He stood up, swaying slightly “I’m going to find something to dry my pants. Claude, do me a favor and watch the idiot, will you? Ingrid will probably be back soon.”

“Sure thing,” Claude said as Sylvain muttered “Asshole.” The table was silent for a moment after Felix left. Claude’s head was starting to rush. He had not drank alcohol in months, not since moving to Fódlan. And even then, he was never known for having the strongest tolerance. “So. . . I’m surprised that Dimitri is not with you guys tonight.” Sylvain cocked his head to one side.

“Dimitri s’not here,” he said. “Went back to Faergus for a couple o’days.”

“Why?”

Sylvain shrugged. “He didn’t say. To visit his uncle, maybe?” He tipped his mug over and frowned as it was empty. “Why d’you ask?”

“Just curious,” Claude mumbled half-heartedly. He was reaching the bottom of his cup, as well.

“Dimitri prob’ly wouldn’t come anyway. He would say it was ‘dishonest t’sneak out here and betray the—the trust of our instructors,’ or some shit like that.” He was still shaking his mug, as if it would magically make more alcohol appear. Claude fought the urge to groan aloud. Whatever Edelgard wanted him to hear from Felix and Sylvain, he was not going to get it out of them that night. Sylvain was too drunk and Felix was too, well, Felix. He looked over his shoulder towards the people dancing, but he could not spot her. Was she actually going to come back, or did she say that to manipulate him into sitting with the two boys when she knew they were inebriated?

The whole thing was frustrating. Claude did not know why he was even out that night. Someone had threatened his life no more than three days earlier, and here he was, drinking, out in public. Like a fucking idiot. All because a prissy, high-and-mighty future emperor had told him to. What a fool he was. Perhaps it was Edelgard who should be referred to as the schemer instead of him.

Claude caught a glimpse of pink hair on the outskirts of the dancers. Hilda was walking around by herself, peering at each person as she passed. Shit, Claude thought. It had been nearly an hour since he had seen her, and she was probably looking for him and Leonie. He waved his hand in the air to catch her attention. A mixture of relief and annoyance swept over her face when she saw him. “Good grief!” She exclaimed. “What kind of guy walks into a party with two hot girls on his arms, then no less than an hour later is found drinking with a loser in a corner? No offense, Sylvain. You look nice in that shirt, by the way.”

“Thank you. Is’sat a new necklace?”

“It is, I’m glad you noticed.”

Claude was sure he was delusional at that point. “I’m sorry,” Claude said to Hilda. “Edelgard was supposed to—“

“Edelgard left, hon,” Hilda said, cutting him off.

“Of course she did!” Claude huffed.

“So. . .you were supposed to meet her here tonight?” A mischievous grin crept over her face.

“No way!” Sylvain laughed. “You and Edelgard are hookin’ up? Well I s’pose they do say opposites attract. . .”

“We are not hooking up!” Claude ran his hand through his hair. This was going to get out of hand. “I was hoping to have a little peace between me, her and Dimitri to simmer down any house rivalry after last month. No more, no less.”

Sylvain put up a hand to his mouth as if to whisper to Hilda. “Does he es’pect us to believe this bullshit?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Heyyyyyyy,” a voice interjected. Ingrid and Leonie approached with Felix in tow. He was carrying two cups in his hands. Leonie’s cheeks were flushed, and her arm was linked with Ingrid’s. “No angry words from you, sir. You were the one who dragged us out here to have fun, right?”

Felix set one of the cups down in front of Claude. “Thank you for your service,” he said, inclining his head towards Sylvain. Claude wondered if the guy had a sense of humor after all.

“Leonie, have you been drinking?” Hilda asked.

“Ingrid introduced me to what’s know as a ‘shot.’ It’s like liquid fire, down down down your throat! Then you feel allll warm and loose,” Leonie giggled, shimmying her shoulders ever so slightly.

Ingrid giggled in return, leaning on Leonie’s shoulder. She was looking straight at Claude. “It’s a good way to stay warm in the mountains,” she explained. “The alcohol is stronger than in a beer, though, so you have to pace yourself.”

“I know what a shot is,” Claude told her. Though he doubted the ingredients were identical, hard alcohol was common in his homeland.

“Well, I didn’t know until tonight,” Leonie said. She chuckled to herself. “I had three before Ingrid told me I wasn’t supposed to have that many so fast.”

“Goddess, girl!” Hilda said, guiding Leonie to a seat. “Felix, could you be a dear and get her some water?” Felix nodded blankly and walked away. “I do not want to be having to take care of you if you get plastered.”

“Ah, don’t worry about me,” Leonie said with a wave of her hand. “I’ll be fine, I just need to sit for a while.”

“You can sit on daddy’s lap,” Sylvain offered, slapping his thighs.

“No,” Ingrid asserted.

“Why? Jealous?” Sylvain asked.

“Please. I’ve seen what you will put your dick in. I don’t want your diseases.”

“Diseases?” Leonie asked. Ingrid’s eyes widened.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. Just keep away from the pig with the red hair.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“When’d this become Pick on Sylvain Night? I just wanted t’come and have a dance or two, maybe meet a nice girl—”

“Let’s go dance then, Sylvain,” Hilda offered. “Come on, you should know this song.”

“Thank you,” Ingrid mouthed to her. Claude wondered if there was some secret code that all women knew across all nations on how to handle guys like Sylvain. Hell, he thought with a chuckle, they probably have a code for how to handle guys like me, too.

“Y’know what,” Sylvain said, stretching his arms above his head. The motion made him sway. “I would love that.”

Hilda took his hand and led him around the table so he wouldn’t fall on his face. Before leaving, she leaned over to Claude and whispered. “You and I are going to have a long talk tomorrow.”

Claude finished his third drink, listening absently to Leonie and Ingrid as they discussed lance techniques and how they wanted to spar with each other later in the week for practice. Claude tried not to pout, but that was exactly what he was doing. Ever since that note was slipped under his door, he felt like he was spiraling. Who in this part of the continent would want him killed, and why? Did it have to do with his past? The fact that he was the future leader of the Alliance? As much as he tried to be the easy-going guy everyone thought he was, the threat of being assassinated was occupying too many of his thoughts. It was going to get him killed.

Like it got Marianne killed.

That was another thing. Why the hell did his brain seem to think that Marianne died on the battlefield? Marianne was alive. Marianne was safe. So why did he have this memory—phantom though it was—of her dying in his arms? Of him failing to protect her?

To top it all off, there was Byleth. Strong, terrifying, stoic Byleth, who chose to teach his house for reasons that Claude could not comprehend. Who equally frustrated him and amazed him. Who betrayed him by not telling him the truth about the bandits that he had killed two nights ago.

What was he going to do about her?

“You look like you could use a shot yourself, my friend,” Ingrid said. Claude looked up at her. They had never spoken before that night, but he could have sworn that she was reading every thought in his head like an open book. Ingrid patted Leonie on the shoulder. “Stay here, okay? Felix is on his way with water for you.”

Leonie smiled and waved them off, mumbling something that Claude did not quite catch. Ingrid took Claude’s hand and led him along the buildings towards a nearby tavern. They passed Felix along the way, who gave Claude a threatening look, then kept moving.

“What was that about?” Claude asked.

“Probably me,” Ingrid admitted. “Felix can be a little. . . protective.”

“Are you guys—you know, together?” Claude asked.

Ingrid laughed, but her eyes looked sad. “No,” she said. “Nothing like that.”

“Then why—“

“I was engaged to his brother. He died,” Ingrid said quickly, not looking Claude in the eye. “You might as well know. It will get around the school sooner or later.”

“Gods,” Claude said. “I’m sorry.”

Ingrid shook her head. Thin strands of her blonde hair came loose from her braid and fell along her face. “You didn’t know.” She walked up to the bar counter and ordered the drinks for him and herself, coins to pay already in the tavern owner’s hand. Without question, he pulled out two small glasses and poured a clear liquid into them. Ingrid handed one of the glasses to Claude and raised her own. “What shall we drink to?”

“To your fiancé?” Claude offered. Ingrid considered it for a moment, then nodded her head.

“To Glenn,” she said, clinking her glass against his. They both swallowed the contents of their glasses. Claude’s throat felt like fire and the fumes from the alcohol filled his nostrils. Yet he was surprised to find that it went down smoother than he expected. No, this was not the same stuff he would drink back home at all.

“May I ask what happened?” Claude asked. “Feel free to tell me no. I have a curious mind, but I won’t prod if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t mind,” Ingrid said, despite crossing her arms across her chest. “Have you ever heard of the Tragedy of Duscur?”

“It was when some rebels from Duscur killed the king of Faergus four years ago, right?” Claude asked.

“That is true, but a select group of other nobility were also targeted for assassination. One of them was Glenn. . . He and his men were slaughtered.” Ingrid shook her head. “It feels so long ago sometimes, but I still remember his smile clearly. And his laugh. He was a good man, down to the core. I don’t know if I will ever fully move on from losing him. Nor will Felix, or Dimitri for that matter.”

“Dimitri?” Claude asked. “Was he close to Glenn?”

“I—he. . .” Ingrid sighed, holding herself tighter. “Prince Dimitri was there when Glenn was attacked. In fact, he was the only survivor.” She spoke the last few words in whispers. “I think that makes him feel guilty,” she confessed.

“I had no idea,” Claude breathed. The rushing in his head was stronger now than it had been earlier. His face felt warm. “Let’s go back outside. I need some air.” Ingrid nodded and led him out the door. The music was still playing, but the songs were slower, softer now. More romantic than lively, Claude thought. “What makes you think Dimitri feels guilty?”

Ingrid shrugged. She was watching the couples hold each other close as they swayed to the music. “He hasn’t been the same since the incident,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, Prince Dimitri is a great guy. One of the most sincere people I know.” She looked Claude in the eyes. “But when you’ve known someone for as long as I have know him, you can spot the changes. His eyes look more strained. He looks around corners and behind bushes when he walks past them. He takes his training more seriously, he jabs harder and faster. His sparring partners leave with more bruises and scrapes than before.” Her eyes widened suddenly, as if she realized what she was saying. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve had a little too much to drink.”

“I think I have too,” Claude confessed. In truth, he was struggling to keep himself upright. Ingrid was giving him the exact information that he expected to obtain from Felix and Sylvain, but none of it would stick in his memory if anyone put another drink in his hands. “Do you want to head back to the monastery?”

“I shouldn’t leave Sylvain and Felix alone,” Ingrid sighed, looking in the direction of their table. “Those two boys can get into quite a bit of trouble if nobody is watching them. Especially when they’re drunk.”

“True, and I have Hilda and Leonie with me, as well. . .” Ingrid looked up at him and smiled.

“I can take care of them if you want. You look like you could use some rest.”

“Thank you,” Claude said. He hesitated. “Only—“

“What?”

“I don’t know how to sneak back in,” Claude confessed. “I sort of climbed down a rope, and I don’t think I could get back up again without snapping my neck.” Oh, the irony, he thought, grateful that Hilda wasn’t nearby to call him a hypocrite.

Ingrid laughed, covering her hand with her mouth. “Claude von Riegan, grand schemer, too drunk to get into church.”

“I have a way back in,” Claude protested. “It just involves putting myself in too much danger under the circumstances.” His argument only made Ingrid laugh harder. She pulled out her purse and handed him a couple of coins.

“A word for the wise,” she said with a wink. “The Gatekeeper is a bit of a pushover. He won’t get you in trouble if you stop and chat with him for a while.”

“What are the coins for, then?”

“In case anyone else is standing guard with him. Having a bribe handy usually helps.”

“I didn’t take you for the sneaky sort,” Claude said with a grin.

“Hanging out with Sylvain has taught me a thing or two,” Ingrid said.

“Regardless, I owe you one,” Claude said. He winked at her before swaying off towards the end of town. He cut through the dancing couples, which Claude realized was a mistake, as he ended up bumping into one or two people on his way out. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. He felt lightheaded, and his feet did not want to cooperate with him. Must be because the path isn’t well lit, he told himself, but he was hardly convinced. His limbs moved more like jelly with every step. He kept his head down, focusing on getting one foot in front of the other. Looking up made his vision blur, anyway.

“Greetings, Claude!” The Gatekeeper called as Claude reached Garreg Mach’s entryway. “Aren’t you out past curfew?”

“I am,” Claude confessed, forcing himself as upright as he could manage.

“And. . . Have you been drinking?” The Gatekeeper asked, a bit of the usual pep out of his tone.

“I have,” Claude confessed again. He wondered why he did not seem to care to hide anything. The Gatekeeper was such a nice guy. Always in a good mood. Claude decided he liked the Gatekeeper.

“You know that’s against school rules, even if you are old enough to drink.” Old enough? What was considered ‘old enough’ to drink in Fódlan, again? 16? 18? 21? It hardly mattered to Claude in that moment.

“I do know,” Claude told the Gatekeeper, his words starting to slur. “But I went anyway. And do you know why, Mister Gatekeeper? Because of the false promises of a woman.”

“Oh, I’ve been there before, sir,” the Gatekeeper said sympathetically. “It’s best not to take it too personal. I’m sure things will be better between you and her tomorrow.”

“You really think so?” Claude asked.

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Well, I don’t. But I appreciate your optimism. You’re a good guy, you are.”

“I do my best, sir!” The Gatekeeper beamed. Claude squinted at him. It was hard to see the man’s face in the dark. Especially with the wall behind him tilting in such an annoying manner.

“Are you going to tell on me to the professor?” Claude asked.

The Gatekeeper shifted from foot to foot. “Oh, I suppose not,” he finally said. “I’ll let you off with a warning this time. No doubt your hangover will be a good enough punishment in the morning, anyway.”

“Thank you,” Claude slurred. “You’re a good guy. No! A great guy. You really are. Have a good night, Mister Gatekeeper.”

“You as well, Claude!” The Gatekeeper saluted Claude as he passed. Claude hardly noticed. He was just grateful there was nobody else as at the entryway to scold him. The Gatekeeper was such a nice guy. Claude decided he was going to learn his name in the morning. He stumbled to the left, past the fishing pond and the cafeteria, towards the stairs that led up to his room. It took much more effort to climb them than usual. By the end, Claude practically felt like he was crawling.

The wooden boards creaked with every step he took down the hall. When he approached his door, Claude heard the rustling of papers in the wind. Dammit, he thought. I forgot that the window was open. Hoping none of his books or homework had flown out of the room, he opened the door.

A figure clad in black stood above his bed, a decadent knife in their hands. Their face was covered by a mask, so Claude could only see their light-colored eyes when they turned towards him. Claude froze in the doorway. He was unarmed, he realized. The masked figure lunged at him. Claude ducked out of the way, falling to the ground. He scrambled towards his bed, reaching for the place where he kept a knife hidden. The figure stepped on his arm, pinning it in place. Claude grunted in pain. The figure’s knife came down on him again. He caught the blade with his hand, wincing from the sting as his flesh tore open, and kicked the masked figure in the shin. They stumbled backwards, giving Claude the chance to grab his knife and rise to face them.

“Do us all a favor and die!” The figure shouted, lunging at him once more. Claude deflected the blade, then jabbed his hand holding the knife upward into the assailant’s ribs. The figure grunted, and stumbled backwards towards the window. Claude shoved them, and they fell out of the opening. Claude’s stomach lurched as he heard the thud of their body hitting the ground below. He leaned on his bed frame to steady himself, but he puked regardless. The night was silent. Either no one heard the encounter Claude just had with the assassin, or they were too afraid to leave their rooms. Not that Claude would blame anyone for that. He wished he had not entered his room. He should have stayed in the village with Leonie and Hilda. He should have danced the night away and dealt with the consequences in the morning.

A gust of wind blew more of Claude’s papers off of his desk. Claude jumped from the movement, afraid that someone else would come through the window for him. That was when he saw it: a second note, as carefully folded as the one in his pocket. Only this one was folded to hold the form of a wyvern. With his good hand, Claude shakily picked the note up. It took considerable effort to open it, in part due to the skill in which it was folded and in part due to his inability to use his left hand, which he clutched to his chest to keep from dripping blood onto the floor. When the note was at last opened, Claude read its contents with hardly a breath.

Death has come for the traitor.

The note was not meant for him, he realized. It was meant for whoever found his body later that night, or the next morning. If Claude had not gone to the party, had he been asleep in his bed. . .

The thought made his stomach turn again. He coughed and gagged, but nothing came up. Tears ran down his face. Tears of frustration. Tears of fear. Tears of anger.

Something in Claude forced him to stand. He stumbled back to the stairs, down and to the left, stalking in a not-so-straight line past the lower-level dorms, seeking the person who slept at the end. Light could be seen from the cracks in her door. She was still awake. Claude leaned against the wall and pounded on the wooden frame.

Byleth opened the door.

“Claude?” she asked. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Heya, Teach. May I come in?” Claude asked roughly.

“I think it would be highly inappropriate—“

“Good,” Claude said, cutting her off. He pushed past her and closed the door behind him. Byleth opened her mouth to protest until she saw him in the light.

“Oh, my goddess!” she gasped. “What happened?! I must get Manuela—“

Claude stepped between her and the door. “No. Nobody else must know,” he asserted. “I don’t. . . I don’t trust anyone else.”

“Okay,” Byleth replied cautiously.

Claude extended his wounded hand towards her. His arm was beginning to stiffen. Frankly, he was surprised that he could still stand. “Will you help me with this? I’ll tell you everything that happened after.”

Byleth nodded. She retrieved bandages and a salve from her desk and tended to the wound wordlessly. Claude watched her work, finding that the silence gave him the opportunity to lower his heart rate and collect his thoughts. He wanted to still be angry with her, but in this moment, all he felt was gratitude.

“Are there any other injuries?” Byleth finally said, fastening the bandage to his palm.

“My arm might be bruised from being stepped on, but otherwise no,” Claude told her.

“Are you sure? Your shirt is covered in blood.”

“It’s just from my hand.”

“Will you let me look anyway? Please, just to ease my worry.”

Claude nodded numbly. He raised his arms to let Byleth lift his shirt. His heart began pounding again as she pressed against his abdomen, his ribs, checking for any injuries that Claude already knew were not there. The fight had not lasted long enough for that. . . Byleth’s fingers lingered on his skin, just for a moment, then she lowered his shirt again. She had a pensive look on her face. When she finally looked up at him again, she said, “You reek of booze.”

“I know,” Claude said.

“Did you sneak out to go to that dance in town?”

Claude did not realize that she would be aware of the town’s festival at all. “I did,” he admitted.

“Is that how this happened? Claude, I swear, if you got into a drunken brawl with someone—“

“I didn’t,” Claude cut her off. Byleth looked at him with an intensity in her eyes that he had only seen once before. Claude was not sure if it was the adrenaline or the alcohol, but he was sure that she was ready to fight him as well. She did not speak, only waited for his reply. “I overheard your conversation with Rhea,” Claude told her. He cursed himself silently. That was not what he had intended to say, but the thought appeared in his head, and. . . Out his mouth it came.

“Yes, Seteth notified me of that,” Byleth replied, her tone hard and icy.

“And you can punish me all you want for that,” Claude told her. “But I think you and I need to do some leveling here.” Byleth’s brow lowered, though in confusion or anger, Claude could not tell. “You told me the other day that you picked me—I mean, the Golden Deer, because you did not think I could lie to you, correct?”

“Among other reasons, yes.” Reasons you are no doubt regretting now, Claude thought.

“Then I don’t think it’s fair that you chose to lie to me.”

“Claude, I never—“

“Yes you fucking did!” Claude’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to say that. I’m sorry. I just. . .” Claude sighed. With no other choice apparent, given how his mouth was failing him, he pulled out the note in his pocket. He had not let it leave his person since he first found it. But now, he handed it to Byleth. “You should have told me about the bandits,” he said. Byleth carefully took the note from his hand. “You should have told me that they were the same ones who tried to kill me the night we met.”

“Claude,” Byleth whispered, her hands visibly shaking. “This is a death threat.”

“It is,” Claude said, surprised by how calm he suddenly sounded, speaking of his own death. He handed Byleth the other note as well. “This was in my room tonight. It was supposed to be found after— After. . .” He took a deep breath. His stomach was threatening to heave again. “After I was found murdered in my sleep. Which is likely what would have happened had I not snuck out tonight.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I found the killer in my room.” The words hung in the air between them. Byleth did not ask where the killer was now. Being raised as a mercenary, odds were that she already knew the answer.

“And you think this assassination attempt is connected to the bandit attack?” Byleth asked, her eyes glancing over the second note.

“It could be,” Claude said. He placed his hands over his face. “I received the first note just before we left on the mission. If whoever was trying to kill me had been a member of the church, they could have given our house the mission hoping that the bandits could finish the job.”

“You think someone in the church is trying to kill you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know!” Claude said. “That’s my point! Who here would try to have me killed?!”

“And label you a traitor,” Byleth added. Claude fell silent. That. . . He had a few suspicions of why he could be seen as a traitor. Some of them for completely opposite reasons from each other. But. . . No. He was not ready to tell anyone about that. Even Byleth.

“Probably just a ploy to distract people after my death,” he said weakly. He frowned, feeling tears well up in his eyes again. “Nothing has made sense this week. I have had my life threatened, for reasons I do not know. Then there was that whole thing at the Red Canyon, with Marianne—“

“Marianne?” Byleth asked.

Claude stopped himself short. “It’s nothing, Teach,” he said.

“Claude, if it has something to do with this attack, maybe I can help you.”

“It doesn’t,” Claude told her. He stubbornly wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “At least, I don’t think it does.” Byleth sat next to him on the bed and pat his shoulder. Claude sighed. “I have this. . . Memory that isn’t real. That the last bandit who attacked us managed to kill Marianne before I could kill him.” He looked at Byleth, whose eyes were filled with concern. “I see her alive and well, and I feel guilty regardless. I remember her lifeless body in my arms, I remember looking into her eyes and seeing nothing there. I know it isn’t real, but—“

“It is real,” Byleth said.

Claude looked at her. His heart pounded in his chest and his shoulders shook. Byleth avoided looking at him, keeping her eyes on her hands that now rested in her lap. “What do you mean, Teach?” He could barely utter the words. “This isn’t funny.”

Byleth took a deep, ragged breath, then sighed just as shakily. She turned her body towards him, but still did not look him in the eye. “I told you to hurry towards me,” she whispered. “I was relieved to see you safe, both of you. When you were first separated from the rest of us, I had feared the worst. So I was eager to get you by my side again. Where I could keep you safe. . . You did not see the bandit, and neither did I. He leapt down just after you passed his hiding place in the rocks. . . You may have been too late to save Marianne, but so was I.”

Claude was shaking violently. He could hardly wrap his brain around the words his teacher was saying. “Marianne. . . Did die?”

Byleth nodded numbly. She clenched and unclenched her fists in her lap. “I could not live with that guilt. I figured you could not either.”

“So you—what? Magically undid it all? Turned back time?” Claude asked sarcastically. He was laughing, more due to hysteria than finding humor in the situation.

“That’s exactly what I did,” Byleth admitted. Claude pulled away from her.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am, though,” Byleth said. At last, she looked him in the eyes. Claude saw fear and confusion swirling together. But there was no hint of deception. “The night we met—“ She paused to steady her breath. “I should have died saving Edelgard. I blocked her from a blow while exposing my own back, as a bandit came down on us with an axe. Just before it connected with my spine, I felt time. . . Slow. Then stop. I suddenly found myself in darkness, standing face to face with a girl dressed in clothes from another age—I do not know who she was. Who she is.” Byleth seemed suddenly agitated at having to make the correction. Her whole body was tense, as if she was struggling with herself. Claude found himself subconsciously reaching for his knife. “She offered me. . . Her. . . Assistance. A gift. The ability to turn back time. I don’t understand this gift, how it works or why she offered it to me, but I used it that night to save myself, and I used it again the on our first mission in order to save Marianne.” Byleth rose suddenly. She started pacing back and forth, her fists still clenching over and over again. Claude gripped the knife tighter. His teacher was usually so calm and collected. Claude was not so sure he liked this side of her. “No one is supposed to have any memories of what happened before,” she muttered to herself, gripping her hair. “It’s supposed to be a slate wiped clean. . .” She stopped pacing, turning suddenly towards Claude.

“What are you getting at, Teach?” He asked cautiously. The door was still closed, but he was between it and her. And he had height and speed on his side. . .

“I’m sorry,” she confessed. “But I’m not ready for you to know all of this, yet. I hardly have enough answers for myself, and I cannot have this information getting out to anyone. Not the other students, not my father, not Rhea. . .”

Fear gripped Claude as Byleth slowly walked towards him, hands raised slightly. He leapt for the door, but Byleth got there first, blocking his way. She swiped the knife from his hands and threw it out of his reach. Clutching his face in her hands, she stilled him. “I like you, Claude, and I am sorry to do this to you. I promise you that I will tell you everything one day, when I have all the answers that I need for myself. And I promise that I will help you find your killer. You can trust me, Claude. I promi—imorp I .edualC, em tsurt nac uoY .rellik ruoy dnifuoyplehlliwItaht—

#fe3h turn back the hands #fe3h claude #fe3h fanfic #fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #claude von riegan #claude x byleth #claudeleth #bylaude #bylaude fanfic

61 notes · View notes

queenmorgawse · 4 years

Text

loving you is my gift tonight

missgoneril : there’s so much going on in that pic i don’t even know where to start fearthedeer : you gotta be more specific. is it dima? his parents in a two-person sweater?? the piglet in a fluffy hat they put on the armchair??? missgoneril : i missgoneril : the holy kingdom of faerghus has actually been on crack this whole time, in this essay i will -

or, some good old-fashioned holidays fluff ft. dimiclaude in modern fodlan.

READ ON AO3.

The envelope arrives a week or so before Saint Cichol’s Day. It’s made of creamy, off-white paper and sealed with an actual wax seal bearing the griffin knight of Faerghus, because royals apparently have to be extra even with something as mundane as sending holiday cards.

It’s actually addressed to Claude’s mother ( President Juliette von Riegan, the envelope reads in elegant, swirling script), but as First Son of the Leicester Alliance, Claude considers himself plenty qualified to snatch it up from the pile of holidays-related mail and whisk it off to his room.

He flops down onto his bed before breaking open the seal. The card inside is just as fancy as the exterior, done up in dark blue and silver highlights, and it’s the funniest thing Claude’s seen all week.

Now, the Faerghan royal family has been sending Saint Cichol’s cards to the von Riegans since the beginning of his mother’s presidency, so this is nothing out of the ordinary. It also doesn’t say anything special, besides Merry Saint Cichol’s day & best wishes from House Blaiddyd in embossed letters.

What is new, however, is that this time, it doesn’t have one of the Blaiddyds’ formal state portraits front and center. Sure enough, King Lambert and Queen Patricia are posing, flashing toothpaste-ad-worthy smiles at the camera, but there the resemblance comes to a brutal stop.

The photo features Dimitri, clad in possibly the gaudiest holiday sweater Claude’s ever seen. As per ugly sweater tradition, it sports an unholy amount of red and green, but nothing can dethrone the roaring lion’s head emblazoned over Dimitri’s torso, myriads of multicolored lights haphazardly sewn into its mane.

And he still manages to look like Prince Charming straight out of a collector’s edition of Fódlan’s Fables, because Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is unfairly photogenic like that.

Seiros, life is unfair. Or maybe it isn't, because it’s given him a boyfriend who miraculously still looks good while looking like he’s been hit and run over by a garlands-filled truck.

Because he’s the most loyal best friend anyone could ask for, Claude sits up, holds the card to the lamp on his bedside table, snaps a picture and sends it to Hilda. Her reply is almost instantaneous.

missgoneril : there’s so much going on in that pic i don’t even know where to start

fearthedeer : you gotta be more specific. is it dima? his parents in a two-person sweater?? the piglet in a fluffy hat they put on the armchair???

missgoneril : i

missgoneril : the holy kingdom of faerghus has actually been on crack this whole time, in this essay i will -

fearthedeer : LMAO

fearthedeer : fr tho i think it’s sweet

missgoneril : you have them rose-tinted glasses ON i see

fearthedeer : bold words coming from miss hilda ‘do you think dimitri’s hot blonde bodyguard will text me back?’ goneril

You can no longer send direct messages to this person.

Claude snorts and taps out of the conversation. Not a week goes by that Hilda doesn’t block him at least once. Whatever the reason - from posting their kindergarten playdates pictures on the Golden Deer group chat to that time he jokingly hit on her brother -, she always ends up unblocking him within the hour.

In the meantime, there’s someone else he wants to talk to. Claude flips to the second topmost conversation on his phone, lays back and starts typing.

fearthedeer : on ur way to light up all of fhirdiad by urself i see

hrhdima : I take it you’ve received our holidays well-wishes.

fearthedeer : it’s the BEST how did you not tell me about this before

hrhdima : Mother and Father wanted a ‘fun’ photo to go with our usual ones. I didn’t know they would actually use it for anything official.

fearthedeer : give whoever made that decision a raise bc they just made my entire week

hrhdima : You don’t think it’s silly?

fearthedeer : well.

fearthedeer : yes i do

fearthedeer : it’s definitely dorky

fearthedeer : but since it has you in it it’s dorky cute

fearthedeer : why are u not saying anything

fearthedeer : i told u u gotta learn to accept a compliment!!

hrhdima : Thank you, my dear. I had to take a few moments to compose myself.

fearthedeer : SEIROS

fearthedeer : HOW ARE YOU SO FUCKING ADORABLE 😭

hrhdima : 😳😳

fearthedeer : if i were here you BET i’d be kissing your cheeks

fearthedeer : but alas, the day’s just started for ur local first son

hrhdima : What’s the first thing on the list?

fearthedeer : visiting a kids’ hospital i’m pretty sure! hilda and i have some Clownery planned so i sure hope they’ll laugh

hrhdima : I’m sure they will. If you end up filming, I’d love to see it.

fearthedeer : eager to see me embarrass myself huh

hrhdima : Claude! Of course not!

fearthedeer : flames, i was kidding!! of course i’ll send u the vid!

hrhdima : Oh.

hrhdima : Good luck with...the clownery?

fearthedeer : thanks, good luck with what you have to do too <3

hrhdima : Thank you. Speaking of which, can I call you later? Ingrid’s banging down my door about the holidays address right now.

fearthedeer : sure!! have fun at rehearsal, romance that sweet sweet mic for me 😘😘

hrhdima : Claude, please.

fearthedeer : u love me

hrhdima : I do.

hrhdima : I wish we could see each other more, especially at this time of the year. I miss you a great deal.

fearthedeer : wtf you can’t just say stuff like that

hrhdima : We’re quite literally dating.

fearthedeer : STILL

fearthedeer : anyway don’t you worry your pretty royal head over it

fearthedeer : it’s time for a secret scheme >:)

hrhdima : Claude. What does this mean.

fearthedeer : ;)

hrhdima has sent a vocal message.

Hi Claude, this is Ingrid. Sorry for interrupting you guys, but Dimitri has an address to practice, so I had to take his phone away for the time being. Will give it back when he’s done. Say hello to Hilda for me!

fearthedeer : dedue wouldn’t do this to me

---

missgoneril : SWEET BABY SEIROS SHE SAID WHAT

---

“...And with that, my dear citizens, all that's left for me to do is wish you a Merry Saint Cichol's day. Hold your loved ones close, so that they might share the holidays' cheers with you. I know I will.”

Dimitri flashes the camera another bright smile before the operator signals to him that they're done filming. From the treshold, Sylvain gives him a thumbs-up, and Dedue an approving nod. Only then does Dimitri allow himself to relax, shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

It isn't the address that bothers him, nor the ever-present fear of slipping up in front of millions of Faerghus citizens on live television. He's been groomed in protocol for public appearances, virtual or not, since he was old enough to walk. No, it's the creeping realization that, year after year, he gives a little more time to the people, and keeps a little less to himself.

It's selfish, which is precisely why Dimitri's only vaguely mentioned it even to his closest friends. They'd whisk him off to some holiday destination at the speed of light if he asked, he knows, but it doesn't feel right to shirk his duties — even though Sylvain wouldn't call it shirking, only giving himself a well-deserved break.

After a few minutes of idle chatter with the camera crew - Dimitri's made it a habit to try and get to know everyone he works with, to the point he can now ask after some of the operators' children by name -, he finally steps out of the royal office requisitioned for the occasion. When he idly checks his phone, the screen flashes with half a dozen notifications : a picture of Felix and Ingrid on St Cichol's shopping (presumably for Glenn), some last minute recommendations from both his father and Duke Fraldarius, and…

fearthedeer : hey hey hey

fearthedeer : dima

fearthedeer : u should go get some fresh air 😜

fearthedeer : (front gate. hurry!!!)

fearthedeer : i see u typing. why don’t u walk faster instead

Dimitri picks up the pace, until he’s almost flying past the castle’s front gates and into the main courtyard. At first, nothing seems more out of the ordinary : the gatekeepers even shoot him perplexed looks as their crown prince stares out, half disheveled, at the snow-covered cobblestones.

Then a nondescript black cab pulls up, somehow unbothered by security checks, and everything suddenly pieces itself together.

Dimitri’s down the staircase before anyone can stop him, right as the cab’s door open and a silhouette clad in a vibrant yellow sweater steps out. Claude’s barely finished handing the driver a tip when Dimitri comes to a brutal stop just a few steps from him, heart beating wildly against his ribcage.

They exchange pictures pretty much everyday, but there’s an inherent brilliance to Claude a screen can’t capture. It’s something, Dimitri thinks, in the way his smile blooms first over his lips then reaches all the way to his eyes. Every time, it’s like watching the sun rise.

Claude opens his arms. Wordlessly, Dimitri lets himself be drawn into his embrace, curls around him and breathes in the fresh scent of pine needles.

Eventually, he finds it in himself to step back. His hands stay firmly planted on Claude’s shoulders, grounding himself in the other’s presence. “It really is you.”

Claude grins and tips an imaginary hat at him. “The one and only.”

“Flames, I—” Dimitri takes a deep breath in an attempt to compose himself. “How...when did you get here?”

“On a plane this morning. And before you ask, it wasn't on taxpayers' money,” Claude quips.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted to see you, but why now?” Dimitri’s brain frantically cycles through their relationship milestones. Their anniversary’s in early summer, and Claude’s birthday isn’t for another few months, and⎯

Claude gently takes his face into his hands, tiptoeing a little to rest their foreheads together, and Dimitri’s mind comes to a standstill.

“Hey, calm down, okay? You’re overthinking everything again.” Claude pauses, breathes in, breathes out. “Would you believe me if I said I’m a little late for your birthday?”

Oh. It’s true. His birthday, a national holiday. How did it slip his mind again?

As if able to read his mind, Claude chuckles. “Really, I just wanted to see you again. In person. I already meant it to be a Saint Cichol’s surprise, and our texts the other day were just...additional motivation, if you will.”

“You’re amazing,” Dimitri says, as earnest as he’s ever been. This time, it’s Claude’s turn to blush, a rosy flush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. It offers a nice contrast to the paleness of the snowflakes that have started accumulating in his hair, dusting his dark curls with white.

It occurs to Dimitri that perhaps they should have had this conversation inside.

“Come,” he tells Claude, slinging an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders to steer him back towards the castle’s warmth. “You must be freezing.”

Claude snorts and tucks his chin down into the collar of his coat. “Only because your country considers negative temperature to be mild weather.”

“It’s only starting to get chilly, really⎯” Dimitri cuts himself off when Claude shoots him a half-exasperated, half-fond look.

Before he can fumble himself into another clumsy explanation, Claude tugs him down by the lapels of his jacket and presses a kiss to his lips. It courses through him like lightning, all the way down to the tips of his toes, and it lingers even after Claude pulls away.

“Well, you’re here to keep me warm, aren’t you? Lead the way.”

Like this, his love is bright and lovely, the great hall’s flickering hearth painting him in broad strokes of honey and gold.

Dimitri takes Claude’s hand, and follows.

#fe3h #dimiclaude #claumitri #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #claude von riegan #kim's fics

10 notes · View notes

lalalalelo · 5 years

Text

Boys will be boys

So, this is my first fic, my first entry on tumblr and I have no idea what I´m doing. Imma doin’ dis rite??

Love the effort others put into their content, this is my contribution. English is not my first language, have mercy upon my soul~

Also, I want to use that bathhouse/ sauna (?) in fe3h so badly. Nintendo give us naked people please!

Link to AO3

Sylvain, the bathhouse and Claude's plan not working the way he imagined.

Time seemed to stand still. Sunbeams fell through the window into the seminar room, indicating the lovely weather they all seemed to miss out on. Professor Manuela walked monotonously along the aisle, reading in her bewitching voice from an antigue-looking book. Whilst the students of the first two rows took moderately motivated notes, the third row lingered gracelessly on their chairs. From time to time, small glances fell on the professor, who, as usual, could not resist showing up dressed with rather less than more clothing. The last row was mentally no longer present and otherwise busied with themselves. For the first hour, Claude stared at a stain on the wall at the far end of the room, wondering if those were the remains of his last failed experiment from a week ago. In the second hour, he fumbled restlessly around his pockets, trying to find anything he could keep his hands and mind busy with. A spoon, two hair ties from Hilda, some chalk remains, a squishy stump of a candle and a sparkly rock he discovered in the dining hall.

"Imperial year 861. After King Klaus I. passed away, his sons divided the holy kingdom of Faerghus into three territories and ruled from then on as archdukes."

Claude sighed. He knew the history of Fódlan inside out and even more than that, since he managed to snatch some confidential monastery documents and sneaked those into his room. He could spend days and nights in the library. Piles of books occupied his bed, leaving himself not enough space in it. Not that it mattered, since he fell asleep on his rug most of the time, passing out upon his tactic maps and scheming concepts. The professors liked to describe him as loafing and uninhibited, blaming his lack of seriousness. The truth was, he was far ahead of his classmates, at least regarding general subjects. To achieve great ambitions and goals, one should be prepared for the future. Only those who are aware of the past and present events are able to shape the future for the better. With this believing, he absorbed all available knowledge, often leaving him becoming quickly bored with his surroundings. The general subjects took place as a mixed seminar for students of all houses. They usually degenerated into lengthy monologues. He twiddled around with the hair ties, attempting to knot the chalk pieces together.

"Come on Felix, don’t be a coward. You can be stiffy later, you’re missing out on the time of your life.“

Sitting directly behind Claude, Sylvain was trying one of his attempts on convincing Felix to join in on his good-for-nothing-missions. For most of the time, the local ladies were involved somehow. As usual, it would probably not work on the grumpy loner.

"Shut up Sylvain and finally leave me be with your foolish games. I have to train later, because unlike you, I still intend to make something useful with my life."

"Uhh yes, you mean dying like a lonely and untouched maiden?"

The comment brought him a rough kick to the ankle. Claude found a few more toothpicks in his pockets, which he clumsily tried to combine with the improvised chalk-hair tie-candle-construct.

"What about you Dimitri? You can’t hide forever, just because your last date went terribly wrong. You are a healthy young man with needs. Once you take over the kingdom, your chance is over."

Dimitri inhaled sharply. "N…no, I can’t get involved in one of your absurdities again. It’s not suitable in my position to do such a wicked and improper action of…"

"Boooooring. You can’t tell me that you’re not at least interested. Look me in the eye and tell me the truth.“

"No ... no … well … I ..."

"Great, it’ll be a blast! Afterwards, we can still ..."

A loud smack on the back of his head silenced Sylvain and woke the dozing rest of the class, whilst Bernadetta flinched in shock and Mercedes and Anette were left in quiet chuckles. Professor Manuela took the attention back to class with one of her famous headbutts. Sylvain rubbed the back of his aching head, ignoring the piercing look he got from Ingrid sitting in the front row. Claude tried to craft the spoon into his construct, one of the toothpicks snapped. Crap.

As Professor Manuela continued lulling, Felix leaned back and huffed in satisfaction.

"You can take your childish attempts elsewhere, but not where you pester others with your incompetence and sloppiness and certainly not around me. Take the boar prince and get out of my sight.“

"Felix, please mind your language, ladies don’t fancy that. Your lack of interest in women will give everyone the wrong idea. Although sometimes I wouldn’t mind ...“

The bell rang for lunch break and a wild rustle passed through the aisle as everyone hurried up stowing their scrolls and quills into their bags. With a sigh, Professor Manuela closed the book and mumbled something about needing a drink. As Felix raged away, Sylvain still persuaded Dimitri to join him into whatever he had in mind. Dimitri lowered his head in shame and did his best to ignore his friend. Claude stood up, placed the strange sparkly rock on the spoon and positioned his sloppily improvised catapult. With a mumbled "Whatever“ he slammed his fist on the dipper and sent his ammunition flying across the room, towards Linhardt's resting head, which had already smacked the table as the first five minutes of the seminar passed by. Claude packed his things and disappeared outside.

"Oh look Marianne, that's the jewelry I must have lost in the dining hall. I wanted to use it for Lysithea's bracelet." Hilda chuckled happily as she picked up and stored the rock in her pocket. Linhardt grunted and moved his head to the other side.

---

As the dinner bell rang, Claude entered the dining hall, hungry for a nice and warming tomato soup. He picked up his share of dinner when he saw a waving Sylvain in the back of the hall. He sighted and ruffled his hand through his hair. Guess, I won’t be able to escape now. He made his way to the table where Sylvain and some others already sat. As he passed by the professors table, he sent a sheepish wink to his teach, only to be stared at with a unimpressed look, as usual. He let himself drop loudly onto the seat, sending an expectant glance to Sylvain.

"This better be good.“

"Oh Claude, you have no idea. As you are a man of class, you will fully understand that this is going to be grand.“

Raising an eyebrow, he inspected the rest of the group. Dimitri was staring his cheese-baked chicken to a second death, whilst Ignatz and Ashe were scooting impatiently around their seats. What a weird party to be sitting in.

"So, what troubles are you up to now?“

"I overheard Professor Manuela yesterday. They are reopening the bathhouse this evening!“

Sylvains excitement showed all over his face up to his ears. The bathhouse was only available to professors and some selected knights and staff members of the monastery. So technically, there was nothing to be so eager about. But he was Claude von Riegan and after spending quite some time at the academy, he also knew who Sylvain Jose Gautier was.

"Sylvain, you know that I don’t ever miss out on the opportunity for a nice little rebellion. But please don’t tell me you plan to sneak into the bathhouse and peek on Professor Manuela. I mean come on, she is doing well for her age. But it’s not like you don’t have enough girls walking around with half her age. This is low, even for you“

Sylvain’s smirk just widened. "I knew it, you are a smarty-pants! Well, Professor Manuela for sure is still quite a snack“ – Ignatz shivered – "but of course she won’t be going alone.“

Claude didn’t like where this was going.

"She will meet up with Shamir, Catherine aaaand your beloved professor Byleth.“

Claude choked on his first spoon full of soup, spitting it across the table on Ashe’s potato stew.

"What, what are you talking about? And why would you be interested in Shamir…or Catherine... or teach…“ As his mumbling grew quiet, he knew how unconvincing his response sounded.

"Oh come on, not even a blind person would miss out on how you cling to her, begging for attention and praise.“ Sylvain rolled his eyes. "Not saying you have a bad taste. I mean, look at those –“

A loud and painful sounding thump below the table meant the second kick for Sylvain on this day.

"Ouuuch, okay, sorry, sorry. No need in getting all sour. So, will you be joining? Because you can’t hold us back. We are in the middle of our youth and man, it’s really hard just getting the tiniest glimpse of bare female skin while being in this stuck up academy. Especially with having Ingrid lurking around us. Or Seteth.“

"Oh, poor thing are you now, Sir Gautier? And how did these lovely gentlemen get the honor to be part of your super secret and guaranteed successful mission? They sure don’t look like the usual suspects if you ask me.“

Ignatz looked away in hot shame, while Ashe’s face was ridden with confusion. Dimitri messed up his place with cheese all over his plate, not being able to make usage of his normally graceful table manners.

"Well, I couldn’t ask Ferdinand, as he is a little telltale for his extra praise of the day. He would give our plan away immediately, if not being a loud mouth with it for everybody to hear. And my granny is more fun than Hubert or Dedue, Linhardt would be too lazy anyways, so I didn’t give them a thought. Caspar is away on a mission to his father’s lands.“

"You could have asked Raphael.“ Claude knew it sounded stupid, but he just wanted to annoy the hell out of Sylvain for this even more stupid plan of his.

"Are you serious? I’m not seeing Rapahel sneaking around the bathhouse. I even doubt he would understand what we would be doing there in the first place.“

Ignatz coughed and with reddened cheeks he intervened. "Raphael‘s stealth skills got a lot better since Shamir taught him… well, how to breathe. He moves around much more gently.“

Skeptical faces watch him in silence. "Well, like gently… considering that he still is…Raphael...“ His voice died out.

Sylvain inhaled for his next sentence. "So, yeah, whatever. These boys should finally learn about the beautiful nature the sight of a female body beholds, so these are the chosen ones and the two of us should guide them.“ He tightened his chest as if he was being terribly proud of himself.

"Ah so, but may I interrupt your nonchalant tittle-tattle and seat myself as a man of true acknowledgment in this subject?“

Sylvain snorts in amusement, whilst Claude puckers his face into a grimace when Lorenz seated himself unbidden to Dimitri’s side.

"True Acknowledgment of what exactly?“ Claude poked his spoon around his soup.

"Well, of the female wonders we are blessed with. In mentally but also physical sense. Don’t you always pretend to be all knowing and overly experienced. Just as myself, you haven’t found yourself a damsel of noble heritage to be the chosen future mother of your children. If you keep slacking off, the chances of House Riegan to maintain their…“

The third thump on this day wasn’t less painful but for once not directed towards Sylvain.

"How dare you talk like that about…“ Claude cut himself off. It wasn’t typical of him losing his head so easily, but almost everything about Lorenz made his gut heat up in hot annoyance. He had to think quick. There was no way, he would be able to put Sylvain off his ridiculous plan and especially not now with Lorenz joining in. Whilst he himself did always enjoy the company of lovely women, he was never seriously entrapped by meaningless female charm addressed towards him. When women chose to be around him, it was mostly for his looks or title, he had a lot in common with Sylvain regarding that matter. But as soon as they couldn’t keep up with his twisted mind or everlasting curiosity for the secrets of those around him, they fled due his lacking interest in them. As he was still a man, he did have thoughts as every other healthy male his age had. He just didn’t give in to them as easily as his classmates did. And besides that, since quite some time it wasn’t about women in general. Mostly, he only had one specific one in his mind. He let his eyes wander around the hall, until his gaze met his dark blue-haired target. Of course, this would only be because of learning efforts and the curiosity in her person. After all, she was a mysterious being, with her fighting and tactical skills, yet still so clueless about the events of this country. When her focused eyes roamed through class, he felt transparent every time she got stuck on him. As if she would be able to read his mind and heart toroughly until there was no secret left within him. Even though most students would still be confused with her lack of showing emotions, he got good at reading the signs her body language and face gave off. The way she walked along the hallway, she small blushes when she felt joy, little smiles for her student’s successful efforts. The hums when she took a stroll to the gardens or even just when she drifted off, as if her head got stuck far away from where her body was.

"What’s with the creepy grin?“

His mind returned to the table, facing the currently two biggest perverts in this hall, maybe even on the monastery grounds. Okay, besides Professor Manuela probably. There was no way, he would let them drool over the sight of his bathing teach. He was trying to convince himself that this was only for moral reasons and the best intentions. Although it was hard lying to himself. Deep within, he knew that the thought of the scenery pierced his gut and heart with painful jealousy. He had to manipulate Sylvain’s plan and disturb them. In the smallest corner of his head, there was also a voice cheering him on, the thoughts of her pale and sweaty skin shining like silk in the foggy air of the bathhouse. Her curvy figure, wet hair, slim and muscular legs and big –

"Still being creepy. But I guess that’s a yes then.“ Sylvain just emptied his plate, when Claude's mind snapped back.

"No worries my fellow comrades, we will succeed. As I am Lorenz Hellman Gloucester – “ He got cut off by a flying potato thrown towards him, ending up on the table. A „Shut up Lorenz!“ echoed through the dining hall. Lorenz blinked unimpressed and flicked the mushy vegetable away, sending it onto Ash’s plate.

"We will meet at dawn behind the east entrance to the bathhouse. And not a single word about this to anyone.“ As Sylvain set the time, he stood up and dragged Dimitri along the aisles. Lorenz gave Claude a last disgusted look before he also turned away and left for the exit. Ignatz looked troubled and uneasy whilst Ashe stared at this plate in sheer disappointment. Both of them picked up their dishes and waddled away. Claude stayed behind with his mind wandering off to the coming evening and about how he could manage to crush their perverted little dreams.

---

The hours passed by and Claude came up with… absolutely nothing. Every time he tried to focus his normally well-functioning brain around a scheme, the face of his teach popped up in his damped head, blocking him off from anything efficient. He would need to get creative and work with what he would be confronted with. After changing into a comfy brown tunic and some loose white pants, he carefully strolled to the bathhouse, hands in his pockets, trying to avoid any contact with wandering students or professors. When he arrived at the east entrance, everybody except for Ashe was already waiting for him.

"Ashe won’t be coming, so we can start operation peek-and-peep.“

"What, why won’t he come? And sheeesh, that name is horrifying, please don’t call it… that. Good thing you are not the tactical mastermind of your class.“

Sylvain shrugged. "Dunno, I guess he chickened out. But that’s fine, we have all the elites gathered around in a brotherhood of joint ambitions!“

Claude raised his eyebrows, he wasn’t exactly proud for the „brotherhood“ being greatly consistent of Golden Deer men. He brushed Sylvain’s furious speech aside with a gesture of his hand and pointed over to Dimitri. "What’s with him, he doesn’t look so good.“

"Aaah, he’s fine. Just needs to get out of his comfort zone from time to time. He will get used to it, right your highness?“ With a big claps upon his back, Dimitri stumbled forward, his face almost as pale as his chicken from lunch. He didn’t give away any sound and only nodded once in an almost unnoticeable movement.

Sylvain cleared his throat. "Alrighty then, so here is the plan. The ladies went in some time ago, so they should be already bathing. We sneak in, look for their belongings, get rid of those and then head off to the bath.“ He concluded with a wave of his hand.

Claude’s hand smacked his forehead, disbelieving of what he just heard. "What? We were never talking about actually stealing their stuff. Do you want to get us killed? Do you have any idea, what Shamir and Catherine will do to us if we get caught? And why the hell would you do that anyway?“

Lorenz straightened himself and crossed his arms. "I think of this as a marvelous idea. For once, this shall be a great training session for our stealth skills. For second, they may be outstandingly skilled knights, doing a great service to the monastery and academy. But they still are commoners without the understanding of which great sacrifices us nobles need to make for the sake of the common people. This should serve as a lesson to not meddle around with the complex noblese correlations.“

Claude’s amused laugh echoed throughout the empty courtyard. "No, no, no, that’s not it. You, Lorenz, are offended by Catherine’s scolding that other day. You can’t take it that she would overthrow your nonsense noblese talk. And you, my bright shining love knight, can’t take it that Shamir refused to go on a date with you. So, is this a deep running hunger for revenge or what else? You really want to be part of this shameless charade Ignatz?“ Claude’s overly dramatic gesture left Ignatz sweating in rather unsure conditions. He looked at the gound beneath his feet and fiddled with his glasses as he responded.

"Well, if you put it like that…“

"Hold it right there!“ Sylvain vigorously raised his hand and interrupted before Ignatz could think about it any further. "You are right. But this is not only for the sake of satisfaction but rather about the joyous appreciation of youth. So don’t dare you manipulate my inquisitive fellow comrades, and… ah, ah, ah“ – he raised a warning finger as Claude turned to Dimitri – "you are not allowed to speak to his highness. This is just for the best of him and I won’t let you ruin this for him. And by the way, don’t pretend to be the hero of the day, I know exactly what you are trying to do here.“ He started to grin deviously as his face moved closer to Claude’s ear, just for him to hear his following whisper. "No worries, letting others peek at her will not take anything away from you. But should you go back on this as well, then I won’t guarantee that I will only leave it at staring – “

The red-hair quickly ducked away from a swing of Claude‘s fist flying towards his face. The Golden Deer’s leader understood that this was merely a lighthearted tease serving for Sylvain’s pure entertainment. He knew that teach had fully seen through the playboy’s way of messing around and meddling with promises. She would rather just stare him to the ground or teach him a lesson within training sessions. Her personal favorite seemed to be letting him spar against the few female classmates he didn’t seem to notice as flirting objects because of questionable reasons, just leading him to actually underestimating them. Normally, it was about him avoiding Lysithea’s raging and painful spells or preventing Leonie from smashing in his flawless face with a weapon of her choice. This kept his mind busy, his mouth shut and raised the girl‘s self confidence massively. Ah yes, his teach had a great sense for sarcasm and deep-running life lessons. Never make a woman angry, neither on nor off the battle field.

As Sylvain fixed his hair, he grinned mischievously. "Now, now. No reason for violence. Shall we be on our way then?“ Without waiting for any responses, he gripped Dimitri’s arm, who was dangerously near a mental meltdown and dragged him towards the entrance. Ignatz slowly followed, whereas Lorenz couldn’t restrain himself from bumping into Claude before walking inside the bathhouse.

"Tss, ruuude…“. Claude scratched his head. This didn’t work as planned. He wouldn’t give up just yet, so all he could do was joining them.

Sneaking past the first few empty rooms, the group made their way towards the women’s dressing room. Since he was a well-behaved young man, Claude actually hasn’t been to the bathhouse before. He got the suspicion that wasn’t the case for Sylvain since he confidently leaded them to a certain chamber. They gathered silently, the room was lit up with some candles and oil lamps. He didn’t even have the time to view the clothing and other belongings piled up and stored in the wooden shelves. Sylvain took a quick swoop of everything he could grab and shared a handful with Ignatz.

"Let’s get that out of reach. Lorenz, get the towels. Let’s just hide them in another room, so we can – Dimitri, where are you going?“ Dimitri flinched as he tried to sneak away in silence and returned to the group with a sigh.

"There is no need for further delays. Let’s just dispose of the gatherings.“ Lorenz went straight for the window and tossed his arm full of towels outside. "This is actually quite thrilling, my heart is bursting from fulfilling excitement“. He turned around to Ignatz and snatched his sharing of clothing away.

Ignatz’s doubtful frown lets Claude smirk. So his classmates have finally reached their rebellious phase. This was a actually childish prank but as the boys never aligned to the enjoyment of scheming before, he could slightly understand their excited and adrenaline-filled mood. He was almost proud of them, if it wasn’t for the people they were actually pranking. His number one rule was all about knowing your prey and preparing for the best way about using or handling them. Every scheme could also fall into pieces because of unknown circumstances, there was never a way of finally ridding every risk. For those cases, the master tactician also had to be prepared to bear the consequences. In this case, Claude was almost certain he wasn’t ready to deal with the wrath of Shamir and Catherine. Professor Manuela would probably just be flattered about a male object actually taking interest in her in any way at all. As for teach… he thought he knew a lot about her in the meanwhile. But in scenarios like these, he could hardly imagine how she would react. Would she be annoyed or furious? Or would she simply not care, her face plastered with her usual indifference? He was sure he didn’t really want to know.

After Lorenz got rid of the towels and clothing, Sylvain shrugged "Oh, what the hell“ and also tossed his share of blouses and trousers out into the early night. "Now to the fun part, forward to the baths my comrades!“

Sneaking for several minutes around the building, they reached the women’s baths. They silently listened for any sounds coming from within. The deep voice of Catherine and hysterical laugh of Professor Manuela clearly rung through the hall and couldn’t be unheard. Sylvain grinned and gestured the boys to follow him quietly. They barely crawled on the floor to get past them unseen until they reached a safe spot behind one of the few pillars in the room.

This is just cringy, you’re not that type of creep to be doing this, Claude scolded himself while finding a spot to hide in. The boys could benefit from the damp and misty air, reducing the sight across the room to a minimum. But then of course, it also wasn’t playing into their hands from reaching their actual goal here. The silhouettes of three people shimmered through the foggy air, they could hardly be seen.

"WHAAAT? No, you did not dare to do that!!“

"Oh you bet I did, and right after that, I smacked him right in the middle of his little unmanly parts!!“

Matching her nickname, Catherine‘s thundering voice echoed through the hall, only to be beat by Professor Manuela‘s deafening howling. Man, this was screaming for headaches. How could anyone possibly be voluntary part of this?

"Sounds amusing. Please let me know before you confront him again, Catherine.“ Shamir‘s monotone voice was carried over to their ears. The women’s weird dialogue of gossiping and nasty details of things, nobody ever wanted to know about, continued for several minutes.

Claude figured that teach wasn’t in the bath although he wasn’t even sure, she was here with them at all, since he never had a chance to look at the clothing. He wasn’t interested in their old ladytalk and turned to the others beside him.

"I’m out of here“, he whispered. Sylvain rolled his eyes in annoyance, Lorenz leaned further toward the voices, trying to catch a glimpse of anything. When looking over to Dimitri, he noticed the begging look on his face, asking for saving from this humiliating position, while being tugged back by Sylvain. Claude shrugged apologetic and sneaked his way back to the hallway.

When he made it unseen outside of the baths, he dared to normally walk the rest. He was almost at the doors they entered from, when he heard hasty footsteps. No, they weren’t hasty. It was more of a…running? He turned around quickly, only to see a panicked pack of pathetic fools sprinting his way. The sheer horror in their eyes could not be a good sign. Claude took the next turn, not caring for any actual direction. All that mattered now was surviving. When he came to stop, he recognized the room, it was the one where they started this ridiculous nonsense. The women’s dressing room.

He panted from his short sprint here and looked around. Wasn’t there anywhere to hide himself away from the demonic doom that otherwise should await him? As he tried to think of something quickly, he heard steps coming up the hallway. This was it, this was to be the end to the heir of house Riegan. Since there was no time left and nothing to help him hide, he squeezed himself as tightly as possible against the corner behind the door, opening it as far as possible to cover him. Claude barely managed to stay still, trying to breathe out flat and quiet. The steps came closer, a gentle tip-tap through the disconcerting silence of the hallway. His thoughts began to rush. Gentle? Tip-Tap? He recognized the movement by sound. There was no way he would not. Please don’t. The steps stopped at the entrance and then entered the room. There was a mumbling of „Forgot the towel“, then the door was being moved to shut. Before his eyes, the scenery played itself in slow-motion.

When the door clicked into the lock, she noticed the figure lurking behind the door. As a former mercenary, her sharp instincts kicked in, and she took a forceful and unexpected swing of her fist to the strangers gut. But it wasn’t a stranger.

When her fist dug itself deeply into Claude’s stomach, the air escaped his lungs all at once. He collapsed to his knees and struggled to breathe. Well, I guess I deserve it for today. He got it worse from Hilda. As he gathered some air, he looked up.

"Heya teach! What a lovely evening, isn’t it? I’m quite surprised to meet you here, heheheeee…“ He coughed and cut off his awkward try of … whatever it was. Just then, it hit him hard, harder than the fist from a minute ago. Byleth was towering above him, with a slightly confused look on her face. While being completely bare. She wasn’t wearing anything at all, her hair was dripping wet, glued to her shoulders. This can’t be happening. Of course she would be naked, the biggest idiots on these grounds tossed away anything wearable in this building, he screeched to himself. He stared intensively into her eyes, even if it seemed unbearable. If he dared to look away, he wouldn’t know where to rest his sight on. He didn’t even blink. These few seconds seemed more than a dozen minutes, before she began so speak.

"Claude, would you mind explaining to me, why exactly you are hiding behind this door?“

"Oh didn’t you know? Cyril was having troubles with rats in here and I volunteered to get rid of them. My good deed of the day, ehe…“

If it wasn’t his nonsense blabbering, it was the desperation in his trembling voice that was giving him away. He tried to keep it as steady as possible, but the unpredictability of this happening to him was even melting his smoothness away.

"That so? How nice of you. But you are right, I did see some of those rats loafing around here. You should try burning them, keeps them dead for good.“ Byleth‘s emotionless expression changed to a mocking grin. Claude faltered at her facial expression. Was that…amusement? She clearly wasn’t bothered by the state of her standing in front of him, with nothing to hide. She didn’t give off any sign of nervousness or anger.

Embarrassment. This was all her head was full of. Here she was, as Sothis and her parents created her and nothing was going to stop this student of hers to soak in everything of her with his simple stare. Except that he didn’t actually do that. He focused his eyes strictly on hers, the deep shimmering forest green taking her own glance all in. Even now, he didn’t seem to lose his cool, except for the painful blow to the gut. Well, he deserved that. Sothis chuckled from the depths of her mind. She wanted to run or just throw herself on the floor, covering herself with everything she got. She wasn’t one to be bothered with her body. Full of scars and traces of her former life, she was proud of the strength and speed she possessed. She was also aware of her curves and the bewitching effect it could have on men. After all, she used it from time to time for distraction purposes, being mostly the last pleasant sight for her prey. But here and now, her head was a mess. Of all people on these grounds, why did he have to be here? Byleth felt a big lump in her throat, and she could swear she was about to choke on it. Before she could think any further about it, she heard a wild trample in the hallway.

"I know you are still here! I will get you and tear off those fancy pants of yours and I will hang you upside down by your feet at the gates of these very holy grounds. THREE DAYS LONG!!“ Catherine‘s furious roar roamed the hallway, her stomping steps close to the women’s dressing room.

Claude was prepared to die. Or at least to get hanged upside down by his feet. Naked. But before he could either move or say anything, Byleth stumbled towards him, dragging him up, from his still kneeling position and pressing onto him, against the wall, behind the door. He gave off some uncontrollable shocked screech, when the door flung open. Byleth covered his mouth and nose with her hand, daring him to stay silent. As the door wasn’t open very wide, she moved herself even closer to him, to keep both of them pressed against the corner of the room. Catherine’s angry steps slapped on the floor. She seemed to inspect the room for anything unusual. Claude held his breath, but it wasn’t because of Catherine. His heart raced so loudly against his chest, he feared his teach might hear the beat. He could feel her leaning in on him, with her full weight. He didn’t dare to move his hands, since he wouldn’t know where to place them anyway. The heat began to creep into his face. She had to get off him as fast as possible, otherwise –

She suddenly placed her head against his chest, breathing softly against his collarbone. He almost coughed at her unexpected movement. Focus, Claude! But everything about this moment shattered every little piece of his mind he had left. Her wet hair tickled his face, whilst her bare breasts pressed onto him. Her legs were placed between his and tried to maintain stability for the sake of both of them. A shiver ran through his body and made him break out in sweat.

Catherine was still yapping and cursing all over the room, apparently she was on the lookout for their clothing and towels. Whilst seconds begin to feel like hours, Byleth tried to get a more comfortable standing and just ended up completely leaning onto Claude. Even though the danger of being spotted in this very questionable position was hanging over them, she couldn’t restrain herself from her thoughts wandering off. To this very man she was standing next to, naked from head to toes. His scent of pine needle tea and foreign spices clouded her mind. It was familiar to her, but for some time now, this was what she imagined what a fresh breeze of wind would smell like. She could feel his heartbeat while laying her head on his chest. A steady but rushed pondering, a sound she herself wasn’t familiar with, since she didn’t have a heartbeat of her own. But this, this was the sound of life. Of his life. She curled her fingers in his tunic and buried her head into his neck. After a moment passed by, she felt his hands on her back, pulling her into a light embrace. She wouldn’t mind for this moment to last even longer than it felt.

The door was shut with a loud smack. Catherine has left the room in frustration, heading off on her search for her prey and some clothes. The pair in the corner remained motionless. Byleth moved her head slightly, Claude opened his resting eyes again, fully drawn into this moment. Their gazes locked into each other as they slowly moved towards the other one, only just inched separating them -

A loud screeching from further down the hallway threw them back into reality. Claude immediately backed off, staring at the door in uncertainty. He heard a panting and damped voice coming towards their room. He turned his gaze back to his teach, only to be overwhelmed by the reddish marks on her face. Byleth opened her mouth to say something, but before she had the chance to do so, Claude moved away from the corner and pulled off his tunic. He reached it out to her whilst looking away.

"So, before this gets anymore awkward than it already is, although I doubt that is even possible, please wear this, would you?“

She raised an eyebrow but took up on his offering. She pulled the tunic over her head, fitting easily into the fabric, since it was suited for a male body. The length covered half of her thigh, hiding her most private parts. "Well, it’s not like you haven’t seen most of it now, hm?“ she huffed in a dry voice.

His sassy grin returned to his face as he looked at her again. "Oh no Teach, you don’t understand. Unfortunately, I have some fellow travelers, who got lost on their way home. And to be honest, I’d rather not share my earnings of tonight“, he winked as her mouth fell open.

"Now, if you’ll excuse me. For the sake of Fódlan, I shall rush to the rescue of his highness to spare him of the eternal shame of public naked gawking. We don’t want Professor Manuela drooling all over his noble abs.“ And with that, he dropped himself to a deep bow before hopping around the corner, not leaving her any chance to respond or hold him back. His guess got confirmed as he spotted Dimitri lurching disorientated around the hallway.

"Run“, he shouted, grabbing his arm while sprinting past him. Dimitri’s confusion turned into relief as he recognized Claude, running along. They ran toward the end of hallway, Claude pointing to the window. „JUMP!“

Dimitri didn’t even have time to think about it and just got dragged with Claude, out into the cool breeze of the night, as they both roughly fell onto the ground.

"Sheeeh, I swear I could hear Catherine’s snorting right behind me“. Claude got up and patted the dirt from his loose pants. He held out his hand to Dimitri. The prince still sat on the ground, staring at Claude, when he broke into loud laughter as he took his hand. He stood up and both of them moved away from the bathhouse. Dimitri still barked out loud and could barely get a grip. Claude’s heart warmed up, he never saw Dimitri laughing like this before and it suited him fantastic. While walking back to the dorms, he moved his arms behind his head, gazing at the giggling prince.

"What’s so funny?“

"That was just hilarious. First, I was torn about Sylvain’s plan, not leaving me be in peace with this evening. But this was just… fun. I guess, he did have some point, about just enjoying youth. When there is hardly much else to enjoy.“

Claude flinched. He didn’t agree with Dimitri there, but now was not the time and place to argue over such issues. "Well, I’m glad you had fun.“

"Oh by the way, what happened to your tunic?“

Claude looked upon the sky, gazing at the constellations he knew by heart since childhood. "Uhh, don’t know. Just kinda, you know….lost it.“ He knew he had Big fat lie ridden all over his face, but what happened tonight was his little treasure to keep to himself.

Dimitri looked at him knowingly in silence, not asking further questions.

"So, did you actually see anything? That was Sylvain’s goal for you and Ignatz, right?“

The prince snorted loudly. "Yeah well, we did see a fierce Catherine rampaging towards us. But you know, Sylvain likes to underestimate me in some matters. As a matter of fact, I did witness things he could only dream of. And I certainly know that he does dream about it – unfortunately for me.“ He puckers his face.

"Hmm, interesting. If I combine that statement, my skilled observation and knowledge about the two of you, my educated guess would be that it has to do with our dear sweet lady Ingrid.“

Dimitri chuckled. "Claude, you are way too nosy. This will get you into big trouble one day. Curiosity killed the cat after all. But by all means, the story with Ingrid just happened by accident.“

Claude peeked over at him. "Well maybe that goes for big cats, but certainly not for deer. And sure, it’s always an accident. Me losing my tunic was also one.“

They silently walked back to their rooms, when cries of agony and fear echoed throughout the night. As Mercedes would tell one of her legendary stories, it is said, that the bathhouse beholds the cursed spirits of every student trying to get into the building secretly, awaiting a painful and everlasting nightmare brought over them by a furious witch. Since that very night, no student dared to go near the bathhouse anymore.

---

When Claude jumped away out to the hallway, Byleth felt the heat crawling up to her head. What did just happen? The unknown emotion teared at her insides, filling her up with euphoria and nausea at the same time. Was she getting sick? Sothis knocked on the inside of her mind. „Oh child, you truly know nothing of this world and their people. I wish for you to keep giving yourself in to all of these new impressions, with me being at your side to aid you. You may contain the soul of a god-like creature but you still remain human. And as a human, you shall be fulfilled with emotions and ambitions in order to find what you seek …“

As usual, Sothis’words were those of a mystery for her. But she began to understand the true meaning to those whispers within her mind. Her fingers ran through the thin fabric of the tunic, as she pulled it up to her face, inhaling the scent of forests and wind.

Shamir walked in, undisturbed of the happenings of that night. "Did you see my armor? Or my towel? They somehow went missing.“ Byleth shook her head. Shamir looked skeptic. "Where did you find that top? Doesn’t look like your size.“

Byleth shrugged and put her stony face back on. "Found it.“

Shamir had the same indifferent expression as she left the room.

"Lucky you.“

#fe3h #fanfic #fire emblem claude #claude von riegan #byleth #dimitri blaiddyd #sylvain gautier #fire emblem three houses #claude x byleth #lorenz hellman gloucester #golden deer

1 note · View note

plumoh · 4 years

Text

[FE3H] the rust under their binds

Word count: 5002

Summary: Sylvain participates in the Gronder Battle even if he knows full well how it will end. / chapter 17 of Verdant Wind.

Note: AO3 link. Graphic depiction of violence, major character death, Sylvain & Felix & Ingrid platonic. This was prompted by me killing the Blue Lions kids in my Golden Deers run and getting hit in the guts......

The entire battlefield looks like it’s on fire. The central hill is burning while thick, almost black wisps of smoke cover the sky. Sylvain’s eyes are prickling and he curses under his breath as he pushes his horse forward, ignoring the sickening sounds that the bodies being trampled on make. Death is everywhere; there are corpses lying right and left, weapons scattered around them and the remains of demonic beasts sticking to the soil. The smell is awful—Sylvain wants to throw up and forget that he’s ever stepped in this damned field that will turn into a cemetery.

He lost his battalion around half an hour ago; it wasn’t even a proper battalion, constituted of only a dozen men desperate for peace but consumed by trust. Gautier is one of the last military bases Faerghus has left, but he’s reduced to this: charging forward alone, exhausted, clothes soaked with the blood of allies and enemies alike, his armor nicked in places he didn’t know was possible, a lance that’s about to break, and his relic. His cursed relic that’s been pulsing and demanding for more destruction as the minutes turned into hours.

The wind picks up and the howl of an animal sounds. Sylvain looks up and admires the graceful form of a white wyvern crossing the field with a definite path in mind.

***

He lies awake in his bed and considers chickening out.

That’s what he wants to believe but he perfectly knows he won’t ever find the courage to pick up his lance, mount his horse and disappear somewhere until the war ends. He’s always been a coward, after all, and this night like the others isn’t any different—it’s not any different even if tomorrow there is a high chance they won’t be able to come back at all.

Their army isn’t that big, compared to the Empire and the Alliance; they’ve gathered as many loyal soldiers as they could and recruited anyone not too shady looking, but they’re still a drop in the ocean. Fighting against two armies who possess much more resources and men is not a thought that would have ever occurred to him, even in his most crazed state.

Since he’s not getting any wink of sleep tonight, he might as well go dig into their meager food supplies. Nobody is going to eat it, anyway.

***

He coughs up blood and grips the reins of his horse tighter, shuddering and sputtering, but refusing to stop. The soldiers thrust their lances at him with renewed vigor, and maybe frustration, but Sylvain doesn’t let them hit him again and he deploys the Lance of Ruin’s power to take them down. His blood boils and his hands shake when the lance goes through them like they were made of ash and mud. He doesn’t watch their bodies hit the ground and kicks into his horse’s side.

Fuck. It’s getting difficult to see what’s going on.

The Alliance is focusing on the imperial troops but they’re still standing in their way. Sylvain distantly remembers that their main objective is Edelgard, but they were also given the order to kill every last one of them. Ha. Who is he to disobey his king?

There are voices he recognizes, even if it’s been five years since the last time he heard them. Funny how the brain works, sometimes; he isn’t able to remember the name of the girl he dated last week but he perfectly knows that former classmates are fighting for their survival just like he does merely by sound. He’s a soldier, but that doesn’t mean he wants to fight people he once considered his allies—that’s really irresponsible and foolish of him, but he can’t help it. Lysithea is firing spell after spell, wreaking havoc on the battlefield and never letting her enemies a chance to stand up; Leonie is rushing into the troops and in one fell swoop of her lance she injures several of them; Ignatz’s aim has always been the best and his arrows make clean kills. Others are here too, even demure Marianne who stays behind and heals her allies from afar. Sylvain acknowledges that he logically should kill her first so as to deprive his enemies of healing abilities.

Instead, he runs off to the left side and hopes he can regroup with the others.

***

“What the fuck are you doing up at this hour?”

“Well, I’m clearly not the only one.”

Felix scoffs but doesn’t retort. He’s nursing a cup of water, sitting at a table in the tent that is supposed to be the kitchen, in the dark because he’s that much of a lunatic. Sylvain prefers looking at what he’s rummaging through so he lights up a candle. He ends up picking the first thing his hand touches, which is a stale piece of bread. He eats it slowly.

Nights are like these aren’t uncommon, happening more frequently as they approach the Empire’s territory. Being near Gronder Field will naturally make some people restless and maybe a bit afraid, too. Sylvain isn’t sure that what he feels is fear, but he sure as hell knows he doesn’t like it.

“Were you training?” he asks, turning a careful eye towards Felix.

“What else do you want me to do?” Felix shrugs. His voice isn’t dripping with his usual venom. “Sleeping like we should all be doing?”

“I’ve heard that sleep is good for the body. Would you believe that? I thought that roaming around camp all night and snacking on days old food would be much more healthy.”

Sylvain flashes him one of his smiles, full of fake confidence and casualness, and of course Felix glares at him.

“This isn’t the time for jokes,” Felix says.

“It’s never the time for jokes.”

They’ve been robbed of tranquil days for the past five years, and try as they might, even if they pretend everything will be fine they know it won’t. Dimitri emerging from the dead should have rekindled the hope in them, but it didn’t have the expected effect—Sylvain doesn’t want to say it, but his return made things worse.

Felix swallows the content of his glass and puts it down with more strength than necessary. They stay silent for a while, Felix contemplating the empty bottom of his glass and Sylvain toying with crumbs on his fingers. If anyone walked in, they would think they make a pathetic sight.

“Hey, about that promise,” Sylvain starts, but Felix stands up and his chair rattles before toppling over.

“Don’t be stupid.” He takes a few steps towards the exit but he doesn’t touch the tent’s flaps.

Sylvain shrugs. “Just wanted to make sure you remembered.”

“You and I know what’s going to happen tomorrow, Sylvain.”

For someone so vocal about his thoughts and so quick to disagree with orders given by a specific person, Felix doesn’t say the words that have been haunting Sylvain’s mind for the entirety of their journey to Gronder Field. Perhaps they don’t need to be vocalized; perhaps it’s Felix who doesn’t want to recognize their truth, even if they hang heavily in the air. He’d much prefer that Sylvain is the one to say them so he can tell him he’s been right all along. That might be the case, but Sylvain has never said he wasn’t willing to believe in fantasies as long as he was with his loved ones.

So what he says instead is, “That means a lot of people will share the promise with us, then.”

This time around his grin feels more genuine, amused by his own lack of taste in jokes at such a critical time, but Felix snorts and that’s as much approval as he’s going to get. It’s good to have one last laugh.

***

He leads on foot his battalion of cavalrymen and they all travel in tense silence to their position. Next to him, Ingrid is looking at the sky, most likely evaluating the force of the wind and the direction it will blow in a few hours. Her pegasus is walking behind her, as agitated as his horse.

“You think you’re going to be okay?”

Ingrid grips her lance tighter and glances at him.

“Of course I’ll be alright. We have to fight for His Highness, after all.”

Sylvain dearly wishes he can reply something sensible, but his mouth as usual runs faster than his brain.

“We’re going to die, that’s what is going to happen.”

Felix knows this mission is suicide; Ingrid refuses to see it as such. And naturally, she glares at him with the fierceness she reserves for her lectures.

“We are knights. Fighting for our liege is what we do, and dying is—dying as a knight is the best death we could get.”

“I’d prefer not dying at all.”

“Then why are you here?”

Why is he here, indeed? Ingrid’s resolve has never wavered, not even in these uncertain times when all they could do was run in circles or train without seeing results. She is steadfast and strong when she latches onto her principles, because she’d be lost otherwise; her mind and her heart have decided long ago how she is going to live, even if everyone around her is spitting on chivalry and is treating her ideals like garbage. Sylvain admires that in her, and that’s why he’s sad that she’s willing to blind herself for someone they all cherish. She could have become the greatest knight in Faerghus.

Sylvain is here because he can’t run away and because he’s still cradling memories of better days.

“I guess I have nothing else to do.”

Ingrid’s sharp intake of breath makes him smile a little bit, and he pats her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about me, worry about yourself.”

“You—you don’t even know what is coming out of your mouth, do you?”

He doesn’t want her to cry, but he feels he’s the one who might cry if they keep talking. He ignores her sniffling and he ignores his own misty eyes.

***

Lying on the ground are the corpses of pegasi and their riders, shot down from the sky with a single arrow. The fall most likely killed the knights instantly, judging by the amount of blood under their helmets. Sylvain scans the area, slightly swaying on the saddle of his horse, dread clambering from his stomach to his throat. The fire has almost spread to the entire field—maybe they won’t even need to bury the dead if the fire keeps raging on like this, and burn them to a crisp.

“Sylvain!”

Sylvain’s head snaps up and his lips curl immediately in a grin when he sees Ingrid approaching, covered in blood and limping, Lúin clutched in her hand. She probably lost her pegasus in the midst of the battle, or decided that she’d be more efficient on foot. Sylvain doesn’t care; he gets closer to her and offers her his hand to get behind him. But as soon as he extended his arm all colors drain from his face when he realizes there is an arrow embedded deep into her back, close to her neck, and a javelin protruding from her side. How did he miss that?

“You’re injured, Ingrid,” he says absentmindedly. “Go—go see Mercedes.”

“You’re also bleeding, and I bet you didn’t even notice,” she mutters, wincing when she takes one final step and falls on her knees.

Sylvain wants to dismount and help her, be by her side in the last minutes she has left, but it’s as if she can read his mind and she shakes violently her head.

“Go, go, go, don’t get distracted,” she chokes. “I wanted… to see a familiar face…”

What’s the point of going away if he’s going to die too? Why can’t he stay by her side until she finds rest?

“His Highness is up there… the Alliance…”

A laugh breaks its away out of Sylvain’s throat, wet and uncontrolled. It’s ridiculous, it’s insane, it’s complete madness. Against his better judgment he swings his leg over the saddle and gets down, to his horse’s relief, but he keeps the reins tight into his hand. He thinks he might be losing too much blood but that’s inconsequential. He gets down on one knee, gently passes his hand behind Ingrid’s head, and brings her to his chest. All the fight leaves her.

“I said...”

“I know what you said,” he interrupts her. “Go to sleep, Ingrid.”

Around them, the battle is still fierce. There are still infantrymen rushing to crush the enemy’s defenses, and there are still mages casting every spell they know while the heavy armored knights are keeping them safe. The sounds of people fighting aren’t drowned by the crackling of the fire or the roars of the demonic beasts left. Only wyverns are flying in the sky, now.

Ingrid lets out a shuddering breath that’s too close to a sob. Sylvain keeps stroking her hair.

“I’m sorry… I failed my duty…”

Sylvain doesn’t have to wait long before she stills and slumps against him.

He lays her down and gets back on his horse, the Lance of Ruin weeping a red, bright glow.

***

He suspects that none of his words will be heard, but he supposes he can try.

“Your Highness, are you really sure you want to fight both the Empire and the Alliance at the same time?”

Dimitri doesn’t even look at him and keeps his eye trained on Areadbhar.

“We have already come here. It would be a waste of time not to charge.”

“Well, we could ask the Alliance to help us with resources…”

“Is there a point you wish to make, Sylvain?”

Sylvain has rarely considered Dimitri cold. He’s distant, yes, ever since the Tragedy of Duscur, but he’s never shown so much animosity towards people he trusts and has known for his entire life. Dedue is the only one who can get through him, but even still, that’s only because Dedue has pledged to serve him and to obey him. Sylvain is a knight of Faerghus, but he has yet to throw away his decision-making.

“What if we die?” he asks with as much boldness he can muster, hands clasped behind his back.

Dimitri slowly turns around, his fingers curling around his relic like they’re about to break it.

“Then we take that woman’s head with us.”

Sylvain is a knight of Faerghus. The man in front of him has not yet sat on the throne.

He smiles.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

***

Before they each depart with the battalion and the soldiers they were assigned, Sylvain pulls both of them into a tight hug. He’s mindful of his gauntlets and his cold armor but his arms easily snake around their shoulders and he brings them so close that their heads bump into each other, which makes Felix splutter every swear word he knows and Ingrid groan but there is laughter in her voice. Sylvain chuckles when her hands come at his waist while Felix awkwardly pats him on the back.

“You guys are the best.”

“If we’re the best then don’t freeze us to death with your stupid armor,” Felix retorts, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Such sincerity coming from you is rare, Sylvain.”

“What, can’t I express my love for my friends from time to time?”

“Not when you’re being weird about it, no.”

Sylvain releases them and grins, squeezing their shoulders one last time. Felix pushes some bangs out of his eyes then crosses his arms over his chest, gauging him. His jaw is tense and his posture is stiff at best, like what he’s about to say is going to cause him great pain. Were they only chatting with a drink in hand, Sylvain would have cracked a joke to save Felix from embarrassment, but they all know that it’s time to lay bare their feelings.

“Are you prepared? Did you memorize the map?” Felix asks tersely.

“I did, don’t worry,” Sylvain replies. “And I can count on my battalion, so I can’t get lost.”

“We all have soldiers we are responsible for,” Ingrid adds with the beginning of a smile, but the curl of her lips is sad. “We could have fought alongside each other, but I understand His Highness’s decision.”

Felix grits his teeth, and Sylvain expects him to storm off but he remains rooted on the spot, only casting down his gaze and silently fuming.

“We are his trusted generals, after all,” Sylvain says.

“‘Trusted’ my ass,” Felix mutters.

“Felix,” Ingrid admonishes, more out of habit than real bite.

Sylvain thinks it’s nice to speak with his friends before going into battle. They ease into familiar chatter and banter, chasing away for a few minutes the danger looming over them. It’s not the most reasonable course of action to take, but they’re only human—Sylvain is only human and he clings to what is reassuring, to get through this war and come back with as much sanity as he can keep. That was his original plan, anyway.

“Well, time to go to war,” he announces evenly, jerking his chin towards their mounts.

Ingrid nods. Lúin is securely strapped on her back, while Felix has yet to pick up the Aegis Shield from the armory but he’s already carrying the sword of Moralta and a sword of Zoltan. Sylvain has heard Felix brag about his swords more times than necessary to recognize them with only a glance.

They share one last look, maybe lingering a bit too long. None of them is going to admit they are scared, because knights from Faerghus aren’t scared of going to war. Ingrid follows him to get to her pegasus and Felix goes on the opposite side, joining Dimitri’s troops. The Lance of Ruin is itching for a fight, and Sylvain will let himself be consumed.

***

Ever since he was small, Sylvain thought that the crest of Fraldarius looked cool. Even when he started to despise and reject his own crest, he viewed that shield-shaped crest as something comforting, always protecting them from immediate danger. Felix prides himself in his strength and the use of his crest, in spite of what he thinks about its meaning and the expectations that befall him.

Sylvain follows the glow of the crest of Fraldarius visible even from afar. He knows that the biggest forces of the Alliance have gone to fight Edelgard, but the imperial troops have focused theirs on the Kingdom. It’s a real carnage; the bushes and the trees are all painted in blood, and the fire is starting to reach them. Felix swings his sword with terrifying speed but Sylvain recognizes the laboriousness of his moves. Aegis is shining and pulsing, deflecting the blows and pushing the opponents away like they weigh nothing. There are grunts and hisses and shouts, soldiers from all sides mingling and unable to tell apart ally and foe.

Sylvain charges into them and with one swipe of the Lance of Ruin he decapitates two soldiers. He actually doesn’t know who he killed, only that they’re not on his side. His hands keep shaking but he’s holding onto his weapon firmly, never allowing himself to lose focus even for a split second. His arrival has alerted mages he vaguely recognizes as Edelgard’s, and they direct their spells at him. His horse is just as tired as he is, and dodging quickly takes too much effort. The fire spell hits him square in the chest and he lets out a wordless scream, gripping painfully on the reins so as not to fall. The situation is so, so bad. The blood in his eyes and the fog in his mind cloud his judgment, perhaps, but he’s only had one objective since the beginning of the battle.

His horse is whining and also stumbling, but Sylvain pushes him forward, relentlessly, even if he’s hurting all over and unable to see clearly what’s in front of him. He brandishes his relic and calls upon the power of his crest, nausea crawling up his throat as the light of his crest is the last thing the mages see before they’re struck down. Sylvain has barely the time to lower his weapon when he vomits blood and bile on the ground, shivering and pitching forward on his saddle. It’s far from being over.

When he reaches Felix (or is it Felix who reaches him?), he’s sure he’s oscillating between life and death.

“Hey, Sylvain, hey,” Felix rasps, shielding them both from an arrow.

Sylvain has crossed half the field alone and has cut his way through here, has lost count of the number of soldiers he killed, and has seen Ingrid die in his arms. He’s exhausted.

He looks down, peering at the frazzled figure of Felix looking up at him. Felix’s hair has seen better days; it’s matted with blood and sweat, and some of the bangs are sticking out of his ponytail. There are cuts on his face and he’s lost his pauldron, where a deep gash is still oozing blood, which explains his extensive use of Aegis. He’s also heavily leaning on his right leg. Sylvain doesn’t have the time to take in all the other injuries.

“Stay focused, Sylvain,” Felix tells him with so much vehemence that Sylvain laughs.

“That’s all I’ve been doing for the past hour or so, I don’t remember.”

Dedue and Dimitri aren’t here; they probably went to fight Edelgard and left the others taking care of the minions and the Alliance. There’s not much Sylvain can say about this strategy, since the goal of this battle has always been killing Edelgard, means and consequences be damned.

“We… we’re done.” Felix swallows, and Sylvain is surprised he can hear him with all the noises around him and the blood banging against his skull.

“Done? There’s still the other half of the field to clean up.”

“No, I mean… we’re losing.”

Sylvain’s head jerks up and he blocks the assault of the wyvern rider diving for him. The Lance of Ruin grinds against the axe and Sylvain snarls, pushing with all his might and hoping that it won’t break. Felix, like the idiot he is, jumps and runs his sword through the wyvern’s stomach, between the armor plates, and the beast shrieks. The rider gets jostled and loses the advantage for one second, so Sylvain uses the opportunity to once again make the crest of Gautier flare up, and his lance comes away red. He’s so dizzy he’s pretty sure he can hear the Saints’ cajoling whispers to the dead fallen into battle.

He wants to lie down.

“...vain! Sylvain!”

Felix is shaking his arm, trying to get his attention. Sylvain has never been able to refuse him. His eyes glaze over him, and he smiles.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m still here.”

Felix’s eyes are wide and his mouth is quirked downward. He looks like the boy he used to be, scared of everything and hiding behind people and asking what he should do to become stronger. The old Felix wore his heart on his sleeve and this Felix is close to tears—maybe they’re not this different, have never been two separate people in the first place. Sylvain briefly closes his eyes.

“You don’t usually show your emotions on the battlefield,” he says.

“Cut the bullshit, move your horse! Don’t you fucking dare give up now!”

Didn’t Felix say they’re losing? What’s the point of fighting if they’re already doomed? But Felix’s logic has always been flawed.

“Sylvain, I swear to fucking god—”

His horse suddenly reels and Sylvain snaps his eyes open, his Lance coming up just as instinctively, but there is nobody in front of him. Instead, Felix is blocking an attack with his shield while a battalion of cavalrymen is surrounding them. Sylvain didn’t think that there were enough people left to form a battalion of any kind.

It’s the Alliance, judging by the color of their armors. And he recognizes some faces among them—he also won’t pretend that the anguish twisting the features of their faces isn’t bringing him some sort of sick satisfaction. He knew he should have killed them instead of coming here to help whoever survived.

Felix is struggling to stay upright, blood loss and exhaustion finally catching up on him, but he’s stubborn, always stubborn. Well, Sylvain doesn’t have any right to criticize him since he’s still fighting.

“If you surrender…,” one of the Alliance members says, Ignatz or Leonie, he doesn’t quite know.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Sylvain replies with a sharp laugh.

Sylvain inhales and exhales slowly. The sky is orange, now. The battle has been going on for too long already.

“Time to end this,” he declares, and brandishes the Lance of Ruin.

Felix lunges at them, the crest of Fraldarius driving him onward. Sylvain summons his last forces—the crest of Gautier engulfs him.

***

When Dimitri reappeared and told everyone he was marching towards Enbarr, Sylvain wasn’t sure he would follow.

“We can’t leave him in this state,” Ingrid says, horrified. “He’s going to get killed!”

“Yeah, and we’re going to die too if we follow his orders,” Felix growls.

But they spent five years looking for him. Five long years of endless searching and fighting against their own people who only wanted a chance at living. There is no king on the throne at Fhirdiad and there is no one to lead them. Gautier and Fraldarius can’t hold the fort forever. Besides, it’s Dimitri they’re talking about.

“Can any of us really abandon him right now?” he asks, quietly, because he might be having a few realizations himself.

Felix is, of course, the first to express how much he disagrees with this notion.

“You’d foolishly trail after a boar when you know he’s fucking insane?”

“He’s not insane!” Ingrid protests. “He needs our help!”

“Well, he’s not getting it from me.”

The three of them are fucking liars—they’re all liars in different ways, but pointing out each other’s lies only calls for further falsehood and they end up ignoring it altogether. It’s easier to pretend everything is alright, or to take it all at face value.

They don’t argue for long, though. They act like there is something legitimate to argue about in the first place when they’ve been raised to care for each other, and to care for their kingdom. Sylvain has opinions about the way Faerghus is run, about the emphasis put on traditions and ridiculous expectations children have to uphold, but he’s the first to defend loyalty.

Loyalty is the rust that lingers in the chain links binding them together.

***

The moment Felix loses his left arm, it’s over.

It’s not cut clean from the shoulder, but someone must have noticed he had difficulty using it every time he lifted the Aegis Shield, so they shot an arrow, and it pierces the flesh with appalling accuracy. Felix muffles a scream and his arm goes limp against his side, as he pants and hisses, his right hand never letting go of his sword. It’s over, and acceptance slowly overcomes Sylvain.

“Not now… not like this…”

Felix is still trying to get in a few hits with his sword, but with only half his limbs functional he can’t gather much strength to land a proper blow. The shield is still burning and flashing its gleaming light, with its power rendered useless.

Sylvain’s horse got injured by a lance and collapsed, so he’s now standing on his feet, though wobbling would be a better qualifier. He doesn’t even know how he’s still up and waving his weapon around; he should have died a long time ago. Perhaps stubbornness only is keeping him alive.

Each one of these cavalrymen is holding a bow or a lance. The sight is strangely comforting.

“I’m not afraid. I figured it would end like this…”

It’s selfish of him. There is no way to know whether the Alliance was truly going to take them in as war prisoners, as soldiers, or something. Maybe they could have found comrades in their ranks and they could have overthrown Edelgard’s reign together. It doesn’t matter—Sylvain has a promise to keep, and a silent pledge to abide by.

He doesn’t look at Felix as he lifts the Lance of Ruin one last time. The crest of Gautier bursts out but he never gets to unleash its power.

When the arrows go flying, he sees movement to the side. His mouth curls upward even as pain explodes behind every inch of his body, forcing him to drop his relic before he follows soon after, his face meeting dirt and his eyes filled with dust. There is another grunt beside him and he hears a thud. A laugh bubbles in his throat but he only spits out blood and atrocious wet sounds. He doesn’t have enough energy to say how funny the situation is, so he simply closes his eyes.

He can finally rest.

***

Once upon a time, Sylvain admired Glenn for being such a righteous and strong knight, walking the honored path of serving the prince and receiving praise for his accomplishments. However, more than anything, Sylvain loved him as the big brother he never had; and when he lost him, too, he thought that maybe it was his turn to act like a big brother. Dimitri, Felix and Ingrid still didn’t see all the horrors of life, not yet—they suffered the loss of a loved one but their hearts weren’t ready to keep on stepping down that road. He didn’t have Miklan’s raw fury or Glenn’s unshakable belief, but caring is something he’s capable of, despite everything. He’s clumsy with words and hopeless with actions, but he can watch over them and keep them close to his heart.

He realizes that he failed every single one of them, but at least none of them has to live through the guilt of surviving.

#fe3h #fire emblem three houses #sylvain jose gautier #felix hugo fraldarius #ingrid brandl galatea #my fanfic #I LOVE THESE KIDS SO MUCH UGH #so much that i write a fic where they suffer yea #hhhh

7 notes · View notes