Archive of Our Own

Sylvain fetches the extra fur himself, drawing one out of his own personal closet. It’s old, slightly tattered, but the dark black fur—from a bear, he suspects—is one of his personal favourites. 

The castle is quiet as he returns to the guest room. The old floorboards creak beneath his steps, and a faint wind whistles between the stone walls of Castle Gautier. When he arrives at the door to the main guest room, it’s cracked open, the doorframe flickering with the firelight from Felix’s lantern. Sylvain carefully takes his last step until he can peak inside without pushing the door open any further,

Felix is standing at the far side of the room. He’s already draped his cloak over a nearby chair. As Sylvain watches, he reaches back to pull his hair out of its tie, and it falls to his shoulders. He bends back, stretches his spine, and combs his fingers through his hair. Then, he brings his fingers to his mouth and coughs once, twice, three times into the palm of his hand. 

That, in and of itself, is hardly unusual. The air in Gautier is dryer than in Fraldarius, and it always takes a couple days to adjust when switching between the two. Sylvain is just about to push into the room and apologize on behalf of his territory’s lack of humidity with a quiet laugh, until Felix drops his head forward and wipes his hand against his chest like he’s disgusted with his own lungs.

Then, so quietly Sylvain can barely hear him, Felix mumbles, “Still no flowers.”

Sylvain trips over his own feet. Felix turns around so quickly it’s almost dizzying. The fur tumbles onto the floor between them.

“What?” says Sylvain. 

And Felix bolts.

…

Felix is faster than him, but Sylvain knows the halls of Castle Gautier far better. He manages, just barely, to catch Felix at the side door that leads out towards the stables. When he catches Felix’s arm, he looks almost as terrified as a rabbit caught in a snare. Perhaps even more.

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

Felix huffs. “What does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re about to get yourself killed over a—”

He expects a glare, but Feilx’s eyes only widen further. It’s scarier. Sylvain’s mouth snaps shut.

“I wasn’t going to get myself killed,” says Felix. “You should know me better than that.”

“I know you’re not equipped to ride,” says Sylvain.

“I’ve managed worse.” Felix tries to pull his arm free, but all it does is pull the sleeve of his turtleneck down over his fist. 

“Your horse needs to rest.”

“I’ll take one of yours.”

“You need to rest.”

“Hmph. I’ve survived worse.”

“You don’t even have your cloak,” says Sylvain, staring pointedly at the sleeve he’s still holding onto. “Or your boots. Or your swords.”

That, somehow, gets Felix to relent. Sylvain would laugh if his mouth wasn’t so dry, if he didn’t have his fingers wrapped tightly around Felix’s clenched fist, around the very hand he’d coughed into. Still no flowers, echoes in his head. No flowers. No flowers. No flowers.

“Not a word,” Felix hisses. He pulls his arm free from Sylvain’s grasp and crosses it over his chest. “If you even consider mentioning—that—I’m getting a room at an inn.”

“And telling them what?” says Sylvain. “You. Duke Fraldarius, had to vacate your perfectly comfortable room at Castle Gautier because you accidentally revealed—”

The glare Felix pins him with is truly a threat. “I’ll tell them Margrave Gautier is an insufferable fool who doesn’t understand basic hospitality,” he says, “and surely they’ll agree with me.”

Sylvain sighs. Felix’s glare softens, though Sylvain suspects it’s more from fatigue than lenience. His chest heaves with each breath. Sweat is drying on his forehead. His hand, Sylvain notes, is still tucked into his sleeve, holding onto the black knit like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. 

Like he used to when he was little. 

“I won’t say anything,” says Sylvain. “I won’t. Just stay until breakfast. You’ll need some sustenance if you’re going to flee halfway across the continent.” He tries to grin, tries to laugh this all off, but it’s hollow as it falls off his lips, and Felix’s only response is to stare pointedly at the ground.

After a moment, he jerks his head, pushes past Sylvain, and runs back up the stairs to the guest room.

…

Sylvain tries to sleep. 

Or rather, he collapses onto his bed knowing full-well he won’t fall asleep, but he tucks himself under his fur and smashes his face into his pillow anyway. Felix’s voice keeps playing back in his head. Still no flowers. Sylvain thinks the guest room must have an echo, given how loud the memory is. Still no flowers. He’ll have to look into that — the room is supposed to be quiet. Still no flowers.

Felix expects to cough up flowers. 

Sylvain rolls onto his back with a groan. He pulls the pillow with him and holds it against his face so tightly it burns to breathe. 

Felix is in love with someone. Someone who doesn’t love him back. He expects to cough up flowers, to choke on their petals and spit out their stems until they tear him apart, until he—

Sylvain bolts up. The room is a haze of blurred black, but he knows there’s a vase of lillies on his desk somewhere across from him. He throws the pillow, hoping to hear the glass shatter, but all he gets is the quiet thud of fabric hitting wood.

Felix expects to fucking die. He is waiting to get a disease that could kill him. He’s in love with someone and just waiting until it fucking kills him and Sylvain is just supposed to, what, sit here and wait with him? Count down the days until it happens? They survived a war together and yet they’re gonna break their promise over—

Sylvain’s throat spasms. His chest feels tight. He reaches for his mouth on instinct and chokes into his hand until he feels like he can breathe again. He doesn’t look as he pulls his hand away, just curls it into a fist, mashes his fingers into his palm until he’s sure it’s empty.

No flowers.

…

The sun hasn’t even started rising when Sylvain gives up on sleep altogether. He pulls an old sweater over his head and slinks quietly down the hall. Felix’s door is still closed. For a moment, Sylvain considers peeking inside to make sure Felix is still there, but it doesn’t seem worth the risk of waking him.

If Felix broke his promise, he’s probably too far gone to catch up to.

Sylvain trudges down the stairs and slumps into an arm chair, tucked awkwardly into a hallway. It’s hardly comfortable and covered in dust, but it gives him a perfect view of the stairs, the main door, and the route to the stables. He tucks one arm behind his head and just watches. 

The sun still hasn’t started rising when he hears the sound of footsteps on the stone staircase. Felix rounds the corner, as silent as one can be in an old, worn down castle. His boots are slung over one arm, his swords balanced precariously between his fingers so they don’t bump across each other. 

“I thought I might find you here,” he says when he sees Sylvain. He’s far more put together than Sylvain, with his hair pulled back and cloak draped over his shoulder. “You don’t look like someone who plans on staying silent.”

“And you don’t look like someone who plans on staying for breakfast.”

Felix huffs, but he stares at the floor like he’s ashamed. “I can’t,” he says. 

“Like hell you can’t.”

“I can’t,” says Felix, and when he looks up it’s with that same terrified look he had yesterday. “I’ll never want to talk about it, but at least give me time, okay?”

It’s such a simple request, said so desperately, that Sylvain can’t respond with anything other than, “Okay.”

Felix blinks. He looks surprised. Sylvain is half surprised, himself, but as he watches the tension ease from Felix’s shoulders, he can’t bring himself to take it back. 

“Take one of my horses,” he says instead. “It’ll be safer.”

Felix nods. He keeps eye contact for a beat too long before looking away and brushing past Sylvain’s shoulder, heading back for the stable door. Sylvain stares at the space he just vacated, counting every footfall, listening at the door creaks open and, barely audibly, Felix whispers, “Thank you.”

…

Sylvain expects time to be a week, maybe two. He expects a letter in the mail, a rescheduling of their visit, a brief acknowledgement of each other’s existence, and yet three weeks pass and he’s heard nothing. He half debates sending a messenger to Dimitri, just to make sure an overtired Felix didn’t steer his horse into a ditch, but decides at the last minute that it wouldn’t be worth getting killed when Felix inevitably found out.

So he gives Felix time. And more time. And even more time, until a whole moon has passed and Sylvain has had far too much time to think, to replay the memory, to try and figure out what the hell is going on with or without Felix’s help. 

“If he needs time to get used to the idea, that must mean this is new,” he tells his horse, and tries not to throw up in his mouth at the thought of Felix falling in love with someone while Sylvain was here in Gautier, clueless.

One moon and two weeks after that night, he sets off for the capital for a planned meeting. It’s about grain. Maybe. Nothing interesting except that Felix will be there and that is enough to have Sylvain gathering a few of his men and taking off towards Fhirdiad.

“I’m not going to ask him,” he says to the horse this time. She lets out a huff that sounds far too doubtful for his taste. “I’m not. I’m just gonna make sure he’s okay.”

…

He doesn’t ask Felix. 

He asks Annette, tucked away in the back corners of the castle’s library. Felix would never come here, he reasons. And even if he did, checking in on your friends isn’t a crime. He just wants Felix to be happy. And not dying. 

That feels like an entirely reasonable standard. 

So, he throws himself onto one of the fancy sofas that dots the library, just as Annette is pulling a dusty tome from one of the shelves. She glances at him, just briefly, before opening the book on the desk in front of her. 

“What do you want?” she asks.

“Me? Want someth—” She raises her brows. “Worth a shot,” he shrugs. “I have a question for you.”

“Yeah?” says Annette.

Sylvain swallows, and channeling the vibe of someone who is very casually curious and definitely wants to know the answer, asks, “Has Felix met anybody?”

“He’s the Duke,” Annette answers unhelpfully. “He’s always meeting people.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes pointedly, even though she’s not looking at him. “Not like that. Like, has he met-met someone?”

That gets her attention. She looks up from her book, but instead of looking curious, she looks amused. “Like, romantically?”

“Yeah,” says Sylvain.

“Our Felix?” she asks this time. “Felix Hugo Fraldarius?”

“Yeah.” 

Annette giggles, like it’s a joke. Sylvain realizes that, a month ago, he would have been in on it, laughing with her. The idea of Felix just meeting someone new and falling in love sounds preposterous, and yet he did and Sylvain has no way of finding out who it is who’s putting his life at risk by being too dense to see—

“Oh,” he hears Annette say. “You were serious.”

“Of course I was serious,” he frowns. “I just— I need to know if there’s someone, okay?”

Annette stares at him, tracing his body up and down until he’s squirming under the scrutiny. “Right,” she says. “Well, I don’t know of anyone.”

Sylvain nods. “Great, thank you, Annette.”

“I honestly don’t think Felix—” 

“Is capable of that?” he finishes for her. Annette just blinks at him. “Yeah, I didn’t think so either,” he says, and walks off, back towards the giant doors that lead into the library. Once he’s out of her sight, he all but marches back to his quarters, head bowed, staring at the floor, at the shoes of various castle staff and elite guests and—

“Sylvain.”

He looks up. Felix is standing there, alone in the hallway between their two rooms. His arms are crossed over his chest, like he’s trying to be intimidating, but Sylvain catches the way he fidgets with a free strand of thread. “Staring at your feet like that is hardly behaviour befitting of a Margrave.”

“Why, thank you,” says Sylvain. 

The corner of Felix’s mouth lifts into a smirk, and it’s the most okay Sylvain has felt since this whole thing started. He opens his mouth, as though to speak, but his eyes catch something behind Sylvain and his nose wrinkles instead. “I have to get to a meeting,” he says. 

Sylvain turns, glances briefly at the clock behind him, and nods. “Right, yeah, of course.”

Felix nods, goes to take a step, then hesitates. “I’ll see you later in that meeting about … oats?”

Sylvain laughs. “I thought it was about corn, but yeah.”

The meeting ends up being about potatoes. The second Dimitri says it, Sylvain looks up to catch Felix’s gaze, only to find Felix looking back at him, biting his lip, trying not to laugh.

…

Sylvain loiters outside the room until Felix, always one of the last to leave, finally escapes the potato-meeting. Felix pauses when he sees him, brows furrowed like he wasn’t expecting Sylvain to wait, even though Sylvain’s waited around for him in Fhirdiad since Felix could barely walk. His gaze slips from Sylvain’s. His hand falls to his sword, not as a threat, put for comfort.

Dimitri and Dedue slip out after Felix, wave a quick goodbye, and take off down the hall.

Alone, in the stuffiest halls of the castle, Sylvain wants to say I’m worried about you, wants to say I missed you, wants to say you have me checking for rose petals every time I clear my throat. 

What he actually says is, “Long time no see.”

Felix huffs. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again without saying a word. His hand is still fidgeting with the hilt of his sword, his eyes locked on the stone floor, his shoulders tense. 

Sylvain pushes himself off the wall he was leaning against and steps forward so Felix can hear his whisper. “Hey, I’m not gonna say anything stupid.”

“Yeah, right,” Felix snorts, but he’s smiling. Sylvain can hear it.

“About that,” Sylvain huffs, “I just wanted to see if you wanted to get dinner or something, like old times.”

“Three moons ago is hardly old times.” Felix finally looks up, his smile softened, bittersweet. 

It certainly feels like old times.

“I was going to head to the training grounds,” he continues. “Everyone will be dining right now.”

“Right,” says Sylvain. Two moons ago, he would have known that was an invitation, an unspoken I can’t handle people right now, but I can spend time with you. He feels out of practice at reading Felix now, or like maybe he never could read him at all. He must have missed so much if he missed—

“You’re welcome to come,” Felix huffs, like he really didn’t want to say it. “As long as you keep your promise to not say anything stupid.”

Sylvain grins, bounces on his toes, and says, before he can think, “I’d never break a promise to you.”

Felix freezes. Sylvain freezes. He swears the clocks freeze. 

Sylvain opens his mouth to say, Nothing stupid, starting now, but Felix is speaking before he can.

“I never would,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “Not by choice. You should know that.”

…

Felix beats on the training dummy like a man who was forced to sit through meetings about potatoes all day. Which is to say, like the training dummy is Dimitri offering a third import route option just as they were about to leave. Sylvain hits his own like a man thoroughly distracted by the sweat dripping from Felix’s brow and the stretch of his turtleneck over his shoulders. 

Which is to say, so weakly that Felix eventually turns his sword on Sylvain, instead. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve been slacking on your training.”

Sylvain shrugs. “War’s over.”

Felix huffs. “You never know what might happen,” he says. “You should be prepared. You’re the margrave now.”

“My father hardly ever seemed prepared,” says Sylvain. 

Felix wrinkles his nose.

Sylvain laughs. “Fair point.”

He raises his lance, at last. The corner of Felix’s mouth twitches. He swings his blade, far more gently than normal, until it hits the lance’s handle, right between Sylvain’s hands.

“I didn’t care if your father did something stupid,” says Felix. “For all I care, the bastard could have died sooner.”

“Well, I’m still far better in combat than he ever was,” says Sylvain. He pushes back against Felix’s blade until the quirk of his lip turns into a faint grin. “So if he could survive the war, I’m sure I can slack off a tiny bit during peace time.”

Felix swings his blade, jamming it against the other side of Sylvain’s lance. “Not a risk worth taking.”

Sylvain throws him off and thrusts his lance into the space between Felix’s side and his sword arm. “Are you worried about me?” he says, sing-song.

Felix rolls his eyes. “How many times are we going to have this conversation?” he says. In a flash, he has wrenched Sylvain’s lance from his hands and sent it clattering to the floor. “I don’t want you to die. That’s it.”

“Yeah, well, me neither,” says Sylvain. 

He isn’t even sure if he means he doesn’t want himself to die, or that he doesn’t want Felix to die, but it’s clear how Felix takes it. He glares, and sheathes his sword, with emphasis. 

“Would you stop bringing that up?” he hisses.

“I wasn’t try—”

“It’s late,” says Felix, turning away. “You should get dinner before the staff stops serving it.”

It’s very pointedly not an invitation. Sylvain’s chest goes tight as he watches Felix take one step, two. Before he can think better of it, he’s reaching forward, snagging Felix by the arm. Felix’s free hand flies to his sword. This time, it is a threat.

“Can you just tell me one thing?” he asks. He sounds desperate, even to himself. “And then I’ll never bring it up again.”

“If you ask who—”

“Not that,” Sylvain promises, even as his brain screams yes, that that that. 

Felix’s shoulders sag. “What.”

“You would tell me, right?” asks Sylvain. “If you actually did, you know, with the flowers? You would tell me.”

Felix’s face does a thing that heavily implies he had zero plans of telling Sylvain anything, that he’d really planned on secretly coughing up flowers until Sylvain got a letter announcing his death. Sylvain wants to throw up at the thought. 

But then his grimace settles into a frown, his whole body going limp. “Fine, I’ll tell you,” he says. “You’d figure it out anyway if I got sick, now that you know.”

The knot in Sylvain’s chest unravels. “Thank you,” he says. It feels wrong, thanking Felix for warning him before he fucking dies, but it’s all he can come up with.

Felix doesn’t say anything else. Sylvain can’t think of anything else to say.

“I appreciate it,” he manages. 

Felix just keeps frowning at him. Then he huffs, turns on his heel, and heads for the door, kicking Sylvain’s lance aside as he goes. He gets to the archway parting the training grounds from the cobbled path back to the palace, and pauses. Sylvain watches as he looks up at the sky, fidgets with the hilt of his sword, and lets out a sigh so deep his shoulders sag with it. 

“Sylvain,” he says, voice tight.

“Yeah?”

“You should come to Fraldarius sometime next moon,” says Felix. He swallows so hard it’s audible, staring pointedly at the sky. “I need advice about. A horse problem.”

“A horse problem,” Sylvain echoes. 

Felix looks back, glaring, daring Sylvain to call him on his lie. Sylvain doesn’t. Felix’s hand is still on his sword.

“Right, yeah, a horse problem,” he says. “I can help with that.”

Felix doesn’t quite smile, but something in his eyes softens. He stays there for a moment, just staring at Sylvain, and then, with a quick nod, turns on his heel and leaves. 

…

Sylvain decides to take Felix’s horse on the trip to Fraldarius.

It’s a downy grey horse with blotchy spots dotting its neck. Sylvain has taken to calling him Dove. 

“Glad to be going home?” he asks, as he mounts the horse. He runs his fingers gently through Dove’s mane. “You must be a good horse, if Felix likes you.”

Dove lets out a huff and, as predicted, responds perfectly as Sylvain leads him out of the stables and towards the route to Fraldarius. 

“Felix probably doesn’t talk to you like this,” he says. “Don’t worry about that. Felix doesn’t talk to most people. Or horses. Definitely not horses.”

He begins the trip with a slow trot through the town surrounding castle Gautier. It’s quiet, this early in the morning. The sun has barely risen, and the roads are dotted only with men up early to feed their own horses and refresh the fires keeping their families warm. One seems to recognize him, and bows his head gently. Sylvain just waves back. 

“We’ll take this trip easy,” he tells Dove. “I need time to figure out what to say when I get there.”

Dove blows a strong breath out of his nose. 

Sylvain laughs. “I know, that’s not like me,” he says. “But it’s Felix.”

…

Felix greets Sylvain at the gate to his property. He’s leaning against a stone pillar, staring out at the road, when Sylvain gets there. His bangs are tucked behind his ear, his hair is pulled back into a low bun, and his cloak hangs over his shoulder. When he sees Sylvain, he motions for the gate to be opened, so that Sylvain and Dove can trot right up to his side.

“Duke Fraldarius,” he greets, grinning as Felix rolls his eyes. “I didn’t expect such hospitality.”

“Shut up,” says Felix. “I was bored.”

There’s a splash of pink across his cheeks that implies otherwise, but Sylvain decides it’s safer to avoid pointing it out.

“I’ll lead you to the stables,” says Felix, as though Sylvain doesn’t know where they are. He takes off in a brisk walk that Sylvain and Dove catch up to easily. “How did you like the horse?”

“Oh, Dove?” says Sylvain. 

Felix turns to him, brows furrowed. “Dove?”

“You left without telling me his name,” says Sylvain. “He seemed like a Dove.”

Felix huffs. “He looks more like a pigeon.”

Sylvain looks down. Felix isn’t wrong. The dark grey spots that climb Dove’s neck do look more like a pigeon’s feathering than a traditional dove’s.

Still, he pats the side of Dove’s neck and says, “He’s far too graceful to be a pigeon.”

“They’re the same bird.”

“With different vibes.”

“Exactly,” says Felix. “Dove is far too cheesy for a Fraldarius horse.”

“Well then you shouldn’t have let me name him,” says Sylvain. 

Felix is still facing away from him, but Sylvain can still tell when he rolls his eyes. “Leaving my horse at your place is hardly letting you name him,” he says. “Typical of you to—”

“Did you name my horse?” Sylvain interrupts.

“No,” says Felix without hesitation, but there’s a pause in his step that makes Sylvain grin.

“You did!” he says. “Come on, what did you name him? I need to know if it’s better than—”

“I didn’t name him,” says Felix. Then, probably knowing Sylvain will not leave him alone until he gets an answers, adds, “The stablehands have taken to calling him … Levin.”

Sylvain barks a laugh. “Levin? Like the sword?”

“Perhaps.” Felix’s voice is tight. “Maybe they found it fitting.”

They arrive at the stable. Sylvain climbs off Dove—definitely not Pigeon—and lands on the ground right next to Felix, close enough to see the pink still high on his cheeks. 

“Right, I believe you,” he says, as Felix pushes the door open and ushers Sylvain inside. “So, tell me about this horse problem.”

“There’s a problem with the horses?” a third voice comes. Sylvain looks up to find the stable woman, an older lady who’s been working at house Fraldarious since he was a kid, staring at them with furrowed brows. 

“No,” says Felix, just as Sylvain says, “That’s what I was told.”

Felix glares at him, his face red. “Sylvain simply wanted his horse back,” he says.

“Oh, I was fine with Dove,” says Sylvain.

“And to bring Pigeon back here.”

“See I was told there was a horse related problem that required my consultation,” says Sylvain. The stablewoman is staring at them both, her gaze now more exasperated than confused. 

Felix must not notice that she’s onto them, because he adds, very tightly, “Sylvain must have been invited here under false pretenses, then.”

Sylvain feels his own smile stretch his cheeks. Felix is somehow even redder. The stablewoman just looks between them, rolls her eyes, and says, “Alright, boys,” like they’re still children. She takes a step away, turns back, and bows slightly. “It’s nice to see you, Margrave,” she says, then heads for the opposite end of the stables.

Felix is staring at his feet when Sylvain turns back to him, his bangs hanging over his face, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“False pretenses, huh?” says Sylvain.

“You’re an asshole,” says Felix, but there’s a hint of a smile in his voice, now that they’re alone.

…

The journey between Gautier and Fraldarius is a long one, despite their proximity. It’s already getting late when Sylvain arrives, the orange glow of sunset filtering through the castle windows. Felix hands his cloak to a staff member as he steps inside, and Sylvain is quick to do the same with his own. A few steps further into the castle, the chief of staff informs them dinner has been prepared for them, whenever they want it.

“Fancy,” says Sylvain.

“It’s customary,” says Felix. “For guests,”

“Official guests,” says Sylvain. “I don’t think a made up horse problem makes this an official trip, Duke Fraldarius.”

“Stop calling me that,” Felix huffs. “It’s just food. Are you hungry?”

Sylvain could eat, after such a long journey, so Felix escorts him to the dining room without an answer. It’s the big, formal dining room where their parents used to eat when they were kids. Once, a tiny Felix had crawled out of his chair, under the table, and up onto Sylvain’s lap in the middle of dinner with some very fancy-seeming guests, because he was bored. After that, they were always sat next to each other. 

Today, their plates are sat next to each other at one corner of the table. When Sylvain settles into his seat, it’s close enough to Felix’s that their feet could knock together under the table. It feels almost intimate, despite the spread of empty chairs lined up behind him. 

“Thank you,” says Felix. “For coming.”

“Of course,” says Sylvain, his voice coming out softer than he meant it to. “Is there anything I can actually help you with, while I’m here?” He removes the cloche from his plate to reveal a steaming bowl of fish and turnip stew.

Felix wrinkles his nose. “Any chance you feel like attending a meeting about snow removal for me?”

“I would, but unfortunately I don’t have authority over the Fraldarius dukedom.”

“I’m sure we could find a way,” says Felix. He takes a scoop of his stew and shoves it into his mouth.

“You could marry me,” says Sylvain, before he can think. 

Felix looks like he nearly spits out his bite, his eyes go so wide. He manages to swallow, and schools his features into a familiar eye roll. “Another way,” he says, voice tight. “I’ll cede my position to you. Being Duke is horrid anyway.”

“I don’t know, I prefer my way,” says Sylvain. He forces a laugh. It feels too honest. Felix is staring at him from across the table like it means something. Surely, he thinks, he’s made a joke like this before. “You know, if being Duke is so terrible.”

He takes a bit of his stew, just to shut himself up.

“You’d be good at it,” Felix grumbles. “You’re good at people.”

Sylvain laughs. “I’m sure there’s a dozen girls from our class at Garreg Mach that would disagree.”

“Well, thank the goddess you’ve outgrown that,” says Felix. “For all of our sakes.”

“Hey, it couldn’t have been that bad for you,” Sylvain counter. “If anyone should be complaining, it’s Ingrid. She’s the one who had to clean up after me all the time.” He takes another bite and smirks. “You just yelled at me all the time. If anything, I’d think you were having fun.”

Felix blinks at him, once, twice, then shakes his head like Sylvain just said the most idiotic thing on the planet. “Trust me,” he says, the slightest edge of a laugh in his voice. “It was torturous.”

…

Felix does, actually, have to begin his day with a meeting about snow removal. He ties his hair into its customary high bun, pulls his cloak over his shoulders, and leaves Sylvain in the foyer with a gruff, “Pray for me.”

“Of course, my Duke,” says Sylvain. 

Felix swats at his arm in retaliation. 

Sylvain spends his first few minutes of alone time wandering around the halls of the castle. Felix’s estate is far bigger than his own, stuffed full of seminar rooms and dusty furniture and memories. They’d played tag in these halls, as children. Had built forts around the foyer’s giant sofa. Had made a promise in Felix’s childhood bedroom, tucked away upstairs, untouched since the earliest years of the war.

He ends up at the back door, facing the carefully groomed fields of the Fraldarius estate and, without bothering to go fetch his cloak, opens the door and slips outside. 

There are neat paths that criss-cross the land back here. Sylvain’s forgotten many of them, though he suspects it would be muscle memory to follow their routes. He decides against it. He meanders through the freshly cut lawn until the blades of grass climb high around his ankles and tickle under the hems of his slacks, until the trees hang large and unkempt over his head, until the castle hangs low over the horizon.

It’s nicer here, Sylvain thinks, than it is in Gautier.

Far enough from the castle, from the meticulous care of Fraldarius’ landscapers, wildflowers dot the ground, white and yellow and blue. Sylvain bends down to look at one, to run his finger along its petals. It’s just a daisy. They have those further north, in Gautier, too. 

“You guys must get more sun here,” he says to the flower. “You’re prettier here.”

And he plucks it. And then another, and a third.

When he was younger, and stupider, he used to pluck every single one he saw and carry them around chanting “she loves me, she loves me not.” When asked, he would say it was about whatever girl he last remembered seeing. Dimitri would huff at him. Ingrid rolled her eyes. And Felix—Felix crossed his arms and pouted.

Sylvain picks another daisy, then a buttercup, and then a blue one he once heard Dedue call a cornflower. 

When he returns to the castle, it’s with a little bouquet in hand. He has someone from the kitchen staff bring him a glass of water—they’re much too small for a vase—and sets them on the corner of the table that has quickly become their spot. Then, he settles in the foyer to wait out Felix’s meeting with a book.

An hour has passed when he hears the meeting room open, and the various guests escorted outside by staff. The second the main door closes, Felix runs up the stairs—his steps echoing through the halls. He must come down much more quietly, because the next thing Sylvain hears is Felix’s voice, coming from the dining room.

“Sylvain?”

“Yes?” he calls back. He sets his book down on the armrest and makes towards the dining room. “Have you at last solved the most grievous issue facing Faerghus?”

Felix doesn’t answer. When Sylvain arrives in the dining room, he’s holding the glass in his hand, staring down at the spread of flowers. “What are these?”

“Those, Felix, are flowers,” says Sylvain. The implication sinks in only then. He swallows painfully around it. “I know they don’t have much greenery in your training grounds but—”

“Why are they here?” Felix ignores him. His eyes flit around Sylvain’s face, searching for any sign of ulterior motive. He must not find it, though, because his face settles into a confused stare.

“They’re a gift.” Sylvain smiles. Felix’s gaze snaps from his face, to the flowers, and back to him. “You do know what a gift is, right?”

“Of course I know what a gift is,” Felix huffs. He looks back down at the flowers, brows pinched. “They’d survive longer outside.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t exactly gift you your own backyard,” Sylvain laughs. “Come on, they’re pretty in here.”

Felix blinks. Then, oh so subtly, he brings the glass closer to his face and takes a breath, eyes drifting closed. When he sets the glass back on the table, it’s with a quiet “Thank you,” and a slight smile.

Sylvain counts it as a win.

…

Later, when they have dinner cozied around their little corner of the table, Sylvain catches Felix glancing at the little bouquet between bites. Sometimes, he looks anxious. Others, thoughtful. A few times, Sylvain catches a smile curling at the corner of his mouth as he chews. 

And Sylvain thinks, when I start coughing up flowers, it’ll be daisies.

He shoves another bite of pheasant into his mouth, swallows around the thought, and does not wonder if Felix is thinking about coughing up flowers too.

…

They settle into the foyer that night, cloaked in cozy woolen sweaters and candlelight. 

It’s automatic when Sylvain settles into the corner of the sofa and pulls Felix’s legs into his lap to close the gap between them. He’s not even sure when it started—sometime during the war, surely. Felix comes willingly, settling his spine into his own corner, head tipping back over the cushion. 

“I hate being Duke,” he sighs. 

“You knew you would,” says Sylvain. He takes a sip of his whiskey, his other hand falling to grip Felix’s ankle. 

This is how they were sitting that night, before excusing themselves for bed, before Sylvain went to fetch the fur, before Felix didn’t cough up flowers, but both sunken further into the cushions, bodies loose with alcohol. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” says Felix. “You have a mind for this stuff.”

“Kinda had to. Would be pretty rude to make a whole new country then abandon it,” says Sylvain. Felix huffs. In agreement, Sylvain knows. “There’s not much else to do in Gautier, anyway.”

Felix looks up at him, brow arced. “Surely you could think of something more enjoyable than meetings to do,” he says, laughing wryly. “I can’t think of anything I want to do less than manage the administration of this territory.”

Sylvain shrugs. “It’s pretty lonely, up there.”

“I’ve never minded being alone,” says Felix. 

A smile tugs at the corner of Sylvain’s mouth. “That’s not true,” he says. He squeezes Felix’s ankle, and watches his gaze flick between Sylvain’s face and his hand. “You were so clingy when you were little. You always wanted me or Dimitri or Ingrid with you.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “That was a long time ago.”

“It was,” says Sylvain. He takes another sip of his drink, and lets his own head fall against the cushions behind him. The yellow glow of candlelight traces the wooden panels along the ceiling, the swirling grain on each plank. “You don’t miss it at all?”

“Being a kid?”

“No,” says Sylvain. “The monastery. Not the war part but the, you know, having everyone together part.”

Felix hums, but stays quiet. Sylvain lifts his head, to find Felix staring back at him, cheek squished against the back couch cushion. His bangs, grown out to nearly his chin now, have fallen from their pins and brush against the angle of his jaw. Yellow firelight flickers in his eyes. A thoughtful frown tugs at his lip. 

Sylvain wants to kiss him. He squeezes his calf instead. 

“I miss it,” says Felix. “Not…”

“Not?” 

“Not in the same way,” he says. “Not everyone. Just—” He pauses, swallows. “Just the important people.”

“I think you’re overestimating how many people I miss,” Sylvain laughs. 

The corner of Felix’s mouth quirks up. “Not your girls?”

“We do have those in Gautier,” says Sylvain. “If that was the problem, I think I’d find a way to entertain myself.”

Felix huffs a laugh. His ankle flexes under Sylvain’s hand, the arch of his foot flattening against Sylvain’s thigh, just for a moment. “I’m sorry I ruined my last visit,” he says. “I didn’t mean to.”

Sylvain smirks. “Really? I was under the impression you wanted me to overhear.”

Felix reaches forward, as though to swat at him, but his hand hits the cushion between them instead. “Don’t be an asshole,” he says. “I’m trying to apologize.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” says Sylvain.

“You’re the one complaining about being lonely,” says Felix, but there’s something somber in his voice. “I just— I needed time, okay?”

Sylvain squeezes his ankle again. “I get it.”

Felix’s gaze falls, lips pinching into a frown. He shakes his head, once, and stays with his face buried in the couch cushion. “You don’t.”

I do, Sylvain almost says, but Felix feels so open, so vulnerable, for the first time since this whole thing started. He can’t risk it, not this, not now. So he skims his fingers down Felix’s calf, along the seam of his pants. “Okay,” he says. “I don’t. But I’m not mad.”

Felix peaks out from the sofa. There’s a splash of red, high along his cheekbones. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and says, “Let’s talk about something else.”

Sylvain smiles at him, and watches as Felix slowly sinks back into his normal position. 

“Okay,” he says. “So, do you name all your horses after swords?”

Felix blows a laugh through his nose. “Something else.”

Sylvain takes that as a yes.

…

He gets up early to make the journey back to Gautier. Felix is already up, sipping coffee over a pile of paperwork. The sweater he’s wearing, surely reserved for private moments like this, hangs loosely over his shoulders. His hair is half-pulled up into a messy bun that reminds Sylvain of their time at the academy. 

Goddess, he doesn’t want to leave. 

“Morning,” he says. 

Felix reaches for a cup sitting on the desk, and holds it out to Sylvain. “I had them brew a tea for you,” he says. “Breakfast will be ready shortly. For the journey.”

Sylvain takes it, hums around a sip. “What are you up to this early?”

“Catching up,” Felix huffs. “You’re distracting.”

Sylvain laughs. He settles onto the armrest of the sofa and peers over Felix’s arm. It’s something financial—the very type of dense work he knows Felix hates. “You’ll miss me,” he teases.

Felix looks up at him. He looks like he wants to roll his eyes, play along, but something furrows his brow instead. “Did you mean what you said?” he asks. “About being lonely?”

Sylvain leans back into the sofa, throwing his free arm over the cushions behind Felix. “I’ll survive.”

Felix frowns. 

“I’m making a trip up to Sreng, next moon,” Sylvain adds. “There’s a wedding. That’ll be nice.”

Felix wrinkles his nose. “If you say so.”

Sylvain nudges him. “If you’re worried about missing me, though, I would consider making another trip.”

“It’s my turn to go up to Gautier,” says Felix. He pauses, his cheeks going pink. “If you’re too deprived of company, that is.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet,” says Sylvain, just to watch the blush rising on Felix’s cheeks darken. “Expect a written invitation in the post shortly.”

Felix just rolls his eyes.

…

The wedding in Sreng is beautiful. It’s a large affair, the Chief’s granddaughter is marrying a man of great importance to Sreng’s own military. They exchange vows overlooking the bay, in an affair far less stuffy and formal than official weddings between members of the Kingdom’s nobility. Afterwards, everyone settles in for a feast and dancing.

Sylvain lingers on the sidelines, watching couples step in and out of each other’s arms and spin each other in circles. Last time Sylvain had attended a big wedding, it was Dimitri and Byleth’s, just after the end of the war. He’d, late into the night, dragged a protesting Felix onto the dance floor and had forced him into a stunted waltz. 

At the time, he’d told himself he was just helping a friend enjoy the evening.

Now— He coughs once into his palm. No flowers. 

“Margrave Gautier,” he hears. He looks up to find Chief Stephan walking towards him. “Have you enjoyed the evening?”

“It’s been lovely,” says Sylvain. “I wish nothing but the best to the happy couple.”

Stephan nods. “I’ll pass the message along.” He comes nearer and settles right next to Sylvain, overlooking the dancing couples alongside him. “I’ve heard everyone is pairing up down in Fhirdead, these days.”

Sylvain chuckles. “The aftermath of war, I suppose.”

“Will we be attending one of these for you soon, then?” says Stephan.

Sylvain swallows and doesn’t think about slow dancing with Felix. Or about how big of an affair it would be if two of the highest ranking noble families in Faerghus were to merge. Or about daisies. 

“No, I don’t think so,” he says.

“Ah,” says Stephan. “Haven’t found someone, yet?”

“It’s not that,” says Sylvain. “They don’t … reciprocate.”

Stephan frowns, worry creasing his brow. “Are you—” he motions subtly to his chest “—flowers?”

Sylvain forces a smile. “Nothing yet.”

“Ah,” says Stephan, leveling Sylvain with a look that reminds him of a much older and wiser version of Ingrid. There’s something knowing in it that makes Sylvain acutely aware of how young he is, comparatively. “Perhaps you should talk to them.”

Sylvain laughs. He remembers coming here during the war to arrange a peace agreement—they could hardly handle a battle on both fronts—and discovering that the people of Sreng had fewer qualms about who could marry who. Apparently, it mattered less when you weren’t worried about little Crest babies. 

He remembers the next time he saw Yuri, the knowing stare, the kiss, thinking about—

“He would kill me,” he tells Stephan.

Stephan breathes out a laugh. “I see,” he says. And then, “The Fraldarius boy.”

Sylvain chokes on a breath. Stephan looks so casual, so sure of himself. He grins at Sylvain’s reaction, and Sylvain thanks the goddess Felix never has any business in Sreng or he would actually be dead. 

“How did you know?” he asks. 

“He has a reputation,” says Stephan.

“For murder?” says Sylvain. He laughs. “That would make sense.”

Stephan hums. “For his swordsmanship, yes,” he says. “Among other things.”

He says it in a tone that implies he will not elaborate. Sylvain just blinks at him once and looks away, turning to where the newlyweds have now joined other attendees in a dance. They look so happy, surrounded by love and family and flowers. 

“You should talk to him,” says Stephan. He pats Sylvain on the back, almost like a father, and walks away.

…

The next time Sylvain sees Felix is in Fhirdiad. It was a quick trip for him, to update Dimitri on the continuation of their peace agreement with Sreng. He hadn’t even known Felix would be in the capital until that evening, when there’s a knock on his door.

When he opens it, Felix is standing there, his cloak missing, in just the turtleneck he always wears under it.

“Hi,” he says, blinking like he hadn’t expected Sylvain to answer. “I, uh, how was Sreng?”

“It was good,” says Sylvain. He intends to say the usual, the wedding was lovely, the couple seems very happy, but what comes out of his mouth is, “You have a reputation up there.”

Felix frowns. “What did you tell them?”

Sylvain raises both his hands. The door starts to swing shut as he lets go of it, and Felix reaches out to catch it for him. “Nothing!” Far too much. “They just, the Chief told me he knows you to be a great swordsman—” among other things “—that’s it.”

Felix stares at him, like he knows Sylvain’s lying, but eventually he hums, accepting the compliment. He pushes past the door, past Sylvain, into the middle of the room. The door thuds shut behind him. Sylvain turns, ready to settle into the armchairs in his quarters and chat, or whatever Felix intended, but Felix doesn’t move. He just stands there, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. 

“How were your meetings?” he asks. 

“Fine,” says Felix. “I needed to speak to Annette about. Something.”

“Right,” says Sylvain. Felix doesn’t elaborate, just stares at the carpet, still twisting his sleeve. “Is it anything I can help with?”

Felix looks up, eyes slightly wide. “No,” he says, far too fast. “I— That’s not why I’m here.”

“Okay,” says Sylvain. “Anything else I can help you with?”

“I have a weekend off in a few weeks,” says Felix. “I thought you might want some company.” His cheeks are going slightly pink, eyes locked firmly on Sylvain’s chest instead of his face. Sylvain feels himself smile.

“I’d love some company,” he says. He steps forward and snags Felix’s wrist so he stops fidgeting. Felix freezes and finally looks up to meet his gaze. “You know you’re always welcome in Gautier.”

Felix huffs. “It would be rude to just show up.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” says Sylvain. His thumb sweeps across Felix’s wrist, and he watches as Felix’s eyes snap that very spot. His cheeks have turned red. Sylvain loves it, so he does it again. “Maybe I’d like the surprise.”

That makes Felix snap back to himself. He rolls his eyes, tugging his arm from Sylvain’s hand. “You would.”

“You make it sound like a bad thing,” says Sylvain. “You surprised me today! Should I be complaining?”

“Maybe you should,” says Felix, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. 

Sylvain grins and bumps their shoulders together as he steps past him. “Well then, Duke Fraldarius, consider this your formal invitation to enjoy a nightcap and riveting conversation.”

Felix stares at him for a moment, shaking his head slightly, but when he steps forward to join Sylvain, it’s with a quiet laugh.

…

Sylvain isn’t entirely sure what makes him stop at the School of Sorcery on his way out of Fhirdiad. 

Certainly not curiosity about whatever business Felix had with Annette, that made his face go red every time Sylvain mentioned it. Definitely not the part of his brain that stayed up all night thinking maybe it was her that had Felix worried about coughing up flowers. She and Mercedes clearly had something going on so it would make sense that Felix—

Anyway. Obviously not that. 

When he asks to speak with her, he gets escorted down winding halls to an office. There’s books piled high on every surface, a cookie jar sitting on the corner of the desk, and a collection of trinkets lining the shelves. Unmistakably Annette’s. 

“We’ve told her you’re here, Margrave,” says the young lady who led him here. 

He nods, and settles into one of the chairs opposite the desk. She must host here students here. It’s at once easy and impossible to imagine—Professor Annette. 

“You know, it’s rude to show up without an invitation.”

Sylvain looks up. Annette smiles at him from the door. “You sound like Felix,” he says, standing. She rushes forward, wrapping her arms around him, and Sylvain thinks, again, about how much he misses seeing these people every day, instead of every few moons.

“He was here yesterday,” she says. “It must be contagious.”

She invites him back into the room. Instead of sitting behind her desk, she drops into the chair next to him. Even here, her toes barely touch the ground. 

“He’s doing okay, right?” Sylvain asks. 

“Didn’t you see him yesterday?”

“Yes, but— How did you know?” Annette just shrugs, still smiling. “Whatever. You know Felix. He isn’t always forthcoming when there’s something wrong.”

Annette stares at him for a moment. “Are you asking about the…?”

“The,” Sylvain repeats. He makes a motion with his hand, like a flower blooming, and hopes it’s ambiguous enough that Annette wouldn’t guess what he’s implying if she didn’t already know. 

She nods. “He’s fine,” she says, and Sylvain feels something in his chest unravel. If Felix told her, it’s probably not her, afterall. “He’s just being an idiot.”

Sylvain laughs. “He learned from the best,” he says. Annette snorts next to him. 

“So, did you come here just to check on Felix?”

Sylvain swallows. He’d look like a fool if he admitted that, yes, that is the main thing that brought him here. He’d look like a fool with a death wish if he asked the question bouncing around in his head, has he told you who it is? He probably looks like a fool anyway when he says, “No,” in the least convincing tone possible.

Annette rolls her eyes so hard it’s like her whole body moves with it. “You’re both idiots,” she huffs. “Hopeless idiots.”

“It’s not the only reason,” says Sylvain. “I was, uh, curious. About what could cause, you know, someone to expect to get the flower thing but, like, not.”

Annette looks up then. Her gaze flicks from Sylvain’s face to his drumming fingers, which he promptly stills, to his bouncing leg, which he also stills, back to his face. When she meets his gaze again, her eyes are narrow, her lips pursed into a knowing frown.

“Are we still talking about Felix?” she asks.

“Definitely Felix,” Sylvain rushes out, and immediately wants to smack himself for saying it so quickly. 

Annette sees right through him. Her whole body falls back in her seat and she huffs out a quiet, but certainly audible, “Idiots.”

“Hey! Not all of us are fancy magic scholars who understand this flower thing,” says Sylvain. 

Annette levels him with a look that heavily implies that’s not why she was calling him an idiot. She leans forward in her chair, reaching for a book that Sylvain only now notices is open to a page about flowers. She tugs it into her lap and points to a picture of a rose.

“I’ll tell you what I told Felix,” she says, and immediately goes beet red. “I mean, what I definitely didn’t tell Felix.”

Sylvain nods, “Right, of course,” he says. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Felix that you told me what you didn’t tell him.”

Annette blinks at him and nods once. “Right. Um, thank you,” she says. “Anyway. What I didn’t tell Felix is that Hanahaki Disease is incredibly predictable. In almost all cases where someone expected to get it, but didn’t, it’s because the love wasn’t actually unrequited to begin with.” 

Sylvain’s heart is suddenly beating way too fast. His cloak feels too hot and too tight around his neck. “That’s impossible,” he says. 

“Why?”

“H— They’re in love with someone else.”

“How do you know?”

Sylvain opens his mouth, and immediately snaps it shut again. 

“Exactly,” says Annette. She shoves the book back onto her desk and stands, brushing the wrinkles from her dress. “Now, unless you need me to show you all the evidence like I did— I mean, definitely didn’t do with Felix, you should go be lovesick somewhere else.”

Sylvain wants to tell her it’s rude to drop such information on someone’s head and immediately kick them out, but his mouth doesn’t seem to be working. He stands, too, nods at Annette in thanks, and makes his way to the door. 

“You’ll thank me later,” Annette calls from behind him. And then, softer, “It was nice seeing you, Sylvain.”

He turns back, smiles, and manages a “You too,” between the pounding beats of his heart.

…

By the time he gets back to Gautier, Sylvain has decided that surely the correct interpretation of what Annette had told him was that he was definitely, imminently going to start coughing up flowers. That was obviously the only possible explanation—the flower disease was just delayed, took the wrong route to Sylvain’s chest or something. 

He sits down for dinner the first night home and imagines what it would be like to share every meal with Felix, quiet and intimate like they did in Fraldarius and chokes on his bite of pheasant. No flowers come up.

He takes walks around the castle grounds and finds a patch of daisies. He picks one and, like he’s a child again, plucks each of its petals going, “He loves me, he loves me not.” His breath catches when it ends on “He loves me,” but when he clears the tightness from his chest, no petals come up with it.

One night, he settles into bed and thinks of the days when they would have sleepovers as kids. The beds were giant compared to their bodies back then, but still a clingy little Felix would always end up curled up against Sylvain’s side. He wonders if adult Felix, against all odds, would still like to cuddle. At that thought, he sits up and forces himself to cough into his hand until one of the night maids comes by to make sure he’s okay.

He stares at his palm after she leaves. Still no flowers.

…

By the time Felix arrives in Gautier two weeks later, Sylvain half regrets ever going to Annette in the first place. Her words haunt him, from the moment he watches Felix’s horse arrive at his gate. He raises a hand to help Felix climb off his horse and his traitorous mind goes not actually unrequited.

“What’s wrong with you?” says Felix, as he comes to stand at Sylvain’s side.

“Huh?” Sylvain blinks. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re distracted,” says Felix. He stares at Sylvain, eyes narrowed, for a moment before shrugging and tugging on the horse’s reins, taking off towards the stables. 

Sylvain rushes to catch up with him. Their shoulders bump as they walk. He might be standing too close, he thinks, but Felix doesn’t step away, just hums as though to acknowledge Sylvain’s presence. The walk to the stables is quiet. Sylvain can’t think of anything to say. When they arrive, Felix gently hands the reins over to the stablehand who greets them.

“And what’s this beauty’s name?” she asks.

“Rapier,” Sylvain guesses. 

Felix doesn’t correct him. When Sylvain looks over, his cheeks are red, his gaze locked on his own shoes. Sylvain laughs, so loud it seems to echo off the stable walls. Felix’s flush only darkens.

“Shut up,” he says, but his voice is soft.

Not actually unrequited, Sylvain thinks, and the laughter dies on his lips.

“Come on,” he says, voice tight. “Let’s go inside.”

Felix knows the routes around Gautier well. Sylvain follows him, through the stables, along a worn dirt road, until they reach the side entrance to the castle. One of the maids lets them in, but before she can reach out to assist Felix with his cloak, Sylvain’s own hands jump to Felix’s shoulders without his permission.

“Let me,” he says, and slowly draws the fur away from Felix’s neck. His hands are shaking, his face burning. Felix turns to Sylvain as he hands the cloak to the maid. Felix’s cheeks are pink, too, his lips parted around a question, but he doesn’t say anything.

Sylvain clears his throat. “Allow me to escort you to your room,” he says. Then, just for the familiarity of the joke, “Duke Fraldarius.”

“Stop calling me that,” Felix huffs. He dips his head, and instead of waiting for Sylvain to escort him, simply starts walking to the room that is always his, whenever he visits Gautier.

…

The day had already been fading into evening when Felix arrived, the sun sinking below Gautier’s horizon. The loss of it makes the air grow chilly. 

Sylvain lights some kindling in the fireplaces, blowing on the embers until a small flame catches the firewood. 

Felix must feel the chill more, because, still bundled in his woolen turtleneck, he kneels next to Sylvain and holds his hands out to the flame. Sylvain, like an idiot, watches the way orange light flickers across Felix’s callouses. Somehow, despite everything, his hands still look soft.

“Could we eat out here?” asks Felix. 

Sylvain isn’t sure why he’s asking. The dining hall is plenty warm, the fire there already stoked by the kitchen staff. There’s something in his voice, soft over the crackle of growing flames, that makes Sylvain suspect it’s wholly unrelated, anyway.

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll go get our food.”

When he returns with two bowls of stew in hand, Felix has settled onto the sofa. He has one leg tucked beneath himself and his head is tilted back against the cushion, his gaze locked on Sylvain. There’s something soft there, something nervous as he makes a point of moving over slightly and patting the empty space next to him.

Not actually unrequited. Sylvain nearly drops their food. 

He manages to hold on long enough to hand one bowl off the Felix and settle into the spot next to him. His knee presses against Sylvain’s thigh. Sylvain watches as he lifts the bowl to his face and sniffs it.

“You don’t like game this wild, usually,” says Felix.

“We had extra.” Sylvain shrugs. Felix looks entirely unconvinced. “And it’s polite to serve your guest.”

That makes Felix huff. Sylvain watches as he takes a sip of the broth and hums around the flavour—meat that’s far easier to find in the far north of Gautier than in Fraldarius. Sylvain feels frozen, even as the hot bowl burns his palms,

“I hardly feel like a guest,” says Felix. “I’ve spent so much time here. You don’t need to treat me like I’m special.”

“You are,” Sylvain blurts, so startled by his own words that he almost spills his soup across his lap. 

Felix looks equally shocked, spoon hovering in the air, halfway to his open mouth. 

Sylvain forces a laugh. “Duke Fraldarius,” he enunciates, a cover that comes about thirty seconds too late. 

Felix doesn’t buy it. That much is obvious. He stares at Sylvain, eyes wide, for what feels like ages, long enough that Sylvain seriously considers fleeing to get dessert even though he has yet to taste his dinner. 

When he finally cracks, though, it’s not into anger or annoyance. Instead, Sylvain watches as the corner of his mouth curls up into a grin. Felix shakes his head, gaze falling back to the soup, and mutters, “Idiot.”

Sylvain doesn’t have a response to that. He shovels a piece of meat into his mouth instead.

…

They’re still sitting on the sofa, legs pressed together, dishes whisked away, fire crackling before them, when night falls. 

Felix’s head has lolled back against the cushions, tucked in towards Sylvain, Strat hairs starting to escape his bun. Sylvain is pretty sure he hasn’t breathed properly for hours, but it’s worth it for the way Felix punctuates his sentences with a jab of his knee deeper into Sylvain’s space.

Is everything okay? he wants to ask. You’re different. Did Annette really tell you the same thing she told me?

Instead, he pushes himself to stand, holds out a hand, and drags Felix up with him.

“You had a long day,” he says. “You should rest.”

Felix opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again to say, “Alright.”

He lets Sylvain lead him through the halls, up the stairs, and to his room. The fur is already on the bed this time—Sylvain left no room for error—with a pair of pillows that are exclusively for Felix. 

“Good?” Sylvain asks, trying very hard not to think about the last time they were in this room. 

He fails miserably. 

Felix, equally tense, nods once. “Good.”

And they stand there, side by side, staring at the empty bed. Sylvain wonders if Felix can hear it too, the echo of his own cough, the muttered still no flowers. It’s been many moons now, and Felix is still well, standing next to him, breathing slow and steady.

Careful.

“I’ll let you get your rest,” says Sylvain, turning to leave.

“Syl—” 

He looks back. Felix stares back at him. He bites his lip, a hand fidgeting at his hip, where his sword usually sits. Then, he shakes his head.

“Goodnight,” he says.

Sylvain wants to push. “Goodnight.”

He makes his leave at last, letting his unsteady legs carry him to his own bedroom. He shoves the door open and lets it slam shut behind him. His hands are shaking. His chest feels horribly tight and for a moment he’s certain the flowers have finally gotten him.

Surely, there will be rose petals now that he’s misreading everything. 

Sylvain brings a hand too his mouth, coughs a few times because he has to, and a few extra for good measure. 

Behind him, the door creaks open.

“Sylvain, we need to talk,” says Felix, just as Sylvain lowers his hand from his mouth.

“No flowers.”

They both freeze. Sylvain, with his empty hand hovering by his chin. Felix, with his mouth agape, eyes wide. 

The door thuds closed.

“You—” Felix whispers.

“I can explain!” says Sylvain, who very much does not want to explain.

“You hypocrite!”

Sylvain goes to defend himself, but Felix is marching across the room and taking his empty hand. He holds it to his own face, eyes wide and searching.

“You’ve been— You’ve been after me for breaking our promise and you—” His thumb dips into Sylvain’s palm, digging hard into the skin there. “You were— This whole time?”

“I said no flowers,” Sylvain chokes. That, at least, settles Felix’s desperate search of his palm. Still, he grasps Sylvain’s wrist like it’s a lifeline. 

Holding it precisely so he can feel Sylvain’s pulse under his grasp, Sylvain realizes.

“How dare you?” Felix hisses. “You were supposed to— To fall in love and—”

“About that—”

“Shut up!” Felix’s hand squeezes tighter. “With someone who loves you back, idiot. Not someone who will give you this stupid flower disease.”

And whose fault is that? Sylvain almost asks. He would have, when they were younger and stupider. Instead, he raises his free hand and rests it on Felix’s shoulder. 

He swipes his thumb across the woolen fabric there, and feels the slightest bit of tension ease from Felix.

“I’m okay,” he says. “No flowers, right? You know me, I’m probably not actually in love anyway.”

But when Felix meets his eyes, and the anger there has faded into fear, Sylvain knows that’s not the case. 

Not actually unrequited, the Annette-shaped devil on his shoulder supplies. 

“You’re a fool,” says Felix. 

“Some things never change.”

“Hmph,” Felix huffs. “I suppose not.”

His hand loosens around Sylvain’s wrist until he drops it. Suddenly, Felix looks exhausted. His whole body looks heavy. Sylvain half wants to bundle him up and tuck him into Sylvain’s own bed.

He lets Felix slip away from him.

“We should sleep,” says Felix.

“Right,” says Sylvain. “You’ll be here in the morning?”

Felix hesitates, but he nods. “Of course.”

He heads for the door. It creaks, again, as he opens it, and Sylvain suddenly remembers—

“What did you want to talk about?”

Felix turns. When he opens his mouth at first, nothing comes out. Then, “It’s nothing. I need to think.”

“So it’s not nothing,” says Sylvain.

Felix frowns. “No,” he admits. “But not tonight.”

And then he’s gone.

…

Sylvain barely sleeps. He rolls every which way in his bed until the black sky fades into navy. Then, he gets up and plants himself in the same chair where he waited for Felix the night this whole flower debacle started, just in case.

True to his word, Felix doesn’t try to sneak out this time. 

The sun rises on the forests around Castle Gautier and Felix still hasn’t gotten up. One of the housemaids, an older lady who’s been working here since he was a child, finds him sitting there, staring at a stone wall.

“Would you like me to prepare you breakfast, Margrave?”

Sylvain blinks. “That would be great,” he says. “Nothing sweet, Felix hates sweets.”

She nods, turns to walk away, then pauses. “Margrave, if I may?”

“Of course, Estelle,” he says. 

“You and the Fraldarius boy,” she says. Then, as though choosing her words carefully, “Will we be seeing more of him?”

Sylvain almost asks what gave her that idea, but he imagines what they saw, him and Felix sharing dinner pressed together in the foyer. Him, who has not brought a girl, or so much as contemplated one, in many moons. 

Can the flowers come that late, he wonders. 

“I hope so,” he tells Estelle. 

She smiles, soft, motherly. “You two have always been close.”

“Yeah,” says Sylvain. He almost adds but this is different, except reassuring Felix last night didn’t feel that different from when they were kids. “Yeah.”

Estelle nods. “I’ll prepare some coffee as well,” she says. “I know he enjoys that.”

…

They eat in the dining room, and Sylvain realizes immediately why Felix wanted to stay in the foyer last night. It’s so empty here. Vacant chairs stare at them from around the table. The space between them feels immense, even as Sylvain accidentally knocks his boot against Felix’s.

And then, not-so-accidentally, a second time. 

The meal passes silently. Sylvain isn’t sure what to say. He can tell Felix didn’t sleep well. He already asked all about the trip. He refuses to talk about the case of the missing flowers where anyone might overhear.

So, he lets the silence linger until they’re both downing the last drops of their drinks.

“I was going to go for a walk, to clear my head,” says Felix. 

“Alright.”

“Would you like to join me?”

Sylvain grins. “Usually you’re trying to clear your head from me.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me regret it.”

…

They end up under a big pine tree on the edge of the castle’s land. Sylvain remembers it from when they were little. Felix tried to climb it once, even though there’s hardly any branches near the ground. He ended up all scraped up from the bark and managed to play tough for a whole minute before he was crying in Sylvain’s arms.

Today, he skims a hand along its trunk, as though paying his respects.

They take a seat at its base. The shade is hardly necessary—it’s not very warm in Gautier this time of year—but it’s still nice to relax. Felix finds a pinecone and starts tearing off its scales.

“I’m going to talk,” he says. “And I need you to not say anything stupid so just … don’t speak.”

Sylvain nods, but Felix isn’t looking at him. After a second, he turns, glaring. Sylvain motions to his closed mouth.

“You can say ‘okay’, idiot,” hisses Felix, but the slightest bit of tension eases from his shoulders. 

“Okay,” says Sylvain. “I will listen and not say anything stupid. Or anything. Period. End sentence.”

Felix rolls his eyes. He finds a second pine and immediately starts tearing that one apart too. Silence drags on until all of its scales are gone and all that’s left is a naked stem. He starts looking around for a third, but Sylvain finds one first and hands it over.

At last, Felix says, “I spoke with Annette.”

Sylvain stops breathing. 

“What?” Felix snaps.

Sylvain knows he can’t possibly say, oh yeah I spoke to her too and she told me exactly what she told you and I can’t stop thinking about it every time you look at me, so what do you think about it?

He forces out, “It’s not her, is it?”

Felix throws the pinecone, miraculously still intact, at his forehead.

“That?” he says. “Stupid.”

Sylvain assumes that means no. “Sorry,” he says. “Continue.”

Felix huffs. Now pineconeless, he reaches for the hilt of the knife he carried with him and starts picking at the leather around its handle. Probably not good for the knife, but it would be stupid of Sylvain to point that out. 

“I spoke with Annette,” Felix repeats, “and she said this flower disease—hanahaki—is fast. Once you start having feelings—” he says it with far too much disgust for a man who expected to cough up flowers moons ago, but that would also be stupid to point out “—it should set in after just a few weeks.”

Sylvain desperately wants to ask how long it’s been. Moons, for sure, but when he caught Felix it didn’t seem like a particularly new fear. It seemed almost routine: cough into his hand, check for flowers, breathe a sigh of relief.

It still doesn’t feel normal to Sylvain.

“She said that, while there are rare deviations in the disease, the vast majority of the time it’s because—” he pauses, grimacing “—the feelings aren’t actually one sided.”

“The person loves you back,” says Sylvain. 

Felix’s head snaps towards him. Sylvain expects him to yell, maybe pull out his knife, but he isn’t met with anger. If anything, it’s sadness.

“That’s highly unlikely,” says Felix.

“Why?” asks Sylvain. “You’re a catch, you’d be stupid to think nobody has ever had feelings for you.”

Felix has the audacity to laugh at that.

“What?”

“It’s not about appealing to the masses, Sylvain,” he says. “I know I’m a Duke, I’m rich—”

“You’re hot,” Sylvain adds. “Especially with a sword.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “I have a major crest.”

“Crest schmest.” Sylvain waves his hand in the air. “You’re a catch because you’re you, Fe.”

A pinecone hits him in the shoulder. 

“Ow! Where did you even get that?”

Felix shrugs. “I told you not to say anything stupid.”

“How is complementing you stupid?”

“I get to decide what is and isn’t stupid,” declared Felix. Somehow, he manages to find another pinecone and brandishes it like a weapon. “I just assume most things that come out of your mouth are.”

“You know,” says Sylvain. “Sometimes what comes out of my mouth is actually sincere.”

Felix huffs. “And sometimes sincerity is stupid.”

“You were being sincere first!”

“Yeah, well, I’m still trying to decide if that was foolish,” says Felix. 

He tosses the pinecone on the ground, pushes himself to stand, and crushes it under his boot.

…

The walk back to the castle is tense, silent. Sylvain watches the stone walls draw closer, their shadow looming over the grass, a countdown to lunch then dinner then sleep then Felix leaving.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing Felix’s arm.

“What?” Felix snaps. 

“I should tell you, I went to talk to Annette too.” He watches Felix’s eyes go wide in panic and rushes to add, “About my flower thing. Or lack thereof.”

“Okay,” says Felix. “And?”

“She said the same thing,” says Sylvain. “That it means my love isn’t actually unrequited.”

Every emotion flashed across Felix’s face: surprise, relief, sadness. It settles on anger.

“Good for you, Sylvain,” he spits. “I hope you and whatever girl it is are very happy.”

He tears his arm from Sylvain’s grasp and starts marching away. Sylvain nearly trips over his own feet running after him.

“Who said it was a girl?” he shouts. 

Felix stops so suddenly that Sylvain does too. Standing there, in the field they used to play in when they were kids, Sylvain almost says it,

Except he waits for Felix to say literally anything instead. And he never does, he just starts walking. 

By the time they get to the castle, Sylvain has lost all his nerve.

…

Felix leaves the next day for (unfortunately real) business in Fraldarius. Sylvain starts drafting letters.

Dear Annette,

Are you absolutely positive about this requited love thing? Because I think I have to tell him and you’ll be responsible for my death if you’re wrong.

…

Dear Mercedes,

I’m looking for a second opinion on something deeply personal—

…

Dear Felix,

I have business out west shortly and was hoping I might be able to stay a few days in Fraldarius. Would that be acceptable to you, scheduled permitting?

He scraps that one. There’s no business out west and there’s no reason to go see Felix except that Sylvain is pretty sure the stupidest thing he did all weekend was not just tell him. Because he’s pretty sure Annette’s right. 

And if Felix is in love with someone who loves him back, and Sylvain is in love with someone who loves him back, and Sylvain happens to be in love with Felix.

Well, Sylvain has always been better at math than Felix. 

He shoves himself away from his desk and bounds down the stairs.

“Estelle?” he shouts towards the kitchen.

She comes out, a carrot in hand. “Yes, Margrave?”

“I’m cancelling my meetings for the next week, maybe two,” he tells her. “I’ll be traveling.”

A slight smile lifts the corner of her mouth. “Where are you off to, Sylvain?”

His cheeks go warm as he answers, “Fraldarius.”

…

The ride to Fraldarius takes days. Normally, Sylvain would have a convoy with him, supplies beyond the two satchels he tied to his horse. He stays at dingy inns for a few nights. Staring at cracks in the ceiling, they remind him of the war.

Of how he desperately wanted to see Felix then, too.

The final stretch is familiar, the route up to Castle Fraldarius, far bigger and fancier than his own. When he reaches the gate, it’s to familiar faces.

“Margrave Gautier!” he says. “Were we expecting you?”

“No,” says Sylvain. “I was heading West and figured I’d stop in. Is Felix home?”

“The Duke arrived yesterday,” says the gatekeeper. “We can send word that you’re here?”

“No!” says Sylvain. “It’s alright, I’ll find him when he’s not busy.”

They raise the gate for him. He brings his horse to the stables, giving Levin a quick pat as he walks by. He truly does mean to leave Felix alone until his day has ended, so he’s not a nuisance. 

Felix, however, finds him first. He’s waiting, right at the entrance to the castle, hand on his sword and clearly seething.

“What are you doing here?”

Sylvain shrugs. “I wanted to see you.”

“You saw me less than a week ago.”

“I used to see you every day,” says Sylvain.

“That was years ago.”

“Tough habit to break, I guess.”

Felix rolls his eyes at that. They both know it’s an excuse. They haven’t visited each other this frequently since right after the end of the war, when there was business everywhere and everyone was traveling between territories weekly.

Sylvain always looked forward to seeing him then, too, even though post-war diplomacy made Felix more tense than war ever did.

“I wanted to talk,” he relents. “Where we won’t be overheard.”

“Know what can’t be overheard? A letter,” says Felix. 

“Funny,” Sylvain laughs. “I tried writing one. It didn’t work so,” he motions to himself, “here I am.”

Felix looks him up and down, looking as though he’s seriously contemplating kicking Sylvain out of the castle entirely, so he can spend the night at another dingy inn before making the trek home. Luckily, he releases his sword and relaxes his shoulders.

“Fine,” he spits. “But I was in the middle of a meeting, so I need to finish that before we can talk.”

“Of course, Duke Fraldarius,” Sylvain bows. “I’ll make myself at home.”

“You— Yeah, whatever,” says Felix. “Just wait here.”

…

“It’s rude to distract someone from their work by showing up uninvited at their house, you know,” is how Felix announces the end of his meeting, 

“Good thing you hate your job, then,” says Sylvain. 

That, at last, makes Felix laugh. 

“If you don’t want to be overheard, we can’t talk in the castle,” he says.

“I know,” says Sylvain. “I came with a plan.”

He leads Felix out onto the castle grounds, far enough away that there’s no longer staff working around them, to the field where he picked the wildflowers so many moons ago. With cold weather now looming over Faerghus, the flowers have wilted and left behind a field of yellowing grass.

Maybe it’s a good sign, Sylvain thinks. No flowers.

He sits down and motions for Felix to join him. Their shoulders bump together as he does. 

Sylvain had rehearsed this conversation a dozen times on the road, with a handful of variations, some direct, some over the top. Now, with Felix sitting next to him, he cuts to the chase.

“Who is your person?”

Felix immediately goes to stand, but Sylvain catches his wrist. “Why would you ask that?” Felix spits. “You know I won’t answer.”

“Exactly,” says Sylvain and Felix gets this horrible look on his face when he realizes he walked into a trap. Sylvain squeezes his wrist, aiming for soothing, but Felix just winces. “Why won’t you tell your best friend who it is, not even a hint?”

“Sylvain.”

“You know what’s really worth asking, though?” Felix doesn’t answer, so Sylvain continues. “I’ve told you about every single person I’ve liked since we were kids, but not this one. Weird, huh?”

“I never wanted to know about any of them, anyway,” says Felix. He tries to escape again, but Sylvain is still holding onto him, so he settles back into the grass.

“Do you know when I started checking for flowers?”

“Sylvain,” Felix hisses again. He sounds genuinely scared. 

It almost makes Sylvain shut up, but if he doesn’t say it now he’s not sure he ever will,

“The night I caught you,” he says. “I felt so awful knowing you were in love with someone else that I was sure they were going to start that night.”

Felix just huffs, but he relaxes slightly where he’s sitting, as though accepting where this is going.

“And yet here I am, still no flowers. And you’re still not coughing up flowers. And if we know that that means the feelings are requited—”

“Know is a strong word,” says Felix. 

Sylvain rolls his eyes this time. He rubs Felix’s wrist with his thumb.

“I know you’re smart enough to know what’s happening here,” says Sylvain. “That’s why you ran.”

“I had meetings.”

“You spent nearly a full day at my house barely speaking,” says Sylvain. “You ran.”

Felix sucks in a deep breath. His exhale is shaky. It almost sounds like he’s trying not to cry. Sylvain can’t remember the last time he saw Felix cry—probably after Rodrigues died.

“I need you to say it,” says Felix.

“Okay,” says Sylvain. He slides his hand down Felix’s wrist so he can slot his fingers between Felix’s own and squeeze his palm. “It’s you. The person I’m in love with who had me scared I was going to get the flower disease, it’s you.”

Felix sucks in another slow breath. His hand fidgets under Sylvain’s. His shoulders are impossibly tense. 

“This is stupid,” he says. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“A simple ‘you too’ works,” offers Sylvain. “Assuming I read this right and it is me.”

“Of course it’s you, idiot,” Felix snaps. He immediately clamps his mouth shut, but it’s too late, the words are out there.

Sylvain can’t help but laugh. “That is the most Felix love confession,” he says. He raises their joined hands to his mouth and brushes a kiss to Felix’s knuckle over his glove. “It’s a good thing I love you.”

Felix makes a noise, a strangled grunt like he’s been hit in battle. He looks like he’s about to combust. 

“Don’t make fun,” he says. “It’s been y— months.”

“Months, huh? Like more than twelve?”

Felix glares. “You know I own a large collection of very sharp swords.”

Sylvain shrugs. “Told you, you’re hot with a sword.”

“Shut up.”

Sylvain grins. “Make me.”

Felix shoves him for that one. Sylvain lets himself topple over into the grass. He stares up at the sky until suddenly there’s a Felix hovering over him, brows furrowed and lips pinched. 

“Hello,” says Sylvain.

Felix grabs his jaw, adjusts his face, and leans down to kiss him. It’s hard and rough and so very Felix. He pins Sylvain’s hand by his head. Sylvain retaliates by grabbing Felix’s nape and swiping his thumb through the tied up hair at the base of his skull.

Felix pulls away, just enough that Sylvain can feel the heat of Felix’s breath against his lips.

“You’re a fool,” he whispers. 

Sylvain grins. “Talk dirty to me, baby.”

That earns him an eye roll and a pointed squeeze of his hand. “Had you told me this four days ago, you could have saved yourself a trip.”

Sylvain shrugs. “Then I wouldn’t get to make out in a field with you like teenagers.”

“We will not be making out in a field like teenagers.”

Sylvain hums, a quiet we’ll see, and pulls Felix down to kiss him again.

…

They make out in the field like teenagers. Afterwards, when the autumn air has cooled their cheeks enough that they won’t be completely embarrassed returning to the castle, Felix redoes his hair and pulls his gloves back on.

“You really are a fool, you know,” he says.

“What did I do now?” 

Felix kneels in front of him. There’s still a few loose strands that didn’t make it back into his bun. Sylvain chooses not to point it out. He likes the evidence. 

“Had you told me how you felt when you first found out about my predicament, we could have avoided months of worrying,” says Felix, completely serious. His cheeks go slightly pink as he motions between them. “And we could have been doing this for months.”

A lovely idea indeed, but still— “Hey! Why is it all my fault? Had you told me that it was me you were in love with, I wouldn’t have panicked for months.”

Fekix’s blush darkens. He stands so quickly he wobbles on his feet. “We should head back,” he rushes. “They’ll wonder where we are.”

“Hey hey!” Sylvain clambers to his own feet. “What’s with the?” He motions to Felix’s face,

“The what?” asks Felix, as though he isn’t turning redder every passing second.

“What aren’t you telling me?” asks Sylvain.

Felix crosses his arms over his chest and glares at him, caught. “I thought you knew,” he says. “That it was you. I thought you knew the whole time and just weren’t saying anything because it was … awkward.”

Sylvain frowns. “How would I have known when you didn’t tell me anything?” 

Felix looks away. He stares pointedly at the treeline on the opposite side of the field as he says, “Everyone else figured it out immediately.”

“You told everyone?” 

“No!” Felix snaps. “Who do you take me for? They found out, either about the flowers or about my … feelings.”

“And they all immediately knew it was me?” asks Sylvain. 

“Annette said it was ‘so so so obvious to anyone with eyes’,” Felix says. He scrunches his nose like the words pain him. 

“I have eyes,” Sylvain points out.

“I guess a functioning brain is also required, then,” says Felix.

“Oh, look who’s still got jokes even when he’s a walking tomato,” says Sylvain.

Felix grins. “Who said it was a joke?”

Sylvain steps forward, crowding into Felix’s space. He lifts his hand to Felix’s red cheek. His skin is hot and he leans in Sylvain’s cool palm, into the swipe of his thumb against Felix’s cheekbone.

“I’m the one who figured it all out and traveled three days to confess,” says Sylvain. 

Felix shrugs. “Brainless,” he says. “An intelligent person would send a letter confirming that their presence is welcome before getting on a horse for three days.”

“Solid point,” says Sylvain. “But I raise you: my prospective host is in love with me, so it seemed likely that he wouldn’t kick me out.”

“Shut up,” says Felix. 

Sylvain laughs. “Make me.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “You cannot pull that move every time I say that.”

“Why?” Sylvain teases. “Is it working?”

Felix stares at him for a second, brows furrowed. His lips are pursed as though he’s trying to hide a smile, but is failing rather miserably. He shrugs off Sylvain’s hand and shoves him away.

“No,” says Felix, then he turns on his heel and starts walking towards the castle.

Sylvain lets himself watch for a moment before chasing after him. 

…

They spend the evening together, flirting across the dining table, cuddling on the sofa. Sylvain thinks it must be pretty obvious what has happened, the shift between them that has Felix reaching across the table to loop their pinky fingers together.

Still, when night falls, Felix turns to him and says, “They prepared your usual room for you.”

“Oh,” says Sylvain. “Yeah, of course. That’s great, th—”

“That wasn’t a hint, idiot,” says Felix. “It was an observation. It’s there for you, if you want it.”

Sylvain nods. “Right.”

Felix rolls his eyes at that. “Stop being dense,” he says. “Or I’ll make you sleep in your own bed instead of mine.”

“I was trying to be a gentleman!” Sylvain defends. “You know what they say about assuming.”

“What if I like your ass?”

Sylvain’s jaw drops. Grinning, he reaches over to squeeze Felix’s shoulder. “Fe! You do know how to tease,” he says. “I’m so proud.”

“Pride wasn’t exactly what I was going for,” says Felix. He’s smiling, though, as he untangles himself from Sylvain and pushes himself off the sofa. He holds a hand out. 

Sylvain takes it. He lets Felix pull him to his feet so they’re standing toe to toe. 

“A gentleman never assumes,” he says,

Felix pushes onto his toes and catches his lips in a kiss that feels like an invitation. When he pulls away, he leans towards Sylvain’s ear and whispers, “Since when are you a gentleman?”

Sylvain considers defending his honour—pointing out the months he spent respecting Felix’s privacy, for one—but he’d be a fool not to see what Felix is asking of him. And an even bigger fool not to accept.

“Good point,” he says. “Your room it is.”