[ for the same reason it wakes felix, sylvain can't stand the quiet.
but that's five years of war for you, he supposes. five years of being on the front lines, being on the road, sleeping in inns and tents; sometimes out in the open beneath the stars, sometimes in the back of caravans with the lance of ruin as a particularly unsettling bed mate. but the point is that he's used to noise and is a light sleeper by necessity rather than by choice, and he still has yet to really adjust to the quiet of this town. it's only been two days but it doesn't really feel like it—time is a nebulous concept that he feels detached from ever since waking, though perhaps it really is as they say: just a dream within a dream. it feels like it with how different everything is here, things that he'd once considered impossible are in fact possible, and he's still trying to wrap his head around it all.
he'd spent the first day stumbling, lost and unmoored, like the first time he'd tried wyvern-flight: that first dive, thirty feet in free-fall like it was nothing, his stomach rising as gravity hurtled him towards the ground faster than he could blink. he'd crouched in the middle of the sidewalk just like he'd crouched at the training grounds of garreg mach, stuck his head between his knees and took deep heaving breaths, as much as his armor would allow him. perhaps this is what he'd been preparing himself for during those five years, the end of the war looming on the horizon as much of a beacon of hope as it was a death sentence, the prospect of peace and freedom at once incomprehensible as it was terrifying. and they'd reached for it anyway, grasped desperately for it, trained and fought for it; had it beaten into them since birth because it'd been coded into their genetics, woven into the very fiber of their being. a weapon is given trajectory, not autonomy.
the lance of ruin stands in the corner of the kitchen-cum-living room, its eerie orange glow providing a stark contrast against the old brick and dark hardwood flooring. sylvain hasn't let it out of his sight, even now, while halfway through deep cleaning the counter and the stove. he didn't even think about what he was humming, only distantly aware of it as he recalled the melody, a gentle lullaby he'd sang to felix when they were kids to coax him to sleep. he'd been searching for him for two days, part of him hoping to see him and part of him hoping he was still back at enbarr, collapsed on top of the sheets like he'd last remembered seeing before he'd crawled up behind him. he knows he'll go out again, searching for him, but—
sylvain?
he pauses mid hum and mid wipe, blinking as he turns around. he doesn't register anything for a long moment, just staring at felix standing in his bedroom doorway as his mind catches up and he remembers to breathe. the rag has fallen from his fingers and he's only distantly aware of the blood rushing in his ears, the surge of something in his chest and his arm lifts, jerks up as if he wants to reach out to him to make sure he's real, but stops halfway. ]
... Fe?
[ he sounds hoarse, his voice small and sounding so far away, as if any louder and felix will disappear. and if this is just a dream within a dream, he finds himself praying that he doesn't wake up. ]
closes my eyes
but that's five years of war for you, he supposes. five years of being on the front lines, being on the road, sleeping in inns and tents; sometimes out in the open beneath the stars, sometimes in the back of caravans with the lance of ruin as a particularly unsettling bed mate. but the point is that he's used to noise and is a light sleeper by necessity rather than by choice, and he still has yet to really adjust to the quiet of this town. it's only been two days but it doesn't really feel like it—time is a nebulous concept that he feels detached from ever since waking, though perhaps it really is as they say: just a dream within a dream. it feels like it with how different everything is here, things that he'd once considered impossible are in fact possible, and he's still trying to wrap his head around it all.
he'd spent the first day stumbling, lost and unmoored, like the first time he'd tried wyvern-flight: that first dive, thirty feet in free-fall like it was nothing, his stomach rising as gravity hurtled him towards the ground faster than he could blink. he'd crouched in the middle of the sidewalk just like he'd crouched at the training grounds of garreg mach, stuck his head between his knees and took deep heaving breaths, as much as his armor would allow him. perhaps this is what he'd been preparing himself for during those five years, the end of the war looming on the horizon as much of a beacon of hope as it was a death sentence, the prospect of peace and freedom at once incomprehensible as it was terrifying. and they'd reached for it anyway, grasped desperately for it, trained and fought for it; had it beaten into them since birth because it'd been coded into their genetics, woven into the very fiber of their being. a weapon is given trajectory, not autonomy.
the lance of ruin stands in the corner of the kitchen-cum-living room, its eerie orange glow providing a stark contrast against the old brick and dark hardwood flooring. sylvain hasn't let it out of his sight, even now, while halfway through deep cleaning the counter and the stove. he didn't even think about what he was humming, only distantly aware of it as he recalled the melody, a gentle lullaby he'd sang to felix when they were kids to coax him to sleep. he'd been searching for him for two days, part of him hoping to see him and part of him hoping he was still back at enbarr, collapsed on top of the sheets like he'd last remembered seeing before he'd crawled up behind him. he knows he'll go out again, searching for him, but—
sylvain?
he pauses mid hum and mid wipe, blinking as he turns around. he doesn't register anything for a long moment, just staring at felix standing in his bedroom doorway as his mind catches up and he remembers to breathe. the rag has fallen from his fingers and he's only distantly aware of the blood rushing in his ears, the surge of something in his chest and his arm lifts, jerks up as if he wants to reach out to him to make sure he's real, but stops halfway. ]
... Fe?
[ he sounds hoarse, his voice small and sounding so far away, as if any louder and felix will disappear. and if this is just a dream within a dream, he finds himself praying that he doesn't wake up. ]