[It's hardly the first time Sylvain's fingers have closed about his wrist? Hardly the first time Sylvain has dragged him closer, and yet, while Felix doesn't put up a fight, Felix instinctively stiffens, lifting his chin in an almost defiant fashion as Sylvain's forehead presses against his. They've met like this after many a battle, bone weary but silently, secretly, so very relieved to find the other one still standing.
But they won the war, which is all Felix can think of as Sylvain's fingers tangle in his hair, as Sylvain sucks in a steadying breath before telling him the impossible. Two days? No. It's been all of... of six hours, given that he fell asleep late but has never, ever been one to sleep the day away. Only six hours. No real cause for concern, because as terrifying as a life sans battle is, as uncertain as their futures are, they won the war.
And yet, when Sylvain finally cracks open his eyes, it isn't confusion that Felix sees—it's honesty, pained and real, and suddenly two days goes from an impossibility to an improbability. Sylvain wouldn't lie. Or, well: Sylvain could try to lie, but while Sylvain would fool so many others, accomplished liar that he is, Felix would see right through him. He usually does. There are, after all, tells that only Felix knows, the result of years spent watching, and learning, and memorizing—and he sees none of them here. Sylvain is being... open, right now. Vulnerable.
Felix feels something twist within him? Presses his lips into a thin line as he searches those brown eyes, ignoring the ever-growing urge to look away. Of course he found Sylvain, he wants to say, despite the fact that nothing makes sense—and that he wasn't aware that he needed to look. But that's how it goes! They made a promise, once, and Felix meant it; Felix intends to keep it, both consciously and... unconsciously, it would seem.]
Don't look so surprised.
[Just... a gruff thing to say as he attempts to ground himself. It's strange to be uncertain about absolutely everything, yet so certain that Sylvain believes in what he's saying. He can't be both—but he is? He absolutely is, and he feels the telltale signs of an oncoming headache. Not enough sleep, not enough food, not enough information.
Ah, well. He will, as ever, cut a path forward, hence the brief pause before he decides to start all over again.]
...Sylvain, [he says, so quietly he's almost matching his friend's whisper—and that is a sign of his own openness, really. His own quiet vulnerability in this moment.] Where are we?
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But they won the war, which is all Felix can think of as Sylvain's fingers tangle in his hair, as Sylvain sucks in a steadying breath before telling him the impossible. Two days? No. It's been all of... of six hours, given that he fell asleep late but has never, ever been one to sleep the day away. Only six hours. No real cause for concern, because as terrifying as a life sans battle is, as uncertain as their futures are, they won the war.
And yet, when Sylvain finally cracks open his eyes, it isn't confusion that Felix sees—it's honesty, pained and real, and suddenly two days goes from an impossibility to an improbability. Sylvain wouldn't lie. Or, well: Sylvain could try to lie, but while Sylvain would fool so many others, accomplished liar that he is, Felix would see right through him. He usually does. There are, after all, tells that only Felix knows, the result of years spent watching, and learning, and memorizing—and he sees none of them here. Sylvain is being... open, right now. Vulnerable.
Felix feels something twist within him? Presses his lips into a thin line as he searches those brown eyes, ignoring the ever-growing urge to look away. Of course he found Sylvain, he wants to say, despite the fact that nothing makes sense—and that he wasn't aware that he needed to look. But that's how it goes! They made a promise, once, and Felix meant it; Felix intends to keep it, both consciously and... unconsciously, it would seem.]
Don't look so surprised.
[Just... a gruff thing to say as he attempts to ground himself. It's strange to be uncertain about absolutely everything, yet so certain that Sylvain believes in what he's saying. He can't be both—but he is? He absolutely is, and he feels the telltale signs of an oncoming headache. Not enough sleep, not enough food, not enough information.
Ah, well. He will, as ever, cut a path forward, hence the brief pause before he decides to start all over again.]
...Sylvain, [he says, so quietly he's almost matching his friend's whisper—and that is a sign of his own openness, really. His own quiet vulnerability in this moment.] Where are we?