[ 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. ]
[Never let your guard down; never get comfortable; always, always trust your instincts, because if something feels wrong, it almost certainly is. Things that were drilled into Felix so very long ago—and things that are second nature, by this point in time. Things that have carried him through countless battles.
Here, however, he stands, the point of his sword clunking against the hardwood floor as Sylvain whirls about to face him, because despite how wrong Felix's surroundings feel... well, again: Felix would recognize Sylvain anywhere, and Sylvain has always felt right. It's friendship backed by years and years of trust? Of understanding? Of reading one another better than anyone else, hence the way Felix's frown deepens when Sylvain says his name—the nickname that only Sylvain is brave enough to use—in such uncharacteristically quiet manner. And the way he almost, almost, reaches out, as though it's been any time at all since—
...Hmm. It's as though something is just out of his grasp, which is beyond frustrating; he needs to know what in the world is going on here, but as he readjusts his grip on his sword's hilt, lifts it just high enough that it isn't dragging along the floor by his side:]
Obviously.
[Wary. So, so wary, made all the more obvious by the way he quickly glances about this new room as he finally slips into it. Nothing he's seen before, aside from the Relic his eyes linger on—and Sylvain himself, a spot of light that Felix is, as ever, drawn to. It's the reason his legs are moving of their own accord? The reason he's moving toward his old friend, step by tentative step, as he studies that familiar face.]
Why are you looking at me like that?
[The weight of Sylvain's gaze puts him on edge, really, because this isn't... how Sylvain should be. He's done nothing to cause this—unless he has. Unless someone else has.]
[ sylvain swallows, throat suddenly thick with an emotion he cannot identify. or maybe he just doesn't want to in this moment, watching the way the mid morning sun lights up felix's hair the further he steps into the room. he has the sudden, almost irrational urge to take a step back, let himself be backed up against the counter as felix gradually bridges the space between them, because that's how it always was before, wasn't it? felix always running after him whenever he cried, big fat tears streaming down his cheeks as he reached his short arms up towards sylvain, a plea to be held and carried. and sylvain, after the initial hesitance had faded, had leaned down to receive him, gathered him up in his arms and silently puzzled out the proper way to provide comfort, how gentle he should be as he wiped those tears away.
(in truth, his initial reaction that he had never told anyone was to look away and pretend he didn't see those tears. it's what miklan did, after all: no matter how hard he'd cried, how loudly he'd tried to call for help, no one came. eventually, it was easier to not cry at all, easier to keep his tears and energy inside, rubbing his limbs one by one to savor what little warmth he had. if he was lucky, one of the maids would think to look in the well before the sun went down. and he was lucky—lucky to be found just in time, they'd said. lucky to be born with a crest. but he never felt lucky at all.)
now, years later, felix is still the one moving toward him, still the one closing the distance. and sylvain, ever the coward, remains rooted to the spot, breath turning thin and shallow as he wonders if this is actually real, if his mind isn't playing some cruel trick on him because he's been so tired, he's been so exhausted, and they should have won. they should have won and he should have asked felix what he'd wanted to do after the war, and he knows that ending up here was not the answer he would have gotten.
so, none of that. his jaw tenses when felix takes his next step and sylvain meets him halfway, reaches out again and this time, wraps his fingers around felix's wrist to pull him forward. it's not a hug—felix is still holding his sword and sylvain would rather keep his insides actually inside of him, thanks, but: their foreheads meet and he lifts one hand to cup the back of felix's head, fingers tangling in that bed hair. he closes his eyes and takes a slow breath, counting to ten and letting it out. ]
It's been two days, [ he whispers eventually, body sagging a little as if all that weight he'd been carrying has finally taken its toll. ] I've been looking for you this whole time and— [ he laughs, an aborted, choked up noise. ] You know, I couldn't decide whether or not I wanted to find you.
[ he doesn't trust himself to meet felix's eyes without showing too much, but he does it anyway, because he's tired of running and tired of lying to himself. ]
... But I guess you found me, huh?
Edited (me coming back to this and catching all my typos whew) 2020-05-13 17:59 (UTC)
[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?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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. ]
no subject
Here, however, he stands, the point of his sword clunking against the hardwood floor as Sylvain whirls about to face him, because despite how wrong Felix's surroundings feel... well, again: Felix would recognize Sylvain anywhere, and Sylvain has always felt right. It's friendship backed by years and years of trust? Of understanding? Of reading one another better than anyone else, hence the way Felix's frown deepens when Sylvain says his name—the nickname that only Sylvain is brave enough to use—in such uncharacteristically quiet manner. And the way he almost, almost, reaches out, as though it's been any time at all since—
...Hmm. It's as though something is just out of his grasp, which is beyond frustrating; he needs to know what in the world is going on here, but as he readjusts his grip on his sword's hilt, lifts it just high enough that it isn't dragging along the floor by his side:]
Obviously.
[Wary. So, so wary, made all the more obvious by the way he quickly glances about this new room as he finally slips into it. Nothing he's seen before, aside from the Relic his eyes linger on—and Sylvain himself, a spot of light that Felix is, as ever, drawn to. It's the reason his legs are moving of their own accord? The reason he's moving toward his old friend, step by tentative step, as he studies that familiar face.]
Why are you looking at me like that?
[The weight of Sylvain's gaze puts him on edge, really, because this isn't... how Sylvain should be. He's done nothing to cause this—unless he has. Unless someone else has.]
no subject
(in truth, his initial reaction that he had never told anyone was to look away and pretend he didn't see those tears. it's what miklan did, after all: no matter how hard he'd cried, how loudly he'd tried to call for help, no one came. eventually, it was easier to not cry at all, easier to keep his tears and energy inside, rubbing his limbs one by one to savor what little warmth he had. if he was lucky, one of the maids would think to look in the well before the sun went down. and he was lucky—lucky to be found just in time, they'd said. lucky to be born with a crest. but he never felt lucky at all.)
now, years later, felix is still the one moving toward him, still the one closing the distance. and sylvain, ever the coward, remains rooted to the spot, breath turning thin and shallow as he wonders if this is actually real, if his mind isn't playing some cruel trick on him because he's been so tired, he's been so exhausted, and they should have won. they should have won and he should have asked felix what he'd wanted to do after the war, and he knows that ending up here was not the answer he would have gotten.
so, none of that. his jaw tenses when felix takes his next step and sylvain meets him halfway, reaches out again and this time, wraps his fingers around felix's wrist to pull him forward. it's not a hug—felix is still holding his sword and sylvain would rather keep his insides actually inside of him, thanks, but: their foreheads meet and he lifts one hand to cup the back of felix's head, fingers tangling in that bed hair. he closes his eyes and takes a slow breath, counting to ten and letting it out. ]
It's been two days, [ he whispers eventually, body sagging a little as if all that weight he'd been carrying has finally taken its toll. ] I've been looking for you this whole time and— [ he laughs, an aborted, choked up noise. ] You know, I couldn't decide whether or not I wanted to find you.
[ he doesn't trust himself to meet felix's eyes without showing too much, but he does it anyway, because he's tired of running and tired of lying to himself. ]
... But I guess you found me, huh?
no subject
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?