[Escalation is the name of this particular game, Felix knows. It's why he expects Sylvain to lean closer, just to continue pushing his boundaries—but he doesn't expect Sylvain to actually touch him? To brush a single finger along his cheek, and it shows in the way Felix freezes, the way Felix momentarily forgets to breathe as he holds Sylvain's gaze. This, too, is nothing new, in the grand scheme of things. Sylvain wiped away Felix's tears when they were younger; Sylvain wiped away blood and mud and who knows what else after recent battles, just because, and yet this gentle touch is...
...Mmph. It's every bit as strange as feeling Sylvain's fingers running down his back, because what should send him jerking away only makes him want to move... closer. An urge he resists, yes, but it's there all the same, still thrumming beneath his skin as Sylvain abruptly turns to deal with that stupid, stupid machine. Felix has never hated it more; Felix has never been more grateful for it.
But then it's a matter of staring at Sylvain's lightly freckled back while thinking of Sylvain's words? Considering the weight of them. Sentimental is, in Felix's opinion, quite the understatement—and yet it isn't as though he wants to forget this, either. Seeing Sylvain first thing every morning, last thing every evening. Watching Sylvain fuss with the fuckin' microwave. Amazing, how the smallest things tug at his heart.]
Sap, [he quietly says, with absolutely no heat behind his words. It rounds out the trio of not-quite-insults nicely, doesn't it? You're disgusting; you're incorrigible; you're a sap, even as Felix shortly (and sappily, in his own way) adds:] I don't need those to remember... this. Any of it.
[And he should leave, lest that urge to press forward returns in full force, but—hmm, no, he's not. He's staying right where he is, looking down at the hot pocket Sylvain made for him as he thinks back to their tipsy moment.]
You said it, didn't you? That you'll be annoying enough that I'll always remember?
[Remember Sylvain's... eyes, or whatever, but listen: it still stands. How can he forget anything that happens here? Sylvain is involved.]
[ there's that swell in his chest again, something that's started to become more and more frequent lately and sylvain is still undecided on whether or not it's a good thing. it's vaguely concerning, at least, because while he's sure it's likely not a premature heart attack (though with their recent diet, that could very well be a contributor), the alternative is something he's sure he isn't completely ready to face yet. it means acknowledging everything that he's been doing a shit job of hiding ever since they all reunited again, and like, he can at least admit that he hasn't been trying at all since arriving in this place. his one saving grace is that felix doesn't seem to have caught on yet, bless him, but sylvain knows without a doubt that he will. probably very soon, if he keeps saying these things and keeps looking at him like that.
it's honestly a little terrifying. this is the part where he would leave, break it off before things get any deeper, cut his losses while he still can. and in spite of all of that, he knows he can't even if he wanted to, because this is felix and felix has always, always been the exception to every single rule and caveat—both the anomaly and the missing piece that's always been there but he'd been too afraid to grasp.
felix says i don't need those to remember this to the tune of i won't forget your eyes or anything else and with his back still to him, sylvain closes his eyes. breathes in deep and silently counts to five, swallows past the lump of whatever emotion that he doesn't know if he can completely identify at the moment.
but the most damning thing is that he already knows what it is. ]
Guess I did.
[ sometimes sylvain wonders if felix is aware of the sheer depth in the things he says, how he can just say these things with the same unshakable sincerity he had when he was eight and tossed out a death pact like it was nothing. and sylvain had taken it, met him with that same amount of sincerity couched in lightness, a casualness that's come back to bite him in the ass more often these days than not. but he doesn't have that anymore; he'd lost it to the war, lost it to the people they've lost; lost it to the luxury of falling asleep to felix's soft breaths against his chest, the warmth and comforting weight of him in his arms. and that's another nail in the coffin, isn't it? ]
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...Mmph. It's every bit as strange as feeling Sylvain's fingers running down his back, because what should send him jerking away only makes him want to move... closer. An urge he resists, yes, but it's there all the same, still thrumming beneath his skin as Sylvain abruptly turns to deal with that stupid, stupid machine. Felix has never hated it more; Felix has never been more grateful for it.
But then it's a matter of staring at Sylvain's lightly freckled back while thinking of Sylvain's words? Considering the weight of them. Sentimental is, in Felix's opinion, quite the understatement—and yet it isn't as though he wants to forget this, either. Seeing Sylvain first thing every morning, last thing every evening. Watching Sylvain fuss with the fuckin' microwave. Amazing, how the smallest things tug at his heart.]
Sap, [he quietly says, with absolutely no heat behind his words. It rounds out the trio of not-quite-insults nicely, doesn't it? You're disgusting; you're incorrigible; you're a sap, even as Felix shortly (and sappily, in his own way) adds:] I don't need those to remember... this. Any of it.
[And he should leave, lest that urge to press forward returns in full force, but—hmm, no, he's not. He's staying right where he is, looking down at the hot pocket Sylvain made for him as he thinks back to their tipsy moment.]
You said it, didn't you? That you'll be annoying enough that I'll always remember?
[Remember Sylvain's... eyes, or whatever, but listen: it still stands. How can he forget anything that happens here? Sylvain is involved.]
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it's honestly a little terrifying. this is the part where he would leave, break it off before things get any deeper, cut his losses while he still can. and in spite of all of that, he knows he can't even if he wanted to, because this is felix and felix has always, always been the exception to every single rule and caveat—both the anomaly and the missing piece that's always been there but he'd been too afraid to grasp.
felix says i don't need those to remember this to the tune of i won't forget your eyes or anything else and with his back still to him, sylvain closes his eyes. breathes in deep and silently counts to five, swallows past the lump of whatever emotion that he doesn't know if he can completely identify at the moment.
but the most damning thing is that he already knows what it is. ]
Guess I did.
[ sometimes sylvain wonders if felix is aware of the sheer depth in the things he says, how he can just say these things with the same unshakable sincerity he had when he was eight and tossed out a death pact like it was nothing. and sylvain had taken it, met him with that same amount of sincerity couched in lightness, a casualness that's come back to bite him in the ass more often these days than not. but he doesn't have that anymore; he'd lost it to the war, lost it to the people they've lost; lost it to the luxury of falling asleep to felix's soft breaths against his chest, the warmth and comforting weight of him in his arms. and that's another nail in the coffin, isn't it? ]
So, don't let me forget either, okay?