Not that the humming is particularly loud; it's more that this space is, mmm, abnormally quiet, because Felix has spent the past five years sleeping in tents, in inns, in his old dorm room back at Garreg Mach. He's used to noise? To the sound of too many people moving about—but as he slowly swims to consciousness, trying to remember where he fell asleep (in Enbarr, a room in the castle at Enbarr, so tired after both the battle and the victory celebration that he all but collapsed into the first empty bed he came across) all he can hear is that low hum.
...Something is clearly wrong. It isn't even a guess; it's something he knows, a sudden weight in his stomach that sends him lurching upright as he opens his eyes, blinks back against the sunlight all but flooding the room. This is not the room he'd fell asleep in, with its garish red walls, its heavy damask curtains—and truth be told, it's like no room he's seen before. Oh, a bed is a bed, and a chest of drawers is a chest of drawers, but there's a strange machine (clock?) on the table beside him, an even stranger machine hanging from the ceiling above him, and somewhere not too far away, someone is humming a song that Felix knows.
And thus Felix slides out of this too-big bed as quietly as he can, reaching for the sword that is, like the Aegis Shield, propped against the wall beside the window. Why? He isn't going to question it, just like he isn't going to stare at the strange things on the other side of the glass; he draws his sword from its sheath, instead, creeping closer to the cracked door so that he can carefully nudge it open with one foot...
Listen: Felix would recognize Sylvain anywhere. The red hair helps, yes, but after spending so much time together, day in and day out, Felix has the very shape of him memorized—and the person standing across the room? The person whose back is facing Felix, who is so obviously focused on doing something as he hums a tune taken straight from Felix's childhood? Ah. Well, what is there to say, other than a befuddled-sounding:]
Sylvain?
[Stupid. Anyway: Hi, hello, guess who's in your bedroom doorway in all his bedheaded glory, brow furrowing as the point of his sword sinks toward the floor. Goodbye, security deposit.]
[ 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?
[Hart Mart is... an experience? A something. Sure, Felix has popped in the grocery store a handful of times since his arrival, but he's kept his exploration limited to the perpetually chilly meat department; he's never seen a need to wander up and down the aisles, which are, in his humble opinion, unnecessary—and overwhelming, though he'd never openly admit that. What is this "cereal" that has half an aisle to call its own... why do people need so many flavors of it...
But visiting Hart Mart with Sylvain means exploring every nook and cranny of the store, apparently. Watching Sylvain pick up the weirdest things and insist they try them. Felix puts up a fight, of course—no pudding pops allowed in this cart!—but he is only one man; by the time they make it through the check-out lane and head back out into the wide, weird world, they're both loaded down with bags full of the strangest shit.
(And, you know. Some vegetables. Thanks, Sylvain.)
It's Felix's job to put away the aforementioned strange shit, once they actually make it back to their apartment. Sylvain wanders off to do who knows what, and Felix scowls down at the boxes of fruit roll-ups (why) and bags of nacho-flavored chips (why) before hastily shoving them in cabinet after cabinet. It's not the most organized system, but it's quick! That's what counts, really, because after spending far too long in Hart Mart, Felix is eager to eat and get back to his training.
But it's Sylvain who does most of the cooking, in this place. Sylvain who's taken it upon himself to learn how all of this modern kitchen equipment works, and thus Felix is left squinting down at the box of Hot Pockets™ in his hand—"Four meats and four cheeses!"—as he works out what, exactly, he's supposed to pop this thing into. The weird, glass-front square sitting beside the oven? But, like... how?
Or: Felix has unknowingly taken advantage of Sylvain's Smarts, and now, as he presses button after button on the microwave, he's paying the price for it. His pride tells him that he can figure this out on his own; his good sense, however, tells him that he obviously cannot, so! So.]
Sylvain! [Hey! Come here, that sharp tone implies, because as Felix listens to this machine's incessant beeping:] This... machine is broken.
[Come watch Felix Hugo Fraldarius, one of the best swordsmen the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus has to offer, lose this battle with a fuckin' microwave.]
[ hart mart is an experience for sure, and one that sylvain would like to have again, honestly, because he's sure he'd missed some things while felix had pushed him down the aisles to get him to hurry up. and it's not like sylvain hasn't been there before, either— he had popped in a few times earlier just to grab the necessities, but he'd never had the chance to actually explore every nook and cranny until now. so yeah, he'd definitely grabbed a box or two of cereal (fruity pebbles, because it sounded completely awful and sylvain just had to know to what extent, and cinnamon toast crunch), tried to unsuccessfully sneak in a box of pudding pops, but managed to slip in some delightfully gaudy heart shaped sunglasses. one for himself and one for felix, just because he can.
but anyway, the frozen dinner aisle was likely the most exciting and also the longest they'd spent in one area. if only because the idea of having a whole meal preserved frozen and then somehow being able to reheat (?) it again was so novel and unthinkable, they just had to grab a whole variety to try. sylvain lost count of the amount of times he held up something and vehemently exclaimed imagine if we had this during the war, loudly enough that it probably scared the old woman just trying to get past them to grab a box of eggos. who knew modern conveniences like these would be such a luxury to them?
so now they're home (funny how he's already considered their shared apartment as home already) and while felix puts away their Strange Shit, sylvain is busy setting up the little shower rack with all the fruity smelling shampoo and conditioner and body wash he grabbed for both of them, despite knowing that he'd be using them more than felix. he's just closed the cabinet after putting away the first aid supplies (imagine if they had those during the war) when he hears his name accompanied with that beeping, and wanders into the kitchen to investigate in nothing but his jeans and that stupid pair of heart shaped sunglasses. ]
Not if you stop pressing every single button, [ he says, only after watching him battle with it for a few precious moments. he should have taken a picture, but alas. ] Here, let me see.
[ sylvain has used the microwave all of once, which was to try and microwave an egg just to see if he could and realize immediately after that that was a mistake. anyway, he flips the sunglasses back down over his eyes, pressing a button to get the microwave to stop beeping first before opening the little door. one hot pocket gets placed into its sleeve (they come with their own packaging! isn't that neat?) and in it goes. ]
Okay. Looks like it'll be... three minutes and thirty seconds, [ watch him work his magic on this square, punching in the right numbers and everything. ] And then we wait.
[Felix hears familiar footsteps behind him, but listen: he's too focused on this (totally broken) microwave to turn around, because maybe, just maybe, he'll hit the right button at the last possible moment. Sweet serendipity!
But of course that isn't how it happens. Felix hits the same button for the fiftieth time—time defrost, because this so-called "hot pocket" is frozen solid and thus needs to thaw—and Sylvain, as patient as ever, sidles up beside him, silencing the microwave before plucking the box right from his hands. Annoying! In that it's, you know. Slightly humiliating to watch Sylvain handle this with such ease, and so Felix keeps his eyes on the microwave, trying to memorize the order of Sylvain's, ah, button-pushing. Aha... so cook power is out, too...
...Hey! A valuable lesson is learned, even if Felix still feels less than thrilled about it as he watches the hot pocket's... pocket... begin spinning about within the machine. Yes, yes. Time to wait—and time to launch a weak defense before Sylvain can be insufferable about this.]
I didn't press every button, [he huffs, crossing his arms as he turns just far enough to the side to lean a hip against the counter.] It was—
[Well! It was something, but does that something matter when he looks up at Sylvain and sees his face reflected back at him in those bizarre glasses? Goddess above. He's silent for all of a second, brow knitting together as he takes in the shape of them, but soon he pipes back up with an oh-so flat:]
What are you wearing?
[And, like. Not wearing, because Felix's eyes briefly—noticeably—flick down to Sylvain's bare chest. Sir, you had a shirt on all of ten minutes ago...]
Hm? [ he looks up from watching the pocket spin on the little glass rotating plate; there's something really soothing about watching it? he's learned not to do so closely, however. something about radiation? sylvain doesn't exactly know what that's about (yet, because he's determined to learn everything about these things sooner or later), but it didn't sound very good. ] Oh, you mean these?
[ he does notice that brief flick down to his bare chest, but wisely doesn't comment on that. it doesn't stop the pleased smile on his face, though. ]
Cute, right? They're supposed to block out the sun. [ the actual effectiveness of that remains to be seen, however. ] I got one for you, too.
[ hold still while he carefully places the other pair on his face. ]
["Cute" is a word Felix rarely uses? It certainly isn't the first word that pops to mind when he focuses back on those stupid glasses—but then Sylvain is reaching out to him, carefully setting something atop the bridge of his nose, and the world becomes a, mmm, decidedly darker place.
It's not bad. It's not even wholly unexpected, but Felix still takes an instinctive step back, ass hitting the handle of the... ice-box-thing. Yowch. Take this muttered curse, then, as he brings both hands to his face, fingers feeling the unmistakable shape of these frames. Uggggggggggh.]
Sylvain.
[It's rude to just put shit on his face! Goddess! But as Felix considers when Sylvain had time to purchase these (when Felix was studying a pack of Big Red very, very intently, probably)... ah, well. Sylvain is Sylvain, isn't he? The one person who gets away with shit like this, and thus:]
Don't be stupid. I'm not wearing these. [Grumble, grumble, grumble, even as the only thing he does is slip them to the end of his nose so that he can shoot Sylvain a Look.] I can see in the sun.
[ it's not a word felix uses at all, but sylvain thinks it's completely applicable in this case. the lenses are a soft pink with thin frames painted in gold that contrast nicely with his darker hair... and that Look does anything but discourage him. ]
No one said you couldn't, but now you won't have to squint as much. Makes training easier, doesn't it?
[ even with him name-dropping training, he knows felix would likely never wear these again on any other day, so it's time to take advantage of this. but first, he steps closer and holds out his hand, ]
You haven't set your phone's wallpaper yet, right? I'll show you and we can match.
[What if Felix likes squinting, Sylvain? Or, more accurately: What if Felix likes being as difficult as possible? Because he absolutely does. That mention of training earns Sylvain a low, annoyed tch, like Felix has never heard anything so stupid in all his life...
...But his phone? His phone. The thing he pays little attention to, partly because he'd prefer to speak to his, like, three friends face-to-face and mostly because he doesn't know how to use it. This is just a smaller, trickier microwave. One day he's going to yeet it into the pond by the ice cream shack.]
"Wallpaper."
[Like he's sounding the word out? Maybe wondering how a phone can have a wall. Deep thoughts with Felix—but what matters is the way his shoulders tense, then drop the slightest bit before he reaches into the pocket of his jeans. He doesn't want to admit that he doesn't know what, exactly, Sylvain is talking about, but even though curiosity killed the cat...]
...Why would I change anything? It works.
[He's made all of five calls. Yeehaw. Anyway, his phone is now in hand, factory fresh, so feel free to admire that.]
[ quickly, because he's been around felix long enough to guess at those Deep Thoughts: ]
It's not actually a wallpaper, [ he says as he takes felix's rarely used phone, the guy definitely didn't even make a lock code, did he—yeah, he definitely didn't. ] It's the background on the screen, you can change it so people can tell it's yours.
[ you know, in case he misplaces it or... yeets it into the pond by the ice cream shack. anyway, he shows felix the generic ones that the phones come with and they're all well and good but, there's a better one they can make by taking a picture. so he pulls felix in close and drops his chin on his shoulder, lifting up the phone to take a selfie of them, dumb sunglasses on and all.
and then, it's a matter of quickly setting the picture to felix's home screen and also sending it to himself, before felix beats him up. either way, the damage is done because it's also sylvain's screen now. ]
[No one needs to know who this phone belongs to when it stays in his pocket! Something Felix ponders as he scowls down at the backgrounds Sylvain flips through, because there's no point in personalizing this thing when it's used so rarely.
But maybe, just maybe, there's a point to this madness. Something about Sylvain's arm snaking about his waist, or the sharp point of Sylvain's chin settling atop his shoulder, and listen: Felix should be annoyed by this. His reflexes should send him jabbing an elbow straight into Sylvain's defenseless ribs, but for whatever reason, Felix finds himself thinking of that night not so very long ago? Sylvain's breath fanning against his lips as Felix watched color flood back into his eyes, his hair...
The click of the camera snaps him back to his senses, but the damage is indeed done. The damage is clear the moment Sylvain shows Felix the candid snapshot, because the marvel of this split-second portrait aside, Felix's ever-present scowl is... softer than it should be. It doesn't look entirely out of place next to Sylvain's bright, sunny smile, and Felix wonders if this is what others see when they're together: two people that shouldn't fit, but somehow do.
The matching glasses, however, look absolutely stupid, and thus Felix clicks his tongue in irritation.]
You— [UGH.] Give me that.
[He'll swipe it right from Sylvain's hand, if he has to—but he won't shrug Sylvain away. Not yet, anyway, because he's too busy tapping these apps, paying no mind to the beeping microwave beside them. If he hits the right one, maybe he can... clear it? Go back to black? Don't ask him. It's not a bad pic, really, but... to look so silly...]
I don't want to look at your face every time I use this, [he (halfheartedly) gripes, pausing his tip-tappin' long enough to finally yank those glasses off his face.] I see enough of it as it is.
[ felix has yet to shrug him off, so sylvain continues to take full advantage of their proximity, keeping him close as he watches felix fumble through his phone's settings. he's not even trying to help, or trying to keep the amusement out of his voice, so. sorry, not sorry. ]
You didn't seem to mind staring at it a few nights ago.
[ it's hard not to think about that night—nothing actually happened afterwards, they'd watched the fireworks and finished the rest of the ale, then meandered back to their apartment. but it was everything before that won't leave his mind, the way his color had returned so quickly when it was felix saying those things, as minimal as they were. felix is a man of few words, they both know this, and yet, it doesn't change the fact that the things he does say have an impact all on their own. it doesn't change the fact that sylvain hangs onto them like he does with everything else involving felix. ]
But if you really hate it that much, [ he sighs a little, slumping a little against felix's frame. is he pouting? maybe. ] I'll change it back, okay?
[Thinking about that other night is one thing; hearing Sylvain bring it up is, ah, something else entirely, hence the way Felix stiffens, thumb pausing atop that screen for the briefest of moments. It's the mortifying ordeal of being known? Because Felix could tell Sylvain that it was less about staring and more about memorizing the tiniest details, but while that's factual, is it really any better...
Well, it's like this: Felix can't say that he doesn't like looking at Sylvain's face, because that would be a bald-faced lie. Felix also can't say he hates this picture. The glasses, maybe, but as he remembers Sylvain's smile, thinks about seeing it on those rare occasions he needs to call him, or Annette, or Mercedes—]
Change it to something worse, you mean.
[Maybe he's snapped another picture when Felix wasn't looking! Felix wouldn't put it past him—but the press of Sylvain against him is suddenly yet another reminder of that night, and so Felix finally swings an elbow behind him, pointedly (haha) prodding Sylvain in the stomach.]
No, thanks, [is his dry response as he tightens his hold on his phone.] I'll change it myself. Later.
[And if Sylvain knows anything about Felix—which he does, of course—then he should recognize this for what it is: Felix using this as a convenient excuse to leave his screen as it is.]
[ that elbow to his stomach connects and felix gets a soft oof for his trouble, but hope he enjoyed prodding at all that firm muscle. sylvain may as well not have felt it at all though, because he's too busy grinning, something wide and crooked and just a little toothy because yes, felix can't say he doesn't like looking at his face, nor can he say he hates the picture. but he might as well have, because sylvain hears it anyway beneath that dry tone, sees it in the way felix tightens his grip on the phone as if worried he'd try and snatch it back. and if sylvain knows anything about felix (which he does), he also knows that when later comes around, felix will end up staring at that picture and won't be able to change it.
and that, is almost as dangerous as holding felix against him, tipsy on ale and promises and unspoken feelings just simmering beneath the surface. felix is going to be the death of sylvain one of these days, and like, yeah, he's been on death's door his whole goddess forsaken life, he's ready for it—
what he's not ready for, is that festering ache in his chest that has only gotten worse since the war, since seeing felix again. he thought he had it bad enough during their academy days, but as always when it comes to felix, he has never been so wrong. ]
Sure, Fe.
[ he'll keep your secret. until then, he goes to retrieve the hot pocket that has been sitting done and neglected in the microwave, letting his hand slide from around felix's waist to his hip as he pulls back with the briefest squeeze. the flaky crust is unfortunately less flaky now, but he gives it to felix first so he can pass judgement. ]
[Sylvain can check Felix's phone in, like, a week's time and be smug about the state of it, but for now—this! Felix frowning as he tucks his phone back into his pocket, pretending for all the world that didn't just (unconsciously) note how easily Sylvain's hand spans his hip. It's, you know. Unimportant information. Useless.
Better, then, to focus entirely on this goddess-forsaken Hot Pocket when he turns back around, because at least it has a shirt. A sleeve? Whatever. The point... is that this pastry is covered up—but that doesn't save it from being glared at as Felix reaches out to pluck it from Sylvain's hand. It doesn't look like much of anything, really, and yet, as Felix is a firm believer that one can find fault with anything (and as Felix would rather not go back to talking about phone-related things, thanks):]
...It smells disgusting.
[Hot Pockets always have that faintly plastic-y smell? He is Suspicious as he brings this to his mouth—and also, ah, suddenly very aware that Sylvain is still here in all his shirtless, glasses-wearing glory, so please, Sylvain. Enjoy the Look Felix is shooting you as he refuses to take a bite of this thing, which obviously means, "Why are you watching me?" Read his mind.]
[ sylvain doesn't expect the hot pocket to be an instant winner—this is felix, after all. but they started this weird modern food journey together and he knows that they will at least see it through to the end, bad idea and equally bad taste aside. and to be fair, it actually doesn't look that bad? like, sylvain knows for a fact they've had worse in recent times, but they're still spoiled noble brats at heart, so. ]
Can't be worse than those mystery meat pies Ingrid made us eat when we were still restoring the monastery, right?
[ he's mostly unaware of why felix is looking at him like that, though he could hazard a few guesses. but he's more interested in felix actually trying the hot pocket, so he nods towards it after a moment, expectant. ]
Just try it. I'll eat the rest if you really can't stand it.
[Say what you will about those pies, but at least they contained, like, three days' worth of meat! ...While also being nigh inedible, so yes, fine, Felix sees the point, even if Felix still hates being stared at. The stupid glasses aren't exactly helping...
But what is he to do, other than bring the fuckin' hot pocket back to his mouth.]
I'll hold you to it.
[He halfway hopes it's terrible. It would serve Sylvain right to choke down a disgusting... whatever-this-is, but as Felix takes what might possibly be the tiniest bite of all time, well? Well. Give him a second to thoughtfully chew what is mostly bread(?), considering the taste of it, before he goes back in for a slightly larger second bite. Silent verdict: Edible.
Those glasses, though? Unforgivable, so while Sylvain is presumably waiting for Felix to say something, Felix brings the hand not hold the hot pocket up—and tries to snatch those glasses off Sylvain's face. This is when his high speed stat (hopefully) pays off.]
[ sylvain remembers them being particularly gamy and tough to chew through... one of the few things he felt okay with not knowing about. but anyway, felix is going for it and sylvain watches his expression as he chews, trying to fight down a widening smile as felix takes a bigger second bite. he's not immediately complaining about it, so sylvain considers it a success.
what he doesn't expect is for felix to snatch the glasses right off his face and he's left blinking for a moment as his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness that isn't rose-tinted anymore. ]
What have my glasses done to you? [ he's laughing in spite of it though, letting felix have them while he goes to pluck the hot pocket out of his fingers to try it for himself. ] I'm not even making you wear yours.
[Sylvain? Sir? That is Felix's hot pocket, which is why Felix clicks his tongue in clear disapproval—but it's a sacrifice he's willing to make, if it means the end of these glasses. These pink-tinted lenses. Felix was forced to deal with Sylvain's grey eyes for the better part of a month; now that that mess is over with, forgive him for preferring that warm, familiar shade of brown over everything else.
Plus the shape of the glasses is just silly, of course. So dumb. That's totally the main problem.]
They're not mine, [he snaps, placing Sylvain's glasses on the counter beside the pair that is not his.] And you can't make me do anything.
[Only Sylvain brings out this side of Felix? This... childishness. Somewhere far, far away, Ingrid is shaking her head—but anyway, take that. And don't eat all of his hot pocket, or on the Goddess...]
[ you could just say you missed seeing his eyes because you like them, felix? gosh. sylvain just watches as he bristles and fusses and pouts, chewing on his bite of hot pocket while trying not to look too fond and amused. and like, really, the taste and quality isn't anything to write home about, but it's decent. it's alright, and the crust could stand to be flakier, but for something that only took three minutes to cook, sylvain thinks this is what he should have expected. ]
Of course I can't make you do anything. [ that'd be wild. like, making felix fall in love with him or something. imagine that? yeah, better kill that thought before it festers. ] But I bought them for you! So I mean, technically, they're yours now.
[ somewhere far away, ingrid is shaking her head and likely feeling the beginnings of a migraine. meanwhile, sylvain hands the hot pocket back to felix, licking crumbs and cheese off his fingers and lips. ]
[That's the gayest possible thing to say? Felix would combust? Anyway, hearing Sylvain admit that, no, he can't make Felix do a god damn thing... works wonders for Felix's mood. ...Kind of. His shoulders relax, at least; like, he no longer looks poised to snap at any given moment, which is further helped by the fact that his hot pocket is soon back where it belongs: his hand. Maybe he's just hangry... or maybe Sylvain knows how to get under his skin better than anyone else...
It's definitely the latter, and it's definitely an art.]
Make your own, then, [he grumbles around another bite.] And keep the glasses. I didn't tell you to waste money on them.
[So he isn't obligated to keep them! And let it be known that he's about to say as much, too, but there's a pointed pause, the corner of his lip curling as he watches Sylvain lick cheese off a finger. That's—hmm.]
Nope, too late. You already wore them, no take backs.
[ maybe it's a little bit of both. sylvain knows felix is territorial over his food, even if he gets away with stealing off felix's plate more than anyone else, hissing token protests aside. it's cute, and so is the way the tension bleeds out from his shoulders, as if felix had expected he'd argue rather than agree with him. sylvain has no qualms with pushing buttons just to see how much he can get away with, but they both know when it comes to felix, sylvain would drop everything to follow him. because in the end, felix doesn't need to make him do anything. all he needs to do is ask. ]
Am I? [ his smile slants into something more crooked and he leans in quickly, pressing a kiss to felix's cheek on his way to the freezer, cheesy lips and all. ]
[That makes no sense, Felix wants to say. Is going to say, as soon as he finishes swallowing—but for once, Sylvain is quick enough to catch Felix off guard? There's no chance to duck, or to swiftly step to the side; there's simply Sylvain's lips glancing off his cheekbone, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it gesture, and the world seems to... still. Stop.
...For all of, like, five seconds. The sound of the freezer opening snaps Felix back to reality—just in time for Felix to watch a blob of the hot pocket's filling drip (ooze?) onto the front of his shirt. It is such a small thing, compared to the warmth all but rushing into his cheeks, and yet—well? Easier to focus on this than, ah, anything that came before it, because it's stupid, how such a simple, thoughtless gesture from Sylvain sent his heart racing.]
Look what you— [Did to his shirt? Did to him? Ugh.] Sylvain!
[That's, what, the second time he's said Sylvain's name like this since Sylvain came in here to help him? A new record. Enjoy it—and consider jumping back, perhaps, because Felix sure is aiming a (weak) kick at Sylvain's calf.]
[ he isn't doing a very good job of hiding his laughter at the sight of felix's expression, warm and lilting as it bounces off the walls of their tiny kitchen. felix's cheeks are equally as warm, and sylvain wonders, not for the first time, how it'd feel pressed against his own. ]
I missed how huffy you get sometimes. [ he slides his hot pocket into another sleeve and pops it into the microwave, his grin softening into that same curl of fondness he's been letting slip more and more these days. hm. ] Really brings me back.
[ even the kick at his calf is nostalgic, and sylvain doesn't bother to jump back, making a half-hearted wince as he hooks his leg around felix's outstretched one in an attempt to tug him closer again. only so he can wipe away that dollop of filling from his shirt with his finger and lick it off. ]
[Brings him back to, what? Their Academy days? Those days before their Academy days? Good memories, bad memories, all wrapped together—and Felix can't help but to consider them as he is, in fact, pulled forward, forced to hop toward Sylvain on one foot. This whole thing is childish, really. Too childish for two of Faerghus' top generals, noble heirs...
...And maybe that's why Felix finds himself going along with it, just as he often goes along with whatever stupid shit Sylvain starts. Maybe that's why Felix reaches up to place a palm beneath Sylvain's chin instead of jerking his foot free, making a disgusted noise low in his throat as he tilts—well, shoves—Sylvain's head back.]
You're incorrigible.
[An old line—but you know, doesn't that add something to it? Like, despite Felix's sharp tone, isn't there something almost fond about this, if one squints...]
[ here they are, two of faerghus' top generals, the future duke fraldarius hopping forward on one foot while the margrave gautier's laugh borders on improper. but sylvain has never cared about any of that, as much as he couldn't escape it, and it's in the way he slides his arm back around felix's waist, a steadying hold even as felix shoves his head back. ]
You know me, [ he says, reaching up blindly to grasp felix's hand and pull it away just enough to look back down again. ] I like to stay on an even keel.
[ there's less heat behind that old line compared to before, which is why he shifts his foot, turns them so that felix's back is to the kitchen counter. sylvain leans in to set his forearms on the counter just outside of felix's hips, loosely boxing him in. ]
[Felix is no fool; like, Sylvain takes hold of his wrist and Felix knows, knows, what's coming, but while he's undoubtedly quick enough to slip free, he... doesn't? Refuses to offer even token resistance when he's flipped about, because as Sylvain crowds closer, it's clear that this is a game, of sorts. A challenge.
And as Felix refuses to lose, Felix lowers his chin, meeting Sylvain's gaze despite the way it sends his stomach twisting. Eye contact is so inconvenient; it would be easier to just, like, take the half-eaten hot pocket he's still holding and smash it into Sylvain's face, but as his hands are trapped between them (and as Felix is trying to keep his hands from brushing against Sylvain's bare skin, for various reasons), he settles for a challenge of his own:]
[ of course felix knows, it's not the first time sylvain has done this. for all his skirt chasing ways back at the monastery, it's never stopped him from continuing the tradition of invading felix's personal space whenever he can. he could chalk it up to habit, really—they'd been attached at the hip since they were children, even when felix still chased after dimitri like he was the center of his universe. sylvain was always the one who slowed down when the others wouldn't, pick felix up and wipe away his tears whenever he fell behind.
and this isn't nearly the same, but he finds himself lifting his hand, tracing the pad of his index finger over the curve of felix's cheek like he'd done back then. it's a lot less chubby now, a little sharper and a little more defined with age but no less smooth. sylvain's smile fades into something more subdued as his hand returns to the counter. ]
Do you think we'll remember this place when we find our way back? [ rather than if, because sylvain knows they will. it's the one thing he holds on to, because he can't afford to lose hope, can't afford to lose himself. not when felix is here, too. ] I guess I just... wanted something to remind us, even if we don't remember.
[ the microwave beeps but he doesn't move; his fingers have found their way to felix's back, tracing the dip of his spine idly through the fabric of his shirt. eventually, he pulls away with a quiet laugh, straightening up again. ]
[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? ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action; 5/12? why not
Not that the humming is particularly loud; it's more that this space is, mmm, abnormally quiet, because Felix has spent the past five years sleeping in tents, in inns, in his old dorm room back at Garreg Mach. He's used to noise? To the sound of too many people moving about—but as he slowly swims to consciousness, trying to remember where he fell asleep (in Enbarr, a room in the castle at Enbarr, so tired after both the battle and the victory celebration that he all but collapsed into the first empty bed he came across) all he can hear is that low hum.
...Something is clearly wrong. It isn't even a guess; it's something he knows, a sudden weight in his stomach that sends him lurching upright as he opens his eyes, blinks back against the sunlight all but flooding the room. This is not the room he'd fell asleep in, with its garish red walls, its heavy damask curtains—and truth be told, it's like no room he's seen before. Oh, a bed is a bed, and a chest of drawers is a chest of drawers, but there's a strange machine (clock?) on the table beside him, an even stranger machine hanging from the ceiling above him, and somewhere not too far away, someone is humming a song that Felix knows.
And thus Felix slides out of this too-big bed as quietly as he can, reaching for the sword that is, like the Aegis Shield, propped against the wall beside the window. Why? He isn't going to question it, just like he isn't going to stare at the strange things on the other side of the glass; he draws his sword from its sheath, instead, creeping closer to the cracked door so that he can carefully nudge it open with one foot...
Listen: Felix would recognize Sylvain anywhere. The red hair helps, yes, but after spending so much time together, day in and day out, Felix has the very shape of him memorized—and the person standing across the room? The person whose back is facing Felix, who is so obviously focused on doing something as he hums a tune taken straight from Felix's childhood? Ah. Well, what is there to say, other than a befuddled-sounding:]
Sylvain?
[Stupid. Anyway: Hi, hello, guess who's in your bedroom doorway in all his bedheaded glory, brow furrowing as the point of his sword sinks toward the floor. Goodbye, security deposit.]
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?
5/30? sure? i live here now
But visiting Hart Mart with Sylvain means exploring every nook and cranny of the store, apparently. Watching Sylvain pick up the weirdest things and insist they try them. Felix puts up a fight, of course—no pudding pops allowed in this cart!—but he is only one man; by the time they make it through the check-out lane and head back out into the wide, weird world, they're both loaded down with bags full of the strangest shit.
(And, you know. Some vegetables. Thanks, Sylvain.)
It's Felix's job to put away the aforementioned strange shit, once they actually make it back to their apartment. Sylvain wanders off to do who knows what, and Felix scowls down at the boxes of fruit roll-ups (why) and bags of nacho-flavored chips (why) before hastily shoving them in cabinet after cabinet. It's not the most organized system, but it's quick! That's what counts, really, because after spending far too long in Hart Mart, Felix is eager to eat and get back to his training.
But it's Sylvain who does most of the cooking, in this place. Sylvain who's taken it upon himself to learn how all of this modern kitchen equipment works, and thus Felix is left squinting down at the box of Hot Pockets™ in his hand—"Four meats and four cheeses!"—as he works out what, exactly, he's supposed to pop this thing into. The weird, glass-front square sitting beside the oven? But, like... how?
Or: Felix has unknowingly taken advantage of Sylvain's Smarts, and now, as he presses button after button on the microwave, he's paying the price for it. His pride tells him that he can figure this out on his own; his good sense, however, tells him that he obviously cannot, so! So.]
Sylvain! [Hey! Come here, that sharp tone implies, because as Felix listens to this machine's incessant beeping:] This... machine is broken.
[Come watch Felix Hugo Fraldarius, one of the best swordsmen the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus has to offer, lose this battle with a fuckin' microwave.]
smh
but anyway, the frozen dinner aisle was likely the most exciting and also the longest they'd spent in one area. if only because the idea of having a whole meal preserved frozen and then somehow being able to reheat (?) it again was so novel and unthinkable, they just had to grab a whole variety to try. sylvain lost count of the amount of times he held up something and vehemently exclaimed imagine if we had this during the war, loudly enough that it probably scared the old woman just trying to get past them to grab a box of eggos. who knew modern conveniences like these would be such a luxury to them?
so now they're home (funny how he's already considered their shared apartment as home already) and while felix puts away their Strange Shit, sylvain is busy setting up the little shower rack with all the fruity smelling shampoo and conditioner and body wash he grabbed for both of them, despite knowing that he'd be using them more than felix. he's just closed the cabinet after putting away the first aid supplies (imagine if they had those during the war) when he hears his name accompanied with that beeping, and wanders into the kitchen to investigate in nothing but his jeans and that stupid pair of heart shaped sunglasses. ]
Not if you stop pressing every single button, [ he says, only after watching him battle with it for a few precious moments. he should have taken a picture, but alas. ] Here, let me see.
[ sylvain has used the microwave all of once, which was to try and microwave an egg just to see if he could and realize immediately after that that was a mistake. anyway, he flips the sunglasses back down over his eyes, pressing a button to get the microwave to stop beeping first before opening the little door. one hot pocket gets placed into its sleeve (they come with their own packaging! isn't that neat?) and in it goes. ]
Okay. Looks like it'll be... three minutes and thirty seconds, [ watch him work his magic on this square, punching in the right numbers and everything. ] And then we wait.
no subject
But of course that isn't how it happens. Felix hits the same button for the fiftieth time—time defrost, because this so-called "hot pocket" is frozen solid and thus needs to thaw—and Sylvain, as patient as ever, sidles up beside him, silencing the microwave before plucking the box right from his hands. Annoying! In that it's, you know. Slightly humiliating to watch Sylvain handle this with such ease, and so Felix keeps his eyes on the microwave, trying to memorize the order of Sylvain's, ah, button-pushing. Aha... so cook power is out, too...
...Hey! A valuable lesson is learned, even if Felix still feels less than thrilled about it as he watches the hot pocket's... pocket... begin spinning about within the machine. Yes, yes. Time to wait—and time to launch a weak defense before Sylvain can be insufferable about this.]
I didn't press every button, [he huffs, crossing his arms as he turns just far enough to the side to lean a hip against the counter.] It was—
[Well! It was something, but does that something matter when he looks up at Sylvain and sees his face reflected back at him in those bizarre glasses? Goddess above. He's silent for all of a second, brow knitting together as he takes in the shape of them, but soon he pipes back up with an oh-so flat:]
What are you wearing?
[And, like. Not wearing, because Felix's eyes briefly—noticeably—flick down to Sylvain's bare chest. Sir, you had a shirt on all of ten minutes ago...]
no subject
[ he does notice that brief flick down to his bare chest, but wisely doesn't comment on that. it doesn't stop the pleased smile on his face, though. ]
Cute, right? They're supposed to block out the sun. [ the actual effectiveness of that remains to be seen, however. ] I got one for you, too.
[ hold still while he carefully places the other pair on his face. ]
no subject
It's not bad. It's not even wholly unexpected, but Felix still takes an instinctive step back, ass hitting the handle of the... ice-box-thing. Yowch. Take this muttered curse, then, as he brings both hands to his face, fingers feeling the unmistakable shape of these frames. Uggggggggggh.]
Sylvain.
[It's rude to just put shit on his face! Goddess! But as Felix considers when Sylvain had time to purchase these (when Felix was studying a pack of Big Red very, very intently, probably)... ah, well. Sylvain is Sylvain, isn't he? The one person who gets away with shit like this, and thus:]
Don't be stupid. I'm not wearing these. [Grumble, grumble, grumble, even as the only thing he does is slip them to the end of his nose so that he can shoot Sylvain a Look.] I can see in the sun.
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No one said you couldn't, but now you won't have to squint as much. Makes training easier, doesn't it?
[ even with him name-dropping training, he knows felix would likely never wear these again on any other day, so it's time to take advantage of this. but first, he steps closer and holds out his hand, ]
You haven't set your phone's wallpaper yet, right? I'll show you and we can match.
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...But his phone? His phone. The thing he pays little attention to, partly because he'd prefer to speak to his, like, three friends face-to-face and mostly because he doesn't know how to use it. This is just a smaller, trickier microwave. One day he's going to yeet it into the pond by the ice cream shack.]
"Wallpaper."
[Like he's sounding the word out? Maybe wondering how a phone can have a wall. Deep thoughts with Felix—but what matters is the way his shoulders tense, then drop the slightest bit before he reaches into the pocket of his jeans. He doesn't want to admit that he doesn't know what, exactly, Sylvain is talking about, but even though curiosity killed the cat...]
...Why would I change anything? It works.
[He's made all of five calls. Yeehaw. Anyway, his phone is now in hand, factory fresh, so feel free to admire that.]
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It's not actually a wallpaper, [ he says as he takes felix's rarely used phone, the guy definitely didn't even make a lock code, did he—yeah, he definitely didn't. ] It's the background on the screen, you can change it so people can tell it's yours.
[ you know, in case he misplaces it or... yeets it into the pond by the ice cream shack. anyway, he shows felix the generic ones that the phones come with and they're all well and good but, there's a better one they can make by taking a picture. so he pulls felix in close and drops his chin on his shoulder, lifting up the phone to take a selfie of them, dumb sunglasses on and all.
and then, it's a matter of quickly setting the picture to felix's home screen and also sending it to himself, before felix beats him up. either way, the damage is done because it's also sylvain's screen now. ]
See? Now we match.
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But maybe, just maybe, there's a point to this madness. Something about Sylvain's arm snaking about his waist, or the sharp point of Sylvain's chin settling atop his shoulder, and listen: Felix should be annoyed by this. His reflexes should send him jabbing an elbow straight into Sylvain's defenseless ribs, but for whatever reason, Felix finds himself thinking of that night not so very long ago? Sylvain's breath fanning against his lips as Felix watched color flood back into his eyes, his hair...
The click of the camera snaps him back to his senses, but the damage is indeed done. The damage is clear the moment Sylvain shows Felix the candid snapshot, because the marvel of this split-second portrait aside, Felix's ever-present scowl is... softer than it should be. It doesn't look entirely out of place next to Sylvain's bright, sunny smile, and Felix wonders if this is what others see when they're together: two people that shouldn't fit, but somehow do.
The matching glasses, however, look absolutely stupid, and thus Felix clicks his tongue in irritation.]
You— [UGH.] Give me that.
[He'll swipe it right from Sylvain's hand, if he has to—but he won't shrug Sylvain away. Not yet, anyway, because he's too busy tapping these apps, paying no mind to the beeping microwave beside them. If he hits the right one, maybe he can... clear it? Go back to black? Don't ask him. It's not a bad pic, really, but... to look so silly...]
I don't want to look at your face every time I use this, [he (halfheartedly) gripes, pausing his tip-tappin' long enough to finally yank those glasses off his face.] I see enough of it as it is.
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[ felix has yet to shrug him off, so sylvain continues to take full advantage of their proximity, keeping him close as he watches felix fumble through his phone's settings. he's not even trying to help, or trying to keep the amusement out of his voice, so. sorry, not sorry. ]
You didn't seem to mind staring at it a few nights ago.
[ it's hard not to think about that night—nothing actually happened afterwards, they'd watched the fireworks and finished the rest of the ale, then meandered back to their apartment. but it was everything before that won't leave his mind, the way his color had returned so quickly when it was felix saying those things, as minimal as they were. felix is a man of few words, they both know this, and yet, it doesn't change the fact that the things he does say have an impact all on their own. it doesn't change the fact that sylvain hangs onto them like he does with everything else involving felix. ]
But if you really hate it that much, [ he sighs a little, slumping a little against felix's frame. is he pouting? maybe. ] I'll change it back, okay?
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Well, it's like this: Felix can't say that he doesn't like looking at Sylvain's face, because that would be a bald-faced lie. Felix also can't say he hates this picture. The glasses, maybe, but as he remembers Sylvain's smile, thinks about seeing it on those rare occasions he needs to call him, or Annette, or Mercedes—]
Change it to something worse, you mean.
[Maybe he's snapped another picture when Felix wasn't looking! Felix wouldn't put it past him—but the press of Sylvain against him is suddenly yet another reminder of that night, and so Felix finally swings an elbow behind him, pointedly (haha) prodding Sylvain in the stomach.]
No, thanks, [is his dry response as he tightens his hold on his phone.] I'll change it myself. Later.
[And if Sylvain knows anything about Felix—which he does, of course—then he should recognize this for what it is: Felix using this as a convenient excuse to leave his screen as it is.]
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and that, is almost as dangerous as holding felix against him, tipsy on ale and promises and unspoken feelings just simmering beneath the surface. felix is going to be the death of sylvain one of these days, and like, yeah, he's been on death's door his whole goddess forsaken life, he's ready for it—
what he's not ready for, is that festering ache in his chest that has only gotten worse since the war, since seeing felix again. he thought he had it bad enough during their academy days, but as always when it comes to felix, he has never been so wrong. ]
Sure, Fe.
[ he'll keep your secret. until then, he goes to retrieve the hot pocket that has been sitting done and neglected in the microwave, letting his hand slide from around felix's waist to his hip as he pulls back with the briefest squeeze. the flaky crust is unfortunately less flaky now, but he gives it to felix first so he can pass judgement. ]
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Better, then, to focus entirely on this goddess-forsaken Hot Pocket when he turns back around, because at least it has a shirt. A sleeve? Whatever. The point... is that this pastry is covered up—but that doesn't save it from being glared at as Felix reaches out to pluck it from Sylvain's hand. It doesn't look like much of anything, really, and yet, as Felix is a firm believer that one can find fault with anything (and as Felix would rather not go back to talking about phone-related things, thanks):]
...It smells disgusting.
[Hot Pockets always have that faintly plastic-y smell? He is Suspicious as he brings this to his mouth—and also, ah, suddenly very aware that Sylvain is still here in all his shirtless, glasses-wearing glory, so please, Sylvain. Enjoy the Look Felix is shooting you as he refuses to take a bite of this thing, which obviously means, "Why are you watching me?" Read his mind.]
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Can't be worse than those mystery meat pies Ingrid made us eat when we were still restoring the monastery, right?
[ he's mostly unaware of why felix is looking at him like that, though he could hazard a few guesses. but he's more interested in felix actually trying the hot pocket, so he nods towards it after a moment, expectant. ]
Just try it. I'll eat the rest if you really can't stand it.
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But what is he to do, other than bring the fuckin' hot pocket back to his mouth.]
I'll hold you to it.
[He halfway hopes it's terrible. It would serve Sylvain right to choke down a disgusting... whatever-this-is, but as Felix takes what might possibly be the tiniest bite of all time, well? Well. Give him a second to thoughtfully chew what is mostly bread(?), considering the taste of it, before he goes back in for a slightly larger second bite. Silent verdict: Edible.
Those glasses, though? Unforgivable, so while Sylvain is presumably waiting for Felix to say something, Felix brings the hand not hold the hot pocket up—and tries to snatch those glasses off Sylvain's face. This is when his high speed stat (hopefully) pays off.]
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what he doesn't expect is for felix to snatch the glasses right off his face and he's left blinking for a moment as his eyes adjust to the sudden brightness that isn't rose-tinted anymore. ]
What have my glasses done to you? [ he's laughing in spite of it though, letting felix have them while he goes to pluck the hot pocket out of his fingers to try it for himself. ] I'm not even making you wear yours.
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Plus the shape of the glasses is just silly, of course. So dumb. That's totally the main problem.]
They're not mine, [he snaps, placing Sylvain's glasses on the counter beside the pair that is not his.] And you can't make me do anything.
[Only Sylvain brings out this side of Felix? This... childishness. Somewhere far, far away, Ingrid is shaking her head—but anyway, take that. And don't eat all of his hot pocket, or on the Goddess...]
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Of course I can't make you do anything. [ that'd be wild. like, making felix fall in love with him or something. imagine that? yeah, better kill that thought before it festers. ] But I bought them for you! So I mean, technically, they're yours now.
[ somewhere far away, ingrid is shaking her head and likely feeling the beginnings of a migraine. meanwhile, sylvain hands the hot pocket back to felix, licking crumbs and cheese off his fingers and lips. ]
It's not that bad, you know.
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It's definitely the latter, and it's definitely an art.]
Make your own, then, [he grumbles around another bite.] And keep the glasses. I didn't tell you to waste money on them.
[So he isn't obligated to keep them! And let it be known that he's about to say as much, too, but there's a pointed pause, the corner of his lip curling as he watches Sylvain lick cheese off a finger. That's—hmm.]
...You're disgusting.
[Unsanitary.]
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[ maybe it's a little bit of both. sylvain knows felix is territorial over his food, even if he gets away with stealing off felix's plate more than anyone else, hissing token protests aside. it's cute, and so is the way the tension bleeds out from his shoulders, as if felix had expected he'd argue rather than agree with him. sylvain has no qualms with pushing buttons just to see how much he can get away with, but they both know when it comes to felix, sylvain would drop everything to follow him. because in the end, felix doesn't need to make him do anything. all he needs to do is ask. ]
Am I? [ his smile slants into something more crooked and he leans in quickly, pressing a kiss to felix's cheek on his way to the freezer, cheesy lips and all. ]
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...For all of, like, five seconds. The sound of the freezer opening snaps Felix back to reality—just in time for Felix to watch a blob of the hot pocket's filling drip (ooze?) onto the front of his shirt. It is such a small thing, compared to the warmth all but rushing into his cheeks, and yet—well? Easier to focus on this than, ah, anything that came before it, because it's stupid, how such a simple, thoughtless gesture from Sylvain sent his heart racing.]
Look what you— [Did to his shirt? Did to him? Ugh.] Sylvain!
[That's, what, the second time he's said Sylvain's name like this since Sylvain came in here to help him? A new record. Enjoy it—and consider jumping back, perhaps, because Felix sure is aiming a (weak) kick at Sylvain's calf.]
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I missed how huffy you get sometimes. [ he slides his hot pocket into another sleeve and pops it into the microwave, his grin softening into that same curl of fondness he's been letting slip more and more these days. hm. ] Really brings me back.
[ even the kick at his calf is nostalgic, and sylvain doesn't bother to jump back, making a half-hearted wince as he hooks his leg around felix's outstretched one in an attempt to tug him closer again. only so he can wipe away that dollop of filling from his shirt with his finger and lick it off. ]
that icon is illegal
...And maybe that's why Felix finds himself going along with it, just as he often goes along with whatever stupid shit Sylvain starts. Maybe that's why Felix reaches up to place a palm beneath Sylvain's chin instead of jerking his foot free, making a disgusted noise low in his throat as he tilts—well, shoves—Sylvain's head back.]
You're incorrigible.
[An old line—but you know, doesn't that add something to it? Like, despite Felix's sharp tone, isn't there something almost fond about this, if one squints...]
u like it don't lie to me
You know me, [ he says, reaching up blindly to grasp felix's hand and pull it away just enough to look back down again. ] I like to stay on an even keel.
[ there's less heat behind that old line compared to before, which is why he shifts his foot, turns them so that felix's back is to the kitchen counter. sylvain leans in to set his forearms on the counter just outside of felix's hips, loosely boxing him in. ]
Are you really not gonna keep the glasses?
it's banned!!
And as Felix refuses to lose, Felix lowers his chin, meeting Sylvain's gaze despite the way it sends his stomach twisting. Eye contact is so inconvenient; it would be easier to just, like, take the half-eaten hot pocket he's still holding and smash it into Sylvain's face, but as his hands are trapped between them (and as Felix is trying to keep his hands from brushing against Sylvain's bare skin, for various reasons), he settles for a challenge of his own:]
Why would I?
[Why should he.]
too bad
and this isn't nearly the same, but he finds himself lifting his hand, tracing the pad of his index finger over the curve of felix's cheek like he'd done back then. it's a lot less chubby now, a little sharper and a little more defined with age but no less smooth. sylvain's smile fades into something more subdued as his hand returns to the counter. ]
Do you think we'll remember this place when we find our way back? [ rather than if, because sylvain knows they will. it's the one thing he holds on to, because he can't afford to lose hope, can't afford to lose himself. not when felix is here, too. ] I guess I just... wanted something to remind us, even if we don't remember.
[ the microwave beeps but he doesn't move; his fingers have found their way to felix's back, tracing the dip of his spine idly through the fabric of his shirt. eventually, he pulls away with a quiet laugh, straightening up again. ]
Sorry, got a little too sentimental there.
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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?