Work Text:
Felix stood outside of Sylvain’s door. He glared at the wood, inconspicuous for all that it was certainly concealing a body of grief and torment. Though, Sylvain hadn’t made it apparent. No, he’d instead hidden away in his room as soon as they got to Garreg Mach. Whenever Mercedes or Annette tried to visit him, their concern would be brushed off with a flippant remark and an excuse of needing to process alone, and Felix had had enough of it. He had known that Sylvain would hide away his grief because of some dumbass self-sacrificing sentiment, not wanting to bleed on anyone. He just didn’t think that Sylvain wouldn’t take off his mask in front of him.
Because that was how it was, that was their deal. Somehow, some time, they had come to a nonverbal agreement, made with brief smiles and long glances and pinky promises, that with each other they wouldn’t put on a mask or a facade. What had they to hide, anyway? Sylvain knew every side of Felix, seen him grow from a weepy-eyed child to the edge that he was now, forged in grief and tempered with anger. He had held him after Glenn died – he’d been the only one to look for him. He’d wrapped his arms around Felix tight as he shattered, like if Sylvain held on just tight enough, the pieces would somehow fuse back together. And Felix has always seen through Sylvain. Seen through his lies about bruises and scrapes and broken bones. Seen through his dallying smirks and enticing demeanor. Felix had always known that his flirtations were rebellions made in the only way he could, trapped by parents and Crests on all sides. He knew Sylvain. Right?
So, the thought of Sylvain hiding from Felix filled him with worry and a frustration at that worry, a tumult of emotions that threatened to break through the dam he’d shabbily constructed after Glenn’s death. He will fix this. He will not let Sylvain wallow in his misery. He will not allow Sylvain to become unreachable. He knocked on the door.
There was no answer.
Felix listened intently for some movement, some indication of life. When he heard nothing, he knocked again, irritation glancing off his fist as it pounded on the wood. “Sylvain!” he called out. “Sylvain, open the door!”
Finally, the rustling of fabric and quiet, plodding footsteps hit his ears. The doorknob rattled but then stopped. Felix exhaled slowly. “Sylvain,” he spoke, tone softer, “it’s just me.”
The door wrenched open. Felix flinched back at the barrier’s sudden absence. His eyes quickly shot up to see Sylvain’s face.
Deep bruises shadowed Sylvain’s eyes. His hair was disheveled and compressed on one side, making it apparent that he’d curled up on his side and hadn’t moved. He hadn’t bothered to change out of the clothes he’d worn since the Tower. Sallow skin stretched across his skull, and Felix wondered if Sylvain had bothered to eat any of the food he’d left outside for him.
Sylvain smiled, and Felix fought back the urge to recoil. “Hey, Fe.”
“Don’t do that.” He pointed at Sylvain’s face, wanting to just smudge away the whole expression. “Don’t do that to me.”
Sylvain’s chest stuttered, but he covered up the slight with a small chuckle. “Do what, Fe? I’m not doing anything. See, I’m fi—"
“Sylvain.”
Whatever effort Sylvain had summoned to piece together his mask dissipated with a sigh so deep Felix wondered if he’d been holding it since his parents conceived him. Head lowered, he backed away, made space for Felix to enter the room.
Felix stepped inside but halted before he made past the entryway. Plates of barely touched food piled on the desk. The chessboard Sylvain so treasured had its pieces flung across the room. Ink splashed across the walls and carpet, the bottle’s glass fragments glittering in the moonlight. His blood-splattered armor lay strewed across the floor. The Lance of Ruin lay on the bed, its single eye glowing bright red. The sheets were a mess, half on the floor and tangled around it. “Syl.”
Sylvain stood silently, dwarfed by the manifestation of his anguish. He had a sheepish expression on his face as he looked around his room. His hand rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s pretty bad, huh?” He turned to look at Felix. “I meant to clean it, but I, ah, kind of couldn’t find it in myself to make the effort.” He chuckled, the sound crumbling out of his throat. “I mean, it’s a pretty big mess, right? It’d take forever to clean up, especially those ink stains, and you know how I hate washing dish—”
He cut off when Felix began stalking towards him. Felix glared at him, reveled in the way that Sylvain squirmed under his gaze. Good, he thought. If he didn’t want to feel guilty, he shouldn’t have hidden from him. He spoke when he thought that Sylvain had suffered long enough, waved a hand at his shirt, voice dark and hushed in the wreckage. “And your clothes? You couldn’t find the effort to change out of the clothes you wore when you killed your brother?” Sylvain took in a sharp breath, about to speak when Felix shot his eyes up to Sylvain’s face. “Or did you think that perhaps you didn’t deserve to shrug off his blood?”
Whatever angry retort Sylvain had been about to fire died in his throat. The silence was as damning as a confirmation. Felix’s eyes burned. Sylvain opened his mouth, but Felix beat him to it. “Hush.”
Sylvain’s eyes widened. Felix turned away to go rummage through his wardrobe.
“Hush?” he heard Sylvain ask from behind him, voice high with incredulousness. “You’re telling me to hush? I thought you wanted me to talk? Didn’t you? To talk about, about, my feelings? Huh? Isn’t that what you came here for?!”
Felix turned back around, Sylvain’s sleeping clothes draped over his arm. “If you wanted to talk about your feelings, then sure. But I did not come here to listen to you spout your self-loathing bullshit.”
“And what if I wanted to spout my self-loathing bullshit? If you were just going to tell me how I can or can’t deal with having just killed my own brother, then maybe you shouldn’t have come at all!”
A surge of anger rushed up in Felix, threatened to boil over out of his mouth and scald Sylvain. He swallowed it back – this is Sylvain, Sylvain, and he’s hurting right now – but swept his arms out to the room. “And this? This is how you’re dealing with it, is it? How’s that working out for you?”
He marched up to him, hung the clothes over the back of the desk chair, and started working at the ties of Sylvain’s bloody gambeson. “Still wearing your brother’s blood, not eating, not sleeping, not doing anything to help yourself.” Felix worked off the gambeson and threw it in a corner. “So, since you’re obviously shit at helping yourself, shut up and let me help you.” He glanced up to see Sylvain’s dumbfounded face. “Okay?” Sylvain continued to stare at him dumbly, seemingly unable to find his voice. Felix shook his arm. “Okay?”
Sylvain swallowed, his Adam’s Apple bobbing hard. “Okay,” he whispered.
Nonetheless, Sylvain started working at the laces of his undershirt, fingers fumbling until Felix slapped his hands away to deal with them himself. “Raise your arms.” Sylvain complied, and Felix lifted off the shirt and threw it in the corner with the gambeson. “Don’t lower them.” He reached for Sylvain’s sleep shirt, lowered the soft fabric over his arms, covered his scar-littered chest. He glanced up at Sylvain. Sylvain was watching him with eyes heavily lidded, and he breathed slow. “Can you take off your own pants or do you need me to do that, too?” he asked, voice light so that Sylvain would know he was joking.
Sylvain’s lips tipped up in a small smile at the jest, genuine, and Felix turned around to let Sylvain sort himself out. Once the rustling of fabric against skin stopped, he turned around to appraise him.
Washed in moonlight, Sylvain looked faint. His hair, usually so fiery and vibrant, looked put out, and his skin was pallid. Still, he looked softer, draped in loose fabric and bare-footed. His shoulders and eyes seemed just a bit lighter. Then again, Felix supposed, it could just be wishful thinking.
Felix grabbed Sylvain’s wrist. “Come on,” he said, pulling on his arm. “You can’t stay here in this mess.” He dragged Sylvain out of his room, eager to get him away from all the reminders of Miklan. Sylvain stumbled at his brisk pace, his legs still unsteady from having done nothing but curl up in bed for days. Felix slowed down but still kept his hand tight around Sylvain’s wrist. He threw open his door and pushed Sylvain in before him. He followed after, shutting the door.
Sylvain stood in the center of the room, looking lost and unsure. Felix wished he could cut down everything that had ever caused Sylvain uncertainty. But that would come later. For now, he pressed close to Sylvain and shuffled him back towards the bed until his knees hit the edge. He pushed down on Sylvain’s shoulders, and Sylvain sank down obediently. Felix stepped back, unable to handle being so close to Sylvain so compliant and melancholic. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself from running his hand through Sylvain’s hair in some clumsy attempt at comfort or some other gesture equally embarrassing.
His plan had only gone so far as getting Sylvain out of his room. He’d figured he’d wing the rest, the actual act of consolation itself. But now, Felix hesitated, all his decisiveness gone as he struggled with what to do next. Mercedes would be better at this, or maybe even Ingrid. But Sylvain hadn’t responded to them; he’d responded to Felix. And what he needed right now wasn’t Felix’s rigid lines and sharp edges; he needed softness, someone able to bend and enfold around him and his grief. Felix didn’t know how to offer him that.
Sylvain looked up, smiling like he knew what was going on Felix’s head. “It’s okay, Fe.” His voice was soft, understanding. Even now, exhausted and wilted, he was trying to comfort Felix, and Felix couldn’t stand it.
“It’s not!” Felix’s voice shattered the silence. He cringed at his harshness and softened his voice. “It’s not.”
When would this one-sided give-and-take end? Always, always, Sylvain gave. His comfort, his warmth, his prattle that warded away the darker of Felix’s thoughts, kept his head blissfully full of meaningless fluff. What had he ever offered in return? Chastisements, demands to train, and thorny insults. Felix growled in frustration and began to pace the length of his room. Why couldn’t he just fucking be there for his oldest, dearest friend? When had he become so reliant on Sylvain to pick up the emotional slack of their friendship?
Felix stopped in front of Sylvain. He turned to face him, though he couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “You,” he stuttered out but stopped short. He shook his head before raising his eyes to meet Sylvain’s. “I—I want to be there for you. What do you need?”
Sylvain’s lips parted, jaw dropped. It stung at Felix, that his attempt to be a better friend shocked him so, because it meant that Felix had failed. Sylvain didn’t open up to him at first because Felix had reinforced his walls too much for Sylvain to break through, coated his barbs with too much poison for Sylvain to shrug off. No more.
“Don’t tell me to leave you alone, though,” Felix said. “I won’t.” He tried to tip up his lip in something softer than the smirk he usually defaulted to, something more like the one Sylvain would give him. “You’ve never done well alone, Sylvain.”
“Felix.” Sylvain whispered his name like a prayer, looked at him like he was salvation instead of a 17-year-old boy with blood on his hands. Sylvain reached for him, fingers spread beseechingly. Felix stared at them, uncomprehending. “Felix, please.”
What could he do but take Sylvain’s hand in his own?
Sylvain pulled him forward until Felix stood in the space between his legs. With quivering hands, he placed Felix’s hand on his head and slipped his hand down to grasp at Felix’s wrist. And slowly, he bent forward until the crown of his head rested against Felix’s stomach. “Just this,” he whispered. “I just need this.”
The gentle press of warmth had Felix’s heartbeat shooting up to his throat. He swallowed hard down against it, just enough to be able to whisper, “Alright.”
And slowly, gradually, finally, Sylvain’s shoulders began to heave and stutter. Sputtering sobs pushed out of him, crashed down against Felix. Felix stood steady against his flood, a stone for Sylvain to cling to. He ran trembling fingers through his hair. For all that he’d gone crying to Sylvain in their youth, this was the first time Felix had ever seen Sylvain cry.
Sylvain’s sobs grew, billowing out of his chest. His hands clenched at Felix’s hips as his head pressed more firmly into his stomach, head bowing further until he bared the back of his neck. Felix’s heart panged at the vulnerable skin. The urge to protect surged so rapidly it left him reeling, and when he came to, he was bowed over Sylvain, one hand clenched firmly in Sylvain’s hair, the other cupped over Sylvain’s nape. He unclenched the hand in Sylvain’s hair and began to run through it again, a silent apology for the pain it might have caused. Sylvain didn’t seem to notice, and he continued to mourn for his brother and what could have been.
***
Eventually, Sylvain’s sobs began to cede. He clung to Felix until his breaths finally evened out. His hands went limp on Felix’s hips. Slowly, he began to pull away. Felix let him reluctantly, hands lingering on Sylvain’s form, but Sylvain never passed out of his reach. He pulled back only far enough to be able to look up at Felix with red-rimmed eyes. The last of his tears made their way from the corners of his eyes and lost themselves in the baby hairs at Sylvain’s temple, staining them silver. Felix was wiping away at them with his thumbs before he could realize what he was doing and stop. But Sylvain looked so inordinately pleased at the small act, browns unfurrowing and eyes fluttering shut, that he continued until all that was left of his tears was their silvery residue on his skin. Had anyone ever wiped his tears like he’d done for Felix when they were children? Flashes of bruised skin quickly covered by a pull of a sleeve, a subdued disposition within the walls of his own home, an overbearing father and a complacent mother, and Felix knew the answer.
Felix’s hands stilled, cupping Sylvain’s cheeks. He contemplated the fragile skin of Sylvain’s eyelids, the lines between his eyebrows despite their relaxed state, the thinness of his skin under his palms. Did astronomers feel like this when they beheld the universe? Chests expanding at its overwhelming vastness but even more so when recognizing the preciousness of all that it holds – sparks of life that, for all their insignificance, are beautiful in their rare existence.
Sylvain slowly opened his eyes, pale brown meeting amber, his lips curling into a quivering smile, and Felix knew the answer was yes.
“Thanks, Fe,” Sylvain said, voice raspy from his weeping.
Felix wanted to tell him that he shouldn’t thank him for doing something so simple – that should be a matter-of-course between them. Instead, he just grunted an affirmation and began to push back at Sylvain’s shoulders, guiding him to lie against his pillows. Sylvain settled on his side, facing Felix. “Stay here for tonight. You can’t stay in that pigsty you call a room.”
“Well, I mean, I did. So, I can.”
“You can, but I won’t let you. Now shut up, fool, and budge over.”
Sylvain obliged, scooting back towards the wall. Felix sat down in the space he’d left and began unlacing his boots. They had done this when they were children when Felix would come visit House Gautier during the winter. The cold would be enough to have Felix crawling in Sylvain’s bed. Irritatingly, Sylvain had never seemed to feel the cold, but he’d always burned hot, always gladly offered to share his warmth with Felix.
Felix froze when he felt a light touch on his back. Sylvain paused. When Felix did nothing to remove his hand, Sylvain continued on until his hand settled on his waist. Felix exhaled and pulled off his boots. He began working at the buttons on his vest. Tonight, he’d make do with sleeping in the uniform’s button-down shirt.
After he’d flung the vest in the direction of his desk chair, he pulled his hair down from its bun, combed his fingers through the knots and tangles before he lowered himself down on the bed next to Sylvain. Sylvain’s hand never left his waist, following his movement as Felix settled on his back, his forearm a line of heat across his waist. Neither of them spoke, wanting to keep the peace for as long as it would stay. Sylvain’s warmth was all-encompassing, as his side and across his waist. He found himself dozing off before he heard a soft, “Felix?”
He hummed in response, turned his head to Sylvain. Sylvain kept his eyes down, avoiding eye contact. His eyes and mouth were drawn down. A twinge of concern had Felix alert. “What?” Sylvain kept quiet. The hand around Felix’s waist fiddled with the fabric of his shirt. Drowsy and emotionally exhausted, irritation flickered at the back of Felix’s tongue the longer Sylvain said nothing. “If you have nothing to say, Sylvain, then go the fuck to sl—”
“Do you think it would be better if I was gone?”
Dread dropped like a boulder on top of Felix’s lungs. “What?” he managed to wheeze out. “Sylvain, what?”
Sylvain breathed in slow before he repeated himself. “Do you think it would be better if I was gone?” As the last syllable left his mouth, he tensed up, shoulders drawing near his ears, as if awaiting punishment. Like he knew it was wrong but had decided to say it anyway.
The pitiful display had Felix enraged. He jerked over to on his side, dislodging the arm Sylvain had around him, and reached an arm around Sylvain to clench a fist in the hair at the back of his head. Sylvain immediately went limp and let Felix pull his head up to meet his eyes. “What the fuck do you mean, gone?” Felix hissed. “Better for who?” Sylvain just eyed him wearily before looking away. Felix shook him. “Answer me, Sylvain!”
Finally, Sylvain’s despondence gave way to anger as his eyes snapped up to meet his. “For everyone!” His hands fisted in Felix’s collar. “If I wasn’t here, then Miklan wouldn’t have died—”
“And what then?!” Felix spat. “What, you think it wouldn’t have mattered then if Miklan didn’t have a crest? Your parents would have tried for another kid, and if not you, then some other poor bastard would have been born!” Sylvain faltered at that, mouth working to come up with reply. “They would have kept on going until they finally got a Crestbearer!”
“But Felix,” Sylvain choked out, “I don’t want the Crest. I never have.”
And Felix’s rage sputtered out, leaving him tired and worn and frustrated. “I know, Sylvain,” he sighed out. “I know.” Sylvain looked like he was going to break down again, so he gentled the hand in his hair, pushed Sylvain down into his chest, and hooked his chin over the top of his head. Sylvain immediately clung to him, fisting his hands into the back of his shirt. “Listen up, because I’m only going to say this once.”
He felt Sylvain nod.
“It’s not your fault that Miklan was a fucking piece of shit.” Sylvain tensed up; Felix soothed him by running fingers through his hair. “It’s not! He’s a bastard borne of the system and the burden it placed your parents under. Got it? It has absolutely nothing to do with you. Miklan didn’t choose to be born, didn’t choose to not have a crest, didn’t choose to have shit parents. But he chose to beat you. He chose to drop you in a fucking well. He chose to abandon you on a mountain in the middle of a fucking blizzard!” Felix was almost yelling by the end of it, arms wrapping squeezing Sylvain tighter and tighter. Sylvain made a small sound in protest, and Felix immediately slackened his hold. “He could have chosen different. But he didn’t. He reaped what he fucking sowed.” Felix turned his head down to press his mouth against Sylvain’s hair. “It had nothing to do with you. You didn’t deserve any of it.”
Sylvain froze. Heart dropping, Felix slowly pulled back to see his face, wondering if he’d gone too far, said the wrong thing. Sylvain’s eyes were clouded over, looking out at a distance that seemed to stretch out farther with every millisecond. Shit. “Sylvain?”
Sylvain mumbled something unintelligible.
“What? Speak up.”
“I didn’t deserve any of it.” Sylvain’s eyes blinked rapidly, like he was trying to get rid of the film that had stretched over his pupils, shot them up to meet Felix’s. “That’s what you said.”
Felix paused a moment, wondered if he’d been tackling the wrong problem this whole time. He nodded. “I did. You didn’t deserve any of it, Syl.”
Sylvain knotted his hands in the back of Felix’s shirt. The look on his face was almost enough to send Felix running to the Gautier Margraviate with his swords. Pleading eyes looked up at him and desperation tugged the rest of his features down. “I didn’t deserve any of it?”
Felix grasped his face firmly, wanting to imprint his answer into Sylvain’s skin so that he’d never, ever forget it. “No, Sylvain. You did not deserve any of it."
A wretched whimper broke through from Sylvain’s throat before he promptly buried his face in Felix’s neck again. Felix retightened the circle of his arms around Sylvain on instinct, but his mind was elsewhere. So. This was the source of the Sylvain’s self-loathing. Felix had always wondered at it, the lack of importance Sylvain had always placed on his life, the eagerness with which he threw himself in front of the other Blue Lions in battle. How long had Sylvain dragged around his neck the yoke of his brother’s abuse, his parents’ expectations, believing he deserved the cut of the rope into his skin? Why hadn’t he realized it before? A sudden dampness on his shirt broke him out of his thoughts. Unlike before, Sylvain’s shoulders didn’t stutter or heave, and he didn’t sob. Quietly, his tears soaked into Felix’s shirt, and Felix abruptly remembered Sylvain’s flirty, happy-go-lucky persona, artfully crafted, unlike Felix’s fortress. A mask Sylvain had made impregnable so subtly that Felix hadn’t even noticed that there could be more that he was stuffing away behind it.
He knows now, though. Sylvain had taken it off in front of him. Not as willingly as he had thought he would, hoped he would, but that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter why Sylvain had done it either, whether it was from a desire to be known or he was just too tired to keep it up; Felix wouldn’t ever hold him so far away to warrant that mask around him. It’s only fair that Felix be his solace like Sylvain was for him.
Neither of them uttered another word that night. Heartsore and drained, they drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
Sylvain woke up the next morning feeling warm and like his head was stuffed with cotton. Felix was already gone, a faint depression in the bed the only proof that he’d slept there at all. Sylvain suppressed the prickle of disappointment – for all the emotional maturity Felix had shown, he still had his limits, and Sylvain knew it.
A slant of light fell into his eyes. He shut his eyes before sitting up quickly. The sun shouldn’t be this high yet; he’d been waking up well before sunrise, pursued by nightmares. How long had he slept in? He looked out the window to see that it was past breakfast, but there was still some time before class started.
Throwing back the blankets, Sylvain swung his legs over the side of the bed but didn’t move to get up just yet. He ran a hand over his face before surveying the room. It was the same as last night, an organized mess of books and weaponry. On the desk, though, was a folded over piece of paper with a plate of food next to it. There were clothes draped over the back of the desk chair. Sylvain heaved himself to his feet and strode over to the desk. The paper had his name written on it in slanting, messy script. Sylvain huffed in amusement – Felix always was too impatient to take the time to properly write out his letters. He opened it.
I brought you some clothes from your room. I cleaned it too – it cut into my morning training. I also brought you breakfast since you were too busy sleeping like the indolent fool you are. You’d better fucking eat it and I better see you in class today. You owe me at least three hours of training afterward. You already don’t train enough and you spent the past week wallowing. Unacceptable.
And that was it. He didn’t even bother signing his name. Sylvain looked over at the food – spicy fish dango, his and Felix’s favorite – and the clothes that he hadn’t realized were his at first, and fondness burst in his chest like thousands of tiny blossoms until he could barely breathe, threatened to break through the shattered porcelain of him that Felix had tried to glue back together. He released a gusty sigh. Some pieces of him were still scattered, others the glue could barely cling to.
But if Felix was willing to help him pick up those scattered pieces, to brush off the cuts from the sharp edges…
(Heads bent towards each other, small tremulous voices, a solemn pinky promise).
Sylvain sat down at the desk and started on the dango. Once finished, he changed into the fresh clothes, put the ones he’d slept in their place. He picked up the empty plate and walked towards the door. His hand lingered a moment on the doorknob. This would be first time he’d left the dorms since Miklan.
I better see you in class today.
Sylvain pulled the door open and stepped over the threshold. His healing would take more than time. But he could start by keeping his appointment with Felix.