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“You know how he is,” Ingrid says, bringing the teacup to her lips and gingerly blowing on the hot liquid before taking a sip. She looks expectantly at Sylvain—who’s running his fingers through his tousled curls—as he sits across the table from her in the Royal Palace’s garden.
It’s Sylvain’s first trip to Fhirdiad after officially assuming the role of Margrave Gautier. However he’d been acting in his father's stead for nearly two years, since the man's health declined to a point that made the travel from Gautier to the Capitol unfeasible. Matthias delegated for as long as he possibly could—hellbent to hold onto the Margravate until Sylvain married—but three moons ago, he’d taken a bad fall and been left little choice but to abdicate. His ascension was without fanfare, only heralded by a missive from The King sent to the noble houses of the Kingdom of Fódlan. Congratulatory messages trickled in thereafter, but they were the impersonal drivel expected of bootlickers who coveted favour from a member of His Majesty’s inner circle.
“We all know how he is, Iggy,” he says with a sigh. “Which means you should know better than anyone not to hound him—he’ll come back when he’s ready to.”
“It’s been eight moons, Sylvain,” she protests, the delicate porcelain of the cup clinks against the saucer as she sets it down.
Sometimes Ingrid's nonchalance surprises him. Eight moons have passed since The Duchess of Fraldarius passed away, leaving Felix widowed at just thirty-three years old. They’d known it was coming; Lysithea had always been of fragile disposition, even before her health significantly declined through the latter half of the decade. When about a year ago—despite all efforts from the finest healers and crest scholars in Fódlan—she reached the point of no return. Felix had vanished from the public eye to stay at her side. Sylvain imagined that just because they’d known, didn’t make the loss any less.
He shakes his head and looks at her pointedly, knowing what he’s about to say is toeing a fine line between appealing to her compassion, and being an asshole, “and was all you needed eight moons? When Glenn died?”
There’s silence then, Ingrid’s hands curl into fists on her lap and she stares at a fixed point on the table. His words have made her a little upset but not blisteringly angry, so Sylvain counts it as a win.
“The difference is…I didn’t completely isolate myself,” Ingrid says carefully, keeping her voice measured. “Look, I do understand Sylvain, but we’re worried, he’s refused even Dimitri’s request for an audience. We’re not asking you to drag him from the castle kicking and screaming or anything just—stop by on your way back to Gautier.”
“Tell me this much: If I refuse your request, should I expect it to come again as an order from The King?” Because Sylvain knew nothing would piss Felix off more than Dimitri commanding a wellness check on his chronically in absentia duke.
She smiles and taps her fingers against the table. “Nothing in stone, but there have been several discussions; some members of the court want proof Duke Fraldarius isn’t compromised.”
“Imagine being foolish enough to think Felix could be compromised.” Sylvain scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair.
“You know how it is—we’ve been in peacetimes for a decade now—some nobles have grown bored, and are looking for a grand conspiracy to indulge in.”
“I would recommend they read Bernadetta’s newest novel then.”
Ingrid chuckles, “oh believe me, The Prince Consort has made similar suggestions.”
“I’m not surprised—” Sylvain scratches the back of his neck, “—I’ll go under two conditions: There’s no announcement of it, and I’m without a retinue—” Ingrid raises an eyebrow at him and looks like she may protest, “—If I must be escorted; it will only be up to the border of the township and no further.”
“Just because we’re not at war doesn’t mean it’s safe for you to travel unaccompanied from the township of Fraldarius to the castle.”
The reality was, he wasn’t about to show up at a grieving man's home and demand he accommodate Sylvain and a dozen or so knights. Especially when he had no idea the state of him. He knew the territory was doing well; that Felix had delegated everything imperative to his seneschal and cousin Atlas—who’d been attending court meetings in Fhirdiad in his stead.
Which on that matter, Atlas was an interesting little anecdote the court couldn’t get enough of. As it turns out, Rodrigue had a crested younger sister who’d been stricken from the family line when she married a man of proletariat birth. Felix discovered the disinherited branch during the war; he'd been sent to train conscripts at a border town in southeastern Fraldarius where he met a pair of brothers: Atlas, and Finn. One of whom—Atlas—carries a minor Crest of Fraldarius, and is pretty near a spitting image of Glenn. The first time Dimitri saw him in person he had to be reassured it wasn’t one of his ghosts.
One of Felix’s first acts as duke when the war ended was to restore their names and titles. Officially, it was a thank you for their efforts to keep Fraldarius’ border secure from invading forces. Realistically, it was as much a defiance of his father’s legacy as it was a ploy to stir discourse over ascension rites in the court. A nasty underhanded tactic that gave Dimitri an opening to discuss modifying how crests were factored into noble inheritance. That’s when Sylvain realized Felix’s assertion he wasn’t cut out for politics was a blatant obfuscation of the truth.
As it were however, with Atlas and his family reinstated into the Fraldarius line—and Felix making Atlas his delegate—it was strange that he had little to say about The Duke when asked. Sylvain just chalked it up to the standard Fraldarius attitude, but perhaps it wasn’t surprising that court nobles were whispering salacious rumors about how Atlas must have incapacitated Felix; so he could silently act as duke for his own gain. To many of them, he was a pariah who didn’t deserve to bear the Fraldarius name he’d been given, because a dead man had arbitrarily taken it away half a century ago.
“Maybe so… but you know how Felix is,” Sylvain says, flashing Ingrid his best shit eating grin.
She presses her lips into a firm line and stares at him with an annoyed expression for a moment before humming an assent, “yeah, suppose I do.”
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
Ultimately, His Majesty decides Sylvain’s terms for detouring to Fraldarius are sufficient. As attendants ready his horse and bags for the journey he meanders around the palace's western courtyard, wondering what this past year has done to his best friend. Would he even welcome him or refuse visitors as he’d been doing for moons now.
“I heard you’re stopping in Fraldarius on your journey home.” Sylvain turned at the sound of Ashe’s familiar voice. He’s standing there wearing a cloak in Blaiddyd blue, his shoulder length hair done up in an elaborate plait. A plain leather satchel is tucked against his chest.
“Ah, Your Highness!” Sylvain bows, shooting Ashe a smile.
“You really don't need to tease me, you know.”
“But you're just so cute in your royal adornments.” He chuckles more to himself and straightens himself to stand again. “In all seriousness, what can I do for you Ashe?”
“I was hoping you could deliver these to Felix,” he says, offering the object to Sylvain.
“Books?”
“They were ones Felix requested last year before… Lysithea's health worsened,” Ashe says, his eyes misty from the memory. “I meant to get them to him sooner, however I find his proxy to be… quite intimidating.”
“It's a Fraldarius thing, I think.”
“You may be right.” He nods in agreement, accepting the satchel from Ashe.
“How have you been lately, anyway? It feels like we hardly cross paths when I'm visiting.” Sylvain asks, curious if the court finally accepts Ashe isn't going anywhere anytime soon.
“It's no worse; it could be better.” Ashe smiles softly and drops his hands in front of himself, fingers woven together.
Sylvain moves a hand to give Ashe’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Change takes time, and Dima would move mountains for you—we all would, really.”
“I know, Sylvain. You’ve all worked so hard to change the system; to make new traditions, so that The King's union with a commoner is accepted… that any children we may raise would be considered legitimate heirs, it’s just…” Ashe trails off and sighs softly, shaking his head.
“Felix,” Sylvain surmises, clutching the leather bag to his own chest. “Felix is the one that’s good at this.”
“When he was present, none of the court ever questioned him—” Ashe began, pausing to chew on his lip, “—with his opinions being delivered through an intermediary the remaining members of the former kings court are spinning stories to justify their dissent.”
Faerghus—Fódlan, really, had been in a delicate situation after the war. Dimitri brought in representatives from the noble houses of both the former Adrestian Empire and Leicester Alliance, despite the protests from Faerghus’ court. It was an olive branch, a display of good faith that as King of Fódlan he’d serve the people beyond The Holy Kingdom as well.
He discussed trade, tradition, culture—even state autonomy and self governance for months. The problem was: His Majesty couldn’t oust all their predecessors from their positions overnight without causing an insurrection. He could expand the size of the court, but still those who thrived on centuries of status quo remained. So for nearly a decade; it was Felix who’d been at the helm of some of the most radical reforms, and with his fiery but stable psyche, major crest, and unquestionable birthright… he’d rarely been challenged.
Then his wife’s illness reaches the tipping point, and he vanishes into self imposed seclusion for a year, causing people to talk mad because it suits some agenda.
“Well Your Highness, I can’t say I’ll bring him back, but I’ll confirm he’s not being held hostage or under duress,” Sylvain says, giving Ashe a two fingered salute, and receiving a chuckle in response.
“Please do, and let him know he’s missed.”
“Of course!”
Ashe departs and Sylvain idles admiring the gardens a while longer before making his way to the stables around midmorning. He thanks the stewards for their efforts and departs Fhirdiad with a retinue of only four knights. They’ll escort him to the Fraldarius township then travel the rest of the way to Gautier without him. He’s to call for an escort, or take men from Fraldarius when he decides to journey home.
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
The trip from Fhirdiad to the township is a day and a half with rest. From the township to the castle another two hours at a canter. Sylvain and his entourage spend much of the time exchanging stories about their exploits during the war. He manages to sneak in at least one story regarding the origin of Duke Fraldarius’ disdain for horses; when a Gautier thoroughbred named Dahlia tried to eat a cloak he’d been given by his brother. He’d loved them and always wanted to sneak them sugar cubes before that.
“It’s almost hard to believe he used to be so gentle—but I get it, what with all the loss he’s endured,” a knight named Edgar says, on their second day of travel after Sylvain recounted a story of him rescuing a stray cat and her kittens and hiding them in an unused stall in the Fraldarius’ stables.
“Yeah… we’ve all lost people but… death always seemed to creep up on His Grace.” Sylvain stares ahead into the distance where he can see the distant shape of Fraldarius.
“Then his wife—at such a young age—it’d destroy a weaker man.”
“He’s the strongest person I know; not even the men at the northern border compare,” he says, and means it.
When they reach the town, his retinue offers to share a drink and a meal at one of the inns before they go their separate ways. Sylvain declines, wanting to reach Fraldarius castle before nightfall as he has uncertainties over how much staff is currently in The Duke's employment.
As the estate creeps ever closer, Sylvain finds himself feeling nauseous. He knows the court gossip is just that, but worries still he’ll find a man broken and defeated by one death too many. Or worse, shutting himself off from everyone in naive hope he’ll never have to feel this kind of loss again. His correspondence had become increasingly more erratic since Lysithea’s funeral, sometimes it took moons for a person to receive a single sentence reply. Was that bereavement, or was it abandonment?
The Fraldarius estate is teeming with diligent workers when Sylvain passes through the outer gates into the bailey. He silently commands his horse to slow as they approach the inner gate. Sylvain had expected to see Fraldarius’ old seneschal Ambrose awaiting him but instead, it’s Atlas.
An apprehensive look must appear on his face because the man smiles, approaching Sylvain with relaxed posture. “Be at ease, My Lord. I’m not here to send you away.”
“That’s good to hear,” Sylvain says, dismounting his steed with ease. “I’ve never given much merit to Fhirdiad’s rumor mill—not with what I’ve heard about myself over the years—but you know how they are.”
“Frothing at the mouth for an excuse to depose me, I reckon,” Atlas answers with the same sardonic lilt Sylvain remembers Glenn having. Funny how two men a decade apart in age—raised in completely different environments—could possess so many similarities. Atlas had little interest in all the virtue and valor of knighthood, however.
“When His Majesty and His Grace reformed marriage rites Baron Mateus suggested it was so that I could be wed to my horse,” Sylvain says, chuckling. A stable hand approaches to take his mare’s reins from him and walk her to the stables. Sylvain dismisses them with a wave.
“Ah, yes, so I heard.”
“Anyway, I’ve come to see Duke Fraldarius; before His Majesty decides to take matters into his own hands.”
“His Grace is taking tea, I will see if he would have you join him now or for dinner, My Lord,” Atlas says, giving a polite, shallow bow before turning on his heels and leading Sylvain through the inner gates into the castle. “We’ll have your guest quarters prepared and your belongings brought to them, if you wouldn’t mind remaining in the parlor for now.”
“Of course—If you don’t mind, may I ask where old man Ambrose is?” He asks while they traverse the castle’s polished hardwood floors towards one of the many areas Felix would see guests.
“The Duke ordered him to take leave for the rest of the moon; his great grandson was born last week.”
“Oh! That’s great!” Sylvain says grinning. “Well more work for you, I suppose.”
“I’ll manage,” he scoffs. They enter through an arched doorway into the parlor and Atlas gestures towards the chairs. He sits and Atlas adds, “someone will deliver further information soon.” Sylvain nods, settling in for the wait when the younger man silently exits the room.
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
Felix is nursing a cup of Almyran pine needle tea, when Atlas strolls into the solar giving zero illusions to propriety. He drops himself into the plush chair across from him and rolls his head side to side until it cracks. Silently, he leans forward to pour himself a cup from the kettle sitting on the table.
“You don’t help your reputation when you waltz into my private quarters like this you know,” Felix says, sending Atlas a withering stare. “No wonder there’s gossip our relationship is inappropriate.”
“Good thing neither of us give a fuck about that then, right Felix?” He brings the porcelain cup to his mouth and drinks deeply, eliciting a satisfied sigh when he finishes. “Anyway, you have a visitor.”
“You know I’m not accepting any requests for an audience,” Felix grouses, eyes narrowing.
“Oh I know—” his lips curled into a smirk as he took another sip of his tea, “—I also know there’s one exception to that—” Felix fixes his gaze on his cousin, “—and he’s sitting in your main parlor right now.”
“You’re fucking kidding me,” he grumbles, springing to his feet and stalking across the room. “The parlor you said?”
“Sure did, go get him, tiger.”
Felix stops abruptly and turns around to glare at Atlas. “I’ll deal with your insubordination later.”
“I’m sure you will,” he says, leaning back in the chair and kicking his feet up onto the table. Maybe this was some kind of karmic justice for all the times Felix had pushed his fathers buttons over the years.
He rolls his eyes and turns back around, exiting the solar and descending the staircase towards the parlor on the main floor. Sylvain hasn’t visited Fraldarius since the funeral, and he barely ever found time to visit prior. Always too occupied by his dalliances with women, and being his fathers perfect little lapdog, to visit his supposed best friend. Not that Felix was bitter about it or anything.
No, he just couldn't understand how the man he'd promised to die alongside, hadn't thought to offer him an ounce of companionship in the eight moons since his wife died. It's a familiar, acrid taste of rejection he's come to associate almost exclusively with Sylvain Gautier. The man who would have anyone but him; who's up for anything that's decidedly not Felix.
Felix stops at the entrance to the parlor, steeling himself. He’d made peace with these feelings and laid them to rest a decade ago, when he'd allowed himself to find camaraderie with another. There was no way he was going to allow them to be dug up and pilfered through now. It was only Sylvain, who'd probably been roped into this by someone else—not because he actually wanted to see Felix. Because everyone else could always see right through Felix’s most well constructed walls and knew what he’d felt for Sylvain; knew he'd never refuse him.
Whatever, he’d get this over with and go back to burying himself in distractions. Sylvain could tell everyone he was just being his typical Felix self, and tease them for overreacting; because he’s always known him best and knows Felix desires distance, not affection when he mourns. (It’s not like he clung onto Sylvain for dear life after Glenn had died and their fathers had been forced to pry them apart.) He flexes his hands in and out of fists a couple times then finally brings one to the brass doorknob and opens the door.
Sylvain’s lounging on the settee like he owns the place when Felix crosses the threshold into the room. He doesn’t even spare a glance in his direction, and if not for the rate his chest is rising and falling, Felix might think him asleep. But no, he knows this game, he’s expecting some pretty attendant to get his attention—so he can pretend to rouse from sleep—then ask if he’s dreaming because she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. So he crosses his hands over his chest and waits for Sylvain to grow bored of waiting.
It’s almost worth Sylvain’s reaction when his eyes flutter open, and he tilts his head slightly to look towards the door, bolting upright the moment he registers who precisely has entered the parlor.
“Oh!—Felix—” he straightens his posture and runs his fingers through his hair, “—I can’t say I was expecting to be greeted personally,” Sylvain says with a laugh that makes shadowy claws grip Felix’s heart.
“You’re in my house,” he answers flatly.
“I know, I know! Just—well people were saying you’d been refusing a private audience with everyone so I was expecting I’d need to…” he trailed off, brows furrowing and his mouth curling into a slight frown.
He exhales then slowly walks across the room, sinking into the teal coloured, velvet wingback chair across from Sylvain. “I’m not obtuse, Sylvain; I can deduce you’re here because the court’s started demanding proof I have all my faculties.”
“…so why refuse to be seen until now?” The question isn’t accusatory, if anything Sylvain almost sounds hopeful for something.
“I’m tired,” Felix says honestly, propping his elbow on the arm of the chair, and resting his chin in his palm. “I don’t want to see people if they’re just going to stare at me with pity, and offer me empty condolences.”
“Aw, I’m flattered you think me so improper that I wouldn’t do such things.”
“No, I just assume you know me well enough by now to know,” Felix scoffs. “Besides, why drag it out—I’m sure you have to return to Gautier—now that you’ve officially taken possession of the Margravate.”
“I—” Sylvain stopped, eyes straying from Felix to one of the portraits in the room, “—not immediately, no. Gautier runs like a well oiled hand crank and my father still enjoys having some sense of authority—” he licks his lips and Felix tries his damndest not to stare, “—I don’t have to depart for a fortnight… if you’d… like the company?”
Two weeks with Sylvain; he knows it’s a horrible idea, that he should entertain him for the rest of the evening and send him off in the morning. But he’s been holed up in this place alone for eight long moons, his only company the castle staff, his cousins, and a pair of cats he and Lysithea had taken in a couple years back. It’s a horrible decision, but Felix just wants to indulge himself for once. So he scrutinizes him silently, whilst Sylvain continues to occupy himself staring at whatever piece of art catches his eye.
“Are you still any good with a spear?”
Sylvain laughs and looks back at him, grinning. “Well we’re not at peace with Sreng yet.”
“Stay for two weeks then, I’m growing bored of sparring with my marshal and Atlas favours bows and poison laced knives.” Felix hums before adding, “and no girls.”
“Guys?” Felix glares at him. “Relax, relax, I’m teasing, no girls, no guys, I promise!” Sylvain says, and Felix knows what his promises are worth.
“No whoring,” he grumbles, still staring Sylvain down in annoyance.
“No whoring,” Sylvain solemnly repeats. “Knights honor.”
Felix rolls his eyes at him but is satisfied. It would be nice to just do things with his best friend again; they hadn’t much since the war ended. He found it hard sometimes, because Fraldarius is full of so many memories of the two of them together. Which meant despite his best efforts to fill the chasm Sylvain left inside him, Felix was always finding empty spaces when he’d remember playing in the garden, or roughhousing on the training grounds, or exploring the brook in the nearby woods.
When Lysithea had first moved to Fraldarius, he’d taken her to a clearing not far from the stream. It was late spring, and the glade was beautiful and serene; inundated with millions of tiny, white and blue forget-me-nots. The two of them had sat together amongst the flowers and lamented their lost and unrequited loves. There were memories of Sylvain and Felix hiding away from their friends and family, during peak bloom in early Garland Moon, all over this place. Memories of when Sylvain looked at Felix like he was the sun. Lysithea had held a small bundle in her hands and whispered: ‘They mean remembrance and enduring love.’ And he knew it was for an Adrestian man who’d only chosen The Empire in hope his research could cure her sickness.
He hopes they’ve been reunited now.
Even still he misses her.
“—Felix?”
“Sorry, just reminded of something,” he says, wincing at the very obvious tremble in his voice.
“Ok…yeah hey—I get it. It’s gonna be weird for a long time,” Sylvain says, and Felix knows it’s out of understanding, not pity. Goddess knows, Sylvain experienced some of the most fucked up, confusing things after he’d ended his own brothers life.
“I know, I—” Felix makes an annoyed noise and clicks his tongue, “—thanks.”
“Anytime.”
“You must be famished if you’ve been riding all day, go make yourself presentable and meet me in the small dining room in about two hours. I have some documents I must complete.” It’s a dismissal, and they both know it isn’t entirely because Felix has work to do, but Sylvain doesn’t challenge him either when he stands up to leave.
“Am I really that unpresentable?” Sylvain teases, knowing full well the state of himself. He smells strongly of sweat and horse, his normally voluminous hair is weighed down with the dirt and oil of two days' travel, and he’s still in his riding attire. Not at all suitable for dinner with a duke—not that Felix much cares for appearances, least of all from Sylvain.
“Yes, your stench could ruin anyone’s appetite,” Felix replies, monotonously and is met with laughter that threatens to coax a smile out of him. He gives Sylvain a small, curt nod and vacates the room, returning to his private quarters.
This was going to be a horrible decision.
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
The first thing Sylvain notices about Felix is his hair; he wonders when he started keeping it in a plait that falls to his mid-back, with a fringe that frames his face and highlights all his sharp angles. There was a time when they were younger when he used to wear it similarly—a fragment of the past lost to time and tragedy. A version of Felix that had yet to know loss.
Secondly, is that despite everything, he looks… good. He’d half expected to find him sickly, underweight, and exhausted. A man so consumed by grief he was slowly wasting away. Instead however, he looked the healthiest he’d seen him since their academy days. The dark circles that left his eyes looking bruised have faded; his skin has a healthy shade to it. And if the way his finely tailored attire drapes over his body is any indication, he's a good weight, and fit as ever. If he’d been devastated by his loss—and Sylvain had no reason to think he hadn’t—then it’s clear he’s been on the mend.
Sylvain drags his weary body to his room, then into the private bathroom it’s connected to. The chamberlain must have ordered the maids to prepare a bath because he finds the tub with water already drawn. He doesn’t complain, instead he strips out of his travel gear, discarding it on the stone floor, and steps into the warm water.
The water could be warmer, but he doesn't intend to soak long enough for it to matter. Sylvain allows the heat to penetrate into his aching muscles for a short period before retrieving a wash cloth and soap and scrubbing the grime off himself. He spends a little extra time with himself, knowing he has to be committed to his promise of no philandering, lest Felix kick him out of Fraldarius early. The thought of upsetting Felix makes his chest feel tight in a way he hasn’t felt since wartime.
When he finishes bathing he returns to his room and notes the castle’s attendants seemed to unpack, steam and hang his clothing in the wardrobe. One certainly couldn’t complain about their diligence and efficiency. He contemplates how formal Felix expects him to dress for a private dinner; is this dinner between friends, or between Duke Fraldarius and Margrave Gautier? Sylvain sighs, idly running his fingers through the coarse hair beginning to regrow on his face—he’d shaved his beard upon arrival in Fhirdiad because several court nobles considered it unkempt and unsightly—but he had always liked the added insulation it provided, especially in the Ruska Mountains.
Eventually, he settles on something more casual than what he’d wear on official business. A plain button down, slate overcoat and slacks and cloak in Gautier’s red and turquoise. It’s formal enough to not be an affront; it’s casual enough that he isn’t overdressed if Felix chooses to abstain from his duke regalia. When he’s satisfied he won’t bring shame to his family name and receive his fathers scorn for the rest of his living days, he makes his way to the small east wing dining area. Where he’s promptly ushered through the door by several servants.
He made the right call on clothing because Felix is wearing a plain navy pussy-bow blouse with a teal, fur-trimmed cape, and black trousers tucked into his favourite navy long boots. His eyes are closed and his elbows are on the table with his face pressed into his hands obscuring most of it—it’s improper and devoid of all noble etiquette—Sylvain finds something about it mesmerizing.
“Am I late, or are you early?” Sylvain asks and Felix makes an amused noise, dropping his arms off the table while his lips curl slightly upward.
“I didn’t have to scrub the stench of horse sweat off myself, so naturally I was early.”
“Excellent, so I won't be receiving a reprimand for tardiness to my meeting with His Grace.”
Felix sits with immaculate posture, his gloved fingers are woven together on his lap. “Don’t worry Margrave Gautier, I’m certain I could find something else to censure you for.”
If Sylvain didn’t know any better he’d almost think Felix was teasing him; flirting with him even. But that can’t be right because it hasn’t even been a year since the man lost his wife, and even if he was looking to dip his toes back into romance. Surely it would be with a proper, highborn woman, not skirt chasing filth like himself. Besides, Sylvain's known Felix his entire life and he’s never even considered something like that. Why would it change now?
“If anyone could, it would be you,” Sylvain says, finally moving to settle himself in the chair across from Felix. The dining table is much smaller here—cozier—it sits at most six in its current configuration but can be extended to at most ten. The five of them always preferred to take their meals here when Ingrid, Dimitri, and himself visited Fraldarius over the summers.
A server pushes a cart into the room and quietly delivers their plates before excusing themselves. It’s roast pheasant and an assortment of root vegetables; he’s surprised Felix doesn’t seem to scoff at the selection.
“How is everyone?” Felix asks while picking up his drinking glass and nursing whatever bitter liquor was on offer.
“They’re good—do you not receive updates from your delegate?”
Felix snorts and shakes his head gently. “Atlas updates me exclusively on The King and specific nuisances in the court; he has zero desire to keep track of and I quote: ‘the lives of vapid, arrogant fops.’”
“Fair enough, suppose I won't tell you about Dimitri and myself then,” he says, giving Felix a playful wink who huffs. “Ashe is alright, the court seems to slowly be accepting the reality of his status—but they’re also currently preoccupied with gossip about Duke Fraldarius, who’s been suspiciously absent for a year now, if you hadn’t heard.”
“How unlike him, I recall him being exceptionally despotic. Perhaps he’s dead and someone else is using his title to stage an uprising against The King.”
“Or perhaps he’s just a cantankerous jackass with nary a social skill.”
“Yes, I have heard he has a reputation for being quite prickly.”
Sylvain chuckles and flashes Felix a toothy smile. “Iggy and Thea are getting married in Wyvern Moon—you better be coming—or you might actually hurt her feelings.”
“Of course I’m attending Ingrid’s wedding… besides it’ll be nice to have something to celebrate.”
He pauses whilst in the middle of cutting a piece of meat, does some mental math and realizes what that will mark the year anniversary of. “Shit, I didn’t even—”
“—It’s fine, Sylvain,” Felix says, interrupting him. “I always planned to go to their wedding, even if it would be my first public appearance in over a year—” Felix stabs a piece of carrot onto his fork and puts it in his mouth chewing for several seconds before swallowing, “—I wasn’t going to skip out on it; especially when she’s the last of my childhood friends I can expect to marry.”
“Saints, that’s cold.”
“Am I wrong?” Felix asks, tilting his head slightly to the side, the plait on his hair cascading partially over his shoulder.
Sylvain watches the braid intently, his eyes dart from it to meet Felix’s intense amber stare and he laughs nervously before replying, “hey you never know, I might surprise you yet.”
“Doubtful.”
“Yeah yeah, good old good for nothing Sylvain, I know.” Sylvain takes a drink of the bitter liquid in his goblet and Felix’s mouth morphs into a frown.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says softly. “I didn’t think you… wanted to get married.”
“It’s not that I don’t…” Sylvain begins, then sighs. “It’s that I don’t know if the person who would want all of me exists.”
Felix looks stunned, he clears his throat awkwardly and averts his gaze to the table. “I’m sure… they do.”
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, say it again,” Sylvain replies, grinning.
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh come on!”
The conversation devolves into quiet laughter between the two of them, that settles into a comfortable silence as they finish their meals. Sylvain is surprised to witness Felix take dessert, who elaborates it was one of Lysithea’s recipes—that she’d formulated to not be too sweet—it’s become quite popular in Fraldarius over the years. He doesn’t see the soul crushing misery he anticipated from a grieving man. Instead, Felix looks down at the cake with a melancholic fondness that makes Sylvain feel like he has a weight on his chest.
But it wasn’t something like that.
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
Felix knows he needs to get a handle on himself.
He stares at his reflection in the ornate cheval mirror; he’s in an oversized tunic and braies, with his hair loose and draping messily over his shoulders. There’s a brief thought of what Sylvain would think seeing him like this, which he dismisses almost as quickly as it forms. Felix wanders across his room, stepping into his private bath as the attendants finish preparing the water. When they depart, closing the door behind them he slips out of his clothing and allows himself to enjoy the heat on his skin.
The sun has only just started to crest the horizon when Felix returns to his bedroom and sits at the vanity, running a towel gently through his hair. Once he’s gotten it sufficiently dry he gently combs out his inky tresses, allowing it to settle over his shoulder. His eyes flutter closed and Felix brings a hand to card the long strands; he catches his lower lip between his teeth at the thought the hand belongs to someone else.
With a sigh, Felix shifts and presses his face against the heel of his palms, eliciting a pathetic, frustrated groan. This was ridiculous; completely absurd. He spends more than a couple hours in a room with Sylvain and it’s like he’s thirteen again and he’s certain this is the only person he’ll ever love—it’s a cruel twist of fate how true that turned out to be.
When Lysithea and he married there had never been any illusions of romance. A union between a unified Fódlan’s second-in-command, and one of the former Leicester houses; it looked good on paper. That Faerghus nobility were willing to marry, and include outsiders. Felix had always known his marriage would be a political one—if only to allow Dimitri and Ingrid to marry for the love they’d found—and he would never have for himself.
It made sense in the end: Felix could never have who he wanted, Lysithea had lost the man she loved, and over the years the two of them had become close friends. Lysithea had access to the best healers and crest scholars, giving her a chance at some semblance of normalcy. She made an extraordinary, quick-witted duchess who easily commanded the respect of the people of Fraldarius—so like his mother—his seneschal always said. Northern Fódlan’s exceptionally efficient recovery after the war could be attributed to her ingenuity. She’d accomplished her goals in the end; she’d left a lasting mark on Fódlan, in spite of the cards she’d been dealt.
Felix pushes himself up from where he sits, walking across the expanse of the room to where the chamberlain had meticulously laid out his daily attire. He discards the towels wrapped around his hips and over his shoulders, dressing himself and pulling his hair up into a messy bun reminiscent of his academy days, so he can start the day.
The duke’s office occupies a large swath of the north wing’s upper level. With expansive windows on both the eastern and western ends it’s well lit with natural light during daylight hours. When he steps into the room, it’s painted by an orange hue as the sun slowly rises. Behind him the door shuts with a quiet click and Felix steps towards his desk. He spots Atlas standing with his hands together behind his back observing the sunrise.
“It’s not like you to be here so early,” he comments, his fingers idly trace a piece of parchment resting atop the escritoire.
“You should take the day off Felix. There’s nothing on the docket Finn and I cannot handle, and should that change we can seek you out.”
“A little bold of you to order me around isn’t it?”
“It’s simply a suggestion—you have company to entertain—and I’m certain His Majesty would have little issue with you taking it as an opportunity to do nothing. Besides…” Atlas trails off, closing his eyes. He slowly shakes his head from side to side, jostling his messy shoulder length navy waves. “I haven’t seen you in such high spirits in a long time.”
“You know very well why it’s an exceptionally awful idea for me to entertain Margrave Gautier,” Felix grumbles. Atlas glances over his shoulder at him with a flat expression trained on his face.
“Perhaps so, but you’re allowed to indulge yourself; even if it’s temporary—even if it means more to you than it does to him.”
Felix scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest as he says, “Goddess sometimes you remind me so much of—”
“Glenn. I know,” Atlas interrupts. “You’ve said as much before, and I’m still unsure if it’s meant as a compliment or not.”
“Suppose you’ll have to figure that out yourself.”
“If I ever care to,” he says with a quiet hum. “You know my feelings on those of genteel birth.”
A moment of silence passes between them before Felix finally speaks, “the east gardens.” Atlas quirks his left eyebrow ever so slightly. “If you require me, you’ll find me in the east gardens.”
“Understood, Your Grace,” Atlas replies, turning back to the window to continue observing the rising sun.
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
Sylvain is roused by the feeling of a thin, callused hand threading through his hair and yanking it. It’s objectively unpleasant, but there’s some odd comfort to the familiarity of it. He groans and wraps his fingers around Felix’s wrist and attempts to extricate the extremity without removing part of his scalp along with it.
“Goddess babe, at least take me to dinner before you decide to rough me up,” Sylvain says, breathily. He freezes immediately after the words escape him, dreading retaliation this early in the morning.
“If I recall correctly, we had dinner last night,” Felix answers flatly.
His eyes flutter fully open and he stares up at Felix, whose hand is still woven into his curls. That’s certainly not the response he’d been anticipating. “When in Saint's name did you learn how to make a joke?” A feeling Sylvain is incredibly well acquainted with begins coiling uncomfortably in his core.
If Felix doesn’t relinquish his hold on Sylvain soon, the situation is bound to become spectacularly awkward. He may have a lurid reputation but he’s not exactly ready to add: ‘turned on by your recently widowed best friend touching you,’ to that list. That was a tad depraved even by Sylvain’s standards.
Thankfully, Felix finally sees fit to release him, causing his head to fall back onto the pillow with a loud thump. “Get up and get ready, I want to go to the east garden before the sun gets too high.”
“And why do I need to accompany you to the ea—” Sylvain stops himself when he realizes the east garden has the old grove they used to play in. It hadn’t survived the war unscathed, Felix and his father decided to thin it for the sake of acquiring supplies, without siphoning any more of the region's dwindling resources from its people. Sylvain recalls his father scoffing at the idea one would willingly destroy their own home. Rodrigue, pragmatic as he was, believed nobility should never be insulated from the suffering caused by conflict. And for as tenuous as Felix’s relationship was with his father—it was clear this was a decision he held incredible respect for—there’s no point in preserving your home, only to lose the war.
“You replanted it,” Sylvain whispers from where he still lays in bed.
“Of course I did… it’s one of my favourite places,” Felix says, as he leans over Sylvain, his knee resting on the mattress.
Maybe it’s because it’s always been their place, where the two of them would hide away from their parents, brothers, and friends. Or because they used to sneak off during the harvest season to pick berries and apples and feast to their hearts content. Perhaps it’s because hidden away amongst the thick summer foliage is where they’d intertwined their pinky fingers and made a promise.
But when their eyes meet after Felix whispers those words like it’s a confession, he nearly leans up and kisses him.
Until shadowy tendrils wrap themselves around his heart and bestow onto him a dreadful revelation: Felix and Lysithea probably shared it too.
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
The east garden is as immaculate as he remembers, even the younger growth adds to its beauty with the way sunlight filters through the canopy and the shadows of leaves dance in the breeze. He leads them to the old cherry tree they used to nap under; it's in full bloom and pale pink petals float aimlessly to the ground with every gust of wind.
Felix smiles at him, and Sylvain wants to close the distance between them—he wants to push Felix against the rough bark of the trunk, and erase every fucking memory he has of braiding cherry blossoms into Lysithea’s hair.
Instead he keeps his hands clenched at his sides, and his mouth pressed into a neutral line. Because Felix cannot see this side of him.
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
On the following day, Sylvain remembers the books Ashe had sent with him for Felix and delivers them to his office after breakfast. Sylvain hands the simple satchel over and for a moment Felix appears confused until he unlatches the clasp and looks inside.
“I’d forgotten about these, thank you for bringing them,” he says with the ghost of a smile.
“What use do you have for books about swords?” Sylvain wonders aloud, peering over Felix’s shoulder as he admires the book's unbroken spine.
“They’re a gift for someone,” he answers, plainly. Sylvain ignores the ugly feeling inside him that demands to know why Felix hasn’t ever given him a gift, and also wishes he had conveniently forgotten to deliver Ashe’s package.
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
Two days later, Felix wakes him early to drag him to the training grounds. They spend nearly every moment of daylight locked in varying degrees of sparring. Sylvain shows him some Srengi sword techniques he’d picked up from his time posted at the northern border, and Felix looks up at him with wide excited eyes Sylvain hasn’t seen since Felix was thirteen.
It makes Sylvain’s heart beat erratically in his chest, and during their next bout Felix manages to not just disarm him, but pin him onto the ground. His thighs straddle Sylvain’s hips and the practice sword’s pressed against his throat.
He swallows thickly and meets the intensity of Felix’s gaze before whispering, “I yield.”
When Felix reaches out a hand and pulls him to his feet; Sylvain puts an end to their day with an exaggerated stretch and declaration he needs to soak his sore muscles and make himself presentable for dinner.
Felix rolls his eyes, and Sylvain flees to his quarters to strip himself bare and curl his fingers around himself and chase release.
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
They take their horses and ride to the township of Fraldarius early Sunday morning. Sylvain’s surprised to see how much he’s improved over the years. His back’s straight, his body relaxed, and he doesn’t flinch away from his mares every movement. He has all the poise and grace of the duke he’s become, and Sylvain can’t help but sneak desperate glimpses of both how he looks and the way he smiles throughout their commute.
When they arrive, Sylvain posts letters he’s written for their friends back in Fhirdiad, and Felix meets with some merchants to pick up several items he’d ordered from them. It’s all unremarkable until he sees the elaborate silk ribbon in Fraldarius teal, with purple asters elaborately embroidered throughout it.
He asks Sylvain if he can carry the canvas bag that contains the items. While he retrieves several weapons the blacksmith has repaired for him, and once it’s within Sylvain’s grasp he seriously contemplates losing it.
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
It’s midweek when Felix takes his hand and leads him through the woodland bordering the estate. They follow the shallow creek to an old makeshift bridge assembled with fallen branches and rotting planks. There’s a reflexive memory that guides Sylvain as if he’s taken this path a hundred times before, but for what he can’t quite recall.
Felix is fidgety; his walls intermittently crumble when he glances back at Sylvain and he can see his nervousness. Sylvain teeters between dread and anticipation the entirety of their walk.
“We’ve been walking an awful long time, mind telling me where we’re going?”
“Be patient, we’re almost there,” Felix replies. He tugs on his wrist, demanding Sylvain walk faster. When the trees finally thin out and they step into the glade, he comes face to face with a sea of blue and white flowers.
He drops Sylvain’s arm and turns around to face him, amber eyes bright with a mix of anxiety and excitement. “It’s my favourite place,” he whispers and the wind carries the words right to Sylvain.
Sylvain didn’t know what to do when Duscur happened—when Glenn died. Felix had been unintelligible, inconsolable, and utterly impossible to get out of his room. They’d found the place years before, one of their haunts when they wanted to escape the others and hangout together. So when Sylvain saw how Felix trembled; how overwhelmed he was by the weight of the millions of fragmented memories Glenn left scattered all over the Fraldarius estate. Sylvain had taken him here, somewhere only the two of them had known about.
He follows Felix through the azure expanse; the breeze gives the impression of waves cresting in the ocean. When they reach the middle Felix sinks to his knees before falling onto his back amongst the swell of forget-me-not’s. Sylvain joins him, taking a moment to greedily commit the relaxed expression on Felix’s face to memory.
“I think—it’s my favourite place too,” Sylvain admits, laying down on his side and watching the corner of his mouth curl upward.
Because how could it not be when it’s where he realizes he’s in love with Felix.
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
He knows he shouldn’t avoid him, he does.
However every time he thinks of the clearing and the millions of little blue flowers, he feels his chest tighten and anger bubble beneath the surface of his skin. He wonders if Felix fell in love with Lysithea amongst them? If the sight of her smiling at him, while the surf of forget-me-not’s broke around them is when he knew? If it was his favourite place because it was a place he shared with her; not him.
Sylvain’s jealous. He’s so unbelievably jealous—of a dead woman—who was his friend too. That’s when the guilt hits him, Felix has lost everyone he’s ever loved. His parents, his brother, his wife. He’s thirty-three and he’s buried four bodies. He’s been holed up in Fraldarius alone for eight moons because he’s grieving. And all Sylvain wants to do is make him forget about all of it, to devour him until the only person Felix has any desire to care for is him.
Oh how he aches for him, needs him—covets him.
It takes every ounce of willpower Sylvain has left to realize he needs to get out of here before he does something he’s certain will bring their friendship to ruin.
“You know, I try not to pass judgement on people based on rumors—but you really are a stupid man.” Sylvain looks up from where he’s sitting tucked away in the far most stables grooming his horse. Atlas’ arms are crossed over his chest and he’s leaning his hip against the frame of the stall door.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m simply making sure things are in order before it’s time to leave, two weeks is almost up.”
“Well certainly you could have stopped talking after: ‘I’m afraid,’ My Lord.”
Sylvain chuckles, and he cannot mask the ugliness of it. “You know, I never understood how His Grace finds it in himself to tolerate such an attitude from the likes of you.”
“Ah—so this is the despicable side of The Margrave Gautier I’ve heard so much about—” Atlas’ lips curl into a sneer, “—His Grace has always placed honesty above propriety, you of all people should know that—” he pulls a knife from within his cloak sleeve and begins to play with it whilst staring down at Sylvain, “—and we both know you’re not being honest with anyone right now, don’t we?”
“Just because The Duke allows you to speak candidly with him, doesn’t allow you—a commoner—to speak however you like to those above you,” Sylvain says derisively.
Atlas pushes himself back into a standing position and steps towards Sylvain, kicking his thighs apart and resting a boot between them. “Tell me how you really feel about commoners, why don’t you? I’m sure The King would be elated to learn what one of his most trusted advisors thinks of his husband.” He smiles, and flicks the spine of the knife.
“No wonder no one trusts you,” Sylvain rasps, ugly, fake smile on his face. He knows he’s playing with fire, Atlas isn’t typical Faerghus stock; he doesn’t wield lances and dream of honor. He’s a hunter, who silently poisons his prey, and tracks it until it collapses dead in the wilds. A nick from that knife he’s holding is enough to incapacitate Sylvain for weeks, perhaps kill him.
“Felix does,” he says. His knowing smile is enough to make Sylvain clench his jaw and avert his gaze. “Honestly Gautier—” Atlas begins, grabbing onto Sylvain’s chin and forcing him to look at him, “—who cares about me, don’t make him regret trusting you.”
“You really are a lot lik—”
“I swear to Sothis, if you liken me to Glenn Fraldarius, I’m going to slit your throat with this knife.”
“Right. I presume The Duke is in his office?”
Atlas lets go of Sylvain’s face and the knife disappears from his hand, He hums in assent, waving at him dismissively before exiting the paddock and leaving Sylvain to his own devices.
Sylvain stands up and gives his horse a gentle pat as he whispers, “I suppose I have a date, then.”
. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆
“Your delegate threatened me with a knife!” Sylvain declares cheerily, as he invites himself into Felix’s office.
Felix’s eyes flicker upwards from the parchment on the desk to Sylvain and back again. “If this is you requesting his dismissal, I regret to inform you that will not be happening.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not.” Sylvain sighs and drops into the chair across from Felix. “I think he’s heard Glenn comparisons one too many times.”
“Dimitri’s letters mention it more often than not.” Felix straightens himself and drops his writing quill onto the desk, stretching his arms in front of him. “So you’ve gotten over whatever the fuck had you avoiding me I take it?”
Sylvain is once again struck by memories of two versions of themselves standing together in a blue expanse. Felix is beautiful, he always has been. Only now that he realizes it, it makes him ache for something he cannot have.
“The glade—why is it your favourite place?” Sylvain asks instead of answering Felix’s question.
“Is it not obvious?”
“I wouldn’t be asking if it was obvious, Felix,” Sylvain snaps, then winces at his own tone. “Sorry.”
“See the problem is, Sylvain. You do this thing—you always have—where you ask for answers you already know because you want to hear the person say it.” Felix crosses his arms and observes him. “So is this one of those times, or are you genuinely asking?”
“I mean I have a guess but no I don’t know.” He chuckles, running his fingers through his hair.
“Humor me, what’s your guess?”
“It’s where you realized you were in love with Lysithea,” Sylvain says, exhaling loudly and clenching his jaw.
There’s a long silence between them, Sylvain keeps his eyes fixed on his lap until he hears a stuttered exhale that sounds an awful lot like Felix is trying not to laugh. He looks up just in time to witness Felix uncross his arms and slam his hands down on his desk and push himself to stand.
“Some days, I don’t know if you’re just fucking around with me, or this goddess damned stupid,” Felix grouses, as he stalks around to the other side of the desk. While Sylvain watches him like he’s a hare cornered by a pack of wolves. He steps between Sylvain’s legs and grabs him by his shirt collar pulling him forward as he leans down and whispers, “it’s my favourite place because it’s where I fell in love when I was thirteen—pray tell who could that have been, Sylvain?”
His hand is trembling, Sylvain realizes. Felix is so close, he can feel his breath against his face and he’s shaking because he’s some combination of angry and terrified. While he desperately tries to maintain some semblance of control over the situation they’re currently in.
But hold up, back it up—Sylvain’s brain finally processes what Felix has just confessed as he towers over him in his office.
“Thirteen—twenty years?” He chokes out in bewilderment.
“More than half my life,” Felix admits. He rests a knee on the chair dangerously close to Sylvain’s groin and lowers himself until he’s nearly on his lap before continuing, “and you’ve been giving me mixed signals for almost a fortnight, so what will it be?”
Sylvain catches his lip between his teeth as he looks up at him and Felix’s eyes dart down to his mouth. A laugh escapes him as he wraps his hands around Felix’s waist pulling him closer. He immediately lowers his head to press his lips against Sylvain’s. First chaste, then a devious tongue dragging along his lower lip. Felix’s fingers cradle his jaw, gliding through his beard as he presses his tongue into Sylvain’s open mouth.
He inhales deeply when they pull away from one another, Felix is pressing soft kisses against his jawline; teeth grazing occasionally. “I think we should call the day a wash and retire to your quarters for the rest of it,” Sylvain says between panting breaths.
“I agree.” Sylvain can feel Felix’s lips curl upwards against his skin. He stands up and brings his hand back to the collar of Sylvain’s shirt and pulls him along like he always has.
“The other day when we went to town… who was the ribbon for?” Sylvain murmurs, pressing his lips against Felix’s shoulder.
“So you were mad about that, I wasn’t seeing things,” Felix huffs, fingers carding through Sylvain’s hair, nails gently scratching his scalp. “It was for Finn’s eldest daughter, she’s thirteen next moon, and I intend to name her as my heir.”
“Finn, your first Marshal?” Sylvain sits up and stretches his arms, smiling at Felix's annoyed protest.
“He’s Atlas’ twin brother, the Fraldarius traits aren’t as obvious in him, but nevertheless Aster is my second cousin—regardless of her parents status.”
“Oh my goddess—Aster—her name is Aster?” Sylvain groans and slaps his hands to his face, making a loud enough smack that Felix winces slightly and sits up. “I saw the Fraldarius colours and the purple flowers and thought it was something meant to commemorate Lysithea.”
“Because… Lysithea liked purple?” he asks, brows furrowing slightly.
“I’m such an idiot, you should marry me just so you can divorce me.” Sylvain slouches forward and makes a pathetic sound like a wounded animal.
“That’s an awfully strange way of proposing, Gautier,” Felix says, his hand returning to Sylvain’s, massaging his scalp with the tips of his fingers.
Sylvain chuckles softly and peeks through his fingers at Felix. “Well considering you’ve been waiting for two decades, I wasn’t sure you’d want to wait any longer.”
Felix smiles, and it’s the first time he’s seen him fully unguarded since he was thirteen. He shakes his head and sable tresses flow freely over his shoulder and down his back. The room descends into a peaceful reticence until Felix shifts in the bed and leans forward to give Sylvain a quick, chaste kiss and whispers,
“I think that since I’ve waited twenty years, the least you can do is court me.”