Chapter Text
Training helps Felix focus, focus on what’s most important – the improvement of his skill. Nothing else matters, should matter, other than the pursuit of perfection, especially not if he wants to surpass every expectation that’s ever been considered of him, the ones that way heavily upon his shoulders and burden him with every breath he takes. When he fights, his sword is a mere extension of his arm, an extra limb that he knows how to control better than his own emotions, and as he brings it down against Ingrid’s, all he can think of is besting his opponent. She’s no longer his childhood friend, she’s just a blade in the darkness that he must outsmart and force to concede.
Ingrid’s weapon clatters to the floor when their swords meet, and she holds up her hands in surrender, red faced and worn out from the hours Felix has kept her here to train. In truth, Byleth had been his first choice as a sparring partner; his unique mercenary style is always fun to fight against and Felix always leaves the training grounds with a new technique under his belt. But Byleth has been holed up in one of the office rooms pouring over war plans with Dimitri and Dedue for hours, and Ingrid is the only person left at the monastery willing to give Felix the time of day.
“Ok, that’s enough,” she says. “I need to eat now Felix.”
Training dummies are useless and ultimately do nothing to satiate Felix’s desire for a challenge, and so he sheaths his sword too and decides to call it a day. That is, until he remembers he hasn’t yet practiced his prowess with the bow this week - an area that sorely needs attention if his performance in the last battle is anything to go by. A shot that should by all means have been fatal, had narrowly missed, merely injuring the opponent charging at him rather than stopping the assault outright. It’s a mistake he hasn’t forgiven himself for quite yet and doesn’t intend to make again.
He doesn’t thank Ingrid before she leaves, because they should all be training anyway, and wastes no time in setting up an archery range, taking advantage of the otherwise empty room by pulling obstacles in the way of the target to make things more challenging for himself. He forces his brain not to think of all the times he’s set up the same course with both his father and brother as a young boy. It’s of no use thinking of people long dead, not when there’s a war raging around him, a war that’s drawing closer to its conclusion, and there people he needs to ensure stay alive to see the end of it.
Felix gets through four arrows before he’s interrupted.
“Hey Felix!” It’s Annette, lively and chipper, smiling with a book under her arm and a question in her eyes. Felix can never find it within himself to be his usual terse self around Annette, and so he lowers his bow and nods in acknowledgement.
“Hello, Annette.”
“The Professor wants to see you,” she says, rocking up on to her tiptoes to see over the training obstacles and count how many arrows Felix has lodged in to the target.
“What about?”
“Don’t know actually, I’m just the messenger. Although… he did ask me to stress that it was urgent.”
Felix knows by now that when he’s summoned by the Professor, it’s almost never urgent. He’s learned that the hard way, in the humiliating form of running himself silly to the other side of the monastery, only to find out that the Professor’s intention had been to force him to sit through a surprise birthday tea party. He’ll never fall for that again as long as he still draws breath.
“I suppose I’d better get going then,” Felix huffs and mourns the loss of a valuable training session. He’d been making progress too.
“I’ll clean this up,” Annette insists, and Felix goes to protest, but she beats him to it. “I’m gonna bring Mercie down here. This archery game looks fun!”
Felix is about to tell her that it’s not a game, it’s an invaluable training technique used to hone precision and force quick thinking, but he hasn’t the heart nor energy to argue with her.
“Do whatever you want,” he says, hanging up his bow.
Despite knowing, deep down, that this ‘urgent’ matter is most likely some ridiculous and convoluted ploy to get Felix to leave the training grounds, his pace quickens on his way to Hanneman’s old office. He ascends the stairs two, three at a time, and doesn’t even bother reciprocating the nods of greeting from the various soldiers loitering in the halls. They spend way too much time standing idly by for his liking.
Felix knocks the door twice, rushed and rapid, and doesn’t wait for an invitation to enter before he swings the door open.
There is absolutely no sense of urgency about the room whatsoever, and Felix lets out a breath that’s a furious mix of both irritation and relief.
“Ah, Felix, there you are,” Byleth says, looking up from the map that’s spread out across the table, decorated with little wooden figurines that Felix knows are additions from Annette and her father. He’s not alone, either. Dimitri, Dedue and Sylvain are also seated around the desk, and Felix raises an inquisitive eyebrow at his professor.
“Take a seat,” Dimitri says, and Felix bites back a scathing insult just in time.
With a wink and a smile, Sylvain pats the chair next to his, but when Felix makes a point of taking the one furthest away from him, his smile dissolves in to petulant complaint.
“What’s all this about?” Felix asks because he’d much rather be back at the training grounds than sharing pleasantries around a table with a single one of these people. Because they may have all reached some level of understanding each other during these testing times, but Felix prefers to show his respect and loyalty through actions, rather than sipping tea and engaging in trivial debates.
“Well,” Byleth begins and gestures to the map, “there’s a stronghold in Itha that we need to make contact with.”
“It’s imperative,” Dimitri adds, working through the words slowly under his change of pace and ideology, “that we acquire more troops and provisions.”
“So send some soldiers. I’m not a messenger,” Felix makes to leave, but Sylvain reaches across the table and stops him with a hand on his arm. The touch feels like lightning, and Felix jerks it off with a scowl.
“We would,” Byleth explains, “but it’s a very important message. I’m not sure that I can entrust it to just anyone and we need it done quickly.”
Felix hates this, because days spent uselessly travelling Faerghus are days that could be devoted to his pursuit of strength, in ensuring that he wins decisive battles to keep on fighting. He hates it even more because the proposition makes sense, and it makes Felix seem altogether like a wailing brat throwing an ill-timed and selfish tantrum if he decides to air his frustrations and refuse. He had been the one to warn Dimitri not to waste his father’s sacrifice after all.
“When do I leave?” he asks with a sigh, because there’s no getting around this. He’s going to have to comply for the good of the Kingdom.
“What I think you mean to say is, when do we leave,” Sylvain lights up with a mischievous grin and Felix glowers.
“If I do this, I’m going alone,” Felix says because he’s not fabricating nor exaggerating when he says he’d rather travel alongside a Demonic Beast than Sylvain. “I’m not taking you with me.”
“Aw, Felix, that hurts,” Sylvain pouts. “Don’t you want to spend some quality time with your childhood sweetheart?”
“No.”
“You can’t go alone,” Byleth says with a shake of his head. He reaches beneath his desk and pulls out two more wooden figurines. One is obviously meant to represent Felix – there’s a frowning face drawn on it in black ink and it’s holding a sword. Byleth places it on the map, next to the Sylvain figure that’s on horseback and wearing an opposing smile. “It’s too dangerous, and we’re not exactly sure what to expect along the way. See—”
The figures stand where they are now – in Garreg Mach Monastery – and Byleth makes a point of pushing the two pieces of wood across the Kingdom of Faerghus, towards Itha, that ironically enough, sits between Gautier and Fraldarius territory.
“It’s quite the journey,” Byleth says, making a show of moving the wooden pieces in a meandering pattern across the terrain.
“Is that really necessary?” Felix asks, motioning towards the ridiculous display. It’s already bad enough that he has to leave, but to witness such immaturity making light of his situation, is beyond aggravating.
“Yes. Do not interrupt,” Dimitri says entirely serious, eye trained carefully on the map, watching every movement with eager interest.
“With it being just the two of you, you’ll be able to take a boat for most of it,” Byleth says and that gets Felix’s attention, because surely there’s an easier way than sailing halfway across Faerghus. “It’ll take a long time to get there on foot or horse, probably too long, but there’s a river that cuts right through Charon and Fhirdiad, straight to Itha. It’s out of the way, so hopefully there won’t be too much trouble. I need both of you to get there in one piece and make it quick work.”
“Then send Dedue or Gilbert,” Felix tries one last protest, but the outcome doesn’t look great, not if the way Sylvain is grinning at him is anything to go by. His chances of avoiding this nonsense are narrowing and thinning and crumbling by the second.
“I am needed by His Majesty’s side,” Dedue says, unfazed by Felix’s attempts at deflection and delegation.
“Gilbert is busy on another mission, and I need the rest of the Lions to remain here in order to clean out a group of bandits. It has to be you two.”
This is annoying, is all Felix can think, looking from his own wooden figure that’s frowning at him atop the table, to Byleth’s sympathetic yet pleading smile.
He sits back in his chair, utterly defeated, broiling with pent up frustration.
“Aw yeah, Felix. It’s you and me, just like old times!”
** ** **
It’s early morning. The sun has yet to rise, but Felix is already awake, waiting at the front gates for Sylvain to finally show up so he can get this whole thing over with. The sooner he gets back to his training, back to weapon maintenance and sparring, the better he’ll feel. Such an excursion just seems so utterly pointless. What difference is a dozen or so soldiers more? It’s not as though the Kingdom even has the extra bodies to spare. It’ll all be for nothing in the end, and Felix knows he’ll be of better use aiding the rest of the Lions with the bandit clean-up – hell, he could have handled that himself.
Sylvain has insisted that he’s going to take care of securing provisions for their journey – something that not only leaves Felix with an foreboding sense of doubting dread, but also an uneasy feeling in his stomach and a flutter in his chest. He isn’t exactly elated at the prospect of spending upwards of six days, including the return, cramped in a tiny river boat, sharing food and idle conversation with Sylvain of all people. The last thing he wants is to confront any of the thoughts and feelings that dwell deep within, to have them pulled to the surface and aired out with no means of escape or avoidance. But this war is a cruel and unforgiving mother as he’s been taught, time and time again.
Byleth has instructed that they keep their weaponry minimal – the last thing they want is to sink the boat with unnecessary cargo – but Felix has never once been underprepared, and so he’s wearing his warmest clothes, has his bow slung over one shoulder, spear at his back, and a sword sheathed reliably at his side. And, because he’s half expecting Sylvain to rock up with nothing but a knife in his pocket, he’s got an extra dagger concealed in a pocket around his thigh too.
When Sylvain finally does show up, late, the sun has started rising, turning the clouds a muted orange, and Felix’s patience is already wearing dangerously thin.
“About time,” Felix says, heaving himself from his slouched lean against the wall. He watches Sylvain saunter over casually, the weak morning light making his skin look soft and his hair a shade darker. The corners of Felix’s mouth turn involuntarily downwards.
“Hey now,” Sylvain holds one hand up in defence – the other is carrying a large wooden case by a leather handle and Felix wonders what the hell he’s packed for such a short journey. “Just making sure we’re completely prepared. Last thing I want to do is starve to death out on a boat in the middle of nowhere.”
“We’ll be in Faerghus,” Felix reminds him. “And it would be physically impossible to starve to death in such a short amount of time.”
“I can already tell this trip is going to be so much fun,” Sylvain says, but he’s smiling wide and shuffling his weight from foot-to-foot like an excited child. Felix’s scowl deepens.
“It’s a waste of valuable time is what it is,” he says, and leaves Sylvain behind as he starts a brisk pace towards the outer stable where they’re supposed to meet Byleth and Dimitri for a final debriefing. Felix can hear Sylvain protesting behind him, and the rattle of whatever he’s packed inside the case hitting the wooden sides as he struggles to keep up.
When they arrive, Dimitri and Byleth are combing horses, engaged in a hushed conversation that Felix almost feels bad for interrupting. Almost.
“Ah, Felix! Sylvain! All ready to leave?” Byleth claps his gloved hands together and snaps away from his conversation. When the professor’s eyes give Felix a once over, he immediately frowns. “Didn’t I tell you to only bring minimal weaponry?”
“This is minimal weaponry.”
The professor opens his mouth to retort, but closes it again with a shake of his head. Looks as though he’s finally learned not to bother questioning me, Felix thinks rather smugly.
“Here is the message,” Dimitri holds out a cylindrical tube of metal and before Felix can reach out for it, Sylvain’s already snatched it, shaking it near his ear as though he’ll be able to hear its contents.
“And here’s a map,” Byleth pulls a folded piece of parchment from his coat and this time, Felix gets it first. “It should take you around three days of sailing if you factor in rest breaks.” When Felix scoffs the professor sighs. “Felix, you can’t sleep aboard the boat. I don’t want you both to drown.”
“Who said anything about sleeping?” Felix mutters, because sleep will only make the journey longer, and he wants it over. Yesterday.
“Felix,” the professor warns, his startling green eyes narrowed in a warning.
“Fine.”
Byleth turns to Sylvain and puts a hand on his shoulder before sighing and saying, “Make sure he doesn’t kill himself by being ridiculous and stubborn.”
“Can’t make any promises, professor,” Sylvain laughs and uses the message tube to salute.
Felix thinks that if anyone is in danger of drowning or dying, it’s Sylvain – his edges are already fraying and he’s not about to put up with much in the way of irritation once they’re finally aboard the boat. Felix will push Sylvain overboard and continue the journey alone if he has to.
“The boat is about an hour’s walk from here. Preparations have been made and it’s waiting for you in the village at the Charon border,” Dimitri says, patting the nearby horse’s head. “Stay safe, both of you.”
Shut up, Felix thinks, I don’t need your worry or your concern.
“Whatever,” is what he says aloud.
** ** **
They’re halfway to Charon when Felix realises he’s probably about to murder his own friend. He’s known Sylvain all of his life, knows that he can’t keep his mouth closed for more than five minutes at a time, and yet the information had seemed to slip his mind entirely when he’d caved so easily under the professor’s insistence yesterday. Maybe I should have thrown that tantrum, he thinks belatedly, I’d rather deal with those repercussions than this.
Sylvain is singing. Not the nice soothing kind of lullaby that Felix might have enjoyed as pleasant company along the never-ending fields of nothingness. No. It’s the grating kind, the irritating kind, the kind that makes Felix want to knock Sylvain unconscious with the pommel of his sword. He’s seriously contemplating it, he’s dangerously close to leaving him for the beasts and bandits. He’s seconds away.
“58 vulneraries to save the soldier’s life, they best a beast and chug one down in times of woe and strife! Now let’s check the stock and count the lot, that’s 57 vulneraries remaining! 57 vulneraries to save the—”
He’s not quite sure why he’s let the song carry on for so long, Sylvain had started at 99 vulneraries after all. Maybe it’s because he’s telling himself that he’s using such an annoyance to test his endurance and train his mental fortitude, or maybe, he just likes hearing Sylvain’s voice with its happy lilt. Maybe he enjoys the mirthful inflection that’s seldom to be found as commonly during such dire times.
Regardless of the answer, his tolerance reaches its limit, because, Felix is human after all and there’s only so much he can take.
“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to stab you,” he growls.
“Not fair,” Sylvain looks offended at having been cut off, and pouts. “How am I supposed to pass the time when you’re ignoring me?”
“In silence.”
Sylvain sighs, but follows Felix’s orders.
For a few brief seconds that is, because he starts humming the tune instead, as though he thinks that Felix isn’t able to hear him from barely a foot away.
Felix begins to unsheathe his sword.
“Alright, alright! I’ll stop. Sheesh. You’d probably go through with it too,” he mutters that last quip under his breath with an unsatisfied hand through his hair, but Felix has always been quite proud of his hearing capabilities.
Thankfully, he makes good on his promise to shut up, and they fall in to a silence that’s accompanied only by the sounds of their feet shuffling against the grass, the rumble of Sylvain’s wooden case, and the clatter of Felix’s weapons.
When Felix hazards a curious look at Sylvain a while later, impressed by how long he’s actually managed to stay quiet, he finds himself struck by how much older he seems, how he fills out his armour more thoroughly, and by how his face seems more mature with its firmer jawline and the stubble of a few days unshaved. Felix hasn’t spent a day away from Sylvain in a very long time, and yet he finds that this is the first time he’s ever really considered the effects of five years at war – Sylvain has aged well, aged better, but he still looks just as tired as every other soldier at the monastery.
Felix can’t help but think he’s falling behind again somehow, even though he’s a step ahead to Charon.
“Like what you see?” Sylvain smirks, and Felix realises rather embarrassedly that he’s been staring at him for far longer than he’d intended.
“I can and will kill you.”
“I know, I know.”
The village comes in to view not a twenty minutes’ walk later, and not much has changed since the last time they had passed through on their march to Fhirdiad. It’s still eerily quiet, still lacking the usual bustle of life. Each and every person they pass looks miserable and exhausted and though he hates to see such a lack of conviction, he cannot blame a single one of them for it. Not when Edelgard has shredded the fabric of history and reduced the remains to smouldering ash. Not when bandits take advantage of the turmoil and render the villagers fearful to close their eyes at night. If Felix could take them all out by himself, he would. But he not only has Dimitri, ironically, and Byleth holding him back by the scruff of his neck, he also knows that getting recklessly killed will only cause inconvenience and he won’t make the same careless mistakes as those who have thrown their lives away before him. He likes to think himself wiser than that.
Felix knows that Sylvain feels the same anger too when he lets out a dejected sigh from his left – it holds the overwhelming sense of frustration that comes with not being able to save everyone at once. Just focus on ending the war, his mind supplies rather uselessly, but it’s hard to imagine such an outcome when everything seems to move so slowly. Because the Kingdom may have its King back, but peace still seems so far away.
“We’re almost there,” Sylvain says quietly. Felix isn’t quite sure whether he’s talking about their intended destination or the course of the war, but he nods anyway.
They find the boat skipper after Sylvain charms directions out of a merchant, and the man seems to have been expecting them, because he hops out of his seat near the river dock and rushes over to greet them with a bow and an overzealous handshake. The skipper shows them to their boat – a wooden effort that’s just a little taller than Sylvain when erected vertically, and Felix stops short because how are two grown men supposed to fit comfortably inside this thing and sail upstream for three days? He’d barely be able to stretch his own legs out comfortably, never mind accommodate Sylvain’s.
“You sure this is the right boat?” Sylvain asks, probably arriving at the same conclusive realisation that Felix just has.
“Yes,” the skipper nods solemnly, his wrinkled face forlorn and weary. “It’s the only boat we have left. Lost the bigger ones in a bandit raid last month, reduced to ash. Nothing to worry about though,” he reassures them after a moment of questionable silence, “it’s perfectly safe and capable of getting you where you need to go.”
There’s something protesting wildly within Felix’s chest that’s telling him this is going to result in an unmitigated disaster, but he ignores it. Pointedly. Because complaints seemed to have died on Sylvain’s tongue along with the skipper’s haphazard reassurance, and he won’t give Sylvain the satisfaction of seeing him be the only one perturbed by the whole situation. He can already hear the relentless teasing.
“I hope you know how to row a boat,” Sylvain says once the skipper has retreated home and left them with nothing but some throwaway advice and well wishes. 'I don’t need to show Kingdom soldiers how to row', he’d laughed, 'I’ll leave you to it and see you in a week.'
Sylvain kicks the boat and watches it bob in place under the awkward silence that’s descended upon them. Felix wants to set the boat alight and walk back to Garreg Mach.
“How hard can it be?” he scoffs.
** ** **
“I’m not sure you’re doing it right, Felix,” Sylvain says, and Felix wants to club him with the oar that he’s been wrestling with for the past forty minutes.
Because rowing a boat, it turns out, is extremely difficult. Especially when aforementioned boat is trying to sink itself under the weight of two armour clad soldiers, multiple heavy weapons, and a wooden case full of only the goddess knows what. It also helps none that Sylvain’s feet and legs are resting upon his own, crushing them awkwardly against the wooden side panels, rendering them uncomfortably numb.
“What do you even have in that case?” Felix grits through his teeth, ignoring Sylvain’s lack of faith by continuing to try and pull the boat through the water with what feels like sheer willpower. Infuriatingly, the boat won’t stay on a straight course, and Felix isn’t exactly sure why, but he has a feeling it has something to do with the way Sylvain is leaning backwards, hands behind his head watching Felix struggle with a relaxed smirk. No, there’s no question, it’s definitely Sylvain’s fault.
“Hey, don’t blame my resourcefulness,” he taps the case that sits between both of their legs. “You’re going to thank me for this later.”
Felix highly doubts that his and Sylvain’s ideas of usefulness coincide, but he hasn’t the care nor energy to debate such a discussion when he’s trying to prevent them from careening in to the riverbank.
“How did you even carry that thing here? It’s weighing us down.”
“It’s not that heavy,” Sylvain says. “It’s just the necessities, you know, some water, some food, spare clothes, a tea set—”
“A tea set?” Felix hopes that his stare is causing Sylvain some kind of physical pain.
“In my defence,” he holds his hands up in mock surrender, “I thought the boat would be way bigger than this.” As if punctuating his point, Sylvain shuffles slightly and the boat sways precariously. A lick of water spills over the side and wets the fabric of Felix’s trouser leg. He glares harder.
“In what world, did you think we’d have time for tea whilst rowing a boat to Itha?”
“As my dear friend the professor once said: there’s always time for tea, Felix.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“And so are you, trying to row this whole thing by yourself. You won’t even let me help,” Sylvain frowns.
“The two of us trying to row the same boat would be hopeless,” Felix says, but the truth is, he’s sure he’ll get there faster if he rows the boat himself. That, and the fact that he desperately needs a distraction from Sylvain’s close proximity. Each and every pull of the oars helps him release his unresolved feelings, his complicated emotions, and pent up energy – he’s sending them in to the water to float upstream, where he won’t have to dwell on them for a second longer than necessary.
“Then let’s take turns, let me try.”
“No.”
“But you look tired, let me take over.”
“I’m fine, just sit back and shut up.”
Sylvain huffs and gives up, and Felix watches him discreetly through his lashes as he peers out over the boat and in to the water.
For a moment, Felix’s breathing stops short, because he thinks Sylvain might just find one of his secrets lurking beneath the dark surface, but when he starts singing that damned song about vulneraries again, his shoulders loosen and he calms once more. Because if Sylvain hasn’t found them out by now, Felix can live comfortably in the knowledge that, most likely, he never will.
“I’m going to give you two seconds to stop singing that damn song, or I’m throwing you over.”
Sylvain laughs, his eyes glowing amber under the low hanging sun, and then he says, “But you used to love when I sang to you as a child. Don’t you remember? There was that one lullaby I used to sing when you—”
“You know what, I changed my mind. Just keep singing. Anything is better than you talking.”
Felix adamantly blames the cold weather for the redness decorating the tips of his ears.
“Ha, you know, you’re actually kinda—” Sylvain begins with a laugh, but abruptly cuts himself off mid-sentence with a cough and aversion of his gaze. “I’ll stop singing,” he says instead, voice slightly quieter, less playful.
Felix narrows his eyes, scrutinising his friend, curious as to what he could have done that would cause such a sudden change of heart, but ultimately, Felix doesn’t push him for any kind of answer. He’s finally getting what he wants, after all: silence. And he’s not about to spoil it. Not when this whole conversation is making him want to shrivel up and die.
“Thank the Goddess,” he rolls his eyes and, as if on cue, the boat finally seems to comply with his will – the water has calmed to almost stillness and it’s floating nicely along, putting up minimal resistance. Felix’s arms finally catch a break from the strain, and he no longer has to expend as much energy with each roll of the oars. It’s as though someone has taken pity on the both of them, providing the change of pace they both sorely need.
The morning crawls by and the sun climbs higher in the sky, but it does nothing to increase temperatures. Faerghus is still just as cold and unforgiving as Felix remembers, and he’s suddenly very glad that he decided to wear his gloves, or his hands would be frozen around the wooden oars by now. Luckily, the constant movement of his arms is keeping his blood warm and lively, and it seems that all of the years spent in the warmer parts of central Fódlan have done nothing to dull Sylvain’s tolerance for cold weather either.
For a brief moment, memories of snow and frivolity burn quietly within the corners of Felix’s mind, desperate to bring down his meticulously placed walls. But Felix throws water over the flames before they have the chance to grow. Those memories serve no purpose, leave nothing but misery and darkness in their wake. He simply needs to focus on rowing this boat towards the future - there’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on the past after all, the dead can do nothing for him now, and the same goes for the memories long deceased too.
“Hungry?” Sylvain asks when he catches Felix eyeing his wooden case.
“That all depends on what you’ve packed.”
In lieu of a response, Sylvain just pops the box open, flicking up the clasps with a grin and Felix dreads the inevitable appearance of sickly sweet confectionery, but is pleasantly surprised when Sylvain unwraps savoury breads from white cloths.
“Be gentle with your criticism,” he says, handing one over to Felix, who lets down the oars to receive it. “Made them myself.”
“You,” Felix says incredulously after a bite, because he cannot deny that the bread is delicious; it has a subtle hint of spice, the one that Felix loves, but has never bothered to learn the name of, “made these?”
“Is it that hard to believe?” Sylvain asks.
“Yes,” he says, because Sylvain dedicates himself to a lot of different things, is infinitely talented in many different areas of expertise, but cooking has never been one of them. Not that Felix has ever been aware of.
“Wow. Well, I guess I did have a little help from Dedue.”
He’s nervous, Felix notices, watching the way he runs a tentative hand through his own hair. It’s something he’s seen Sylvain do when he doesn’t quite know what to say which is an extremely rare occurrence, to say the very least. Felix takes a deep breath, because, he decides, he’s not fond of nervous Sylvain - his condition is contagious.
“Then you’d better thank him,” he says, his complimentary tone sounding foreign in his own mouth. “It tastes amazing.”
Sylvain’s eyes widen almost comically, and Felix would bark out a laugh if it weren’t at his own expense.
“Goddess, strike me down! Was that a compliment?” Sylvain sounds incredulous, and he’s looking from side-to-side as though there’s someone else on the river that Felix has spoken to rather than him.
“Yes,” Felix snaps, heat unfurling within his cheeks against his own will, “and I can rescind it whenever I choose.”
“Hey now, don’t be stingy. I’ll take it. Gladly.”
Warmth, under the guise of confidence, has returned to Sylvain’s voice, and the equilibrium is restored. He’s smiling wide and bright again and Felix thinks that maybe, sacrificing a shred of his dignity for such a result is worth it.
Maybe.