Sylvain remembers the exact moment that he realized he was in love with Felix.

It'd been five years since they last saw each other.

In the aftermath of Edelgard declaring war, Sylvain went north to hold the fort near Sreng, spending a half-decade barricaded in the lonesome north with only his hand for company. Felix fucked off to do whatever the hell it was that he did, and no one expected him to come back and meet again in that very same spot, even if everyone else wouldn't miss it for the world.

There was a battle, of course, because that's just their luck. And then, Felix showed up out of the blue, older and skinnier, a permanent scowl etched onto his face. His sword was a blazing extension of his hand as he cut down bandit after bandit without a second thought.

Beautiful, thought Sylvain, his mouth parted slightly as he watched Felix move across the field. Glinting steel in one hand, bolts of Thoron in the other; Felix was Death himself and Sylvain was wholly raptured.

When it was all said and done, Felix looked at him, his face littered with smears of blood. Circles cut deep under his eyes, and he looked nonchalant as he wiped his blade across his trouser leg to clean it. Sylvain swallowed thickly, his eyes never leaving him, tracing every edge that Felix now had; those sharp and bitter corners he'd lacked in their youth.

Felix saw him staring and sneered, shooting him a rude gesture before stomping off.

Sylvain swooned.

#

A year into the war and Sylvain pines. He pines and pines and pines. Twiddles his thumbs as he taps his foot nervously during meetings. He gets antsy when he sits next to Felix during their meals. All he wants to do is reach out and touch, to thread his fingers into that awful haircut of his; to hug him tight and never let go, war be damned.

Goddess, Sylvain wants to kiss him. He's never wanted to kiss a person so much, or soak up their presence.

He won't though. Felix gives a lot of mixed signals.

Felix is, at once, both different and the same. He's far more aggressive and meaner, nothing but danger and cruel words. But, he persists in keeping close, even if he has nothing nice to say. Still shares his food with Sylvain, still pitches his tent right next to his— hell, they still bathe in the same allotted time slot.

"You're dumb," said Felix weeks back, "And dumb people get themselves killed. I don't forget my promises so easily."

Sylvain swooned again because he's truly romantic at heart, and this friends-to-kind-of-enemies-to-onesided-pining is beginning to kill him.

He's tired. Haggard. His bones ache and his shoulders sag. They march back into the camp after a long day on the battlefield, broken and bloody, but still in one piece. Sylvain runs a hand through his grimy and sweaty hair, feels the way the exhausting tugs at his core.

Sylvain still finds the energy to look for Felix, desperate for just a glance, just to see if he's alright.

Eventually, Felix stalks through the camp like a feral cat who's just been dumped into the water. Hackles raised, on edge, and ready to snap. Anyone who approaches him gets an outright and massive fuck you slung their way.

Sylvain sighs. Felix hasn't always been this harsh, even at his worst. The War has taken a massive toll on him as well, turning him into this irritable, near-constant ball of rage.

He's handsome, when so irate. Only makes Sylvain want to pull him into his tent and spoon him in a shared bedroll. Smooth out his edges until they soften with want, and they can just rest.

But this is war, and there isn't rest for the weary.

So, Sylvain just watches from afar, fingering the well-worn leather of his riding trousers instead.

When Felix looks, his face softens just ever so slightly.

#

For the first time in his life, Sylvain is rightfully and truly scared.

He's never cared much for his life because he's never had much of a reason too. But when he thinks of the ornery bastard that stands next to him, and Sylvain does is want, and it's enough to keep him going.

But, this is war and things aren't looking good for the Blue Lions.

Sylvain didn't sleep. He got dressed in tired, glum silence, and now he stands at the edge of Gronder Field, trying to remember that the last time he was here, it was all fun and games.

It isn't fun and games anymore. Hasn't been for a long while, and it's a rotten pit that just sinks deeper and deeper into his gut the further they go on.

"What's with that look on your face?" Felix is as terse as ever, his words sharp.

Sylvain sizes, dragging a gauntlet-clad hand down his face. It's too early in the morning to be wearing a full set of armor. "Never thought it'd be like this."

"Like this?" Felix scoffs. "It's war. What on earth did you think it'd be like?"

Sylvain doesn't have an answer so he remains stubbornly quiet. Felix meets his face, mouth tugged into a frown.

"Sylvain—"

"You know, I'm not really in the mood for it today," cuts in Sylvain, "Your cranky attitude. We might not make it back from this, so I'm trying to remember all the good times. I don't need your ill-temper getting in the way of that."

Felix regards him with surprise because Sylvain is so rarely blunt with him. Felix fidgets, uncomfortable. The silence stretches and becomes unbearable.

And still, Sylvain wants. He wants, he wants, he wants, because this might be the last moment that he ever gets to allow himself to.

He looks at Felix and holds out a hand. But then he stops dead, hesitating. Sylvain's gaze washes over him, lingering on his face; his eyes, his nose, his lips. And that's where it stays as Sylvain licks his lips and thinks.

Sylvain doesn't pull him close and kiss him because at the end of the day, he's the biggest coward he's ever known. Instead of staying with Dimitri and planning war at the front, he sequestered himself in Gautier, pretending that it did anyone good. And now, here, as they stand there on potentially their last day, he can't even kiss the man that he loves more than anything.

He truly is a pathetic lout, Felix's favorite insult.

For a moment, he lets himself pretend though, thinking about it. Wishing for it. Then he sighs and turns away to go check the tack on his horse.

Felix's hand shoots out, curling around Sylvain's neck in a surprisingly strong grip. He yanks at him with force, tugging Sylvain's face down, and then he kisses him. It's an aggressive and biting thing that throws Sylvain entirely off guard, but it doesn't take long for him to respond in kind. He wraps an arm around Felix, pulling him closer, and Felix's other hand moves to rest against his breastplate.

It's the kind of kiss that books describe; wanton and wholly consuming. Neither of them cares that they're at the edge of a battlefield, or that others are staring. All they know is each other, their minds entirely fogged with the overly consuming feel of it.

Felix slides his tongue into Sylvain's mouth, staking his claim. There's nothing else, only the way that Felix eats him alive, fingers gripping onto the back of his neck tightly like Sylvain might disappear if he lets go.

Sylvain does let go. And he doesn't disappear, he only hugs Felix close and buries his face into the crook of his neck. He smells like sweat because they haven't bathed properly in days. He stands still as Sylvain shakes around him.

"Idiot," murmurs Felix against his temple, pressing a kiss there, petting his fingers through Sylvain's hair. "You absolute imbecile," he continues, his voice soft with understanding.

"Felix, I love you." Sylvain whispers the words into his skin, and he's afraid of so many things; war, death, but mostly rejection. "And I don't… I don't—"

"Then don't die," says Felix, like it's the simplest of things. "When we were dumb children, we made a dumb promise. And now we're dumb adults, still clinging to it because it's the only thing that makes us feel anything. Makes me feel things."

It's as good a confession as Sylvain's going to get, and he can't help but laugh into the absurd fur collar of Felix's cloak.

Eventually, he pulls back. Thumbs over Felix's cheeks as he looks at him, his mouth crinkled into a hint of a smile.

"Worst time for that," says Felix.

"You have to live, too," says Sylvain, "Otherwise, this means nothing."

Felix still has a hand pressed flat to his chest, right over his heart. Then he says, "Unlike you, I keep my promises."

Sylvain swoons.