A/N: I've been SCREAMING to share this fic from the moment that I finished it, and I'm pleased to announce that it's finally time! This is the fic that I wrote for Lover's Tryst, a Sylveth zine.
Byleth's been trouble since the moment they'd met.
It'd been high school, freshman year. The first week of school where bullies stake out targets. Byleth was prime for it; a beanstalk of a barely-man, dressed in ill-fitting hand-me-downs and a threadbare backpack. Glasses perched on the tip of his nose for added just-nerdy-enough effect.
A group of other students surrounded him. Sylvain was a decent dude so he'd stuck around to watch, just in case he needed to swoop in and save the day.
Byleth surprised him, though. He'd stayed calm. Blaséabout the entire thing, even, entirely blank-faced. Bullies don't like being told no and the moment Sylvain heard the word leave Byleth's mouth, he made his move to step in and help.
And then Byleth reached out, grabbed the bully by the arm, wrenched it, and threw him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. The rest of their group stared in shock before running off. Sylvain stared too, mouth falling open slack-jawed.
"And what about you?" asked Byleth, turning his gaze to Sylvain. "Want my lunch money?"
"No, I─ well─ I thought you might need help, but it seems like you can handle yourself."
Byleth blinked slowly back at him before his mouth tipped into a tiny quirk. "They didn't know who my father is."
"And that's?"
"Professor Eisner."
Sylvain struggled to find words. The Professor Eisner, combat-extraordinaire, esteemed ex-knight of Faerghus-turned-history teacher. There wasn't a kid at the school who wasn't terrified of just the rumors of the man.
"Don't worry, I'm not after your lunch money," said Sylvain dumbly.
Byleth shrugged. "Not like I've got any."
The rest is history when Sylvain thinks about it.
They'd clicked as friends immediately. Sylvain went to school knowing full-well there'd be Dimitri, Ingrid, and Felix─ and barely the latter one at that. But Byleth eased into their group with little issue.
And yeah, Byleth is a weird dude, even now. Not good with people, doesn't know how to converse. Awkward in everything that he does because he'd grown up in a mercenary compound that outsourced to the military before his father retired.
Smart as a tack, though, just like Sylvain. Surprisingly cognizant when others think you're only about one thing. For Sylvain it's girls, for Byleth it's… well, people still really don't know. Byleth is just Byleth. They'd bonded over that, the fact that they were more than people perceived them to be.
High school was a long four years before they'd found themselves at Garreg Mach University. Not the Ivy League Sylvain's father wanted, but decent in its own right. Byleth wasn't much of a partier, but he'd been there to help Sylvain home after late-night keggers, and to wake him in the morning with a glass of ice-cold water. Dumped on his face.
It's been a long time that they've had each other's backs. Their mid-twenties passed and they often shared drinks at bars. They hopped thirty and they slowed down a little bit, but still made time for each other. That's the thing about life-long best friends; you don't just get rid of them. Even Ingrid and Felix are insufferably constant in his life still.
And Byleth? Well, they boarded together as teenagers, dormed together in college, and now they're living out their inevitable middle-aged, unwanted bachelor lives together as roommates.
It's different now. Middle age comes with a heavy workload and responsibilities. Sylvain's a senior marketing exec and he doesn't have time for late-night bar crawls anymore. Byleth followed his father's footsteps and became a professor, but even that has its disadvantages. Sylvain often finds Byleth passed out cold on their kitchen table, drooling on the papers he's grading.
They barely see each other. One's at work and the other's home, or vice-versa. One's asleep by the time the other crawls in the front door. And they don't eat meals together. It makes those rare bar nights where they play wingman for each other all the more special.
Byleth's terrible at it. Playing wingman, that is. Always trying to pair Sylvain up with the worst of women. At this point in their lives it's almost a running joke: how far can Byleth get from Sylvain's actual type?
Pretty far, as it turns out. Across the room and out the front door.
"Hey, you okay?"
Sylvain pulls himself from his thoughts. Byleth's looking at him, eyes slightly narrowed and lips turned into a soft little frown. His thinking face.
They don't go to seedy bars like they did in their youth; this one's a nice lounge with soft jazz music from a live band and cute cocktail waitresses. All ritz, class, and glamour. Nice place to chat, perfect for catching up.
"Fine," says Sylvain, a little too quickly. Byleth notices, eyes narrowing just ever so slightly. So, Sylvain doubles his efforts. He crosses his leg, tucking an ankle over his knee, and leans back into the booth. Trying to look as casual as possible. "I'm great. Work isn't hounding me nearly as much."
Byleth huffs at that. "You strolled in just as the sun was rising."
"Only because I caught a nap on the work couch!" Byleth doesn't look remotely convinced. "Honestly," continues Sylvain. "Once this work proposal is done it'll go back to normal."
It hasn't been normal between them for years. Sylvain likes to think that he has no idea why but it'd be a lie. He reaches up and tugs at his tie, loosening the silk from where it chokes around his neck.
Byleth watches him for a long moment with that infuriatingly calculating stare of his. "Sylvain─"
"Ah, look, cute chick alert," cuts in Sylvain, nodding to the corner of the room behind Byleth. Byleth doesn't budge, not at first. "Come on, man, that's why we're here, yeah? To catch up and flirt with some ladies?" Sylvain grabs his drink from the table and winks at a girl that walks by.
"You never change," says Byleth with an eye roll, but still looks behind him.
Sylvain isn't wrong, the pair of girls tucked into the high table in the corner are cute. They just aren't his type anymore. See, that's the thing about getting older, thinks Sylvain. You work more, you've got less free time and you fall in love with your best friend of over fifteen years.
Byleth's still grabbing a peek at cute chick number one, his mouth tucked into an adorable frown.
Sylvain isn't sure when it all started but one night he looked at a girl and thought of Byleth instead, and ever since he's been unbearably hyper-aware. Being roommates is awkward not because he wants to stay away, but because he wants to sneak in cuddles on the couch, casual touches in the kitchen, and friendly hugs that are just a little bit too long.
And the worst part: Byleth is the most blissfully unaware man on the entire damn planet. True love could slap him in the face and he'd probably ask it if it needs directions instead.
Not that it's true love or anything.
Byleth turns back around way too soon. "Yeah, cute," he confirms. But that's about it.
Sylvain knows how this plays out, though. Byleth's good-looking enough to always get the girl. And unlike Sylvain, he's actually into the idea.
"Well, want to try our luck?" asks Sylvain.
Byleth waits for a beat and then shrugs before flagging down a waitress and ordering another round to be sent to the table in the corner.
Sylvain's got a lot of wishes: to never see his father again, to forget his brother ever existed, and to maybe kiss Byleth just once. It'd be enough, he tells himself. Then they can go back to being besties and Byleth can fall in love, and Sylvain can be the best dude at his wedding who leads the reception with a terribly unfunny speech.
Instead, he feels like a petty, pathetic shill when he privately wishes that it won't work out.
#
Sylvain somehow manages to maintain a jogging schedule. It isn't so easy anymore; he's just shy of thirty-seven years, and his joints creak and crackle more than he'd like to admit.
He finds the park around noon, something that most would avoid at all costs. Sylvain thought he knew what he was doing when he accepted a job transfer to Ailell; he'd be close to Ingrid, close-ish to Felix, and far from his father. He was wrong.
Sylvain's lucky that he tans instead of burns. He'd moved there expecting the opposite but wound up cultivating a healthy glow instead and freckles splattered across his face. Byleth once said girls find them cute. Sylvain wishes Byleth would find them cute instead, but that's a whole basket of worms that he's decided to just overlook; as time wears on it's become increasingly clear that there's no hope for his middle-aged love crisis.
Byleth wasn't supposed to come here. There were many reasons for moving to literal hell on earth, but one of them was to put distance between the two of them. Turns out Byleth was offered tenure at a local college that he'd turned down repeatedly until he didn't.
Byleth said someone had to make sure Sylvain ate. Byleth was right; Sylvain's absolute shit at taking care of himself.
This is why he takes his jogs seriously─ it's the only time that Sylvain gets to himself, that he has to think.
Unless Byleth joins him. Like today.
"And how did the date go?" asks Sylvain, losing interest before he even thinks of the question. He's perfected pretending enthusiasm for Byleth's conquests. So far, Byleth hasn't seemed to notice that Sylvain'd rather watch paint dry.
"Wasn't bad," says Byleth, as he runs beside Sylvain. They've paced themselves at a slow jog that follows the curling running trail. The sun beats down like an angry firestorm and there aren't many others out.
"Well that's─"
"Wasn't good either."
Sylvain's mouth snaps shut as they move along. "I mean, I don't think a first date's ever been perfect─"
"We've been dating for three months." Byleth doesn't seem angry, but Sylvain winces anyway. So much for being the primo wingman.
"Look, Hildegard─"
"Hilda."
"Right, Hilda. Does she have any redeeming qualities?"
Byleth thinks as they jog, mouth pulled into a cute little frown. Sylvain's always loved the way that it's slightly crooked, tugging the corner of his mouth to the side. "She's pretty," he finally says.
"And?"
"And what?" asks Byleth.
Sylvain sighs. Byleth's always been like this; lukewarm to the attention of others, oblivious to their traits. He never seems to think much of the people that he goes around with.
"What else?"
Byleth is quiet again, thinking hard about what to add. He comes up with nothing. "She was a bit selfish, I suppose. Always expected me to do things for her. I much prefer a partner who pulls their weight."
Sylvain hates how that makes him happy, how his heart bursts at the idea that it didn't work out for Byleth. He also hates it because Byleth deserves to settle down and enjoy his life for once and all.
"It never seems to click," says Byleth, suddenly.
"I'm sorry?"
Byleth looks at him, expertly navigating their trail with peripheral vision and sheer muscle memory. "Whenever I date. It never seems to click."
"Some people aren't cut out for it, I suppose." Sylvain isn't talking about Byleth, he's talking about himself, but he sharpens his words with a teasing edge nonetheless. Byleth doesn't seem to notice.
"No, I don't think that's it," says Byleth, his voice a soft little murmur, strangely out of character. Sylvain cocks his head at him. Byleth's always been a very blunt man. This quiet, almost hesitant demeanor seems odd.
"Well, we're old, practically ancient. At this point, we might as well just date each other," says Sylvain with levity.
"Sure." Byleth's reply is immediate.
Sylvain doesn't see the bench that he trips over after running off the jogging trail in surprise. He sinks like a rock, falling to the ground and half-across the blistering metal.
"Sylvain?" asks Byleth, hands on his knees as he leans over.
"Funny joke," says Sylvain. "Ah-ha, real clever."
Byleth's face scrunches up adorably. "What joke?"
"You said 'sure'."
"I did."
"As in, affirmative."
"Yes." Byleth seems entirely baffled by Sylvain's confusion. He reaches out and brushes Sylvain's sweaty bangs from his forehead before pressing his palm flat against it. "No fever."
Sylvain bats his hand away. "I'm not sick! I'm just confused as to why you would agree!"
Byleth pulls away, head tilting to the side. "Why would I not?"
Sylvain can think of a thousand reasons as to why not─ they've known each other for nearly twenty years; they're roommates; Ingrid and Felix would make fun of them forever.
Sylvain loves him, sure, but in a truly romantic 'would die for you' kind of way, not the mildly curious one that Byleth surely feels.
"Byleth," says Sylvain finally, "Look, I was mostly joking when I said that─"
"Mostly," cuts in Byleth.
"Um─"
"Which means it wasn't entirely a joke."
"It's complicated." Not the most articulate answer.
Byleth reaches out to help Sylvain up. He holds onto his hand, fingers curled around Sylvain's palm gently. Neither of them pulls away, show any signs of doing so; they only stand there awkwardly, each waiting for the other to speak first.
"It never works because they aren't you," says Byleth, letting go.
"So, what you're saying is that we're terrible wingmen because we like each other."
"Love," corrects Byleth. "I would say that I love you."
This can't be happening, thinks Sylvain. It's like one of those shitty rom-coms that Ingrid forces on him once in a while.
But it makes sense in retrospect. The way that they simultaneously avoid each other and crave the other's presence. The homemade meals and the quilts tossed over the other when they fall asleep on the couch. The lingering touches and barely-caught stares.
It's been there a long time, proving that they're both the blindest idiots alive.
Sylvain doesn't care that they're sweaty when he pulls Byleth closer; doesn't care that his lips are chapped or taste like salt, that they both smell like the back-end of a wet dog. For the first time in a decade, it's a kiss that actually means something.
When they part, Sylvain laughs incredulously. "So much time, wasted."
"Only misdirected," says Byleth. "Two buffoons in love, only trying to do their best."
"You love me." Sylvain's testing out the words, the idea of it.
"There are worse things I've done."
They both know their jog is over. "Let's go home," says Sylvain.
They'll curl up on the couch and watch terrible reruns of Masterchef; Sylvain will rub the tension out of Byleth's shoulders; Byleth will tuck his eternally cold toes underneath Sylvain's thigh.
Utterly mundane things they've always done that will be entirely different now.
Byleth holds out his hand out once more, waiting expectantly.
Well, baby steps first, thinks Sylvain, as he takes it.
