A/N: I'm so excited to share the fic that I wrote for this wonderful zine! I had the absolute pleasure of writing a mild rom-com set during the War-Phase, and was partnered with the amazing Kepyon who made some AMAZING art!
"Hey, Felix?"
Sylvain's the first to break the tension that's spread between them like a feast. Felix is like a cat, hackles raised, fingers tight around the grip of his sword. But he hasn't moved yet, hasn't crossed the distance to lop Sylvain's head off.
So, Sylvain risks trying to talk Felix out of killing him. "Remember when we were kids and we made a promise about dying together?"
It's raining at the Tailtean Plains, and there's a chill in the air that comes from more than just poor weather. Felix feels it—Sylvain can tell. It's in the way that he stands there taut and unsure. They've both made dumb mistakes in their lives, but this is the dumbest of all, winding up on opposite sides of the battlefield.
They stand there for what feels like forever, boots sinking into the mud. Sylvain's injured, having taken a lance to the waist.
"I remember," says Felix, finally. He's on a hair-trigger, poised to attack at any moment.
"Well," says Sylvain, swallowing around the large lump in his throat, "Seems we're about to kill each other." The words taste sour in his mouth. He's always hated lying to Felix, but sometimes it's the only way to protect him.
He doesn't expect Felix to think about it or to hesitate. For a moment Sylvain thinks that he might call it off. But then Felix lifts his sword and Sylvain feels like his heart is breaking.
It isn't meant to be like this, this can't be their end.
"Sorry, Sylvain," says Felix, "You'll die first." To his credit, he looks torn, like he might regret it.
It's a lie that Sylvain can practically smell. Doesn't matter that it's five years later and they are on opposing ends, there isn't a person that Sylvain knows better than Felix.
Which means he's about to do something stupid.
Sylvain doesn't have a lot of time to react. Felix crosses the length between them in record time, blade flashing and ready to slice right through him. Sylvain's careful when he swings the Lance of Ruin around; he doesn't want to actually land a hit.
Strangely, Felix misses too. He must be rattled, distracted by all the unspoken things between them. It's the only thing that makes sense.
Sylvain grunts as he pushes back, whipping around to try and get a blunt hit in, to knock Felix unconscious. An angry Felix left alive and breathing is better than the obvious alternative. Sylvain isn't sure that he can do Felix in, even if it were the only option.
Felix is too quick, though, too well-practiced. He knows everything that Sylvain can throw at him. Felix dodges every swipe.
Then, his blade arcs.
But the death blow never comes. Instead, Felix slams the pommel of his sword across Sylvain's head. Sylvain staggers, his vision blurring. He has just enough of his senses to dive in close and clock Felix across the jaw as hard as he can.
Felix falls to the ground, out cold. Then Sylvain does as well, his vision growing black.
#
Sylvain doesn't think he's ever had such a terrible headache.
He groans, rolling over in the mud, his bones feeling heavy. Pain lances through his skull, and he presses a hand against it. There's a large goose egg, his scalp tender and swollen, and blood crusting over. And then there's the nasty slash on his waist from earlier. Sylvain hadn't seen the soldier until it was too late.
But, he's alive. Tired, sore, and incredibly confused, but alive.
"You've always been the dumb one, haven't you?"
Sylvain freezes, immediately on the defensive. His hand shoots out, looking for the Lance of Ruin, but it isn't there. He panics, his breath rising to his throat as he tries to swallow around it. His heart speeds up, nearly bursting from his chest because it isn't supposed to end this way and—
"It's right there," says Felix from barely five feet away. Sylvain blinks and finally turns to him. Felix is absurdly casual, his trouser leg pulled up as he cleans a cut. Sylvain's lance leans against a flat boulder within arm's reach. "Though, I think it'd be better to chuck it right over the cliff."
Sylvain's inclined to agree. Then he remembers that he's supposed to be dead.
"You said I'd die first," says Sylvain.
"I've said a lot of things." Felix wipes at his leg with a dirty rag. "Not like you've ever paid attention before."
"What's there to pay attention to? You're the one who up and left the Blue Lions like we were nothing."
Felix scowls at him. "You know that isn't why—"
"Yeah, yeah, I remember," cuts in Sylvain, moving to sit up properly. His breath hitches in pain . "'I want to forge my own path, Sylvain'," he recites. It's stupid how he remembers the exact wording. Felix's excuse for ditching them was always flimsy at best.
Sylvain looks back at Felix. "How'd that work out, by the way?" he continues. "'Cause from where I'm sitting, it doesn't look great."
Felix says nothing which is predictable, only sneers as he wipes at his leg more than he needs to. "You never listened back then," says Felix aggressively. "You still don't. Did you think I'd actually kill you?"
"Your threats are never empty."
"Give me some credit, you dolt."
Sylvain swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. This isn't the direction that he thought this conversation would go. He thought they'd trade a few insults and then get right back to it.
He never once considered that Felix might not actually follow his end of the bargain.
Sylvain huffs a small laugh, incredulous. "Felix, I never know what's going on in that brain of yours. For all I know, you're just biding time 'til your Black Eagle buddies come and get you."
Felix pauses and Sylvain expects him to snarl. He doesn't even sneer; instead, he looks despondent. It's unsettling. "They've left me behind," says Felix, finally. "Probably think I'm dead."
"Ouch," says Sylvain, cringing. "Cold-blooded."
"Efficient," says Felix.
Sylvain blinks. "What?"
At this point, Felix has washed and rewashed his calf enough times that Sylvain knows it's to keep him distracted. "It's what Edelgard would call it: an efficient decision."
Sylvain considers this for a moment. "That's pretty screwed up."
"She's done worse to us. In the field, I mean. Leaving me for dead is a mercy at this point."
Sylvain and Felix don't get along, and it's because they care so much about each other that it's led them down different paths.
"All those years ago," says Sylvain quietly, "you asked me to come with you."
A day he remembers with stunning clarity. Far past midnight, storm clouds brewed on the horizon. The smell of rain carried on the wind. Felix told him he'd picked the Black Eagles and that Sylvain could have a place there as well.
Sylvain doesn't regret turning him down, but he regrets that Felix felt like leaving was the better choice. Doesn't matter now. It's been too late for a half-decade.
"Goddess knows what I was thinking, trying to save your sorry hide," says Felix, caught somewhere between angry and fond.
Sylvain hates how everything between them is still as complicated as it was when they parted ways. The two of them have never been good with feelings.
"There isn't a point in waiting around." What a Felix-like thing to do, changing the subject. "They won't come back for me and even if they did, I wouldn't go with them." It's clear as day that he's been on the outs with the Black Eagles for some time.
"We can find the Blue Lions, then," says Sylvain. He doesn't know why he was left behind. It's concerning.
Felix scoffs. "A terrible idea."
Sylvain manages to pull himself up and lean against a rotted tree stump. His head's pounding, but it's his side that's giving him more trouble now. "Damn," he murmurs, prompting Felix to look up. Then Felix's eyes narrow, like he's trying to figure him out.
"Either way, we're shit out of luck," says Sylvain with morbid amusement. "So might as well try."
Felix doesn't agree, but he doesn't say "no" either. He just ties off the bandage that he's finally pulled around his leg.
It's as close to a "yes" as Sylvain's going to get.
#
Sylvain's dead weight, thinks Felix. Or he's going to be before long.
They slog through the mud with no real direction in mind—anything is better than the fields, just in case someone comes back to pick off stragglers. Felix can handle himself, but Sylvain's an entirely different case, injured far worse than he's willing to admit.
At first, it'd been annoying. Now it's dangerous. For them both, but Felix's mind is entirely set on Sylvain because even now he's a pathetic sod who can't overlook everything that's unspoken between them.
Sylvain tries. Makes a valiant effort. He's stripped off his heavy armor and his whimpers of pain are concealed enough that they'd go unnoticed by most. Felix is different. Sylvain should know better than to think he can hide it from him.
"We've got to pick it up," says Felix tersely. "We need to move faster."
Sylvain pushes along clumsily. Felix pauses and watches as Sylvain struggles. Then Felix frowns.
"Sylvain," he says, holding his arm out, intent on lending a rare hand of help. Sylvain ignores him, passing by. Stubborn and rude as always, refusing the aid of others. If Sylvain's going to be an idiot, he'll leave him be.
The odds are against them but they somehow manage. Until they don't. Sylvain's gone strangely quiet behind him and when Felix looks, he finds him sprawled across the ground, out cold.
"Dammit," murmurs Felix, feet flying over the wet ground. Sylvain's pale when he reaches him, his skin clammy to the touch. Then he sees the blood that slicks his side.
Felix never noticed, so caught up in their sordid and strained history. He wasn't thinking about the present beyond the idea of Sylvain can't die. Fat lot that did.
"Wake up." Felix takes Sylvain's face into his hands, tapping at his cheek. "Sylvain," says Felix, a little more panicked. Sylvain makes a tiny little grunt but doesn't stir.
Right then, thinks Felix. Plan B. He'll patch Sylvain up the best he can and then he'll get them back to the Blue Lions. Dimitri's a lost cause, he already knows, but Byleth might not kill him if he's rescuing Sylvain.
Felix peels back Sylvain's shirt to find a nasty gash, swearing at the sight. "You idiot. You would do this, wouldn't you? Get a near-mortal wound and brush it off."
They could've treated this. Felix could've sewn it shut hours ago if Sylvain wasn't so pig-headed. But Sylvain's let it fester, stubbornly self-destructive even now.
"This is why I tried to knock you out, you bastard," murmurs Felix. He takes a knife from his thigh holster and cuts away the lower portion of his own coat. "You've never been able to take care of yourself. Think you're disposable, do you? I'll show you."
It's the weakest threat Felix has ever made; what's threatening about promising to show someone that they mean something to you? Sylvain would be insulted.
Why'd you waste your time on an idiot like me, Sylvain would ask in that mildly abrasive tone that he gets when he's feeling worthless.
It's hard maneuvering Sylvain around, but Felix manages. He pulls out his canteen and shakes it. "Last of my water, you dimwit. Don't ever say I never cared." He cleans the wound with an agitated touch.
Then, Felix sits there, biting his lip as he tries to figure out what to do. "Too late to sew it up now," he says. "You made sure of that, didn't you." Felix lets out a frustrated growl, dragging a hand down his face.
He learned some healing in his academy days. Felix wasn't very good at it, though, eventually deemed a lost cause by Mercedes. You're too agitated, she'd tell him. Never good for healing others.
Of course, he was agitated. He'd spent his entire youth making sure that Sylvain made it to the next day, be it dragging him up from a well, or dragging him home from a bar. This isn't any different. "No promises that I won't screw this up," says Felix quietly, focusing his energy on what little Faith mastery he still has.
He doesn't screw it up. He doesn't do a great job either. Felix leaves behind a mangled mess of scar tissue, but it's not bleeding anymore and Sylvain's not dying anymore.
Felix heaves a relieved sigh as he leans back on his hands. It's quiet for a moment, only the chirping of bugs around them filling the air. Sylvain's still out but he's got some of his color back. Good sign.
Against his better judgment, Felix reaches out, smoothing Sylvain's bangs back. "It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was supposed to knock you out and you were supposed to be found by the others." Felix pauses and thinks. About a lot of things. The decisions he's made and where he'll go from there.
"Insufferable dolt," he finally says. "I've always known my path, which is wherever my sword takes me. But then you had to show back up. Why couldn't you screw off? You were supposed to run away. We weren't supposed to meet out here."
Sylvain talked about it a lot, how he wanted to leave and never return. Felix was sure he did just that. Until he saw him at the Tailtean Plains, astride his horse and wielding the Lance of Ruin like a fallen god of war.
"I don't know what to do anymore," says Felix softly, cradling Sylvain's face gently in his rough, worn hands. He hesitates as he watches him for a moment. "But I do know that I love you, you imbecile. So take that as you will."
Sylvain's face does the strangest thing then—he smiles. Then he opens an eye, a tired little smirk finding a home on his face. Then he winks. "So that's what it takes for you to finally admit it? Me dying in your lap?"
Felix drops Sylvain's head and shoves his face away dramatically. Sylvain winces, but he'll live.
"Felix—"
"You aren't dying anymore."
"No," says Sylvain. "You saved me." His tone is serious, none of that lighthearted teasing from a moment before.
Felix refuses to look him in the face. "We made a promise to die together. I'm not ready to call it quits."
Sylvain bites at his lip. "You know, what are the chances that we'd both come up with the same dumb plan—"
"Up," cuts in Felix abruptly, standing and brushing off his spoiled clothing. Sylvain manages to sit but it's with effort. Felix watches, grits his teeth, and then holds out a hand.
When Sylvain's upright again and leaning against him, his breath ghosts Felix's ear. "I've never said you didn't care."
Felix's face burns at the memory of his ill-timed confession earlier. "I'm this close to leaving you here."
Sylvain only laughs in response.
#
It's barely a camp, and Byleth looks like hell.
Sylvain's alive but barely standing, Felix dragging him along for the last half hour. He drops Sylvain to the ground, both of them filthy and exhausted.
"You're alive," says Byleth in bland observation. He hasn't changed much.
"Sylvain said something about how you should've known that."
"A logistical error," says Byleth simply. "Let's get him into a cot and you a warm meal." Then Byleth pauses, thinking. "Will you be leaving?"
Felix doesn't want to. It's a strange and foreign feeling that tugs at his heart, but it persists even when they've settled into a tent, Sylvain clean and in fresh clothes with his head resting on a camp pillow.
Felix sits beside him, a bowl of forgotten stew in his hand. Staring. Watching Sylvain's chest rise and fall. He's done his job; Sylvain's alive and well, and back with the Blue Lions. Felix should leave. But he doesn't move.
"You going to stare all night?" Sylvain's voice is hoarse.
"Just until I'm done with this," says Felix, staring at the bowl.
The tent is quiet and awkwardly tense. Then Sylvain says, "I'm the dumb one, aren't I?" Felix looks at him. Sylvain stares at the draped ceiling of the tent. "That's why you asked me to come with you all those years ago. It's because you loved me."
"I still love you," corrects Felix. There isn't a point in hiding it anymore. He's already said it and Sylvain definitely heard it, despite playing dead on the battlefield.
Sylvain chuckles until he remembers that it's a terrible idea. He groans pitifully. Silence falls again, but it's a little less unwieldy this time.
When Felix sets his bowl down and moves to stand, Sylvain reaches out and grabs his wrist. They both pause, waiting for the other to speak.
Sylvain does first. "Stay," he says.
Felix stays. Sits his butt right back down on the hard-packed earth and watches Sylvain.
"Felix, I—"
"I know." Sylvain's mouth snaps shut in surprise. Felix continues with, "And I'll stay."
Sylvain's thumb is warm against the cold skin of Felix's wrist. "We wasted a lot of time," says Sylvain. "But better late than never."
Felix feels like he's late to his own party, but Sylvain's right. Better late than never. "You utter fool," he says. But then he pulls Sylvain's hand close, resting his forehead against his knuckles. Tries not to cry because that isn't something that Felix does.
"Better a fool than a knave." Sylvain pauses. "Unless you want me to be a knave—"
Felix laughs, a genuine chuckle that rises from his throat. "I wouldn't change you." It's a soft whisper against Sylvain's hand.
Sylvain is the one that cries.
