Sylvain tears through their enemies like they're parchment paper.

He's a hulking thing, swathed in reddish fur and fangs, long and dripping in saliva. He darts across the field in a ginger blur, picking apart bandit after bandit. Crimson stains his maw red as he bites and rips, another falling at his behest.

Felix could watch him forever. He stares, his eyes blazing as his gaze hones in on Sylvain and drinks in his hulking form.

They say that Sylvain's crest means death. Those in his family have always been harbingers of the end on the field, and he's no exception. But Felix loves it, loves this man, this cruel angel of death. There's a method to his madness. He has two forms like this: one that's a wolf, canine and cunning, and one that's more middling, bipedal, a mixture of lupine and man. He's in the former, which allows him quick access when he picks his way across corpses. Raw power hides in those powerful shoulders.

He's relieved that they're on the same side.

"Felix!" barks Sylvain once he's in earshot.

He nearly misses the lance, so lost in his rapture as he watches Sylvain, who's like a God of war. Felix reacts immediately, sword slicing through the air and catching the tip of the lance before it can dig into the meat of his shoulder.

Close call.

Felix grunts as he pushes the bandit back. Their weapons hook together as the parry, back and forth over the muddy, wet ground. Sweat stings his eyes. The cut on his cheek burns. But Felix pushes on, his sword arcing out, an extension of his arm.

It's like a dance; they circle about and meet blow after blow. Usually, his enemies are dead now, but this one's stupidly fast.

Or maybe Felix is tired and slow. He won't last much longer.

He doesn't have to.

Sylvain comes out of nowhere, like a hound out of hell, and takes the head of the bandit with him.

"That's the last of them," he barks, heaving shallow and heavy breaths.

Thank the Goddess, Felix thinks, before falling to his knees in exhaustion.

They take a few moments to catch their breath, after having been caught unaware by bandits. They aren't usually out alone, but it's just their luck. Felix's shoulder already aches after being wrenched, and hollowness settles in his gut.

Later, they find a spot to settle into. Felix sets about lighting a fire, while Sylvain turns back into a man to bathe in a stream. It's a cold night, a little too chilly to be so exposed— but Felix won't pitch a tent. They can remain more aware under the open stars.

When Sylvain comes back naked, Felix stares. And he keeps staring when Sylvain's form melts into that of a beast instead, warm and inviting. Perfect for the night.

"You smell like wet dog," says Felix, annoyed. But he still tucks himself close to Sylvain's side.

"Shush," says Sylvain, a low rumble in his throat. Felix feels the vibration of it through his back, as Sylvain wraps around him.

"Blood," he murmurs, picking a splotch leftover on his skin.

"I mostly rinsed my face." A pause, and then his voice pitches lower, "And the important parts."

"No."

Sylvain huffs. "Can't blame a man for trying."

Truthfully, Felix wants. Felix wants, and he yearns, and he'd give anything to just sink into the feel of Sylvain and lose himself enitrely— but this isn't a night for that. It's too quiet; the kind that settles in the aftermath of a battle.

Sylvain rolls over onto his back, rubbing his shoulders against the dusty ground, trying to get to an itch that he can't reach. He looks ridiculous, his tongue lolling out as he drools slightly.

But Felix is endeared. He snorts, and then chuckles, a short little laugh. Sylvain pauses and a wide, golden eye finds him.

"Are you laughing?"

"Yes," says Felix, "You look ridiculous. Like an absolute lout."

Sylvain rolls back over and moves, pressing his snout close to his face. Felix is already batting him away, pushing and pushing— but Sylvain manages to lick a long stripe up the side of the face.

Felix doesn't get angry, he just looks disgusted. But then, his fingers curl into the soft fur around Sylvain's neck, and he pulls him closer. He buries his face into Sylvain's scruff, and inhales that terrible, mangy dog smell.

Sylvain is quiet for a moment, and then he says, "That was close, today, Felix."

"You were distracting." Felix's words are stifled by his fur. "I couldn't stop watching you."

"You can watch me anytime." Sylvain's voice is quiet and hesitant. "But I can't always save you. I'm a bringer of death, Felix, you know this."

Sylvain's only brought him life. Felix wonders if he realizes that, if he understands how much he lives within his heart. War is a tricky and brutal thing, but it's eased part-way by the trust and stubborn love that they have in each other.

"I love you," murmurs Felix against him. Stinky, dingy fur and all.

Sylvain shifts, nosing at his face again. The tip of his snout is cold against his cheek, but Felix doesn't push him off, he just curls his fingers into his fur and pulls at it tight. He presses their foreheads together and they just stay there like that, soaking up each other's presence— if only for a moment.

"Yeah," says Sylvain softly, "Yeah I know."

They settle back in, nestled next to the fire. Sylvain wraps himself around Felix, like he's an oversized, wolf-fur cloak. Felix hums quietly as he watches the glow of the fire, his fingers scratching idly through Sylvain's crimson-stained fur.

It's quiet. The brush rustles with fauna, and the moon is bright overtop.

He allows himself the moment of peace.