He wears it like a shield.
It takes work and effort for Sylvain to wear proper gear out onto the field, but he welcomes the scar, which infuriates Felix more than he would ever admit.
That Gautier boy, they used to say, Pretty like the sunset. They used to wax poetically about his smile, and those bright, youthful eyes. The curls of his auburn hair, and that low and smooth voice that would spin just the right words.
It was always a show, but it was a show that worked.
Felix watches as people steer clear nowadays because Sylvain is no longer easy on the eyes. It is a jagged thing that spans his cheek, and down his throat, paired with a similar slash across his eyebrow. His hair hangs dirty and limp around his face, and his eyes are dead and cold.
War brings damage, but for Sylvain, it was always a struggle. He's been flawed at his core since the moment he was dumped down a well, and he learned what a broodmare was. Felix knows this better than anyone. He has been there in the trenches, by his side since he was toddling. And they've had their ups and downs but—
Well, the worst of circumstances bring people back together.
They are in the marketplace, and it is a quiet afternoon. Sylvain stands off to the side, haggling over a linen shirt. A woman spots him, smiling, looking pretty and keen in her fancy noble woman's dress. Likely on the prowl. And then he turns and she sees his face, and she cringes. Says some nasty words, fingers curled around her mouth as though it makes it proper.
"Hey," says Felix, his voice gruff. "Watch it."
The woman turns to him, brow raised. "A watchdog, then?" She laughs. "Perhaps you should have watched him better—he wouldn't look as though he's been hacked by a butcher."
Felix starts, hackles raised, preparing to launch at the woman. He doesn't care about propriety, doesn't care that he's a man and there are societal rules. This is war. "You—"
"Felix." Sylvain is quiet next to him.
"You're lucky," says Felix to the woman, "I'm too tired to entertain your idiocy any further." The woman looks offended, sniffs, and then walks off, uttering a soft curse underneath her breath.
"Testy," says Sylvain.
"You should have heard—"
"I did." Sylvain looks complacent, entirely unbothered. "Same as anyone else."
"They're—" Felix sighs, dragging a hand down his face. For once he isn't covered in dirt and grime. He's freshly showered, and wearing clean clothes. He doesn't smell like the back end of a horse, and neither does Sylvain, who is freshly shaven. Felix almost forgot what his face looks like, it's been so long since they've been in civilization.
Felix reaches out, curling his fingers around Sylvain's neck, pulling him closer. He doesn't care who sees, or who is watching. Sylvain dips low and presses their foreheads together. And they just stand there, soaking up the feel of each other.
"I hate it, how they don't see you."
Sylvain's face softens. "You do, though, and that's all I need."
It's a dumb, romantic thing to say. Felix hates that he loves how his heart trembles at it. Sylvain got this scar protecting him, because he's a pathetic idiot who's always had a death wish. Everyone else hates this scar, but to the two of them, it means everything.
"This scar is my love for you," whispers Sylvain against him, just quiet enough for Felix to hear. Well-worn words that only mean more as time passes. Felix's fingers slide across his shirt, gripping the soft linen.
People stare at them, lingering in the walkways.
Felix kisses him anyway.