Chapter Text
To the senses, war is so easily consumable. The sickly tang of blood, thick against the tongue. The reverberation of weapons clashing against one another, the awful din of commanders barking military commands, mixed with the barbed wails of the dying. So much is documented on the art of war - tales of legendary battles passed down from generation to generation, countless books documenting strategies and conflicts.
Peace is not so visible.
The cracked stone feels cool beneath Felix’s hands as he lowers himself down onto the steps, a welcome contrast to the close air inside the banqueting hall that he has just escaped from. Though judging by the sight that greets him in the open air, it seems that however far he runs he could not escape the festivities. Even outside, the warm light of the street lamps bathes the faces of dozens of merrymakers in amber as they clustered in groups outside of taverns, celebrating the end of the war. The music, the cheering, the laughter - it all blends into an oppressive roar, eddying and crashing into Felix’s eardrums. The clamour of celebrations had started early, and were only growing louder across Enbarr as the night drew on. Throughout Fodlan, the people were celebrating the end of the war, but the Fraldarius heir did not share in their joy, insteading feeling numb to the victory celebrations. How could these people so easily adjust and make merry, after five years of ceaseless bloodshed?
Felix inhales sharply, swallowing the night air. His hands fall limply to either side of him, and reel suddenly when he feels something unexpected against his wrist. He flinches instinctively. Felix had spent so many nights lying awake in his home territory or lying awake on the roadside, attuned to every sound, every rustle - ready for invasion or assassination.
He glances down to see what had caused him to jump, and realises it is nothing that can hurt him. Physically, anyway. His eyes fixate upon the remnants of a military flag, lying torn and tattered at his flank. Thin tendrils shiver in the wind, and Felix sees the shreds of the fabric responsible for tickling his skin. He picks it up, twisting the torn fabric between his fingertips. In the centre, printed upon the flag, is the all familiar vulpine golden sigil that had haunted Felix’s every step for five long years. The painted eagle was bruised with blood - the Empire’s former glory was a mere echo now.
How quickly everything had changed. Felix had watched his former classmates die. He had watched their blood stain the streets of their homeland, and only twelve hours later people were staining their lips with wine of the very same colour.
He places the imperial banner down gently next to him, immune to the blood that had soaked into his fingertips from the fabric. Nothing new. The thought of a life where he didn’t have to wash his hands of blood each night and scrape the mud and dirt of the battlefield from his boots was a foreign concept to Felix.
Since the bells had pierced the dawn air the previous morning, signifying the Kingdom’s victory and the end of the war, Felix had entered a trance of some sorts. He felt submerged, his senses numbed. For so long, he had been pretending. Ever since that fateful day, only weeks after his thirteenth birthday, he had begun to shovel dirt over his own emotions. As time passed him by, eventually they were entirely buried. Felix prefers it that way. After all, the dead were gone. There was no point wasting time dwelling on them.
During the past five years, Felix had been building up an immunity to grief and loss - after all, the battlefield was no place for someone who was emotional. The war had forced even the kindest of his classmates to become hardened killers. His own loss of innocence had helped him to adapt to the war fast. Throughout all those countless, sleepless nights spent in makeshift tents, maintaining weapons and scrubbing the blood from his fingernails, Felix had felt next to nothing.
Everyone and everything he had lost, he had buried deep beneath his cold facade. But now? Now that the war is over? Well, what excuse did he have to keep his emotions hidden away? He had nothing to train for; nothing to aim towards. He had spent his entire life devoted to becoming a better swordsman. In peacetime, what was he worth? He could feel his grievances beginning to writhe beneath the earth, their bony fingers cracking through the dirt, clawing towards him. After so long buried, they were finally coming back to haunt him.
Perhaps death would have been easier than this. A warm breeze ripples through the air, pressing against his skin. The air is clammy - the weather was always unpredictable during the Verdant Rain moon, and the changing pressure in the air signals a storm was brewing. Before long, the streets of Enbarr would be cleansed by summer rain - any trace of his former classmates would be gone for good, washed away. Just another footnote in the history books. In the back of this throat, he tasted the thick bite of bile rising inside of him.
Pull yourself together. A voice in his head; is it his? It sounds familiar: a ghostly imprint of a voice. However hard Felix tries to place it, he can’t. His mind is spinning, his thoughts jumbled. Yet, whoever it was - they were right. This was not who he was. He was forged from steel, after all. Blades, blood, battle. They ran through his veins.
The abrupt touch of a palm pressing against his shoulder shocks Felix from his scrambled, panicked thoughts. He jumps up, whipping around so fast that his feet lost balance, and he stumbled down the steps. His hand fastens to the hilt of his sword, rapid and instinctive. He had perfected that singular, smooth motion. Ever since he was thirteen, he had awoken with a jolt on countless nights coated in a cold sweat, his fingertips darting beneath his pillow and clasping the handle of a hidden blade.
“Whoa, Felix. It’s me.”
Sylvain . His arms areraised in surrender, and an expression of concern is painted on that stupid face of his. Felix flexes his hands, permitting himself to relax slightly. What was wrong with him? How could he have kept his guard down? He hadn’t even heard Sylvain approaching.
If that had been an enemy -
What enemy? The war was over. Felix feels himself deflate as he collapses back down onto the steps, rubbing his clammy hands across his face in a futile attempt to cleanse himself of the intumescent consternation inside of him.
“Wow. No biting remark? No scathing insults?” Sylvain asks, standing over Felix. “Who are you, and what have you done with Felix Fraldarius?”
Felix turns slightly, stealing a glance at the redhead standing behind him from beneath narrowed eyelids. Whilst Felix hadn’t changed clothes since the Kingdom army had seized Enbarr and stormed the castle, Sylvain now donned casual clothing - a loose fitting shirt and slacks. No weapon in sight. Felix almost hadn’t recognised the human that was standing before him and cracking wise. He had grown so accustomed to the appearance of armour. Metal had become a second skin to both Felix and the rest of his comrades, so it felt bizarre to see Sylvain like this again. The broad, muscular shape of his arms were barely hidden by a thin layer of white fabric. He donned a loose-fitting and collarless shirt which hung in baggy waves across his frame; whoever’s shirt it was, it wasn’t Sylvain’s. Not that Felix would know, of course.
Sylvain had shoved up the ill-fitting sleeves up haphazardly in an attempt to make it fit better. His toned forearms are exposed, revealing muscle and vein. Felix’s eyes lingers a fraction longer on his friend’s figure, before snapping away his gaze. He’d looked long enough to notice that Sylvain’s neck was flushed red - almost the same hue as his hair. It always did that when he had been drinking.
Upon being met with more silence, Sylvain speaks again, softer this time. “Felix? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Felix murmurs, tearing his eyes away from Sylvain’s body.
Sylvain seems to accept this response as an invitation, positioning himself on the step above Felix’s, stretching his legs out and leaning back on his elbows, drinking in the hubbub of the city streets.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” Sylvain says softly.
“Well, you seem to have adjusted to peacetime rather quickly,” Felix responds pointedly, nodding to the flute of champagne that Sylvain had placed beside him. “If I knew any better I’d say you were drunk already.”
Sylvain leans forward, elbowing Felix in the side and offering him a lopsided grin. “Well, I’m allowed to celebrate, aren’t I?”
Felix purses his lips together, running a hand through his hair. He often battled with the notion of whether being friends with Sylvain Jose Gautier since childhood was a curse or a blessing. Despite the daily frustration that Sylvain caused him, he knows Sylvain better than anyone, and that means being able to read nearly all of his tells whether he likes it or not. Sylvain could grin innocently at Felix all he wanted, but his eyes always betrayed him.
“You’re not drinking to celebrate.”
A humourless laugh escapes from Sylvain’s lips, and he rubs a hand across his forehead in defeat.
“Man, do I feel like a ghost sometimes. You always see right through me,” he resigns, a sigh escaping from his reddened lips. The more Sylvain talks, the more Felix began to realise how intoxicated Sylvain was. His words betray his inebriation, slurred and unfocused. They always had done.
“Well. I’ve known you long enough, haven’t I?” Felix mutters back with a grimace.
“For all your sins,” Another one of Sylvain’s hollow laughs echoes across the courtyard. Felix breathed out a small laugh of concession, watching Sylvain’s boots as he taps them together in lucid movements, his limbs seemingly loose and unsteady from the celebratory wine that courses through his bloodstream. Sylvain lifted the glass to his lips, swallowing a messy gulp of champagne. Felix notices that he didn’t stop to savour the taste of Enbarr’s finest. He was drinking to finish the glass. Felix studies Sylvain for a moment, long enough to see the tip of Sylvain’s tongue, stained with remnants of another reddish drink, dart out and wipe the sheen of champagne that coated his lip.
“Like what you see?” Sylvain’s voice catches him off guard, and Felix tears his gaze from his friend’s mouth, his eyes meeting with Sylvain’s. His copper coloured eyes glint with some hidden amusement now as he studies Felix.
“What? No!” Felix hears himself say, responding so fast that it doesn’t even sound like himself. He brings his hands to his knees, clutching at himself defensively and not meeting his flame-haired companion in the eye. Sylvain shakes his head, and laughs.
“Well, yeah. You’re right. I’m not drinking to celebrate,” Sylvain continued, seemingly abandoning his former, vaguely flirtatious line of enquiry. Felix stared ahead, silent for a few moments.
“What is there to celebrate?” Sylvain added, and his voice was hollow. Felix’s head hung low. “I’m here, I’m alive. I’m drinking the best alcohol in the continent. Dimitri is King, and face it - probably going to marry Byleth any day now. Did you see the way they were looking at each other back in there?” He gestured vaguely behind him, back towards the open doors. Warmth spilled out from the mahogany gates, occasionally interrupted by shadows of silhouettes dancing.
Eventually, Felix looks up at Sylvain, wanting to know where Sylvain was heading with his monologue.
“And now we’re just supposed to go back to our territories and govern. Little Lord Felix and Little Margrave Sylvain, playing dress-up as nobles with their fancy houses and fancier wives.” Sylvain’s voice grows bitter now, and Felix can’t deny his surprise at Sylvain’s candour.
“Our friends died, out there. I killed them, Felix. We both did,” Sylvain’s voice cracks, and he reaches out for Felix’s hand. His palm is sweaty, and his fingers are shaking. “You know, it’s fucking terrible, Felix, but sometimes I wonder if they got the better deal.”
“Shut up, Sylvain,” Felix snaps, even though he had been thinking nearly the same thing. Despite his words, his fingers curl around Sylvain’s own and holds them tightly.
“I know. I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair,” Sylvain admits, and removes his hand from Felix’s to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. His cheeks are stained with tears, and Felix doesn’t look for too long. Felix feels a lump at the back of his throat, as he always does when he sees Sylvain cry. It’s thick, about the size of a plum stone, and feels as hard and ugly as one too. He tries to swallow it, but it won’t go.
Sylvain continues, “I just - I don’t know how I’m going to go back home. I don’t know if I can live like that. How can I get married, and have children? When they never got the opportunity to? I don’t want it.” His probes are desperate now, and Felix can’t provide the answers.
“So what do you want?” Felix asks solemnly, still turned away from Sylvain. He’s staring at two merrymakers, kissing beneath one of the street lamps. The man’s hand clutches at the handle of a tabard of ale, the other hand on the back of the woman’s head. As their kiss intensifies, he drops his drink, and the amber contents slosh onto the floor. Felix hasn’t even kissed a woman before, and thinking about it makes him feel nauseous. Sylvain was right, even if Felix doesn’t want to admit it. How can he take up a wife? And produce heirs? He didn’t know the first thing about anything.
In the silent spaces between their words, the jaunty melody of a violin floats out from the banquet hall. “What do you want, Sylvain?” Felix asks again, when he becomes conscious that Sylvain still hasn’t responded. His words don’t even feel connected to his body. After more silence, Felix looks behind him. He is sure that Sylvain hasn’t moved since he didn’t hear him - but then again, nothing has felt real for Felix today since the bells chimed out and sounded at the end of the war.
But Sylvain doesn’t speak. Instead, he raises his hand, still wet from where he had dried his tears, and places it on Felix’s cheek. Although Felix hasn’t touched a droplet of alcohol tonight, Sylvain’s face is blurry. He’s like a mirage. Like he isn’t there.
But he was. He was there. Painfully fucking so. “Felix,” Sylvain whispers, so weakly he sounds akin to an injured animal. Felix feels a surge of anger, and he wants to unsheathe his sword and plunge his blade into Sylvain’s heart to put him out of his misery. He ignores the heat rising to his cheekbones, afraid that if he acknowledges it, it will burn straight through Sylvain’s palm.
“Sylvain,” Felix murmurs, gritting his teeth. The two of them sit like that for several, pounding heartbeats until their trance is broken by an all too-familiar voice.
“I wondered where you two had gone!” Ingrid materialises behind them, and Felix bolts upright. He is unsure if she saw anything between them, but she sways slightly and Felix hopes she is too drunk to process anything. Sylvain doesn’t turn immediately, his hand still suspended in mid-air, palming at the air that only seconds ago had been Felix. Ingrid bounces forward, a slight sway to her steps. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and her pale complexion is blotchy.
“I’m out of breath! Dorothea wouldn’t let me stop dancing, and I couldn’t even remember all the steps because it had been so long since I’ve danced,” Ingrid laughs loudly. She places her hands on her hips as she inhales sharply, filling her lungs with cool air.
“Not heard that for a while,” Sylvain remarks, suddenly present, and confusion flickers across Ingrid’s face. He elaborates, “Your laugh, Ingrid. I can’t remember the last time I heard you laugh.” He stands, takes Ingrid’s hands in his own, a wide smile spreading across his face. His eyes are dry, his voice is cheery. Felix’s eyes flicker down at the two of their hands, and he sees their fingers intertwined.
Ingrid is flustered, “Well - you know - I just thought I would let myself have this one night. I’ll be back on duty tomorrow, of course. We have so many things to clean-up and sort out! And don’t think you can slack off either, Sylvain. Just because we’ve won, doesn’t m-”
Sylvain presses a finger to Ingrid’s lips to shut her up, much to her obvious chagrin. Felix feels his body tense.
“I know. You don’t need to explain anything to me, my dear. You deserve a dance,” he smiles. “Come on, before Dorothea sends out a search party to find you. Sometimes I wonder if that woman joined our side purely because of you,” Sylvain jests. The two of them depart, still hand in hand like children, until they disappear back into the banquet hall. Felix follows for a few paces, enough for him to be close enough to see them begin to dance together. Sylvain twirls her around at the wrong time, and both of them laugh at how out of practice they are. Felix watches until he feels too sick to carry on.
So this is peacetime, Felix thinks to himself.
That night, Felix will not return to the festivities in the banquet hall. He will not hear the King of Faerghus announce his engagement to Byleth. He will not hear Ashe’s celebratory speech that will go on to be talked about at every banquet for years to come. Instead he will walk home by himself, skimming stones along the river for a while. He will think of Sylvain, Margrave Gautier, stepping out from a cathedral with a bride dressed in white. He will think of Glenn, and his father.
And he will not realise he is crying, stopping only when he falls asleep.