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Felix, Dimitri’s letter reads. I miss you by my side.
Your countenance may be described as many to be cold, but it is colder here, without your presence.
Sylvain’s blood is ice in his veins.
Dedue has taken up your spot by my right in your absence, and he would like to assure Duke Fraldarius that all my blind spots are covered. I would not have thought him a joking man, but it seems like marriage has changed him in that respect.
He fights to not clench his hand and crease the paper; this letter was obviously not meant for him to discover. As is Felix’s reply, unsealed, hidden in a drawer and under tax reports Sylvain had no reason to touch nor read until recently.
Dimitri.
Quick updates on—(an update on state matters; this, Sylvain skims over)—The castle walls echo less without your boarish stampeding.
Awaiting the call that signals your return. I"ll be the first to meet you as you ride in on your horse.
Take care of yourself. It’s colder without you here as well.
Felix’s sword had broken during a battle once. He was still better-guarded then than he is now, on paper for no-one but Dimitri to see.
So much of Felix—from how he currently lives to the reason he still carries a sharp blade—is inextricably tied up in Dimitri.
“I’m going to continue training to become the best swordsman the Kingdom has ever seen,” he says.
“Nobody will be able to touch Dimitri with me by his side,” everyone else hears.
When Sylvain looks back on things, it’s obvious in hindsight they’d been building up to this for a while. Felix had been a lot nicer to Dimitri after the war, but he’d assumed it was just Felix being less uptight from getting fucked well on a regular basis.
The idea of Dimitri and Felix always seemed impossible, especially with what they’d put each other through over the years. Besides, he and Felix were still having really good sex.
As if that meant fuck-all in the grand scheme of things.
Dimitri touches Felix’s wrist to get his attention and Sylvain watches his hand linger, caressing the bone of it. That same hand would hover over the small of Felix’s back as the King and his retinue made their way to Mercedes and Dedue’s school.
The half-smile on Felix’s face as he witnesses his King smothered in children is a fraction higher than the one he’d give to him, sleep-soft and orgasm-lax in their bed. His tone with Dimitri is different; softer and more affectionate than the one he’d taken with him during their Academy days and the war itself.
Did Felix think of Dimitri when Sylvain fucked him? When he was under him, making little fucked-out grunts with every thrust, Sylvain with one hand on his hip and the other on his neck, you said you’d choke me, so do it, you fucking shithead.
Would they fuck like that or make love—that sounds more like Dimitri"s thing, now that he thinks about it. Gazing into Felix’s eyes as he worships his body. Bringing him off with his mouth before he’d even think about getting his cock in, thrusting slow and sweet and gentle.
This was probably not a good time to get hard. He shifts in his seat, adjusting himself as discreetly as possible.
Felix and Dimitri sit on small wooden chairs not meant for men their height, animatedly debating something while the child between them looks on, amused. It tugs at Dimitri’s hair, hands reaching for his eyepatch before Felix gently guides them away and scolds it in a low tone.
“How have you been doing lately, Sylvain?” Mercedes asks as she pours them both a cup of tea.
“I"m fine.” He"s trying to smile, but he thinks it comes out more as a grimace.
“And how have things been, with Felix?”
He pauses, maybe a moment too long, before looking her in the eye. “Never better.”
Her gaze turns to where Sylvain"s had been and back to him, the look in her eyes pitying.
“I"m glad to hear that.”
Dimitri looks besotted. Sylvain shifts in his seat again as he and Mercedes sip at their tea, still throbbing in his pants.
Felix’s eyes are shut as he rides Sylvain, chasing his own pleasure. He urges Sylvain’s hand to his waist and lets out an unsatisfied sound when it ends up lower than where he’d wanted it.
He yanks it up—up to where Sylvain knows Dimitri had gripped tight, from when he’d helped Felix onto his horse earlier that day. He’s always watching them now. Dimitri’s gloved hand had lingered.
He tightens his grip and Felix sighs high, clenches around his cock, and paints Sylvain’s stomach with his seed.
Sylvain’s hips fuck up once, twice, and comes so hard he almost passes out.
A memory, from shortly after they get together:
Felix in court—according to giggling ladies and lords with certain tastes—is a beautiful creature. A sight for sore eyes, mind and words as sharp as the blade he still wields in peacetime.
Sylvain just thinks he"s sexy. Like he is now, as he’s commanding the room and talking about monetary policy.
“You’re so sexy,” Sylvain tells him as much later, as he sucks a bruise into Felix’s shoulder.
“We can’t do this, I’ve got something to get done by morning—” Sylvain ignores Felix, hand groping between his legs and pressing against the growing hardness there. Felix only has himself to blame for being so fucking hot.
He’d never thought taxation could make him so horny.
“It’s fine, you can do it tomorrow,” he moans, laving his tongue over the bruise. “Dimitri will understand.”
Felix yanks his head away from his shoulder, hard. Sylvain yelps—he’s pretty sure he lost some hair from that—and makes eye contact with Felix, his expression glowering.
“Don’t bring him up when you’re trying to fuck me,” he hisses, and pushes Sylvain down, until his face is level with the bulge in Felix’s trousers.
What a fucking hypocrite.
They aren’t even fucking, which is what he doesn’t understand. Fucking, Sylvain gets—Dimitri’s hot as hell and would be a beast in bed, and wanting to stick one’s dick in Felix is a feeling he’s intimately familiar with.
But they’re content with gazing at each other longingly when the other isn’t looking. Content with playing at being together, without actually committing to anything. Even something as simple as cheating.
He wouldn’t have minded sharing Felix with Dimitri, if Felix had decided he wanted to split his affections between the both of them. He"d have happily taken any scraps Felix threw his way.
As they are now, it would be like sharing his food with someone determined to die of hunger.
Felix would continue to be happy playing house with Dimitri while fucking Sylvain, and Dimitri would never dare to coax Felix away when all he could offer him was a half-life together, bed and future shared with a faceless bride.
A fucking waste on his own part.
The months leading up to the peace talks with Sreng are some of the busiest Sylvain has been since the war; he advises Dimitri on the agenda, goes over talking points with him and Felix and debates with Felix on the budget.
That last point proves trickier than expected; Felix is like a miserly wife with control of her husband’s purse strings, except the purse strings are the Kingdom’s coffers.
He spends less time with him, even as they share a bed. He doesn’t think Felix even realises—too fucking preoccupied with Dimitri during the day, in any case. Sylvain would be more bitter about it if it didn’t interfere with badly-needed sleep.
In addition to everything, he has to plan a tourney to kick the entire thing off. It’d be different from the ones usually held in Faerghus: as per Sreng tradition, spouses of prominent members of the court would engage in duel, champions of the nobility they served.
Sylvain explained to the court it’d originated from the belief that rulers were only regarded as strong when they managed to win the affection of a fearsome warrior. That a noble with a winning partner would have their mettle raised in the peoples’ eyes.
“But I have neither a spouse nor a betrothed,” Dimitri laughs, when Gilbert cautiously presses the fact that it would be good for him to have a representative as King. How it would help to set the tone for the rest of the talks, if she won.
“Can we not do without? I don’t see how it would be possible to arrange a betrothal in a week.”
“What about Your Majesty"s friends? Lady Galatea—”
“Call for Ingrid, and open her up to talk that would taint her knighthood? I would rather not.”
“What about Felix?” Byleth asks. Sylvain’s not sure why they’re here; this matter doesn’t even concern the Archbishop. “He holds Dimitri’s affection as a friend and is a partner in matters of state, as well as a fearsome warrior.”
“But Duke Fraldarius is a man,” someone protests.
“Felix is not my—” Dimitri starts, and is interrupted.
“Felix can speak for himself. I will do it.”
The set of Felix’s jaw is firm. Sylvain watches confusion and happy surprise flit across Dimitri’s face before he tamps it down into a genial mask.
“Felix, are you sure about this?” His voice is low and gentle as his gaze flickers over to Sylvain, apologetic.
“Is your hearing—” Felix cuts himself off mid-sentence, corrects it into something a little less harsh. “I said I’d do it, so I will. Yes, I’ll represent you.”
His relationship with Felix is not a secret in court, and this—Felix championing for Dimitri in a tourney traditionally involving a noble’s wife or partner—would open them up to talk.
The servants respect Dimitri far too much to do so, especially around the three of them. Others definitely would, however, and Sylvain finds himself dreading it.
He takes Felix extra forcefully that night, Felix on his hands and knees on the floor when Sylvain hadn’t allowed them to make it to the bed, his skin rubbed raw from how hard Sylvain drives into him.
Felix is before him, but Sylvain’s thinking of Dimitri’s face when Felix had said yes.
He’d called them both to his study after, apologising to Sylvain for taking Felix as his own (and oh, how the both of them had reacted to that). Then he’d expressed his gratitude and assured Felix that you needn’t feel pressured to do so, who in turn snapped at him to shut up and to leave it at that.
He called for Sylvain to follow him as he stormed out, not quite effectively hiding his glowering face. Sylvain doesn’t miss Dimitri’s fond smile at Felix’s back as he turns to leave.
From under him, Felix grabs his hand and directs it to his cock. Sylvain jerks him off in time with his own thrusts, his hips and fist speeding up, chasing the heat of Felix’s body while his mind spurs him on with the memory of feeling like an impostor in his own relationship.
Felix wins the tourney, living up to his name as the Kingdom’s best swordsman and a feared and respected warrior. There was no doubt to it, although the wife of the head emissary put up a good fight—and the tourney concludes with the visiting Sreng court suitably impressed with him and Dimitri.
Seteth finds Sylvain that night during the opening banquet and congratulates him on a job well done, and how it was a stroke of genius, on his part, to allow Felix to be Dimitri’s champion.
The visiting nobles and envoys swarm to make conversation with Dimitri, Felix by his side. Sylvain forces himself to maintain his smile as he’s pulled into a conversation with two Alliance ladies, wanting to congratulate the Margrave Gautier on a tourney well-planned and wishing him luck with the talks that would begin the next day.
The conversation, as it does when between two females, turns to the topic of men. Specifically, about how good Felix and Dimitri look together.
“If the Duke Fraldarius were a Duchess, there would be no question as to who would be Queen,” one of them exclaims, gloved hand raised to cover her mouth.
Felix looked beautiful, as he always did. He’d allowed his hair to grow out after the war; it currently sits in a low tail, not unlike how Glenn used to wear his. The ribbon holding it together is Blaiddyd blue—a favor from Dimitri, for his champion. The colour of it matches Dimitri’s cape.
Dimitri’s hair shines bright in the glow of lamplight, half-up in the style he prefers these days. His hand is once again hovering over the small of Felix’s back, not quite touching.
“Good thing for you that he isn’t, then.” Her companion giggles. “Do you think the Margrave would grant us the pleasure of introducing us to His Majesty?”
“Maybe not tonight, he does seem busier than usual,” if hovering over Felix and making cow eyes at him counted as that, “and I do think I’m being summoned, so if you’ll excuse me,” he says, raising a hand to part through them.
In the past, Sylvain would’ve entertained the idea. Or tried to coax one—both, if he was feeling lucky—into his bed.
The sight of them now, powdered faces, rouged lips and cheeks, smiling up at him—it makes him sick.
The rest of the night follows in a similar fashion; lords and ladies, nobles and their ilk approaching Sylvain to gush about a job well done, to praise King Dimitri’s choice in him as a member of his court. And always, without fucking fail, to comment on how generous Sylvain was, to not mind Felix championing for Dimitri. As if Felix was not his own person.
As if Sylvain had any say in the matter.
“I wish they’d let me use my own fucking sword,” Felix grumbles later, in Sylvain’s chambers as they’re getting ready to retire. “The stupid, shitty one they’d insisted on for ceremonial purposes badly needed a repair, but they wouldn’t budge even after Dimitri pointed out that it was blunter than a training sword.”
Sylvain grunts in reply as he divests himself of his boots. He’s still on edge from the entire night and loose from too much drink—an extremely bad combination, from previous experience. He hopes he doesn’t say or do anything he might regret.
Felix picks at the ribbon in his hair, the blue of it stark against deep black. “Ceremonial my ass, I would’ve looked like a fool if I lost with it. Dimitri agrees with me.”
Sylvain moves over to Felix, pulling the ribbon free and letting it drop on the vanity—previously unused by himself, summarily appropriated by Felix when he gave up pretending he wasn’t spending more nights in Sylvain’s rooms than his own.
He starts on the laces of Felix’s shirt. “I’m sure he did,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss behind his ear. “You looked beautiful tonight, you know.”
Felix snorts, moving into Sylvain’s space and working his jacket down his shoulders. “Quit it.” Still so unused to compliments, after all this time.
Sylvain reaches towards his face, tugs at a strand of hair with a finger. “You were. I’m sure Dimitri would say the same to anyone who asked.”
“I doubt the boar would think it, let alone say it,” Felix says, voice flat. The jacket is off, now. He walks towards the vanity and seats himself, glaring at Sylvain. “And hand me that bottle of hair oil.”
“All I’m saying,” Sylvain picks it up and walks over to him, “is that you looked beautiful tonight, and given how the both of you were together the entire night, I’m sure Dimitri noticed as well.”
His grip on the bottle tightens. Felix"s been using it for a while, but it’s only now that he recognises it as the same one Dimitri had gotten during his official visit to the local marketplace a few months prior.
Sylvain had been his escort then—Felix waylaid by Dukedom duties—and they’d spent a not inconsiderable amount of time at an apothecary smelling the various oils on display.
Dimitri was very insistent on hearing Sylvain’s opinion on everything; he’d assumed it was Dimitri being Dimitri and wanting to be fair about giving each scent careful consideration. That, or delaying their return to the castle.
Felix yanks the bottle from his grip and uncorks it, daubing his palms with oil and smoothing them over his hair. He works it in, in meticulous sections. Sylvain clenches his fist; that was exactly how the shopkeeper had done so when demonstrating its use to Dimitri.
“Dimitri and I were both occupied with matters of diplomacy. I hardly think he would’ve had the time to focus on how anyone looked.”
“Are you being purposefully obtuse?” Sylvain snaps.
Felix holds his gaze through the mirror, eyes blazing in the low light. “If you have something to say, spit it out.”
“You’re not stupid, Felix. I’m sure you know how he looks at you. How he acts around you like a lovesick puppy. He couldn’t keep his hands off you the entire night.”
“Shut up,” Felix hisses. There’s a tremble in his hands, barely noticeable as he clutches the edge of the vanity. “You’re seeing things that aren’t there. Dimitri’s always been like that.”
He’s angry. Sylvain can work with anger.
“Dimitri loved it, didn’t he? Putting that ribbon in your hair. Putting you in his colours and marking you as his. He could’ve just pissed all over you like a fucking dog and it wouldn’t have made a difference.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The tremble has spread to the rest of Felix’s body, anger he’s still trying to keep contained. “What the fuck are you trying to get at?”
“Do you know what people say, Felix? About the both of you?” Felix doesn’t reply to that, lips drawn tight. As if his silence would make Sylvain go away.
“You don’t mind, don’t you,” Sylvain laughs, bitter. “In fact, you fucking love it, because you’ve always been half in love with him. How does it feel, playing at being his wife? Is it as fun as little baby Felix had dreamed?”
Felix’s face is bone-white to match his fingers. “Why are you doing this?”
“That’s the question I should be asking you, shouldn’t I.”
Sylvain lies alone in their bed. Felix had immediately redressed and said he would be in his own rooms until Sylvain came to his senses.
He’d tied his hair back up with the blue ribbon. It had trailed in his stead as he stormed out.
Sylvain doesn"t get Felix"s inability to grant him the courtesy of not lying directly to his face, when they both know he would have gone to Dimitri; Dimitri, who"d always been better at comforting him than anyone else.
Would Dimitri have told Felix to stay with him, that night? Would they have shared a bed, facing each other from the separate ends of Dimitri’s four-poster, staring at each other as if the distance separating them was not of an arm’s length but instead a chasm?
Sylvain slips a hand beneath his sleep pants and jerks himself off. How the hell is he still hard at a time like this?
Sylvain doesn’t think it’s normal at all, getting hard at inappropriate and inopportune moments whenever he thinks about—whatever Dimitri and Felix are getting up to.
“Is it normal?” he’d asked Dorothea, when she’d invited him out to share a meal. They’re too far past the point of inebriation to worry about petty things like propriety.
She hums, the swell of her chest mesmerising as they move with her breaths. “Yeah, this soprano, Tatianna—she’s mentioned something like that. She brings men home and has them fuck her in her marital bed while her husband hides behind a curtain. Says he practically explodes when the men talk about how his sagging old rod could hope to pleasure her.”
Sylvain contemplates it. The thought of Dimitri dismissing his sexual prowess only makes him feel offended. He’s sure he fucks way better than their King, a wholly untried man—he knows, he checked—who only knows how to moon at Felix from afar.
That last thought made his dick twitch. So, probably not what Dorothea’s describing.
“I don’t think it is,” he huffs, polishing off the last dregs of mead in his tankard and standing. “In any case, it’s getting late. Shall I escort you back to your quarters?”
Dorothea flutters up at him, accepting the elbow he’d proffered. “Only because it’s you, and I know you’d never try anything.”
Sylvain’s laugh takes him by surprise. Yeah, he’s not the one in the relationship who would be trying anything.
He and Felix don’t do apologies. They have sex and spar, but they’re not people who talk, and it’s worked out fine so far.
This warrants something different.
“I’m sorry, I was out of line,” he says, pressing a kiss to the back of Felix’s neck as he slips into his bed.
It’s easier like this, under the cover of darkness, not a stitch of clothing separating them. If it was under any other circumstance, Felix would’ve found his apologising fucking hilarious.
“I overreacted.” The sting of having to grovel for something that wasn’t even his fault bites at him, but he missed Felix. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
Beneath his arm, Felix inhales. Exhales. Takes a moment to gather himself, then turns around and presses a tentative kiss to his jaw.
“You have nothing to be worried about,” he murmurs into it. “Dimitri and I are just friends. That’s all there is to it.” It’d be believable if he’d managed to sound a little less sad.
Felix mouths down his neck. “I warm your bed, and your cock—” he punctuates this by gripping Sylvain over his nightclothes, “is the one I receive at night. Not anyone else’s.”
He’s a fool, willingly blinded by his own affection.
“I don’t care if you’re half in love with Dimitri,” he whispers later, when he thinks Felix is asleep. You never know, with him. “You’re with me. You know nothing would ever come of loving him.”
He’s always been a little cruel.
“And the kingdom will need an heir.”
It all comes to a head again when Dimitri is pushed to take a wife, with the implication of procuring an heir to secure his reign.
He is taken aback, as is Sylvain—neither thought it would be addressed this soon. He’s hesitating, mulling his reply over, when—
“No,” Felix all but snarls. Some of the lords physically recoil—the ones who’ve yet to experience the pleasure of Duke Fraldarius at his nastiest; with words that sting as much as a slap to the face.
Sylvain’s been slapped multiple times and been on the receiving end of Felix’s sharp tongue, in more ways than one. He can say with absolute certainty they’re about the same.
Dimitri effectively tables the matter for the duration of the meeting by saying he would give it proper consideration, and spends the rest of it unable to pry his gaze off Felix.
Dimitri pulls Felix to the side of the room after, long past the lords have left. They stay close to the windows, as private an area as they could manage without an antechamber. The curtains fall heavy around them, almost shielding them from sight.
Sylvain shuffles his papers, glancing through the list of potential brides they’d presented Dimitri with.
“Felix, there was no need to be upset—”
“How dare they. How dare they, as if you are some sort of, of studhorse, to be reared out for heirs just so they can sleep easy at night. As if your life is theirs to be dictated. I did not fight a war for this.”
“But you fought a war for me, Felix. And my life—” Dimitri sounds sad and resigned. “Being King means it will not be wholly my own, for I have duties to fulfill.”
Lady Geraldine is on the list. She would very much look the part of Queen—tall, elegant, beautiful, hair a similar shade to Dimitri’s. Sylvain clucks his tongue. He’d already told them to leave her off; if rumours were to be believed, she and her maid seem to be involved. He"d wanted candidates that could be wholly dedicated to Dimitri.
“Does having to fulfill your duty in this manner make you happy?”
“I… do not know. But if it comes to it—if she was nice, and she was kind, I could see myself being able to share a life with her.”
From where he is, Sylvain has a clear view of Dimitri reaching out to tuck Felix’s hair behind his ear, hand moving to cup his cheek before landing on his shoulder instead.
“You will not have to worry about losing me if I marry, Felix. You will never be rid of me that easily.”
Sylvain leaves the room as fast as he can, after that. Listening to them makes him want to set himself on fire, and there was a very sudden and unexpected situation in his smallclothes that demanded to be dealt with.
Being together with Felix means being privy to his worst moods, which almost always are Dimitri-related. He’s in his rooms, pacing enough to wear a hole in the floor.
Constance had once conducted an experiment where she trapped a Thoron bolt in a bottle. An alternative weapon for those unable to wield magic or a Levin sword!, she"d presented to Professor Byleth with an air of manic glee. Then Annette had gone and knocked it over, and they’d had to be on rubble-cleaning duty for the next month.
Felix reminds him of that, right now. Lightning in a bottle. An immense amount of energy contained with nowhere to go, liable to cause harm if prodded wrong.
“They have no right to force Dimitri into something he clearly doesn’t want—these people just want to raise their own political capital, and their sickening, simpering, soft daughters are not a good fit, both politically and for Dimitri. And he will not say no, because he thinks we cannot afford friction in court.”
“How would you even know when you don"t pay attention to women—”
Felix ignores him and barrels on.
“The boar is so self-sacrificing he doesn’t ever think for himself. Would he be happy, with a simple girl who knows nothing about the horrors of war? Who he will spare the darkest parts of his own mind and his ghosts? Who will leave him as he is when he isn’t doing well because she doesn’t know how to fucking help, and do nothing but take tea and— and birth his children—”
Sylvain has no patience for this. “But it was always going to happen, wasn’t it? If you think you have an idea of the kind of woman that would be fit to marry Dimitri, why don’t you choose his bride for him?”
Felix seizes him by the laces of his shirt, hissing in his face, his other hand grabbing Sylvain by his dick. “If you’re going to stay, stop running your fucking mouth and make yourself useful.”
“Fucking’s better than talking, I guess.”
He looks down at Felix, smile bitter, and kisses him.
Felix had been snappy and impatient the entire morning, and his patience finally runs out with the fifth of Dimitri’s potential brides they meet. He excuses himself and storms out; Dimitri, after hurriedly apologising to everyone present, hastens after him.
The young Lady Howard is confused and on the verge of tears, not knowing how she has misstepped and upset Duke Fraldarius.
Sylvain deals with the aftermath: first dismissing all the other women they had gathered to speak with, then trying to reassure Lady Howard and her furious father. He offers her a handkerchief and calls for a maid to help escort her to a sitting room.
“Duke Fraldarius has gone too far. I don’t care that he is King Dimitri’s right-hand man, he has insulted and shamed my daughter, who could very well be the future Queen—”
“I completely understand, Lord Howard. Allow me to apologise for Duke Fraldarius, we’ve just received reports of a poorer northern harvest than projected, and it’s taken a rather significant toll on him, as you can tell—”
It takes hours, and he’s so tired when it finally ends.
“Why the hell did you do that, Felix?”
He’s met with silence, which makes Sylvain even angrier.
“Fuck. Do you know what people will say, once this gets out?”
“What— what people will say? That’s fucking rich, coming from you.”
“Not about you, you colossal—” he throws his hands up in the air. “Dimitri. Do you know what people will say about a King who can’t get his second in command under control?”
“Fuck,” Felix sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck, alright, I fucking get it. You’re right. I was— I’ll personally apologise to Lord Howard as soon as I can.”
“Why are you doing this,” Sylvain begs, so keyed up the only thing that he wants to do is fight or fuck. And he is long over the novelty of sticking his dick in Felix to get him to shut up or end an argument. “Why do you hate the idea of Dimitri marrying so much you would work this hard to scare every single potential bride away?”
Felix refuses to look him in the eye, gaze trained on a spot beyond his shoulder. “If they can’t handle me now, they’ll be useless at matters of governance or in court. We can’t afford that.”
“Cut the crap, Felix. It’s because they’re not you, isn’t it?”
"Don"t you dare," Felix rounds on him, jabbing a finger at his face.
“Every. Single. Thing.” Sylvain grabs his wrist and leans into him, seething, “is about Dimitri with you.”
“It’s not,” Felix hisses, wrenching his wrist back.
“Should we invite him into our fucking bed, so you can finally fuck him in it?” He’s up in Felix’s face, spitting mad. “It’ll make no difference, since he’s been here in all but flesh for the last few months. Weren’t we doing well? Couldn"t you have pretended for a little longer?”
“I have never fucked Dimitri.” Felix’s growl is a warning, the threat of a cornered animal.
“Yes, because neither of you have the fucking guts.” Sylvain is hysterical with anger, amused and desperate and furious and so fucking tired all at once. “I desperately wish you had, if it means I get to have all of you to myself.”
A well-timed missive from Lorenz requesting for urgent aid in his territory arrives in the night, and Sylvain rides for Gloucester with his battalion the next morning.
The situation takes half a month to resolve. News from the capital is scarce, but Dimitri’s betrothal was to be put on hold, last he heard. The lords had reluctantly agreed it would not be an ideal show of priorities when harvest reports from around the continent were reporting significantly lower numbers than expected, and winter was fast approaching.
“What about doing that—what do they call it? A long engagement?” Sylvain overhears a soldier say, as they make camp.
“Didn’t you hear? Duke Fraldarius apparently rejected all twenty candidates that were put forth.”
“I know he’s the King’s advisor, but that’s a hell lot of opinions to have about someone else’s bride.”
Someone else snickers. “I don’t think the King can take on a mistress if the Queen doesn’t approve, if you get what I mean.”
Felix and Dimitri not fucking doesn’t stop Sylvain from touching himself to the thought of it on nights Felix doesn’t share his bed; an increasingly common occurrence as of late.
He trails a finger up the underside of his cock as he thinks about Dimitri mauling Felix’s neck, fucking deep and hard into him. His fingers would be in Felix’s mouth so he’d make as little noise as possible—Felix could get so loud, sometimes.
He can’t come quite as hard or fast when he thinks about anything else.
Dearest Felix,
Sometimes, the monster in me desires nothing more than to pick up Areadbhar again. Taste the lust of battle, even though war is long over. But the thought of your disappointment keeps my worst impulses at bay; I do not know how I can live with myself if I had failed to prove my worth to you again.
Yours,
Dimitri
Dimitri.
If you need to, send word and I will be there at once. If not, I will return in two weeks’ time all the same. Not having you in my line of sight makes me anxious.
Be well, and stay safe.
- Felix
Sylvain doesn’t know why he’s sneaking around and reading Felix’s personal correspondence with Dimitri when it only makes him miserable.
For all Felix had looked down on Dedue and spat on his loyalty, a dog who obeyed and a dog who protected of its own accord were both still dogs.
He and Felix continue to share a bed; a transparent attempt to pretend everything is fine while they are away from the capital.
Sylvain’s nostrils flare as he wraps himself around Felix, nose to the back of his neck. Felix always carried Dimitri’s scent, but it’s grown stronger as of late.
He doesn’t know if it’s because of the amount of time they’ve been spending around each other, if Felix had changed soaps, or something else entirely.
Felix’s cloak is a new acquisition, brought out for their trip up to Fraldarius territory. He’d always been quick to chill for someone who grew up as far north as they did.
The blue of it doesn’t quite match the banners that fly from the manor his uncle and cousin now inhabit. It is, however, indistinguishable from the colour of the ribbon in his hair.