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They make it back to the monastery late, covered in dirt and blood that belongs more to strangers than it does to them. Byleth is there to let them through the monastery's main gates, cataloguing their dirtied state with jade eyes that seem to glow in the torchlight. She doesn't press them for information on the bandit troupe they were sent to subdue, urging them to sleep with only a quiet reminder to be up early to report.
Sylvain nods at their professor as she leaves, leaving him and Felix in the same amiable quiet that had followed them for the last few hours of their trek back.
It was odd at first, the quiet that had settled slowly in, but the long day's journey and mission had tired Felix out more than usual. Sylvain only rolled his eyes before hefting him up onto his horse's saddle when he began stumbling over his own feet, letting the swordsman finish up the last of their journey on horseback. Felix had always been significantly smaller than him — especially during their days at the Academy, when he'd do anything to avoid having to train — but his weight now surprised Sylvain, the firm give of muscle at his waist leading Sylvain to flex his fingers in its absence, trying to shake the memory of warmth and toned flesh underhand.
By the time he leads his mount to the stable, he has to shake Felix awake, lifting him off with the same ease as before. Felix groans sleepily in protest, muttering something about keeping his strong hands to himself, and that makes Sylvain release him quickly, cursing himself for reaching forward so thoughtlessly as his mind still buzzes at the dig of his fingertips into the dip of Felix's hips.
He swallows thickly, clears his throat.
"Wake up. There's no way I'm letting either of us sleep when we're this filthy."
Felix yawns loudly, lips pulling into a lazy smirk as he blinks up at Sylvain.
"That eager to get me in bed, Syl?"
Even past the clearing haze of sleep, the teasing spark in Felix's eyes is stark as starlight against an inky night, twinkling and alive. The quip is nothing out of the ordinary for Felix, but the memory of Felix's slim waist in his hands still hangs over Sylvain like a persistent fog. He turns away from Felix with his cheeks warm, trying not to think about what other parts of him might fit perfectly in the curve of his palms.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sylvain grounds out, storming off in the direction of the bathhouse. Felix only chuckles as he chases after him, falling seamlessly into step at his side. He darts into the empty bathhouse before Sylvain does, diving past the doors as Sylvain pauses to light the hearth by the entrance.
It'll take some time before the water is warm enough to step in, but Felix wastes no time in beginning to throw off the muddied parts of his armor, hair already pulled out of its messy ponytail by the time Sylvain catches up to him. In the soft glow the bathhouse, his navy hair glints like ink in candlelight, bleeding dark and golden where the strands catch the lamplight just right.
Sylvain drinks in the languorous sway of it as Felix mills about, setting his swords to the side before he begins prying off his gloves. It's an agile movement, the soft click of his buttons as he undoes the small belt that holds the gloves closed, and Sylvain stares as he pulls his hands free, pale skin glowing gold in the light. At the sound of Sylvain's coming footsteps, Felix turns to face him.
Copper eyes lift up lazily, the line of his gaze trailing up with the curling non-urgency of campfire smoke. Sylvain can almost feel it, the way they take in the tarnished surface of his armor, mapping every dent and war-worn scratch that he could never quite polish out. When their eyes meet, Felix's lips quirk into a small smirk, something like starlight twinkling amidst that lovely copper.
"You're staring," he notes, amusement evident in his tone. As if Felix wasn't doing the same, gaze bearing a heaviness that Sylvain can't seem to shake off. He feels like it follows him into his sleep sometimes, cool as silk as it slides over his skin, dragging out some desperate, shuddering sigh that Sylvain didn't even know he was capable of.
"You're energetic," he bites back, "considering I had to lend you my horse to keep you from falling asleep on the trek back."
"It's been a long day." Felix shrugs, tossing his belts and pauldron to the side. He starts working at his tunic next, just as skillfully shucking them off. It crosses Sylvain's mind, unbidden, that every movement looks unfairly practiced. He tries not to think about how good Felix is at stripping, but his stomach twists anyway. "You're taking your time, though," he notes, peering up at him with a wry grin. "Need some help?"
"Worry about yourself first, Felix," Sylvain chastises, but Felix only folds his bare arms behind his head, arching an eyebrow at the fully clothed redhead. Hazel eyes glance toward him as he unbuckles the capelet at his waist and sets it carefully to the side.
Half of Felix's clothes are already haphazardly discarded — a pile of soiled fabric and leather pieces to be washed before next week's mission — and he stands in only his underlayers, blurring at the edges from the steam that's starting to rise from the heated water of the bath. He prowls forward lazily, footsteps scraping gently over the wet stone floor, and Sylvain can't help but outline the shape of him, cutting an inky, stark figure against the torchlight-illuminated room.
Without his gloves, Felix's hands are far more agile, flicking Sylvain's own away from the muddied belts of his armor.
"We'll be here forever with those big hands trying to undo all your little buckles," he snorts, but it's soft in the cavernous quiet of the empty bathhouse. It's a joke at his expense, no doubt, but Sylvain has always been an expert at hearing what Felix doesn't say — and right now, what lies unspoken is the promise that if he can't take off his own armor, then Felix will, and—
Sylvain watches him wordlessly, feeling more and more like the steam he breathes in is going straight to his head — that's the only way to explain how the world begins to shrink to the size of Felix's willowy fingers unbuckling Sylvain's armor with an unfair grace, dropping them to the side and ghosting fingers over the planes of clothed skin they had just hidden away.
"I'm more than capable of doing this myself," he huffs, but even his voice sounds fuzzy and far away, like he's hearing it past the fog that swirls so thickly in his own head. He wonders if Felix can hear it, too.
"You can help me out with mine in return," Felix quips, playful enough to snap a little sense back into Sylvain. The retort forms easily on his tongue — you've already taken off your armor, Felix — but when hazel eyes flutter down to catalogue just what pieces Felix has left, they catch on those damned thigh highs instead, one of the few pieces of outerwear that Felix still has on. He curls his fingers tight into his palms, drags his gaze back up.
Somehow, the words never make it past his lips. They're never given the chance to, not when Felix finishes fussing over the buckles that keep the last of his shoulder pieces in place, fingers splaying shamelessly over the flat of his chestplate as he searches for the straps that hold it in place.
Sylvain sucks in a breath.
"Felix," he begins sharply, but the swordsman only hums in half-acknowledgment, digging his fingers into the seams along the side of his chest. He unbuckles the cuirass easily, sliding his fingers beneath the metal as he pries it loose, palms pressed against Sylvain's chest.
His eyes flit up, meeting Sylvain's with the electric buzz of Thoron flickering bright in his copper gaze, and Sylvain can't meet it, lips pressed tight as he stands frozen at Felix's fingertips, letting him trail restless, insistent hands over his chest as he eases the cuirass over his head. With that piece set aside, the swordsman wastes no time in fluttering fingers against the top of Sylvain's leg armor, a sly smile at his lips as he sinks down onto the bench behind him, dragging Sylvain closer by the hips.
Felix lingers for a moment too long as he does so — just long enough for Sylvain to commit the press of Felix's palms against the side of his torso to memory — thumbs dragging far too intimately against the slow, downward slope of his hip bones. They stop before he can follow that line all the way down, leaving Sylvain far too out of breath for so brief a touch, but his pulse jumpstarts again when Felix begins pulling at the buckles of his greaves.
The brush of Felix's hands along his legs as he searches for the clasps in his armor are charged, leaving the insistent buzz of Thunder humming beneath Sylvain's skin as they go along. Sylvain starts to feel the humid warmth of the bathhouse settle in, warming his cheeks as he grits his jaw, tries not to shudder at every graze of calloused palms against his thigh.
It takes far too long to remove the last of his armor. Knowing Felix, Sylvain is sure that he took his time, planning every slow drag of fingertips down the side of his thigh, pressing deep enough to feel the hardened muscle underneath. It's a kind of pressure that remains even after Felix is gone, muscle memory in the way that Sylvain knows he can't look at Felix's hands without remembering the way he'd curl his fingers behind the bend of his knee, thumb digging hard enough into the side of his thigh to make the muscles jump.
As he drops the last of his armor to the side, Felix leans back against the wall, looking up at Sylvain with bright, lidded eyes. He looks like an especially sated cat, lips curled into a smirk that barely exposes the white flash of his teeth, and Sylvain isn't foolish enough to ignore the reason why — to miss the way the sparkle in his eyes went from playful to downright dangerous as Sylvain stood there, let Felix curl greedy fingertips into his thighs as he searched for the soft leather buckles that held his armor in place.
It's rare that Sylvain will let people touch him, especially in the lazy, lingering way Felix likes to, the warmth of his hands creeping over every possible surface like sunlight in tandem with the slow-rising sun. It should bother Sylvain more that Felix knows he's a rare case, but it doesn't. That brilliant glint in his eyes is Sylvain's in a way that sword-calloused palms pressed hard into the back of his thigh are only Felix's, and that thought quells the jealous ache he feels every time he sees Felix with another.
His thoughts are interrupted when Felix stretches his legs out, tapping a heel against Sylvain's to grab his attention.
"You'll return the favor, right?" He arches an eyebrow at the paladin in challenge, still with that lovely shine in his copper eyes, drawing his hands back to rest them at the top of his boots. He plays idly with the hem as he sits there, eyes never leaving Sylvain's as he slips fingers beneath the cuff, grinning something wolfish as he sees Sylvain follow the movement.
Sylvain decides not to reply, not that there's anything petty about the way he sinks down to his knees between the impossible length of Felix's legs instead. Felix exhales softly as he does, moving his own hands graciously away, and Sylvain refuses to look at him as he leans forward, head level with the man's hips. The catch of Felix's breath as he begins undoing the buckles on his boots is loud, cutting harshly through the temperate quiet and settling heavy in Sylvain's chest.
They're quiet as Sylvain pries off the first boot, eyes glued to the midnight blue of his cuffs. He sets it to the side as he begins unfastening the other, hand moving to cradle the back of Felix's thigh to hold his leg steady. Felix is unusually quiet as Sylvain tugs the cuff down, and he lifts hazel eyes to peer at him curiously, feeling his pulse stumble at the hazy look in Felix's eyes.
There's an unfocused bleariness to his gaze, eyelashes hung so artfully low that they almost eclipse the luminous molten-copper of his irises completely. It's warm in the bathhouse, but the crimson flush of his cheeks is too deep to be a product of the steam that softens everything in a torpid, tender haze. Sylvain is entranced by the glow of it splashed across his porcelain skin.
He can't stop staring, eyes caught on the bold silhouette of Felix against the mottled stone walls. He's like oil on canvas, painted in stark and heavy strokes, every line smeared against the untarnished white with the intention to mark, to claim and to create. It breathes life into the ephemeral concept of heat that Sylvain can feel simmering low in his stomach, only barely beginning to recognize it as desire. He's always loved art, but Felix looks like every masterpiece Sylvain has seen and ever will see. Nothing in the future will be able to compare.
The rich flush of Felix's cheeks makes Sylvain feel bold, hazel eyes watching the dizzying flutter of his eyelids as he pulls the boot off and tosses it somewhere with the other, fingers still curled into the back of his knee. When he doesn't move away, Felix's gaze flickers to the splay of Sylvain's palm over the flat of his thigh, biting at his lip with a bleary kind of hunger, one that Sylvain is only barely certain he's aware of.
Sylvain doesn't look away as he lowers lips to the bend of his knee, fingers curled possessively around his leg as Sylvain notes the way copper eyes darken at the skitter of hot breath over his knee. Felix's breath leaves him all at once — one shaky, broken exhalation that causes Sylvain's hold to tighten, fingers sunk deep into the pliant muscle of his thigh. If the simmering heat that sat deep in Sylvain's stomach was desire, then the fire that flares behind Felix's gaze is something else entirely.
It's something voracious, something that surpasses hunger and tumbles headfirst into the realm of need as Felix grips tight at the edge of his bench, white-knuckled for one fleeting moment before he pushes himself off, hands flying to curl greedily around the curve of Sylvain's shoulder.
Felix pushes him back hard, shoves Sylvain against the warming stone floor with knees bracketing his hips, hands pressed to the ground on either side of Sylvain's head. His eyes are wide, like the sudden movement had surprised him too, but the fire in his gaze has far from abated. If anything, it burns brighter as Felix stares down at him, breath rushing in and out like a warm, restless tide against Sylavin's cheeks.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Syl."
And oh, Sylvain knows, acutely aware of the hard press of Felix's knees against his hips, caging him in.
"Maybe I am," he breathes, mesmerized by the flutter of Felix's lashes at the low hum of it. "Are you playing with me, Felix?"
There's no need for him to answer, not when his eyes dip visibly down toward Sylvain's mouth. He wets his lips in anticipation, curling them into a lazy half smirk as he catches the way Sylvain fixates on the small movement, exhaling something heavy and slow as he stares. Felix leans down into it, peering at Sylvain through thick lashes and sultry hooded eyes. Sylvain is sure that look will haunt him.
"I am," he hums. "Let's see if you can keep up, Gautier." His smirk is wolfish as he twists a hand into Sylvain's hair, swallowing his gasp with a bruising kiss. It's a hungry, frenzied thing, teeth scraping over the swell of Sylvain's lip as Felix tilts his head just right. Felix presses into him with an insistence that manifests in the war-drum of his heart pressed right against Sylvain's chest, tongue tracing at the seam of Sylvain's lips and making him melt.
Sylvain shudders as Felix loosens his grasp on his hair, dragging blunt fingernails over his scalp. The friction makes his head spin, whining senselessly into the kiss as Felix uses the soft sound to press his tongue fully into Sylvain's mouth, easing out another shudder. This one is backed with a desperate heat, trickling down Sylvain's spine and pooling just below his stomach as his hands grasp blindly for something to hold to.
He finds purchase around the slim column of Felix's thighs, curling fingers hard into the pliant muscle. Felix gasps at the sudden squeeze, breaking away with his chest heaving. Sylvain's mind is still cloudy from this kiss, eyes catching dizzily on the string of saliva that still connects Felix's lips to his own, on the burnished flush of Felix's cheeks, warm and radiant red as sunset.
Sylvain's fingers twitch restlessly at the sweep of Felix's breath of his mouth. He feels like his heart is fit to beat right out of his chest, pounding in flawless tandem with Felix's own, a kind of reciprocity that shakes Sylvain down to his very bones.
The thought that Felix could want to kiss him, could be just as hopelessly, holistically affected by him as Sylvain is by Felix, is earth-shattering, and Felix's hands and knees pressed so firmly, unmovingly close are the only things that keep him whole. Sylvain tightens his grip around the circle of Felix's thighs in silent, desperate askance that this is real, and Felix answers with a forehead laid heavy against Sylvain's own. The warmth in his hooded copper eyes puts the flickering heat of shared campfires to shame — this fire is only Sylvain's to see, the peaceful whisper of the low flame that remains when only the two of them linger by the campfire, too lazy and tired to do anything but bask in the golden-orange glow of firelight and each others presence.
"You're staring again," Felix notes, voice as ethereal as the breath that rushes past his lips and over the swell of Sylvain's own. There's fondness in the gentle lilt of his words, one that settles deep in Sylvain's chest and expands slowly, like the sinuous stretch of sunlight over Fhirdiad after months of clouded winter. Sylvain lifts one hand away, reaching to tuck away the strands of ink-dark hair that tumble haplessly away from his face.
"How can I not?" His hand stills at the curve of Felix's cheek, eyes sliding shut as he pulls Felix down one more time. He doesn't tell Felix he's beautiful, not when sharp copper eyes have doubtlessly seen it in the reverent way Sylvain always stares, unable to tear his gaze away, but it's there — in the slow drag of tongue and covetous teeth, in the way Sylvain pulls and lets himself be pulled, melting entirely into every kiss in the quiet eye of their storm.