Chapter Text
Sylvain kicked off his work boots and braced himself with a hand on the door frame with the effort of prying of his second boot. He’s starving and he needs a shower. This routine marked the end of daylight hours. The final drifts of snow were almost melted and the days were surly getting longer. It was May, spring was horrifyingly brief this far north in Faerghus.
The joke was always that by the time it was safe to put away your winter coat, it was time to get it back out again. Spring was clearly setting in, all the same. The horses recognised the shifting of the season as well, and there was an endless chore list to ready the property. It was far from the working ranch it had been in its heyday, but he was somehow just as busy.
Sylvain moved into the quiet entry of his once-family home, pausing to greet the series of wood framed portraits. He’d left some of the family ephemera, it felt right to look into the eyes of Gautiers come before. A taste of the legacy he walked around with like a permanent sliver. The kind of thing you could always see but somehow never rid yourself of. It was a bitter sort of self-flagellation rather than something like pride, seeing pictures of so many grandparents, and of aunts and uncles long passed on.
Alright, Gautier, a bit early in the evening for the self-loathing shtick. He let out a silent whistle. He had managed to self-right eventually, with more than a little help from his childhood friends. Most of them. Goddess, there he went again. As if anything about his childhood had been normal, or healthy, or “conducive to thriving”. Something about saying the quiet part loud, he was trying. He was keeping the roof up. He really was trying now, anyway.
He sighed, flipping a light switch. The old shepherd dog lifted his chin at the click. “Hey Buck,” Sylvain called, “thought you’d gone deaf?” The dog yawned and shifted to tired feet. “Well, if nothing else,” he began glibly, “they can roll over in their graves knowing you sleep indoors now, eh boy?” Buck followed him into the kitchen and did not answer his question. Pointless to taunt the dead, also pointless to ask a deaf dog questions, really.
The dog had never wanted to sleep indoors till this year, despite his little joke. Buck was showing his age, the scruff around his muzzle mostly white. Maybe this spring he would finally see about getting a new puppy. Easier to train a pup when you had someone to set a good standard- even if it had taken years for the both of them to learn good manners.
Sylvain was well aware neither of them, in fact, was getting any younger.
The house had never been a home. It had never been aglow with warm feelings. Hell, he didn’t even realize that love and care were things you could experience in a family. Even now he can pinpoint it, with too much clarity, when it really, truly dawned on him that not all families were like the Gautiers.
It started with Rodrigue’s teasing- the boys had tracked mud in from the cow field in a rush to join the dinner table. The Fraldarius’ special slow-cooked ribs were waiting for them, of course he can remember that too. Sylvain had frozen on the spot, anticipating the worst. Too frozen to even cower as Felix’s older brother passed behind him. Felix had groused that it had been Glenn’s fault they were late to get home anyway. Glenn cackled and pinched Felix’s cheeks, pushing past them both. Sylvain was 11 years old. He spent a lot time at the Frauldarius household from that summer on.
In that moment, over a stacked dinner plate, the reality of the strained atmosphere and casual cruelty at home had become acutely visible. He’d sort of just thought, well, that’s how families were.
As he wandered down the hall he cast a glance back at his own unused dining room. Even now the house felt closer to a shell, a hollow place. You can only ask a house to do so much.
In recent years his friends had started to spend time here, though, and he’d tried to make it feel cozy. He’d never really let on to half of what happened, though he’d managed to verbalize more in recent years. At least with Ingrid and Dimitri. They were still around.
The house had “Good Bones”, as Ingrid often commented, as if she was really speaking about Sylvain and some potential she continued to see in him. Trying to remind Sylvain he’d survived. She’d clap an open hand onto his shoulder, face worked into something like a warm smile. Ingrid always seemed to be worried at him, a caretaker to the end.
As if Sylvain was still the veritable ticking time-bomb he’d been at eighteen, hellbent on annihilating anything that was left of himself. And as if he wasn’t already tethered here out of some sense of duty and punishment. If he’d left, one way or another, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake the history in any meaningful sense.
He ruffled the dog’s ears, humming to himself. It wasn’t that the self loathing was gone, per say, more that he wasn’t teetering on the edge of constant oblivion. Even if he could still see it, peripherally. He’d heard that once, someone had remarked it was like always knowing where the red glow of an exit sign would be. Ingrid knew this as well as he did. If he kept things in check, tidy, tight: then one day turned surely into another, and routine became a way to survive.
It was a quiet thing, mostly, and the wounds had largely healed over with time and love and care.
All in, things had turned out well, if not perfect. The years had been largely kind in their adult lives. They shared meals and holidays and fishing trips, his friends-turned-family. The town stayed busy in the high season. Sylvain looked after the horses and working on his paintings. And most nights he slept soundly; the way you do after a day spent out in the sun.
Presently however, if he wants to meet his friends and only be respectably late, then he needed to get moving. Ten minutes and an efficient shower later, and he’s slipping into a pair of wranglers that could be described as glove-like. Sylvain knows this is a good look. Funny to think back on how he used to fret and fuss over his appearance in moments like this. College-Sylvan is not someone he wants to revisit if he can help it, and he quickly towels his hair again for good measure.
Things were on the verge of moving beyond casually deconstructed to actual mullet. He leveled a crooked smile at himself in the hall mirror. It was an angle he could work, a few days of beard growth and shaggy hair pushed away from his eyes. Let it never be said Sylvain Jose Gautier put in too little or too much effort. He now specialized in easy charm; well worn to the heels of his boots.
So. Tonight, Sylvain Jose Gautier had decided he was going to have a Good Time.
If he had come to the bar on a Friday night to split a pitcher with some friends and find a quick fuck, could you really blame him? It was only why everyone wound up there, casually leaning on the waxed bar once a week. Or twice. Who was counting? The beer was cheap and the crowd was friendly.
The orbit of town was inescapable to him, to mostly everyone, but there was joy to find in the moments between. He shifted the truck into park, neon bar lights reflecting off the hood, casting a pink glow into the cab. He had been slow to arrive, the regular crew was probably long settled inside.
Sylvain took his turn at the bar, leaning only slightly into the personal space of tonight’s barkeep. He wouldn’t try it on with just anyone, but he and Hubert had established a friendship, albeit slowly. It took time to find your place in a small town. Somehow Hubert working late nights here made sense, physically, even if he stood out around town otherwise. Hard to miss someone as tall and imposing and dressed in all black as Hubert. Particularly when everyone in town had known each other since before they were born.
“Evening, Hubert,” Sylvain offers an easy smile. Hubert feigns a roll of his eyes as he begins to pull a pint. He clears is throat and sets the glass within Sylvain’s reach. Sylvain nods his head with a little smile, recalling their first interactions with fondness. They were stood exactly as they are now. Hubert had immediately drawled at Sylvain sauntering up to the bar that his flirtations were not going to get him anywhere. Prickliness aside, they had developed a teasing camaraderie and a quiet friendship. A little banter went a long way.
He had also quickly caught on to the sidelong glances Hubert spared a particular friend of his. If Sylvain had cracked a joke about ‘his tastes in redheads’ on that first night, he reined himself in immediately at the barely concealed blush the comment provoked. He realised in that moment that the new barkeep was not as stone-faced as he projected.
Sylvain was determined to play wingman if it took all spring, hell, all summer at this rate. He had even begun reassuring his new friend that the token of his affections was simply oblivious to all but the most overt romantic advances. This kind of period-drama pining was like a foreign language to Sylvain, in honesty, but it was sort of fitting. Considering Hubert was a writer with a penchant for the gothic, and considering Ferdinand had an equal flair for the dramatic.
Once, even, Sylvain had needed to hide his grin behind his own fingers as he watched Hubert’s pained expression at a casual touch of Ferdinand’s hand. The honest to god Austenian ridiculousness of it all. You could practically storyboard a dramatic film adaptation around the two of them. So, Goddess help him, if he continued to fabricate reasons for Ferdinand to approach Hubert, he would bear that burden.
It was exciting to meet new people in town, where everyone was so well versed on everyone else’s personal life. Dimitri would tease him, something about “sharks smelling blood in the water”, when he’d explained this newest friend. He was glad for it, as was Ingrid. Their pack-like friendship as children had happily expanded to welcome an assortment of newcomers.
Sylvain turned with his elbows on the bar, twisting on a boot heel to watch the crowd. He and Hubert had a chess game set for Sunday afternoon, and they’d catch up then. Hubert was rarely so chatty on the clock. Perhaps over tea he could finally talk some sense into him about the romantic denseness of dearest, sweet Ferdie. Call it an act of horsegirl solidarity.
He had a sense that things would work out for Hubert. Sylvain didn’t see himself as a matchmaker so much as a facilitator. It was easier to do so than, you know, actually acknowledge his own feelings or something. If he was going to self reflect, he could probably stand to spend a little more time with people than out with the horses. How time changes you! And he should really be getting on with his own peacocking if he wanted to catch some eyes.
He scanned the growing crowd quickly. It wasn’t that Sylvain only thought about fucking, it’s just that it sort of remained the perfect, self-devouring vice. It was something he was really did excel at, he could make people feel good, and he did, often. Ingrid would sometimes ask him in an exasperated way to tone down the antics, or at least try another therapist.
He had tried therapy, too, when he was younger. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t particularly good, either. It seemed easier to Sylvain to love generously and bow out before more was asked of him. Everyone got on with their life, just with a little more dopamine.
Tonight would not be the first time Sylvain planned to leave his truck parked in the lot out front to find somewhere to hang his hat. And It was certainly a little easier to do so in the spring when new faces began to appear.
That said, he couldn’t honestly say there was anyone he didn’t recognise tonight. Perhaps he would be driving home alone, despite his excruciatingly casual best efforts. Call it a night for friends, for now. Hope springs eternal. Especially when it came to finding a lay.
He watched men and women mill about, mostly folks he knew well. He set his shoulders back, pasted on an easy grin, and made his way over to the regular booth. Perching on the vinyl bench seat next to Ashe, he set his chin to his palm. Ashe was deep in some sort of story, eyes wide and pressing his hands to the tabletop.
“Sylvain! You’re finally here! Ok, well, now I gotta backtrack,” Ashe motions for him to move closer. Dimitri was positioned next to Dorothea, and seemed to be trying to minimize the amount of space he was occupying. Sylvain nodded, motioning for Ashe to resume.
“Ok, alright, so I stopped by the station today, y’know, dropping off the weekend food.” Sylvain nodded again, glancing to Dorothea and her polite smirk.
Ashe took a sip from his mug before continuing, “Normally, the new researchers, the arrive just before May two four, right? But Lin said because of the weather the season is starting early.” Dorothea looks focused now, “Ashe, get to the boys.” She draws out the last word devilishly.
Ashe spins his hand, as if willing himself to spill the news a second time, “Sylvain, I met the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life!” He sighed, “He seems so… cool, you know? He has this amazing lilac hair.” Ashe scrunched his fists to his cheeks, he really is the sweetest man alive. He turned to Sylvain with complete earnestness, “He asked if I had any, uh, treats in the back of the truck, and I said no, but that I’d bring cookies on Monday when I stop by next.”
Dimitri looked incredibly serious now, “He doesn’t even know you… why would he expect food?” At this Dorothea leans towards him, with all the patience she can muster, patting his arm, “Dima, he was flirting.”
Ashe looked suddenly distraught, “I wasn’t sure? Oh, no, no, what if I’ve offended him already.”
Now Sylvain cuts in, his turn to be a voice of (questionable) reason, “Ashe, you’re good, you are great. You’ll get to know him,” he took a swig from his glass, and picked up speed, “and you’ll ask him on a date and maybe you’ll make out in the field station library.” A teasing guess, but well wished.
Now Ashe is really blushing. They’re all a little giddy. Springtime has that effect.
Sylvain grinned as he raises his glass. Ashe’s excitement was always infectious. He had moved to town not long after Ingrid, Sylvain and Dimitri had graduated highschool and had quickly become a stalwart member of the group.
“Well, anyway. I didn’t get to speak with them for too long, there was about five of them arrived today. They were busy, y’know, unloading vans,” Ashe continued, “I offered to help but, uh, the one guy, he didn’t seem so keen on me sticking around.” Ashe paused now, wistfully turning his glass as he picked at the coaster.
“Well, you’ll have to make your intentions known,” Dimitri remarked somberly.
“All in good time, my friend,” Sylvain slapped a playful palm on his knee.
The easy banter continued at the table. A small band has settled on the raised platform-serve-stage, some local act. There’s shuffling and some tentative chords rang over the PA. Moments later a familiar steel guitar riff cuts through the room. Bold to open with a Patsy Cline cover, Sylvain thinks, hooking an arm over the back of the booth to survey. The gathering crowd seemed receptive.
“Sylvie, let’s dance?” Dorothea cooed sweetly. Never one to deny her, Sylvain slid his glass towards Ashe, “It would be my pleasure.”
Dorothea leads him to the lowered dance floor, tosses her glossy hair over her shoulder, and they fall into an easy two-step.
“So, Thea, you wanna talk about it?” He breaks the silence between them, and Dorothea lets out a long sigh, she drums her fingers on his shoulder.
“I don’t know what to say, Sylvie, it’s like one day everything is perfect, and I try to…” she drifted off, a silent chuckle, “I just try to tell her how I feel, and then it’s like she shuts off completely.” Sylvain hums an acknowledgement. Dorothea continued, “I know I just, well, do I wait? Do I hope she… feels the same,” her voice sounded tight.
“Ingrid is,” he mused with a pause, “awkward.” Dorothea looked up at him, a resigned huff. Sylvain makes a pass at humor, “hmm, look, more horse girl problems.” Dorothea’s mouth quirks, and he shuffled them with a spin so she now has full view of the bar.
Ferdinand is leaning oh so casually at one end, inspecting a length of his own hair. Hubert is, cleaning glassware? He isn’t really moving and his eyes are trained down. Dorothea giggles, her attention back on Sylvain as they continue to dance.
They sway like this through the rest of the song. He meets her eyes, “I don’t know what to tell you to fix it, it’s not that simple, but I think you need to be honest with her.” He paused momentarily, considering, “I think, maybe, she’s scared? I don’t know if waiting will help her figure that out.”
Dorothea sighed again, pulling Sylvain into a half hug as she rested her head on his shoulder. “I think you might be right. You know, you should give yourself this kind of heart-to-heart.” Sylvain guffawed, returning the hug, patting the back of her head. “Aw, ‘Thea, you know I’m not a settling down, actually talk about my real feelings kinda guy,” he grinned.
Without a missed beat, she cuts in. “Don’t even think about comparing yourself to a wild stallion or something, I will stomp on every one of your toes,” she warned with sharpness and love in equal measure. Sylvain reeled, pulling back to take her hands. He’s still laughing and there might even be a tear in the corner of his eye, ‘I wasn’t, hah, I wasn’t going to!” he spits out between cackles. “But I might now!” He dodged away from her, calling back, “another round?” as he made his way up the step.
This is where Sylvain became once again frozen to the spot, locked in place, one hand gripping the short railing.
There is an unmistakable figure standing just to the side of a group of newly arrived patrons. For a moment he thought that he’s having some kind of fit of nostalgia, and then the man he’s watching turns and his profile comes into view. The same sharp eyes, hair still chaotically pulled back into some kind of inexplicable ponytail, an expression that almost reads as a sneer. He may have matured out of the last softness of his adolescent face, and grown a little taller, but there is no denying that the man Sylvain’s eyes have locked onto across the bar is Felix Hugo Fucking Fraldarius. A face Sylvain thought he would never see again, least of all here, tonight.
It's like the most wrenched and confusing period of Sylvain’s teenage years is replaying now, bubbling to the top of his mind. He feels like his stomach has dropped out. Every summonable scrap of bravado has evaporated.
Felix is absorbed in some conversation, or at least Sylvain appears to still be undetected. He hoped. With all the grace of a frightened rabbit Sylvain spun on his heel and retreated back into the safety of the booth. Ashe peered at him with concern, and Sylvain managed to grit out, “Felix Fraldarius is here.” Dimitri furrowed his brow and immediately bolted to standing in the most unsubtle movement imaginable. Ashe edged around the edge of the booth and whispered, “the scientists!”, and then continued with horror, “Oh, no, no, Dorothea is walking over to them.” Sylvain groaned and put his head in his hands.
Sylvain cycled through his memories. He really thought he reconciled all of the fallout of teenage Sylvain, but here it all was again, as if someone had slapped down his own journal, ink not yet dry.
They had been the very best of friends, he and Felix. When it wasn’t just the two of them, it was the four of them, finding new ways to get in trouble: staying up too late playing spotlight tag, sneaking midnight snacks from the Fraldarius’s pantry, begging Glenn to get them fireworks. Well, that had mostly been Felix’s idea. They were a group of ragtag almost-siblings.
And somewhere along the transition into junior highschool, things shifted for Sylvain. Felix was still his best friend, but there was an added layer. A burning crush Sylvain couldn’t quite make sense of yet. His words always seemed to come out in the perfect way to cause irritation, Sylvain would tease just a bit too much for Felix’s liking. Felix told him to fuck off a lot that year.
And junior high had turned into highschool, and they had remained close, mostly. As the stability of his home-life collapsed, Sylvain fell into an increasing character study of truly obnoxious teenage swagger and predictable, if destructive, methodologies of “acting out”, as his exasperated mother would sigh. It was a convincing performance. With the constant shouting matches and slamming doors and blows between Miklan and their father, and Miklan’s increasing propensity to make any time Sylvain did spend at home absolute and true Hell; Sylvain had begun to be somewhat difficult, too, with his friends. Sylvain the class clown, Sylvain the skirt-chasing flirt, Sylvain the party boy; anything to get attention.
That summer had been when things had taken a turn in all their lives. Sylvain had begun a trend of ill-advised hookups with a revolving door of girls in their graduating class. Dalliances which often ended in Sylvain being run-off by some older sibling. Miklan had officially been kicked out of home and had gone north to find work as a roughneck, at which point Sylvain had become the sole focus of their father’s barely restrained anger. Dimitri was slowly coming to terms with the unpredicted loss of both of his parents, and had moved in at Rodrigue’s insistence. Felix was keeping his head down, on track to graduate a year early having already earned a sizeable University scholarship. It was tense, and then things, well, imploded between the four friends.
Sylvain, in perhaps his most ill-advised move yet, had set his sights on finally hooking up with Felix. A maneuver he pulled off whilst almost too stoned to move in the back of the pickup at a bush party. A feat in itself, as all they had was the shittiest weed imaginable. Felix had yelled at him about something he said. He couldn’t honestly remember, but he knew it had escalated, Sylvain was sure he’d yelled back. Something shitty that cut way too deep. Felix had definitely slammed the door of the truck with surprising force, and they didn’t speak in the following weeks. The two seemed content to play a game of chicken called ‘who can act like the bigger asshole’.
And then, all Sylvain can remember from that August was the news that Glenn had been in a car accident, that the doctors had said he wasn’t going to wake up, ever. Felix had withdrawn from all of them, declined calls and visits entirely, and followed through with moving about as far away as he was capable of.
Sylvain groaned again, looking up to hopefully strategize or plan an escape route with Dimitri- except that Dimitri has apparently vanished into thin air, and he can already hear Dorothea calling his name. “Dororthea doesn’t know about high school at all, does she?” Ashe manages. Sylvain leans his head back on the booth and frowns. Ashe mirrors his expression sympathetically, having just witnessed the uncharacteristic scramble of Sylvain and Dimitri. It’s been years, and even though there had even been some very curt interactions at holiday parties, they hadn’t exactly conversed or acknowledge anything. At least he’d had time to prepare himself. This was not a situation in which Sylvain was in control.
“Ashe! Sylvain!” She looked around for Dimitri but goes on, unphased, “Lin was just introducing me to the researchers that will be around town this summer.” The purple haired man offers his hand to Sylvain, “It’s Yuri, a pleasure.” He slid into the booth next to Ashe, and Sylvain truly has to admire the ease with which conducts himself. “It’s lovely to see you again so soon.” Linhardt continues to inspect his nails.
Dorothea cleared her throat, and Sylvain’s attention snapped back. Linhardt continued to stare off into the middle distance. “This is Fel-“, and before she was able to complete the sentence, Felix huffs. “We know each other.”
Sylvain managed a dopey smile and mumbled, “yeah, old friends.” It sounded nothing like his normal practiced charm. What do you say to someone in this situation? I’m sorry, for, all of it? Including the stuff that I can’t rightly be sorry for?
Dorothea rocked on the ball of her right foot, clearly running the mental gymnastics of this interaction, and slipped her arm into Linhardt’s elbow, “well, I need a drink.” She whisked them away, Linhardt appearing only somewhat reluctant to be moved.
Yuri had already settled himself next to Ashe, one knee crossed over the other with a feline grin. Sylvain watched them, and he doesn’t think Ashe had any reason to worry. He would be cheering right now if he wasn’t preoccupied with willing the universe to suck him into a pocket dimension. And Sylvain watched himself watch Felix- who looked equally uncomfortable with the present situation.
Felix was still frowning, but he finally looked back up. “I’m leaving now,” he said tersely, really looking through Sylvain rather than at him. It’s more words than they exchanged the last time they saw each other.
With that, he’s moving at such a pace Sylvain doesn’t even have time to react.
Ashe prodded him with a foot under the table and mouthed, “Go after him?”.
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Snapping back to himself, he’s quickly pushing out of the booth, coat in one fist. He blustered out the double swinging doors, casting around for any sign of the direction Felix might have gone in. Except Felix is still here, and he’s crouched on the low concrete wall of the ramp, a lit cigarette between his fingers.
Sylvain doesn’t know what to make of this, adult Felix, perched like a cat on a wall. “You smoke now?”, he managed, incredulous. A moment, or several, passed in the night air. The pink neon washed Felix in a softness that made this feel even less real to Sylvain. It could be a dream. That would explain a few things.
“Only when I’m at bars,” finally came the toneless response. Right, well, he had technically been inside the bar. Sylvain is at a loss for words now, again. There is too much he should say, that he wants to say. Where does he even begin. Felix is wearing what appeared to be in a leather motorcycle jacket over some sort of down-fill liner. He was always cold when they were kids. Adult Felix, wears leather jackets, smokes? Was he warm enough? It’s like Sylvain is trying to compile any sort of facts about his current reality. The wind picked up, and it occurred to Sylvain to pull on his own coat.
Felix stubbed out the remains of the cigarette before pocketing the end. He finally turned to look at Sylvain. His eyebrows are drawn together, and his mouth is still set in a slight frown. “I’m going home now.”
“Wait,” this spurred Sylvain to action, “let me drive you, I want to,”-
“Nope,” Felix cuts him off, “I’m fine.” Sylvain stepped closer now, shifting in front of the low wall. Felix is still perched, unmoving.
Sylvain cleared his throat in delay, like this is a boss encounter and the timer is ticking out on dialogue options. “You’re at the research station, yeah? Let me drop you off, it’s on my way home anyway.”
Felix hopped down from the wall soundlessly, “Wouldn’t want to make Sylvain Gautier go out of his way,” before he added, “I’d rather walk.”
“Hey, that’s not-, I just,” Sylvain hoped he has schooled his face into something calm rather than the continued rush of panic, “Felix, you’re wearing all black.” Fine, he’ll make an appeal to logic. “There’s hardly a streetlight the entire way, you’ll be invisible to anyone driving.”
Felix looked completely inconvenienced by this reasoning. He knew that Sylvain was right. Like he was weighing up how long he’ll have to continue this conversation if he doesn’t agree, “Fine.”
Felix walks slightly out of step with him.
“New truck,” Felix stated as he clicked in his seatbelt.
Sylvain flipped the ignition, “Yeah, well, new to me, anyway.”
He continues, aware he’s begun to ramble but unable stop, “can’t play tapes anymore, only takes CDs, but I don’t mind. I still have them. The tapes, I mean. I play ‘em in the barn, mostly. Truck’s good though, It’s reliable, you know?” The second track of Blonde on Blonde begins playing and Sylvain managed to shut his mouth.
He pulled out of the lot in silence. Felix’s gaze shifted forward again, towards the truck’s console. “You still listen to all your oldies stuff, huh?” Felix almost sounded playful, almost. Perhaps adult Felix does jokes now? This whole encounter could stand to get weirder.
Sylvain’s mouth quirked up, “Oh, you know me,” His laugh doesn’t sound quite as easy as he aimed. He cuts it off with a little cough. This ride is going probably about as awkward as he anticipated, and they lapse into silence. Time for the last ditch effort, the quiet can’t become any more stifling. Sylvain hoped for some levity and sucked in a breath, “Does, uh, Depeche Mode still count as a current act then?”
He still had the cassette tape he picked up specifically for when he’d drive around with Felix on their spare classes. Years back, but the tape is still in the top drawer of his desk.
Felix restrained a small smile, “Yeah, Gautier, because Depeche Mode is timeless.”
The fact Felix still knew and apparently cared about 1 (one) band is a fact he can reckon with. It’s not like he’s suddenly relaxed, no, but it feels like there’s a little sliver of baby-faced history he can look in the eye. Perhaps there are still some tenuous threads of friendship here, despite the years of radio silence.
They drove the rest of the way just listening to the slightly fuzzy soundtrack. It could almost be construed as companionable. Sylvain hummed along to Visions of Johanna, self soothing, and and he felt less like he was going to crawl out of his skin, or, blurt out an unplanned chaotic apology.
He turned onto the access road, slowing. That was fast. What was time in the face of a looming panic attack?
“Here’s fine.” Sylvain nodded an acknowledgement, switching off the truck.
Further out on the country road, and without the music filling the space, the silence becomes a pressing third passenger. They both continued to stare ahead.
Sylvain should say something, he should. “You never called. Or wrote back,” that wasn’t an apology.
Felix doesn’t respond, so he continued, “I tried, and, I know Dima and Ingrid tried too.” He drifted off again, having run out of the will to continue.
Felix turned and Sylvain feels the full effect of his stare. He’s frowning again.
He will try again. He’ll make the word ‘sorry’ come out.
“I started to think you’d died,” he blurted out instead.
Ok. That was not an apology. Entirely the wrong thing to say, entirely too much of a call-back to the far too high number of bereavements between them.
Felix jolted back against the door, hand seeking the latch. “I’m not. Obviously.”
In all the scenarios he had imagined an apology or a reunion, it did not go like this. This was precarious. Sylvain sighed, “I know, I didn’t mean,” and before he could fit in another word, Felix had let the night in.
“Ok, well, thanks.” He moved so damn fluidly, and added briskly, “for the ride.”
Sylvain watched him stalk up the gravel path to the research station’s grad student accommodation. He still walked without a hint of patience, and Sylvain let out a laugh at this fact, too. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel and pushed his fingers back through his hair.
He can still feel the peripheral panic, fuzzy in his fingertips. Maybe, perhaps, it was time to actually talk to someone about this. Maybe just getting by on survival was not the operative strategy he had claimed as a way to handle the echo of panic. He drummed his fingers, noticed the smooth leather grip of the steering wheel like it was brand new.
Finally, he released a breath he was unaware he was holding back. Sleeping in his bed sounded like a much better place to be right now. He hummed again as the engine turned over, and the headlights flood back down the lane. Spring had arrived.