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People assumed a lot of things about Margrave Sylvain Jose Gautier.  Some assumptions, made by those who did not know him, were grand and vague. They assumed he was proud of his Crest. They assumed he enjoyed flirting with anything that moved, and they entertained themselves with rumors of his flings. Then, there were the assumptions made by those who had survived the war of Fódlan at his side.  They had slightly more accurate assumptions (like Dimitri assuming he would accept a position on a council regarding Crest legislation for the purpose of dismantling it, Dorothea assuming he hated women almost as much as he hated himself, and Annette assuming Sylvain didn’t hate the annual reunion she held for their classmates).

There was one assumption, however, that his friends still had woefully wrong.  And, honestly, it was so small compared to the grand scale of their lives that Sylvain never quite bothered to correct them.

The assumption was this: That Sylvain enjoyed watching Felix train whenever the opportunity presented itself so he might have an excuse to ogle his boyfriend.  Felix was, after all, by no means unattractive, and the training grounds were the place he felt the freest with his body.  So, no, Sylvain admitted, his friends weren’t wrong.  They just weren’t entirely right, either.

The truth was this: That Felix was as passionate when he trained as he was focused, which was to say, completely, and this was what Sylvain found the most attractive.  Yes, Felix in his lithe movements, powerful strikes, and (eventual) labored breath was captivating.  But it was the flush of his cheeks that began far before he was winded and the spark in his eyes that could come only from unabashed pride that Sylvain found utterly irresistible.

Felix loved to fight, and Sylvain was in love with his joy.

Therefore, it struck Sylvain like a knife from the shadows to see Felix in that same state in the midst of a formal meeting with the Fhirdiad gentry.  There he was, leaning forwards over the table with his eyes narrowed on Lord Beaulieu like the man was an Imperial spy preparing to unleash a fireball.  The only fire Sylvain could see, though, was in those amber eyes, burning so violently he somehow expected smoke to fill the room.  Felix’s hands were twisted into the tablecloth, vibrating with the effort of containing his emotions, and a blush was blooming furiously on his cheeks.

And yet, Felix hadn’t raised his voice.  It was a low growl that resonated through the wood of the table, in the crystals of the chandelier, in Sylvain’s bones.  He had absolutely no idea what Felix was saying, but he could hear it and, well…

It was something.

Pinpricks erupted in Sylvain’s thigh and he looked over to see Ingrid pulling her hand away, glaring up at him.  Pay attention, she mouthed.

“—ctfully, get the fuck out if you have nothing further to contribute,” Felix said.  He didn’t move.  No one did, especially not Sylvain, who was too busy watching the rise and fall of Felix’s chest and admiring the way his muscles were pulled taut under his dress shirt.

“Tch,” scoffed Beaulieu.

Dimitri stood, and Sylvain heard the shifting of armor from somewhere near him, but Felix was one of the red stars over Fódlan’s sky that drew Sylvain’s attention even amidst the brighter ones, purely because it was more incredible.  

The slap to his leg was more noticeable this time since his whole body shifted with it, and Sylvain tuned back in to hear Dimitri saying something about a recess.  People slowly started to shuffle out of the room, but Felix refused to leave until Beaulieu did, following him like a wolf stalking after prey.  

“Sylvain,” Ingrid groaned, but her voice was distant from over his shoulder.  He just had to reach—

“Felix!” he said, like it was the only thing that mattered.

Felix turned to him, jaw clenched and fists bared, as Sylvain crowded him against the wall of the hallway.  His own heart was racing loudly enough in his ears that it was a miracle he could hear anything when Felix opened his mouth.  But if whatever had just happened in the meeting proved anything, it was that Felix’s voice had a way of drawing Sylvain’s attention like a moth to a flame.  “Look, Sylvain,” he said, glancing away even as his eyes continued to burn, “if you’re going to try and tell me to be nicer to Lord Whatshisface when he talks about you like that, then—”

That was for me?  All of it?  The moth should not have been surprised by his arousal at the thought, but there were many things over which he found himself helpless when Felix was involved.

“What do you mean, ‘was that for you?!’” Felix shouted.  One hand came up to grab at Sylvain’s arm on his shoulder, and oh.  The spark in Felix’s eyes was fixed on him now.  “Didn’t you hear what he was saying about his daughter saving your bloodline, or have you gone deaf?”

“Stupid possibly, for you, but—”

“Well, that’s no shock—” Sylvain ran his fingers along Felix’s jaw the way one might touch glass, His mouth snapped closed like Sylvain had pushed it shut.  A moment passed.  “What are you doing, idiot?” Felix demanded, but the words were soft, like moving too much might brush Sylvain’s touch away.

It couldn’t have.  Not like this.  Because Sylvain had the presence of mind to deal with only two thoughts in that moment.

The first was an amendment.  Felix most loved to protect, and Sylvain was in love with his passion.

The second?

“You’re so fucking hot when you’re mad,” he said, and brought his other hand up to tilt Felix’s face into a kiss.  He saw, briefly, Felix’s eyes go wide before sliding closed, and a hand came to rest on his waist.  Sylvain melted under the touch.  It really did feel like the fire of a star coming to rest inside of him as Felix pulled Sylvain against him until Sylvain could feel both their heartbeats, even between their clothes.

“And you,” Felix whispered in his ear, “are lucky I love you.”

Sylvain laughed and kissed him again.  “I know.”