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English
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Published:
2022-03-18
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1,144
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1/1
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267
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Honestly,

Summary:

“I thought you had to answer honestly.”

“I am answering honestly!” Sylvain laughs under Felix’s scrutiny. “What, you think I’d lie to you?”

Confessions.

Notes:

this fic contains alcohol use and characters making choices they may not necessarily make while sober. take care!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

“I thought you had to answer honestly.”

“I am answering honestly!” Sylvain laughs under Felix’s scrutiny. “What, you think I’d lie to you?”

Felix takes him in. Sylvain’s relaxed, sitting cross-legged and leaning against Felix’s kitchen cupboards. There’s an easy smile on his face that only disappears when he takes another slow sip of his gin and tonic, momentarily replaced by a grimace as he reaches the bottom of the glass. How many drinks are they on, their fifth? Sixth? Enough for Sylvain to stop complaining about Felix’s sticky linoleum floor and for Felix to start noticing the easy comfort in his eyes.

“Yes,” Felix lies, “I do.”

In truth, Sylvain always becomes more honest the more he drinks. Too honest for his own good. When his filter dissipates it leaves behind painful truths that Sylvain would never admit to while sober, or while the sun’s up, or anywhere other than the kitchen floor. Here, at three in the morning, not quite shitfaced but definitely not sober, Sylvain can’t lie.

And yet, here they are.

“You did not have a —” Felix cringes into himself, a cupboard knob digging into his back. The words fight him, trying to force their way back down his throat, but he’s stronger than them. “A — a crush on me in college. I would’ve noticed.”

Sylvain laughs again, this time while regarding his empty glass. “Of course you didn’t notice,” he says, his voice light, “You couldn’t. It was better that way.”

“That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard,” Felix growls. He sets his empty glass on the countertop behind him without looking away from Sylvain. “Who told you it was better that way? Your dad?”

“No,” Sylvain looks at a spot to the left of Felix’s head. “It just was.”

Felix presses a knuckle to his forehead, willing away the growing tension. “That’s not your choice to make,” he grits out.

“Felix —”

“You self sacrificing prick,” Felix spits, “Spare me your excuses. You wanted to be miserable.”

Sylvain doesn’t respond. Felix is right and they both know it.

“You always want to be miserable,” Felix continues, “Even if it makes everyone around you suffer. But that makes you more miserable, doesn’t it? It’s sad, Sylvain. That’s nothing to be proud of.”

A pause.

“I never said I was proud,” Sylvain says, voice small.

Felix’s gaze returns to him. Sylvain looks less comfortable with each passing moment, his shoulders tensing and his hands gripping his ankles, keeping his legs close. The easy fix is to just, well, if he thinks about it too long he won’t do it.

Felix shifts to his knees and crawls toward Sylvain, ignoring the hard floor painfully digging into his knees. He swats Sylvain’s hands away from his ankles and Sylvain, caught off guard, actually moves them.

“What are you doing?” Sylvain asks, voice uneasy. Felix climbs into Sylvain’s lap, his legs parted over Sylvain’s hips and his knees on the floor.

“You’re not that stupid,” Felix snaps.

And he leans in and presses his lips against Sylvain’s. As he expected, Sylvain kisses him back, moving easily despite the awkwardness. Sylvain tastes like alcohol. His breath is warm and a little sour, his lips dry and chapped.

“You’ve been using shitty lip balm,” Felix chastises him, not bothering to back away. “Idiot.”

Sylvain huffs out a weak laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

“No lip balm is better than shitty lip balm.”

“What do you have in your shower again?” Sylvain asks. “Three-in-one? That can’t be good for your skin.”

As he speaks Sylvain runs his fingers down Felix’s side, dragging along his ratty t-shirt until he finds the sliver of skin exposed along his hip. Felix freezes. Sylvain thumbs his shirt up and he rests his hand against him. His touch is warm. Nostalgic. Sylvain’s soft palm feels grounding on his goosebumped skin. Felix swallows.

“It’s soft, though,” Sylvain says. “Your skin. Wait — that was kinda creepy. Uh —”

Felix’s body releases like a spring and he presses himself against Sylvain, climbing fully into his lap and pressing him against the cupboards, taking his lip between his teeth and biting down hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to harm. Maybe he pushes him a little too hard. Maybe the corner of a cupboard door digs into his shoulder. Maybe Felix doesn’t care. Maybe he wants to be wanted, even when it hurts. Maybe he wants Sylvain to want him, even when it hurts.

“Felix —” Sylvain says into his mouth.

“Shut up,” Felix growls. “You say stupid shit when you’re drunk. Shut up.”

“Felix —”

“Stop.”

“Felix.”

The urgency in Sylvain’s voice pushes Felix to pause. He leans back. Sylvain’s eyes are trained on his mouth, soft and half-lidded. Felix frowns.

“What?”

Sylvain swallows and his eyes trail up to meet Felix’s. Felix fights the urge to look away.

“We’re drunk,” Sylvain says simply.

So they are.

“So?” Felix asks.

“So we should talk about this in the morning,” Sylvain says, his voice nearly a whisper.

Felix doesn’t need to do that. Felix has never shied away from what he wants, and he wants Sylvain. He’s wanted Sylvain for years. Sober or drunk, that’s not going to change. Waiting sounds like a waste of time, time that could be spent feeling Sylvain’s hands and body and learning all the things Sylvain kept from him.

No, he doesn’t need to wait, though he’s sure Sylvain thinks he does. Sylvain, however…

The way Sylvain looks at him, from far away, like he’s already been defeated, is awful. He hates it. Sylvain already believes he’s lost. He never meant to share the truth with Felix because to do so would be to surrender, to show his cards in an impossible game of bullshit. Sylvain expects Felix to regret this in the morning. He doesn’t believe that Felix could possibly genuinely want him, knowing him as well as he does.

“You’re a moron,” Felix mutters. It’s not an insult, it’s a fact. “Fine, we’ll do this in the morning. I’m not letting you pretend this never happened.”

“Thanks,” Sylvain breathes.

Ugh, Felix can’t do this.

“Come on,” he mumbles. Felix braces himself on the countertop and pulls himself up and off Sylvain’s lap. His legs shake from the poor position and the alcohol, but he manages just fine. He holds out a hand to Sylvain. “We’ve talked enough tonight. You look like shit when you don’t get enough sleep. Let’s go.”

Sylvain accepts his hand and rises to his feet. “I’ll see you later, then,” he says, looking everywhere except at Felix. Felix growls and tugs on Sylvain’s hand again.

“No,” he says, “You’re sharing the bed with me. You’re not going anywhere.”

“But —”

“And if you try to sneak out,” Felix warns as he drags Sylvain across his apartment and toward his bedroom, “I’ll know. I’m a light sleeper.”

Notes:

me? writing sylvix again? nature is healing

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