[ far be it from him to tell him what a prince must do, but when he repeats the words so intimately onto his cheek, with his weight so heavy on his back, sylvain has no choice but to surrender to it. he closes his eyes. he can't fight him anymore, never had the will to; but this gritty, deliberate confession is so closely said against his skin that it might as well be a kiss. and for all the affection he once won against his prince, this, he will take for himself.
after all - he should hate him. he must. doing otherwise is a death sentence to the future king, the only king, of faerghus. he is a traitor, he should be treated as such, even if this reminds sylvain of their childhood: stolen moments when he could swear and readily admit that he never hated the idea of love or commitment. when dimitri would murmur something approximating that ethereal feeling, and sylvain, who never believed in prayer, often found, in his fear, that it was almost an answer to something unsaid.
this is like that, too. he closes his eyes. each breath a surrender. the pain that cleaves him a mark. a homecoming. a debt extracted. love and hate are both the same sides of the coin: if his highness reaches over and this is what he finds at the end of his rope to wring around his neck, sylvain must open the door on the other side for him to realize he has never moved past him.
a knight moves unconventionally compared to other chess pieces. but a knight in the corner only has two possible moves. so all he says to that is, ]
... 'm here.
[ whispered so closely to the earth soaking his blood greedily. he feels his body shudder in - anger? anger. must be. how he misses him. completely inappropriate given the situation. sylvain remembers his obeisance. who does he serve? let him atone for it. let him - ]
no subject
You must.
[ far be it from him to tell him what a prince must do, but when he repeats the words so intimately onto his cheek, with his weight so heavy on his back, sylvain has no choice but to surrender to it. he closes his eyes. he can't fight him anymore, never had the will to; but this gritty, deliberate confession is so closely said against his skin that it might as well be a kiss. and for all the affection he once won against his prince, this, he will take for himself.
after all - he should hate him. he must. doing otherwise is a death sentence to the future king, the only king, of faerghus. he is a traitor, he should be treated as such, even if this reminds sylvain of their childhood: stolen moments when he could swear and readily admit that he never hated the idea of love or commitment. when dimitri would murmur something approximating that ethereal feeling, and sylvain, who never believed in prayer, often found, in his fear, that it was almost an answer to something unsaid.
this is like that, too. he closes his eyes. each breath a surrender. the pain that cleaves him a mark. a homecoming. a debt extracted. love and hate are both the same sides of the coin: if his highness reaches over and this is what he finds at the end of his rope to wring around his neck, sylvain must open the door on the other side for him to realize he has never moved past him.
a knight moves unconventionally compared to other chess pieces. but a knight in the corner only has two possible moves. so all he says to that is, ]
... 'm here.
[ whispered so closely to the earth soaking his blood greedily. he feels his body shudder in - anger? anger. must be. how he misses him. completely inappropriate given the situation. sylvain remembers his obeisance. who does he serve? let him atone for it. let him - ]
Your will be mine.