Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's probably a little bit silly, but Claude can't keep his eyes off of Sylvain when he's up in the air. There's something wild and free about Sylvain's smile, his wind-whipped locks, the loose way he holds the reins. The Sylvain trapped on the ground is recalcitrant, guard, calculated. Ploys within ploys, subterfuge meant to hide something buried so deep inside it was rotting in Sylvain's veins. 

Claude can look at the Sylvain stuck on the ground and want to take him in his arms and kiss away his fears, his anxiety, tell him it would all be okay, and mean it. It's the greatest gift imaginable, getting to be true to himself when Sylvain's near. Even now, with several weeks' worth of travel put between him and Fodlan's Locket, it's difficult for Claude to shed the disguise, to be him rather than the version of him that will get him through this moment quicker, faster, safer. Claude doesn't know if Sylvain realizes how precious a gift he's given Claude, every time he catches him in a lie. Claude has spent far too long waiting for someone to catch him in the lie who cares enough to carefully cut aside the fabric disguise and find him buried under all that, a teasing as gut-wrenching as it is healing.

Claude doesn't want to find out who he might turn into, without Sylvain by his side. 

It's easy, is the thing, to love the Sylvain rooted with his feet tied to the earth, to want to surround Sylvain with priceless treasures, to hand his hand and kiss his mouth and tell him it was okay, to cry. That admitting there was a problem was the first step taken towards healing, a step Claude needs Sylvain to take before he can allow things to get hot and heavy between the two of them. It hurts, denying himself, but Claude's been hurt too many times by people who care far too little for themselves to cast his caution entirely aside. Love Sylvain as he may, he loves himself, too, and he loves the idea of them together enough to not want it to fall apart straight away. 

It's easier to try and hold onto somebody who isn't always fleeing to somewhere lost inside their head, untenable and unreachable, and so, so bloody hurt that it makes Claude's heart just to think about it. He looks Sylvain's smiles in the eye every day and categorizes them, clocking the minute changes from hour to hour, minute to minute, in the wake of sadness and joy apiece. 

Who hurt you, Claude wants to ask, longing to reach across the dining hall table to brush Sylvain's bangs out of his eyes, and how can I help. Tell me. Tell me how to build a house out of bones for you inside my gut, so you can never leave me be. Tell me. Please, Sylvain.

It's easy to love someone when they're hurting, broken mirrors showing you refractions of their inner demons, but it's far easier to love someone when they're happy, when they're at peace with the world, when they're grounded. Claude wants Sylvain to be happy because he thinks Sylvain deserves it, even if Sylvain won't admit it, and he thinks Sylvain does, too. He wants to be a part of Sylvain's joy, wants it with a yearning that surprises him sometimes. He wants to be the wind raising Sylvain up, buoyed up by a strong current, wants to put his hands all over Sylvain and call him his, and nobody would ever take him away from him again. 

How do you love someone well enough to set them free?