[For a brief moment, the past several years are washed away by the sight of Sylvain—hale and whole, so familiar as to inspire a deep throb of longing for childhood innocence within his breast. It feels almost natural to be greeted this way, his eyes drinking in the sight of tousled hair and rumpled clothes as if they were still at the academy. But then the seconds pass, and with them the illusion. Felix stares in hard, stricken silence at the young man he slew himself, stomach twisting. Though he had overheard other guests describe this phenomenon already, seeing the dead walk once more is a kind of madness he only thought possible for the boar. Perhaps Felix truly has lost his mind. It would be fitting.]

According to the servants, [“employees” is a term he has yet to adopt,] my “husband” will be late.

[Disdain drips from every word. While same-sex relationships are far from forbidden in the majority of Fódlan, it is drilled into the heads of every young noble from Faerghus that securing the family bloodline—perpetuating the future of Crests to defend the homeland—is imperative. Felix was no exception, of course; though Rodrigue had never been as heavy-handed as Margrave Gautier, the second-born Fraldarius had understood what was expected of him. So, for this “resort” to insist he is married to a man of all things…? What a joke.]

I’ll admit I don’t understand your being here, Sylvain. [Another pointed look at their immediate surroundings.] This doesn’t seem like your kind of “fun.”

[Felix continues to misunderstand; his brain refuses to make the connection between what Sylvain has described and sex.]