The war is won, the kingdom's position is (more or less) secure, but Felix instinctively tenses as Dorothea sweeps closer to take his arm—although maybe that has, ah, more to do with Dorothea herself than the potential threat she poses? He has his sword, after all. His magic, even if Dorothea's grasp of Reason has always been superior. Felix is always prepared to handle himself in a fight.
What he's less prepared for, however, is the lilt of her laugh, even if it comes at his own expense. The easy, familiar way she touches him, because aside from, like, Sylvain slinging an arm over his shoulder, or Ingrid fussily swiping something off his cheek, no one touches Felix Hugo Fraldarius. He deliberately keeps himself apart from people.
But here Dorothea is, pushing past his walls like it's nothing at all—and what is there to do, other than match her pace as she leads him right along? Crook his arm like the gentleman he was taught to be, even if the sideways look he shoots her is, ah, too sharp to be polite. The mood is—well, who knows what the mood is, but Felix knows better than to leap into an explanation of why, exactly, he's in Enbarr. Boring, and full of less-than-pleasant reminders of a less-than-pleasant time, so.
"My busy schedule wasn't as busy as it could be," he offers, short and somewhat stilted, because he's never been a good liar. "No long-winded meetings. I was told to take in the sights."
Never mind the fact that Felix rarely listens to anyone, as Dorothea surely remembers. And while he could throw in something about hearing her name, perhaps, without it being too awkward, Felix presses his lips together for a moment. Thinks, quite seriously, about what might just be the path of least resistance, before he adds:
no subject
What he's less prepared for, however, is the lilt of her laugh, even if it comes at his own expense. The easy, familiar way she touches him, because aside from, like, Sylvain slinging an arm over his shoulder, or Ingrid fussily swiping something off his cheek, no one touches Felix Hugo Fraldarius. He deliberately keeps himself apart from people.
But here Dorothea is, pushing past his walls like it's nothing at all—and what is there to do, other than match her pace as she leads him right along? Crook his arm like the gentleman he was taught to be, even if the sideways look he shoots her is, ah, too sharp to be polite. The mood is—well, who knows what the mood is, but Felix knows better than to leap into an explanation of why, exactly, he's in Enbarr. Boring, and full of less-than-pleasant reminders of a less-than-pleasant time, so.
"My busy schedule wasn't as busy as it could be," he offers, short and somewhat stilted, because he's never been a good liar. "No long-winded meetings. I was told to take in the sights."
Never mind the fact that Felix rarely listens to anyone, as Dorothea surely remembers. And while he could throw in something about hearing her name, perhaps, without it being too awkward, Felix presses his lips together for a moment. Thinks, quite seriously, about what might just be the path of least resistance, before he adds:
"I don't dislike the opera."