Hello! I’m part of another Big Bang event, this time for fe3h focusing on the Blue Lions! @bluelionsbigbang
we’re not posting yet (there’s still about a bit to go) but it’s ✨preview time✨
it’s been amazing working with this team they’re all so talented! @starrryknight (who’s art is featured here!) @daatyichudnik (you’ll just have to wait and see :D) and @semicryptid (who beta’d, and this fic would not be as good as it is without, and you should also absolutely 100% check out their work as well! It’s amaziiiiing)
plaintext under the cut
hurt me back instead
Horsebow moon, 1182: Sylvain and Felix rendezvous
10.7K | rated T
"If you're not going to fight," he snaps, "then why offer?"
Sylvain shrugs a shoulder. "You looked like you needed it."
He's known Felix long enough to recognise when the anger has built too much. He used to tease him about it sometimes, pushing him just enough to let it boil over. Sparring has always been one of the best ways to help blow off steam, but purposefully taking defence, refusing to make it an actual challenge?
Sylvain has provoked him like this before, but never to this extent.
Felix plants his feet, drawing the second blade from his hip. They're not done. Not until he decides they are.
Ace Attorney 4 | Turnabout Succession
Words: 1,795 | Rated G | Gen
Malik Kazim (Valant Gramarye, to the world) is a performer. He may not believe he is a good performer— not when he used to be on stage with the Greats, forever in the shadows cast from their shine, trying endlessly to reach their heights— but that doesn’t mean he isn’t one at all.
written for Here Comes Justice! Turnabout Debut @aa4zine2026
[read on ao3 here!] | or continue under the cut ⬇️
Perhaps it’s only because of this that Valant’s smile remains set in place when Trucy appears amidst the crowds watching him run through a few of his smaller tricks outside Sunshine Arena.
Ever since she was a child, Trucy has had the ability to light up whatever space she’s in, and Valant swears that the sun shines a little stronger in an attempt to compete with her.
He won’t be outdone. Valant forces his grin wider as he throws his silk hat upwards with a flourish, letting it whirl through the air, catching it on the end of his cane. A simple flick of the wrist casts it back into his free hand once more, before he taps his cane on the brim sharply twice. A rabbit pokes her head out from inside the hat to oohs and aahs from the crowd, giving Valant a smattering of applause in appreciation.
Valant bows deeply. “Thank you all!” he calls, fishing the rabbit out so that he can place her back into her cage. “Please, there will be more to see in the show! Three days! Get your tickets while they last!”
Show over, the crowd begins to disperse, giving one particular mini-magician a clear path towards him. Instinctively, Valant finds himself in search of an escape route— but disappearing acts have never been one of his strong suits.
(They were always instead the speciality of one Zak Enigmar.)
Besides, there is still an audience, even as it thins; so he has a role to play.
“Miss Trucy!” Valant greets, holding his arms out to her. She doesn’t leap at him like she did when she’d seen him three months ago, but she bounds up all the same, entire face bright.
“We came to wish you luck, Uncle Valant,” Trucy says, almost breathlessly. “And congratulations on such a big show!”
We? Ah— that Apollo boy trails behind Trucy, glaring at their surroundings, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
That may as well be something Valant can relate to.
“It is exciting, is it not?” Valant agrees, continuing to pack away his act pieces as he speaks to Trucy. He tosses his hat, easily catching it atop his head, giving Trucy a wink, much to her delight. “The world has been lying in wait for seven long years, and now they may finally see the miracles of Magnifi Gramarye with their own eyes once more!”
Apollo’s gaze slides over to Valant, and he must take so much after his father, because Valant can barely see Thalassa in him at all.
Valant knew his identity the moment they’d run into each other backstage of that concert a scant few months prior, of course— though he thought himself mad for it. Thalassa’s first child, alive and well? Surely impossible.
But still, Valant knows it to be the truth— and proof lies indisputably upon the young man’s wrist.
There are only two of those bracelets in existence, after all, and Magnifi himself always claimed they would never belong to anyone but a Gramarye.
Apollo Justice does not carry the name, but that does not stop it from being his.
(The thought is ironic— the only one in current company to use the name Gramarye is the one with the weakest connection to it, even though he’s had it longer than the other two have been alive.)
(It’s strange to think it wasn’t always his.)
He carries the blood, and blood is some of the strongest magic there is— yet he is not a magician like Valant and Trucy, not trained in the art of misdirection.
(Would he have been, had he never been lost?)
(… There is no point pondering prospects that have passed.)
Apollo is a lawyer, and lawyers are straight to the point, ever reaching for the truth, pushing through layers of glitter and shine to find what lies underneath.
Apollo will always tiptoe that line between magic and logic, but he falls more to one side than the other. They are of two worlds, and an irreconcilable difference will forever lie between them.
Though it seems it is because of his unique position that he threatens to upend everything that has been and will be in several ways. Between Apollo sniffing around and the reporter constantly chasing him about in an attempt to pry any particular peculiarities out, Valant is at risk of losing everything all over again.
(Perhaps he cannot say he lost anything the first time— not when it was never truly his.)
(But it is always about what the audience sees, not what is happening behind the curtain.)
Yet here is something Valant forgets: sometimes that audience has sharper eyes than anticipated.
“Why seven years?” Apollo asks, and Valant knows that there is no point in dancing about it, not with the way Apollo’s stare cuts through him.
“That would be the matter of a little law known as performance rights,” Valant says. Trucy tips her head to the side, confused. Valant tuts, giving his cane a twirl. “You’ve been away from the magic for far too long, Miss Trucy— you’re starting to forget your roots!”
What a performer the young miss is, that her smile doesn’t even waver. “Perhaps,” she says pleasantly. “Explain them to me.”
“Magnifi’s best tricks are considered his intellectual property,” Valant says obligingly. “He bequeathed the rights to a single person within his will… your father, who as we know disappeared seven long years ago.”
Apollo frowns. “And after seven years, a missing person is…”
“Decidedly declared deceased, yes.”
This has nothing to say about the man in front of him. From what Valant knows, he should’ve died some twenty years ago, a page stained in dark ink and left in Thalassa’s past.
“And in the absence of a formal will, the secrets of our mighty mentor Magnifi fall instead to me.”
Trucy’s smile remains fixed, but it doesn’t reach her eyes anymore. “Is that true?” she asks Apollo.
He nods with a slight grimace. “Death in absentia.”
“Oh, Daddy…”
Apollo looks as if he wants to comfort Trucy, hovering awkwardly beside her for a moment before his attention is once more laser-focused on Valant.
He’s searching for something. The way his eyes pierce through Valant’s carefully crafted layers is all Gramarye.
(And perhaps Valant was lying to himself before. He can see Thalassa in his eyes, in his hard stare and furrowed brow.)
“Do you have any information on this?” he asks, pulling an envelope out of his bag.
Valant gingerly lifts it from Apollo’s hand, spinning it between two fingers. The silk hat of the Gramarye autograph flicks in-out-in-out of view. He stops it in front of his face, covering one eye, the other looking at Trucy.
“... Where did you get this?” he asks quietly.
“Oh… um, Daddy gave it to me.”
He cannot stop the flinch as it comes, cannot hide the way he almost reels back, heart rate spiking. “Z-Z-Zak–?”
Trucy blinks up at him in confusion for a moment, before her smile widens. “No, silly! My other daddy! Phoenix Wright!”
“Ah…” Her words are enough to bring heat to his face, and he coughs awkwardly. “Right. Ahem… of course.”
Trucy— merely fifteen— has had nearly as many names as Valant has, in a third of the time. Despite being a Wright now, she still childishly clings to the Enigmar part of her identity, silk hat upon her head and cape around her shoulders.
Does Trucy remember that blue was her mother’s colour, or does she wear it for another reason, now, emulating the man that stayed?
Apollo is staring at him again. Valant dutifully ignores that, instead looking at the envelope. There’s a second scribble below the Gramarye signature, a mark that Valant has not seen in a long time.
He forgets how to be a performer in that moment, frowning deeply at the mark that Zak Gramarye has left behind, the only trace he has seen of the man since his disappearance seven years prior.
(How does he cast a shadow, even now?)
Valant suspects he knows exactly what lies within the confines of the envelope, and if he is correct, it threatens to ruin everything he’s built towards, everything he’s fought to earn over the last seven years.
He makes to slip a finger beneath the seal. “Might I be so bold as to—”
Before he can go any further, the envelope is snatched out of his hands. “S-sorry!” Apollo stammers out, shoving it deep into his bag once more. “I can’t let you do that!”
Valant tries not to mourn such a monumental mass of magic moving out of his mitts. Instead, he admits defeat and does not give chase, fluffing out his cape and clearing his throat, appearing once more stage-ready as he always strives to be. They do not yet know what power is within their grasp.
Trucy tugs on Apollo’s sleeve and they begin to bicker, quick-fire and quiet, seemingly forgetting whose presence they are in. Valant simply watches on, idly spinning his cane as he is caught in his own musings.
Nobody witnessing this would ever believe that they’ve only known each other for a brief time, with how they match each other’s energies; a push-and-pull of tides, an electrical current running circuits through them.
Does he know?
Does she?
…
No.
He knows Phoenix Wright enough to know that the man is always playing his cards close to his chest. This is not one secret he would easily part with.
Valant has never been a gambling man— that was always Zak’s vice— but he is acutely aware that the less known to these two, the better his chances, especially when a certain ex-attorney is evidently entangled. Valant may be a meddler at heart, but this is one affair that he will not have a hand in.
He knows when to pick his battles, and when to lie in wait for the right moment— he is a Gramarye, after all.
Neither of the two before him may ever take the name for themselves, but if they do he will forever be outshone, forever doomed to stand in their shadows.
He’s been patiently waiting for his chance to rise for far too long for something as simple as this to stand in his way. There are plenty of battles still to fight.
So, Valant will continue to smile and play his part, until the curtains close.
1/? | 747 words | G | gen (Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Glenn Fraldarius) | no archive warnings apply
A person with natural talent can still struggle with technique on occasion.
Even with Glenn's favoured weapon being the lance, even with Felix being the gifted swordsman in his family, Glenn seems to always win when they spar. He has the natural advantage— several years more of practice. Felix still has a lot to learn. Does he have the patience?
Or; training sessions with the Fraldarius brothers.
[read on ao3 here!]
"Move slower," Glenn said. Felix straightened up out of his stance instantly, throwing his head back to give his brother a derisive look.
“You always tell me that.”
Glenn shrugged in response, hopping up to sit on the low wall of the cloister. “Which clearly means you don't listen.”
Felix bared his teeth at Glenn, before he stalked over to the other side of the courtyard to restart the drill, purposefully moving as agonisingly slow as possible.
“If you're doing that hoping to spite me, it won't work,” Glenn called.
full fic under cut ⬇️
"Move slower," Glenn said. Felix straightened up out of his stance instantly, throwing his head back to give his brother a derisive look.
“You always tell me that.”
Glenn shrugged in response, hopping up to sit on the low wall of the cloister. “Which clearly means you don't listen.”
Felix bared his teeth at Glenn, before he stalked over to the other side of the courtyard to restart the drill, purposefully moving as agonisingly slow as possible.
“If you're doing that hoping to spite me, it won't work,” Glenn called.
Felix rolled his eyes, continuing to work through the motions.
“I thought you were here to train as well,” he said after a few minutes of silence.
“Nah, heckling is better.”
“You're not doing much of that, either,” Felix pointed out. He finally reached the opposite edge of the courtyard, turning around to work his way back, this time at a closer-to-regular speed.
“Mainly because I'm trying to work out what the fuck you're doing with your back hand.”
Felix paused mid swing, turning to stare at Glenn. “I'll tell Father you swore.”
“No you won't. Anyway, don't stop, I need to see it a few more times to pinpoint the error.”
“You let me do it wrong the entire way here?” Felix said, annoyance leaking into his voice. “When I was running it at a snail's pace?”
Glenn leant back on his hands. “Couldn't see from that far away,” he said as if it were obvious.
Felix let out a tiny scoff, turning back to his practice.
“There!”
“I did it properly!”
“You did not,” Glenn snorted. “You're meant to be swinging true-false-true-false. You're going true-false-true-true.”
Felix ran through the sequence in place. “I'm not.”
“You just did.”
“Did not.”
With a hefty sigh, Glenn pushed himself off the wall, making his way over, drawing his sword from his hip and standing across from Felix.
“I can't mirror,” Felix reminded him. Glenn gave him a flat look, moving to stand by his side instead.
“True edge,” Glenn said as they ran through the first cut. “False edge. True... what are you even doing with your wrists?”
“That's how the cut—”
“You're cutting with the true edge instead of false, meaning there's an extra twist in here. It's going to make you lose momentum, and leave you unguarded.”
Felix took third position, running the strike again, trying to make sure the cut was with the false edge.
Glenn shook his head. “Watch my hands,” he said, before showing the cut once more.
Felix copied. Glenn pressed his lips together. “Still not right.”
“This is stupid,” Felix muttered.
Glenn reached out, grabbing the blade of Felix's sword. Felix tried to yank it back out of his grip, but Glenn held fast. He slowly guided the sword the path it was meant to take, before stepping into the strike's path to demonstrate where to target. Releasing his hold, he shifted his weight onto his back foot. “Try again.”
Felix complied, resetting to third position. He followed the path Glenn had set—
“Did you just roll the hilt over the back of your hand?” Glenn asked incredulously, tip of the sword barely an inch from his face. He hadn't even flinched.
“How else am I meant to get the right edge to cut?” Felix shot back.
“I manage just fine without—” Glenn gestured at Felix vaguely— “that. So clearly it's doable. How did you get worse?”
“I think you're bullshitting.”
“Maybe you should try following my lead again.”
Felix bristled. “Fine.”
The brothers stood side by side, Felix half a step behind Glenn in the sequence, watching his hands and following as closely as he could.
Glenn narrowed his eyes. He reached up for the ribbon tying Felix's hair back from his face, yanking it free.
“Hey!” Felix complained, trying to smack at Glenn's hand. Glenn darted back out of the way with ease.
“I'm helping, you little snot,” he said.
“How is pulling my hair meant to help?” Felix whined.
“Get into your beginning stance,” Glenn said, unfazed. Felix shot him a heated glare, but did so anyway.
Glenn tied the ribbon around one quillon of the crossguard. “Ribbon of shame,” he declared with a smirk. “That is now your true edge. Give it another shot.”
Felix ran through the sequence, true-false-true—
“Oh, fuck off,” Felix said as he easily struck forward with the false edge, the motion smoother than ever before.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Characters: Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Sylvain Jose Gautier, Glenn Fraldarius
Additional Tags: Gen or Pre-Slash, Ambiguous Relationships, Mid-Timeskip | War Phase, POV Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Grief/Mourning, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Felix Hugo Fraldarius is Bad at Feelings, Sparring, Haircuts, Illustrated Fic
Summary:
Horsebow Moon 1182— Fódlan is deep in the throes of war.
With the anniversary of the Tragedy looming, the Fraldarius and Gautier battalions meet up with the intention of marching on the Dukedom, resulting in a reunion between Felix and Sylvain.
News and meals are shared, arguments and spars are fought, but what truly needs to be said remains unspoken.
