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Most nights were quiet. Sylvain leaned against the parapet, eyes straining for the slightest sign of life. There was none to be found. That was good; it meant they were safe in the meantime.
It was only when Gilbert showed up to relieve him of his post that Sylvain began to breathe easy.
With a snap, faint firelight danced on his fingertips, providing a little extra light to guide him back. Despite the cloud of war that hung over the monastery, there was a certain kind of beauty to be found in the dark of night. Smooth and gentle silence followed him while he walked, only occasionally broken by the wind rustling through the leaves and the boisterous laughter—
Sylvain stopped right at the edge of the pond. Up ahead, seated on the steps to the dining hall were two figures, faces barely visible under gentle starlight.
Ashe and Ingrid. Sylvain would recognize their voices anywhere.
“Shh!” Ingrid whispered with a voice loud enough to wake the dead. “I think someone’s coming.”
“Hey, guys.” Sylvain waved to them. “You two up to no good?”
“Sylvain!” Ashe hiccupped. “Look, Ingrid, it’s Sylvain!”
Ingrid elbowed him in the ribs, and all the air was seemingly expelled from his lungs with a pitiful sounding oof.
“Shut up,” Ingrid hissed, still very loudly. “He’ll hear you!”
Sylvain cracked a tiny smile. “Still here, you two.”
Ashe turned his head back towards Sylvain. “Yeah. No, thanks. We just ate.”
Sylvain cocked an eyebrow. “What?”
And then he caught sight of the bottle in Ashe’s hand. He was more than a little surprised; he didn’t think Ashe even knew what alcohol was.
“Are you two drunk?” he asked.
In drunken unison, both Ashe and Ingrid languidly nodded along.
“Saints.” Sylvain dragged a gloved hand down his face. “You two better head back to your rooms.”
“A-a-bout that,” Ashe said as he got to his feet, “remember that time I let you hide in my room and you said you owed me?”
Sylvain folded his arms across his chest. “What of it?”
“I’m cashing in. Can you carry Ingrid back to her room?”
“Why would I do that? She’s perfectly capable—”
“No, I’m not,” Ingrid called out.
“She can’t,” Ashe muttered drunkenly. “It took us all our energy to even make it down the steps.”
Sylvain frowned. “Saints, how much did you two drink?”
“Just one bottle of this dangerously cheap wine I bought—”
With a heavy sigh, Sylvain pinched the bridge of his nose. “Help me get her up to her feet.”
Ashe nodded, and Sylvain hesitantly walked towards Ingrid. With gentle motions, they helped her to her feet.
And then Sylvain said seven words he never thought he’d have the courage to say. “Can you put your arms around me?”
Emerald green eyes blinked under moonlight before she obliged him. Sylvain was nearly caught off guard by the feeling of her arms around his shoulders. Without the protection of armor in between them, there was something vaguely intoxicating about the feeling of her touch against him.
He was beginning to find a lot of things about her intoxicating. Her smile. Her company. Her—
He shook his head ever so slightly, placed his arms under her knees and her back, and then swept her off her feet.
Ashe chuckled from where he stood. “Bridal.”
“Shut up, Ashe!” Ingrid whined.
“We’ll be going now,” Sylvain said. “Think you can make it to your room by yourself?”
“Saints, I hope so.” Ashe laughed, a tad too loud. “Night, Sylvain. Night, Ingrid.”
He stumbled off into the dark, leaving Sylvain alone with Ingrid. The night was silent once again. Sylvain chanced a treacherous look at Ingrid. Underneath the stars, with no armor to protect her, with her eyes closed, she looked so delicate. Fragile, even. Not that he’d ever tell her for fear of getting his ass beaten.
Ingrid let out a little sigh and rested her head on his shoulder. He froze. It felt like she was burning right through his skin and setting his spirit on fire with every touch and every motion.
“I’m gonna start walking now, okay, Ingrid?” Sylvain said.
In response, Ingrid nuzzled her face against his neck, and Saints, if she kept up with this he was almost definitely going to drop her.
“You’re warm,” she said softly. “It’s nice.”
He held his tongue, unsure of what would rush past his lips if he let go. There was something oddly symmetrical about it all, like Ingrid fit perfectly in his arms. His heart was thumping in double time in his ribcage, and he stupidly wondered if his heart was beating in sync with hers. It would have been oddly poetic, given how tied together they were.
“Are we moving?” Ingrid yawned.
That snapped him out of his apparent daydream (nightdream?). With almost reverent footsteps, Sylvain walked towards the staircase leading to the second floor of the dorms. The sound of his shoes against the cobblestone rang out in his ears, shattering the stillness of the evening. But still Ingrid rested on his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Ingrid said, her eyes fluttering open.
“For what?” Sylvain asked.
“For making you carry me.”
“Don’t be.” He shook his head and laughed. “Least I can do for you after everything, really.”
“We weren’t planning on getting drunk,” she admitted. “Ashe just had the bottle, and we were talking, and… yeah. Did you know Petra’s going to give him his own order of knights in Brigid?”
“Good for him,” Sylvain replied. “Are you going with Ashe?”
A thoughtful expression crossed her face. Her lips were turned down in a slight pout, and there was a familiar furrow in her brow.
“Nah,” Ingrid finally said. “Brigid’s too far from you.”
He stilled again, his foot on the first step leading to the second floor. “What?”
“Brigid’s very far from Fhirdiad,” she replied matter-of-factly.
“Uh-huh.” He continued to make his way up the flight of stairs, hell bent on not trying to decode what she could have meant by that.
Some selfish part of his brain was screaming at him to slow down and savor the moment. There weren’t too many opportunities to hold her this way, with her head on his shoulder like they were anything more than friends who were chained together by fate. But Ingrid was Ingrid, and the sooner he let go of her and the treacherous hope in his chest that maybe she wouldn’t strangle him if he asked her to jump into his arms, the better.
“Did we stop?” Ingrid asked.
And so they had. Halfway up the staircase.
“Sorry,” Sylvain said. “Just trying to get my footing. But we’re nearly there.”
Her room was at the top of the stairs, and with a few more steps, he’d lay her down, and the moment would become nothing more than a memory. She wouldn’t remember a thing, and the words would be lost between them.
His thoughts were getting too loud for his liking.
“I gotta be honest, Griddle,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to carry you back to your room.”
“Ohh,” Ingrid mumbled. “Sorry about that.”
“Nah, don’t be.” A short chuckle escaped him. “It’s nice taking care of you. But I can’t fault you for not wanting me around if you were planning on getting drunk.”
“Don’t be silly. I always want you around.”
Under the cover of darkness, without sunlight or sobriety to expose him, he pushed his luck. “You do?”
“Of course I do,” she replied softly. “I trust you more than anything in the whole world. You make me feel safe. Sometimes, it’s all I need.”
Once more. “Really?”
“Really really.”
“I wish you’d tell me more.”
“I should. Remind me in the morning.”
“I will.” His voice came out in a strained whisper. He hated lying to Ingrid.
She hadn’t noticed that he was standing just outside her door.
“We’re here,” he finally said. “Do you think you can walk?”
That subtle nod was all he needed to let her down easy. She stumbled a bit, and he instinctively held out his hand to steady her.
“I should get going,” he mumbled. “Night, Ingrid.”
“Wait.” She reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Yeah?”
Faint firelight danced across her features. “Can you stay with me?”
He stared at her, and all his words died in his throat.
“Just until I fall asleep. Please?”
He somehow managed to nod, decorum be damned. The dark masked the way that she crawled under her sheets. Treading lightly, he made his way to the chair by her desk.
“Sylvain,” Ingrid said.
“Still here,” he replied.
“Do you remember that day when you called me beautiful?”
His face burned at the mention. How could he forget?
“Of course I do, Griddle. I meant it.”
Her voice was terribly tiny, smaller than the room that surrounded them. “Then why did you run?”
His tongue felt dry, and all the air was stolen from his lungs.
“I don’t know why,” he finally said.
“I wish you’d stayed.”
“Ingrid,” he began, “I—”
“You’ll stay this time, right?” Her voice was drifting off.
“Always,” he whispered. “Always me, always for you.”
The room was silent, save for the sound of her breathing. She was asleep. And still he stayed.
Her slow and steady breaths were a gentle metronome that lulled him into the sweetest of dreams.