Chapter Text
Sylvain hummed softly, nibbling at the wooden skewer in his mouth. The flavor was long gone by now, but he always managed to stay out of trouble when he kept his mouth occupied. And, since Ingrid was currently busy stuffing herself on the sixth skewer, he couldn’t exactly count on her for that level of distraction. Still as he had been full at three, and they had bought twelve—on his whim, this time—he kind of needed her to keep eating to just alleviate any potential for guilt.
Ingrid leaned her head against his shoulder, pressed against him enough that he could just barely feel the movement of her jaw as she chewed.
After all the ruckus and panic and…mess, really, it was nice to have something quiet and peaceful like this. Away from the stresses of the assembly. Out in the open, now that he didn’t have to worry about someone seeing them—the people he did worry about wouldn’t be caught dead out here—at least not today.
He didn’t even care about the stare of a few of the old Adrestian dignitaries as they passed, one of them giving him a particularly potent glare. It didn’t linger long, though; if the man bothered with a confrontation, he’d be left behind by his companions. And the people of Fhirdiad were nowhere near as kind to the obvious outsiders as Dimitri wished they would be.
Still, it did pry a thought from the back of his mind, one he once thought firmly imprisoned. “It feels unreal.” He muttered, licking his lips to buy himself some time and sensibility. “That I have to go home tomorrow.”
Ingrid sighed, dropping stick of the last finished skewer into the bag. Her fingertips brushed over the back of his hand before sliding in the slots between his fingers. Her words were very nearly a whisper: “Stay with me tonight.”
Sylvain jolted upright, accidentally knocking Ingrid away in the process. His face was bright red—he definitely knew it, especially because it had been a very cool day and he was suddenly very, very hot. And his tongue, which had once so cleverly gotten him out of the worst situations, lay uncooperative in his mouth. “W-what?”
Ingrid blinked, surprised but seemingly unbothered. “Stay with me tonight.”
Oh, she was so going to be the death of him. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. “I think you’re skipping a few steps there in the whole ‘courtship’ thing.” He stammered.
Ingrid’s face now matched his own, cheeks so red that she would certainly have glowed in dim light. “Not like that!” She hissed, slapping his arm.
Sylvain coughed and looked away, but it did little to help him. No, his mind was already buzzing in a way that he didn’t particularly care for—and the usually sensible self-control was hardly any help, either.
He knew that wasn’t what she meant—of course he did—but that didn’t keep his imagination from running wildly out of control.
“I meant,” Ingrid exhaled slowly, letting the annoyance ease out of her system, “that I’m going to miss you. And I know it’s going to be a long time till I can see you again.”
Okay. That was sweet, but that definitely didn’t help.
“I want you to stay with me, tonight, so I can remember your warmth.” Ingrid continued, wrapping her arm around his and leaning heavily against him. “And the sound of your breaths. And the way your cologne smells.” She was stiff, like it was painful to admit such things.
He could relate, though. They were things he wanted to commit to memory—though some things he merely needed to refresh—and he had certainly planned on ensuring that he did before he left the next morning. He had planned on being far more eloquent about it, though, and it certainly didn’t involve a shared bed.
Ingrid pressed her face against his shirt. “I want to remember until I get to see you again.”
Sylvain inhaled sharply. “People will talk if they see us together. Even if it’s entirely chaste. Maybe especially so.”
“They’re already going to talk.” Ingrid huffed. “You should know that better than anyone.”
Sylvain sighed, bringing a hand up to play with her hair. “Doesn’t mean I want you to deal with it.”
“I’m already going to deal with it.” Ingrid tilted her head just enough that her cheek pressed against his palm. “I might as well get to enjoy it a little.”
Well, that was a decent point, even though the same thought process had resulted in a million of Ingrid’s famous lectures in his youth. Still, he couldn’t resist the smile, nor could he resist pressing a kiss to her lips.
“Okay.” He whispered. “Okay. I’ll be there tonight.”
*
‘Tonight’ seemed to come far faster than Sylvain could ever expect. While he was able to enjoy their time in the market, it was certainly not the same for the rest of the evening. Dinner flew by in a blur; he couldn’t even pretend to be engaged in whatever was said around him, while Ingrid seemed entirely oblivious—chatting openly with her father and brother like she hadn’t recently invited a man into her room.
He wasn’t even the fun kind of distracted. No, he wasn’t thinking about how close she’d be, or how intimate this was, or how they would truly—finally—have the moment to themselves. Instead, his mind just kept going to the fact that she was trusting him, and that he was so exceedingly likely to screw it up.
He sighed, his hand reaching for the doorknob that would let him into her room, only to draw his hand back once more.
It wasn’t like it was his first time being in a bed with a woman—not that he’d just announce that to Ingrid, though she likely knew—but those sorts of things had an agenda. Go in, have fun, leave before the sun rose in the morning. And, with Ingrid, he was sure most of that would have him greeting the sharp end of her lance.
So, sure, it wasn’t new to be in bed with someone, but it was very new to just…be with them. To lie there, to link fingers, to sleep. He wasn’t even sure if he could rely on himself to do half of that right, and certainly couldn’t trust himself when he was asleep. Maybe if he just stayed up all night, just enjoyed the sound of her drowsy mumbles and little snores, it would be fine.
Then again, he was Sylvain. If anything was guaranteed, it was that he would find some way to infuriate her.
“Did Ingrid seem off to you today, father?” Rowan’s voice echoed down the hall, just far enough away that Sylvain couldn’t make out his footsteps. Still, he was close—and quickly coming closer.
“What makes you say that?” Count Galatea’s voice bounced off the walls, though it was far less potent than his son’s.
“Not sure. Just seemed…distracted.” Rowan’s footsteps were audible now, meaning he must have been nearly around the corner. “I’d bet coin it’s Gautier’s fault.”
Count Galatea’s laugh knocked Sylvain back to his senses. They had, after all, insisted that Sylvain mind their daughter’s feelings—and had been exceedingly certain about where they expected Sylvain in that equation. To find Sylvain here this late at night, just outside of Ingrid’s room, not in his daywear…yeah, they would most definitely skin him alive.
The footstep sounded from just around the corner, and panic overcame any hesitation Sylvain may have had. He pushed Ingrid’s door open, praying that the small click of the latch behind him would be inaudible to the Galateas.
Ingrid hummed, amusement thick in her voice. “Haven’t you heard of knocking?”
Sylvain’s gaze snapped up. Ingrid was standing just in front of her wardrobe, fingers working at one of the nightgown buttons at her sternum. She was fully clothed, at least, but he was sure that was just sheer dumb luck. Had he been even a minute sooner, he was sure that most, if not all, of the buttons would have been open and undone. And she probably would have thrown him out the window.
Though there was still good time for that, considering that he had come in entirely uninvited.
“Um. I…” Sylvain swallowed.
“You, what—?” Ingrid’s lip quirked, eyebrow raised like she was just waiting for whatever pathetic excuse he was going to come up with.
And he was pretty sure the one on his lips was the absolute worst quality—only for it to die on his lips as a heavy knock reverberated through the door.
Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about Ingrid killing him. Her family would certainly get to him first.
Ingrid strode across the room, her hand falling on his shoulder. With so little effort, she pushed him just behind the door, just enough that she could open it.
“Ah, I hope you weren’t asleep.” Rowan said, his voice soft and sweet in a way reserved only for his little sister.
“No.” Ingrid said, her lips quirking as she clearly saw Sylvain press even more into the crack between wall and door like it would make him any more hidden. “I will be soon, though.”
“Glad to hear it. I was worried you might be up all night reading.”
Ingrid’s head tilted slightly. “Why would that worry you?”
“Father wants us to depart early tomorrow morning, so it would be bad if you weren’t rested well.” Rowan hummed softly. “Ah, speaking of, do you need my help packing? I can help if you—“
Ingrid pressed her palm flat against the door, as if she feared her brother barging in. “I’m already packed. I’ll be ready.”
“Ah, of course you are. Sometimes I forget who I’m talking to.” Rowan laughed. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then. Sleep well.”
Ingrid nodded, smile still on her lips. “Pleasant dreams.”
As Rowan’s footsteps retreated, Ingrid slowly shut the door. Sylvain didn’t miss that she flipped the lock—just in case her brother decided there were other ways to be helpful.
“Oh?” Sylvain mused, trying to hide his amusement as she rested her forehead against the wood of the door. “Didn’t want him to know I’m here?”
Ingrid glanced at him, expression unreadable. “Do you want me to get him?”
Sylvain couldn’t resist the full-body twitch. “No thank you.”
Ingrid laughed softly, turning and closing the gap between them. “I’ll tell him about us once we’re home. I think…time might make him try a bit less to murder you.”
“He’s stubborn.” Sylvain hummed, toying with the fabric of her dress. It was thin, barely anything at all. She would absolutely freeze to death in Gautier, at least on her own. “He’d come up with something.”
“Ha, probably.” Ingrid’s hands fell on his shoulders, then down along his chest. “So this is what you sleep in.”
Sylvain cleared his throat, glancing away. “N-not exactly.”
Ingrid raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you change into nightclothes before coming, then?”
“I, uh, I don’t…have…nightclothes.” He could already feel his face heating up. “I thought these would be close enough.”
And, in fact, he could imagine sleeping in this. There was a reason why he used to wear these clothes under his armor—they didn’t scuff at his skin, they didn’t restrain him, and they took a decent beating. Sure, now they were reduced to being chore clothes over battle clothes, but since he hadn’t had much time for chores this trip, they had remained quite clean. He’d figured it was probably the best option he had for a night with Ingrid.
Ingrid’s brows furrowed for only a moment before her face matched the color of his sleeves. “So…you sleep…” She cleared her throat, glancing away. “How exactly did that work in the field?”
Sylvain smiled. “Nothing ensures no one bothers you more than a couple accidents.” Well, maybe more than a couple accidents, one nearly resulting in Felix threatening to maim him. “Besides, it wasn’t like a layer of wool would save me during an ambush or anything.”
“Hm, I suppose not.” She tilted her head. “I can’t even imagine how that would work out.”
“I’d be very distracting.”
The space between them got just a little smaller as she took another step closer, crowding him against the wall. “Yes, I imagine you would be.” She mused, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
“Well,” Sylvain cupped her jaw, stealing a proper kiss, “you don’t have to worry about that tonight. I can sleep just fine in this.”
Ingrid smiled against his lips. “The shirt might be a bit excessive.”
“Is that so?” Sylvain felt an impish smile on his lips, and leaned in just a bit closer, just so his breath could ghost over the hairs at her ear. He dropped his voice very low. “That would cost you, Lady Galatea.”
He could feel her shudder slightly at every point their bodies met. “And what would that cost be?”
Sylvain’s hands slid into her hair, easily undoing the ribbon that had just barely been keeping her hair from her face. He wrapped it around his finger. “I want this.”
Ingrid blinked up at him, a frown on her lips. “That’s a high price for a shirt. That’s my only one.”
Sylvain tried to stifle his disbelieving snort. “You only brought one hair tie to a week-long event?”
“Ebony ate my other one.”
“Ah.” Sylvain sighed, dropping the ribbon into her open palm. “Fine. Fine.”
He glanced across the room, lips pressed together as he tried to think of anything he could possibly gain from this little exchange of theirs. True, there was something he really, truly wanted, but it seemed ridiculous, if not inappropriate.
And yet, it was the only thing he could think of. “Tell me you love me.”
Ingrid froze, staring at him like he’d just asked her to die for him. No, that would at least have a charged reaction, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what direction it would go. This was like a stunned shock, like he’d asked her to marry him, or carry his children, or something else that they both horrendously dreaded.
He looked away, cheeks red with shame. “Actually, forget that. I’m sure—“
“I think you’ve undersold.” Ingrid mused, fingers curling into his shirt. “But I accept.”
Her hands shifted up into his collar, fingertips grazing against the hair at his nape as she dragged him down to her level and kissed him with more fervor than he’d ever really gotten the chance to try. It was really no surprise that she beat him to yet another thing.
“I love you, Sylvain.” She whispered, brushing her lips against his. He could feel her smile against him, just the briefest brush before she stepped away. “Now, shirt off.”
Sylvain obeyed immediately, any witty quip dead on his tongue. He at least had the sense to not fumble with his buttons, and to actually fold the shirt properly before placing it on her dresser.
Sylvain wasn’t immune to the way her eyes felt on his body. No, in fact he relished it—the way she let her gaze linger at the breadth of his shoulders, down along the muscles that had just begun to soften due to the end of constant battle and war, and across every little freckle, nick, and scar that had just so happened to be along the way. Her face was still red, but her gaze was unashamed—and it should have been, as he was hers to enjoy however she pleased.
“See something you like?” He asked, just letting a bit of playfulness linger on his tongue.
Ingrid’s lips turned, but they were more pout than scowl (and he found himself immediately endeared to that expression). “Don’t be so vain.”
“Well, it is in my name.”
Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Just shut up.”
Sylvain hummed, stepping close to press a kiss to her cheek. “Bed, then?”
Ingrid laced her fingers with his, dragging him closer to the bed. “Yes. Bed.”
And there was, perhaps, one of the issues that his overthinking should have foreseen. Unlike the beds in many of the other guest rooms, this one was unbelievably small. Sure, it had been Ingrid’s designated room when they were kids, but what was huge for a child barely qualified as minuscule for them now. It would barely fit one and a half people, let alone two. With Ingrid’s situation, well, he didn’t find it hard to imagine that she just let her father and brother have the nicer rooms. But he also didn’t imagine that Dimitri would deny any request to add a bigger bed here.
Not that any of that would help them now.
“Huh.” He mused, eyes narrowing. “How’s this going to work, exactly?”
“I was going to ask you that.” Ingrid huffed.
“It was your idea.”
“You’re the one with experience.”
“That’s—“ Sylvain sighed, “you know what? Fair.”
Sylvain stepped away from her, circling the bed like it was one of the maps they used to analyze and reanalyze over and over again. The geometry was off, and there was a good chance that one of them would fall off, but it wasn’t exactly an impossible arrangement. “Okay. I think we have a couple options.” He mused, smiling at her. “Lie on the bed like you normally do.
And Ingrid did—lying flat on her back in the exact center of the bed.
There was no containing Sylvain’s giggle this time, even as he tried to stifle it from behind his hand. Oh, it was so not fair how cute she could be. How ignorant he had been in his youth, chasing after girls who could hardly compare. It was even less fair that he had so little time to make up for so many opportunities missed.
Ingrid shot up to a sit, her scowl furious. “What.”
“I’m sorry.” He said, his tone anything but repentant as he perched himself on the edge of her bed. “But that is, like, only the second worst thing you could have done—second only to having your arms and legs spread out across the whole thing.” He was completely prepared for her to kick him off—he deserved it, really.
Instead, Ingrid’s scowl only deepened, her arms crossing defensively in front of her. “What am I supposed to do, then?”
“Lie on your side. Back to me.”
Ingrid raised an eyebrow, but she complied all the same. It was all too easy for Sylvain to slide in behind her, pressing a kiss between her shoulders as he settled. They fit perfectly like this—allowing him to run his hand along her side, following the line of her arm until he could lace their fingers together.
“There’s this.” He whispered, languidly kissing her skin.
“This isn’t too bad.” Ingrid hummed, like a thought was just at the edge of her tongue.
He squeezed her hand. “Not what you had in mind?”
“It’s not that.” Ingrid said. “I just imagined us—“ She wiggled a little, much to Sylvain’s confusion.
But he wasn’t in the dark for long. The gap between their hips diminished so rapidly as she scooted closer that Sylvain’s brain immediately forced him sitting upright—nearly making him fall off the bed.
“O-okay,” he stammered, face immediately flushing once more, “not that way.”
Ingrid propped herself on an elbow, bewilderment etched in her expression. “Why not?”
He had to look away or else he was going to combust. “J-just trust me on this one.” He muttered, holding his face in his hands.
Ingrid chuckled, the sound light and teasing. “Okay.” She shifted more upright, placing her hands on his wrists to ease them away from his face. “How about the other way around?”
Sylvain eventually relented, face still warm as he looked in her eyes. That way was considerably less dangerous. He hoped. “Y-yeah.”
With some hesitation, he slid back into the bed, turning away from Ingrid. The way she slid in was far less hesitant than he had done, a hand brushing along his arm as she lay and closed the gap between them. He had to admire her lack of hesitancy, the ease with which she just let her hand roam in a way he had confined entirely to dreams—at least for now.
Then again, that did mean he could savor it without shame, since he wasn’t the one initiating. He could enjoy the way her nails traced along the lines of his abdomen. He could relax into the way her fingers found their way up along his chest, tickling at the hairs there, only to find their way back down to his stomach. He could most certainly fall asleep to such attention.
Ingrid groaned, pressing her face between his shoulder-blades. “I won’t be able to sleep like this.”
Sylvain blinked, trying to see her over his shoulder and failing miserably. “Why not?”
Her face was hot against his skin. “You’re distracting. I can’t reach your hand, anyway.”
Sylvain smiled, perhaps far too pleased with the way it made warmth blossom in his chest. That something so cute and innocuous could affect him so was truly a wonderful thing.
“Okay.” He said, voice soft. “Stand up for a second.”
Ingrid obeyed again, frustration clear on her face. Or, perhaps, it was still some lingering embarrassment.
To help her, he didn’t hesitate as he shifted onto his back, just off-center on the bed.
“And how is that any different from what I did?” Ingrid huffed.
“Shush and come here.” He said, motioning with a small wave of his hand. As she approached, he took her hand, kissing her wrist as he guided her to lay down alongside him. Fortunately, she seemed quick to get the message, resting her head against his shoulder. Sylvain hummed as he laced their fingers, letting their linked hands rest over his stomach.
“How’s this?” He asked, kissing her hair.
Ingrid hummed, shifting a bit alongside him, her cheek pressed against his shoulder as she moved. When she finally settled, he could feel her lashes flutter against his skin. “This is good.” She muttered.
“Good.” He couldn’t hide the grin on his face. “This is good for me, too.”
*
“Sylvain.” Ingrid’s voice was soft, soothing. So enticing that it made it nearly impossible for him to open his eyes. It didn’t help that the kiss she pressed to his face was just as bad at getting him to wake. “I’m leaving.”
Sylvain groaned, pawing at the air as he tried to reach for her and failed. “Just a few more minutes.” He muttered.
Her chuckle was far too cute for this world—and he was sure it wasn’t the half-asleep state that made him think that. “I have to go. My father is waiting for me.”
“Stay with me.” He muttered, letting out a self-satisfied noise as he finally got a hold of her hand.
How had she even risen from bed without him noticing? No, that was a question for awake Sylvain—sleepy Sylvain had a job to do.
He pressed kisses to her fingertips as if that was enough of a bargaining chip. “Come back to bed. I’ll take you back to Galatea later.”
Ingrid hummed, gently freeing her hand from his grip and cupping his face to press a kiss. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
Sylvain sighed, sinking back into bed. Oh, her lingering warmth and smell in the blankets were just so tantalizing, practically begging him to fall back asleep. Begging him to just let her go, just so he could get a few more minutes. It was a battle, one he wasn’t sure about who he wanted victorious.
A blanket was pulled back over his shoulders—just a little more warmth working against the petulant Sylvain and in sleepy Sylvain’s favor.
Well, Ingrid never broke her promises, so it would be fine. He could tolerate being apart for a little while. “Okay.” He said around a yawn, letting her have her hand back. “Be safe.”
Ingrid pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Sleep well.”
When Sylvain finally woke, he woke to a ribbon—her ribbon—tied around his wrist. He also woke to the fact that his shirt was most definitely not where he had left it.