Work Text:
Being the heir to the House of Gautier, Sylvain is used to women — and, occasionally, men — tripping over themselves to offer him that something they think he needs to consider them to be a marriage candidate. It’s the usual proclamation of love, and, after Sylvain has had his fill of them, the general hateful words spit at him. The lovers in his life never stay for long — with good reason — and it’s no wonder the only constant person in his life has been Ingrid Brandl Galatea.
At the same time, Sylvain knows that Ingrid’s constant presence in his life is a temporary comfort. He’s known since the tragic end of her first engagement that she’s only around until the next opportunity to better the financial situation with the house of Galatea. He’s always questioned the constant pressure Ingrid’s father put on her to marry — with her admittance to Garegg Mach Monastery prompting even more letters from her father about marriage — because when he’s sharing the battlefield with her, wife never comes to his mind as a label that fit Ingrid’s nature when she’s obliterating bandits with her lance.
Yet, when the topic presents itself one day while he is sparring with Felix, Sylvain is beside himself.
“Did you know that Ingrid has been going on a lot of arranged marriage meetings?”
Sylvain blinks, the question breaking his concentration enough for Felix to land a good blow with his practice sword. Swearing, Sylvain tries to regain his balance but ends up slamming into the ground instead.
“Smooth,” Felix snickers, offering a hand.
“Dude, come on,” Sylvain whines but allows Felix to help him to his feet anyway. “What was that for?”
“What was what for? All I did was ask a question.”
“It’s distracting though!” Sylvain continues to complain while brushing the dirt off his butt. “Damn, and these are new pants too.”
“You’re trying to change the subject by avoiding.”
“No shit. Is it working?”
Felix rolls his eyes. “She’s been more desperate to find a husband among the nobles right now.”
“Her father’s influence, no doubt.” Sylvain picks up his lance, twirling it between his fingers. “What else is new?”
Felix readjusts the grip on his sword to knock the lance out of Sylvain’s hands. Sylvain lets the lance fall to the ground with a clunk before glaring at Felix. “What the Goddess is your problem, dude?”
“Her father is being more insistent. He’s setting up the meetings himself.” Felix snatches the lance off the ground before Sylvain has a chance to. “Do something about it, you insufferable womanizer.”
“Why don’t you do something about it?” he counters, trying to reach for his lance.
Felix dodges him. “She was engaged to my brother, so she’s basically a sister to me. You are the one with the all high-and-mighty house of Gautier to back you.”
Sylvain flinches at the statement.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Why don’t you use that head of yours? I’m sure there is some amount of brain matter left in there somewhere.”
Sylvain whistles. “Wow, a compliment? You must be seriously worried.”
Taking a moment to look Sylvain over, Felix shrugs. “I’d figured you’d be the one that’d be the most worried.”
True, if there is anyone who is closer to Ingrid between the two, it’d be Sylvain. However, he’s always tried to stay out of Ingrid’s love affairs — which is ironic, since she always seems so caught up in his — and, yet, the gears in his mind are already turning.
“Give her an out,” Felix urges. “Or we’re going to have one less student living with the Blue Lions soon.”
After saying his piece, Felix begins to head out of the training grounds, his sword and Sylvain’s lance in tow. Alone, Sylvain groans, rubbing his hands over his face.
“So not cute,” Sylvain mutters under his breath.
Really not cute— yet, Sylvain is already heading back to the classroom.
When Sylvain arrives, Ingrid is in the middle of cleaning the blackboard. Her long, blonde hair is braided as always, bouncing against her back as she moves. Without as much as a hello, Sylvain hoists himself up on Professor Byleth’s desks at the very front and watches Ingrid in silence.
It only takes a moment longer before Ingrid is glancing over at him with a dubious expression on her face. “Hello, Sylvain.”
Sylvain grins. “How are you?”
Ingrid pauses her cleaning. “Don’t you have other girls to bother?”
“I guess, but they aren’t as fun as you.”
“Quit your flirting, Sylvain.”
“Then, are you going to answer my question? How are you?”
She narrows her eyes. Ingrid is brilliant, there is no denying that fact. That’s why, when she scrunches her face up in a scowl, Sylvain knows she’s already pieced together what’s going on.
“Mercedes?” she asks. When Sylvain gives a shrug, she tries again. “Annette?”
“Felix,” Sylvain corrects. “He’s fussing, for once, but with good reason.”
“I’m fine,” Ingrid insists. Before she can turn away from him, Sylvain catches her hand and yanks her so that she’s standing behind his legs. The eraser drops to the floor, and she begins sputtering as Sylvain cups her face in his hands.
“You look tired,” Sylvain says, noting the bags under her eyes. She tries to look away, but Sylvain doesn’t let her, gripping her face firmly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“There isn’t anything to talk about. It’s just my father being nosy in my love life as usual.”
“Normally he doesn’t push suitors onto you without your say-so.”
“It’s not like that—”
“So you are interested in all of the men? I hear there’s been at least five this week alone.”
Ingrid looks stricken when she finally bats his hands away. “Stop. I’m doing this because I want to.”
“More like because you feel like you have to—”
Before Sylvain can say anything else, Ingrid is already moving away to the bookshelf to begin realigning the textbooks. Sylvain hops off the desk to follow her, hovering around her as she continues to clean.
“Did you at least like any of them?” He tries to move around to face her, but Ingrid swiftly looks away before he can ever get into her line of sight. “Please tell me you at least got some—”
She rounds on him this time, smacking him on the arm with one of the books. “What is your problem?”
There aren’t a lot of moments where Sylvain becomes really serious about anything. However, getting continuously wacked with objects does tend to annoy him.
“I’m worried, obviously.”
“Worry elsewhere, please. I have work to do.”
“Ingrid,” and the way he says her name causes a shiver to run down his spine. Sylvain wonders if she notices his voice lower a whole octave as he says, “If you needed something, anything, all you have to do is ask.”
Ingrid studies him then. She searches his face for something he doesn’t know how to describe, and, finally, she shakes her head and turns her back on him.
“Just… let it go, Sylvain.”
For a moment, Sylvain wonders if he’s misheard. He’s heard the words clearly, but the way she says it makes her sound defeated. An irritation begins to gnaw at the pit of his stomach as he rubs the back of his neck raw in frustration.
“Anything,” he tries again.
Ingrid turns to give him a sad smile. “Goodbye, Sylvain.”
It’s the end of the conversation for sure, so Sylvain takes Ingrid’s braid as he passes her, letting it slip from his fingers with every step he takes towards the exit. He doesn’t bother looking back when he leaves the classroom.
The outside air is chillier than Sylvain remembers it being when practicing with Felix that morning. It’s probably due to sweating after the training and coming straight to talk with Ingrid instead of hitting the showers like he normally does. However, it’s not as noticeable as the oncoming frustrating making the muscles on the back of his neck start aching again. He doesn’t scratch at it though. Sylvain looks down at his left hand instead, still feeling the soft sensation of Ingrid’s golden locks as he trudges back to his room on the second floor of the dormitory.
His room is a mess like usual. Kicking aside some training lances littering the floor, Sylvain makes his way over to his desk. He sighs, shoving the papers on his desk onto the floor, letting them scatter across the room. The stamp adorning his crest catches his eyes. Picking it up, an idea begins to form in his mind as he snatches a blank parchment from one of the drawers.
It’s a decision that Sylvain doesn’t fully comprehend the consequences of until he completes a letter to both the Lords of Gautier and Galatea. However, from the look on Felix’s face when he catches him handing the letters to a messenger later that evening clues Sylvain in on the fact that this was Felix’s plan all along.
The response from both his father and Ingrid’s come a week later in the form of approval four scrolls long. Sylvain figures he should be thrilled that his plan worked out so smoothly, but, when he starts prepping for the marriage meeting, the nerves hit him tenfold.
Pulling on the collar of his suit to avoid choking on his anxiety, Sylvain stands in the middle of courtyard. He’s holding a bouquet of sunflowers that Dedue as grown himself, and he tries not to look as idiotic as he feels as he waits for Ingrid.
When she does make an appearance — which she makes the point to be on time, as always — Ingrid is in a navy blue gown. It’s stunning for sure. The gown hugs her figure in a different way than her usual uniform does, and it nearly gives Sylvain heart failure to see the slit so far up her thigh. The sleeves are adorned with glistening jewels and, as Sylvain watches her move towards him, they glisten with the reflection of the morning sun.
“Hello,” Sylvain says when Ingrid finally reaches him. The greeting seems too casual in this type of atmosphere, but it’s the best he’s got. “Lovely for you to meet me here.”
Ingrid takes a moment to stare at him before narrowing her eyes. “Why are you doing this, Sylvain?”
Hell if I know, Sylvain thinks before offering her the bouquet of sunflowers. He can feel the eyes of the other students on them and hear the few murmurs of shock escape their lips. Trying to not lose his nerves, Sylvain extends the bouquet towards Ingrid more insistently.
Ingrid hesitantly takes the flowers. Their fingers brush against each other for just a moment, but the sensation ignites a flame inside Sylvain’s heart. He finally looks at her — really looks at her — and it feels like the smile that blooms across her face is everything he’s ever needed.
“My father said I was meeting a possible marriage candidate,” Ingrid says. She doesn’t look at him when she speaks. Instead, she fingers the petals of the sunflowers with such intensity that Sylvain wonders if she already holds all the answers to the questions she’s asking. “And with the attire you’re wearing… One can only assume…”
Sylvain grimaces. The attire he’s wearing is flashier than the general student uniform. It bares his crest distinctly on his right breast while the collar buttons up all the way to his neck. It’s also black which make the golden swirl design along his left side that more distinct. It’s definitely not his style at all, but he figures the cape fastened to his shoulders nipping at the heels of his leather boots is probably what Ingrid is referring to. He hates capes.
“Yes,” he eventually says. I’m wearing this horrid outfit just for you—
She looks up at him then, emerald eyes widening. It makes the joking thoughts die in Sylvain’s mind. Instead, he says, “I asked your father if he’d consider me someone to be a candidate for your hand— I mean, it’s not really a stretch, right? We’ve known each other since we were children. A-And I figured, why not?”
“Why not?” Ingrid deadpans.
“I know you better than anyone vying for your hand could ever hope to,” Sylvain whispers. “Why not me?”
“You’re a womanizer,” Ingrid states.
“Yes.”
“You’re always a pain! I always have to clean up after your messes.”
“Yeah. And you are so good at it.”
“You hate crests and statuses.”
“And?”
“And?” Ingrid hisses. Her grip on the sunflowers visibly tighten. She’s starting to shake and, for a moment, Sylvan thinks it from rage. However, when he sees tears start to form at the corner of Ingrid’s eyes, a soft smile forms on his lips.
“The only reason I’m doing this is to better my house,” she hoarsely whispers. “Even marrying Glenn would have been for that, and I have nothing to offer you—”
“You’re my best friend,” Sylvain says. “I won’t say I love you romantically, but that doesn’t mean I won’t ever love you in that way. Forget the whole crest thing. And who cares about your house’s financial situation? All I know right now is that I don’t want to give you to anyone else. Can’t that be enough?”
“I hate you.”
“Yeah, well, we both know you don’t mean that.” Sylvain grins, gently placing his hands on her arms and pulling her closer. The sunflowers press against his chest as Ingrid allows him to hold her. She continues to stare up while biting her lips. Few tears escape her eyes and they trail down her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Ingrid.”
“I hate you,” Ingrid repeats, but she smiles when Sylvain brushes away her tears.
“You and me,” Sylvain promises.
It’s a promise he’s said only twice before — once when Ingrid’s mother passed away from illness and again when Glenn never returned from Duscur. He remembers these moments with Ingrid vividly. Her pain for the loved ones she’s lost is something he’s always wanted to wish away, and the promise of them always being together and helping one another has been the only thing that he could offer that could ever come close.
“You and me,” Ingrid agrees.
It’s not exactly the proposal that Ingrid has always dreamed of, but Sylvain knows that when he slips the ring baring his crest onto her left ring finger that it’s meant to be there — meant to be hers.
A promise of you and me.