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It takes her a moment to register that someone has sprawled out on the grass near her, blinking blearily and taking in the rolled up uniform sleeve, sharp point of an elbow, a glimpse of red hair. She considers ignoring them and returning to the nap she’d been so enjoying before they’d so rudely woken her —it’s warm and mellow out and morning classes were such a bore— but apparently the universe has other plans.
“Hey, sleeping beauty, looking charming as ever.” It’s Sylvain, of course. But he’s saying it like it’s an afterthought and his heart’s not in it, looking up at the sky instead of over at her. Hilda blinks, a little more awake. Weird, usually even when he’s full of crap he’s much more heartfelt about it, in fact, she kind of admires it.
She props herself up on her elbow and looks at him properly, surprised by the sour look on his face. “Usually I’d say the same about you, but... I’m not so sure I would right now.”
He bites out a laugh. “Yeah, well.”
“Bad day?” She asks, sympathetically. She kind of just wants to go back to her nap, but… no, that would be mean. Besides, Sylvain did help her out recently what with the library books debacle and all. She still feels kind of bad about that.
“Not really,” he says. “Haven’t you heard? The infamous Sylvain doesn’t have the capacity to have bad days, he’s too shallow.”
“Sylvain, it’s not really like I want to hurt you while you’re down, but you kind of encouraged that impression of yourself.”
He laughs again, short and sharp, and then abruptly sits up. He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly projecting something roguish and charming, and turns a hard smile on her. “Well then, if that’s the case, do you want to get out of here and forget all about those not-bad days?”
“Sylvain…”
“Right, right, you care about me but you don’t want to,” she can hear the quotation marks in his voice, “—'marry' me, and your brother would eat me alive, and so on and so on. You’re no fun.” He flops back down and stares ahead at nothing. Maybe she should tell him to get lost, she thinks, if he’s going to be like that.
His tone suddenly breezy, Sylvain starts talking again.
“It’s my brother’s birthday. Or, former brother, on account of being disowned and the fact that he’s dead.”
Oh. Hilda heard about him, ‘M’ something she thinks, the disgraced Gautier, with the rumor that something terrible had happened to him that no one would talk about — and all the gossip that if Sylvain had a brother like that, and was already gaining an unsavory reputation of his own, what kind of heir to the family would he end up being. But she’d never really thought about it in a personal way, like if Holst were to...
“Were you close? Before…” Hilda winces apologetically, but Sylvain just turns that same hard smile on her.
“Nah, my brother was a real heel. I was always a little jealous of…” he trails off. “Anyway, one time when I was too young and stupid to know better, he told me to go out and stand on the frozen lake near our home … it was early in winter and I didn’t even realize I was in danger until the ice started to crack.”
“That’s terrible!” Hilda exclaims, sitting up on her knees.
“I fell in but one of my uncles saw and pulled me out— they thought it was an accident, though I still got a big talking to for being so stupid. ...it wasn’t the last time something like that happened, either. Gods, he was such a bastard.”
He sits up and starts pulling at a clump of grass. “I never told on him, though. I understood it. In his mind I’d taken his life away, and everything he wanted. All because of this damn crest.”
Hilda doesn’t know what to say.
“And now,” Sylvain finishes, “he’s dead. Adieu, big brother.”
“Wow,” she finally says, shuffling over on her knees and leaning into his side.“And I thought my brother was bad, what with the being so overprotective and all.”
It seems insensitive after she says it out loud, but Sylvain laughs and wraps a hand around her shoulder with a soft squeeze, then tilts his head so it’s resting on top of hers. They sit in silence for a while, the first stirrings of a breeze rustling the grass around them. It’s nice. Sylvain usually is, when he’s not trying to be.
After a while, Sylvain lifts his head and squints at at the sun. “Thanks Hilda, for—“ he hesitates. “For being you, I guess. You’re… pretty great.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me,” she says.
He lifts his arm from her side and scratches his cheek. “Really? I’m sure I’ve said much prettier things to you than that.”
She pats his shoulder and says, “I said the nicest, not the prettiest. I know a lot about compliments. I’m really great at them, after all.”
He opens his mouth and she cuts him off. “Anyway, I’m trying to take a break before afternoon classes. I don’t know about yours, but ours this morning was so deliriously boring, and I just barely got away without having to clean the desks—“
Sylvain laughs and says, “You, slacking? Never.”
“Yeah, yeah, now you’re welcome to doze here too but you have to let a girl get her rest.”
He lies down, his hair catching the sun and looking brighter than ever against the green of the grass. She admires it for a moment, and the contrast of his dark eyelashes pretty against his closed lids, and then closes her eyes.
“Thanks,” he says, again, softly. She smiles.