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It takes about twenty minutes to walk into town from the monastery, less if you go on horseback. Sylvain loathes the journey during the humid summer months, but fall is now upon them, and with that, the leaves are changing colors and a gentle breeze tousles his hair. Couple that with his present choice of company, and Sylvain finds that he quite enjoys strolling along the winding dirt path. He turns to Ingrid with a grin.
"Think you can survive until we get there? I can hear your stomach growling as we speak."
Ingrid takes a step closer to him, giving Sylvain a gentle punch in the arm. "Shut up! It growled once during the war meeting, and that was because I only had toast for breakfast--"
"Four slices, heaped with ham and eggs."
Ingrid punches him again, harder, enough for Sylvain to let out a little yelp. He pouts at Ingrid, and she returns his sad puppy gaze with a frown. "Maybe you'd have a bigger appetite if you trained harder."
"Maybe. It's honestly incredible watching you pack it all away," Sylvain says, a genuine laugh escaping his lips as he slings an arm around Ingrid, his voice softer. "No joke, I promise. Anyway, the place I'm bringing you to is perfect for someone with a big appetite. I wouldn't bring anyone else with me."
Ingrid huffs, but smiles back at him. "You better make it worth my time."
Sylvain pulls her in closer. He's known Ingrid for years at this point, and their dynamic has hardly changed since the days of their early childhood-- teasing, goading, Sylvain leering at anyone who might take advantage of Ingrid's good intentions, and Ingrid always ready to clean up after his messes with a mop and bucket. The only thing that's changed now is that on the battlefield, he's had to watch her back too. With age comes responsibility and with war comes the icy grip of looming death, and Sylvain's eyes are trained on Ingrid when they fight now. His fire magic tears through the sky to destroy any arrows that might harm her, and he realizes that's begun to seep into their dynamic outside the battlefield as well.
Sylvain thinks about lacing his fingers with Ingrid's. There's no room for messes when you're at war, and no time for regrets when each day might be your last. But Sylvain has to believe that they'll live to see another day-- that waiting just a little longer is going to be worth his while. He retracts his hand from around her.
"We're almost there," he says. They are reaching the borders of Garreg Mach town, which is surprisingly busy even for a Saturday afternoon. The populace have started to rebuild with the help of the Church of Seiros, but some of these brick buildings seem to have sprung up overnight. There are more children running through the cobblestone streets than Sylvain remembers. It's nice to see that there is life outside the war, and kids who are perhaps too young to fully understand the gravity of it.
Ingrid is smiling as she takes in the sights. Sylvain doesn't say anything for once as he continues to lead her to their destination, allowing Ingrid to enjoy what the area has become without his unnecessary commentary. Finally, they arrive in front of a building that's smaller than the others, with a doorway so low that Sylvain has to duck slightly to get in through the door. Ingrid frowns.
"Are you really sure about this?"
Sylvain nods. "I came here with Felix the other day. Trust me, you're going to love it." The skeptical look on Ingrid's face remains as she steps through the doorway. Sylvain studies her puzzled expression, noting how Ingrid frowns at the sight of the cooking pots on firepits, with customers sitting around them, cooking their own food in pools of broth. She turns to Sylvain, cocking her head slightly to one side in confusion.
"What is this?"
Sylvain laughs. Ingrid has never been the most adaptable person, and she can be resistant to the unknown, but he's long since learned that the best way to get Ingrid to change her mind about something is to place it in front of her eyes. She tends to learn from experience, and what better way to her heart than through her stomach, right? "It's called hotpot. You order whatever meat and vegetables and noodles you want, and you cook it in the broth yourself. Think you're up for it?"
"It.. It smells nice," Ingrid murmurs. Her eyes are trained on the customers in front of her, watching as they gingerly lift a piece of meat from the boiling pot with chopsticks. Both she and Sylvain are familiar with the utensils, given that they are commonly used in Fraldarius, but he doesn't think she's seen something like this before.
Sylvain leans in closer to Ingrid, bending down to whisper into her ear. "The best part? It's all-you-can-eat."
He swears that he sees Ingrid stand up a little straighter. There is a light in her eyes that Sylvain hasn't seen since she was given three scoops of peach sorbet in the dining hall instead of two, and he knows he's won her over. She tugs at his sleeve gently, marching forward towards the restaurant host. "Table for two, please!" Ingrid chirps, and Sylvain can't help but smirk.
She's always been an open book. There's no guile in Ingrid, no second-guessing her intentions, no wondering if there's a dark thought behind her words. It's something he envies about her, and something Sylvain wishes he was strong enough to be.
The two of them are seated soon enough at a small fire pit, and a bubbling cauldron of soup is brought in front of them. Sylvain had requested that they go light on the chili, mostly for Ingrid's sake, but the broth is still a shade of reddish-orange with spices and garlic floating around. It smells heavenly. Now it's Sylvain's stomach's turn to growl.
Ingrid turns to him, an eyebrow raised, lips gently quirked in triumph. "Look who's insatiable now."
Sylvain raises both his hands in protest. "That's Felix's line. You were the one complaining about being hungry earlier. Besides, isn't that your permanent state?"
"Sylvain--" Before Ingrid can say any more, the waiter arrives with four trays of thinly sliced raw meat. He lays them out in front of both of them, and Sylvain can't help but marvel at how beautifully marbled the beef is, and how fresh the fish seems: Ingrid is going to love it. Ingrid immediately dives for the beef, happily grabbing the tray and scooping slices of meat into the pot, and Sylvain takes the plate of pork that is next to it, ready to cook with her.
Sylvain didn't know that he was capable of fitting that much food into his stomach, but seems like he still has a couple of surprises up his sleeve. He hadn't even tried to match Ingrid in terms of how much he ate-- she's capable of packing mountains of meat into her relatively small body-- but he's so full that every step he takes on the journey back feels like he's lugging a ton of bricks behind him. Damn, he's toast if the Empire launches a surprise attack on Garreg Mach tonight; he's not sure he'll be able to roll across his room fast enough to grab the Lance of Ruin.
(He thinks that thought is pretty funny, but Sylvain doesn't speak it out loud. The last thing he wants is to make jokes that might upset Ingrid, especially during emotionally fraught times like these. Morbid humor has always been his way to cope, but it isn't Ingrid's weapon of choice, and maybe he's learned some tact and consideration in the last five years.
You kind of have to when your country goes to war.)
Ingrid turns to face Sylvain, brow knotted. "You're awfully quiet for once."
"I... Yeah," Sylvain mutters. He laughs, trying to sound cavalier. "Sorry, just thinking about how good all that food was."
"Don't lie to me," Ingrid says. Her words are harsh, but her tone is quiet, and she stops in her tracks, looking Sylvain directly in the eye. "You have the look on your face that you get when you have a sad thought."
"Can't get anything past you, can I?"
"Spit it out," Ingrid says, folding her arms. "Otherwise we're going to be here all night. And if we aren't back by ten, Felix is going to think something happened to us while we were out, and nobody back at the monastery is going to know any peace."
"It's nothing, really," Sylvain begins to protest, but Ingrid's stern stare is enough to make him admit defeat. He sighs, meeting her gaze. She is even more beautiful than ever in the dim moonlight, but he knows compliments aren't going to worm him out of this situation. "Just thinking about how the war has changed us, you know? Five years ago I'd have had any old girl on my arm. Now I'm just glad I got to experience all that with you."
Ingrid nods. She begins to pick up pace again, and Sylvain tries to match her, though her strides are quicker than his. "You've been too nice to me lately. It's almost like you're starting to enjoy my company."
"I've always enjoyed your company," Sylvain says, the words spilling from his lips before he has the chance to evaluate them. A flush crosses his cheek. He's glad that it's dark out right now: maybe Ingrid won't notice, though she certainly caught the lack of posturing or melodrama in his tone. She takes most things and people at face value, but Ingrid has always been an expert at analyzing Sylvain.
Ingrid turns to face him. "Oh? Even when I'm lecturing you?"
"I--" Sylvain pauses. It's not like him to be caught off-guard like this, but he's never quite been able to articulate his genuine thoughts when it comes to Ingrid. He heaves a sigh of resignation. "Okay, you got me. Yeah, I even enjoy the lectures."
Now it's Ingrid's turn to laugh. "Could have fooled me," she says. "I should start charging you for them, then. Become a professor on life lessons. You and Felix will be my first students--"
"Very funny." Sylvain flushes again. The idea of Ingrid as a professor instructing him isn't wholly unappealing, but this isn't quite the time and place for jokes about that. He puts his hands behind his head, staring at the path ahead of them.
In theory, he knows what he's supposed to do now. Drop a line, take Ingrid's hand and kiss it, sweep her off her feet like a knight in those stories she likes to read. But it doesn't feel right; it doesn't feel sincere, which isn't a thing Sylvain even knew that he cared about until the last few months. So here he is, stumbling around his words, trying to muddle his way around being genuine with Ingrid even if he isn't quite sure what that entails.
Sylvain bites the inside of his cheek. There's a thought that's been lingering on his mind for a while, and perhaps he should try honesty for once. He shifts from side to side, weighing the sentiment before deciding to just spit it out. "By the way, thanks."
"For what?" Ingrid asks. "You're the one who paid for dinner."
"I..." His voice trails off. This 'being honest with your feelings' thing is hard, and he wonders why he hadn't tried practicing earlier. "For everything, I guess. Through all the years."
Ingrid purses her lips. "Is there a catch?"
"No! I mean it, really," Sylvain says. Ugh, he's got to just spit it out or he'll never say anything to her about it, will he? "You've been cleaning up after me for a very long time. I've got some nerve, talking about cleaning up after Miklan's messes," (years later, and saying his name still sends a chill through Sylvain's veins, like the aura of a specter that simply won't leave) "When you've always done the same for me."
Ingrid is staring blankly at him, lips slightly parted in shock. Sylvain chuckles.
"It only took a war for me to realize how messed up that really is. I meant what I said when we were in the training grounds the other day, you know." Sylvain reaches out to take Ingrid's hand, giving it a little squeeze before letting go. His heart is about to leap out of his chest. "It doesn't have to be always you, always for me any more. We can protect each other."
Ingrid blinks back at him. He doesn't blame her for being shocked: it's not like he's been very good at expressing his gratitude in the past. She takes a deep breath, before marching closer to Sylvain and linking her arm with his.
"Thank you," she says. Ingrid squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, before raising her free hand to wipe them. Oh god, are those tears? An awful, wrenching feeling stirs inside Sylvain, one that he didn't even realize he was capable of any more, and he grips Ingrid tighter, unsure how to react while she continues to speak. "I... I don't know what to say."
"I. Uh," Sylvain's voice hitches in his throat, and he is met with a flash of panic. He doesn't remember the last time he saw Ingrid cry. Not when Garreg Mach was invaded, not when war broke out in Fódlan. Fuck, it may have been when Glenn died, and guilt surges through him once more. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't realize-- Did I say something--"
"I'm not upset," Ingrid chokes out through tears. "I'm not upset, Sylvain, these aren't sad tears-- goddess, you're so stupid." She nudges him gently, but she may as well have stabbed Lúin through his chest. Ingrid doesn't need to say any more. Sylvain can take the hint; she's just glad that something got through to him, even if it took the continent going to war for him to realize.
Sylvain bites the inside of his cheek again. Ingrid is still holding on to him, and he isn't sure how he's supposed to read that: he would have taken it as a sign of interest from almost anyone else, but Ingrid has always conducted herself with the same kind of emotional familiarity around him since they were kids. Even if she stopped being this touchy-feely when they were old enough to know better, it's possible that Ingrid's letting the vulnerability of the situation get to her. He doesn't want to hope for too much.
There is a warm light and a familiar stone building at the end of the road, and Sylvain pauses in his tracks. "We're almost home now," he says without thinking, though it isn't entirely inaccurate. Garreg Mach Monastery has been home to him in ways that House Gautier never quite was. He isn't alone in thinking this-- he knows that Mercedes echoes the same sentiment, but it's not quite one Ingrid can relate to, and a part of him wishes he could take the words back. This moment isn't about him, for once. "I- I can walk you to your room, if you'd like."
Ingrid squeezes Sylvain once again, leaning into his chest. Her tears have dried up by now, though she is still sniffling and her nose is still red. "That would be nice."
Slowly, the two of them walk across the courtyard and climb the spiral staircase to where the second-floor dormitories are. Sylvain thinks it's bullshit, how the nobles' and commoners' rooms are still separated by floor even though they spill the same blood on the same battlefield, but the rooming situation is probably the least of the Professor's concerns. They reach Ingrid's door all too soon. Sylvain lets go of her, and the two of them are facing each other, hovering just too closely for this to be anything but familiar.
Ingrid is the first to speak. "Well?"
Should he be taking her hand, or leaning in for a kiss? For all his experience, Sylvain isn't quite sure what he's supposed to do. "I don't know," he blurts out. Wow, he’s a mess. “Is this...” His voice trails off, and he’s definitely blushing. For all his poise and finesse, Sylvain realizes he has no idea how to proceed when it comes to pursuing a relationship that he actually wants. “I, uh.”
"You know," Ingrid says, "I've noticed that you've been flirting around less than before." She reaches out for her door. "I thought that was the most thanks I was ever going to get for cleaning up after you."
"That's--" Ingrid isn't entirely wrong, but it isn't the whole truth either. Sylvain swallows the lump in his throat. "It's hard work, especially with all the messes I get into. You deserve a real thank you for that. And about the flirting... There's been less reason for that lately."
Ingrid raises a brow. "What do you mean by that?"
Sylvain takes a deep breath. His years of experience have told him that now is the time to say something, to make a romantic overture that will send Ingrid's heart aflutter, to make her his. Yet there's a nagging voice at the back of his mind that's telling him to stop; that this can wait till after there's no chance that either of them will be impaled by a lance or a flurry of arrows, just another needless casualty of war.
Ingrid is stronger, faster, and trains so much harder than Sylvain. If one of them will live while the other dies, it's going to be her. He remembers how upset Ingrid was when Glenn was slaughtered in Duscur; how she locked herself in her room for months on end, her sobs of grief audible through the wooden door. It took such courage, such strength for Ingrid to piece herself back together, and Sylvain doesn't want her to have to do it again. Not now, not ever.
He can't risk becoming another Glenn: Ingrid deserves far better than that. It's why Sylvain takes a step back, flashing her an easy grin.
"Maybe you'll find out some day," he says, giving Ingrid a wink. "In the meantime, would you care to join me for dinner again?"
Ingrid rolls her eyes, but she smiles fondly back.
"Maybe I will."