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You’re the only one for me.
I can’t live without you.
You complete me.
I love you.
Those words meant something to most people, but not to Sylvain. Words could be too easily twisted, crafted into weapons that pry and coerce, bruise and batter. He was no stranger to broken bones and black eyes, but words dug deep; they got under your skin, slid between your ribs and through your heart and out the other side, pinning you to the wall and casting your soul down into the shadows where it festered and drowned.
He had learned quickly that words didn’t actually mean what they meant; that they were laced with poison and if you weren’t careful, if you weren’t always on your guard, if you couldn’t read between the lines, they’d kill you as surely as any blade.
Sylvain, too, had been a man of his word, once. In the end, his words, too, meant nothing at all. He said things without remorse, without feeling; he leveraged them against his family, his friends, his classmates, his lovers, poking here and prodding there to get what he wanted (or what he deserved). He layered them on each other until his intent was so obfuscated even he couldn’t remember what he’d meant to say.
They were laden with the unspoken. They were empty and thoughtless.
I love you.
Every girl wanted to hear that, right? Everyone wanted someone to care for them, to be seen as their best and worst selves and still be desired. Sylvain wanted that too, but he’d long since given up any hope of it. So he let himself be wooed, told his lovers whatever would get them into his bed and plied them with sweet nothings until they fell asleep and he could slip away, leaving them to deal with the wreckage he’d had caused.
It usually came back to hurt him, but not always. Sometimes he walked away unscathed. Sometimes that was worse.
The first time he told Mercedes he loved her, it was a joke— a deflection, not quite a line, but meaningless all the same. I love you was something to hide behind with a smile and a wink. She’d given him an out, and like a coward he’d taken it.
It wasn’t the anger, though, that bothered him. Sylvain was used to anger, used to burying it deep and ignoring the bile-like burn every time it tried to get out. Anger was pointless. Nothing would change.
But that she understood his anger, cared for him in spite of it, that was uncomfortable. It was dangerous. She wanted to know more, to know him more, and Sylvain wanted to let her. But he couldn’t. What if she saw the real Sylvain— the one who pushed people away so they couldn’t reject him, the one who hated the world but hated himself so much more— what if they met and she decided she liked the mask better?
What if he was too broken to fix?
So they’d laughed together about crest babies and marriage. There was safety in that, too: laughing at a thing that had brought him so much pain. Then he’d excused himself and let her pray, and if he strode a little too quickly from the cathedral that day, no one had noticed.
The second time, he meant it. It just came out all wrong.
It had been evening during the Harpstring Moon, the night unusually warm. The two of them had been sharing a rare moment of quiet at the monastery, sitting on the stone wall, feet dangling over the ravine as they stared out across the valley. They would march to Fhirdiad tomorrow, and it had felt like the start of a new path for them all. Maybe that’s why he’d said it, so suddenly, without preparation or fanfare.
Maybe that’s why she hadn’t believed him.
Sylvain couldn’t blame her, even as her giggle and delicate wave of her hand had cut his heart in two. He’d tried to laugh it off with her, but the effort must have shown on his face for Mercedes stopped, fixing him with a serious look.
That was when he had stuttered an apology, falling into old habits and drawing back on himself. Silence could be his armor as much as his words, but not then; it had only felt empty, and Sylvain had (very briefly) considered sliding casually into the ravine below them and never coming out again.
Of course she hadn’t believed him— why should she? He could still hear her voice, then five years younger and patiently disapproving: I’m sure you use that line all the time. And he had, although not lately. Not for months. Not since he’d realized how he truly felt.
Sylvain had owed her more than I love you, but he hadn’t known how to say anything else. He hadn’t known another way to let her know how sincerely special she was.
So instead he’d stuttered an apology, once the synapses that controlled his speech started firing and he could form words again. Protested that it’s okay if you don’t believe me, I wouldn’t believe me either, and I know I’m not the sort of guy you deserve but— and I promise you, Mercedes, I’m being totally serious.
And Mercedes had stopped him from digging a deeper hole to crawl into, her finger on his lips silencing him as effectively as if she’d wrapped her fist around his lungs.
I know, she’d said, her eyes soft, sparkling, and fond. Then she’d kissed him on the cheek. I think I love you, too.
These days they don’t have to say it, but they do. Often. Sometimes, it’s with the words themselves. I love you carries new weight, one that he’s happy to bear now that his open wounds have had time to become scars. He hasn’t finished healing, will probably never finish healing, and Mercedes has her own scars and burdens to bear. But they do it together, and sometimes the simplest reminder of their bond is those three little words.
But, sometimes, it’s something else. Sometimes, the words are different: thank you and let me get that for you and saints, you’re beautiful. Sometimes it’s chaste kisses as they pass in the hall, whispered laughter after dark, bodies pressed together in desperate, delightful shapes. It’s become something else entirely, something that transcends words, but he knows that she hears it anyway: the way his heart proclaims it without needing I love you.
And, wonder of wonders, he can hear hers echo it back.