Work Text:
Once again, Sylvain’s flirting had gotten him into trouble.
It didn’t usually bother him; he was as used to getting out of trouble as much as he was finding it. Bruised cheeks and screaming matches in the courtyard were commonplace, and he’d long since embraced his unsavory reputation. Besides, if things got really bad Ingrid was always there to bail him out; and if they got really, really bad— worst-case-scenario bad— it wasn’t like he’d mind not existing for a bit.
What he did mind, and what got him into trouble with the entire house and half the monastery, was that Annette had been dragged into it.
Sylvain had always enjoyed her company. She was clumsy but exuberant, probably the hardest worker in the Blue Lions (and they had Felix “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” Fraldarius on their side). He’d come to think of her like a sister, and since he didn’t have a sister and thus didn’t have any specific trauma regarding that particular familial relationship, he found he rather liked it.
Most of all, Annette didn’t tolerate his bullshit. That was true of most people, but she was different; instead of the constant nagging (Ingrid) and lectures (thanks Felix) and dirty looks (everyone else), Annette challenged him to be better. Maybe it was because she saw past his… habits. Instead of focusing on his proclivities, Annette focused on his talents. She knew he was smart, knew he was acting the fool on purpose (even if she didn’t understand why), and she wasn’t about to let him get away with it.
Not because he should study harder or be more serious— that would have pushed him away. No, Annette truly wanted good things for him, and it made him want those things, too. At least a little. Maybe that was how she’d weaseled her way into his shriveled heart. She’d certainly found the chinks in his armor, and if Felix’s behavior lately was any indication, she had a real knack for it.
The day of the incident in question, they’d been having a study session at the gazebo. It was a crisp fall day, the air just this side of cool; although Annette wasn’t thrilled about the temperature, she insisted on studying outside, tired of straining her eyes over the tiny print in her magical tomes indoors.
“Some fresh air will do us both good!” she said, and practically dragged him outside with her bubbly smile, never once laying a hand on him. He was weak like that— sorry for ever doubting you, Felix— and before he knew it they were seated outside with a fresh pot of sweet apple tea and working through that day’s readings.
What happened after was, perhaps, more than a little his fault.
It was the gentlemanly thing to offer his jacket when she complained about the breeze. He was used to the cool air; if Ailell was hell on earth, Gautier was its chilly counterpart, and as a native he had no difficulty with the cool mountain air. He welcomed it, actually, and with a quip about running hot and a teasing wink he’d stripped off his outer layer and laid it across her shoulders.
“Are you sure you’re not hitting on me?” she asked, even as she burrowed into the jacket, already leeching his lingering heat from its crisp fabric.
“Hey,” said Sylvain, laughing as he took his place across from her and picked up a quill, “ you dragged me out here, remem—”
“Gautier!”
Uh oh. He knew that tone.
"I’m going to kill you for what you did, you bastard!”
Sylvain sighed, ready to face the brother (or father, or cousin, or best friend) of one of his ex-lovers. He stood, leaning across the table with a sheepish grin. “This’ll just take a sec,” he said. “Sorry you have to see this.”
But Annette wasn’t looking at him. Her face went white as she stared over his shoulder. He was about to ask what was wrong when she stood up in her chair, braced her foot on the table and yelled, “Duck!”
Sylvain did. A strong gust, stronger than the weather could account for, whooshed over his head. Behind him, a curse and the crash of splintering wood; at the sound, the courtyard broke into a frenzy of activity, students and faculty alike fleeing the premises in terror. Sylvain winced and turned to survey the wreckage.
The man crawling out of the damaged crates looked only vaguely familiar: late twenties, maybe early thirties, brown hair, bright blue eyes. Sylvain was sure he’d never met him before, but he did look similar to a girl he’d seen last week all of twice before breaking her heart and leaving her for a voluptuous blonde he’d met on his way back from the market. He couldn’t even remember her name, now. either of them, really; he and the blonde weren’t a thing anymore, either.
So, the usual, really.
Anyway, he was probably her brother, if Sylvain had to guess, which wasn’t surprising. The male relations of his jilted lovers sometimes came looking for him, screamed threats and waved fists and tried to beat him up behind bars. They didn’t usually bring weapons, though, and the man stalking toward Sylvain was absolutely holding a blade.
“He’s got a knife!” Annette shrieked, too close to his ear.
“Yeah,” he grumbled, rubbing said ear, “I can see that.”
The man snarled, his wild eyes flicking from Sylvain to Annette and back. “Little bitch,” he snapped, “I’ll kill you, too! You think you’re better than my Cecelia?”
“Hey!” Sylvain’s voice echoed in the now-empty courtyard, harsh and redhot in his own ears. “You got beef with me, fine, but leave Annette out of this. She’s got nothing to do with this.”
“Yes I do!” Sylvain groaned, but Annette had already joined him, hands outstretched and ready to blast the guy again if he so much as sneezed. “Sylvain’s my friend, and if you want to hurt him you’ll have to get through me!”
Touching as it was, he couldn't let her put herself in danger over something like this. “Annette, get back. This is my fight—”
“No! I’m not letting you fight him alone.”
“You let all your girlfriends do all your fighting for you, Gautier?” sneered the brother. “She’s little but she’s got more balls than y—”
“I’m not his girlfriend!” Annette glared back, hands glowing with spring-green light. “Now get out of here before we call the knights! I don’t want to kick your butt again but I will!” She let the magic flow and waved her hands in what would have been an impressive mage stance if she hadn’t stumbled slightly halfway through.
Sylvain sighed. This was getting out of hand.
“Look,” he said, “she’s right. We don’t have to fight about this.”
He’d been practicing hand-to-hand with the professor and was pretty bad at it, honestly, but he had the height and weight advantage both on the knife-wielding brother and figured he could take him, if it came to it. And if Annette let him.
“Why don’t you put down the knife and run home like a good boy, and we’ll forget this whole thing ever—”
With a snarl the man lunged. He pushed Sylvain backward and they fell together, the brother slashing wildly at his face. Sylvain swore and grabbed his wrists, the two of them grappling in the dirt before Sylvain threw him over his shoulder. Annette was yelling something but he didn’t have the attention for it. Everything was a blur of elbows and teeth and cursing.
The knife. Where was the knife?
Sylvain rolled into a sitting position, but just before he caught his bearing something hit him in the back and he was prone, a heavy weight on his shoulders.
The brother’s voice hissed in his ear as the man forced his face into the grass. “How’s dirt taste, you noble bastard?”
Well, thought Sylvain, this isn’t going well.
--
“And anyway that’s when the knights showed up!” Annette piped, to the relief of the rest of the class. “They arrested him pretty quick, which is good because it looked like Sylvain was about to get stabbed, I mean, what were you thinking, Sylvain? You can’t even beat the professor yet—”
“That’s because the professor is a hardened mercenary!” Sylvain protested. “Come on, I knocked his knife away! The guy didn’t even come up to my shoulders! I could have handled—”
“You shouldn’t have had to handle anything,” Ingrid snapped in her most pissed-off lecture voice, at the same time Felix growled, “You couldn’t handle a toddler in hand-to-hand.”
They both looked genuinely upset with him, which, okay, he can’t really blame them. The entire house was protective of Annette and Sylvain was no exception. And he did feel bad about putting her in danger, even if that wasn’t technically— technically — his fault.
“Alright, alright, I’m sorry,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “But everything’s fine, now. The Knights took care of him and Annette is safe and no one got punched or stabbed. Happy ending for everyone!”
“You were going to let Annette fight him for you!” shouted Ingrid.
“I was not! I told her to stand back and she wouldn’t listen!”
“Well I wasn’t going to leave you by yourself! What was I supposed to do?”
“Annette, you’re not responsible for cleaning up Sylvain’s messes any more than I am—”
“Sylvain,” Felix snarled, his voice low and razor sharp as it cuts through their banter and oh no , Sylvain knew that look. It meant he should already be running. “I’m going to give you a three-second headstart, and I’m only giving you that much so Annette doesn’t have to watch me beat the shit out of you in our classroom.”
“Felix!” Annette gasped, appalled. “I chose to jump in, it wasn’t Sylvain’s fault!”
“Yeah,” and Sylvain laughed, looking to the others for backup. “That’s really not necessary, is it, Felix?”
But help wouldn’t come, and he knew it.
Ashe was pointedly not looking at him, his eyes shining at the prospect of a fight and at odds with the worry on his face as he frowned at Felix. Dedue stared back openly, a single brow raised in question . Dimitri had the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers, and Ingrid— well, if he was reading her expression right, she might stab him herself if he dared ask her to bail him out.
Mercedes— sweet, gentle, nonviolent Mercedes, stood off to the side, not looking at any of them, her expression somber and thoughtful and disappointed. She lifted her head to look at him for a moment, then sighed and shook her head.
Surprisingly, her betrayal hurt the most.
“You’re not running , Sylvain.”
He snapped back to the present problem; Felix was already stalking toward him, rolling up his sleeves with more menace than a boy only 5 foot 8 inches tall and built like a scarecrow should possess. Sylvain inched toward the doorway.
“One.”
He wouldn’t run. That was beneath even someone like him. Besides, turning your back on the enemy was a sure way to get stabbed in said back, and Felix looked like he wasn’t above a dishonorable kill.
“Two.”
Okay, maybe he would run.
“Three—”
“Ah, Sylvain,” and the entire class jumped to attention as the Professor entered the room. His eyes swept the room with their usual impassive stare, taking in the situation; they lingered on Felix, who glared back in defiance, then settled on Sylvain. “My office. Now.” Then, as if thinking that was perhaps too demanding: “If you don’t mind.”
“No, no I don’t mind!” Any lecture from Byleth would be far better than being stuck in a room with a stabby Fraldarius. Meaning he’d be sure to survive it, at least. “I’m yours. Lead the way, Professor.”
Byleth nodded and turned, already striding confidently across the courtyard. Sylvain followed at a hastier clip.
---
In the end, Felix did kick his entire ass, but Sylvain had known in his heart of hearts that he wouldn’t escape it.
And he knew he deserved it.
And he was used to sporting a black eye and bruises as much as the other students were used to seeing it, so really it didn’t cause a disruption in anyone’s lives except Annette’s, who fussed over his split lip and clicking jaw and yelled at Felix for five straight minutes before Felix actually started to look sheepish and Annette felt too guilty to continue.
For her part, Annette had already forgiven him, and the rest of the Lions had moved on (although Ingrid still needled him every time he chased after a new paramour with a “remember what happened yesterday” and “next time someone really might kill you” and he wasn’t sure if she meant the girls’ brothers or herself and Felix). In fact, things were mostly back to normal by the next day, and Sylvain was happy to settle back into routine and leave the whole thing in the past.
The eight of them were hanging out in the Blue Lions classroom before lecture, waiting for the professor to arrive. So far, it looked to be a promising day: the dining hall had served his favorite dish for breakfast, he’d had time to stop by the library and return the books on Srengi culture he’d (secretly) borrowed the week before, and no one had mentioned the black eye or the brother or his laundry list of other character flaws.
Best of all, Mercedes had brought a batch of her vanilla-iced scones to class, the ones made from her family’s special secret recipe, and Sylvain (who had a soft spot for most sweets but especially for hers) was very much looking forward to stuffing a few of those in his face.
Which was why it was so surprising when Mercie slapped his hand away and tutted at him. “Those are not for you,” she said primly, her face carefully neutral as she scooted the tray out of reach.
Sylvain made a big show of shaking out his hand and pouted at her. “Aw, c’mon Mercedes. What, you trying to get on the Professor’s good side or something?”
“No,” she said, “they’re for after class. You know how the Professor is about eating during lecture.”
Sylvain was under the impression that Byleth didn’t care much what they did, so long as they were paying at least half-attention, but he shrugged and took his seat. “Fine, fine. After class, then.”
Mercedes looked like she wanted to say more, but Byleth strode into the room just then and she bid him good morning and took her seat. The rest of the class followed suit, and soon the lecture was in full swing.
Sylvain barely paid attention. Byleth’s tone was boring, as always, and most of this Sylvain knew already: basic tactics like using terrain to your advantage and which weapons were best suited for different types of battlefields. Common sense stuff for a noble from Faerghus, especially one who’d already seen combat (at least on a small scale), and Sylvain found himself scribbling nonsense-shapes in the margins of his paper instead of actively listening.
By the time class was over, Sylvain was starving. He could still smell the scones and it was driving him crazy. The rest of the Lions must have felt the same, for as soon as Byleth dismissed them for midday meal they herded around Mercedes, chattering happily and stuffing iced pastries in their greedy faces.
Ingrid had already had two by the time he wedged his way through the crowd, and Sylvain (who never missed an opportunity to tease his childhood friends) laughed and reached for a scone.
"Jeez, Ing, leave some for the rest of us— ow!” It hadn’t hurt, but Sylvain sucked his knuckle and pouted anyway. Yet it had not been Ingrid who hit him, but Mercie, slapping his hand away from the tray once again. “Mercedes, what gives?”
“I told you,” she said sweetly, offering the tray to Dedue for seconds (which he happily accepted), "they’re not for you.”
“But you said they were for after class!”
“They are,” said Mercedes. “But they’re not for you.”
Behind him, Ashe whistled. “You know it’s bad when Mercedes is mad at you.”
Sylvain whirled on him, more shocked than anything. Mercie? Mercedes von Martrtiz? Angry? “What did I do?”
“Oh, come on, Sylvain,” Ingrid said around a mouthful of scone. “We all know what you did. It’s about time Mercedes put her foot down.” She swallowed and smiled at Mercedes, who only smiled politely back. “You’re far too nice to him. I’m glad someone else has gotten tired of letting him do whatever he wants.”
“This is stupid,” Sylvain grumbled. “Don’t tell her to be mean to me!”
“It’s not being mean, it’s called discipline ,” Ingrid replied. “And it’s about time you learned how to behave. I, for one, am tired of cleaning up your messes.”
“I never asked you to—” Sylvain sighed. They’d been down this road before and nothing he ever said changed her mind. Instead, he turned to Mercedes and gave her his very best smile. “Come on, Mercedes, I said I was sorry. Annette’s already forgiven me, won’t you? I won’t do it again. You know I won’t. Please?”
“No.”
“Just one?”
“No, Sylvain.”
“Hey,” and that was Felix, off to the side with his hands crossed over his chest, “if Sylvain’s not allowed to eat them, can I have his share?”
That was too much. Sylvain threw up his hands, exasperated. “What? You? ” he blustered. “You don’t even like them!”
“Says who?”
“Says you! ”
“Go ahead Felix,” and when Mercedes offered him the tray Felix’s smirk turned triumphant. He grabbed a handful, immediately handing half of them to Annette and the rest-minus-one to Ingrid. The last he kept for himself and, making sure Sylvain was watching, took the largest bite he could manage.
“This is cruel and unusual!” Sylvain declared, and he grabbed his things before heading straight for the door. “You’re all a bunch of bullies and you should be ashamed of yourselves. See you at lunch.”’ He let the door shut behind him with more force than was necessary— he wasn’t that angry, really, but it might make them feel guilty, at least— and stalked toward the dining hall alone.
Fine. So Mercedes was still mad at him.
He was used to someone being mad at him, and the fact that it was Mercedes (the least judgemental person in the class) didn’t actually change things. He’d just be extra good the next few days, do her a few favors, make sure he was on his best behavior, and everything would be right as rain.
Except that wasn’t what happened at all.
He started with the little things: paying attention in class, keeping his joking around to a minimum and being a model student. When that didn’t soften her heart, he started being especially nice to Annette (who didn’t seem to know what was going on or why Sylvain kept offering to carry her books or share his dessert, but also didn’t seem to mind).
That softened her a bit: she stopped being coolly polite and started being genuinely warm toward him, but she still wouldn’t feed him. Felix didn’t even play at eating his share of the snacks anymore; he just bartered with Ingrid about chores and snuck them into Annette’s bag when she wasn’t looking.
What Felix didn’t realize was that “model student” meant also taking the practical aspects of their training more seriously and thus wasn’t expecting it when Sylvain threw him to the dirt the afternoon Mercedes had brought her famous candied-orange teacakes to lecture and Felix had offered his share to Ashe in exchange for his History of Fodlan notes.
Wrenching his shoulder and having to explain to Professor Manuela that he’d injured himself wrestling a classmate (and not in the sexy way) was absolutely worth it.
Maybe a more direct approach was better. Sylvain switched tactics, turning his attention to Mercedes instead and plying her with favors and volunteering for service projects just to be near her. And that made her happy, certainly; she played along when he flirted, laughed at his jokes, chatted with him after class. But she still wouldn’t feed him.
He even stopped courting. Well, courting as much . Where his classmates could see. But then he felt guilty about that, too, because Mercedes always gave him that look like she knew, and he stopped sleeping around entirely. Maybe if he just laid low for a while, she’d think he’d really and truly changed and he’d finally be back in her good graces.
But that— that didn’t work either.
By the end of the week, Sylvain was going mad. It didn’t matter what he did; Mercedes was resistant to all his tricks, a bastion of moral superiority with a will far stronger than his own. At this point, it wasn’t even about the treats anymore. Sylvain just wanted things between them to go back to normal.
There was a rift between them, and he hated it. How could you see a person every day and still miss them?
“Come on, Mercedes,” he practically begged one day, “what do I have to do to make you see I’m sorry?”
And she’d only patted him on the cheek and smiled that smile of hers. “Why Sylvain,” she’d said, “I know you are.” And then she’d excused herself— choir practice waited for no student— and left him in the courtyard alone.
---
“Well I don’t know, Sylvain,” said Annette, “have you tried asking her?”
“Yes!” Sylvain flopped on her bed, arms and legs falling wherever gravity left them. She squawked something about not messing up her freshly-made bedclothes, but Sylvain didn’t bother moving. “I told her I was sorry and she just told me, ‘I know’!”
“Well,” she said, taking a seat beside him, “maybe she just needs more time. I could talk to her for you, if you like?”
Sylvain sighed and sat up. “No, that’s okay. She’d probably think I put you up to it.”
“Sylvain—”
“Really, it’s okay.” He grinned at her, ruffling her hair and making her squawk at him again. “Thanks, Annette. I’ll figure it out.”
---
“I’ll never figure it out,” Sylvain groaned.
“What,” said Felix, wiping his brow on his sleeve, “are you whining about now?”
“Mercedes ,” he whined. Sylvain leaned on his training staff, pressing his face to the wood and donning his best pout. He barely had to force it. “She hates me, I know she does.”
“She doesn’t hate you, you big baby,” said Ingrid. She took a long drink from her waterskin and tossed it to Felix, who also took a drink and offered it to Sylvain. He ignored it, like the dramatic slouch he was. “She’ll forgive you eventually. Just give her time.”
“What do you care, anyway?” Felix grumbled. “Just because one girl won’t give you the time of day—”
“Oh ,” said Ingrid, and Sylvain felt his stomach drop into his toes. That was Ingrid’s I’ve got an idea voice, and her eyes sparkled with it. They were usually the sort of ideas that got them into trouble as kids, and Sylvain wanted no part in whatever plot she’d just uncovered. “Why, could it be?”
Don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask —
“Could what be?”
Goddess damn it, Felix.
Ingrid grinned and spun her lance in her hands, slowly, controlled, just to show off. “I think someone’s got a crush.”
Sylvain spluttered. “You’re insane . Why would you think that?”
“Lots of reasons,” said Ingrid. “The topmost of which is you’ve stopped seeing other girls entirely. And you won’t shut up about her.” Ingrid poked him in the chest with the butt of her lance, her grin turning vicious. “I think someone’s actually developed feelings. ”
“Feelings? Me? No way.” Sylvain pushed the lance away and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I don’t do crushes, Ingrid.”
“No, you just sleep around until someone tries to stab you,” said Felix, who did roll his eyes. “But you haven’t been doing that lately, have you?”
“Saints, not you, too. Don’t get caught up in Ingrid’s romance-novel daydreams, Fe, you’re better than that.”
Felix shrugged. “Whatever.”
Sylvain ran his hands through his hair, sighing heavily. Don’t do crushes was a bit of an exaggeration; he found certain people more attractive than others, but an actual, honest-to-goddess crush? He’d stopped entertaining those long ago, and he wasn’t in the mood to revisit why.
“Guys. Seriously? I’d expect this from someone like Hilda but you two?”
“I’m just saying,” and Ingrid shrugged. “Besides, I didn’t say crush, you did.”
“I don’t have a crush on—”
“Oh, am I interrupting?”
Goddess, please, just let him die.
“Oh, hello Mercedes!” Ingrid piped. She waved from the sidelines, smile bright and mischievous. “Come to join us?”
“Oh, Ingrid, it’s not polite to joke about things like that,” Mercedes giggled. “You know I can’t even hold a sword properly.”
“Never too late to learn.”
“Thank you. Maybe some other time.” She turned to the boys and smoothed her skirt. Was she… nervous? “Sylvain, would you like to have tea this afternoon? If you’re free, that is,” she added, her eyes flicking to Felix and back. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your training.”
Sylvain stared. A full thirty seconds passed before he realized his mouth was hanging open, and it was another ten before his brain could form coherent speech. “No, no, I’d love to!” he said, nearly fumbling his lance as he shifted his pose to something less… pathetic. “I need a break anyway.”
“Wait, you’re leaving?” Felix snapped. ”We were just getting started!”
“You don’t need me. You’ve got Ingrid!” Nuance was wasted on Felix, but the look Sylvain gave him clearly said, Don’t ruin this for me. He tossed his training lance to Ingrid, who caught it with a frown that was only slightly annoyed. “Besides, I’ve been working hard all week. The Professor won’t fail me for taking one day off.”
“No, but it could get you killed on the field,” Felix grumbled. He turned his back on Sylvain with a wave. “Fine, do whatever you want.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Sylvain bowed, which was lucky because Felix took a half-hearted swipe with his training sword. It was probably also the only reason he was able to avoid it. “Alright, alright, I know when I’m not wanted!”
Mercedes, who had watched this whole exchange with her smile behind her hands, met him at the door. They left the training grounds together, the sounds of wooden weapons following them out. “Should we say an hour, then? By the gazebo?”
He definitely needed to freshen up; no way he was going to miss his one shot at forgiveness because he smelled like a horse. “Sure. Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
“Yes, see you.”
Sylvain watched her leave, his face nearly aching with the intensity of his smile. Mercedes didn’t hate him, after all! He turned toward the dorms to grab a change of clothes before heading to the bathhouse and decided he felt like humming.
Today was going to be a good day, after all.
---
Sylvain arrived at the gazebo first. He was happy to see his usual table open in the back corner (if a round gazebo could be said to have a corner) and took his seat facing away from the main thoroughfare. He always made a point of turning his back to the rest of the world when he met a girl here; it gave her the impression he was focused on her and her alone with the added bonus that it also kept him from being distracted when the conversation inevitably turned dull.
He’d only been seated a few minutes when he started to fidget. It felt wrong, somehow, to be sitting here while he was expecting Mercedes . This wasn’t a date, and he wasn’t trying to sleep with her.
Hm. Maybe if he sat on the other side?
“Sorry I’m late!” With a clatter, Mercedes fumbled her bundle on the table and put her hand to her chest, gasping for breath. Sylvain, ever the gentleman, stood with a start.
“Mercedes! No, it’s okay, I haven’t been here long. Please, have a seat. Did you— did you run here?”
“Yes,” she gasped, laughing. Mercedes fell into her seat gratefully, fanning herself with her hand. “It’s the silliest thing: I was so caught up in my book that I forgot to take the first batch out of the oven! I had to completely redo them! And then I realized I was out of one of the ingredients and had to borrow some from the kitchens, which I’ll pay back of course but it’s sort of an emergency— Oh! And then I almost left without the tea, so I had to go back, which was when I realized I didn’t have my shawl either! I’m so sorry, I’m the one who asked you here and I wasn’t at all prepared!”
“Like I said, it’s fine. Besides,” he added with a grin, “I’d wait a lot longer than five minutes for a date with Mercedes von Martritz.”
She laughed at that, really laughed, and the sound put Sylvain at ease. “Well then, thank you for your patience,” she said. “That’s very magnanimous of you.”
“I get that a lot.” When she reached for the basket, he stopped her. “No,” he said, “let me.”
“Oh! Thank you. Do be careful, they’re quite fresh.”
They were small custard tarts swirled with raspberry jam, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and the scent was actually bewitching. His mouth was watering by the time he’d set them on the table. A pot of bergamot tea accompanied them, and Sylvain (who knew both exactly what he liked and also how expensive it was to acquire) frowned.
“Mercedes, you really didn’t have to go to all this trouble—”
“No trouble,” she said, folding her hands in her lap and beaming at him. “Really, don’t fret over it. My treat.”
“Then it’s my turn to thank you,” said Sylvain. “This is— well, it’s more than I expected.”
“No problem at all,” and when she said it that way he almost believed her. “Shall we, then?”
The tarts, as it turned out, were very fresh, and Sylvain burnt the roof of his mouth at least twice in his haste to shovel them down. They also tasted better than they smelled, if that was at all possible. The burns were well worth it, even if it earned him a scolding or two.
It was nice, spending time with Mercedes again. They didn’t know each other very well and seldom had the chance to visit, just the two of them, but the days without her had weighed on him more than he’d realized. Sure, she’d talk to him; yes, he’d seen her in class and at mealtimes. But there’d been something between them, heavy and impenetrable, and now that it was gone everything felt right with the world.
And it was nice, talking about nothing. No pressure, no compulsion to perform. It was almost like they were real friends.
Which meant he had to go and ruin it.
“So,” he said, when their discussion of Professor Manuela’s drinking habits had died down, “what did I do?”
“What do you mean?” Merecedes took a delicate sip of her tea and cocked her head. The clueless pout was, actually, a cute look for her. Sylvain shoved that thought away with the pretense of examining it later.
“I just wondered what worked.” Sylvain leaned on the table, gesturing with his fork in expressive arcs. “You know, to make you forgive me.”
Mercedes blinked. “Nothing.”
“Oh, come on, there must have been something.”
“Actually, this is….” Mercedes laid down her fork and folded her hands in her lap. Her cheeks were rosy, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “This is an apology. From me to you.”
Sylvain pushed his own things aside and leaned on the table. “Sorry, what?”
“I may have been a bit harsh,” she said, her voice halting and hesitant. “And I may have. Um. Taken advantage of you.”
That made him laugh, and Sylvain fell back in his seat, holding his stomach. Several of the other students glanced their way, but Mercedes just sat in silence, fisting her skirt in her hands while the red spread from her cheeks to her ears and all the way down her neck.
“What is so funny?” she asked. It was so quiet he almost didn’t hear her over his own laughter.
“You’re apologizing to me? ” he managed between breaths. “What for?”
“I told you,” said Mercedes. Her entire face was scarlet now, and her frown deepened. “Please stop laughing. It’s not really that amusing, Sylvain.”
“Oh, but it is. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but no one apologizes to me. Not for anything.” He planted both his feet on the ground and leaned on his elbow, propping his chin on his hand to smirk at her. “So how, exactly, am I being taken advantage of?”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Only a little.” His left hand joined his right beneath his chin and he smiled, warm and wide and as unassuming as possible. “Come on, humor me. How did the nicest girl in school take advantage of the poor, unsuspecting nobleman’s son?”
She nearly rolled her eyes, which Sylvain could not blame her for in the slightest. Then Mercedes took a deep breath.
“At first,” she said, her voice low and soft, “I was angry with you. For Annie’s sake, but also for yours. I don’t know you as well as Ingrid and Felix and His Highness, but I’ve seen in just a few weeks how reckless you can be. So, I thought, maybe if there were consequences— maybe if someone stood up to you, you’d change. And you did. You started taking care of yourself, and studying, and— and paying attention to me.”
She smiled, then, and shook her head. “I know you were just trying to win me over, you know. I’m not very smart and I’m no good at schooling, but I know that much. But, all the same, I…” She blushed again, dropped her eyes again, hid from him again. “I sort of liked it. Being the center of your attention.”
“Oh.” Sylvain, suddenly parched, reached for his tea.
“But it’s okay,” and she was all smiles again. “I don’t expect anything, you know. I know it’s all a show. That’s what you do: play with girls’ hearts. Tell them what they want to hear to get what they want.”
“And did you?” He can’t stop himself from asking, falling into flirtatious good-for-nothing so quickly that Mercedes only blinks at him when he takes her hand. “Hear something you like?”
He knows better than to wait for an answer, only raises her fingers to his lips for a kiss.
“Maybe.”
The word was almost a purr. Sylvain nearly dropped her hand, pausing with wide eyes to stare back at her across the table. She was smirking at him, her free hand covering just enough of her lips to be coy, head tilted just so as she watches through half-lidded eyes. It was the shock (and nothing else) that set his heart suddenly racing, that made his entire body shut down as a mocking heat rose in his cheeks.
Then he released her hand and laughed, nervous and surprised and not at all strangled. “Saints, Mercedes! I don’t think it’s me playing with hearts.”
She laughed back, herself again, and shook her head. “Oh, no,” she assures him with a wave of her hand, “I’d be no good at that. I’m a terrible actor.” She gestured to his plate. “Were you finished with that?”
And just like that, the moment was over. They were friends again— just friends— sitting in the monastery gardens having tea and apologizing over nothing. Sylvain nodded and stood to help her pack everything away. It didn’t take much, and soon they were saying their goodbyes.
“Well, thanks for the tea, Mercedes. And the apology,” he added with a chuckle. “I appreciate your honesty.”
“Sure, sure,” she giggled. “Let’s do this again, sometime.”
“I’d like that.” It wasn’t even a lie.
Mercedes smiled and leaned in; a little surprised, Sylvain still spread his arms for a hug, only to watch her hop onto her tiptoes and peck him on the cheek. “Maybe not so long until the next one?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
“Good. Looking forward to it.” Mercedes slid the basket over her arm and turned away, waving over her shoulder with a bright, sunshine smile. Sylvain waved back, watching until she rounded the corner and out of sight. Then he scratched the back of his neck and tried to ignore the thump of his quickened pulse in his ears.
A terrible actor, huh?