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“Writing a love letter?” Ingrid asked, flopping down across from Sylvain. He’d picked a remote corner of the dining hall, for once not surrounded by admirers. Ingrid, logically, assumed he was up to something.
She was surprised when he looked up at her with a flash of panic in his eyes and threw his hand over the paper. Sylvain didn’t usually care if she knew he was up to something. She sometimes thought he enjoyed it.
“Uh – yeah! No. Not really,” he replied helpfully. “You look nice today, Ingrid. Is that a new hairstyle?”
Ingrid rolled her eyes and pushed her hair behind her ears. She was sure it was messy from training. Ignoring his attempt at a compliment, she leaned forward eagerly.
“Okay, now I’m curious,” she said, tugging at the paper under his arm. “You wouldn’t be this weird if it were just– is that a drawing ?”
Sylvain relented, moving away from the parchment. A loose sketch of a human face was on the paper, although the details were too vague to be anyone specific.
“You’re really nosy sometimes, you know that, Ing?” he said. “It’s not a big deal; Ignatz is teaching me some basic sketching. I figure that ladies love an artist, might as well give it a try.”
Ingrid’s shocked gaze softened as she looked up at her friend. Sylvain wasn’t one for hobbies. He’d always been the type to drop something if he wasn’t instantly good at it. There was something almost endearing about his mediocre, half-finished sketch, and the protective way he hunched over it.
“It looks really good so far!” Ingrid said encouragingly. “Um . . . what’s it of? Or who?”
“It’s supposed to be the goddess,” Sylvain said. “I thought that was a weird place to start, too – I don’t have a model or anything – but I guess I trust his methodology?”
“You could . . . I mean, there are some statues of her around the monastery. You could try those,” Ingrid said, frowning. This seemed like a difficult beginner’s assignment.
“Nah, too much work. I’m just basing it off all the hot girls I’ve dated,” Sylvain said with a wink. He dodged Ingrid’s under-the-table kick and chuckled to himself, then looked down at the paper thoughtfully.
“Say Ingrid,” he said, looking up, almost shy. “You doing anything right now? I could always use you as a model.”
Ingrid had practiced for years to not blush at the outrageous things Sylvain said. It didn’t help her now. “I’m hardly the goddess type, Sylvain,” she said. “Why don’t you ask, like . . . Mercedes. Flayn. Someone . . . holier.”
“Eh, I’ve always associated righteous fury with you, Ing,” Sylvain said cheerfully, picking up his charcoal again. “Wait, keep that frown, you’re perfect just like that.”
Ingrid blushed again, years of practice doing nothing for her. But Sylvain was too absorbed in his sketch to notice. And maybe, as usual, he didn’t realize what he was saying.