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Sylvain is used to getting gifts.
That's why it's no surprise when he sees the package at his door. Simple brown paper, tweed string holding it closed, a simple note attached. Nothing new, nothing special. He almost doesn't bother picking it up, and instead thinks about nudging it past the threshold of his room with the toe of his boot – but there are people around, and he has an image to maintain, and so he bends down and takes it in hand out of simple obligation.
It's surprisingly hefty for something so small. It’s firm, too, but flexible. Most likely, it’s a book, but that’s… odd, considering the note attached to the package: From a secret admirer.
It's not the first note of its kind Sylvain has received. Sometimes it feels like he gets one every other week: in a card with a poem carefully calligraphed alongside it, or attached to a small bouquet of flowers, or lying atop a box of chocolates – whatever frivolous gifts these girls think Sylvain might be into, there’s always a note accompanying it.
But there’s never, ever been one with a book.
It stands to reason. Sylvain doesn't make a habit of telling people he likes reading – and the few he had told had either been uninterested in the kind of literature he enjoyed, or were much more interested in physical pursuits than intellectual (not that he could blame them, seeing as that was his end goal, as well). It's strange, then, that someone would give him something like this.
But not strange enough for him to ignore his curiosity altogether. So, kicking off his boots and making his way to his desk, Sylvain pulls the package's string loose and opens it up.
Just as he suspected, it’s a book. Small, and with a thin, flexible cover, but it’s nicely-bound and only gently used. No, not used, upon closer inspection: it’s been opened, judging by the creases in the spine, but likely only once or twice. Whoever bought it must have leafed through the pages to make sure it was worth buying.
"Huh."
He flips it over to examine the cover. Written on it in black ink are the words A Guide to Gambits, and below it is an inked sketch of a chess piece: a knight.
It’s a weird choice, Sylvain thinks, but when he opens the book he understands it. It’s a book about chess gambits, yes, but the table of contents reveals there’s a section on how chess can hone one’s tactical skills in battle, and how to apply that sort of thinking to other, everyday situations. It’s weird, but interesting, and Sylvain is immediately hooked. Not just by the book itself, but by the curiosity of who could have given him such a unique and thoughtful gift.
Sylvain reads the entire book cover-to-cover within the week. He stays up late to read it on the nights when his wandering mind won’t settle or when there are no girls to keep him company (and some nights when there are, when he unceremoniously kicks them out of his bed and tells them not to get caught); he brings it with him to flip through between lessons, and he even brings it with him on breaks, just in case nobody else is around to entertain him. He tries out the strategies in the book, both in private on the chessboard he keeps in his room and on days when he’s lucky enough to catch Claude or Hubert or Edelgard for a game. He tries to get Felix and Ingrid and Dimitri to play, too, but the three of them are far too occupied with their training and their studies to indulge him more than once apiece.
"You know I would love to, Sylvain, but I haven’t the time to spare," Dimitri tells him one free afternoon on their way back from the training hall. “But I am pleased to see you indulging in a new hobby.”
"It's fine," Sylvain says, shrugging and smiling to hide his disappointment. And it really is; this isn't a new hobby for him by any means, but it's been a long time since he and Dimitri were close, and while he misses those days, Sylvain can't exactly say he's surprised Dimitri hasn't noticed. Going through everything Dimitri has, and having to prepare to rule an entire kingdom... of course he doesn't have the time to learn all of Sylvain's hobbies, nor should he really bother himself with them.
But at least that rules him out.
Later on, in the courtyard, Claude tells him the same thing as they sit across a chessboard from one another: "I never would have taken you for the kind of guy to get so into chess."
"Funny, I've been hearing that a lot lately." Sylvain grins as he pushes one of Claude's pawns off a square and replaces it with his own. "That's probably for the best, though. You know, underestimating your opponents and all that."
"Oh, I never underestimate an opponent," Claude says with a wink. "You do that, you're dead."
He moves his bishop to take Sylvain's pawn, which opens it up for Sylvain to take with his rook. Risky, given the other pieces lying in wait to trap him.
"It's chess," Sylvain says, choosing instead to move his rook in a different direction, "not war."
"I never said I was talking about chess."
Claude's bishop moves again, this time taking out a knight. Sylvain takes it with the same rook he'd avoided using before, now that it's in a safer spot.
"Then what are you talking about?"
Claude grins. "Ah-ah. I'm not about to give away my secrets that easily. Let's say that if you beat me, I'll tell you."
"You're on."
Sylvain wins, but just barely. One more move and Claude would have had him, but he'd recognized the gambit Claude had been setting up before he could pull it off. He silently thanks the book in his bag for that, and leans back in his seat. "Not bad, Riegan."
Claude nods, still studying the board in disbelief. He looks up at Sylvain, a hand on his chin, index finger raised over his lips so as to almost conceal his smile. "Not bad yourself," he says. "You've gotten better."
"Should I take that as a compliment?"
"You should." Claude winks. "I don't lose very often."
"Yeah, but I like to think I was pretty good before." Sylvain starts clearing the pieces from the board to put them away. Much as he'd like another game, he doesn't have the time; he'd agreed to meet Annette to help her study for her upcoming mage certification exam. All the time he has left for is to finish his cup of tea, which has long since gone cold.
"This is only the second time you've beaten me," Claude points out.
"Details." Sylvain waves his hand dismissively. He pushes the box with the chess pieces in it across the table to Claude, then picks up his teacup and takes a sip. It's hard not to make a face – bergamot is much better hot – but he must fail, because when he puts the cup down, Claude is looking at him strangely.
"Is something on my face?" he asks, setting the cup down. In an instant, Claude's smile returns, sliding into place so smoothly it's almost as if it had never faded in the first place.
"Nah, sorry. Just got lost in thought for a second there. And anyway, don't I owe you an explanation?"
"Oh, right." Sylvain had nearly forgotten in the excitement of putting one of his book's strategies to use. "What were we talking about again...?"
"Underestimating your opponent."
"Mm." Sylvain nods. "And how even though you were talking about chess, you weren't actually talking about chess. So go on, then, what's your secret?"
"It's life advice," Claude says, the admission coming easily, accompanied by a roll of the wrist and a wave of the hand. "Use everything you know about someone to your advantage, and you'll never find yourself at the end of their sword unprepared."
Sylvain hums. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience."
Claude smiles. That look from before returns, but this time, there's a twinkle of something else in his eye, too. "And it sounds like you already know exactly what I mean."
Sylvain isn't sure he does, but he has a feeling that that's all he's going to get from Claude today, and so he doesn’t press. It’s too close to home if he’s right, and too much he doesn’t want to explain if he’s wrong. So Sylvain shrugs, drains the last of his tea, gathers his book bag and stands up. "Whatever you say, Claude. Play again tomorrow?"
"It would be my pleasure."
Days go by. Sylvain gets more gifts. Some of them he recognizes (he's pretty sure he can smell the perfume of... whatever her name was, that he'd gone out with last week, on the card attached to a small box of sugared plums), others he doesn't. One, in particular, catches his interest on a sunny afternoon after class: a small box, wrapped in the same brown paper and tweed string as the chess book had been.
Sylvain bends down to pick it up. It's lighter and smaller than the package the book had been in, but somehow more solid. An actual box this time – tin, probably, based on how firm it is in his hand and the sound it makes when he taps it with a fingernail. The note slipped under the string is written in the same handwriting as the last one had been: Glad you liked the book.
He takes it into his room and opens it on the bed. Again, he's right about the contents: it is a tin, simple and unlabeled, no hint as to where it could have come from. It's unusual, but not unexpected: whoever had given him the book had called themselves a secret admirer, after all, so Sylvain disregards the lack of symbolism on the tin and instead opens it up to investigate its contents for clues.
The moment the lid comes off, the strong, fragrant scent of bergamot wafts out from inside the tin. Sylvain's eyes go wide as he looks down at the loose leaves filling the container. He can tell just from a glance that they're high quality, and when he lifts it to his face and gently inhales the scent again, he knows that this is the good stuff. Expensive, unlike what’s available in the monastery. The tea Professor Byleth gets from the Eastern Merchant is pretty good sure, but it's nothing like this. This has been carefully blended: there aren't too many cornflowers, the dried orange rinds are plentiful, and there even looks to be some candied fruit mixed in.
He closes the lid, sets the tin on the desk, and goes to heat some water to try it. It takes some time to boil, and as he waits, Sylvain's mind once again wanders to who could have left him these gifts. It's no secret that bergamot is his favourite blend, but his preference for finer teas than the ones cheaply imported and brought into Garreg Mach is far lesser known. His closest friends know, of course, and so does Mercedes, but...
But maybe it's just a lucky guess. Sylvain wouldn't put it past someone to try and get a higher standard of his favourite tea blend as a gift for him, but judging by the quality of the leaves alone, it's too expensive for most of the commoner girls around here to even consider (unless they're trying to be clever, but who would be stupid enough to invest that kind of effort into Sylvain, infamous as he is for breaking women's hearts?).
So whoever it is, they've probably got money.
The water boils. Sylvain spoons the leaves into a strainer. He lets the tea steep for exactly as long as it needs to, and when its done, he waits a moment for it to cool before taking a sip.
He groans in frustration and sets the cup down on his desk. It's the best damn tea he's ever had.
Sylvain drinks the tea sparingly. With no hint as to where it came from, he doesn't know where to go to replace it when it inevitably runs out. Silently, he hopes that whoever left it will leave another tin, but nearly two weeks go by with nothing appearing outside his door. Well, nothing interesting, anyway – the usual fare still shows up every now and then, but Sylvain is even less enthused about those gifts than he had been before this whole secret admirer business started. How can he get excited over these gifts when so many of them are so thoughtless, so token?
So he's left to dwell on the question, with no hints whatsoever as to the identity of his mysterious gift-giver. Every time he makes himself a cup of tea, every time he enters his room and is enveloped in the lingering aroma of bergamot, every time he opens up that chess book and reviews a strategy for his now-weekly games with Claude, he's left wondering.
It's starting to affect his personal life, too. Whenever a girl talks to him now, Sylvain wonders if she's the one who left him those gifts. None of these girls ever are, though; more often than not, they're just like all the rest, pretending to put up with him so they can reap the rewards of being in a relationship with him.
Not that most of them make it that far.
He's lost in that thought when a voice sounds out beside him: "Why so glum lately, Sylvain?"
He blinks, and the world comes back into focus. Ingrid has settled down beside him, a tray of food in her hands. Sylvain looks down at his own plate lying on the table in front of him: it's been nearly picked clean, all the meat on it having been stolen away.
"Hey!"
Ingrid laughs. "I was wondering if you'd ever notice. Normally you're so quick to slap my hand away, so whatever you were thinking about, it must have been serious."
Sylvain puts a hand over his heart, affronted. "I'm always serious!"
"Seriously irritating," Ingrid snaps back without missing a beat. They both laugh, and she scoops some meat from her plate back onto Sylvain's. She always had been honourable like that. "So what was it, then?"
"Oh, are you actually interested?"
"Don’t make me change my mind."
"Heh. Well, you see, I've got this secret admirer..."
Ingrid scoffs. "I should have known this was about a girl."
"No, wait, hear me out!" Sylvain laughs, even as Ingrid moves to take her food back. He pulls his plate away before she can. "I was just thinking about who they could have been! The gifts have been really thoughtful, so whoever gave them to me must know me really well, and..." He pauses, a thought suddenly occurring to him. Sylvain narrows his eyes seriously. "It's not you, is it?"
"No! As though I would bother with something so frivolous as pursuing a relationship while training to become a proper knight." Ingrid scoffs again, though she looks more annoyed than angry.
"That's what I thought," Sylvain says, not bothering to hide the relief in his voice. "You're way too high-strung for a guy like me, anyway."
"And you're more trouble than you're worth." She sounds more affectionate now, at least, and Sylvain laughs at the jab. He probably deserves it, after all, for how ragged she runs herself cleaning up his messes. "Although..."
"Although?" Sylvain raises a brow.
"You have been less trouble lately," she says. "I haven't had nearly so many angry, heartbroken women demanding to see you. Far fewer fathers demanding your head, too."
"That's a relief."
"It certainly is. This secret admirer of yours must really be something if she's gotten you to fix your behaviour so quickly."
"Aw, Ingrid, you know me," Sylvain says, fixing her with a sly grin. "There'll be more in no time. In fact, I have a date with someone this evening. Now, what was her name again... Rose? Lily? Violet. Some kind of flower, anyway."
"You're the worst." Ingrid elbows him in the ribs, and although it does hurt, it's more amusing than painful. Sylvain laughs again, swipes a potato off her plate, and they spend the rest of their dinner bickering affectionately over their food.
The date goes well. Violet (that had been her name after all) was clearly not the person leaving Sylvain gifts; and if he hadn't known that before, then the fact that there's another package waiting for him outside his room after he's returned from hers would surely tip him off.
This time he doesn't hesitate to pick the gift up. Sylvain squirrels it into his room, heart beating faster than it had all night. In the back of his mind, he knows it's silly to get this excited about a gift, especially from someone whose identity he doesn't know yet; but he can't help the anticipation warming his chest, the curiosity nagging at the back of his mind. Maybe this gift will be the one that finally tips him off.
He removes the string and unfolds the paper concealing the gift. Two gifts this time, as it happens, bundled up together in one and bound by more string: a small box, simply carved, and a piece of polished wood folded in half along the hinges set into its middle.
Sylvain unfolds the wood first. Carved on it is a grid, lines and squares painted with dark lacquer in a checkerboard pattern; on the other side, another grid, with thin lines and even more squares. None of those squares are filled in.
He opens the box next. Little black and white stones greet Sylvain when the lid comes off, a folded note laid atop them: For when you need a break from chess.
He unfolds the note. Written upon it are instructions for a few different games: simple ones – ones Sylvain remembers playing as a child – but games that do, ostensibly, involve some kind of strategy. He smiles as he reads the instructions, something warm fluttering in his chest. Although he isn't tired of his weekly chess games, it's refreshing to think that whoever had given him the book had taken into consideration that there were other games out there.
Other games Sylvain liked, even if he hadn't played them in years.
He closes the box again and sets it and the folded game board on his shelf. Whoever keeps leaving him these gifts knows Sylvain well enough to have some insight into the way he thinks, and though he knows he should probably be somewhat unnerved, he's too happy thinking that finally, someone out there cares enough to try and figure out the real him.
Claude snaps his fingers in front of Sylvain's face.
"Hey! You still alive in there?" Claude asks, irritation almost overshadowed by mirth. Almost – Sylvain knows Claude's moods well enough by now, from how often they've played chess, to know when he's trying to hide something.
"Yeah, yeah. Sorry." He shakes his head to clear the residual fog from it and looks down at the chess board. He moves his queen to take Claude's rook – a mistake that costs him, as Claude takes his queen a moment later.
"You've been awfully absent-minded lately," Claude hedges. This tone Sylvain knows well: he's curious. "Something on your mind?"
Yes, there is, but Sylvain shakes his head no anyway. "Nothing important. Hey, actually, I was wondering if you'd want to try another game?"
Claude's grin turns sly. "Are you asking because you're tired of chess, or because I'm winning?"
Sylvain laughs. "Can't it be both?"
"It could, if you were actually bored." Claude starts to pack up the pieces anyway, clearly intrigued by where Sylvain is going with this. "We'll just call this a win for me. What did you have in mind?"
"Something simple." Sylvain smiles as he pulls the miniature game board and the box of stones out of his bag.
"What's that?" Claude asks.
"A gift." Sylvain unfolds the board and grabs a handful of stones from the box, separating them into black and white piles. "Someone's been leaving them outside my door for the last month or so, so I thought I might as well put this one to use. What good is a board game if there's nobody to play with?"
"I can't argue with that logic," Claude says.
Sylvain finishes sorting the pieces and pushes the white pile over to Claude, who raises a brow in question. "White goes first," Sylvain says simply. "And what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't offer my opponent the advantage?"
"Ooh, you're good. Alright, then, I'm convinced. What are we playing?"
"Like I said, it's a simple game," Sylvain says, taking a few of Claude's pieces and placing them on the board. He places a few of his own around them. "We take turns placing stones and trying to surround our opponent. When a stone or group of stones is completely surrounded, they're captured."
"Oh, I've played this," Claude says. He picks all his pieces off the board but one and pushes Sylvain's back to him. "Not since I was a kid, though."
"Me neither," Sylvain admits. Assuming the stone still on the board is Claude's first move, he places one next to it. "But sometimes it's nice to go back to simpler times, you know?"
"I do."
Claude places another stone, and then Sylvain another. They alternate for a while, mostly in silence; the only words that leave them are quiet, muttered curses when their pieces get captured, or praises when one of them makes an unexpected move.
Claude is the first to break the amicable silence. "So tell me about these gifts," he says, not taking his eyes off the board as he places another stone. He doesn't capture any of Sylvain's with it, even though he could have if he'd made a different move; he's clearly planning something.
"What's there to say?" Sylvain places a black stone in the corner of the board, because they're running out of room, and he's hoping capturing three of Claude's stones with this move will tip the scales in his favour despite the looming threat of Claude’s plan. He's losing now, but not badly. "They don’t sign any of their notes, so I don’t know who’s been leaving them."
"So it's a secret admirer, then."
"Yeah, pretty much."
"And you have no idea who it could be?"
"Nope."
"Well, what have they been leaving you? Maybe you can figure something out based on the gifts themselves." Sylvain looks up to see Claude’s smile, and – oh, no. He’s fired up now. Sylvain almost laughs, because he should have known this would happen. Claude can't seem to resist a good mystery; he's too curious for his own good.
"I've tried that," Sylvain says. He places another stone, capturing two more of Claude's pieces. "All I've got is that they know me pretty well, they're insightful, and they've probably got gold to spare." He doesn't mention how unusual the combination of those three things is. "And it's not one of my friends."
"That would have been my first guess," Claude admits. He takes one of Sylvain's pieces. Still not utilizing the strategy he’d set up. "So what are the gifts?"
"First was a book about chess strategies," Sylvain says as he studies the board. He's running out of moves.
"So that's why you suddenly got so good so fast."
"Hey! I told you I was plenty good before."
"Uh-huh." Claude grins. "What else?"
"Well, there was this board game, and before that some really expensive tea."
He places a stone at last. He doesn't capture any of Claude's stones, but Sylvain knows if he plans his next moves perfectly, he could turn the tides.
"Expensive tea, huh?" Claude places a stone; Sylvain immediately places one of his own next to it and captures it, along with two others. "Is that all?"
"That's it, yeah. So, any thoughts?" A moment passes while Sylvain waits for Claude to make his next move. When he does, that's it: Sylvain is certain he's won. He places one last stone, capturing a bunch of Claude's. "Hah!"
A second later, Claude places the final stone and captures nearly half of Sylvain's remaining pieces.
"No way!" He leans forward, eyes wide, and double-checks the board to make sure that move actually works. It does, and Claude laughs, victorious and triumphant.
"Gotcha!" he says, grinning like a cat. "I didn't think you were actually going to let me pull that off. I thought you were onto me for sure."
"I was too busy looking out for what you were going to do with that one there." Sylvain points to the piece on the board he was sure Claude had been going to use to execute some clever strategy. "Are you saying it was a decoy all along?"
"Pretty much." Claude winks. "That's what you get for overthinking things, Sylvain. You know, sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one. You wouldn't believe how often you can miss what's been sitting right in front of you all along when you get hung up on little details."
He sweeps the pieces off the board and separates them back into two piles. "You're probably overthinking this whole gift thing, too. You said you ruled out your friends, but did you rule out all of them?"
Sylvain frowns. He had, hadn't he? Dimitri didn't know he was interested in board games, and Ingrid's too honest to lie about something like that when asked directly. That leaves...
"Oh." Sylvain hums. "Maybe you're right."
He catches Felix and Mercedes both in the dining hall two days later. Sylvain slides in next to Felix, right across from Mercedes, uncaring of the fact that he's interrupted their conversation.
"Ah, Felix! Mercedes! Just the two gorgeous angels I was hoping to see," he greets them. Predictably, Felix scowls while Mercedes smiles placidly.
"What do you want?" Felix demands. Testy – whatever he and Mercedes had been talking about, he clearly hadn’t been enjoying it.
"Oh, nothing." Sylvain grins cheekily, ignoring the impatience in his tone. "What, do I need an excuse to speak to my two favourite people in the world?"
"You don't, but I don't believe they're both here right now," Mercedes says in that way that makes Sylvain feel as though he’s being seen right through. "Is something bothering you, Sylvain?"
He should have known sweet-talking Mercedes wouldn't work. But that's fine; now he doesn't have to dance about the subject or work himself up to it.
"Just wondering something," Sylvain says. "See, I've been getting these gifts lately..."
"That's not unusual for you, is it?" Mercedes asks.
"No. He's been getting gifts from women ever since we first got here."
"And I appreciate each and every one," Sylvain lies. "But lately, some more than others. I was wondering if either of you knew anything about it."
Felix looks up at Sylvain, an exasperated sigh tumbling out of him. "How should I know? I don't make a habit of watching you or whoever you may want to warm your bed with."
No, Sylvain thinks, he only ever watches Dimitri. But that's a dangerous thought to give voice to, so he stays quiet. "Mercedes?"
"I'm afraid I don't know either, Sylvain," she says, and he's inclined to believe her from her puzzled tone alone. "Unless you're implying you think one of us has been leaving them?"
"I thought you might have," he says with a shrug. "But after that response, I'm pretty sure Felix wouldn't." And even without it, it had been unlikely. So much of Felix’s free time and spare thoughts were only granted to Dimitri, whether they were training together or Felix was watching him to make sure he didn’t do… whatever Felix expected him to.
Felix's face reddens. He looks away. "I didn't mean..." He trails off, shakes his head. "Hmph. No, Sylvain, I haven't left you any gifts, and I haven't noticed anyone stopping by your door that doesn't go in with you."
Sylvain laughs. "Yeah, that makes sense. You spend way too much time in the training hall to notice anything going on in the dorms."
"I don't spend any more than I should. You're the one who needs to quit slacking."
Sylvain ignores that. "Mercedes?"
"I haven't seen anyone leave you gifts either," she says. "And you know that if I had something for you, I would give it to you directly. I would much rather see the smile on your face in the moment than wait to hear about it later."
He supposes that's true; any time Mercedes has given him some of her baked goods, she's delivered them to him personally. She may hide more than she lets on, but she’s too sweet and considerate to do something like drive him crazy with unlabeled gifts.
So it's not her, and it's not Felix. But if it's neither of them... who could it be?
When Sylvain returns to his room that night, there's another gift waiting for him.
There's nobody around, as usual; no trace of anyone left behind to hint at who had left the package at his door. All there is is another note in the same script as all the others: Glad you liked the tea. Try this one.
When he peels away the paper and it falls to the floor at the foot of his bed, Sylvain is unsurprised to find another nondescript tin of tea. What he is surprised to see, however, is that it's not the only thing in the package: underneath it is another book, turned over to hide its cover.
Sylvain ignores it for now in favour of opening the tin. He's greeted by the scent of pine needles, strong and sharp and sweet. There's an underlying citrus to it, too, and something smoky that Sylvain doesn’t quite recognize. He does recognize the blend, though: Almyran Pine. And although it’s not the kind of tea that Sylvain usually prefers, it’s Felix’s favourite, and Sylvain is familiar enough with it through that to know it's not bad. And, like the bergamot from weeks ago, the needles appear to be of the highest quality.
He closes the tin and sets it aside to try later. The book is the more interesting gift anyway.
Sylvain picks it up and runs his fingertips over the worn and bent spine. There are words on it, inked in gold, in a script he can’t read. He wonders if this is some kind of mistake, because up until now, all his secret admirer’s gifts have been something he could use. This, however, throws him for a loop.
He turns the book over to examine the cover. The title is written in the same script, indecipherable, but beneath it is a stylized image of a man atop a horse, wielding a bow. Almyran, then, like the tea.
He doesn’t get it. Sure, he’s got a passing interest in international politics and history, but aside from Felix, Ingrid, and Dimitri, nobody knows that (to Sylvain’s knowledge, at least). But even if his mysterious admirer had known that, why would they get him a book he couldn’t even read?
At first, Sylvain wonders if it is Felix after all, even despite his insistence to the contrary. At a glance, it adds up: Felix likes Almyran pine tea, knows Sylvain's preference for bergamot, and has passing knowledge of his interests. But then again, Felix is, first and foremost, a pragmatist. He would never in a thousand years think to give Sylvain a book he couldn't read.
Someone from the Alliance, then? It wouldn't be unusual for one of them to be familiar with Almyran script, given their proximity to the other nation. Surely someone from Leicester – and especially a border territory – would know some Almyran, for the same reason Sylvain has picked up pieces of Sreng's mother tongue: knowing your enemy minimizes their threat.
As much as he would like it to, staring at the cover isn’t going to help Sylvain puzzle out his admirer’s identity. With a curious hum, he opens it up and flips through.
To his surprise, the book is not written entirely in Almyran; there are whole sections in Fódlan script, written over and annotated in the same scrawl that's been on all his gifts’ notes so far. Certain words are underlined for emphasis, others are marked as 'mistranslated,' and others still have entire paragraphs written next to them in the margins explaining the context of the passage.
There are sections on stories, on legends; pages upon pages describing epic battles and courtly schemes; there are even a few jokes, though most of them come in the form of annotations on the text itself. It's all fascinating, and Sylvain can hardly tear his eyes away. Whoever had written in this book had clearly put a lot of care into making sure someone who couldn't read Almyran understood exactly what was being said. Or maybe this was some kind of personal translation project. Regardless, it plagues Sylvain with the question of why someone would go to all this trouble just to give their book away.
He finishes his cursory leaf through, then sets the book down on his desk. No answers are going to come to him tonight, he's sure, so he decides to steep himself a cup of Almyran pine needles and settle in for a long night of reading.
Sylvain receives a letter from his father in the morning.
He reads it with all the excitement another of his written scoldings is due, which is to say he reads it with very little excitement at all. Shockingly, though, in amongst the usual chastisement and beseeching for Sylvain to act as proper representative of the esteemed House Gautier – like that's going to happen – there's a request for him to return home and drive off the remnants of Miklan's gang of thugs.
He's told to come alone, but even Sylvain isn't that reckless and stupid. He approaches Professor Byleth with his concerns the moment he has the chance to ask for their assistance in the matter, and they agree easily enough.
"We’ll set out tomorrow," they say, blank-faced and neutral.
"Thanks, Professor," Sylvain says with a flourish and bow. "I can't begin to express my gratitude."
"There's no need for that, Sylvain." Byleth’s face is impassive as they watch Sylvain straighten up. Sylvain doesn't bother to grace that with a comment, because they both know it's all just an act anyway; instead, he makes to leave, intent on gathering up the other Blue Lions to inform them of their new mission.
"Wait. Before I forget..."
Sylvain turns. Byleth reaches into their cloak and pulls something out from a hidden pocket inside it: a book, sturdy and well-worn and familiar.
"Oh, that's mine!" he says, taking The History of Sreng from Byleth's hand with a grin. "Just in time, too. My father would have had my head if he knew I'd lost it. You really saved the day, you know that, Professor?"
Byleth nods, seemingly unmoved. "I'm glad to have helped. But you really should be more careful with your belongings."
"Yeah, yeah, I know." Sylvain shrugs. "But hey, where did you find it, anyway? I've been looking everywhere."
"By the gardens," Byleth responds. "In the sitting area. It must have fallen out while you were on a date."
There's something almost judgemental in their tone, but Sylvain decides to ignore it. He's gotten good at that, after all, and it's not like there's any truth to their words anyway: Sylvain never spends time with his dates in the monastery – during the daylight hours, anyway – because it's too easy for one girl to see him with another and cause a scene that ends with stinging cheeks and broken hearts. He'd learned that lesson a long time ago.
"Right." Sylvain tucks the book under his arm with a smile. "Guess I just can't focus when there's a pretty girl around. I'll try to be more careful from now on, though. Thanks, Professor."
He leaves with one last wave, pleased that he can return the book to his family's library and never have to worry about it again.
The mission is a success.
Thanks to Sylvain's knowledge of the territory and his and Byleth's combined tactics, it's no problem at all taking out Miklan's bandits. His father praises his efforts, doesn't explain what the real reason behind the request was, and gives Professor Byleth the reward they’re due while offering to put the entire class up for the night.
It's an exceedingly generous offer, all things considered; the food in Gautier may not be as good as it is at the monastery, but it is hot, and they're all tired after a long day of travel and fighting. Sylvain had expected his father to send them all on their merry ways as soon as the bandit problem was solved, but he counts himself lucky that they caught him in a good mood.
Not that he would have kept away from the castle, anyway. This is Sylvain's home as much as it is his father's, and he plans to make good use of his large, comfortable bed while he has the chance.
But not before a trip to his family's library, of course.
There's nobody there when the doors creak open. Sylvain hadn't been expecting anyone, but it's still a relief; he can't count the number of times he'd tried to take refuge behind the shelves and in the hidden alcoves and passages leading to and from the library, only to be caught and dragged out by the hair as Miklan laughed and taunted him.
Tonight, no such anxiety prickles at the back of Sylvain's neck. It's just him and the books and decades’ worth of dust, all illuminated by warm, comforting candlelight and a glowing hearth as he strikes the matches and lights the sconces around the room.
The first thing Sylvain does is find the gap in the shelf where The History of Sreng should go. He tucks it in its place no problem, and drags his fingers over the spines of the other books kept with it: more books on Sreng, some on agriculture, some on battle. Memoirs from Margraves past, stolen documents from border raids, storybooks and personal accounts – books Sylvain had been fascinated by when he was younger, but grew to resent the heavier the burden of his inheritance grew on his shoulders.
He thinks of the book tucked away in his drawer back at the monastery, written in Almyran and annotated by a mysterious hand. It had been too precious for him to bring along on this mission, but now Sylvain finds himself missing it, missing the notes and the personal anecdotes of...
...Wait. That's it, isn't it? The notes were personal accounts, written in by someone who had either lived through what the text described or who had learned of it in some other context. And since Fódlan has always tended not to delve into any kind of depth with the histories of other nations, that can only mean one thing:
Whoever wrote those notes was not from Fódlan.
It should have been obvious. Yes, he'd assumed at the time that someone from the Alliance may have known Almyran, but understanding a language and understanding the place that language comes from are two completely different things. Knowledge of a foreign country, a taste for Almyran pine, an eye sharp enough to pick out Sylvain's interests and a mind keen enough to deduce what Sylvain himself hadn't shared...
There's only one person who fits all the criteria, and Sylvain could kick himself for not realizing it sooner.
You wouldn't believe how often you can miss what's been sitting right in front of you all along.
He knows who his secret admirer is.
The first thing Sylvain does when he returns to Garreg Mach is knock on Claude's door. In his hand he holds a package: simple, small, and wrapped in brown paper and tweed string.
Claude's eyes dart down to it the moment Sylvain holds it up for him. He raises a brow, perfectly conscious of the movement, and turns his gaze to Sylvain's face. "What's this?"
"Just take it," Sylvain says. Claude does, albeit hesitantly; he keeps his face carefully neutral (but not neutral enough Sylvain doesn't notice the tiniest twitch at the corner of his lips, as though he's trying not to smile) and brings the small package to his side of the threshold.
And then Sylvain pushes past him and enters Claude's room.
"What – hey, Sylvain, you can't just—"
"Just barge in?" Sylvain finishes for him, a grin tugging at his lips. "Aw, come on, Claude. Since you already know so much about me, I figured it was only fair I get to learn something about you."
Claude takes a step back. For once, Sylvain has caught him off-guard: his eyes are wide, his brows raised almost to his hairline; but the expression softens a moment later, into something more abashed, more understanding.
"So you figured it out," he says.
"Yep." Sylvain takes a seat on the bed, crossing his legs and resting his ankle on his knee. He leans back, mindful of the stacks of books littering the bed, and watches Claude gently shut the door behind him.
"Took you long enough."
"Yeah, yeah. Shut up and open your gift."
Claude laughs, a small, gentle sound. The smile on his face is small, almost invisible with the way he tilts his head down to hide it. Sylvain wishes he wouldn't; he's seen so many fake smiles on Claude, so many smug grins. It would be nice to see something real for a change. Something that isn't an act.
Like those gifts had been.
The paper falls away, joining the rest of the scraps littering Claude's floor. Again, his eyes go wide, but this time in awe as he takes in the cover of the book. "Sylvain, is this...?"
"Yep." Sylvain grins. "A book of battle tactics used in border skirmishes between Sreng and Gautier for the last couple hundred years. I figured you'd like something like this, given your apparent love of strategy and foreign history."
Claude smiles, unhidden this time, and laughs. "I guess you took the whole 'know your opponent' thing to heart, then."
"I did." Sylvain leans forward now, both feet planted firmly on the ground and elbows resting on his knees. "Took me a while, though. You're a pretty tough guy to get a grasp on, Claude."
"Oh, I don't know about that." Claude winks. "If you asked nicely, I'd be happy to let you grasp me."
It's a stupid line, the kind Sylvain probably would have used had their situations were reversed; still, it makes something in his chest flutter, and he looks away to try and play off the heat that's suddenly sprung to his face. "I bet you say that to everyone."
"I do," Claude admits. "Believe it or not, you're not the first person to say something like that to me."
Sylvain shrugs. "I can believe that," he says. And then, looking back at Claude, adds: "There is one thing I haven't quite been able to grasp myself yet, though."
"Oh?" Claude sets the book on his desk and sits in the chair, turning it around so he can rest his elbows on its back and let his legs hang on either side of the seat. "And what's that?"
"Why go to all that effort? Why not just ask me on a date outright?"
Claude shakes his head, a quiet laugh accompanying the gesture. "Come on, Sylvain, you’re smarter than that. If I had just asked you outright, how do you think you would have reacted? You would have thought I wanted something from you, or you'd have assumed it was just a casual fling. That I was looking for a night of fun and nothing else. That I wasn't serious."
Sylvain blinks. He stays silent a moment, shocked by Claude’s words – because he's right. And he should have known Claude would know that, because his gifts have all shown him that Claude is even more perceptive than he lets on. Sylvain would have assumed there was an ulterior motive if he’d just been asked out outright, whether it was just for sex or for something more nefarious. Things are never simple when it comes to Claude von Riegan, after all.
Now, more than ever, Sylvain thinks he understands that.
"It's okay, I'm not mad," Claude continues with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I know my reputation. I'm a lying, duplicitous schemer who can't be trusted."
"And I'm a heartless jerk who uses people and then throws them away." Sylvain smiles now, though there's no humour in it. "That doesn't explain why you left those gifts, but it seems we're at least both aware of our reputations."
"Seems we are," Claude agrees. He folds his arms causally behind his head. "The truth is always more complicated, though, isn't it?"
Sylvain nods. "Yeah. Clearly you're seeing something in me that other people aren't, and you've got a lot more going on behind that handsome smile of yours." He laughs again, and this time it's more cheerful, more lighthearted. "It's a shame that we're the only ones who can see how wrong everyone is about us."
"I wouldn't say people are wrong about me, exactly," Claude says. "You probably shouldn't trust me."
"Probably not," Sylvain agrees. "But you haven't done anything to me yet. Nothing past making me lose my mind over some gifts, anyway."
"And if I do end up doing something to you somewhere down the line?"
"Then either I deserved it for doing something stupid, or for underestimating just how cold and calculating you really are."
"Sounds like you don't completely trust me yet."
"You said yourself that I have to know my opponent," Sylvain says with a shrug. "And I don't know you very well. But that's what dates are for, right? Getting to know the other person."
And it's true – he doesn't. He only knows what Claude has told him, which isn't much, and what he's been able to piece together through the gifts and observation. It's next to nothing, and Sylvain can’t deny that he’s curious. For the first time in a long time, he actually wants to get to know someone beyond what it'll take to get them into bed.
Maybe Claude realizes this. He's clever, after all, and that would explain the sudden colour in his cheeks. Or maybe he’s just surprised. Either way, it's kind of nice seeing him vulnerable like this, with no quick response to his proposition or playful retort on the tip of his tongue. All the smug assuredness from before evaporates from Claude's smile, softening it into something… uncertain. Something a more befitting of a student than a clever politician.
It's cute.
"Why, Sylvain Gautier," Claude starts after a moment, leaning back and placing a hand over his chest to pretend he’s more composed than he really is. "Are you asking me out on a date?"
"I am," Sylvain says.
"Ah. Then..." Claude pauses, takes a breath – the biggest tell Sylvain has ever seen him let slip. "I guess I have no choice but to accept."
Sylvain's grin widens. "Don't say that like it's some kind of inconvenience!" He stands up and walks over to Claude, leaning over the chair and taking his face in both hands. "You're the one who went to all the trouble of sneaking around and pretending to have no idea what was going on."
"And it was unbelievably fun."
"Heh." Affection blooms in Sylvain's chest, warm and pleasant, and it spreads throughout his body. "Yeah. I guess it was."
They stay there a moment. And then, quietly, Sylvain asks, "So, are you gonna let me kiss you?"
"I thought you’d never ask."
Sylvain grins. He leans down. Claude leans up. Their lips meet in the middle, and Sylvain's eyes slip shut as warm breath fans out over his cheeks. He sighs into the kiss and tilts his head to deepen it, and feels Claude smile against him.
It’s simple. It’s easy. Sylvain wonders why he never thought of kissing Claude before. But now that he has, now that he’s seen and felt and experienced how well Claude knows him, how comfortable he feels, Sylvain doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough.
He’s looking forward to getting to know Claude just as well.