Archive of Our Own

It takes three and a half phone calls for Ingrid to answer. Three and a half, because the phone is still vibrating in her hand as she fumbles to unlock it, and she nearly drops it in the crack between her bed and the wall. Somehow she jams it open.

“What,” she says, tone bleary. Her mouth feels dry.

“Hey,” Sylvain says cheerfully. “I’m coming over, that okay?”

Ingrid glances at her clock. 1:34 am stares back at her in a garish red light.

“Why?” Half the word is stifled in a yawn, but it’s Sylvain. She certainly doesn’t care, and he’s certainly not bothered. Hell, he probably knew she was asleep and called anyway. Bastard.

“Because I missed you,” Sylvain says. His tone is too bright for the hour. Ingrid squeezes her eyes shut.

“Really? You missed me at one in the morning?”

Sylvain doesn’t say anything right away. Ingrid crushes the phone against her ear, trying to decipher his location. The static is a little bumpy, and a car horn blares faintly in the background. Is he driving? Taking a taxi over? She bites down on her thumb, wondering if she should ask.

“Well, you see, funny story,” Sylvain says, a smile threaded in his tone. “I did, in fact, miss you at one in the morning. But I was also in town, you know, and some girls were trying to hit me up. But I’m really tired, so I said I was going to my girlfriend’s place. And I’m not really a liar, so I thought I would just go to your place.”

Except I’m not really your girlfriend, Ingrid thinks. She catches herself before it tumbles out. “You really rejected someone to see me? At this hour?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Sylvain’s voice is hitched with a laugh. “Anyway, I’ll be there in five minutes. Is that okay?”

Ingrid rolls her eyes, sitting up in her bed. The moon glints through a crack in her curtains. Her hair is probably a ragged mess, and she wants nothing more than to fall back into her pillows and sleep.

“I’ll see you in five,” she says curtly, and hangs up the phone.

Five minutes later, Sylvain is standing at her doorstep. He beams at her, bright and obnoxious and entirely too awake. Ingrid leans against her doorway, trying to muster up the energy to glare at him. It’s too much work. She gives up instantly.

“I cannot believe you,” she tells him instead, letting her tone run exasperated. Sylvain just laughs.

“You still let me come,” he replies cheekily, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Have I ever mentioned you’re the best, by the way?”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “You are a liar, for the record,” she says, stepping back so he can come in. “You can’t tell me you’re not. I know you.”

Sylvain makes a face at her. “Right, well, I’m working on that.”

“Are you?” Ingrid goes into her room, sliding her closet open. “That’s new.”

Sylvain says nothing, just smiles and follows her to her room. Usually Ingrid would abhor letting anyone come in, especially when she hasn’t cleaned up, but it’s Sylvain. He’s seen everything; a messy room won’t make much of a difference. Her clothes are strung about everywhere, but he doesn’t comment on it. He just stands there quietly, keeping his hands tucked in his pockets. Careful, like he doesn’t want to touch anything, doesn’t want to ruin whatever system she has going on.

“Thank you,” Sylvain says quietly, when the silence has dragged on too long. Ingrid spares him a sharp look, but it’s more exasperated than anything. Weaker at the edges. Sylvain always has a way of sliding her walls down.

“It’s no problem. But what were you doing in town, anyway?”

“Oh, uh.” Sylvain coughs. “Nothing, really. I was just…clearing my head. Lost track of time.”

“Huh,” Ingrid muses. She spies a blanket wedged between a stack of sweaters and tugs on it. “If you were at a club, you can just tell me. I’m not going to judge you.”

“I wasn’t at a club,” Sylvain says defensively. “Really.”

Ingrid snorts, tucking the blanket under her arm. “You’re not lying, are you? Oh, wait.” She wheels around, tapping her finger to her chin. “You’re not a liar anymore. Right. But you did tell those girls we were a thing, didn’t you?”

“That wasn’t really a lie,” Sylvain argues. “The world thinks we’re dating.”

“The world knows a lie,” Ingrid teases, nudging his shoulder. Surprisingly, he flinches. “What? It’s the truth.”

Sylvain says nothing to that, just presses his lips together. His expression is strange, one that Ingrid barely recognizes. Ordinarily she would try to decipher it, but she’s too tired to do so. Instead, she smiles at him and steps back.

“If you need me, I’ll be on the couch.”

Sylvain’s eyes widen. “You’re sleeping on the couch?”

He sounds mildly surprised. Ingrid bristles. “Um, yes. Where else am I going to sleep?”

Sylvain shakes his head. He reaches out, tugging the blanket from her grasp. “Your bed,” he tells her, folding the blanket precariously. “I’m taking the couch.”

“Uh,” Ingrid protests, but that’s all she gets out before Sylvain heads towards the couch. She follows him, trying to come up with the right argument. So far, she has nothing. “That’s not how it works.”

Sylvain shrugs, spreading the blanket on the cushions. “Says who?” he asks. “C’mon, Ingrid. You’re the one housing me tonight. It’s my chivalric duty to take the couch.”

His eyes gleam like he’s expecting a rebuttal. In all honesty, he probably is. Ingrid already has half an argument constructed in her head, but it crumbles when she meets Sylvain’s gaze. It’s nearly two am. This isn’t worth the battle.

“Alright, fine,” she says, holding her hands up in surrender. Sylvain beams.

“You’re the best, you know.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “You already said that.”

“Can’t I say it again?”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow. Sylvain merely props a hand on his chin and looks at her adoringly. Almost like a real boyfriend, Ingrid thinks dryly, and then wants to punch herself in the face. This has nothing to do with—that. She’s just helping him out. Has been now, for years.

But damn if Sylvain isn’t a good liar. Sometimes even she almost forgets, which is the scariest of it all. She turns to go, but Sylvain’s voice stops her.

“Hey, Ingrid?”

Ingrid deigns to look back. Sylvain is sitting upright on the couch, blanket pulled over his legs. His hair is already a mess. His shirt is rumpled. His eyes are sleepy, but there’s a brightness in them she can’t deny. Something true and quiet, something she can’t quite figure out.

“Good night,” Sylvain says, softer than the night. Ingrid swallows.

“Good night,” she returns evenly, and shuts the door.

+

It had started with a phone call, too. Their arrangement, the shared lie. Different time, different meaning. Same place, though. Which is to say, Ingrid was sitting in her room, ignoring her father’s messages of setting up with a friend of a friend, and Sylvain was out who-knows-where. He was the one to call her, though. He always was.

“Come with me,” he’d blurted out, when Ingrid had answered. “I need you.”

Ingrid glanced at her clock. 4:34 pm greeted her in blocky red numbers.

“Where?”

Sylvain laughed. It was a strange, nervous sound, laced with desperation. Ingrid hadn’t heard him like that before. It made her sit upright, all of her other concerns vanishing from her thoughts. Sylvain was worried. He needed her. Of course, she’d listen. Whether or not she’d follow through depended on the answer.

“My parents’ house,” Sylvain said, cheerfulness masking his worry. “For dinner.”

Ingrid flopped back down on her bed. “No.”

“Why not?” Sylvain’s voice rose on the line, more confused than anything else. Ingrid rolled her eyes.

“Because your parents don’t like me? You know that. Just bring Felix. They like him.”

Dead silence. Then Sylvain said, too smug for Ingrid’s liking, “But I don’t want Felix to be my date.”

Ingrid nearly fell out of bed. Her heart felt cut loose from her chest, freefalling into thin air. “Excuse me?”

“Look,” Sylvain said, and he sounded as serious as Ingrid had ever heard him. This was new. “It’s just one dinner. You can come in a ratty sweatshirt and jeans, I don’t care. But my parents keep nagging me to bring someone, and you came to my mind first. I mean—you’re my best friend, you know? Having you around makes everything better.”

Ingrid looked down. She wasn’t one to fall for his fancy words, but—this wasn’t that, not really. It wasn’t a shallow compliment, a ploy to steal her heart. No, this was simpler, more vulnerable than anything else. Raw and honest and straightforward, the way nobody else had seen him. Maybe that was why her heart bloomed. Maybe that was why she dragged in a deep breath and steeled herself for the night to come.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Sylvain sounded surprised. Ingrid rolled her eyes.

“I’ll do it. Don’t make me regret it.”

Sylvain laughed, as warm and gentle as the sunlight. Something warm sparked in her chest, flooding through her veins. Only Sylvain could do that.

“You’re the best, you know,” he said, the words as genuine as a promise. Ingrid’s mouth tugged upwards in a smile.

She hadn’t worn a ratty sweater to dinner. She’d changed into a nice, green shirt, along with a pair of jeans that weren’t ripped. It didn’t matter how hard she would’ve tried, anyway; Sylvain’s parents always sneered when they saw her, always turned their noses up and acted like she didn’t belong. One dinner, she told her reflection in the mirror. One dinner.

Sylvain was her best friend. Annoying at times, grating at others, but still her best friend. She wouldn’t leave him out to dry.

At Sylvain’s house, his parents had indeed sneered and turned their noses up and acted like she didn’t belong. Ingrid was used to it. It was nothing she hadn’t seen before. Sylvain knew that, but he kept casting her worried glances, as if he was worried for her. Worried. All throughout dinner he stayed close to her, his arm brushing hers, his gaze fixated on her. Several times he leaned in and whispered a joke in her ear, which made her burst into giggles. It was almost enough to make her ignore his parents’ leering stares. Almost.

Then Sylvain had reached over and squeezed her hand, his fingers lightly curling over hers. It didn’t mean anything too deep. It meant I’m here, it meant thank you, it meant everything they couldn’t say in front of his parents. The warmth still lingered on her knuckles, long after he let go.

This did not go unnoticed by Sylvain’s parents.

“You know, Sylvain talks so much about you,” his mother had said eventually. Her fork was poised tight in her hand, like she was wielding a weapon. Though she wore a tight smile, her eyes were as cold as ice. “He’s quite fond of you.”

Ingrid heard the real question laced between her words. She smiled back brightly.

“We’re close,” she’d replied, and watched a muscle jump in Mrs. Gautier’s jaw. But because this was a respectful dinner, and because Sylvain was sitting right next to Ingrid, his hand inches from hers, she couldn’t say anything. This was almost like a battle, Ingrid was realizing. No wonder Sylvain wanted her here. She was his best ally.

Afterwards, she and Sylvain had gone to a nearby McDonald’s, and Sylvain bought her four hamburgers. They sat on the curb while she ate.

“Thanks,” Sylvain said quietly. He’d sounded exhausted, but genuine. Ingrid looked up, her cheeks bulging.

“Hmm?”

Sylvain chuckled softly. “For doing…that,” he said, gesturing widely. “I know you didn’t want to go, but you did. So, thanks for not leaving me to die.”

“Oh,” Ingrid said, around a mouthful of food. She swallowed hard and added, “It wasn’t that bad.”

Sylvain was studying her. Carefully, gently. His eyes were dark and exhausted, but also kinder than she had ever seen. In a way, it kind of felt like he was seeing her—really seeing her, under the light of a bright McDonald’s sign, half a hamburger stuffed in her mouth. His mouth crinkled in a smile, and warmth swept through Ingrid like a pair of wings. Stupid Sylvain. Still her Sylvain.

But then he said something idiotic. Naturally. “Why don’t we do that more?”

Ingrid nearly choked on her hamburger. “What?”

Sylvain shrugged. “My parents seem to think we’re dating now,” he said, propping his elbows on his knees. “We didn’t really dissuade them on that. It saves me from their nagging, and I’m pretty sure it would please your dad. Is he still trying to set you up with random guys?”

Ingrid made a face. “Don’t remind me.”

“Yeah, see?” Sylvain smiled brightly, and this time it was wicked and mischievous, an echo of the smile from that afternoon. “It’d be beneficial for both of us. So…why don’t we do it?”

Ingrid scoffed. “Because we’d be telling the world a lie?”

“Not the world,” Sylvain countered. “Just…our families. And it’s not a lie, it’s just…acting. It gets us out of sticky situations and stuff. We don’t have to hide it from, like, Felix. I think Felix would figure it out, actually.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes. Sylvain was studying her again, but more pensively this time. He was chewing on his lip, eyes guarded and wary. He was waiting, Ingrid realized. Waiting for her response.

“I don’t want to make things weird,” she said. “Will this make things weird?”

A startled laugh slipped from Sylvain’s mouth, like he hadn’t thought of that. He probably hadn’t. “Of course not. We could even draw up rules, if you wanted.”

Ingrid scuffed her foot on the ground. The lampposts flickered, as if they had something to say, but all she could hear was a thin, monotonic hum. The last burger was getting cold and soggy. She stuffed it in her mouth anyway, mostly to avoid answering. Sylvain’s gaze was burning on her skin.

“We don’t have to do it,” Sylvain said, very quietly. “I mean, it was just an idea. A farfetched one, but. It would make our lives easier. And, you know…there’s nobody else I’d rather do it with.”

As long as Ingrid had known Sylvain, he had never made her life easier. That didn’t change anything; she had just accepted, several years ago, that being friends with Sylvain Gautier meant being friends with all of him: the quiet tenderness, the heartless facades, the spaces in between. Any plan Sylvain had, she always ended up entangled in it, right next to him. So—was there even a difference here? Being dragged headfirst into a reckless idea, and having to claw her way out? She’d always had Sylvain by her side. She wouldn’t want anyone else.

She crumpled up the wrapper and stood up. “Okay,” she decided, and Sylvain looked up at her, astonished. “Let’s do it.”

+

When Ingrid wakes up, the couch is empty. The blanket is folded precariously in the corner, which could only be Sylvain’s work. He must’ve left early, she muses to herself. Typical Sylvain. Spending the night at a girl’s house, and then slipping out early. The only difference between her and all those other girls is the history shared between her and Sylvain. A strange feeling rises in her chest, something hot and bitter. She shoves it down.

“Ingrid?”

Ingrid startles, bracing her hands on the couch. Sylvain appears before her, two mugs of tea in his hands. His hair is, as always, a rumpled mess.

“Oh,” Ingrid blurts out, and then wishes she didn’t. “I…thought you left.”

Sylvain’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Without saying goodbye?”

Ingrid bites her lip. You’ve done it before, she wants to say, you’ve done it with other girls. But Sylvain is looking at her strangely, as if the thought had never occurred to him. Maybe it hadn’t.

“So…what did you get up early for?”

Sylvain shrugs. He hands her a mug, and the steam curls around her face like a caress. “I wanted to make you breakfast, but my skills are sadly limited.”

“You wanted to make me breakfast,” Ingrid repeats, amusement curling around her words. Sylvain grins at her.

“Food is the way to your heart, isn’t it?” He pauses, as if contemplating how to say his next words. “And…I wanted to say thanks. For last night.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry about it,” she says, raising her mug to her lips. “You’re never any trouble.”

Sylvain just looks at her. Really looks at her, like he’s trying to find her heart. His gaze is soft and meaningful, the way he hardly is. The world can never see him like this; he doesn’t allow it. Only Ingrid can. Only her. She smiles at him brightly.

“If you do want to make up to me,” she says teasingly, “you can buy me chicken nuggets.”

Sylvain blinks. “Right now?”

“Whenever.” Ingrid shrugs. “I’m not picky. You could even deliver them at two in the morning.”

“So what you’re saying is,” Sylvain says, his expression straight-laced, “the next time I come over, I need to have chicken nuggets on hand.”

“Exactly.” Ingrid nudges his shoulder playfully. “See? You understand me.”

“I am a pretty good fake boyfriend,” Sylvain agrees. Ingrid swats his shoulder.

“It’s not about that. You are a good friend, though. When you’re not being a total idiot.”

Sylvain flinches, as if the comment digs a little too close to something raw. A vulnerability, a hidden truth. But there is nothing to hide here, Ingrid thinks. Only the one they keep away from the world. Maybe her words cut too close to it. She’s still stumbling around this, unsure where the boundary between her best friend and their concocted lie is. Most of the time, she thinks she knows. Sometimes she doesn’t.

“I try,” Sylvain says, a little too cheerful for his own good. Ingrid recognizes his tone; he’s masking his hurt, covering up the wound. “So, how about I be a good friend and make it up to you by buying you breakfast?”

“Right now?”

“Hey, I know you’re hungry.” Sylvain smiles lazily at her. “And it’s free food.”

His eyes are as warm as the sunlight tumbling through the window. Ingrid tilts her head to the side, studying him carefully.

“Okay,” she says, setting her mug down. Then she adds dryly, “Like a date, huh.”

Sylvain laughs. He loops an arm around her shoulders, ruffling her hair. “I’ll take good care of you,” he teases. “Don’t worry.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. She pushes him away, but curls her fingers around his wrist, not quite letting him go. His pulse is steady under her fingertips. She smiles, and pulls him towards the door.

+

“So,” Felix says later, as if he’s poking around for trouble, “I heard Sylvain slept at your place.”

Ingrid sighs. There are a lot better places they could be having this conversation. Naturally, since Felix is Felix, he had to go and pick one of the worst ones possible—her job. Which, Byleth Eisner has never cared much about her chatting with customers, but she’s still trying to maintain some kind of professionalism. Of course Felix ruins that.

“Will you keep it down?” she asks through gritted teeth. “I’m at work.”

“Nobody else is here,” Felix retorts, which isn’t necessarily true, but the restaurant is rather empty. Still, Ingrid tips her head pointedly towards the couple in the corner, who look quite a few years younger than them. Felix just stares blankly at her, clearly not catching on. Idiot.

“Look,” Ingrid says, lowering her voice, “it’s not what you think. He slept on the couch.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Spare me the details. I don’t care.”

“Then why did you bring it up?”

Before Felix can respond, the doorbell chimes. Ingrid straightens hastily, plastering a polite smile on her face, the well-rehearsed welcome lines perched on her tongue. It all falls away when she sees who it is.

“Hi,” Sylvain says brightly. “Can I get a burger?”

Ingrid immediately turns to Felix, who has taken a sudden interest in the straws stacked to the side. “Did you call him?”

Felix, fiddling with the straws, does not answer. Sylvain just gives her a wide smile, stashing his hands in his pockets. He’s trying to look innocent, Ingrid figures. It’s not really working.

“I came on my own accord,” Sylvain says. He reaches down, grabbing a water and placing it on the counter. “Anyway, I wanted to see how my favorite girl was doing.”

Ingrid shoots him a glare. His smile only broadens. To the side, Felix is paying rapt attention to the straw in his hand, turning it this way and that, like he’s never seen a plastic straw before.

“I’d be fine if you two would leave,” Ingrid says, which isn’t really true, but they don’t need to know that. Sylvain just laughs.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.” He scuffs his foot on the ground, and his smile turns a little sly. “I just wanted to tell you—Dimitri’s coming home tonight.”

Ingrid’s eyes widen. Guiltily, she’d almost forgotten that Dimitri had been away for so long—she can barely remember when he went away, in all actuality. She also doesn’t know why, although she could just fish out a rumor from the gossip mill and believe it. Maybe Dimitri will tell her.

“Are we doing something for him?”

Felix speaks up surprisingly, still studying his straw. “My dad’s throwing him a stupid party.”

“Oh,” Ingrid says. Come to think of it, that would explain Felix’s increasingly bitter attitude. “Right. A party.”

Sylvain shrugs. “It’s not a big deal,” he says. “I don’t know who’s going, really. But, you know, we’re expected to go, and my parents will probably be there…”

Ingrid knows what he’s asking. She punches his order in the register. “So I’m your girlfriend for the night.”

Sylvain smiles. “That’s my girl.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to tell me. I know what our arrangement is.”

“I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t forget.” Sylvain pulls out his wallet, and then glances at Felix. “You going, Felix?”

“No,” Felix says curtly. Unsurprising. His fingers are clenched around the straw rather tight. “I have plans.”

Sylvain just shrugs. “See you then,” he tells Ingrid, and there’s something soft in the way he says it. Charming, yes. But also sweet at the edges, tender as moonlight. Ingrid wonders if she’s imagining it, but he’s already walking away, swinging his order in his hands.

“He’s in love with you,” Felix says, the moment the door swings closed. Ingrid jerks back in surprise.

“Excuse me?”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Gods, you’re an idiot,” he sneers. “You know he’s been more dedicated to you than he has to any real girlfriend, right?”

“I’m not going to listen to you,” Ingrid says, even though what Felix is saying is partially true. To be fair, she can’t remember the last time Sylvain had a steady girlfriend. It feels like this whole relationship façade has been dragging on for ages now. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Felix narrows his eyes. “I know more than you.”

“Your relationship with Linhardt doesn’t count. It barely qualifies as a relationship. Are you guys even talking right now?”

She doesn’t mean it cruelly, but Felix’s face deepens in a scowl, and he drops his gaze abruptly. The straw in his hands nearly snaps in half. Ingrid blinks.

“Oh, Felix.” Her voice is kinder this time. “Again?”

“I’m working on it,” Felix snaps. “And we are not talking about me.” He pauses, as if considering his words. “Does Dimitri know?”

Ingrid blinks. “Know…what?”

Felix sighs. He reaches for a new straw, twirling it between his fingers like a blade. “You and Sylvain,” he says flatly. “Any of it.”

Ingrid hesitates, the realization slowly dawning upon her. She hasn’t talked to Dimitri in years. She’s fairly certain Sylvain hasn’t, either. That means Dimitri doesn’t know any of it—the history, the reasoning, the beginning of it all. He’s coming back after years of absence, and the first thing they do is feed him a lie. Some kind of friends they are. Her stomach roils at the thought.

“So that’s a no,” Felix says, when the silence drags on. “Are you going to tell him the truth?”

Ingrid looks down. “I’m…not sure.”

Felix’s smile isn’t exactly kind. It’s a little sharp at the edges, like he’s taking way too much enjoyment in the revelation of this fact. Instinctively, Ingrid wants to punch it off his face. “Oh, right. You won’t even listen to the truth, so how’s Dimitri going to believe it?”

Ingrid glares at him. “Are you going to order something, or what?”

Felix shrugs, taking a step back. “Yeah,” he replies. “A big order of you’re-so-fucked-tonight.”

Ingrid briefly contemplates if it’s worth losing her job over murder. It’s pointless to consider, though. Felix is already headed towards the door, still toying with that stupid straw. He curls his hand around the door handle, and then looks back at her. It’s hard to read his expression, but that cocky smile has vanished from his face.

“If you tell him, you better start at the beginning.”

Ingrid frowns. “The beginning.”

“Better let Sylvain tell it,” Felix says, like that explains everything. He waves to her, and then he’s gone.

Ingrid sighs, slinking back to the register. Only a few more hours until her shift is over.

+

The night of the party, Sylvain calls her twelve minutes before he’s supposed to pick her up. Ingrid knows this, because her clock is taunting her in big, red numbers. She scowls at it before reaching for her phone.

“What?”

“Hello to you too,” Sylvain says, a laugh threaded in his words. “Are you ready?”

Ingrid is not ready. The thought of lying to Dimitri makes her stomach twist in knots; she’s not sure if she can go through with it. Sylvain’s parents, her parents, the world—it was different. But this is Dimitri, and he’s always upheld honesty to its truest form. She was the same. Lying to him is almost like lying to herself, and the thought makes her squirm. Sylvain had said it would make everything easier. But it feels like it’s only complicated her heart more.

She also hasn’t chosen an outfit yet. So that only induces her panic even more.

“Uh, Ingrid? Hello? Are you ready?”

Belatedly, Ingrid realizes that she hasn’t even responded, that she’s just staring aimlessly at her closet. She shoves a handful of hangers to the side and asks, point-blank, “Are we really doing this?”

“Doing…what?”

Dating, Ingrid almost says. But that’s not what she means, and she knows it. None of it is real. She has no trouble grasping that thought. It’s the length of the lie that worries her—how long do they plan to cling to this lie? How long does Sylvain intend to carry it out? He could lie until the end of time, but Ingrid isn’t nearly as smooth as he is. Sooner or later, all of it will unravel. Give a few weeks. Take a few hours. Maybe it’ll all come undone tonight, under Dimitri’s reproachful eye.

Oh, she realizes. That’s what she means to ask.

“Are we going to lie to Dimitri?”

Sylvain goes quiet on the other end. Dimly, Ingrid registers voices in the background. Maybe it’s his father; maybe it’s Felix. The mystery about Sylvain is that she never knows where he is when he calls her. It’s irritating. But he’s always there when she needs him, so maybe that makes up for it.

“I don’t know,” Sylvain says. “Do you want to tell him?”

Ingrid yanks out a shirt. It has a stain on it, and she wrinkles her nose, shoving it back in her closet. “This was your idea, Sylvain. You tell me what you have planned.”

“That’s not what I asked, Ingrid.” Sylvain’s voice is gentle, if only laced with some firmness. “Do you want to tell him?”

One of Ingrid’s shirts slides off its hangers. She stoops down to pick it up, and then stops. It’s the same shirt she wore when Sylvain had first proposed their fake relationship. It’s good enough for a party, she supposes. And it smells clean. She tosses it on the bed and sighs.

“I’d rather not lie to our old friend,” she says. “We have to be honest with each other. You know?”

Sylvain does not say anything. His breathing is gentle and long, as if steeling himself for a confession. He has nothing to confess, though. That’s the funny thing.

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, and it’s quieter than Ingrid was expecting. “But…maybe not right away. If our parents are gonna be there, we have to play it cool. They can’t know the truth.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes, turning towards her dresser. Of course Sylvain wouldn’t give up the lie yet. In truth, though, she understands. It’s been nice, not having her father breathe down her neck about finding the right one. Sometimes Sylvain really does feel like it.

“So what do we do?” she asks, clenching the phone tightly. “Tell him the moment we see him? Or lie and fill him in later?”

“I’m not sure.” Sylvain sounds unbothered. He probably is, in all actuality. “We’ll figure it out when we see him, okay? I’ll tell him before the night ends. I promise.”

Ingrid holds back a frustrated sigh. Better let Sylvain tell it, Felix had said. On principle, she wants to do the opposite of his advice. But it probably is the right course of action. This was Sylvain’s idea. She let herself be dragged into it.

“So,” Sylvain says, cutting into the silence, “are you ready, then?”

Ingrid stares down at her pants. She still doesn’t know what matches best with her shirt.

“I don’t know what I’m wearing,” she says out loud. Sylvain laughs into the receiver, the sound light and gentle.

“You look cute in anything,” he says. “Don’t sweat it.”

It’s stupid, but heat flushes up Ingrid’s neck. Not real, she reminds herself. None of this is real. He’s just teasing her, like he did when they were kids. Sometimes the lines blur.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, running her fingers through her hair. “You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?”

Sylvain laughs again. “I’ll see you in five minutes,” he says, and the line goes dead. Click.

+

By the time Sylvain and Ingrid arrive at the party, it’s impossible to find parking. Sylvain has to park a few blocks away, which means they actually have to walk in the bitter cold. But he gives her his jacket, so that’s a plus.

“I thought this was a small party,” Ingrid says, pulling Sylvain’s jacket tight around her shoulders. Sylvain laughs.

“Oh, c’mon. It’s Dimitri. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole town showed up.”

The whole town did not show up, in fact. But it almost feels like it, when they walk through the door and see the party in full-swing. Ingrid doesn’t recognize anyone, doesn’t catch a fleeting glimpse of familiarity in the crowd, doesn’t even see Dimitri. She reaches for Sylvain’s hand, feeling reassurance when she wraps her fingers around his. Familiarity, at least. Something to hold onto. He squeezes her hand.

“He’s probably in the back,” Sylvain says, lowering his voice close to her ear. Ingrid shivers, partly from proximity, partly from the crowd. “Dimitri hates crowds.”

Ingrid chews her lip, scanning the crowds for a sign of their old friend. Nothing. Sylvain is probably right; in her memory, Dimitri had always been uncomfortable with all the attention beamed his way. But it’s been years since they’ve seen him—almost five, if she counts it. Idly, she wonders how much he’s changed. Then she wonders how much she’s changed, and the thought makes her skin crawl. What will Dimitri say when he sees her? When he sees them? She looks down at Sylvain’s hand, and grips it even tighter.

As Sylvain had predicted, Dimitri is in the back. He’s standing outside, fiddling with his phone. That’s new—he’d always been horrible with technology, Ingrid can recall. His hair is a little longer, and his face is a little more tired, but at least he doesn’t have bags under his eyes. At least he doesn’t look ready to keel over any minute. He looks up when the door slides open, his shoulders tensing, but relaxes when he sees their faces.

“Oh, hello,” he says, switching off his phone. “I heard you two were—well, I heard you might be coming.”

Sylvain grins. “Hey, Dima,” he says cheerfully, but he doesn’t step any closer. “Figured you were out here.”

Dimitri smiles at them. It’s exhausted at the edges, but also kinder than Ingrid can recall. She studies him, trying to catch a glimpse of familiarity. Does she recognize him at all? Does any part of this boy match up to her own memory? There are fragments, surely. But the only thing that seems familiar to her is the way Sylvain holds her hand. Only him—not their old friend. Gone and back again, looking tired but peaceful. She swallows.

“Ingrid,” Dimitri says, snapping her out of her thoughts. “How are you?”

At least he still talks like Dimitri. Ingrid smiles at him, pressing closer to Sylvain. “I’m alright. Are you…okay?”

Dimitri laughs, running his fingers through his hair. “Just tired,” he admits. “I mostly wanted to sleep, but you know Rodrigue.” He hesitates, as if unsure how to ask the next question. “Hey, is Felix here?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Couldn’t make it,” he says. “He had plans.”

Dimitri nods. He doesn’t look surprised, exactly, but disappointment still flashes in his eyes. He drops his gaze, and Ingrid feels a pang of sadness for him. Surprising, almost, but she can’t help it. This party is for him, but he’s never seemed so out of place. Never seemed so unfitting.

“Ah,” Dimitri says. His gaze, Ingrid suddenly realizes, is lingering on their hands. Her first instinct is to unravel her hand from Sylvain’s, but that wouldn’t do anything. The damage is already done. “Are you two…?”

Ingrid swallows. Better let Sylvain tell it, Felix had said. She looks up at him for support, but Sylvain is not looking at her. His gaze is steady on Dimitri’s face, his hand tight in hers. Ingrid knows what that means.

“Yep,” Sylvain says cheerfully, and Ingrid closes her eyes. So they are lying to Dimitri. Great. “It hasn’t been very long, but, you know. Surprise.”

Dimitri has always been stupidly gullible. He smiles again, and this time Ingrid recognizes it: small and fond, genuine and kind. Stupid, how a lie brings back familiarity. “That’s wonderful,” he says, and guilt eats at Ingrid’s heart. “Really. I always had a feeling that you two would end up together. Felix and I used to talk about it.”

Ingrid blinks. “You did?”

“Yes, all the time,” Dimitri says, with a kind of earnestness that can’t be faked. “I mean, I always figured…it was so obvious, you know?”

Ingrid’s head spins. What, she wants to shout, was obvious. Every part of this is fake; does Dimitri know that? But there’s no way Felix and Dimitri could’ve predicted—this. The lying, the methodical arrangement of it all. There’s nothing to be predicted about it, considering it started with deception. She shoots a look at Sylvain, but he’s still looking at Dimitri. Eyes blank, mouth set in a small, placid smile. A mask, Ingrid realizes. Around Dimitri. Her heart pounds. Something’s not right.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Sylvain says, and while it’s friendly, Ingrid hears the tense undercurrent laced beneath it. “Hey, by the way—have you seen my parents? Or anyone else we know? We should probably stop and say hello, you know.”

Dimitri nods. “Living room,” he says, and Sylvain smiles brightly at him. It’s fake. All of it is fake. Ingrid’s heart twists with guilt.

“See you soon, then,” Sylvain says, and he tugs Ingrid back into the crowd with him. His grip is tight, but Ingrid has let her hand almost go slack. Still, she follows him. What else can she do?

I always thought you’d end up together. The words won’t stop echoing in her head. Dimitri believes that they’re dating. He’s believed it would happen for a long time now, actually, and Ingrid doesn’t know what to make of that. Are they just terribly good at acting, or is there something that she’s missing? She tries to dig back in her memory, but all she sees is Sylvain. Just Sylvain, who has always come running to her before anyone else, who has always regarded with her a gentle concern, who has always, always been there for her. His heart has always been a constant, even when they started fake dating. So what made Dimitri think it had changed?

“You okay?”

Ingrid startles. Sylvain is gazing down at her, his fingers interlaced with hers. His voice is quiet, but she can hear the concern threaded through it. Funny how the party is so loud, yet she can easily pick out Sylvain’s voice. It’s a talent, she supposes. Like a thread leading back to him. She smiles at him tentatively.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Just…thinking. Dimitri really believes us, doesn’t he?”

Sylvain hesitates. “I’ll clear it up,” he promises. “Don’t worry about it.”

His smile is very kind, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Ingrid frowns. Before she can say anything, though, she glimpses a familiar face in the crowd, and her heart stills. Sylvain’s parents. Of course.

Sylvain’s grip tightens on her hand. “We don’t have to talk long,” he whispers, before sticking an overly bright smile on his face. Ingrid takes a deep breath. She’s done this before. She knows what to do. She steels herself, and then smiles politely.

“It is so lovely to see you, Ingrid,” Sylvain’s mother says. Her voice is as icy as it ever has been. “So…you are still with my son, is that right?”

Ingrid glances at Sylvain. He’s smiling at his father, but his fingers tighten on hers. She knows what that means.

“Yes,” she answers, keeping her gaze steady on Mrs. Gautier’s face. “He’s all I could ever want.”

Sylvain’s mother studies her, eyes sharp and glittering. It’s almost like staring at a wolf. “Well,” she says, turning away, “He does seem to make you happy.”

Ingrid smiles back tightly. Dimly, she feels Sylvain’s fingers wrap around hers and squeeze tightly. I’m here. Thank you. He doesn’t dare let go.

The party passes by in a similar manner. They make the rounds, greet people that Ingrid should remember but cannot. She tries pulling up memories to find some level of familiarity, but all she can recall is stupid, stupid Sylvain. It must be Dimitri’s words, still circling in her head. I just had a feeling. It seemed so obvious. No matter how many times she tells herself that Dimitri doesn’t know anything, that she knows Sylvain better than anyone, she still can’t escape this quiet, nagging feeling. Something insistent, like a thread unraveling in her heart. A truth she can no longer hide from. But she wasn’t even hiding in the first place. Was she?

She excuses herself to use the bathroom, but really just gather her thoughts. At least in the small, confined space she can breathe. In the mirror, she looks frazzled; strands of hair are stuck to her forehead, and her cheeks are flushed a deep red. She grips the sides of the sink hard, as if that would ground her into reality.

I just had a feeling.

“Shut up,” Ingrid tells herself. Her reflection only blinks back.

She splashes water on her face and steps out of the bathroom. And when she does, the first thing she sees is Sylvain.

He has his back to her, and he makes no indication that he’s heard her. Surprisingly, most of the crowd has emptied out of the room, so it’s just him and whoever he’s talking to. When he steps back, Ingrid catches a flash of blond hair and a blue jacket, and her breath hitches. Dimitri.

Sylvain is probably telling him everything, then. By all means, she should probably be there too, but Ingrid has never been good with confessionals. She opts for lingering in the back instead, hand curled on the wall. When Sylvain confesses, she tells herself, she’ll step out into the light. It’s fine. Neither of them has noticed her.

“It’s not real,” Sylvain is saying. “Our families think we’re dating, but it’s not—it’s not real. We just go to events together and stuff. It makes everything easier.”

All of it is true. It’s what they had agreed on, anyway. Yet the words feel like arrows sinking into Ingrid’s chest, piercing her heart. Why, she wonders. It’s nothing she hasn’t heard. It shouldn’t hurt at all.

Across the room, Dimitri is silent, as if absorbing this truth. “I understand,” he finally says, his voice quiet. “I do. But I’m just not sure how it’s not real.”

Sylvain lets out a huge sigh, as if they’ve had this conversation before. “I just said—”

“Sylvain.” Dimitri’s voice is kind, but knowing. Wise, almost. Something about it makes Ingrid’s skin prickle; she’s never heard Dimitri sound like this, lest of all to Sylvain. “How is it not real to you? I know how you feel about her.”

How you feel about her. Ingrid scrunches her face up. What is he talking about?

Sylvain is quiet. “I just,” he starts, and then stops. “It’s complicated.”

“Sylvain—”

“I can’t just say that I’m in love with her,” Sylvain says, his voice trembling. “It’s not that easy.”

The words tumble out in a rush, but Ingrid hears it all: the desperation wrapped in each syllable, the sadness strung between the words. The truth of it all, and the careful adoration. Her heart nearly plummets from her chest.

Sylvain is in love with her. Has been now, for ages. And she’s been a complete fool for not noticing it.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri says, a note of exasperation rising in his tone, “you know…”

Ingrid suddenly realizes that she cannot listen any further. It’s so much—the weight of the confession, the startle of a realization, the flood of past memories. Sylvain is in all of it: he’s the forefront of her mind, the constant echo in her life. She can’t have any of these things without him. But she can’t have him without this unspoken confession. It means nothing. It means everything. Something hot is spreading over her chest like a wildfire, threatening to swallow her heart. She can’t fight it. She can’t ignore it.

Ingrid spins on her heel and storms out of the room, not even bothering to be careful. So what, she thinks. Now she has to live with the knowledge that her best friend is in love with her, and he never had the guts to tell her. Maybe she was doing him a favor, in running away in clear sight. Maybe it would make him confess. Maybe it would make him hand his heart over and then—what?

She’s so preoccupied by her thoughts, she doesn’t even realize how far she’s gone. It takes her another couple blocks to realize nobody is following her out. Her escape was too perfect. Nobody knows she’s gone. So, in the end, it doesn’t matter. As always, she’s keeping Sylvain’s secret burning in his chest. And damn, does this one make her feel stupid.

+

Ingrid’s phone buzzes just as she enters her apartment. Against her better judgment, she pulls it out and studies the lit-up screen, the familiar contact flashing up at her. SYLVAIN GAUTIER.

She should just let it go to voicemail. Or throw it against the wall, so she’d never have to hear it ring again. But after careful deliberation, Ingrid realizes that those are the two worst scenarios she could enact. She was the one who left, after all. The least she can do is give him—something. A warning. A warding.

Her tone is surprisingly steady when she answers. “Hello?”

“Hey, are you okay?” Sylvain’s voice is so warm that Ingrid balks. A part of her had been expecting an interrogation, a cold demand: where did you go, how could you leave me? Stupid of her to think that, she realizes now. As if Sylvain would ever be like that to her.

“I…” Ingrid kicks off her shoes. “I don’t…feel good.” Not a lie.

“Where are you?” Sylvain doesn’t sound angry, surprisingly. Ingrid listens closely, trying to catch his emotions in his voice, but all she hears is a tangle of voices in the background. Muted and faded, but still there. He must be at the party still.

“I walked home,” Ingrid says, shuffling to her bedroom. Her stomach is twisting into knots. “I’m sorry, I just…I couldn’t find you.”

It’s true. Too true, if she reflects on it. All this time, she’s grown up with Sylvain; she’s bared her heart open to him, learned to differentiate the façade and the boy. She thought she knew him best. She thought she just knew him. But now she stands there, with an unconfessed confession cradled in her chest, and she suddenly doesn’t know Sylvain at all. Doesn’t know where to find him. If she runs back on every memory, examines their past closely—would she see it? Would she realize he was in love, or would she only find her best friend?

“Don’t worry about it.” Sylvain’s tone is so gentle. So damn gentle, Ingrid almost wants to cry. “Do you want me to come over?”

Ingrid’s heart leaps in her throat. “No,” she blurts out, the word slipping out fast. “No—don’t.”

Sylvain draws in a sharp breath. Different voices fill the line, soft and muted, impossible to distinguish. If Ingrid closes her eyes, she can pretend she’s back at the party, pretend nothing had happened. She can practically see Sylvain’s face, his eyes wide, his lips parted. Not angry, not surprised, not ready to confess. Only hurt, like she split his heart open and left it out to rot.

“I don’t want you to miss the party,” Ingrid says hastily, to cover it up. Sylvain makes a strange noise.

“The party? I don’t care about the party, Ingrid, I care about you.” Something earnest intertwines in his words, raw enough to make her heart hurt.  

“If you care, then don’t come,” Ingrid says, and she doesn’t realize how harsh her words are until they hit the air. She tries to amend it, but her voice trembles too much for her own good. “I’m just going to sleep. Like I said, I don’t feel good…”

I can’t just say I’m in love with her. His words spring to mind, and her heart rattles. Sylvain wasn’t so open with his own heart—she knew that. She thought she knew that. But it’s becoming increasingly clear that Sylvain had, at least, hidden it quite discreetly from her.

“Ingrid,” Sylvain says, quieter than anything. It sounds like he’s breaking. Ingrid shuts her eyes.

“Leave me alone, Sylvain.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I’ll be okay.”

Sylvain is quiet. In the background, Ingrid thinks she hears Dimitri’s voice rise above the others, calling out to Sylvain. Again, the words flash through her mind again. I can’t just say I’m in love with her.

“Okay,” Sylvain finally says, and Ingrid can’t miss the pain in his tone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but she can hear it easily. “Good night, Ingrid.”

It sounds like he wants to say something else. Before Ingrid can even respond, though, the line goes dead. She pulls her phone away from ear, staring at the screen. On impulse, she turns it on. He hasn’t texted her. As if he would.

She stares at her phone screen until it turns black, and then flops on her bed. She really doesn’t feel good; at least that wasn’t a lie. Her stomach is churning so violently, she wonders if she’ll throw up. She digs her fingers against her pillowcase and breathes in.

She doesn’t get any sleep that night.

+

Sylvain leaves her alone over the next few days.

He listens to her, always. Ingrid knows that, but she’s just realizing the full effects of it now. No matter how much Sylvain had whined, how loud he’d voiced his complaints, he always did listen to her. So when she asks him to leave him alone, of course he’ll comply. He won’t come back until Ingrid calls for him. That’s just his nature.

The issue is this: Ingrid doesn’t know how to call for him. She wants to talk to him, so badly. She wants to punch his number into her phone and hear his laughter on the line. She wants to reach out to him, to call his name, and she wants him to turn around and smile at her. She just wants her best friend, her closest confidant, her Sylvain. But every time she thinks about doing that, her heart lurches with the reminder of his confession.

I can’t just say that I’m in love with her.

If only he did. That would make things a lot easier, but in all honesty, Sylvain is more likely to take his confession to the grave. Chances of him telling her are slim.

So she doesn’t call him. And he doesn’t call her. Ingrid goes about her days without him—and she honestly can’t remember when she’s ever done that—and he presumably does the same. It’s strange. Really strange.

So strange, Felix picks up on it. And if Felix Hugo Fraldarius picks up on something, and then proceeds to call about it, Ingrid knows it’s really bad.

“I know you’re not sick,” Felix says as a greeting. Ingrid closes her eyes, suppressing a groan.

“Hello, Felix. How are you?”

“Sylvain is driving me insane,” Felix goes on, as if Ingrid hadn’t said anything. “He’s moping around and eating my food and whining that he messed up, because you’re not talking to him, except he doesn’t know what he did and it’s killing him. What did you do?”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “Nice of you to blame me,” she says, even though it technically is her own fault. She’s the one who heard the confession; she’s the one who left. “Anyway, it’s…nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Silence. Then, “Ingrid.”

Ingrid crosses her arms, looking out her window. The sunlight is slowly receding back like an ocean wave, drawing all the warmth with it. Her body is cold. Her heart is tired. She doesn’t have the time nor energy to deal with Felix and his sharp edges. Sylvain’s unspoken confession still roils in her stomach; she can’t add anything more. It’d be too much.

“It doesn’t concern you.”

“It does, actually,” Felix counters. “I have to deal with Sylvain’s sulking.”

Ingrid scoffs.

“And…” Felix hesitates, as if standing on the brink of saying what’s on his mind, or clamming up. He usually chooses the latter with her, but he lets out a soft breath instead. “As annoying as you are, you’re my friend. So it does kind of concern me. Not that much, but it does.”

It’s so stupid, but tears blur in Ingrid’s eyes. Here is Felix, offering up his time. Here is Felix, offering a rare slice of affection. It’s not much, but it’s so much. Everything she’s kept inside, tucked precariously in her heart—it all comes tumbling down. The fake dating, the confession, Sylvain. All of it roots back to him. Nobody else would understand it, unless they can translate Sylvain’s heart.

“You were right,” Ingrid hedges out, the words unsteady and delicate. She doesn’t need to specify. Felix knows what she’s talking about. On the end of the line, he’s quiet, and Ingrid lets out a shaky breath, her shoulders falling slack.

“Come over,” Felix finally says, and his voice is kinder than Ingrid has ever heard it. She blinks.

“What?”

Felix sighs, and while it’s exasperated and annoyed, Ingrid hears something else. A touch of tenderness, just at the edges. Small, but there. “Come over,” he repeats. “We’ll work it out.”

Ingrid glances back out the window. It’s not dark yet, but the moon is starting to glow, however faintly. Like a flickering hope.

“Okay,” she says softly, and hangs up.

+

By the time Ingrid reaches Felix’s apartment, the sky is dark. Most of the apartment lights are flicked on, yellow light spilling on the pavement. Ingrid shivers, feeling like an intruder. Maybe she shouldn’t have come. Maybe she should’ve kept her stupid heart tucked in her stupid chest and not said a word.

Sylvain’s car, she notices, is nowhere in sight. Some of the tightness in her chest disentangles.

The lights to Felix’s apartments are still on. She knocks three times, half-expecting him to open the door with a glare and a sarcastic insult brandished on his tongue. Instead, she gets Linhardt Hevring, bleary-eyed and yawning.

“Oh,” Ingrid blurts out, before she can stop herself. “Um. Hi, Linhardt. Where’s…Felix?”

Linhardt shrugs. He takes in her appearance slowly, like he just woke up and isn’t sure if he’s still dreaming. “Bedroom,” he says simply. “His father called.”

Ingrid nods slowly, her heart deflating. In the background, Felix’s voice rises and falls like a tidal wave, hitched with irritation. Linhardt, however, seems unbothered. He just stares at her, eyes tired and unblinking, like he doesn’t really care why she’s there. He probably doesn’t.

And maybe that’s why Ingrid finds herself saying, “Can I ask you something, Linhardt?”

Linhardt blinks at her like a cat. Ingrid takes that as a yes.

“Why…Felix?”

Linhardt shrugs again. “Why Sylvain?”

Ingrid blanches. Linhardt’s expression doesn’t change, but his lips twitch, like he’s holding back a sly smile. Jerk, Ingrid thinks scathingly. No wonder he’s perfect for Felix.

“He’s a good person,” Linhardt continues, and for one moment Ingrid thinks he’s talking about Sylvain. But then he adds on, “He’s just not the best at showing it.”

Ingrid blinks. “Wait—Felix?”

Linhardt nods. He tugs on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, and Ingrid suddenly realizes that he’s wearing Felix’s sweatshirt. She hasn’t seen it in a long time, and it’s clearly been worse for wear; the cuffs are frayed and loose, the color faded and worn thin. But the fact that Felix actually gave something to Linhardt says—something. It makes her heart ache, for some inexplicable reason.

“His heart is always in the right place,” Linhardt says. “He can be harsh at some points, but that’s just how he is. I like that he’s straightforward. It makes things easier. And really, I’d rather be with him than not at all.”

Ingrid thinks about all the times that Felix had struggled with communicating properly to Linhardt. Then she thinks about all the times that Felix had actually gone back and worked through it. She knows Felix, after all. She knows that’s not his forte. And Linhardt is still here, obviously—not a ghost in the margins, but a presence in his life. Again, her heart aches.

“So, are you going to tell me why it’s Sylvain for you?” Linhardt peers at her curiously, like he’s waiting for the results of a hazardous experiment. Ingrid chokes.

“He’s not—I don’t—what?”

Linhardt rolls his eyes. He tugs on his sweatshirt sleeve again. “I’m no expert,” he says, his tone neither cruel nor kind, “but I think you wouldn’t have agreed to be Sylvain’s fake girlfriend if you didn’t feel something.”

Ingrid’s cheeks flush pink. That’s not true, she wants to argue, but even that sounds like a lie in her head. She’d gone along with Sylvain’s fake dating idea, gone along with pretending to have his heart. Did she go with it because she thought it was a good idea, or because it was the closest she’d get to something real? She knows his heart better than anyone’s; she knows what he’s truly like with romance. But she’s never really considered her own heart. All that confusion, all that fear—maybe it wasn’t entirely because of Sylvain’s confession, however weighted and true it was. Maybe it’s the need to unscramble her own heart.

Footsteps suddenly echo in the apartment, and Felix appears from behind Linhardt. “Hey,” he says, and Linhardt shifts sideways to make room for him. “I thought I heard you guys talking.”

Ingrid swallows. “Sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know you were on the phone…”

Felix just shrugs. “Whatever. Do you need to talk about it still?”

Ingrid hesitates, unsure of what to say. Felix, however, slips his hand in Linhardt’s, tangling their fingers together, and leans against him. A simple motion, like he’s done it before. Something so easy, so calm. And it strikes Ingrid, suddenly, that she’s never seen Felix so open, so tender with someone else. Her heart aches again, but it feels different this time. More like burning. More like wanting.

I’d rather be with him than not at all. Her fingers itch for her phone.

“Actually, I think I’m okay,” Ingrid says, and as soon it tumbles out, she knows it’s true. “I just wanted to say…you were right.”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “About what?”

“Everything,” Ingrid says. “But don’t let it get to your head.”

Felix blinks, looking vaguely confused. It’s gone, though, the moment Linhardt squeezes his hand. He turns to him, and again Ingrid sees that easy openness, the one that makes her heart twist. She takes a step back, feeling like an intruder again. Time to go home. Time to figure out her own heart.

“Are you going to talk to him?” Felix asks. It’s empty of his usual sarcasm, more curious than anything. Ingrid takes another step back.

“I think so,” she says. “I think I know what to do.”

Felix doesn’t look entirely convinced. But he simply nods, resting his free hand on the door. “Well,” he says, rolling his eyes, “I guess I’ll hear how it goes tomorrow.”

“Good luck,” Linhardt supplies unhelpfully. He drops his head on Felix’s shoulder, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards in a smile. In spite of herself, Ingrid smiles back.

“Good night,” she says, and spins on her heel to go.

The moon is brighter than it has ever been. There’s still light. There’s still a chance.

+

This time, Ingrid calls him at 2:00 in the morning. To be precise, it’s 1:58. She knows this because she’s staring at her clock, biting her fingernails. She’s been staring at it for almost three hours now, gathering all her courage. At this point, though, he’s probably asleep. A fruitless endeavor. But she tries anyway.

She punches in his number with shaky fingers. Three rings later, he picks up.

“Ingrid?”

Ingrid’s breath hitches over the line, surprised and unsteady. She’s sure that he can hear it. For one moment, she wants to hang up and try again. Go back and rewind. Start again from the beginning, because this isn’t how she thought it would go. This isn’t how she wanted it to go.

“Ingrid?” Sylvain’s voice fills the line. “Are you there?”

Ingrid drags in another breath, trying to steady her heart. She’s never been the type to start something and back away from it. More than that, it’s Sylvain. Sylvain, who always pulled her into his reckless schemes, who came to her first over everything, who said he was in love with her and rattled her whole world. She’s never left him hanging before. She’s not going to start now.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks, curling her fingers around her phone. On the other end, Sylvain draws in a sharp, quiet breath. It makes her heart beat faster.

“Of course.”

The atmosphere has shifted, Ingrid can tell. Now everything seems delicate, weighted. She swallows. Nothing to do but finish it out.

“Felix said…you’re in love with me.”

Silence. Ingrid can’t even make out the background noises—not the murmur of a car, the echo of other voices. The only thing she hears is her heart, steadily pounding in her ears.

“Did he, now.” Sylvain’s voice is quiet, giving nothing away. Ingrid glances out her window. She can’t see the moon anymore, but its glow unspools on the floor.

“What do you think?”

Sylvain’s voice takes a surprised note. “What do you mean?”

Ingrid closes her eyes. She really wants to pace back and forth, or at least stretch out on her bed, but her body feels frozen. Coiled in place, anchored by the weight in her heart. She clenches her phone tighter.

“Is he right, or is he wrong?”

Silence, again. Ingrid strains to listen to the background, but she catches nothing. For all she knows, the world has gone completely still around Sylvain. It feels like it has around her, too, except the numbers on her clock keep changing slowly. Time is still moving forward, even when it feels like the world is in stasis.

“If,” Sylvain starts, and then swallows. It’s even quieter than it was last time, his voice tentatively filling the line. “If Felix was right…what would you say?”

Ingrid’s chest aches, like a thumb pressed against a bruise. She wonders if he can hear her heart shuddering. “I would say…do you mean it?”

“Ingrid.” Sylvain’s response is swift, instantaneous. Also, laced with surprise. Ingrid shuts her eyes.

“Come on, Sylvain. I know you.” Her voice is less steady than it was a second ago. She pauses, dragging in a quiet breath. Idly, she wonders if Sylvain can hear it. “And if you’re just messing around…”

“What?” Sylvain sounds so surprised that it hurts. Curious and innocent, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “Messing around?”

Ingrid sighs. “Sylvain, please don’t act like this,” she pleads, desperation intertwining with her words. “You’re my best friend, you can’t just take my heart and throw it—”

“No, I—you don’t—that’s not what I mean,” Sylvain says, and beyond the confusion Ingrid hears something else. A faint undercurrent of frustration. Begging her to understand.

“Then what do you mean, Sylvain?”

Sylvain doesn’t respond right away. Ingrid watches her clock, wondering how many minutes will pass before he speaks again.

“I mean,” Sylvain says, his voice gentler than the moonlight, “I’d never break your heart, Ingrid. I’ve never wanted to do that.”

Ingrid swears her heart has gone still. She tries to sit up, but her body still feels weighted down. All she can do is clutch her phone like a lifeline, listen to the thread of Sylvain’s voice. I’ve never wanted to do that—so how long has he been thinking this? How long has he wanted her heart? How long has he sat there, keeping his feelings tucked deep within his own heart, never daring to ask for hers? How long had this been going on for?

How long had she not noticed?

“How long?” She’s surprised to hear the words tumble out, quiet and light. On the other end, Sylvain breathes out a short laugh.

“Ingrid, I—” he stops suddenly. “Wait, can I call you back, actually?”

This makes Ingrid bolt upright, panic surging through her veins. Of all the times for Sylvain to hang up on her, he chooses now?

“Excuse me?”

“Look, Ingrid, I promise we’ll talk about it more, just give me fifteen minutes—”

“Why? Where are you? What—”

“Hang on,” Sylvain says, and then the line goes dead.

Ingrid pulls her phone away from the shell of her ear, staring at the dark screen. She turns it on and off, as if Sylvain’s contact will flash suddenly, but it doesn’t. Of course it wouldn’t. She shuts it off and sighs. A part of her wants to throw the phone against the wall, although that would be downright stupid. Another part of her wants to call Sylvain back and demand answers, but she knows Sylvain. He won’t pick up again.

“What the hell is he doing?” she asks her empty bedroom. To her disappointment, it doesn’t respond.

She tries sleeping again, because like hell if she’ll stay up for Sylvain. He did hang up on her, after all. But after a few minutes of tossing and turning, she finally flops over and glowers at her clock, like it’s responsible for everything. 2:14. Fifteen minutes, Sylvain had said. Just fifteen minutes, and they’ll resume everything. She stares hard at her clock, willing the numbers to change. To her disappointment, they don’t.

Eventually, she must’ve drifted off, because she startles awake the moment her phone buzzes. Her mouth is dry. The room feels strange—is she falling out of bed? Has she somehow caught a fever? No, she realizes, it’s none of that; her heart is hammering against her ribcage. She glances at the clock, but the numbers are bright and blurry, too difficult to make out. She scowls, and that’s when she realizes her phone is still trembling. Her fingers fumble to unlock it.

“Open your door,” Sylvain says, before Ingrid has the chance to even breathe. “Please.”

Ingrid rakes her fingers through her hair. Her body feels strangely adrift, like every limb has been loosened. “That’s it?”

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain says, and something about his voice makes Ingrid sit up. “But please open your door, I’m sorry, it’s important, please—”

Ingrid shuts off her phone and crawls out of bed. Her body is cold, and the rooms look strangely lonely in the midnight blue light. Haunted, too. Like she could open all her doors and different ghosts would stream out, lamenting about old regrets and past mistakes and general failure. It makes her hesitate at the door, her fingers curled around the doorknob. What if there is a ghost, she wonders. What if it’s nothing at all? The only thing that steadies her, miraculously, is her stupid heart. It thrums in her chest like a livewire. She listens to it carefully, and then wrenches the door open.

Sylvain is on the other side. His hair is tousled, like he’s been running in the wind. His shirt is rumpled, and his sneakers are untied. His breathing comes out long and dragged, puffs of cool air unfurling from his mouth. Clutched in his left hand is a white bag blooming with grease stains. It smells like heaven. And also, chicken.

“Hi,” Sylvain says breathlessly. That’s it.

All of this is just—absurd. So absurd, a laugh rises in Ingrid’s throat. She swallows it down, but her lips still twitch in a smile. To cover it, she glances down at the white bag. It really does smell like chicken.

“Oh.” Sylvain follows her gaze, and then holds the bag up. “I, uh. You know how you said the way to your heart is buying you chicken nuggets at two in the morning? Well—it’s way past two, I’m really sorry about that, but it took me ages to find a place that was still open, so…”

Ingrid says nothing, just stares at the paper bag. Sylvain’s shoulders slump, and he lowers the bag slowly.

“Ingrid,” he says, his voice curling soft around her name. “I didn’t know how else to prove it.”

Ingrid drags her gaze to him. His eyes are serious and gentle, focused only on her. Like she’s the only thing in the world that matters to him. Maybe she is. There’s not a trace of humor or cruelty on his face. Only this raw, tender expression, vulnerable at every edge. She’s never seen it. He’s never allowed anyone to see it.

“I mean it,” Sylvain says, when Ingrid doesn’t say anything. His lip trembles, but he draws his shoulders back. “Really, Ingrid. I’m in love with you, I really mean it. I know—I’m stupid and I didn’t know what to do, and I should’ve said something sooner, but—it’s you, Ingrid. Since we were kids. Always you, always for me. I’ve always meant everything when it comes to you.”

Everything. Ingrid thinks about the fake dating, the earnest looks he’s given her, the gentle squeezes of her hand. The sincerity which she’d assumed was fake, the truths that she believed were lies. That was the thing about their fake relationship. Nothing seemed real, but everything was. Her heart twists.

“Ingrid,” Sylvain says. Her name is threaded with worry now. His eyes have a scared look now, like he’s given her too much of his heart and he won’t get it back. “Was that…too much?”

Ingrid realizes, a little late, that she hasn’t given him any indication on her own feelings. Hasn’t given away her heart, hasn’t accepted his. Everything is hanging in suspension, waiting for her verdict. She looks right at Sylvain and gathers up her heart. He did it already. It’s her turn now.

It’s always been you, hasn’t it?

Ingrid takes a deep breath, and then steps forward and kisses him, winding her arms around his neck. Pulling him closer, as close as he can get. He’s warm.

The paper bag falls out of his hands with a dull thud. For once, she doesn’t care.

+

When Ingrid opens her eyes, sunlight is streaming in her face. On instinct, she rolls on her side, trying to avoid the brightness. She rolls into something warm instead.

Ah, she thinks, tilting her face up. Sylvain is still asleep, his arm loosely hanging over her waist. His jacket is hanging on the edge of her bed. His hair is falling in his eyes. Ingrid brushes it back carefully, trying to keep her touch light. No use. Sylvain’s eye cracks open, and then he’s awake.

Ingrid’s first instinct is to draw her hand back. Roll over and pretend it didn’t happen. But there’s really no point, and it’s too late, anyway. She lets her hand fall slack in the space between them. Sylvain just smiles sleepily at her.

“Good morning,” he says, shifting closer. This, of course, causes his hair to fall back over his eyes. Ingrid pushes it back again, letting her fingers linger against his skin. He’s warm to the touch. As always.

“Sorry for waking you up.”

Sylvain laughs softly, shaking his head. “I was already awake,” he says, blinking slowly at her. His eyes are half-lidded, but Ingrid still flushes under his gaze.

“Don’t lie to me,” she teases, drawing her hand back. Sylvain catches it this time, intertwining their fingers together lazily.

“Me? Lie to you? Never.”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow. “Now that is a lie.”

Sylvain laughs again. He pulls her hand towards his cheek, cradling it carefully against his skin. His gaze is sleepy but gentle, the look on his face full of tenderness. Nobody else has seen him like this, Ingrid knows. He wouldn’t allow it—not this open love, wide and bare. Only she can see it. Only her. Always her. Her heart swells.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain suddenly says, his tone as earnest as it has ever been. He tightens his grip on her hand. “For not telling you sooner.”

Ingrid blinks. She’s not really sure what Sylvain is referring to—the truth of his fake relationship idea, the confession he hid for so long, the empty spaces in between. It doesn’t really matter, she supposes. The scariest part of it was how easily she nearly lost him. How she nearly let him go. But he’s here now, his hand tight in hers, his confession unwound from his chest. He’s here; he’s hers, for real now. That’s all that matters.

“It’s okay,” she says, leaning closer. “You still told me. I’m just glad you did.”

Sylvain’s shoulders relax. He kisses her palm, light and quick, and Ingrid’s mouth tugs upwards into a smile. Around them, the sunlight breaks into the room as threads of light. It’ll fill the place with warmth, soon enough.

“Come on,” she says, pulling away. She almost regrets it, but Sylvain will follow her. She’s sure of it. “Let’s go.”

Sylvain blinks at her. “Where?”

“Breakfast. I’m hungry.”

“Didn’t you eat chicken nuggets a few hours ago?”

“And?” Ingrid slides out of bed quickly, spinning around to face him. “That was hours ago. I’m hungry now. Besides, don’t you want to take me out on a breakfast date? A real one?”

Sylvain tilts his head to the side. “I could,” he says, slowly sliding out of bed, “if that’s what you want. Or I could cook breakfast for you. Your choice.”

Ingrid pauses. “You would really do that?”

“Like I said before, I know food is the way to your heart.” Sylvain gets to his feet, coming closer to her. “And if I fail, I’ll take you out again. Win-win.”

Ingrid looks up at him. Sylvain smiles back gently, his eyes crinkling kindly. His shirt is still rumpled. His shoes are kicked off somewhere near the entrance to her room. He still smells faintly like fast food. But he’s never looked more at home. Never looked more at peace. Never looked more in love. Felix really was right.

“Okay,” Ingrid says, stepping forward. She wraps her fingers around Sylvain’s wrist, lightly pressing her thumb against his pulse. “Sounds good to me.”

Sylvain’s pulse steadies her own heartbeat. She smiles, and pulls him close.