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Dorothea can hear people moving just outside of the tent. It doesn’t particularly surprise her; in the middle of war, sleeping in is a good way to get yourself ambushed and killed. Most of the people in their units rise with the sun—granting them enough time to check their gear, tend to their weapons, and make some prayers to the goddess.
Today, just for a few minutes, Dorothea wants to pretend that it is all nonsense. That the people moving outside the thin canvas of the tent are just rushing fools with nothing better to do in their lives. That the bedroll beneath her isn’t worn down enough that it’s just one sharp rock away from tearing to shreds. That there isn’t a good chance that the man still snoring beside her isn’t going to bleed out somewhere on the field, out where she can’t find him. That this might not be the last time she will feel his heartbeat beneath her fingertips.
She shifts, propping herself on her elbows so she can look at Sylvain properly. He’s always been a pretty man—it was one of the things she used to roll her eyes at—but there is something notable about how he looks when he sleeps. Long eyelashes flutter slightly as he dreams, his eyebrows lifted in slight arches. Even when he smiles and teases in the day, he can never emulate the sheer ease now; beneath the sun, he can’t hide the slight crinkle between his brows when he speaks, nor the shadows that linger beneath his eyes come morning.
Soft breaths pass through his slightly-parted lips, the sound just as calming as the way he tries to soothe her worries in his waking hours—even though he can’t hide the tightness lingering in his every word. Likewise, it’s only here that his shoulders are relaxed as he practically melts into the bedroll, not like the way it’s been ever since they had to fight his oldest friend.
She reaches up, her fingers slowly carding through his hair. She wishes that he could be so at ease in his waking hours.
But that is why they’re fighting, isn’t it? So that the battles will end. So that, someday, she doesn't have to wonder how true his smiles are when he offers them to her.
“Mm,” Sylvain shifts, his gaze somewhat unfocused as he looks at her, “morning.”
Dorothea smiles, shifting beneath the bedroll’s cover so she can lie on top of him, her legs settling perfectly between his. He’ll complain about the heat for sure—but at the moment she can’t bring herself to care. Not when the warmth of his body pressing against hers is a comfort difficult to find anywhere else.
She can’t quite reach his head without digging her elbow into his ribs, but she can scratch her nails across his chest, her fingers toying with the slight curls of his chest hair.
“Good morning,” she says, her words a half-song. She hums in contentment as his fingers trace the path along her sides before finding a place to settle as he wraps his arms around her waist.
Sylvain’s smile is soft, sweet. Entirely at ease—and clearly still half-asleep. If she is lucky, he’ll fall back asleep. “Been awake long?” he asks around a yawn, his words half-slurred.
“No,” Dorothea says, smiling as his legs shift beneath her, forced to accept that the best he can do is hook his ankle around hers. “I was thinking about getting another hour. Or maybe three.”
“Mm.” Sylvain lets his eyelids flutter closed, a fond smile on his lips. “Sounds nice.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
Sylvain hums softly, his thumb brushing along the ridge of her spine. It’s soft, soothing—and very likely he’ll be back asleep the second he stops moving.
Dorothea turns her head, her cheek pressing against his pec. Like this, it’s easy to hear his heart, to anticipate the way it should slow as he drifts back to sleep.
Except that it’s racing, each beat so hard that she swears she should be able to feel the blood pumping in his veins.
When Sylvain opens his eyes not a minute later, he’s far more lucid than Dorothea would like. Already, he looks tired as the edges of his lips turn into the start of a frown. His gaze flicks across the canvas as if he can see the men outside their tent. His arms wrap around her a bit tighter—but it’s a reflex more than anything, for he releases her too soon after.
“I need to get ready,” He says, a darkness in his tone that she’s grown to loathe. His fingertips press against her arms, as if he could possibly persuade her to move for that.
“Aw, Sylvain,” Dorothea shifts so she can press a trail of kisses along his jaw, enjoying the way he shudders slightly beneath her, “do you have to?”
“’Thea.” There’s a whine to the edge of Sylvain’s voice, his words still not entirely cooperative. “Please.”
She nips just at the edge of his jaw, smiling as he groans. “Stay in bed with me,” she coos.
Sylvain bites his lip so hard that it turns a pretty shade of red. When he looks at her, those pretty bronze eyes are nearly obscured by the dark of his pupil. He makes another noise as she shifts against him—determined to keep as much of her weight there as she can to keep him pinned.
But that doesn’t change the frown still on his lips.
There’s really only one solution to that: with a hum, she leans a bit so she can capture those tempting lips with her own, reveling in his taste on her tongue. A thrill runs through her as his hand rests on her hip, as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss even more. The noises he makes—far less controlled in his exhaustion—are positively delightful.
And then her world spins. Somehow, she winds up on her back, staring up at those still-pretty eyes as they narrow in mild amusement.
“Syl—,” Dorothea can’t even finish her complaint before his lips are on hers again, a taste of desperation in his every move. She wraps her arms around him, her fingers curling into his hair in a bid to keep him close. If she has to suffocate to keep him here with her, then so be it.
Alas, her grip is not strong enough to keep him in place, not when he so easily pulls away, his lips curled into a gentle smile. “I need to go.”
And then he stands, exposing himself to the chilled air of their tent as he stretches. Even though she’s still covered by the bedroll, Dorothea is sure she feels it, too.
“Don’t be mad,” Sylvain hums, bending a bit so he can cup her jaw with his warm palm. His tone is light, teasing—though already there’s something simmering behind it that she loathes. “Frowning causes wrinkles.”
“Shut up,” Dorothea huffs, swatting his hand away.
Sylvain laughs, but it’s soft—like he doesn’t want it to break the moment. Or, perhaps, he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.
Dorothea forces herself not to care, instead rising from the bedroll and grabbing her dress and corset from its place in the corner of the tent. She slides into it with ease, enabled by a combination of practice and the sheer simplicity of her garment. Her fingers run through her hair to work out the tangles; for the most part, though, it will be a loss until she returns to her own tent, where the rest of her things are.
When she looks back to Sylvain, he’s barely half-dressed. He managed his underclothes and his breastplate, but the rest is ultimately still there in a stack along the entire other side of his tent.
He’s not picking out the next piece to equip, though—he’s staring at her. His lips are pressed into a thin line, even as he wets them with the tip of his tongue. There’s an implicit distance in his gaze, as if he’s looking at her from a thousand feet away—and not merely four. He’s been doing that a lot lately; she’s afraid to ask the reason.
“You want to leave,” she chides instead, striding across the tent and plucking one of his pauldrons from the floor, “and you can’t even get dressed properly.”
Sylvain grunts noncommittally, shifting just enough that she can get the leather straps wrapped around his arms and properly secured. It’s only when she has the belt sitting right that she hears the metal jingle as her fingers tremble.
It’s impossible to ignore the truth of the matter. There’s only one reason why this armor is necessary—and only one outcome if anything is wrong. And, even if everything is perfect—even if he does everything right—there’s still the chance that he’ll die out there.
“Please don’t go,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Let them send someone else.”
Sylvain’s hand settles on hers, not quite enough to stop her tremble. He brings her hand to his lips, the kiss soft and sweet. “I need to,” he says, looking up at her through his lashes that used to have her heart hammering in her chest. Now, though, there’s nothing but the anxiety wrapping around her, constricting around her till she’s nearly breathless.
“You don’t,” she argues, though it’s lame on her tongue. “Say you’re sick.”
“Dorothea.” There’s a warning in Sylvain’s voice, but it’s playful. “You know I can’t. We all have our place. And I need to make sure no one gets in the way of the professor and the emperor. The sooner this battle is done, the better.”
That’s what she’s afraid of. She looks up at him, biting her lip. “If he sees you, he’ll kill you.”
Sylvain smiles against her skin, but there’s no missing the way his grip firms around her. He knows—she knows he does—but he won’t say it.
“Please,” she insists.
“I’ve gotten this far,” Sylvain says instead, pressing a kiss to each of her knuckles. “I’ll manage.”
Dorothea knows that he’s not just alive because of sheer dumb luck. Ever since the war’s start, she knows that he trains till he’s exhausted, that he studies in a way that he never used to before. She knows he’s using everything available to him, even as he laughs it off and plays the fool. She knows he’s doing it because she can’t bear the thought of him dying.
And, normally, the facts are enough to soothe her. But the rain has been persistent with so few breaks—meaning the battleground will be muddy and uncooperative for his horse’s movements. She knows that the poor visibility from the fog will make it difficult for him to cast any effective spells—or for his battalion to find him if he gets hurt. And she knows that no amount of training will rival the sheer brute strength of his former king; too easily can that man rip Sylvain to shreds.
“Hey,” Sylvain cups her cheek, tilting her head up to look at him, “how about some encouragement?”
“I—,” sure, she normally would have something on her tongue without a second thought—the benefit of being an actress, really—but now the fear steals all words from her lips. All she can imagine is him bleeding out in the mud.
“When I come back,” Sylvain says, his thumb running over her cheekbone, “I’ll ask you to marry me.”
Dorothea blinks at him, even more at a loss for words. This isn’t something new. He’s asked before: the first night they’d spent together, the time she stayed by his bed while he was recovering, and even just before they left the monastery for this battle. How this could be anything—
“And, when I do,” Sylvain smiles, a slight blush on his cheeks, “maybe you’ll say yes?”
His words settle slowly into her brain, leaving her standing there like a fool. But, eventually, she realizes: it’s a way to promise without promising that he’ll return, and it’s something for him to fight for. Heat rises to her cheeks, forcing her to snap her face away from his hold.
With a scowl, she reaches down and grabs his other pauldron, working at the buckle there to set it in its proper place.
“Is that a no?” Sylvain asks, watching as she grabs his greaves.
Dorothea glares up at him, unable to ignore the way her heart is thrumming in her chest. It’s hope, even if it’s only a little. “I suppose you’ll have to live to find out, won’t you?”
Sylvain smiles, leaning forward and stealing a kiss.
Maybe, just maybe, this time she will say ‘yes’.