Chapter Text
To call the first proposal a “proposal” in itself would be rather generous. Perhaps, it would be more accurate to describe it as a proposal of a plan. A very, very poorly thought-out plan that could be attributed to nothing more than a night out in the taverns located in the monastery’s nearby villages.
Being the oldest of the Blue Lions students had never been a bother to Sylvain. That is, except for the nights he wished to be warmed by liqueurs and ales. The strait-laced Ingrid and Dimitri could never be convinced to sneak out for a night on the town, and he doubted he could convince Mercedes or Dedue to accompany him given that it would require the pair to leave “dear Annie” and “his Royal Highness” respectively.
So, it was on nights like this the only other person he could convince to make the trek was Dorothea.
Provided he paid for the tab in full, of course.
Tonight, she had traded in her uniform for a casual dress, one much different from the gowns she adorned for her opera performances. Her signature black cap was nowhere to be seen; instead, she had braided her hair into a loose plait, her strands of curly dark hair interwoven with a striking red ribbon she had received from Edelgard.
Sylvain himself wore a simple tunic and a sturdy pair of riding boots. To the untrained eye, they appeared anything but the heir to House Gautier and the shining star of the Mittlefrank Opera House.
Although they had dressed down for the occasion, they still had managed to attract a swarm of curious townsfolk.
“Yes darling, of course I’ve seen the Divine Songstress! Manuela Casagrande is just the most angelic Soprano, isn’t she?” Dorothea cooed, admiration for her senior bleeding through her praises.
A group of men listened to her intently, hanging onto every inflection of her voice. They clenched at the sleeves of their shirts, their eyes trailing the movement of her wrists as she twirled her hair and the way she leaned onto the counter of the bar.
A slender hand reached out to trace Sylvain’s jaw and turn his head. It was a girl he had met just that night, and she very much wanted to redirect his attention.
“Are you sure there’s nothing going on between the two of you?” she pouted. Her hand lowered to grab Sylvain’s and trace circles into his palms. “You seem awfully occupied for a man who just told me I’d be the only woman he ever saw in his eyes.”
Sylvain adjusted his hands so that he was now lacing their fingers. “Don’t worry your pretty little head over that,” he reassured her, placing a quick kiss on her knuckles. “We simply arrived together, that’s all.”
Despite his honeyed words, he could still feel the girl’s discontent. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching Sylvain’s face for some sign of disloyalty. Her frown deepened, and when she finally spoke the words were clipped.
“I don’t think this is going to work between us. You never have time for me, and I don’t feel properly cared for. I suggest you look for some other poor spirit who…”
Her voice trailed off as her eyes lit with some sort of recognition and a myriad of emotions—confusion, shame, and a hint of desire.
“Goddess, forgive me! You’re the Gautier boy, aren’t you? The one with the crest? I scarcely recognized you! Just what are you doing in a place like this? Pardon my rudeness, I should have known you’d be busy with your duties as a noble.” Her hand moved to rest on his chest, fingertips lightly grazing his exposed collarbone. “Say, my father owns an inn around here. If you wish to stay the night I’d be more than happy to—”
She failed to finish, for Sylvain had already slid off his barstool, haphazardly leaving a few gold pieces on the counter. “You said it yourself, love, that I have no time for you,” he lulled. “Or were you looking for lined coffers to warm you on these winter nights? I’m afraid you’d find a sack of coins rather cold,” he mused.
The tavern had gone still, save for the echoes of his footsteps as he walked away from her reddened face. He stopped at the door frame, looking back to offer a final lazed smile before he ducked out.
Outside of the tavern, Sylvain leaned against a snow-covered tree. He crossed his arms as waited for the appearance of Dorothea, who could not have been more displeased to see him.
“Some show you put on back there. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume you were trying to upstage the divas back at Mittlefrank,” she pondered. Her breath formed little white clouds in the frigid air.
Sylvain silently handed her his coat. Draped across her bare shoulders, the dark brown leather clashed with the soft silk of her yellow dress. It wasn’t until they had both mounted their horses he found the words to speak. “I only spoke the truth, didn’t I?” he questioned, tightly gripping the reins of his horse.
“I suppose, but the way you said it was rather cruel. Is it so wrong for a woman to be concerned with her financial well-being?”
“I’m not particularly fond of being referred to as the ‘one with the crest.’ If it simply were a matter of cruelty, then I’d reckon she made the first offense.”
For a moment Dorothea said nothing, her emerald-green eyes trained on the night sky. In the distance, the moon just barely peaked between spires of the Garreg Mach Cathedral. “I just don’t understand,” she said. “You’re still friends with me. You’re fully aware I only ever go out with you because I know you’ll pay for my meal, and yet you don’t despise me. I say words that cut and you laugh at them. How is what I do any different?”
It was a fair question, and yet the answer came faster to Sylvain than he anticipated it would.
“I don’t think you’ve ever once lied to me about your intentions,” he started. “I know our rendezvouses are nothing more than a chance to get away. We both date people for our own personal gain, and we break things off when a relationship is no longer beneficial. Being with you is a safety of its own, because I know you don’t find me valuable enough to lie to.”
Dorothea smirked. “Valuable enough to lie to?”
“You tell me when I’m horrible because you don’t care to keep me in your good graces. I like that about you.”
“Sylvain Jose Gautier giving a genuine compliment to a woman,” Dorothea sighed. “I was afraid I’d never see the day. If I didn’t know any better, or perhaps were as foolish as your other companions, I’d get the silly idea you were trying to flatter me. What’s next, are you planning on proposing?
“Would that be so bad?” Sylvain asked, leaning back on the saddle of his horse. “Think about it. You could keep performing at the Mittlefrank Opera House and waste all my old man’s money on anything your heart desires.”
“And pray tell, what do you get out of this transaction?”
“An excuse to stop showing up to my father’s social gatherings and the most beautiful wife in all of Fódlan. Honestly, it’s hard to say who’s getting the better deal here.”
“A kind offer, most certainly, but I must decline. I hope I haven’t hurt your feelings.”
“Not at all. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been turned down,” Sylvain laughed. “But still, it’s a pretty good deal. Are you sure you want to throw away the idea of marrying me that easily?”
“Quite sure.”
“And why is that?”
Dorothea smiled. “You see, I’ve been prepared my whole life to marry for something other than love. The Opera House got me off of the streets, but the world of entertainment is not kind to aging women. It’ll only be so long before I run out of time and need to secure myself a future. So yes, maybe this is an opportunity I shouldn’t pass. But despite all the convincing you’ve done to assure me that this is a future I want, you cannot possibly convince me you want the same.”
“Me?” Sylvain asked, slightly taken aback by Dorothea’s declaration.
“Of course, you. You leave every girl because you realize no amount of physical affection will ever compensate for the kind of connection you seek. Don’t doubt me, Sylvain; I’m sure we’d have fun. But no matter how much you try to hide it, you will never be happy unless you marry for love. And I, personally, will never be happy knowing I’ve denied you of that kind of future.”
Suddenly, Sylvain wished that Dorothea had been like the other girls that rejected him. A slap to the face might sting, but the red splotch left behind would heal by the morning. These words, though, would stay with him. He could not scrub them clean from his soul or hide them away where he wouldn’t have to think about them.
No, the reason why Sylvain could not stand Dorothea’s words was because he knew she was right.
Sylvain wondered if it was truly only the freezing winds that sent chills down his spine.
“Well, Dorothea, I must admit you’ve given me a lot to think about,” he said, forcing a grin to his face in hopes he could hide the overwhelming sense of fear he now felt. “Keep the coat for the night. I can always grab it later.”
He could not meet Dorothea’s eyes as he dismounted his horse. He was thankful they had already reached the monastery.
“Thank you, Sylvain. Good night,” Dorothea called, the tone of her voice slowly slipping back to its usual singsong.
“Good night, Dorothea,” Sylvain responded. “Sweet Dreams.”
It was safe to say Sylvain did not sleep much, save for the haunting image of a familiar pair of emerald eyes.
“You will never be happy unless you marry for love,” they taunted.
It would be a long night.