An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
fire emblem: three houses | dimitri x m!byleth | no archive warnings apply | fluff, angst, first kiss, rejection, time skips
Things like that got lost, as Byleth found himself drowning in war and tactics. It’s hard to appreciate things like the way a friend, a trusted confidant, might make him feel, when every moment of every day is consumed by strategy and the fear that any mistake, any brief moment of distraction, would cost them all dearly. He simply couldn't afford the luxury of desire then.
But the war is over now. The storm of worry in his head has finally subsided, and he can finally, properly appreciate it: Dimitri is gorgeous.
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: None apply
Category: Gen
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Ashe Ubert (implied), Sylvain Jose Gautier/Felix Hugo Fraldarius (implied)
Word count: 1866
Language: English
Read on: Fanfiction.net | AO3
Ingrid, Sylvain, and rumours.
Ingrid sits with her back exemplarily straight, her prim posture at odds with the grime in her hair and the stains on her clothes. That much is almost nostalgic—Sylvain vaguely remembers the Ingrid of his youth being constantly covered in more filth than the rest of them combined, and terribly proud of the fact as well.
“I’m honoured you’d think to stop by here, honestly,” he tells her, pouring a generous shot of brandy for Ingrid before putting the stopper back on the carafe.
“You know I try to visit whenever I can find the time,” she replies in that fondly chiding tone Sylvain misses sometimes and leans back into the plush pillows of the lounge chaise she is occupying.
Sylvain walks over to her and offers her the drink. Ingrid’s small smile is grateful as she accepts it. “I take it the knightly life is still doing it for you, then?” he asks.
“Of course it is.”
It’s easy to tell just by her expression, if Sylvain is being honest. She seems awfully comfortable in her skin nowadays, like she’s found the place she’d always been meant to be. Looking at her makes something terribly warm bubble up in the pit of his stomach.
A log cracks in the fireplace; the salon is almost stiflingly warm. Still, Sylvain sits right next to Ingrid, leg up in her space as if he was twenty again and trying to get a rise out of her. She seems entirely unfazed now, and it’s a bit disappointing. “And you? Are you doing well, Margrave?”
Sylvain snorts a little laugh at the title. “Oh yeah, all that official business is absolutely riveting,” he replies. “As you can imagine.”
Ingrid rolls her eyes with a smile and takes a sip from her drink. “If there wasn’t more to your life, I’m pretty sure you would have gone insane by now,” she says, gently knocking her knee into Sylvain’s thigh.
“Totally. Securing the border is a real blast.”
This actually earns him a shove. “Oh, come now!” Ingrid scoffs. “I know for a fact you’ve been to Fhirdiad a few times over the past year!”
“Then why do you ask?”
She sighs. “I want to know how you are holding up, not what you’ve been doing, Sylvain.”
It’s curious how much his name can sound like a mild insult, coming from Ingrid. He feels a bit dense, anyway. “I’m alright, really. Better, now that I got to see my dear friend Ingrid again, of course.”
“We missed each other, the last time you came to Fhirdiad,” she replies, almost bashfully. She swivels her glass and watches the brandy lap at the walls. “It’s a shame, really. It was only for a supply-run, and yet I couldn’t be there.”
Sylvain considers throwing an arm around her shoulders for a second or two but ultimately thinks better of it. Instead, he makes sure his words come out in the worst drawl he can manage. “If you started slacking on your duties to see me, I’d tell His Majesty that you’ve been kidnapped and replaced by an impostor.”
Ingrid huffs, pretends not to smile, and leans into Sylvain’s side. It’s unlike her; she must really have missed him. “Thank Sothis that’s not the case, then,” she says, grinning fifteen years younger than her current age.
She’s shockingly pretty like this, and some impulse born out of a bad old habit compels Sylvain to sling that arm around her after all. “I talked to Ashe. Did he tell you?” he asks, and feels rather than sees Ingrid nod.
“He didn’t tell me what about, though. So, what did you talk about?”
“Oh, you know, all the fun things Ashe likes. Knightliness, chivalry, politics, books... girls.” That earns Sylvain an elbow in the ribs. He laughs in order to hide the wince. “Really!” he insists.
“I kind of have an inkling that you were to one to start with that topic,” Ingrid replies, and Sylvain can’t see it, but he could swear she’s battling a smile in that exasperated way of hers.
“Well, we did talk about you.”
“O-oh,” she mutters. That, apparently, makes more sense in her book. “Well, I hope he only had good things to say.”
Sylvain hums. “I don’t think Ashe could badmouth anyone if he tried.”
That earns him a laugh. “I agree,” Ingrid says and leans forward, twisting in her seat to meet Sylvain’s eye. There’s something mischievous to her expression. She puts her glass down before she continues, “And did you glean anything worthwhile from what he said?”
“Except for the fact that you’re the most exemplary knight serving under His Majesty, a beacon of bravery, chivalry, all that is good and that you’re an inspiration to all? Not really.”
Ingrid flushes and averts her eyes. “Coming from him,” she mumbles, more to herself than anything. She wets her lips and glances back towards Sylvain. “Nothing else, apart from that?”
“What do you want me to say?” Sylvain asks. “That he told me something embarrassing? That he decided to tell me he was madly in love with you?”
Swallowing, Ingrid stares off into the fireplace. She seems to be debating whether she should go on before she says, “Well, there are rumours about that.”
She’s still leaning forward, and the distance between them suddenly feels like a mile. “There’s always rumours,” Sylvain replies. A hollow feeling settles into the pit of his stomach. He gathers his hands into his lap. “But it’s just people talking.”
The gaze Ingrid fixes him with is downright painful. “That’s easy for you to say.”
Which is—fair, Sylvain concedes. He’d used gossip and rumours to cultivate an image for the longest time. Something shallow, something dumb, something of a whore, something that was one hell of a lot easier to explain than the mess buried underneath.
But still.
“Are they true, then?” he asks, maybe to be a bit cruel. “Are you and Ashe—“
“No, we’re not,” Ingrid says firmly, brows knitted together. Her eyebrows have always been much darker than her hair. Right now, they look ugly. “It’s none of your business, anyways.”
The air between them stills. Ingrid’s shoulders are tense, her mouth in a severe frown. Sylvain regards Ingrid calmly, just watching her breathe until the crease in her brow eventually smoothes out.
“I didn’t think it would get to me like this,” she admits, apologising after a fashion, as the tension is drained from her system. “People talking behind my back, more concerned about whether I am courting someone than my accomplishments...”
There’s a glassy quality to her eyes as she stares off into the middle distance, voice shaky and frail. She feels tiny next to Sylvain, suddenly, and he’s acutely aware of where he misstepped. “See, Ingrid, that’s why all I do is try talking to Sreng without getting stabbed and visiting the capital every few months,” Sylvain says, forcing a lightness he doesn’t feel. But it gets Ingrid to snort a laugh and look at him again—forest green and fond—and it feels like a win.
“Here I am, working every day of my life,” she says, her lips quirked into a smile, “only for the esteemed Margrave to earn more praises than I for botching diplomacy and being lazy.”
Sylvain puts a hand to his chest, gasping. At the gesture, Ingrid snorts again. “You wound me! I don’t botch diplomacy. I’m just that charming.”
She grins now, resting her elbow on the chaise’s armrest to prop her head up on her hand like some religious painting. “You know, I’m kind of surprised I don’t have to clean up after your scandals anymore.”
“Should I break a maiden’s heart for old times’ sake, then?” Sylvain offers, only for Ingrid to roll her eyes. “Anything for you, you know.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever hold ‘consoling crying village girls’ in fond memory,” she replies drily.
Sylvain slides down in his seat, picking up Ingrid’s abandoned brandy and taking a swig of it. Her whole face scrunches up in disdain. “Fair enough,” he replies, licking his lips. “Doesn’t the rumour mill of Fhirdiad have some choice opinions on me?”
“You know I don’t care for gossip.” She tries to sound blasé, but Ingrid has never been good at lying or hiding things, earnest as she is. “You probably know more than I do.”
“Really,” Sylvain says, flatly. “C’mon, Ingrid, you know I’m used to worse. You don’t have to coddle me.”
She sighs, seemingly relenting. “How’s Felix doing, Sylvain?” she asks, though, slow and deliberate and pregnant with meaning and—
“Oh,” Sylvain breathes before he can catch himself, probably—tellingly—flushing all the way up to his hairline. Ingrid’s brows shoot up in surprise, eyes wide as dinner plates. Sylvain looks anywhere but her and slaps on a smile that fools exactly no one. “Oh, I haven’t heard from him in a while. Maybe you should pay him a visit on your way back, too,” he blathers, shooting for normalcy, really, but his voice comes out strained.
“Y-yes, that’s a good idea!” Ingrid agrees, equally as flustered.
A beat, then.
“Maybe don’t share your gossip with him, though,” Sylvain suggests, “Goddess knows it might upset him.”
There’s a very clear admission between the lines here. Ingrid plucks the brandy out of Sylvain’s grasp and downs the entire rest in one go. “I won’t,” she says, slamming the empty glass down on the coffee table. “He doesn’t care for it, anyways.”
“I’m sure he’d listen if you decided to tell him that you and Ashe—“
“For Sothis’ sake Sylvain, let it go!” she scolds, swatting at his arm. She looks pinker in the face now, and Sylvain has a hard time deciding whether it’s from the brandy or something else. “I was being delicate, and yet you—“
“I know, I know. I’m impossible, nay, incorrigible.”
Ingrid huffs and crosses her arms, yet seems satisfied with that answer. “As long as you know it,” she says, not without humour, and stands up. She offers Sylvain a hand to pull him to his feet as well, smiling something pretty and lopsided. “I think we should turn in for the night.”
Sylvain closes his hand around Ingrid’s wrists before he finds himself dragged up way too easily considering Ingrid is a whole head shorter. “Maybe we should,” he agrees, so of course, neither of them moves.
Ingrid sighs, looking up at Sylvain. “Don’t let what others say get to you,” she says, only two decades late. Then, more quietly, “I know rumours are worse when they’re based on some semblance of the truth.”
“Ingrid,” Sylvain exhales, and has to shake his head to prevent himself from shoving his foot in his mouth. That’s all she’s going to tell him, and that’s fine. He smiles at her. “I’m sure they’ll be done preparing a room for you by now.”
“Then we should be going.” Ingrid gallantly offers Sylvain her arm, and he loops his own through it with exaggerated words of thanks. She smiles mischievously, then. “Can’t have any rumours spreading about us, after all,” she says, and Sylvain can’t help but laugh.
