@wraithloved / from HERE.
for an instant, he’s certain glenn’s working up to a gentle rejection --- something sylvain’s intimately familiar with, having doled out plenty himself in rather different situations. ‘i appreciate your aid, but...’ the man begins, plainly disheartened if the skittish flit of his gaze is anything to go by, and sylvain swallows back a disappointed sigh.
it’s not that he’s particularly eager to bloody his hands on other people’s wounds. ( and it certainly is a grisly wound at that, a nasty jagged slice where a weapon ate its way into the flesh. if he weren’t so regrettably accustomed to war and all its gory fates, he might’ve been far less willing to guide glenn aside and offer to patch him up. at least until they can find a proper healer to see to him. ) no, it’s not that sylvain wants to be doing this, or even that he feels qualified to do so. it’s simply that it’s glenn and some days his very presence still feels surreal and fragile, as if losing him once wasn’t enough and he might just deprive them all of his existence all over again. protective, perhaps, begins to describe the feelings taking root in his chest --- defensive of the family miraculously restored to felix, and determined to ensure the fraldarius brothers still have each other when this bloody mess is over.
and also, perhaps, nostalgic. he’s never told glenn, has he, how he inspired a much-younger sylvain? what dregs of childhood hero-worship remain have gentled since and turned into a quiet hope for friendship, but they’re not so easily forgotten.
still --- he won’t force his presence here. not with glenn eyeing him like he’s half-sure sylvain’ll sooner worsen his wound than successfully patch it up.
“want me to...?” go find someone else, he’s about to say, but glenn seems to change his mind. sylvain pauses, hands hovering where they’d begun to set aside a washcloth. “oh. i --- you’re welcome.”
he’s staying, then. relief twists in his chest: this is a small measure of trust, however reluctantly offered. he feels selfish taking it, when someone else could do a better job here, and yet he doesn’t move from his spot. his hands take up their task again, gently applying the cloth to the wound in an imitation of methods he’s seen the healers use. there’s a tub of concoction set at his side, haggled recently at the market and perfect for quickly staunching injuries. he begins dabbing it at the worst of the slice, relieved all over again that it’s a non-serious wound. glenn is fine.
“don’t worry,” he begins, filling the quiet with aimless, automatic chatter. “i’m great with my hands; i’ll have you fixed up in no time!”
