sylvain? ... really?
you remember being eleven years old, two years before everything went wrong, and not entirely sure who you were yet. the world seemed not quite formed, and glenn stood over you, protective, but his shadow was long. you remember being eleven years old, and watching the sunlight shine through sylvain jose gautier’s hair like a firebrand. you remember, distinctly, your heartrate picking up. you remember, in slow motion, watching his eyes crease as he laughed. you remember a few years before that, you six and he eight, little fingers linked together in a promise that you will not - cannot - shall not break. you remember, you remember, how your heart skipped and your mouth went dry, and how ingrid had looked at you, all eyes narrowed, like she did at a puzzle or a complicated maths question. you remember knowing, even then.
even then, you’d known: your circumstances weren’t exactly usual, but boys didn’t marry boys. but your heart had snarled, after glenn had died and he’d draped himself over you after the funeral - after sreng, even as things went wrong - you hadn’t seen each other for so long, five years, you thought, you thought, you thought your feelings might change. you thought -
“yeah. i know. i don’t need you to tell me.” a snap - it’s a sensitive topic, even if hilda is only teasing. “we’ve know each other since we were kids. those kinda things - they stick around.” you know.
