#ruinado

FRIENDSHIP.     anything more wholesome than sylia

ROMANCE.     anything more wholesome than sylia

FAMILIAL.     anything more wholesome than sylia

    he’s  trying  to  talk  to  her  but  her  steps  fall  just  as  evenly, taking  her  anywhere  he  isn’t.   irritation  is  evident  but  for  the  most  part  she’s  able  to  block  out  whatever  he  has  to  say.   she’s  long  been  an  expert  at  ignoring  what  other’s  have  to  say  to  her.   the  only  thought  running  through  her  head:  she  needs  to  plan  her  trips  outside  her  room  with  better  timing  ...  maybe  he’d  be  more  occupied  at  night.

‘    i struggle not to feel guilty.    ’

her  steps  finally  falter.   a  laugh  nearly  escaping  in  disbelief.   guilty?   what  does  he  even  know  about  guilt?   she’s  seen  the  shame  he  lacks  in  daily  life, how  is  this  any  different?   maybe  death  was  just  another  frivolous  idea  to  him.   not  like  she  has  a  real  desire  to  find  out  if  that  was  truth  or  not.

there’s  a  coldness  in  which  cora  regards  sylvain  with  that’s  unfitting  of  her.   in  her  eyes, in  the  way  she  smiles, and  most  certainly  in  the  way  she  turns  to  face  him.   ‘    i  don't  think  you’ve  ever  struggled  with  anything.    ’   it’s  nothing  above  a  bare  murmur, barely  even  spoken  to  him.   

the  superficial  pleasure  that  comes  from  her  statement  fades  quicker  than  she  wants.   a  small  part  of  her — a  part  that’s  beginning  to  grow — wishes  almost  instantly  she  could  take  it  back.   the  anger  that  cora  nurses  is  waning  and  with  that  a  fear  of  what  will  be  left  in  it’s  wake  wells  up. 

The consistent curve of his back, slumped forward to closely watch the tip of his lance as it hit the whetstone, had started to weigh him down altogether. The campfire had reduced to a barely-lively couple of flares, and he started to suspect the strain from squinting had started to bring forth a headache. Perhaps Dorothea had noticed that too, or, less optimistically, her presence had been entirely coincidental. Ferdinand knew which option he was inclined towards, if only to soothe that same war-weary fatigue he could recognize in her as well. He straightened then, and found himself interrupted just as he was about to return her greeting in kind.

At the mention of their past, his grip on the whetstone faltered just so: like with most emotions, Ferdinand had never worn surprise with subtlety.

“...Correct. Sharing them over tea had been my intention all along, but… after you left, my appetite trailed off behind you. Fortunately, Bernadetta seemed to appreciate my generosity after I offered them to her.” His smile was fond for many reasons, and before it could turn into something more curious, Dorothea managed to startle his pulse into quickening with a single, simple reveal, which wasn’t actually that simple to him. “You made these? For me alone? Ah, no, forgive my presumption, I was merely...” Stating his wishful thinking aloud? he couldn’t say that, either. Ferdinand felt the same liquid warmth that spread over his chest reach his face, and he thanked the heavens the lighting was poor. “...Er, regardless! As I am deeply touched by your thoughtfulness, I shall repay you by way of—! Huh?”

All at once, his body temperature runs cold, and his frantic display of gratitude is quieted into shock. Huh?

“O-oh, it was... a joke... yes, I should have known. They do seem rather familiar, now that I look at them closely.” Despite the great wave of disappointment washing at his feet, he chuckled, mostly at himself. “I’m grateful, nonetheless,” a brief pause of his own, voice crystalline, maybe the slightest bit cheeky, “You were thinking of me, after all.”

She was quiet, and he let her. Silence was a luxury they could hardly afford, unless they seeked it late into the night or early at dawn. Besides Dorothea, however, the quiet was nothing short of meditation. When she next spoke, he turned his body to face her. In that moment, a particularly resilient flame made the bonfire crackle, persevering still.

He had pondered that future often. It was best he thought of it through idealization if he hoped to keep a semblance of faith amidst the setbacks they had endured, and one aspect of his plans kept him obstinate: life after the war, or rather, home, beyond any material representation. In other words, Dorothea. It’s what he envisioned, at the very least, when he thought of the notion. His heart wouldn’t settle, but he willed himself to safekeep those aspirations. Until the war ended, that is.

“When we win the war,” He began, voice even and effectively single-minded as he reached for the hand atop her lap, gently squeezing it in further reassurance,  "I shall prepare them as often as you'd like me to.”

she watches his expression change,  the way it falls,  and all at once,  dorothea wonders if her harmless prank had been unintentionally hurtful.   she hadn’t meant to prod at barely scabbed over wounds,  truly,  and of all things,  dorothea hadn’t expected ferdinand to perceive the joke to be at his expense instead of hers.

ferdinand,  being who he is,  seems to have brushed it off,  but the guilt gnaws at her all the same.

“   i’ll hold you to that,  then.   and maybe…   maybe you could teach me how to make them,  too?   ”   she gives him the smallest of smiles,  her gaze tracing the way firelight flickers over his skin,  and she wants.   wants to not be in a war,  wants to have her friends back with her,  wants the easy routine of classes and chores and not having to worry about whether she’d be alive this time the next day,  wants this moment they’ve carved out for themselves to last a little longer.   even if it dragged out into forever,  dorothea wouldn’t find it in herself to complain.   it’s a pity she can’t have any of it,  but she’s used to that,  too.

there are so many things she can’t take for granted anymore,  dorothea knows.

“ oh, ferdie... this is hardly your fault, ” dorothea says, aiming for reassuring and probably missing the mark by a mile, considering ferdinand’s continuing tendency toward self-flagellation. really, nobles. if it isn't complimenting themselves on one thing, it’s blaming themselves for another. almost as if they think the world revolves around them, dorothea thinks — but when it comes to ferdinand, the thought is accompanied by no small amount of fondness. ( he’s grown on her, she’ll admit. )