[ spaghetti and meatball ]
“...repeat to me once more if you may, why is it a singular meatball if it is a plate for two?” Lambert eyed the pasta with a mildly judging gaze. It did look and smell good, definitely tasted good, but it was more of a ‘spaghetti with tomato sauce and one disappointing surprise’. Anyway, food was food, he wouldn’t complain much less refuse.
Though he did wonder…how did he end up sharing that meal with this boy- who seemed to be ominously familiar to him. It felt almost painful to look at the guy- that red hair and those fox-like eyes, the feeling that he must have seen those somewhere at some point in his life. A tall figure with a cold gaze, black armor, a living lanc-
-the pasta. Yes. Pasta.
“Actually if this pasta helps me make sure that you do not go out there and get your eyes clawed off by girls angry at your shenanigans, then I may use this sad pasta with single meatball as a defense mechanism. You stay here, young man.”
Sylvain is chatting to a very pretty caterer when time stops.
At first, he thinks it's Dimitri coming at him and he considers making a break for it, despite how rude it would be to the young lady. He hasn't even been here an hour yet - as much as he enjoys Dimitri's company he'd prefer to avoid a lecture. Put it off until he's at least done something to earn it. It isn't Dimitri though - the man is too tall and broad, his face gracefully but clearly weathered by time far more than the prince's. Not elderly by any means but far closer to his father's age than his own. Closer still, Sylvain clearly recognises the face before him as that of the late King Lambert.
He freezes in place, finding himself corralled to a table by the gentleman. Words, sentences, questions all bounce around his head but he can't actually seem to open his mouth. There has to be a more logical explanation.
The dead don't rise from the grave to attend parties.
"Shenanigans -- what shenanigans, sir? I was only complimenting her hairstyle," it's likely pointless trying to argue his case, as effective as if it was actually Dimitri who had cornered him. Still, Sylvain finds himself reeling in shock - since when did he call anyone but his father sir? He pushes the plate away, not sure whether he's annoyed or curious. If he wasn't speaking to the late King's face (even though it cannot possibly be him, that would be absurd) his tongue would likely loosen. Sylvain's words are still firm and direct but he can't quite bring the outrage and disrespect lingering in his stomach to voice. "What makes you feel so comfortable assuming authority over me anyway. This is a party and I'm here trying to have some fun. I'm a grown man, not an errant child on the loose. You don't need to babysit me when you could be enjoying yourself."
"You aren't my father, my professor or my prince. Just who are you anyway?"
