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Do you know that incident in connection with the little Scottish girl? She was trudging along, carrying as best she could a boy younger, but it seemed almost as big as she herself, when one remarked to her how heavy he must be for her to carry, when instantly came the reply: "He's na heavy. He's mi brither." -Ralph Waldo Trine
Sometimes Sylvain wondered if he had a masochistic streak in himself.
Because every first Thursday of the month at 5PM, like clockwork, Sylvain found himself sitting on a hard plastic chair waiting for his turn at the United Fodlan Penitentiary. This was a maximum security prison located high in the Oghma Mountains near Garreg Mach that housed the continent’s highest profile criminals. The worst of the worst. Like Miklan. His brother.
Visiting hours didn’t start until 5:30 but he didn’t want to risk being late so every month, he dutifully made his way down here by 5 and waited the extra 30minutes. He could spare an extra 30 minutes for his only remaining family and anyways, he considered it a sort of penance.
Besides, what was 30 minutes compared to a lifetime in prison with no possibility of parole?
Sylvain played with the now-empty cup of coffee he’d purchased from the quarter coffee dispenser in the corner of the lobby and watched as the reception area slowly filled with people all trying to visit their loved ones. Most everyone had grim expressions, like they’d rather be anywhere else than here.
The irony wasn’t lost on Sylvain and he scoffed at himself. Idiot.
Although there was one person in the busy room who carried a smile on her face. Sylvain didn’t know her name, only that she’d been coming here just as regularly as he’d been. And that she always, always wore a smile like she was waiting for her turn at an amusement park rollercoaster.
Today her face was flushed pink from the cold and she had on a camel coat over her usual sweater-and-skirt of the day combo. She was pretty in an old world, by-gone era sort of way, like how Sylvain imagined Grace Kelly would look if she was young now. If he’d met her anywhere but here, Sylvain knew he would’ve tried to at least take her to dinner. Or to bed. Probably both, if she’d let him.
But as it were, he was here to visit his brother. And he wanted to keep everything related to his brother out of his personal life as much as possible.
Shame. She looked like a fun time, too.
Disgusted with himself, he got up to throw out his cup and made to stand by the window. Snow was starting to fall pretty heavy outside and the world had already gone dark. It would be a bitch to dig his car out of the snow if it didn’t let up. He sighed and wondered why he thought it’d be a good idea to come wearing dress shoes.
The guard called his number then, and he followed the officer through the double locked corridor and through long winding hallways until they reached the row of small, private rooms.
Sylvain paced the small space, waiting for his brother to come. These few minutes always ramped up his anxiety and he wiped clammy palms on his trousers. He tried to think of every day, mundane things to keep his anxiety under control. Tried the deep breathing exercises his therapist taught him and tried to shake out the tension in his shoulders.
The door opened then and he snapped to attention.
Miklan was being led in by two guards and his brother’s eyes glittered with resentment when they landed on Sylvain.
Sylvain swallowed nervously, sat down on the hard vinyl bench and picked up the phone.
“You’re looking good for a little bitch.” Miklan’s voice laced with venom spat across the line and Sylvain sighed. He’d became so accustomed to Miklan’s jeers that now, sadly, it was second nature. The tension and anxiety ebbed with the familiarity of Miklan’s resentment and Sylvain’s weariness.
“How are you doing Miklan?”
His brother ignores him. “Come to see what the monkey is up to this week? Don’t you get tired of the same fucking exhibit, princess?”
Sylvain watched as his brother’s face twisted into a sneer. The scar across his face scrunched and stretched the skin unnaturally into a smug expression of hatred. Miklan wanted to get a rise out of him but Sylvain was no longer a kid vying for the affections of an older brother who wished him dead.
At least that’s what he’d been trying to be.
Despite himself, Sylvain felt his lip curling in contempt and he snorted. “I don’t, actually. So indulge me, what has the monkey been up to this week?”
The sneer grew wider as Miklan settled against the glass.
“I’m glad you asked, princess. Let me tell you about a little dream I had. I had a dream I was back home, with mother and father,” he spit the words like they were poison and Sylvain felt a bile rise in the back of his throat, “and oh look, you're there too,” he paused and grinned although there was no mirth between them, “you're looking a little green, princess. Don’t worry, it’s a happy dream.”
“Anyway. Where was I? Oh right, we were back home and everyone was nice and cozy in their beds. Especially you, tucked warm and tight under the covers. Except for me. I’m the only one awake and wandering the halls.”
Sylvain swallowed and held a fist to his mouth. He couldn’t help it. The guard behind Miklan must've been new because he seemed distracted and was staring off into the middle distance.
“And I tiptoe into your room, silent. Like a mouse. And in my dream, darling, I don’t smother you with a pillow. I do what I should have done all those years ago and,” Miklan's voice dropped then, and it's so soft, almost tender that Sylvain’s pulse is set racing, “I slit you in your motherfucking throat. Fancy that, princess.”
Miklan leaned back and grinned, almost friendly like. A soft rage welled up in the pit of Sylvain's stomach and he leveled his gaze at his brother and forced a weak laugh.
“Is that it? Honestly, Miklan, I was expecting so much more. That was a weak climax if you can even call it that. But I know climaxes have never been your strong point, eh big boy? Oh, sorry, not so big either.” He really feels sick to his stomach now but he can’t let Miklan see it. Instead, he gets up and winks at his brother who has turned so red, Sylvain would have been worried if he wasn’t so angry himself.
“Oh and Miklan? Tonight? When I get into bed? I’ll make sure the girl staying the night tucks me in extra nice and cozy. Just for you.”
Miklan doesn’t move from his seat, glowering as Sylvain gestured for the guard. The officer came to but Sylvain didn’t wait to see his brother get led out. He walked out the door and slammed it shut, spooking the escort waiting for him just outside.
He leaned against the door and took a few breaths.
“Are you ok, sir?”
No. No he was not ok. Sylvain was angry with Miklan, the system, the world but he was mostly disappointed and furious with himself for letting Miklan bait him.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Thanks.” He straightened and exhaled slowly. He could come back next month. Some months were better than others. Miklan must have been having an off week for him to have been so…bad.
And you just made it worse, you jackass.
Still. In terms of visits this wasn’t the most terrible, unfortunately. Sylvain had to swallow back another wave of nausea.
He was in the process of signing himself out when the locked doors swung open and the woman came out.
It was unusual for Sylvain to see her again, since her visits seemed to last longer (or so he assumed, since his own visits with Miklan were so short).
She looked upset, the smile wiped off her face, and her eyes seemed wet.
This too must have been unusual since the guard at the reception frowned. The guard, a staunch middle aged man who hardly ever gave Sylvain a second glance was peering at the blonde woman and giving her tissue.
“Miss Mercie? Are you ok, hun?”
Mercie. So that was her name.
He knew he should mind his own business but after a shitty visit of his own, he was curious what could've made this (presumably) sweet woman cry.
“I’m alright, thank you, Robert.”
She tried to smile and Sylvain thought it made her look sadder.
He took his time getting his belongings out of his locker and then stood under the car port of the building watching as the snow fell.
The world felt quieter now with the snow dampening the atmosphere and he wondered if the planes would even fly tonight.
Sylvain was considering calling his assistant when he thought he heard a comment from behind him.
“Pardon?”
The woman-Mercie- was coming up towards him, a scarf and a hat now obscuring part of her face, the parts that he knew were undoubtedly smiling under the cover of the woolen fabric.
She gestured at the snow with an umbrella she’d fished out of a tote bag now slung over her shoulder. It was almost strange to see her in this context, like it was his first time seeing her.
“I just said it was pretty. The snow I mean.”
“Oh. Oh yeah, its beautiful.” Her voice was soft and airy and just light enough to travel through the air on those snowflakes.
Her eyes crinkled a little deeper and he guessed she must have smiled just that much deeper at him.
“Well have a safe trip home, Mr…?”
“Oh, Gautier. But please, call me Sylvain. Mr. Gautier is my…”
Is my father. His voice trailed off as Sylvain remembered then that since his father was dead, he was Mr. Gautier.
“Ah.” The crinkles around her eyes dropped as realization dawned on her. This was usually when women would fawn over him, attracted to the promises of his name like mosquitoes to the blue-white glow of a zapper. Sylvain plastered on his most charming smile while his face burned with a feeling he couldn’t quite place.
Her shoulders sagged and she tilted her head, gazing at him with what looked to be pity and sadness instead, kicking a little divot in the snow with her toe.
He stared confused as she suddenly stuck out her hand, “Well, I’m Mercedes von Martritz. Very nice to meet you, Sylvain.”
Curiously, she wore a ring on her middle finger that looked vaguely familiar. The tips of her fingers were turning red from the cold and Sylvain thought she really ought to be wearing gloves when she awkwardly withdrew her arm and curled her hand back into a fist.
“Um, ok then. See you around, Sylvain.” She made to turn around when Sylvain snapped out of his reverie.
“Wait, Mercedes, sorry. Sorry, I’ve,” he pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled, “I've been having a really off day. Can we just, can we like reset the last five minutes?”
He watched as her breaths escaped the confines of her scarf in hazy, round puffs as she regarded him with those big blue eyes.
“Sure,” she turned to face him straight on again, “I'm Mercedes von Martritz. Nice to meet you.” She slowly extended her hand again and this time, Sylvain reached out with a firm grasp of his own.
“Sylvain Jose Gautier. The pleasure is all mine.”
Mercedes knew of the Gautier case. It was all very sad, almost as much as her own family.
But Mercedes had been trying to make ends meet while attending med school when it was being covered so she missed most of the media storm surrounding it. Otherwise she would have undoubtedly recognized the red hair, the handsome smile, the clip of his northern Faerghus accent.
Maybe she wouldn’t have. It had been…what, ten years? Since she's been in school?
Goodness gracious, has it already been so long?
Sylvain smiled and asked her if she needed any help digging her car out of the snow.
Mercedes looked over at the white bumps lining the parking lot. It was snowing quite heavily.
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you to offer but that won’t be necessary.” The corners of his smile drooped a little and she stifled a giggle, “See, I don’t actually have a car. I took the bus.”
Mercedes pointed towards the bus stop, empty and illuminated a glowing amber from the streetlamps overhead.
Sylvain's gaze followed her finger towards the stop and she saw understanding morph into hesitation on his face.
“Oh. Um, would you like a ride? It’s kinda cold to be waiting for a bus.” He chewed the inside of his lip and she thought he looked like he could use some company.
But manners ingrained into her since childhood took over and she found herself politely declining his offer.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.”
He shrugged and rubbed the nape of his neck.
“Its snowing quite a bit, and you wouldn’t be imposing.”
She gave him a wry smile. The offer was tempting but the roads to her place were treacherous and she really shouldn’t be hopping into cars with strange men, anyways.
“Perhaps next time, Sylvain. When it isn’t snowing.”
He seemed to deflate immediately and she felt a twinge of guilt.
“Please, I insist. Come on, don’t leave me hanging.” Sylvain held his arm out like a gentleman and she shifted her bag on her shoulder.
There was a slight tremble to his voice that came across as honest. Vulnerable. She couldn’t presume to know much about him, other than the sensationalized news of his family and his philandering reputation, but she had a feeling this vulnerability was rare.
“Well, alright. But only if I can get you dinner.”
“Great. Yeah, perfect. Have anywhere in mind? I’m not really from the area.” She took his arm. Her fingers rested against the soft cashmere of his coat and it struck her that Sylvain was actually a lord of sorts. The Gautiers had been immensely well off and all their properties, wealth and titles had fallen to Sylvain if she remembered correctly.
A wave of overwhelming pity washed over her; all that and yet Sylvain was here, arguably the worst place in all of Fodlan, visiting a brother who murdered their parents and had tried to kill him, too, on a snowy winter evening when he could literally be anywhere in this world. Mercedes supposed family was family but still. She wondered how much he wished circumstances were different and had to swallow the bitterness welling up in her own throat.
“Hmm, well I’m not really sure what your preferences are, although I’m afraid there’s not much in terms of choices since Garreg Mach is not a big city.”
“Uh, I’m not too picky. Know of any good diners?”
Diners? She raised an eyebrow.
“Hn, I think I know one or two around here.”
“Great! Let's-wuoh,” Sylvain slipped on the snow then, his upper body jerking forward to compensate the loss in balance and the sudden movement tipped both of them into the snow.
The wind was knocked out of Mercedes and she stared up at the snow flakes falling over her face. It was strange how they seemed suspended in the air for a moment and then all of a sudden they were melting into her eyelashes.
“Ah, shit. Sorry, you ok?” Sylvain hoisted himself up and held his hands out for her.
“I’m ok, I think. You?”
His face cracked into a wry grin, “Other than my pride? I’m good. I’ll live. Here, let me help.”
His hands closed around hers and he pulled her up…only to lose his balance again. Mercedes giggled at the sight of him, half buried in the snow.
“I fucking hate these shoes.” Sylvain clapped a hand over his eyes but he wore a good natured smile underneath. She glanced at them- brown leather dress shoes. With leather soles.
Beautiful shoes. But admittedly not the best for this kind of weather.
“Too bad we're not the same shoe size or I'd offer to switch.” She shrugged as he scampered back up, helping to dust the snow off his back.
The grounds maintenance was now starting to come up the mountain with their plow trucks and snow blowers. The two of them watched for a second as they began to clear the snow off the parking lot.
Sylvain led her to a snow covered car and hastily wiped the snow off the passenger side. The car had already been remote started and a whoosh of warm air blew over her.
“Just give me a sec. I have to clear the rest of this snow off.”
“Oh, I’ll help.”
“What? No, I can’t let you help.”
“Of course you can. It’s the least I can do.” She tossed her bag onto the floor and shut the door gently.
Mercedes caught a shy smile on Sylvain's face before pulling the sleeve of her jacket down.
They made quick work of the snow and her hands were stiff and red and burning by the time the pair climbed into the SUV.
“Man, that burns,” Sylvain grinned as he held his fingertips up against the vents.
“Mmhmm,” Mercedes agreed as a tingling ache caused her to clench a fist and blow softly into it, “And imagine if you had to do it on your own.”
“Yeah, I appreciate your help.” He paused and shifted the car into gear, “Where to?”
She gave directions as they crawled their way through the storm; terrible visibility coupled with mountains made for a bad driving experience but Sylvain was quite composed throughout the whole trip.
He maintained a steady stream of conversation-the usual repertoire in terms of small talk-and before Mercedes even knew it, they were turning into Ubert’s 24hr Diner.
Mercedes loved Ubert’s, loved the sleek chrome and neon detailing, the red vinyl bar stools and booths, the little tiles on the floor that were so last century… It was an old railway car that had been repurposed into a diner about 80 years ago and was an establishment in the university town of Garreg Mach.
Plus, she’d made good friends with the current owner of the diner, a young man by the name of Ashe who’d inherited the place after his parents passed unexpectedly a few years back.
“Mercedes! Hi!” There he was, Ashe. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Sylvain trailing in behind her but didn’t say anything, choosing instead to smile cordially, “Bar? Or Booth?”
“Booth, please.”
“You got it.” He led them to the corner of the restaurant, away from the other few patrons crazy enough to brave a blizzard for their diner fix.
Ashe got them situated, and brought out some hot tea and their drinks.
She introduced Sylvain to Ashe and sipped tea as they exchanged pleasantries. Sylvain asked questions about the menu, what their specialties were and what Ashe himself recommended before delving into more personal conversation.
Mercedes was impressed by how Sylvain seemed genuinely interested in Ashe’s story and how he came to be a restaurant proprietor at such a young age. It certainly showcased him in a far different light than what the media made him out to be and a happy buzz flooded through her.
“I’ll be right back with your orders,” grinned Ashe as he hurried about the diner to service the other patrons.
“Great guy,” Sylvain smiled as he finally took a sip of his old fashioned.
“Yes he is, isn’t he?” They settled into a cozy quiet as the snow continued to fall outside steadily and the soft tinkling sounds of holiday jazz music played on the radio.
“So. Mercedes von Martritz. I have to ask…who are you visiting?”
Mercedes shifted in her seat and set down her tea cup, “Ah, I was waiting for that question.”
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
She gave a small chuckle and laced her fingers together on the table, “I, um, I’m visiting my brother too, actually.”
Sylvain gave her a wry smile, “Brother, eh?”
“Yes, I know it’s an incredible coincidence.”
Sylvain looked pensive as he tapped his fingers against the steel surface.
“What is it about brothers?”
“I…well, I don’t know.”
“Me neither. So, uh, what’d he do?”
She bit her lip, “I suppose if he’s here at UFP, it’s fairly obvious what he’s done.”
“Yeah, stupid question. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not a stupid question. He um, he murdered our stepfather and step-siblings. It was pretty gruesome, I hear.”
Her head was bowed and she gathered her hands together, “It’s a terrible situation all around.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Familicide seems to be the crime of choice for both of our families.” Sylvain’s lips were drawn tight into a line and Mercedes nodded, “It seems so, unfortunately.”
“Do you know about my…well, my family?”
“Well. It was pretty big news at the time. I don’t remember all the details but I remember it was a very sad case. I’m also very sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks. I mean, for me it doesn’t feel so long ago but believe it or not, most people tend to forget.”
“Ah. Yes, I do think the human tendency is to try and move on to happier things.”
“Yeah. Or, you know, the things they want to focus on.”
“That’s also very true,” Mercedes gave him a sympathetic smile, “The media can be pretty ruthless at times.”
“You’re telling me. But I’m ok. I’m mostly over it.”
Was he really? Mercedes wasn’t so sure.
She’d seen him every time she’d come to see Emile and if that wasn’t a big ol’ flare for guilt, she didn’t know what was.
“I don’t know if these are the sort of things we get over easily.”
“Yeah, I guess. But I’ve been working on these issues for a few years so I’m fine now.” Sylvain shrugged. They might have just met but Mercedes was quickly starting to figure him out.
For starters, he was more guarded than the friendly, charismatic and open guy he liked to charade. Smarter than he let on, too.
Second, he was lonely-very much so-insecure, and angry. There was an under layer of guilt and self-loathing as well although she was unable to tell how deeply entrenched those feelings were. At least not yet anyways.
Mercedes could tell he craved acceptance for who he was as a person, without expectations regarding his titles and the clouds of his past hanging over him. If he even knew who he was as a person. She got the distinct feeling he didn’t quite know who he was either.
And lastly, she suspected he was in denial, subconsciously or otherwise, of the above points in that he actually believed he was well adjusted and ‘over it.’
Honestly, it was painting an overall depressing image of Sylvain Jose Gautier and it hit just a little too close to home.
She gripped his hand and he looked down in surprise.
“You’ll have to tell me your secrets,” she said, “I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”
“Yeah?”
“Unfortunately.”
Sylvain gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and for a little while, they sat there in silence, each wallowing in their own grief and memories as Ella Fitzgerald’s sultry voice finished out the last verse on Someone to Watch Over Me.
Mercedes was an amazing story-teller.
He listened rapt as she went through her childhood, her abusive step-father and step-siblings, and the horrible things she and her mother endured. His heart ached with her as she told him how she and her mother escaped from the home, leaving behind a younger brother, 8 years old, to fend for himself. The guilt at abandoning her brother, Emile, haunted her and Sylvain could barely breathe when she finally described the anguish of finding out through the news that her baby brother had killed his entire family, down to his extended cousins.
The details were different but the bones were similar enough. Two different monsters grown from the same petri dish. Or was it the reverse?
Anyway, in the now-quiet diner, Sylvain slowly realized that this woman understood exactly what he’d gone through. A kindred spirit. He could fall in love with her for that alone.
The account took them through appetizers and most of the entrée.
Halfway into dessert, Sylvain received a call from his assistant which he promptly ignored. The call was followed by a text message informing him that all flights out of GMM airport were grounded on account of the weather. His assistant offered an overnight train service back to Fhirdiad or a reservation at the swankiest hotel Garreg Mach had to offer. Probably a Holiday Inn of sorts.
Sylvain crinkled his nose. Both options were less than appealing but he had already suspected flights would get cancelled anyhow.
“Is something the matter?”
“No, it’s just my flight’s been cancelled.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. What will you do?”
Sylvain furrowed his brow and sat back in his seat, “I don’t know. Probably get a hotel somewhere.”
“Hmm. Not much in the way of hotels here, either, I’m afraid.”
Mercedes, now mostly recovered from recounting her experience, put down her fork and leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “You could stay over at my place. My sofa is very comfortable, or so I’m told.”
His mouth quirked into a smile. From his angle, the coppery glow from the lone candle on their table made her eyes sparkle and glow. She was, he had to admit, incredibly charming.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose,” he grinned as she rolled her eyes, “But it sounds like you need me to make sure your couch really is comfortable.”
“It’s a sectional,” she retorted back with a grin playing on the corners of her pretty pink lips, “and I’m pretty sure I have a sleeping bag somewhere if you really want to rough it.”
“Yeah? I think I’ll take the sectional.”
“Good choice,” she winked and Sylvain felt himself flush for the first time in ages, a warm, prickling sensation foreign to him, a sensation that made him feel alive.
Mercedes lived in a small, one bedroom apartment right outside Garreg Mach City proper. It was neat and tidy, decorated with all sorts of knick-knacks and photo frames, a far cry from his sparsely furnished personal penthouse in Fhirdiad.
She gave him what she called her grand tour of the place: a playful walk around a space that would have fit comfortably in his closet back home.
Still, it was clean and warm and best of all, it smelled of vanilla and lavender and her enticingly sweet perfume that she claimed was Baccarat Rouge 540.
Sylvain was already well-acquainted with the perfume and he hated it. The fragrance of choice for socialites and social climbers alike, the scent permeated every high end restaurant, bar, lounge and shop in Fhirdiad. It chased him like a dog on a squirrel, haunting him in golden twilight hours and stark morning-afters. It was bad enough that even a whiff of the stuff could turn a woman off for him forever. And when he was feeling especially cruel, he would track down that scent to toy with the offender like a cat with a mouse.
All that to say, on Mercedes von Martitz, Baccarat Rouge 540 by the renowned nose Francis Kurkdjian transformed into a sublime, heady warmth that left him dizzy in a good kind of way.
He’d picked up the small bottle left on her bathroom counter and sniffed it during the tour just to make sure.
Yep. It was still the awful, nauseating scent in the bottle. But he was learning there was something magical about Mercedes. If Sylvain had to wager a guess, he’d say she had the equivalent of Midas’s touch only with no consequences.
He told her so and she smiled, “I don’t think so but thank you for the vote of confidence.”
He was nervous and worried that she’d soon flip the script and turn into a variation of all those other girls that chased him for his assets but for now, she seemed more interested in making sure he was comfortable.
They were both in their pajamas, each nursing a hot chocolate spiked with a splash of Baileys, settled on the sectional that he was to spend the night on. The sheets, blankets and pillows were already piled off to the side, waiting for him.
Mercedes’s pajamas consisted of an old Garreg Mach University Hospital Center volunteer day t-shirt with a worn pair of flannel shorts and fuzzy ankle socks. Sylvain was in one of his monogrammed silk sets that his assistant had packed into the emergency bag for nights such as this and even in his bedclothes, he felt too overdressed.
Although maybe it was a good thing he was overdressed because he was certainly laying his soul bare to this new woman.
Since they’d arrived at her apartment, Sylvain found he’d caught a case of verbal diarrhea and was unloading onto her all the ugliness he’d buried in himself a long time ago.
Mercedes gave him a hug when he described the self-loathing and isolation he’d felt during that media circus of a trial and the kindness she showed broke something in him.
He wept like a baby and she held him through it all. It was early in the wee hours of the morning when his sniffles finally fell silent.
On her way to bed, Mercedes covered him with a soft, down duvet and kissed his forehead, wishing him a good night.
Sylvain lay awake for a few moments after that. It occurred to him that this was the first time in his adult life that he’d slept over a woman’s apartment and they never even kissed. He basked in the novelty of it all and then thought of his comments to Miklan earlier about being tucked in and whether they had been a self-fulfilling prophecy before rolling over and immediately falling asleep.
The next time he awoke, a few hours had passed even though it felt like he’d only just closed his eyes. There was a residual ache behind his eyes from having cried the night before and was that a hint of a hangover lingering at his temples? Either way, Sylvain hadn’t slept so deeply nor woke up so refreshed (considering all the drinks he’s had and the fact that he’s no longer a young twenty year old) in what felt like eons. He stretched out on Mercedes’s sofa (it really was comfy!) and listened to the sounds of Mercedes getting ready for her day before starting his own morning routine.
By the time he came out of the shower, Mercedes had already brewed coffee and was buttering bread to toast.
“Good morning.” He called out, not wanting to startle her. She turned and waved to him with the buttered toast before popping it into the toaster, “Good morning. Toast?”
“Uh yeah. Thanks. I’ll help myself to some coffee too, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. You know where the mugs are. Eggs? Bacon? I also have some tinned beans if you want. And probably a tomato, somewhere lost in the deep, deep recesses of my vegetable box.”
“Um. Yes to the bacon and eggs but I’ll pass on the beans and tomatoes.”
She quirked an eyebrow, “Are you sure? I thought all Faerghans were super proud of their big Faerghan fry-ups. At least all the ones I’ve grown up with were, anyways.” She laughed and he followed suit. It was so easy to talk and joke around with her. Sylvain usually wasn’t the type to open up and become attached so quickly but he supposed there was a first time for everything.
“Was that a dig at me? That was a dig at me.” Sylvain face split into a wide, cheesy grin before he took a sip of the steaming coffee.
“Oh, don’t take it so personal,” she grinned back, “I consider myself mostly Faerghan too, you know.”
“Just not when it comes to food. Then you’re conveniently Adrestian, got it.”
“Touché, monsieur.”
He raised his mug in a mock salute, “Hey, can I help with anything?”
“Sure. How adept are you at cooking eggs?”
“Well how do you want them done, my lady? I happen to be an expert breakfast-food chef.”
“Oh really now,” her eyebrow was arched teasingly, “An expert, you say?”
“Oui, Madame. I make a mean béchamel sauce, too. You’re not the only one that can claim Adrestian roots.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say. My mother was from Enbarr.”
“Fancy,” she winked at him and his face flushed pleasantly from their little banter. She helped him tie an old apron over his suit and Sylvain was struck by how domestic it all felt.
“Hey, don’t take this the wrong way but I feel like I could really get used to this.”
“Hmm yeah?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind a roommate but I’m pretty much stuck here in Garreg Mach.”
“Just a roommate?” he teased.
“Just a roommate,” she repeated, “for now.”
For now. His chest was set aflutter, like the thunderous flapping of starling wings rising in a murmuration. A beautiful, wonderful thing.
She checked on the bacon and leaned against him to peak over his shoulder at the eggs coming along, “You might have piqued my interest with the béchamel.”
“Yeah? Could I interest you with a homemade dinner?”
“We could consider it an audition of sorts,” she said, nodding her head sagely.
“Alright. I could work with that. Seal it with a kiss?” He asked, eyes bright with promise.
Mercedes laughed, “Let’s see about that dinner first.”
They ate quickly after having realized they’d been a touch too leisurely and Sylvain offered to drive her to work.
Snow from the blizzard had blanketed Garreg Mach with a thick blanket of snow that sparkled clean and bright in the sunshine. It lifted his spirits and for the first time in a while, Miklan was just a whisper in the background, a passing specter, with no more a hold on him than an actual ghost. And, for the first time ever, he found himself looking forward to the first Thursday of the month.
He watched as Mercedes scrambled into the building from the porte cochere of the hospital’s main building and when she disappeared from view, called his assistant.
“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I need the recipe for Dedue’s béchamel sauce. Can you send Dedue a message? Also, pick up the ingredients for it while you’re at it, will you? Thanks.”