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When Ingrid nearly slumps over in her chair, Sylvain is the first to react, grasping her shoulders gently. “Alright, Ingrid. I think it’s about time we get you out of here. I think you’ve had enough to drink tonight.”
Sylvain says his goodbyes to his comrades at the table, regarding Ingrid with concern as they watch her struggle to stand on her feet. They pass Sylvain a bucket as he loops one of Ingrid’s arms around his shoulder, slowly walking out of the mess hall.
“Where are we going?” Ingrid grumbles, trying to shake herself out of Sylvain’s arms.
“On our way to your tent because you need some sleep, Ing.”
“Why?”
“Huh? Why? Because you’re tired. And I, uh… care for you. Yeah.” Sylvain says quietly. “What other reason do I need?”
“Do you ever mean… the things you say? Ingrid huffs, her stare directed at the ground.
He looks at her, confused. “What do you mean?”
“When you say things like… you know.”
“That I care for you?”
Ingrid lets out a hum. “Yeah. That. You say it like… you do.”
Sylvain was something different about her mood this evening compared to the other nights the army had downtime, becoming increasingly apparent as Sylvain had watched her down drink after drink.
Something on Ingrid’s mind drove her to get so inebriated despite her general aversion to alcohol, but Sylvain dared not ask.
“Why wouldn’t I say it? I do care for you.”
Ingrid grumbles and doesn’t respond, instead focusing on keeping herself steady. Maybe it’s just the alcohol making her say such strange things, Sylvain rationalises. There’s a silence that settles around them before Ingrid speaks up again.
“If you care… then why did you have to go?”
Sylvain furrows his brows, carefully stepping on one stair at a time toward the second floor of the dormitories.
“Ingrid. I’m right here.”
Ingrid finds her footing and shakily attempts to stand. She looks up at Sylvain with a chilling gaze. “Why did you have to go, Glenn?”
Sylvain’s heart aches, and he suddenly stops, nearly tripping himself and Ingrid over from the shock of hearing his late friend’s name.
“Ingrid, I’m not…” Sylvain stops momentarily to consider his options, whether or not it’s worth the heartbreak to keep speaking.
Ever since Faerghus plunged into civil war and the Empire made its declaration, Sylvain—and his friends from the Blue Lions class he kept in touch with—had little time to reminisce beyond their efforts to pay reparations for Duscur. As far as Sylvain knows, Ingrid hasn’t mentioned Glenn once in over two years, certainly not in his presence or letters sent to him.
Maybe she’s mentioned him offhandedly to Felix or Rodrigue, Sylvian reasons. Or perhaps she’s consoled Mercedes and Annette at some point. But if she did, what does it say about him that it takes Ingrid being almost black-out drunk and seeing illusions even to mention Glenn?
Ingrid’s attempt to escape snaps Sylvain out of his thoughts, realising his ridiculous conclusions. Ingrid won’t remember this conversation; he’s positive. It’ll be his secret to keep.
“You’re wrong. It’s me, Sylvain. I’m right here, Ingrid.”
“Sylvain? Oh. I thought… no, you’re wrong. Why are you talking to me now? You rarely talk to me in my dreams.”
Sylvain feels his stomach sink. “I… don’t know,” he admits, because what the hell is he supposed to say?
Ingrid’s head flops down, and she mumbles something that vaguely sounds like… Dissent? He can’t quite tell, her voice too slurred for her good.
All the more reason to get her into bed, Sylvain reminds himself. He perseveres, and they finally find the entrance to Ingrid’s tents. “Pardon the intrusion…” Sylvain mumbles, pushing aside the flap, leading her to the bedroll, and placing her down gently. Ingrid is lethargic in how she flops onto her bedroll, and it would’ve been adorable had the circumstances not been so pressing.
He places the bucket next to Ingrid and attempts to retreat quickly before Ingrid’s voice stops him in his tracks again.
“Glenn?” She mumbles from her corner of the tent. “Is it OK?”
He gulps, unsure of what to say. “OK?” Sylvain repeats.
“Is it OK for me to… love someone else? I’m sorry. I think... I think I love someone else. But I’m worried I’ll forget you. I… I’ve forgotten what your face looked like a long time ago.”
A heart-wrenching sensation thunders in his chest. Ingrid being in love with someone wasn’t something he ever expected to hear.
He composes himself and looks back at Ingrid reluctantly.
“It’s OK if you love someone else, or forget me, Ingrid,” Sylvain says with a small smile. “But I’ll still love you. Always.”
Everything about this is wrong , Sylvain thinks. He knows deep down that it’s his sentiment disguised behind the voice of a dead man, only compounding how his head spins. Hearing the emotional distress in Ingrid’s voice is too much. Yet he can’t stop himself, unable to bear hearing and seeing Ingrid in anguish.
Ingrid’s lips pull up into a small smile. “That’s good…”
Sylvain grits his teeth and hastily opens the flap, and Ingrid shuffles in her bedroll; he can tell she’s antsy but refuses to meet her gaze. “It’s fine, Ingrid. Don’t worry. I’ll be back. You get some rest, OK?”
Ingrid’s response is silence before she acquiesces. “Alright. Good night, Glenn,” she says quietly before her eyes flutter closed.
Sylvain leaves to the sound of Ingrid’s light snores. Instead of returning to the mess hall, he retreats to his tent. The moment he steps in, Sylvain lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his chest painfully thudding. He presses a hand over his chest and grasps it tightly, kicking off his shoes. He nearly crumples to the floor, crawling into his bedroll, and he feels utterly pathetic.
He stares up at the tent’s roof for what seems like an eternity, trying to process what just happened and the emotions running through his mind, and for a moment, he lets himself wonder if Ingrid was talking about him.
A sudden bark of laughter escapes his lips, and Sylvain turns toward the wall.
“Don’t delude yourself.”
That night he dreams of his childhood, of Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid, who enthusiastically places a crown of flowers on his head before she leads him to another boy covered in shadow, waving his hand.
Sylvain awakes with tears staining his face.