[ Ah, Claude looks so guileless like this that Sylvain is a little tempted to pull a harmless prank on him. To keep playing pretend just as he's always done.
But he isn't afraid of ugly truths. He may despise their reality built around crests but he accepts it all the same, with a festering resignation that will need more time and kinder influence to grow into positive action.
For now, Sylvain inhales quietly and leans forward, trying to ignore the tickle of Claude's breath across his mouth, hyperaware of their intimate proximity despite how often he lets strangers into his personal space. As he brings his forehead to Claude's, he instinctively settles his hands on his shoulders, as if to prevent either of them from escaping.
Remember...
His mind wanders to his last memory of Fódlan, though it isn't at all what he wants to conjure: Black flags lashing in the wind, the exhaustion of scaling a tower filled with treacherous vermin, the lingering stench of blood and grime. The monster at the end of it all, finally shedding its human skin.
"If it hadn't been for you..."
There's poison in those words, a curse that repeats itself as the memory morphs into another. The damp column of Conand Tower rapidly narrows into the confines of a well, water flooding in as light winks out overhead. Frantic shouts give way to sputtering coughs, fingers bloody and bruise as they try and fail repeatedly to find purchase on stone. It would be better to stop struggling. Eventually there's no more fight to give, anyway.
"If not for you..."
Waking up is not so different from drowning—alone and dark and cold. Snow falls relentlessly, this too a silent burial for anyone foolish enough to get themselves lost in the mountains, or left behind in the dead of winter. The chill becomes a numbing burn, and it would be better to lay still and wait for sleep instead.
"Hurry up and die already."
But it doesn't end. It continues in insidious ways, hidden bruises and spoiled meals and lie after lie. A child's hope whittled down to nothing, a brother's affection never to be returned. It continues until it becomes first nature to wear a mask and to hide in plain sight. Until it feels more natural to be hated than to be loved. ]
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But he isn't afraid of ugly truths. He may despise their reality built around crests but he accepts it all the same, with a festering resignation that will need more time and kinder influence to grow into positive action.
For now, Sylvain inhales quietly and leans forward, trying to ignore the tickle of Claude's breath across his mouth, hyperaware of their intimate proximity despite how often he lets strangers into his personal space. As he brings his forehead to Claude's, he instinctively settles his hands on his shoulders, as if to prevent either of them from escaping.
Remember...
His mind wanders to his last memory of Fódlan, though it isn't at all what he wants to conjure: Black flags lashing in the wind, the exhaustion of scaling a tower filled with treacherous vermin, the lingering stench of blood and grime. The monster at the end of it all, finally shedding its human skin.
"If it hadn't been for you..."
There's poison in those words, a curse that repeats itself as the memory morphs into another. The damp column of Conand Tower rapidly narrows into the confines of a well, water flooding in as light winks out overhead. Frantic shouts give way to sputtering coughs, fingers bloody and bruise as they try and fail repeatedly to find purchase on stone. It would be better to stop struggling. Eventually there's no more fight to give, anyway.
"If not for you..."
Waking up is not so different from drowning—alone and dark and cold. Snow falls relentlessly, this too a silent burial for anyone foolish enough to get themselves lost in the mountains, or left behind in the dead of winter. The chill becomes a numbing burn, and it would be better to lay still and wait for sleep instead.
"Hurry up and die already."
But it doesn't end. It continues in insidious ways, hidden bruises and spoiled meals and lie after lie. A child's hope whittled down to nothing, a brother's affection never to be returned. It continues until it becomes first nature to wear a mask and to hide in plain sight. Until it feels more natural to be hated than to be loved. ]