#this song with them specifically has been rotating in my brain since we first started to flesh out their character | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bubble-tea-bunny · 4 years

Text

until you count all the petals

[sylvain gautier x reader]

author’s note: this is the third fic in a row that has to do w flowers and i promise that was a coincidence lol. inspired by my favorite song from my favorite group :’)

word count: 8,176

i. the sky is blue and we’re over

Sylvain’s not sure what he would call the two of you.

He tends not to label things, never much a fan of assigning names, and it’s because labels imply a degree of certainty, of commitment; commitments that came with consequences if it all went south. Strings are too messy, and, he reasons, why bother with snipping them when he could avoid getting wrapped up in them to begin with? Love’s a ball of yarn but he’s not a cat.

With these factors taken into consideration, he finds himself startled, shocked even, like lightning has shot through his veins, to realize on a nondescript afternoon with the sun high in the sky and a gently billowing breeze, that you’re different. It is especially surprising because he arrives at this conclusion while he’s alone. This wasn’t an instance where the guy looks at the girl, really looks at her, and suddenly his chest tightens and he swallows hard because the light shines on her differently now and he knows with certainty—she’s the one.

For Sylvain, it’s the flowers. He’s in the greenhouse and there are sunflowers being cultivated in one of the planters. They’re a new addition, but day by day their stems have grown, shooting up from the soil, like hands reaching for the sky. Their golden petals open, and he swears that corner of the greenhouse feels the slightest bit warmer from the multiple tiny suns. It’s when he sees them and that warmth rushes over him that he is reminded of how he feels when you’re around. And he likes it, wants to feel this way forever, and he wonders if this is the sensation of strings wrapping around his heart.

The sound of his name pulls his attention from the sunflowers and he spots you walking into the greenhouse, a wide smile on your pretty face. But sunflower or smile, smile or sunflower, Sylvain is inclined to think they are the exact same.

He meets you in the middle and offers you his arm. As you exit the greenhouse, absentmindedly you wonder if your favorite shop in the nearby town has your favorite pastry in stock today (they rotate their menu). Why don’t we go check? he asks, and you’re quick to agree. The way your eyes light up is cute.

Sylvain is still hesitant to make any sort of decision as to where your relationship stands, because you have avoided putting a name to it too, but, at the very least, he could say that the two of you are… something more.

Your favorite shop does indeed have your favorite pastry available, and you barely stop yourself from buying three. Sylvain laughs and says he’ll buy three if you want, but you resolve to start with one, and if you’re still craving them, you’d get back in line for more. But both of you know that you will. And so does the baker. This isn’t your first time there. After the food is paid for, he lowers his voice and says he’ll keep two extra in the back for you. This particular baked good is popular, and you’re grateful for the kind gesture.

The gooey frosting sticks to your lips with every bite and your tongue slips out to lick it off. You hold out the pastry to Sylvain, a wordless offer for him to take a bite since he hadn’t gotten anything for himself, but he shakes his head. His own sweet tooth is more than satisfied by you. That’s what he tells you, and he can’t help but laugh when you roll your eyes and lightly punch his shoulder from across the small table. Then he’s reaching out to you, using his thumb to swipe the bit of frosting at the corner of your mouth that you’d missed. He brings it up to his mouth and the sugar melts pleasantly on his tongue. The blush dusting your cheeks reminds him of cherries.

You discuss everything from training and sore muscles to gossip from around the monastery. Sylvain shares the scoop on who’s dating who, and you listen attentively, head occasionally tilting and eyes occasionally widening to learn of unlikely pairs. Some you doubt the validity of, but he promises it’s all true. You sit quietly in thought, gaze dropping to the two pastries on your plate. Huh, you mutter, envisioning one couple specifically that you found hard to believe. Who would have thought?

Sylvain has his head resting on his propped up hand, watching you in amusement. Movement from over your shoulder draws his focus up, and there’s a woman exiting the antique shop next to the bakery. She’s coming this way along the sidewalk, and their eyes meet, and the grin he flashes is instinctual. The response he is met with he is very much accustomed to, her own eyes momentarily diverting, a sudden shyness overcoming her, before she slips him one more quick glance with a tiny smile, and then she’s walked past, continuing on her way.

He turns back to you, but you’re already watching him, and his brows furrow in confusion when you say you’re not really hungry anymore and suggest you head back. He’s even more confused when, instead of gathering up the pastries to bring back to the monastery, as you typically do, you take them over to the next table and ask if the people there want them.

After giving them away, you join him where he’s waiting on the sidewalk. You don’t reach for his hand on the walk back, so he reaches for yours, but it’s a few seconds before your fingers curl to properly grip his. A subtle delay, but unusual enough for him to notice immediately. The sudden change in mood makes him feel like he’s been spun in circles. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he wishes he did.

His wish is granted upon your arrival back at the monastery. The sun is setting and the lake glitters with the last of the daylight. It’s romantic, and he’s about to stop you by the docks, turn to you and steal a kiss in the peacefulness of dusk and run a hand through your hair, soft locks the golden rays of golden hour because this time of day doesn’t look this good on anyone else. Not the way it does on you. But you’re the one to stop first, and his strides are halted by your linked hands.

Your fingers loosen but his hold on your hand keeps you connected, and he’s still smiling like nothing’s wrong. It’s when you don’t reciprocate that it drops and he asks what’s wrong.

And it’s not quite what he wants to hear when you say I don’t know. Surely there was a reason to explain your listlessness. Something like that doesn’t just spring up from nowhere. But what could it be, that you can’t really put it in words? Concern starts to creep up his spine like an unwelcome winter chill, and your hand slipping out of his now slack grip to drop back to your side does the talking for you.

Quietly he says your name, an upward inflection towards the end like it’s a question. You’re staring at your shoes and he’s staring at the crown of your head and even for his worries about what’s happening, what you might say, he can’t shake the thought of fashioning you a crown of flowers.

“What are we, Sylvain?” you finally inquire.

Pulled from his train of thought, Sylvain blinks. “What do you mean?”

“This.” You motion between you both. “You and me… Are we just a temporary fling?”

The mere suggestion stings and Sylvain shakes his head. “What? No—”

“Then are we together?”

The implications of the question catch him off guard. He’d always thought you were on the same page: no labels, no titles, no boyfriend and girlfriend. Just… you and him. Nothing more, nothing less. But your impatience is clear as day with how you cut him off, and he still doesn’t understand why you’re bringing this up. But he knows you’re aware of his hesitation to call things like this by name, and you’d been fine to follow along until this moment, so he’s slow to respond to your loaded question.

“Hey, come on,” he murmurs, taking a half step forward to be closer. “You know you’re the only one for me.” He’s skirting around giving a direct answer, and hopes that you leave it at that, but you don’t, and when he tries to reach for your hand, you take a half step back to be farther away.

“Do I?”

The doubt present in your tone stops him short, and whatever else he might’ve said dies in his throat. Your frustrations are becoming more apparent as the conversation moves along, your eyes shining from the sunset and cutting through him like newly forged steel. Sylvain wracks his brain for what could have been responsible for the soured mood, entirely unlike the atmosphere of this afternoon.

“Is this… because of earlier?” he asks uneasily.

You don’t say anything, but your lack of reply lets him know he’s right. He scoffs like it’s a silly concern, smiling to try to allay your irritation. “That was just a quick glance. She didn’t mean anything.”

It’s the wrong answer to an unspoken question. “It’s not the first time you’ve done that.”

“Done what?”

“Flirt endlessly with practically every girl you see!” This is the most emotion you’ve displayed during your talk, your volume rising slightly, and Sylvain’s thankful the two of you are alone so no one hears what has quickly devolved into a full argument. “So no, I don’t know that I’m the only one for you. I can’t know!”

Every word is a punch in the gut and there’s a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. Sylvain’s mouth opens then closes then opens again but nothing comes out and that’s because you both know he has no defense. What you’ve said is true. He’s always flirted, always talked pretty to pretty girls and taken delight in watching them swoon. He likes to have them wrapped around his finger. Not even the less successful attempts, which leave him standing alone, staring at the back of their retreating figure, are enough to discourage him. It’s habit for him to sweet-talk his way into girls’ hearts, to stay there for a few weeks, days, hours, then take his leave and move on.

This habit is precisely what’s jeopardizing whatever sort of relationship he has with you, the prettiest girl of all. And maybe this is one of those stories where the guy looks at the girl, really looks at her, and knows that she’s the one, because it’s been much longer than a few weeks and never has he thought of leaving you behind.

But it’s too little too late as you stare up at him and he feels you drifting farther away despite the physical distance in between.

“What I said to those other girls were just empty words. They don’t matter to me,” he tries to reason. “Not like you do.”

You’re unsatisfied, however, and shake your head.

“Are you really ready for a relationship, Sylvain?” you ask with a hushed tone now, and his heart squeezes when you say his name. “Because I don’t think you are.”

His silence following your declaration is enough to cut the strings, and even if he did have words, you no longer have the patience to hear them.

———

ii. my friends tell me to give up

It’s almost frightening how you’re able to carry on as if he doesn’t exist. Whenever you’re both in a common area, you never so much as glance his way. Sylvain, on the other hand, isn’t coping very well.

Over the ruckus in the dining hall he can pick out your laugh easily, and a part of him deep down perks up the way it had before whenever he heard or saw you. His eyes shoot to where you sit at a table across the room. One of your friends appears to be telling a captivating tale that has you and your fellow housemates thoroughly entertained. Sylvain sees his mouth move but he can’t hear what he’s actually saying that has you all laughing. It’s impossible to hear much aside from clanking silverware and jumbled chatter. Sylvain’s ears have just been trained to listen for you.

The seat to his right is pulled back as Annette sits down with her plate of food, but Sylvain is too preoccupied staring at you to turn and say hello. Annette doesn’t expect any greeting, but she does sigh when she notices where he’s looking. Sylvain hadn’t officially announced what had transpired between you both; such was his prerogative when it came to any relationships. Since nothing was really ever “official,” he explained, there was no official start or end to make note of.

But Annette, as well as their mutual friends in the Blue Lion house, could surmise that whatever he had with you was different, even if he refused to put any sort of name to it. They began to suspect this when one whole moon had passed and you were still on his mind. Typically, the trysts which he discloses with them are with different girls, and there’s always that moment of trying to pair the name with the face before he continues on with the story, lamenting only half-seriously that She’s nice and all, but we just weren’t meant to be. (Not that it would matter much to figure out exactly who the girl of the week was anyway, since they would inevitably repeat this process all over again a few days later.)

When you came into the picture, you were a constant. For a long while at least—a lot longer than any of them gave Sylvain credit for. It’s been Sylvain’s nature to woo multiple girls at once, keeping them separated so as to prevent any conflict of interest, but over time it became noticeable that among the multiple names he would mention, yours came up again and again and again. And his friends began to wonder if you were it for Sylvain, that both of you were, in his words, meant to be, and maybe Sylvain didn’t want to acknowledge it because he didn’t want the commitment that came with it. Or maybe he was genuinely clueless to his own feelings, unfamiliar with love in any sense, especially the deep kind which flourishes in the deep hours of the night, a companion to silence and reflection.

Perhaps it was both, Annette thinks. He was oblivious until one day, something changed (he’d never shared the details, and no one had ever pried), and though he didn’t say it out loud, she noticed the light in his eyes when he talked about you. It was bright, instinctual, and, if she had anything to say about it, was almost love.

Now, Sylvain’s shoulders sag and his head rests on his hand as he watches you, hoping you’ll look this way, and the whole picture is one of dejection. Had the cutting of ties been what it took for his feelings to finally be truly realized? Life could be awfully cruel…

The chair across from Annette is pulled back with a grating scrape, wooden legs against wooden flooring, and Ashe sits down. His eyes are also drawn to Sylvain, as if a dark aura were surrounding him, and he frowns. A quick glance behind him in the direction Sylvain is staring confirms his suspicions immediately, and he bites his lip like he’s holding back words, wanting to speak but hesitating.

Sylvain notices Ashe’s pause and his eyes slide briefly in his direction.

“I know you want to say it, Ashe.” He’s blunt, tone flat. “So say it.”

Ashe releases his bottom lip. “Maybe it’s time to let her go.”

Annette holds her breath following this remark, anxious for Sylvain’s reaction. She doesn’t know why she’s nervous; he won’t get mad or yell. He’s been nothing but despondent since you stopped talking to him a couple of weeks ago, a perpetual raincloud hanging over his head. It did well to sour the mood of anyone who got near him, and if he noticed the effect it was having, he didn’t react or do anything to fix it. Some of those in Blue Lion were patient with him, giving him adequate time to process what happened. (Though what was that exactly? A break-up? It seemed like it, but Sylvain would never call it that.) Others, conversely, were less willing to wait for the storm to pass, hardly fans of being soaked to the bone.

Those who attempted the task of taking Sylvain’s mind off of you were far from successful. Where once mentions of a pretty girl in one of the other houses whom they’d seen glancing his way would cause Sylvain to perk up and seek her out, keen to snatch her heart up, for a day or a week or however long he fancied, such remarks now blew right past him, the faint whistle of a narrowly dodged arrow he doesn’t care enough to search for and see where it landed. The less patient among their friends have, therefore, given up. There could be no use helping someone off the ground if they weren’t looking for assistance.

Annette and Ashe were two people still holding on, but even they are gradually coming to terms with the futility of talking with what might as well be a brick wall. The absolute last resort that would pull Sylvain from his slump is if Dimitri were to say something, particularly in regards to how this is affecting Sylvain’s performance when training. Sylvain’s not at that point (yet?), so Dimitri has remained one of the patient few, but it would be better, of course, to avoid that kind of conversation entirely.

But Sylvain’s too busy running in circles around the thought of you to spot the hand offered to help him stand. He doesn’t say it, but Annette and Ashe don’t need him to because they already know what words refuse to surface: he doesn’t want to let you go.

What he does choose to share aloud is preceded by a sardonic laugh. “It’s ironic,” he starts, “that I’m the one who was dumped.” You’ve turned the tables on him. Does it usually hurt like this?

A singular issue that has remained at the forefront of his dilemma has to do with your own feelings. Was what you felt about him the same as what he still feels for you? His cynical side urges him to reason that no, he was the one making a bigger deal out of this than it was and it’s his fault he’s heartbroken. That’s the only way he could explain why you’re all smiles and laughs in the days that have transpired since the argument, a drop of sunshine warming the earth where you walk. Meanwhile he’s downtrodden in the shade, just a little too far out of your reach.

And yet he can’t shake the notion that you had to have felt just as seriously about your relationship as he had, because your outburst had stemmed from his aversion to exclusivity. Even if you didn’t say it, the problem you took with his coquetry implied your desire for something more too—that being the chance to maybe call him yours, with all the strings and none of the stray glances or flirtatious words shared with other girls. Should this be true, it was still his fault that your relationship is basically in shambles; his propensity to woo and impress with no thought to commitment, no thought to what you might think despite knowing deep down that you were different from the others, had pushed you away. So he’s paying the price. Being nobility means nothing; he’d never have enough money to pay in full for something like this.

Still, he wishes you would look at him, at least once. He feels like a lovesick puppy and maybe he should be embarrassed because as far as anyone else is concerned, he doesn’t get hung up on any one girl for long, but they don’t know you like he does. They don’t know the way you make his stomach do flips or the way your grin has him wrapped around your finger. The more you pass him by, the more he pines for you, and maybe you know and that’s why your eyes never search for his; you’re intent to move on, whatever your feelings for him may have been. The sun’s not fond of rainstorms either.

———

iii. it’s only you for me

Life starts to return to normal, slowly but surely. Sylvain’s in a slump less often these days, and he’s smiling a little more, joking around a little more. Though his training had never suffered after your relationship came to an end, he throws himself into it extra hard now, giving it his all. It’s the ideal distraction, and Dimitri has even commended his discipline and sharp improvement. Annette observes him with a knowing gaze but says nothing. The last thing Sylvain needs in his process of getting over you is to hear your name.

What truly begins to mark the return of the Sylvain they’re all familiar with is his flirtatious remarks with any cute girl that catches his eye. However, for every ounce of his enthusiasm, not everyone is interested (perhaps they’re aware of his track record), but that doesn’t discourage him. Where one might not care to give him the time of day, another is, and he pulls them in with silken praises and honeyed words murmured over the wispy tendrils of steam floating from their cups of tea.

Felix won’t admit that this past moon had been… uncomfortably quiet, with Sylvain in the state he was. It was strange to see his friend so reserved and contained, lost within his own head. Usually Sylvain would talk his ears off (or come very close to doing so) about his shenanigans and all the other monastery gossip Felix never cared to find out about himself. Now that the period of atypical quiet has passed, and Sylvain’s regained his voice and his confidence, well, Felix also won’t admit that he had missed it (but just a little).

Today he is an unintentional witness to Sylvain’s latest efforts of wooing another student; Felix doesn't know who she is, and he doesn’t plan to ask Sylvain later. They’re sitting across from each other at one of the tables in the reception hall, close to the wall. Sylvain’s broad-shouldered figure dwarfs her much smaller form, and Felix can’t see what he’s saying, but based on the girl’s bashful smile she hides behind her hand, it’s a string of saccharine remarks that Felix fears will make his teeth rot should he actually be able to overhear their conversation.

A few seconds is all it takes for Felix to grow tired of this display, and he sighs, prepared to continue his walk in the direction of the training grounds. But it seems the invisible hands which keep the world turning would keep him right where he is, and it’s in a fit of irony that perhaps the one person least interested in Sylvain’s love life also serves as an unintentional witness to his yearning, to his regression, and to his downfall.

Felix sees you around the monastery often, and he only made note of all the times he did after you and Sylvain began to spend time together more consistently. Prior to that, he had no idea who you were. The instances he had spotted you following whatever it was you told Sylvain that had left him so gloomy, were marked by slight confusion, for you carried on as if nothing were wrong, as if you didn’t have that talk and separated yourself from Sylvain entirely. And it left him to wonder, the tiniest bit curious, if maybe you were the one stringing Sylvain along. But for what purpose? To show him how it felt to be picked up, treated like gold, then abandoned in the dust? If so, you were more spiteful than you looked.

The speculation doesn’t make sense if what Sylvain had told him was true. Felix pretends he’s not listening when Sylvain talks about girls, but he is, and he remembers especially what Sylvain said about you. It wasn’t just Sylvain waxing lyrical when he declared that what you felt for each other was different. You were more than just some girl he took a brief interest in, and it was your equally enthusiastic reciprocation of his feelings that made Sylvain start to feel like he could have a real relationship. He never did tend to wear his heart on his sleeve, but with the way he spoke of you, he showed it off proudly. He’s usually guarded enough that Felix took this as a sign that your own feelings really were genuine.

And so, all those factors considered, Felix thinks he’ll never understand how, despite how strongly you had also felt for Sylvain, you are hardly affected by the break-up (Sylvain would never call it that but Felix isn’t blind nor the one in denial). You haven’t met Sylvain’s gaze since then, not once.

Well, until now, as you pass through the reception hall. Perhaps it was an accident, but that’s all it takes for Sylvain to slip back to square one. It’s a quick meeting of the eyes from over the shoulder of the girl Sylvain is talking to, and you never once pause in your steps. You almost look indignant to have caught his attention, inwardly scolding yourself for allowing your eyes to wander.

You walk right past Felix, kicking up a small breeze in your wake due to the hastening of your steps, and Felix looks from you over to Sylvain, who says something to the girl—excusing himself?—before standing up and following after you. He walks fast too, intent to catch up to you, and he doesn’t spare Felix a glance either.

Felix sighs. Oh dear…

Once out of the reception hall, Sylvain looks left and right. He barely catches sight of your figure turning the corner into the garden, and this time he breaks into a run, his wide strides carrying him to you swiftly.

“[Name]!” he calls out, and he doesn’t care for the stares he draws from other students. “Wait!”

You don’t turn around at the sound of your name, and in a desperate attempt to get you to finally look at him, he takes hold of your arm, hoping that you’ll stop. His grip is gentle, and you could easily pull away, but you don’t, and he’s breathing a little harder from the short run but also from the fact you’re standing here, in front of him, watching him and there’s no spark in your eyes like there had been once, but at the moment he’s just happy that you’re looking at him at all.

“What do you want, Sylvain?” you ask quietly.

He swallows, his breath returning to normal, and your eyes slide down to where he’s still holding your arm. His fingers uncurl from around your white long-sleeve and there are small wrinkles where they once were. There’s silence as Sylvain tries to put a sentence together because he realizes he doesn’t have anything to say. He didn’t actually think you would stop. And the longer you stand there, the more he panics, worried that you might leave and he’ll have wasted his chance to get you back.

“I’m sorry.”

He hopes you don’t ask sorry for what because there are so many things, and while part of him is ready to list them, to voice his regret and admit his feelings aloud, thereby undoing all he had ever done to keep himself from getting attached to one person, the other part of him is too scared to do it because he’s never felt like this about anyone and it’s frightening how painfully his chest tightens when you say his name, even when you say it with indifference.

You shake your head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

But there is and somehow it hurts more than you act like there isn’t. Are you really so prepared to move on? Frantically he searches your gaze for any longing or any sign that you don’t want to completely forget about what the two of you had. Surely you had been thinking about him too, in some capacity? Do you miss him at all?

“Please,” he begs, but he can’t begin to properly describe what it is he’s begging for. “Just give me another chance.”

You almost look as if you’re going to say no, your jaw set as you stare up at him. Yet he finds an inkling of hope in your several seconds of silence because you appear to be considering what he has said. His heart is pounding and could this be it? Could you be coming back to him? It might be slow, tentative, but Sylvain will work with that. He will give you your time and space to process, and he won’t mess up again.

You break eye contact to glance to your right, in the direction of the gazebo, and it’s a signal for Sylvain that his hope was probably too ambitious. To decide on something like that right now was unrealistic, and his impatience gnaws at him but he meant it when he said he would give you space.

“Can we talk about this another time? I have to meet someone.”

Another time. Sylvain nods his head a little too eagerly. “Yeah. Of course.”

You give him a time and place and when he says goodbye, you only halfheartedly respond with a wave. He remains where he is as you walk the rest of the way to the gazebo in the center of the garden and slide into the chair across from a guy Sylvain doesn’t recognize. At the sight of you both, his stomach feels heavy and his shoulders sag and maybe you don’t miss him.

———

iv. until you count all the petals

Sylvain arrives ten minutes early.

He understands why you chose this spot. It’s far from wandering eyes, the only people likely to come this way being the guards as they make their rounds. It stings a little to be treated as something to be hidden away, but he doesn’t blame you for it. If anyone aware of what had happened between you were to spot you together, it would only invite questions you might not be keen to answer.

What exactly were your expectations for the conversation you will have? Sylvain knows what his are, but from what he can tell thus far with the way you have chosen to handle this, picking a quiet place to talk, your own are the complete opposite. If you wanted to avoid anyone seeing you, then that implies you have no intention of taking him back. Otherwise, you would have no problem if the whole academy were to observe you together.

With a huff, Sylvain shakes his head in an attempt to rid himself of these negative thoughts. Be all that as it may, he wouldn’t set himself up for failure by overthinking and acting paranoid. Even if his assumptions are correct, he would still do his best to change your mind. He’s coming to you as a different person now, one that is sure of his feelings and, for the first time in his life, ready to put a name to what you two have because it is different and it’s special and the biggest regret Sylvain has is that he hadn’t realized it sooner. He wishes he hadn’t been so afraid to accept it.

The minutes tick by and he grows increasingly nervous. He hadn’t exactly prepared a speech beforehand, and usually he’s good at winging speeches, especially the flowery kind, designed to tug the heartstrings, but he doubts that will cut it this time. There are many things he wants to say, and there isn’t a lot of time to say them. All that he feels for you is an incoherent jumble, too strong to constrain to concise sentences and he wants to show you, not tell you. He wants you to understand the depth of his affection through the gentle graze of his fingertips along your skin, through his pounding heart as he holds you close, your ear to his chest. And he wonders if you’ll get it then, that you’re the first girl to render him speechless.

“Sylvain.”

As if shocked, Sylvain twists around. He hadn’t heard you approach. You’re standing a few feet away, hands clutched behind your back, a polite stance like you’re talking to a stranger. He doesn’t say anything immediately, unsure of how to greet you or if he should greet you. Should he just get into his spiel? But then he remembers the bouquet he’s clutching because your eyes are drawn to it, and he notes with embarrassment that in his absentminded pondering, he’d been squeezing the stems. Luckily none are bent out of shape, and he holds the flowers out to you.

“I got you these.” Smooth, Sylvain.

Your blink and tilt your head, confused as to why he would present you with a gift when the conversation you’re about to have hardly merits one, but you accept it anyway, graceful as always. “… Thank you.”

You bring them up closer to your face so you can smell them, and Sylvain’s smile is hidden behind the flowers. When you lower them again, you inform him you can’t stay for long. You’re meeting someone in the library to work on an assignment, and he’d like to know if that someone is the guy he saw you having tea with the other day, but he keeps silent about that. Perhaps you do have somewhere to be, or perhaps you don’t and you’re lying because you just don’t want to talk to him more than necessary. Either way, Sylvain is strapped for time, and he needs to make the best of it.

“I won’t be long,” he promises. “Just… until you count all the petals.”

And that wouldn’t take long at all. The petals of the flowers he gave you are large, and easily counted. Upon this remark, the corner of your mouth lifts in an almost-smile, and your focus shifts downwards to the flowers you hold. He can’t tell if you’re counting but doesn’t stop to ask.

Instead, he starts to spill his heart out to you. “I messed up big time, I know. And I meant it when I said I’m sorry. I should’ve been less afraid to accept what I felt for you.”

You purse your lips and look up at him. Quietly, you inquire, “What do you feel for me?”

Sylvain can feel his pulse pounding in his ears. You’re watching him closely, but it’s not scrutinizing or investigative, simply… curious. Curious to know if he’ll actually say it now, if your feelings had been valid and he had genuinely felt the same because when you called everything off, it certainly didn’t feel like he did, and he hates that he put you through that kind of heartbreak. You were the last person to deserve that, and the gravity of his series of screw-ups settle heavy on his shoulders now. This is his last chance to redeem himself, if you would even grant him that.

Though he understands this, the words don’t leave him easily, the final struggle in breaking past the walls he has created for himself. His mouth opens then closes, nothing coming out at first. He’s trying to find the words and you’re a patient person, but it doesn’t extend that far with him, not anymore, and he understands that too. No answer would still be an answer, and as his silence stretches on, you too open your mouth to speak, perhaps to say a farewell for good. That one second feels like eternity and the dreadful thought of you walking away now is what breaks down those barriers, and he’s desperately reaching out for you where you stand on the other side.

“I love you.”

Your mouth promptly shuts, and now you’re the one who’s speechless. He’d actually said it. The surprise on your face betrays the fact you really didn’t think he would, and to be honest, he’s a bit surprised too. Never has he confessed something so heartfelt to another, preferring to keep away from anything that intimate. Such a statement isn’t to be taken lightly, and he has always understood its importance, of what it means to say that to someone with such conviction that the heart squeezes so hard it begins to crack. It’s to this that he owes his sudden shortness of breath in the following quiet, waiting apprehensively for any sort of response.

You don’t reply with words first. There are subtle changes written upon your face, whether or not you notice. Your features soften, your eyes not as guarded as they were, and he has greatly missed the fondness which settles in them. Eternal summer rests deep in his soul and you’re the sun that will never set. Your eyelashes kiss the smooth skin of your cheeks as you glance down. Now poised for a reply, your mouth opens, lips glistening, and he would like very much to kiss them. But that’s a mere passing thought and he remains in place, bracing himself, crossing his fingers for the best while mentally steeling himself for the worst.

Please say you love me too.

“Fifty-eight.”

That certainly didn’t sound like I love you too.

Sylvain’s brows furrow. “What?”

You lift your gaze to him. “There are fifty-eight petals.”

Well, it was a response. Not one Sylvain had wanted, but it was better than none at all, and you’d upheld your end of the agreement: you listened until you counted every petal.

He tries not to make his disappointment visible but you know him so well you can detect the smallest cues. His eyes break contact with yours, and for a moment it looks like you’re going to say something, at best a reciprocation of his affection, at worst a rejection of it, but you stop yourself, glancing down at the bouquet.

“I… I have to get going,” you state instead.

Sylvain nods. “Right.”

You part ways with awkward waves, and you don’t say See you later. It might be reasonable to assume that this is your way of telling him you don’t feel the same way, that it ends here and it ends for real, but he doesn’t make that assumption. There aren’t fifty-eight petals. There are seventy-two. He counted them earlier. You’d mentioned a random number, and if you hadn’t counted, that meant you’d been willing to listen from the start. Perhaps you weren’t as antsy to get away as he had previously assumed, and you had wanted to hear what he had to say.

He stares after your retreating figure but he doesn’t feel dread to see you walking away, flowers in hand. His breaths feel lighter, coming to him easier, and maybe he’d convinced you, or at the very least, is on his way to doing so. In any case, he would gladly wait, allowing you all the time you need to think.

———

v. prettier than a flower, she left

He hears you before he sees you.

You’ve just finished with choir practice and you call out a goodbye to your friend, who’s decided to stay behind in the cathedral for a bit longer. You, on the other hand, are striding past the tall and wide open wooden doors, the gentle wind today ruffling your clothes as you step outside. The air is cool and you don’t notice him standing there.

Sylvain’s off to the side of the entrance to the cathedral, leaning on the brick wall. He grins in amusement when he discovers you haven’t spotted him. He stares at your back for a few moments but doesn't let you get very far before he’s speed walking to catch up to you. His shoes clack quietly on the cobblestone but you don’t have time to react to the noise before he’s taken hold of your arm to grab your attention.

You gasp in surprise and turn around, eyes wide, and once you register who has stopped you, you let out a deep breath and set your free hand over your heart.

“Sylvain!” you exclaim. “You scared me!”

Sylvain laughs and continues to laugh even after you playfully hit him on the shoulder, so lightly that he very well could have imagined it if he hadn’t just watched you do it. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.” With the hand still wrapped around the crook of your elbow he tugs you close, and because you aren’t prepared for this, you stumble forward and fall against his chest. You collide with a quiet oof!

“What happened to us meeting at the reception hall?” you ask, and as you do, you brace your palms against his chest to try to push away and increase distance, at least to give you adequate space to tilt your head back to look at him, but he’s got both arms wrapped around you now, and given that he’s stronger, he doesn’t budge.

You give up and stop your pushing, and he chuckles at your small whine of defeat. “I couldn’t wait any longer to see you.”

“I was going straight there. It’s a five minute walk.” Accepting that so long as Sylvain wanted to hold you like this, you would remain right where you are, you bring your own arms around his torso. You’re careful not to dig your fingers into the fabric of his blazer, not wanting to wrinkle it.

“Five minutes is too long when I could just wait for you here.”

He almost sounds offended that you imply that he could possibly wait for an extra five minutes before he could see you again, and it’s your turn to laugh. “So needy,” you tease.

Sylvain won’t deny it. There’s nothing to hide and by this point, the whole academy is aware of your relationship. You’re part of the monastery gossip now, the likes of which you enjoy talking about while sitting outside the bakery in town. Before, he might have resented the idea of being so openly wrapped around a girl’s finger, because that was supposed to be his thing. Sylvain didn’t get tied down to just one person. But before, he also hadn’t fully realized what he was missing.

He’d rearrange the stars for you, would scoop them from the sky to stick to the ceiling of your room if you asked him to, so sweetly with that sweet voice of yours. And maybe in thanks you would sing him to sleep, gently running your fingers through his hair and he’d drift off wondering how he he could be this lucky, to be in love with the moon and to be loved back.

His attention no longer strays to other girls, and for many at the academy, this is a complete turnaround from when he could hardly keep his attention on just one. So if anyone were to remark that he seems different now, or tease him with a Who are you and what have you done with Sylvain or some such joke, he won’t argue against it or act like this is merely temporary. You’re not temporary. And he’s less inclined to say that the way he is now is “different.” It’s more that he knows himself better these days, and knows that life is better with you.

Neither of you has kept track of how long you’re standing there, and Sylvain is only pulled from his thoughts by you asking him to let go so you can start the walk to town. You like when he holds you, you tell him, but the day and all its sunshine is too beautiful to waste just staying here.

Sylvain nuzzles your hair and smiles and he’s certain you can feel it. His arms around you loosen, but you don’t immediately pull back, as if you can sense he still has things he wants to say, murmured against your form so the wind can’t eavesdrop. He murmurs that he loves you, and it comes out so easily that it’s a wonder that there was once a time he’d struggled to share those words with you.

You lean back slightly to look up at him and even in the shade they are bright and glittering. Your mouth curls into a beautiful grin that he’d like to kiss. He bends down, closing the distance, and as you’re about to meet he thinks he feels you say it back—I love you—whispered in one quick and silent breath, a burst of heat against his lips.

“Sylvain?”

What? Were you saying that?

“Sylvain.”

It didn’t sound like you. But then… where was that coming from? Who was calling him?

“Sylvain, wake up.”

Wake… up?

Sylvain’s eyes slide open and through blurry vision that has yet to come into focus, he spots Ashe stand on the opposite side of the long dining table, leaning forward and bracing himself on the dark wooden tabletop. Sylvain groans and sits up, stretching out his spine after having fallen asleep in a position that wasn’t the most comfortable. Ashe’s smile is sympathetic, sorry that he had to wake him up. He was sleeping rather heavily.

“We have to get to class,” Ashe tells him. “The next lesson is starting soon.”

The hustle and bustle of the dining hall corroborates his statement. The students who had lingered and spent the entirety of their lunch period here are cleaning up, and a chorus of chairs being pushed back into place echoes through the room. With a huff, equal parts one of inconvenience at having to get up and one of disappointment that he’d simply been dreaming, Sylvain stands up and follows Ashe outside.

The weather has taken a turn for the gloomy. A thick blanket of clouds paints the sky gray, and it’s the sort of overcast sky that’s difficult to look at. Ashe wonders aloud if it might rain, but Sylvain has no response to offer. He’s still trying to regain his bearings in time for lecture, but it’s slow progress when he’s still hung up on his dream. It had felt so real, and that’s what hurts the most. For a moment, he almost believed that everything had worked out, and he wishes that he could’ve remained forever within his own head, suspended in time, where that short and blissful period could stretch to eternity.

As per usual, no matter the amount of noise, the level of commotion as students scramble to get to their classrooms, Sylvain can hear your laugh above it all. His eyes find you walking across the courtyard, uncaring for the possibility of raindrops falling from the sky.

You’re with that guy again; you have been more often as of late. Sylvain never did catch his name. He must’ve said something funny because you grin widely, looking up at him with a sense of admiration Sylvain can pick up effortlessly despite the distance. He knows that what you must feel for him is real, that what you feel for him is something like love, if not love itself, because you used to look at him that way.

You hadn’t given him a direct response after his confession, and he hadn’t pressured you for one, not wanting to risk pushing you away further. But his heartfelt admission mattered little because he truly had been too late, for you’d been swept off your feet by another, and the most you could give by way of apology was a final glance when Sylvain saw you both, arm in arm, walking to the front gates of the monastery to take the path into town. It was a shock, certainly, that it was you who initiated eye contact, but it was your merciful goodbye. You’re always sweet like that, even as you break his heart.

Sylvain’s gaze slides from your faces down to your linked hands, and it’s the last he sees of you two before you disappear into your lecture hall. He’s close behind Ashe as they step out into the courtyard, and Ashe exclaims he thinks a raindrop hit his head. While his pace quickens, Sylvain’s stays the same, and he takes a hand out of his pocket to hold it out.

A drop of rain falls into his palm, and then another, and he’d really like a sunflower right about now.

#sylvain gautier x reader #sylvain gautier imagine #fire emblem x reader #fire emblem imagine #fire emblem three houses x reader #fire emblem three houses imagine #sylvain gautier #fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #bubble-tea-bunny #queue

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blackfemmecharacterdependency · 3 years

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Share a Lair 16 || Thunderstruck Birthday Girl

This is basically just self indulgent Charlotte love showering. I generally write Charlotte as an April Taurus, because of when her birthday episode aired, so I figured this is around the time that I can just do a little cute, fun, show of love and stuff, and also give her a chance to get some nice things. It is mostly just filler, but does have at least one important piece of story and I’ll get back to the crucial parts with the next installment.

Charlotte liked a lowkey birthday. Usually, she had brunch and cake with her parents and spent it with the guys in the evening. This year, Max made a bunch of plans for her, and she was curious to see how well he would do with this, so she planned to have brunch with her parents and told the guys that she would touch base with them later in the night. At some point during making plans, the boys got competitive via casual conversation and so she was told that they were going to have a bake off and that as the birthday girl, she would be able to determine who baked the best cake. “So, you’re gonna have like four cakes?” Max asked.

“Knowing the guys, not a single one of the cakes that they plan on making will make it, whether due to calamity or them just eating all of the cake.” But, if there was cake, she was definitely having some of each.

After brunch, Max picked her up from the bistro, not really being that concerned that she wasn’t introducing him to her parents yet. He got a glimpse of them hugging her before leaving and they seemed extremely intimidating. He already didn’t like parents and hers were both successful in their own right and high maintenance from what he understood. Even the bistro that they were at was an exclusive place. Each guest had a personal server, and whenever the Pages came through, their Jamaican chef was given access to the kitchen to prepare their meals for special occasions. This morning, Charlotte had been presented with an authentic Jamaican breakfast and bottomless brunch drinks. Max couldn’t recall ever having had a brunch, much less one in an exclusive bistro, with a personal chef, personal server, and access to all of the bar.

Superhero life paid extremely well, but it was more of a trade off, since one’s body and health was on the line with each mission. Charlotte’s father was a physicist and spent more time working than he did at home. Her mother was a college chancellor and was home just as much as her husband, even though her job was only about an hour away. They tried to make up for the blank spaces with extravagant gifts and expensive celebrations, but Charlotte was simply always happy just to be able to see both of them at once for a little bit of time, even though half of it was generally spent with her having to update them on exactly how her educational career was going and have enough accolades and credentials to account for the time she couldn’t tell them about as a hero’s tech specialist. Learning that made Max understand her overachiever complex a little bit better, but he wanted the rest of her birthday to be as relaxing and rewarding as possible.

He took the scenic route back to the lair and she leaned her seat back and rested, watching everything and listening to a playlist that he made for her. He had several. One for when she goes to sleep, one for her workday, one for when she studied, etc. This one was one that he made for car trips with her. One of his favorite things about doing stuff for her was that she always noticed. The first time he’d made her a playlist, she’d said, “You had to have made this thing specifically for me, right?” He wanted to deny it, but noticed how excited that made her and confessed. It was an amazing feeling to do something for someone special and have them not only not take it for granted, but to really appreciate it. Max didn’t always receive that from his loved ones, but he usually did from Charlotte. He was confident that she was going to LOVE her birthday time with him.

She liked being around a lot of people less than he did. So, where he might be down for a party with his friends and loved ones, she was more like her family was over here for this amount of time, and her friends over there, for that amount of time. Everything and everybody had their time and place.

But, she told him not too long ago, “I never get tired of being around you though. It’s like… you’re practically a part of me.” She said it all casually, matter of factly. He couldn’t even hear her emotion in it, but he definitely started crying. Then there was this whole thing where she thought that maybe she said the wrong thing and tried to comfort him and apologize and explain better, “I’m not saying that you aren’t your own person or anything, just that like… my life is comfortable no matter how much of you is in it…” He had to compose himself to let her know that he was happy to hear it, not upset. He also apologized for crying, because damn… that couldn’t be sexy. Turns out, it was… as long as it’s warranted and not over every little thing! So, that was bonus scores for him.

Max made Henry “be scarce” from the lair for today, which was fine by him, because he had to “Serve these fools in the cakes department, anyway!” And Max just… Didn’t even WANT to know what that meant, but was relieved to later find out that it was about baking cakes and not the booty shaking contest that his brain automatically convinced him it would be. So, whenever Charlotte walked in and the place was set up like a spa, she gasped. “What’s happening?”

“You always want to grab a spa day, but you’ve cancelled like a dozen times because of work demands. So, I set up a home spa day for you… I did get funding from Dr. Page and Dr. Page, but they knew that you deserved it and since Henry asked, they just wired it to your birthday fund.”

“You and Henry got money from my parents for a birthday spa day for me?”

“I sent Henry to get money, yes. Is that alright?”

She covered her face, “That is SO SWEET! They could have eaten him alive. They’re very inquisitive people.”

“I sent him with an outline of all of the plans,” he said, with a shrug.

“You know me so well that you know how my parents are, even though I haven’t introduced you yet!” She was thunderstruck. He took her bags and handed her a robe and slippers…

After her spa treatment day, complete with Max playing guitar and singing her some songs during interludes while she waited for something to dry or settle, or whatever, she felt brand new. She hadn’t realized how stressed she’d been, even though Max does stuff for her whenever he can, she obviously had still been hella stressed out - probably because of Russia, graduation, Jasper and Henry, spa days being cancelled… But, she NEEDED this and Max giving her what she needed, right on time? She would miss that when he was gone. Now, she was sad for a moment.

“Time for gift presentation!” He said, distracting her from missing him before he was gone. She perked up, skin radiant, silky smooth curls popping, and her smile beaming. She was still in her robe and had her spa day swag bag next to her, which were packages of the products used today in her spa day treatment and also products from the spa that supplied the materials. “First of all, we have…” he spun his finger around and the kitchen island rotated to reveal where he had hidden all of her gifts, apparently (and she had forgotten that this lair had many secret areas, but he obviously hadn’t). He reached for a huge bag and beckoned it to her. “From the Hart household, warmth and comfort in the form of new silk sheets and pillowcases, plus fuzzy blankets and bamboo pillows!”

“YES!” She had been saying she needed these forever, but not getting around to ordering any because other stuff seemed more important everything she thought about it. She LIVED for luxury, though, she often talked herself out of it.

“From Henry, himself, an assortment of fine chocolates, a wine drinking accessories set, and a collection of gourmet cheeses.”

“Ooooh… He must’ve gone into his hero funds for this!” She said, pulling things out of Henry’s gift bag.

“He did!” Max cheered. “Jasper got you…” He gave her the bucket, wrapped kind of like an Easter basket, “A stationary pail.” There was something weird in his voice. He probably had asked Jasper to get something else and Jasper was having none of it.

She opened it to see a personal planner, a personalized pen and journal set, scented stickers, sticky pads, etc and she squealed. “He got them to match the scheme of my home office whenever I set up my new place after college!” Max furrowed his eyebrows and she explained, “You see, Max… You are very smart and pay attention to detail, but Jasper has known me for a really long time and sometimes has even the most menial of my lifestyle choices down pat.”

“Your work dads got you tickets to the Graduation Concert Festival,” he said, handing her an envelope and ignoring the declaration about Jasper. “My parents got you a kitchen set for your post graduation apartment… Well… actually, my Cousin Blobbin did, but it was my mom’s idea. Cookware and appliances!”

“That’s… nice!” She said. She had just realized that she hadn’t gotten anything for that, yet. Just an electric kettle, a spice rack, and whatever she was going to cop from her parents’ kitchen. This was a much better situation! She had a few more pretty great gifts that she appreciated, then they were down to the last few, which were all from Max. He sat down next to her and she set aside everything that she had and let him hold both of her hands, wondering why it got so serious all of a sudden.

“Charlotte… The past months that I’ve known you have been amazing to me. Even before we got together, just looking forward to experiencing and learning you everyday has been everything that I’ve ever wanted from another person. : Hesighed and looked at their hands, “I’m officially scheduled to go to Russia for three years.” His shoulders sank. “And I know that you plan to visit and that we plan to continue long distance, but that’s still so tentative for me and scary - the thought of you being tasked with waiting on me to come back. But…” He looked over at the counter and floated something to himself, “If you want, you can stay in my comeback home.” He handed her a set of keys with a SuperMax keychain attached to it. “I know that you’ve been looking for apartments and this is actually a house, but…”

“You are asking me to move in with you for 3 years from now?” She asked.

“No! I’m asking you to move in now and get comfortable and make it your own, then whenever I’m back… we can get used to living together again, and you’ll already be set.” Her eyes widened, “But, if you don’t want to, I understand! We haven’t even been together for a year and who knows how Russia will change us.” He pressed a button on the remote on her keys and a holographic image of the house projected from it, “But, if you want to, I’m welcoming you to.” It was an elevated house on top of pillars, a garden with stair rails on either side and a carport. “And you’ll have full access to my underground lab and lair.”

“This is a super cute house,” she said, in a tiny voice. “And a very sweet notion. I’ll… think about it…” Sensibly, she and Max had not been together long enough for this move, but also, their circumstances were special. They lived together already, basically, and their timeline was rushed for a number of reasons… But, just living with him alone, and actually moving in and keeping it while he was on tour was… a lot that she had to rationally comb through. He understood, and was grateful that she didn’t flat out say no and tell him that he was crazy for thinking she’d even want to.

“On a lighter note!” He changed the subject, “I present to you, some of my most inspired works of art…” He gave her a portfolio of several portraits that he had done of her, some very casual and cool, some extremely detailed and graphic, some as herself, some reimagined in other forms and styles. “They’re mostly from the pining days,” he said, bashfully. “But, I’m working on a big piece to hang in the comeback house.” She flipped through pages of her face, beautifully rendered and covered her heart.

“These are really good, Max.”

“I usually just draw project schematics and costumes, but I was having a phase where every time I tried, I had to draw you first, or I’d be distracted the whole time.

“I love it.”

“I figured that I did need to get you a REAL gift, though, so…” He reached for a jewelry box and opened it. It looked elegant, like fine jewelry - a set with a necklace, earrings, bracelet and a ring. “Shapeshifting jewelry!”

“I’m sorry, what kind?”

He put the ring onto his pinky, because it would not fit anywhere else and it lit up, then it reformed itself, unbuilding and then rebuilding to look like a skull and crossbones ring. She gasped. “It scans your body and gets a record of your outfit and accommodates it. Very fun technology to have.” He took it off and handed it back. She put it on her ring finger and once again, it reformed and became a cute, thin band with a tiny pink jewel.

“This is amazing! I’ve never seen it before.”

“Experimental tech being used for facial imagery reconstruction whenever supers get unmasked. I took the principles and put them in your jewelry!” He said, proud of himself. She was proud, too. She honestly had THEE BEST BOYFRIEND. “And, in case you felt like that was a little too much, or whatever, I have backup gifts of a simpler nature. There’s this coupon book of treats and services, yes several of them are sexual, because I made it and I can,” (she laughed) “There is this HUGE concentration candle, I mean… LOOK at this thing! Oh, and this.” He handed her some folded paper. “It’s a handwritten love letter, basically me being kind of a loser and telling you all of my feelings, but on paper, like a madman…”

“Yes,” she said, snatching it.

“Yes, I’m a madman?”

“No… Well… yes, but… yes, I’ll move into your comeback home after college graduation.” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“To clarify… Was it the letter?”

“It was the… Max. You’re perfect, Dude. I just…” she shrugged and rested her head on him.

Whenever Charlotte made her way to the Man Cave, she heard the hijinks as soon as she stepped off of the elevator, and what she saw was four grown men and a young girl all fussing and covered in cake. “Did any of you save any cake?” She called from the elevator. They didn’t stop fussing or even seem to hear or notice her, so she looked around and saw a plate wrapped in saran wrap with assorted slices of cake, “I’m gonna presume that this is mine and leave with it if nobody notices that I’m here!” she called out. They were still fussing at each other and then Ray slapped Jasper in the face with a glob of icing, to which, Jasper growled and charged him and Schwoz, Henry and Piper, began to try to break it up, but all that could be seen was cake and icing flying everywhere. Charlotte left and whenever she did, she heard as the elevator door was closing, “Did any of you hear Charlotte’s voice?”

“Nice try, Henry! You don’t get away from this that easily!” Piper screamed.

“I honestly don’t want to know,” Charlotte told herself. But, she honestly did, too.

Shortly before Midnight, whenever she came back, everything was cleaned up and she announced, “Bringing back the plate!”

“SURPRISE!” Everyone jumped out and screamed, making her scream and drop the plate which shattered on the floor.

They ignored it and began to sing the happy birthday song to her, gathered around a cake platter that Schwoz was holding, only it had an amorphous cake on it, and could hardly hold the candles. It looked like a disaster from a cartoon. She blew out the candles and looked at them, suspiciously, “So, is this the only cake? What happened to the bake off?”

“Bake off?” Ray repeated. “We don’t have to prove that any of us are any better than the others. Besides, it’s YOUR birthday! Today was about you.”

“Did you all fight the entire time, have a huge cake fight, then gather up which pieces of cake that you could and cover it in icing to present as my birthday cake?” Everyone’s face showed that they were caught! That was EXACTLY what had happened. But Ray scoffed and said, “No! And quite frankly Charlotte, it is insulting that you would accuse us of such…”

“I saw you earlier. I took that plate of cake,” she pointed to the broken plate on the floor.

Henry began to fuss about how HE KNEW he’d heard her voice earlier, while Ray was fussing about the broken plate and Jasper was asking which cake was the best. Upon hearing that question, they all became more interested in that, “Yeah, which one? Which? Huh? Bet it was mine…”

“Ummm… they were all actually delicious, but I preferred the lemon one…”

“YES!” Jasper cheered and began to gloat in everybody’s face. “Max liked the chocolate one that tasted like a 5 year old just threw all their favorite things into a cake.”

“I TOLD ALL OF YOU THAT I AM THE CAKE COMMANDO!” Ray yelled. She figured that was his, because it was just a bunch of different chocolate things in a cake - chocolate cookie crumbles, chocolate chips, chocolate candy - she felt sick after one bite of that.

“Yeah, well, he’s probably gonna order one for his dad’s birthday.”

“Thunder Man? He’s still alive?” Ray asked.

Piper asked, “So… you didn’t like the pineapple right side up cake?”

“I did.”

“The chocolate covered strawberry cake was a delicious masterpiece!” Henry fussed.

“It was.”

Schwoz offered, “I think that you may have misjudged the dreamsicle and pickle cake.”

“I did not misjudge it, because I didn’t know what it was and refused to try it. Max said that he didn’t know how it worked, but it somehow did.”

SHe held out her hands, “I enjoyed everybody’s cake…” She pointed at Schwoz,’ “Except for yours.”

“Awwww,” he said, crestfallen.

“But, Jasper asked which one I thought was best and…”

“And she said it without much of a thought that she preferred the lemon icebox layered sponge cake with whipped white chocolate cream cheese icing. TOLD. YOU. GUYS!” He fist bumped her and she just laughed a little bit.

Henry commented, “I got beat with an egg beater for nothing.

“Not for nothing!” Charlotte said. “I completely want that chocolate covered strawberries cake programmed into the auto snacker for my next monthly.”

“My dreamsicle and pickle cake was the only one that used organic ingredients,” Schwoz pouted.

“I will NEVER try it. You won’t EVER tell me anything to make me try a Dreamsicle and pickle cake, Schwoz!” Charlotte said.

Jasper said, “Well… I’m gonna have some of this birthday cake,” and grabbed a plate and the cake cutter.

“Cut me a piece, too!” Henry asked. They all sat down and had a plate with fallen pieces of their various cakes on it and turned on a movie to watch.

“This was actually my best birthday in a while,” Charlotte noted. She didn’t need to go into detail about Max and how perfect he was. Her friends were all happy and full of cake and even that, in it’s own way, was equally as perfect.

#Share a Lair #Henry Danger #The Thundermans #crossover #crossover fanfic #Nesha Crossover #Thundanger #Thunderbolt #Share a Lair Repost #Nesha HD Fanfic #fanfiction #Share a Lair 16 #Serving me Canon Energy

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neshabeingchildish · 4 years

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Thunderstruck Birthday Girl

Share-a-Lair 16

“You and Henry got money from my parents for a birthday spa day for me?”

“I sent Henry to get money, yes. Is that alright?”

She covered her face, “That is SO SWEET! They could have eaten him alive. They’re very inquisitive people.”

“I sent him with an outline of all of the plans,” he said, with a shrug.

“You know me so well that you know how my parents are, even though I haven’t introduced you yet!” She was thunderstruck. He took her bags and handed her a robe and slippers…

“From Henry, himself, an assortment of fine chocolates, a wine drinking accessories set, and a collection of gourmet cheeses.”

“Ooooh… He must’ve gone into his hero funds for this!” She said, pulling things out of Henry’s gift bag.

“You are asking me to move in with you for 3 years from now?” She asked.

“These are really good, Max.”

“I usually just draw project schematics and costumes, but I was having a phase where every time I tried, I had to draw you first, or I’d be distracted the whole time.

“I love it.”

“I’m sorry, what kind?”

“This is amazing! I’ve never seen it before.”

“Yes,” she said, snatching it.

“Yes, I’m a madman?”

“No… Well… yes, but… yes, I’ll move into your comeback home after college graduation.” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“To clarify… Was it the letter?”

“It was the... Max. You’re perfect, Dude. I just…” she shrugged and rested her head on him.