#dorovain

[texts-from-3h]

[dvrtrblhr]

All suggested by you people again. Probably won't be able to draw the winner here. Maybe I'll mix what's got more votes here with what's the 2nd-3rd places in the other polls and see what comes of it.

It should go without saying but please don’t be rude just because you don’t like a ship. If you want to debate or discuss a ship, do it in the tags/comments in a polite manner. This is supposed to be fun. Let’s all be mature adults!

If your favorite ship is not here, it's probably featured in another poll. You can see all the polls by going to my blog and choosing the tag "valentines polls". You can also just tell me in the tags or comments.

[basedmoniart]

Never got to share this piece I did as merch for a zine! Please enjoy a performance of Sylvain, Dorothea, and Manuela in The Red Shoes

[riahk]

have y’all heard my “dorothea and sylvain are just cece and schmidt” rant yet

[fe3h-incorrectquotes]

Sylvain: I just feel like we were meant to be together. I mean, look at how fate keeps throwing us at each other!

Dorothea: It's 3 am and you're stuck in my window, how did you even get there?

Sylvain: Fate, Dorothea. Weren't you listening?

[missionkitty]

Cold and Warm - Dorothea/Sylvain (FE3H)

a short one-shot fic i've been writing on and off for the better part of a year and finally managed to finish. i've always liked dorothea's and sylvain's dynamic and wanted to try writing something a little angsty but also fluffy with them. hope you enjoy. no major warnings, just sylvain trying to reminisce about his academy time with dorothea after they reunite post-timeskip and have their a-level support.

***

Sylvain held the dance pose he was in for what felt like an uncomfortably long time. He tried resisting the urge to glance at Dorothea, who he had managed to recruit to help him practice for the White Heron Cup in a few days.

He didn't want to risk looking at her and seeing a look of disgust or…whatever a professional performer would look at him with after what he felt was surely a poor show, based on her silence.

He started to sweat when he thought he heard a giggle. Sylvain whipped his head to see Dorothea stifling a laugh, her hand covering her mouth.

"Wh–Dorothea!" Sylvain whined, dropping his arms.

"Sorry!" Dorothea said, letting out a louder laugh and defensively shaking her hands. "I just wanted to see how long I could get you to stand there like that."

"Come on…I'm being serious, I need your help! I don't wanna let everyone down."

"I know, I know." She settled her laughter with a sigh. "But you looked great. I don't really have much to say, which is why I figured I could mess with you a little."

Sylvain frowned and put his hands on his hips.

"Well, you could stand to loosen up some. It's not like you to be so worried about something like this,” Dorothea responded with a joking pout.

"I'm just nervous! Like…why did the professor have to pick me to do this–why didn't she pick you?" Sylvain groaned, running his hands through his hair. "I mean, you did this kind of stuff for a living, right?"

Dorothea looked at Sylvain, thinking. She hummed and shrugged after a moment, walking up to him.

"Is all this practice cutting into your dates?" She cooed sarcastically.

"Well, sure, but I really do want to do a good job. I still have my pride as a member of the Blue Lions," Sylvain sighed.

"I don't claim to know what the professor is thinking, but I think her judgement has been really good so far–I mean," Dorothea said, dramatically flourishing her hands as she continued, "She let me join you Blue Lions, after all."

Sylvain chuckled and nodded, looking back at Dorothea.

"That's very true."

"Besides, I think I'm getting pretty good at black magic. You can help me fire off a few extra spells on the battlefield once you get that dancer certification," Dorothea added with a wink.

Sylvain smiled at Dorothea. Her apparent confidence helped push away some of his nerves. They had known each other long enough that she never really minced words with him…

Honestly, she could see right through him.

"...Do you think the professor really isn't trying to punish me or humiliate me by having me be the Blue Lions' rep for the Heron Cup?" Sylvain slowly asked, wanting to divert his current train of thought.

"Well, if what you said was true about that pass you made at her during the Horsebow Moon is true, then…maybe she's only trying to punish you a little bit." Dorothea smirked, tugging and adjusting the collar of his white shirt.

Sylvain sighed and gave a sheepish smile as he glanced down at Dorothea.

"What do you think she'll do to me if I don't win?"

"What, Sylvain Gautier scared of a teacher?"

"Did you know the professor's nickname when she was a mercenary was 'Ashen Demon?'" Sylvain faked a shiver, though it was certainly rooted in a real awareness of their professor's abilities.

"I think I've heard that floating around the academy once or twice," Dorothea said with a laughing hum. "She sure likes fishing a lot for being called a demon…"

"And tea." Sylvain gave Dorothea an astonished look. "You know, I still don't get how all these tea invitations are supposed to help me win."

"Sylvain, are you taking all these tea dates with a pretty lady for granted?" She teased, forcefully tugging and adjusting his academy jacket.

"As mysteriously beautiful as our professor happens to be, I think I'd much rather have tea with you," he replied, habitually turning on his charm.

"Oh really?" She looked up at him with a smirk and an accusingly-cocked eyebrow. "Then what's my favorite tea?"

"Sweet-Apple. Or Albinean Berry."

Dorothea looked at him with a mixture of shock and amazement. Sylvain had an unfamiliar feeling churn in his stomach as he processed her wide, green-eyed stare. He felt his ears start to burn and began stammering.

"I mean, I uh, I…I asked the professor…what your favorite was," Sylvain admitted, somewhat embarrassed. Their banter had disarmed him and he felt nervous again, but now for a different reason.

Dorothea's stunned silence eventually gave way to giggles as she shook her head.

"And for what reason did you want to know, dare I ask? If you're trying to flirt again…"

"No, no, nothing like that," Sylvain responded a little more frantically than he intended, "I just…wanted to thank you for helping me with this after it's all over."

"My, that's very considerate of you," she said with a smile. "Though I haven't done much more than just watch. Our professor seems to have done most of the heavy lifting."

"Sure, but for some reason I felt like getting your stamp of approval would help me feel more confident about this whole thing–which I was right about."

Dorothea smiled and nodded.

"I'm glad I could be of help. I look forward to your win."

"I guess I'll practice a little while longer if you don't mind staying," he said, putting his hands behind his head.

"Sure, but…one question." Dorothea looked at Sylvain. "What's your favorite tea?"

"Hmm…well, if the lovely Dorothea is inviting me for tea, then any tea is my favorite."

"Sylvain."

"Sorry, just trying to be funny." He crossed his arms and smiled. "Bergamot, or if you can find it, Seiros tea."

"Hmm, good to know," Dorothea said, smiling in return.

***

Dorothea smiled as she waited for Sylvain to emerge from a darkened corner of the training grounds wearing his new dancer garb. She wished she could have somehow saved the shocked expression that quickly played across Sylvain's face before he quickly resumed his confident demeanor when they announced his name as winner of the White Heron Cup.

She had begged him to show her what he looked like. Sylvain insisted that she would see it on their next mission, but Dorothea had convinced him to give her an early view.

It was kind of late, and hopefully no one would show up in the training grounds tonight–though Sylvain was a bit concerned about Dimitri appearing if he couldn't sleep, which was apparently a common occurrence.

Dorothea assured him she would protect Sylvain's honor and keep the crown prince of Faerghus from intruding on the dancer outfit sneak peek if worse came to worst.

It wasn't much longer before she heard some light jingling and saw Sylvain step into the light of one of the lamps they had lit.

Dorothea was impressed with his color choices–black with red and purple accents, very striking.

"So? What do you think?"

"I think that it suits you surprisingly well," Dorothea said with a smile. "The professor knew what she was doing when she picked you."

Sylvain smiled and chuckled, but stayed silent for a moment after.

"What do you say to that tea invitation now?" He asked, still smiling.

"Ooh, an evening tea…that sounds lovely. You should stay dressed in this though," Dorothea said with a teasing giggle.

"Is it doing anything for you?" Sylvain teased back, making a pose.

"Oh, absolutely! Our next opponents won't know what hit them."

***

Sylvain sat quietly in the monastery in one of the less-ruined pews, staring absently at the pile of rubble that obscured the altar.

He had been pondering those last few months leading up to the Empire's invasion of Garreg Mach after having dinner with Dorothea earlier that night.

It had been five years since he had won the White Heron Cup. However, after Edelgard revealed herself as the Flame Emperor and Rhea and the professor had gone missing, he hadn't really done much dancing. His other talents were needed to help fend off Cornelia's soldiers from absorbing the Gautier territory into the "Faerghus Dukedom."

He was skeptical that anyone would be at the monastery like they had planned five years ago, but amazingly they had found the professor, along with Dimitri. While the professor was the same kind, quiet presence he remembered, Dimitri was…a far cry from the prince he thought he knew.

He shook his head, hoping to push that thought out of his head.

"Here you are," a comforting voice said from behind him.

Dorothea walked up to where Sylvain sat, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah, just thinking…not a whole lot of people here, and thankfully Dimitri is off prowling some other part of the monastery for now."

He resisted the urge to turn his head so he could brush his cheek against Dorothea's hand.

The relief he felt when he saw her standing in front of the mess hall, staring at the fishing pond, was immeasurable. He hadn't really had the luxury of trying to keep in contact with anyone besides Felix and the other nobles still loyal to the late royal family.

He had only heard whispers of the Mittelfrank Opera closing after the war spread and had half-resigned himself to the awful idea that he may never see Dorothea again.

She was a vision in red, but he recognized a familiar sadness in her eyes. The war had taken a lot from everyone.

But now, all the former members of the Blue Lions class, originals and additions, were there at the Monastery again. It was both comforting and bittersweet to see. The memories he recalled were the same.

They had found time to converse after meeting again (perhaps unfortunately right after another of his botched relationships) and seemed to fall right back into lockstep with each other, despite the hard edges the toll of war had sanded onto them.

Some lively banter, an admission of affection from both of them.

Sylvain wasn't sure why the words fell so freely from his tongue about spending the rest of his life with Dorothea, but it happened all the same–and to his surprise, his lovely classmate-turned-confidante seemed to feel the same.

But in solitude it felt unreal. Maybe it was the dark cloud Dimitri now occupied, or seeing the Monastery in ruins and overrun by thieves, or the Faerghus soldiers he had to–

He felt Dorothea’s hand gently run through the hair on the back of his head, pulling him out of his ruminating.

“It’s unlike you to look so serious, Sylvain,” she mused. The tone of her voice was soothing, making his troubled mind settle.

“I haven't mentioned it yet, but I like this length on your hair,” she said quietly. “If we weren’t in the middle of a war, I’d say the past five years treated you well…”

Sylvain finally looked up at Dorothea, concerned with the growing grief he could hear in her voice.

“Dorothea…” he said in a low voice. He scooted over, glancing at her and then at the open space next to him. He patted the pew and tried mustering a small smile.

Dorothea pulled her hand from Sylvain’s hair and sat next to him, her arm touching his. Sylvain automatically tried to scoot away to give Dorothea a little more room, but her hand swiftly touched his leg and gently pulled toward her.

Sylvain looked at Dorothea with a bit of surprise before letting out a breathy chuckle through his nose and stayed where he was.

“I missed you,” Dorothea murmured, squeezing Sylvain’s thigh.

Sylvain could feel his cheeks burning, but kept his eyes down on his feet. Her words felt undeserved. Even with what they were to each other now, the bitterness the war had etched into his skin tried to convince him that he didn’t even deserve her company.

He looked at her hand, five years of suppressed worry and longing rising in his stomach.

“I missed you too.”

Sylvain removed his glove and carefully lifted Dorothea’s hand into his. Was her hand smaller than he remembered? The thought was quashed when she firmly intertwined her fingers with his. Her hand was strong, holding his tight.

The soft warmth of her hand broke the floodgates open.

“I was scared I might never see you again. I had no idea how or when I could even get any kind of message to you…” Sylvain’s voice began to rasp as he held back the ache rising in his chest.

“But we’re here now. Together,” Dorothea responded quickly, surely.

Sylvain looked at her before pulling her hand up to his lips and gently kissing her knuckles. He could feel his heart trying to pound out of his chest.

“Sylvain…” Dorothea’s voice was angelic in his ears. She pulled her hand from his to softly caress and hold his face.

“Truly, being so serious doesn’t suit you,” she continued in a shaky whisper. Her thumbs gently swept over his cheeks. A weak laugh escaped her mouth and a tear rolled swiftly down her face and dripped onto her dress.

Sylvain sighed and placed his ungloved hand on hers.

“I could say the same thing about you.”

They sat in silence, leaning in to each other until their foreheads were touching.

The only thing they could hear was each other’s slow breathing, though Sylvain made note of the occasional tear drop leaving a dark spot on Dorothea’s dark red dress. He cherished the feeling of her fingers brushing against his skin and let out a long, relieved sigh.

He pulled his face far enough away to see Dorothea clearly, but still close enough to feel her warmth. Her green eyes shimmered, though it was due to tears. He gently swept a teardrop away with his index finger as it escaped the corner of her eye, doing his best to keep himself from crying as well.

She was too lovely–even in sadness.

A shiver gently rattled Dorothea’s body and Sylvain let out a small chuckle.

“Come on,” Sylvain began quietly. “Let’s go somewhere a little warmer. Quiet as the chapel is, it’s a bit drafty.”

“Oh?” Dorothea replied, some vitality returning to her tone. She quickly, yet carefully wiped a tear from her other eye. “And where do you propose we go at this time of night?”

Sylvain was relieved to see a small, teasing smile play on Dorothea’s lips.

“Perhaps…my room?” He couldn’t resist falling into an old habit, a playful smile forming, fully prepared to receive a quick, clever retort from Dorothea.

She stared at him, her expression somewhat unreadable to Sylvain. He began to wither a bit as he could only identify a hint of contemplation in her eyes.

He began to try and mentally salvage what he was now beginning to think was a poor joke. He wracked his brain trying to think of where else they could possibly go–but wait, why wouldn’t he want her in his room?

His mind began to buzz with thoughts, having difficulty focusing on any one in particular until a cool draft blew and gently rustled his hair.

He recalled the cold winds of Faerghus at his back as he would ride home from whatever conflict he had quelled. His memories of the Academy becoming more and more like a faint dream. The cold relic spear in his hand twitching, the stone at the base of its blade like a mercilessly unblinking, uncaring eye. His bed, even warmed, was lonely.

Dorothea’s warm hands brushed through his hair again, shaking him from his thoughts again. Her eyes were kind and alive. Her breath, warm and soothing.

“Serious again,” she murmured, smiling sadly. She went silent, but supportive as she awaited his response.

Sylvain smiled slowly as he pulled Dorothea’s palm to his lips, kissing gently and then adjusting her hand to kiss her knuckles again.

“Please,” he said in a low voice. “Would you like to come to my room?”

Any hint of his old, cold, habitual levity was gone from him in this moment. All he could imagine now was Dorothea pulled close to him, her warmth pushing away the cold winds and her eyes illuminating his vision.

Dorothea’s smile was warm. Warmer than any he had possibly seen from her ever.

Sylvain realized that must have been what she was waiting for.

“I would love nothing more.”

As they stood to leave, Sylvain instinctively tried to hold her close, to press her back against his chest, but a slight wince and jump from Dorothea surprised him.

“Sorry, your armor…it’s rather cold.” Dorothea turned and smiled apologetically.

“No, I’m so sorry, I…forget I’m wearing it sometimes,” he replied, looking down at the dark gray chestplate on his torso.

Before he could remember the cold, Dorothea giggled and pulled him along out of the pews.

“Once we get to your room, I’m sure you’d like to change into something a little less bulky,” she said with a hint of mischief.

Sylvain felt his cheeks begin to burn as his thoughts traveled on their own.

“I seem to recall a certain someone being a certified dancer…” Dorothea giggled, her eyes sparkling.

Sylvain’s cheeks burned for a different reason now.

“I, ah, I’m not sure I know where that outfit is…or if I’d still even fit into it…”

“Well, I’m sure we can figure something out. It’s not hard to take measurements, you know.” Dorothea squeezed Sylvain’s hand, still smiling.

Sylvain’s heart raced as he squeezed her hand back.

“Thank you, Dorothea,” he replied gently. “For remembering me.”

“Thank you, Sylvain. For not forgetting me,” her reply was equally gentle.

They left the chapel and walked into the cool night, warm.

[drawannedream]

“Under Pressure”

This is @merionettes’ dorovain from her fic “Rubicon.” Cannot shut my brain up about this fic, not that I want to.

Lineart under cut.

Drawn with graphite on acid free drawing paper. Obviously I could not stop myself from starting Dorothea’s hair, apparently, but I like this version a lot too ♡

Overall, the piece took A Lot Of Hours because I am an agonizingly slow artist. The love was definitely there throughout, though. I’m obsessed with these two.

Thanks to Mer for such an incredible story =]

[slxthserenade]

sylvain and dorothea’s supports being the Manipulation and Guilt-Tripping Olympics will never not be funny to me. they’re both so insecure that they just kinda cancel each other out like multiplying negatives

[kingofgrappling]

[incorrectfriendemblem]

“You get $2 more than me and suddenly you start slapping my ass all the time.”

Sylvain @ Dorothea

[smash-brethren]

another couple of charity commissions ft dorovain and the clients oc!

[zaritarazi]

rachel one of my roommates has never heard of omegaverse as a concept before and the other one is trying to explain it by assigning fire emblem characters as alphas and omegas and I don’t know who any of these characters are but I feel like you have a take on this. this sylvain guy has to be an omega right

Sarah as soon as i read this ask i felt as though i could hear thunder in the distance of discourse that has happened here so i will give you my hot take on this but everyone reading this honor system everyone this is just my take. Like listen i would love to hear other people's sylvain omegaverse thoughts but do not bring the discourse into my home. Reading that sentence is a legally binding agreement. I will sue you if our sacred contract is violated

The thing is. The THING is that sylvain has so many facets like a beautiful traumatized tourmaline, where his terrible coping mechanisms are like the rich gradients of colors and his deeply damaged and endearing personality are the parts that glitter in the sunlight. There's so many things you can do with him. He goes with everything. Day to evening. Slices dices and a third thing. So it really depends on what i'm in the mood for when approaching this rubiks cube man. Most likely i'd be looking for dorovain and my initial want is dorothea is the alpha and sylvain is the omega, but if i see a fic that's the other way around i'm still 1000% interested in reading it.

I mean of course there's the part of me that's just chibi picture of sylvain on a bread box get in since you wanna be bred so bad but then i think about how much he hates the pressure to produce heirs and how having a heat would be really hard for him and it makes me want to put him in my microwave. What's a she/they to do with this equation you know

[basedmoniart]

[CM] for GingerMini on Twitter

[riahk]

typical day at the training grounds

[roraruu]

YOTO: June

Dorovain. Downpour/Wedding/proposal/sick fic.

There’s two Petras in her hallway. Dorothea does her best to steady herself against the wall, pulling on the tapestry depicting some saintly ancestors doing something or other. But she doesn’t care about wrinkling—or goddess forbid, ripping—it. An overwhelming sense of guilt and disappointment hangs over her for the news she just delivered.

She won’t be attending Petra’s wedding.

The two Petras are politely distanced from Dorothea, at the lady’s insistence. Outside, two guards wait, dressed in bright Brigidian colours and crests depicting a gleaming blue sun. The Petras, not the guards which are multiplying, assure her: “Do not be worrying, Dorothea.”

“I’m so so sorry, Petra.” Dorothea says in a hoarse voice. Years ago, she’d be mortified that she is in the process of losing her voice, her talent, her assurance of a better life. Now, she only cares about apologizing to her dear friend who has crossed the ocean.

“There will be other times, I promise you!” Petra promises her.

A headache looms over Dorothea, fuelled by pressure and guilt. “But it’s your wedding. And you wanted me there as a witness…” Dorothea argues. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken that stroll in town. Enbarr is a pit of sickness in the winter.”

“It is not your fault.” Petra assures her gently. Dorothea keeps a handkerchief to her mouth, as to keep her sickness to herself. “Bernadetta said she would help if needed.”

“I’m sure she’s been to a lot of weddings, given her title as minister of religion. She probably knows the vows down pat.”

Petra smiles and pulls her fur coat closer to herself. “She is much changed, indeed.” She notices how Dorothea’s face falls and makes her voice cheery. “I will be back in the fall, we will see each other then.”

Dorothea longs to agree but can’t. “No promises.” She says before shooing Petra out of the hallway of Gautier Manor. “Go go! I won’t make the bride-to-be sick.”

Petra departs with a sad smile and a last glance over her shoulder. She departs into the arms of her guardian knight, who is waiting only a few feet away. They multiply once again, hazy double-visions of two couples hurrying through the thickening blanket of rain into their carriage.

Dorothea braces herself against the front door to see them off, clutching onto the frame with all her might, then decides the front door step is a good place for a nap.

—

Dorothea wakes up in her bed and feels like a rusty nail is being pounded through her head. The room is dark but she can hear the howls of rain outside the newly built estate. Dorothea’s hand goes to her head, as if the pressure from her hand will reduce the pressure in her head.

A jagged shard of candlelight slices through the curtains of the four poster bed. Dorothea moans and cracks open an eye. She sees her lover Sylvain holding a teapot, a look of softened concern on his face.

“Hey Thea.” Sylvain greets gently. “Can you sit up?”

She whines and manages to. Then, the sneezing comes and doesn’t stop. He offers his handkerchief which Dorothea tries to give back.

He cringes a little and gently says, “Sorry darling, it’s better yours than mine.”

“Oh.” Dorothea mumbles, remembering that he isn’t sick. “Right. I’ll have it laundered I guess.”

“Good idea.” Sylvain sets down a tea tray and sits beside her on the bed.

“Wait, why are you here? You’ll get sick.” She argues. “You’ll miss the conference.”

The same conference that brought the two down from Faerghus and set them up in one of the Hresvelg’s many guesthouses. It was to be a roundtable discussion between the remaining noble houses—Fraldarius, Galatea, Gaspard and of course, Gautier—on preserving borders following the fall and dissolution of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.

To say that this was important was an understatement. Sylvain had been preparing since Edelgard had first mentioned the topic months ago in passing. Gautier territory was the most eager to discuss it, given the borders on Sreng and the relationship that the new Margrave had been building between the Srengi people and Fódlan.  

Sylvain’s reach didn’t end there. He managed to sway Ingrid’s brothers to come down; they had staunchly been against the idea for months, especially after the death of their sister. The remaining Fraldariuses—a cousin of Felix’s—had been implored by Sylvain to make the trip and would be down within the fortnight.

Ashe, the eldest of Lonato Gaspard’s children, and entitled to the estate before his engagement, had returned both to marry in the Fódlani church and to argue for Gaspard’s borders. Upon coming of age, his younger siblings—who would be staying in Fodlan—would inherit it, but for now, Ashe remained as the sole heir.

This was important. She thinks.

“Don’t worry about it Thea.”

“Syl,” Dorothea says. “You’ve been planning this with Edie for ages. I can’t be the one to take you away from it.”

“You’re not taking me away from anything, Thea.” He insists. “Drink this. It’s valerian and feverfew. It should help you sleep off the headache.”

Dorothea takes the teacup and sips the bitter herb tea. She cringes and looks at him. “If you’re staying here because of me, I’m still playing a part. Edie needs you there. The old Kingdom supporters respect the Gautiers and you. You have the most sway now.”

“Like I said, it can wait.” He insists. “If you mean half as much to Edelgard as you mean to me, she’ll understand. Besides, I’m sure she’s got her hands full with rearranging cabinet and wrangling Claude for a conference regarding the Leicester territories. They’ll be just as much trouble as us Faerghus rebels.”

Dorothea sneezes again and her head feels like it’s about to burst. She winces and sinks back into the pillows, shutting her eyes. “I have a feeling the Alliance nobles won’t be as open to being under the Empire again.” She moans.

“I’ve written to Count Gloucester. He seems more open to it. Or his wife did at least.”

“She’s always been more… politically minded.” Dorothea winces as her head feels like it’s about pop and her heart aches at the mention of a wife. She thinks of Petra, preparing for her Fódlani wedding without her maid of honour. “Goddess…”

Sylvain moves closer to her, crawling beneath the sheets. “What’s wrong?”

“I feel awful about missing Petra’s wedding.”

“C’mon, she understands.”

“But she wanted me to witness it so it would be official here.” Dorothea says sadly. “I feel like a bad friend.”

“If you weren’t sick, you’d be there, right?”

“I would.”

Sylvain inclines his head. “See?”

“This is the worst time to get sick.” Dorothea bemoans, then sneezes again. She sighs, eyes watery as she reaches for the wet hanky. “I should’ve been smarter. Why’d I go into Enbarr…”

Sylvain shakes his head. “No one could talk you out of it.”

Dorothea sighs and thinks of the reason why she went: to see the opera house. It had been badly damaged in the war and was finally about to be repaired, thanks to a large grant from a certain noble. Seeing it was worth the sickness, and of course, passing through the streets, Dorothea came across orphans and urchins like herself and shared her newfound wealth with them; regretfully, they shared their colds with her.

(But truthfully, she wouldn’t trade those moments for the world. The sparkle in the eyes of a woman who recognized her as the Mystical Songstress. The little boy who gasped when he realized she knew the emperor. Those make the head-cold worth it.)

Dorothea sighs and settles against his shoulder, curling into him.

“Drink that tea up, otherwise I’ll have to tell Ashe you didn’t like it.”

She keeps her eyes shut and forces a smile. “Did you tell him?”

“Duh. I asked him for ideas.” Dorothea watches as Sylvain leans closer and presses a kiss to her temple. “Can’t stand to see you sick.”

Dorothea heaves a sigh. “Please don’t do it again.”

“Do what?” Sylvain asks playfully as he takes her left hand. He kisses the back of her palm, her lithe fingers.

“This.” She says, feeling her headache lessen.

“I’m doing nothing.” He says. “Aside from thinking about how nice a big diamond would look on your finger.”

Dorothea sighs. “You want a sick wife with a runny nose?”

Sylvain looks at her like she’s asked a stupid question. He kisses her nose. “Is that even a question? Come on Thea, I’d marry if your nose was red and stuffy and you got me sick.”

Dorothea rolls her eyes. “You’re on the road to getting sick by sticking by me.”

“There’s no other place I’d rather be.”

She melts against him for a moment, thinking about how he’s so close to saying what she wants to hear. Being there in sickness is a good start; being there when she’s vulnerable is too; but she wants it all. The grey-hairs and achy joints and fading beauty and musing on the good old days of glory and youth. Waking up next to him when they’re no longer young and beautiful. Age, it’s golden hues and the passing of time and fleeting moments that become precious memories.

He said it once.

I’d rather be with you until you’re an old grandma.

If only he said it when he proposed.

She curls against him, breathing in his scent and feeling his arms around her. Her headache eases—unsure if it’s the tea or him—and Dorothea melts into him. He presses another kiss into her hair.

“Marry me, Thea.” He begs her gently, his voice soft and muffled.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry Sylvain, but no.” She says.

“Not the right words?”

“No.” She agrees. “Not yet.”

“Will you tell me when I’ve got it right?”

“Promise.” Dorothea smiles and looks up at him. “You’ll know.”

They stay like that in bed for a little longer. A warm feeling makes a spot in her chest as the feverfew and valerian draw her to sleep.

A few days later, Dorothea is bringing him tea and cuddling into him while he moans about his poor head, and Edelgard delivers curealls she swears by.

[indigowallbreaker]

Here’s a headcanon that I have: Sylvain’s mother used to sing him traditional Gautier lullabies when he was a wee, and then as he grew into *gestures* he used it as a seduction technique.

For added oomph, I like to think that when he settles down for real after the war, his partner (my fave for this is Dorothea for obvious reasons) sings him the same lullaby when he’s stressed out or having nightmares.

"as he grew into *gestures*" I love Sylvain a whole lot but that does sum it up, huh?

Sylvain and Dorothea unable to sleep due to nightmares. Dorothea lays on Sylvain’s chest, his hand trailing through her hair rhythmically, as she sings until they both calm down. 

Yes to all this <3