The Knight and The Fox.

When times leaves us behind

"Friends forever," He says as she lies across his lap, hands carding through her upturned bangs, "Yeah?"

"Of course," She smiles, "We'll always be friends, Sylvain."

Always. That word was never something Ingrid placed a lot of weight on. It was an infinite amount of time, but so what? They would always be friends, there had never been any doubt back then. There hadn't been any for a long, long time. And once, they'd become something even more. So she'd never have thought she would grow to hate the word. She didn't, either, 'til tonight.

Tonight, she's standing by the bar watching her friends gush over their other friend's engagement. It's sweet really, they're all genuinely excited for her and offering their best advice and encouragement. Ingrid would be too, except she has no experience in that area and, therefore, would be no help. She has resigned herself to the counter where she spectates from a comfortable distance. She's alone, and that's okay, as the solitude allows her mind to wander for a fleeting moment.

But instead of her mind, it's her eyes that wander and end up landing on him. Maybe it's the bright shock of red hair or the glimmer of those honey-olive eyes, or even his debonair smile, but she's struck. There's something about him tonight, something she cannot place to save her life. He's just- different somehow. And while Sylvain is by no means unfamiliar, Ingrid feels as if she's seeing him -really seeing him- for the first time.

And just as well, Sylvain's gaze turns towards her. He gives the others he's sitting with a brief grin before he stands from his seat on the far end of the bar to round the corner with a graceful slide on his heels. An inexplicable wave of guilt washes over Ingrid when his bright energy fades and it becomes something more sober. That's unlike the Sylvain she knows. It's unlike the Sylvain he knows.

Then he's there, standing directly next to her with one arm supporting his stance over the counter. Sylvain's button-up dress shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, just like the other million long-sleeves he owns (why he has so many just to roll them up, Ingrid will never know). He doesn't look at her, but he doesn't look pointedly away either. He lingers in a silence that curdles the anxiety building in her stomach. It's uncomfortable, but she may be the only one feeling it, because he looks at her with kind honey eyes. Ingrid does her best to reciprocate.

There's a gap between them now, it's not something she thinks could be crossed. Not after all this time.

* * *

"Sylvain..." Ingrid mutters into his shirt, her jade-green eyes shut tight.

"No," Sylvain responds, pulling his arms closer around her.

"Sylvain." She says again, "Stop, please."

Sylvain gazes at her as she stands there, tucked in his arms. Her blonde hair is plastered to her forehead, her face is smeared with dirt, and her figure is trembling; Sylvain has never thought her so beautiful.

Ingrid lifts her head from his chest, her eyes open just a bit. Her dark eyebrows knit together. "You know this isn't right."

He does. He really does. But he wants her so bad. "Does it matter?" He asks, already knowing her answer.

"Yes, it matters!" She says, voice strained. "It's not... we're not okay right now. You know that."

"Please, Ingrid, don't do this." Sylvain pleads with her, clasping his hands together around her so tightly his knuckles turn white. "I need you."