#I was REAL proud of the pour on that sake carafe

[crossroadsdog]

Dragon & Koi set, 2023

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sold

[chappedandfadedvds]

Oct 31th, Saturday 15:27

„So here we are. Casa Stoffels.“ Jens provided happily, as they stepped into the open space, kitchen and dinning space to their right and living room on their left. And right infront of them on the floor on spread out pages of newspaper sat Robbe, Sander, Milan and Lotte. Already deeply indulged into their craft, drawing shapes and discussing designs. Knives, tools, pens and four orange pumpkins of various sizes placed in their center. 

The fifth one was currently infront of Lotte, who had taken the space next to Sander. And Jens swore to god, sometimes this boy just didnt think things through.

„Sander, you do not give my eight-year old sister a big fat sharp knife to carve into a pumpkin. And herself while she’s at it.”

„She has to learn to do it at one point.“ Sander tried to defend casually shrugging, not yet having let go of the handle of the knife, he was about to press into Lotte’s tiny hand. His sister was looking up at Jens too, almost pleading to be allowed to do it. 

„Yes, but not at eight.“ Jens insisted and then continued directly at his little sister: „Sander, can cut it open and you can hollow it out like last year, okay? Maybe you can try and help to cut some pumpkin for the soup later?���

That seemed enough to please Lotte as she happily nodded, agreeing to Jens completely, before turning back to Sander. This girl loved Sander so much. Mainly because he was always playing and fooling around with her when he was over. He remembered the huge blanket fort they had set up in her room last winter. A massive structure that englufed all furniture and stood for weeks. 

Or the one weekend, when Sander still went through the end of a depressive phase, Lotte had offered her bed to him, and then talked, and read her two-graders school work to the sad boy all day long. 

Or the one day when they spend hours online on Zoom, him rating all her drawings. 

It was great actually, because it meant that Jens and Robbe had lots of time to themselfes when they all met up. And Sander really seemed to enjoy his time with Lotte quite a bit too.

Just as he was about to ask what Lucas would like to drink, in order to be a good host and also make Lucas feel welcomed, Robbe and Milan had greeted the newly arrived boy, who replied explaining the spontaneous invitation by Jens last night. That made Lotte spun around surprised. Apparently she hadn’t noticed Lucas standing in their house at all.

„Who are you? You sound funny.“ She inquired blunt and straight forward as only a child could. 

„I’m Lucas, a new friend of your brother from school. I’m from the Netherlands actually.“ Lucas introduced himself yet again this week. He seemed a bit taken aback as she had adressed his dutch accent, but certainly amused by the little girl, who thought long about his answer and then smiled up at him.

„Okay, I’m Lotte. You can share Jens’s pumkin then.“ She decided, making everyone laugh and her instead very confused why it had prompted such a reaction.

„Sounds like a really good idea, Lotte.“ Jens agreed as soon as he had calmed down again.

„Only if I get to draw the face. You probably can’t draw shit and I’m not having an ugly ass pumpkin for Halloween.“ Lucas said leaning over just a bit towards Jens, his elbow poking his side, which made Jens suddenly realise how close they were actually standing. He turned his head just enough to find the smile he liked so much on those pretty lips. They were way too close for his comfort, especially having his sister and friends watching them.

„Sure.“ Jens barely managed to get out and then with a bit more confidence pointed towards the kitchen counter, that showed a huge glass carafe, filled to the brim. „Would you like something to drink?“

„What do you have?“ Lucas asked as they both made their way over, the others back to their task of carving the pumpkins. Only Robbe had thrown them another brief glance, Jens had noted, a bit worried if he had made his nervousness too obvious perhaps. Robbe knew him too well to not see that Jens was acting a bit off at times.

„I’ve made ice tea.“ Jens stated as he grabbed a couple of glasses from the cabinet across, placing them beside the carafe, for the others to take later as well.

„You? You made it?“ Lucas asked looking impressed and Jens felt even more proud now, that he could surprise Lucas like that, as it honestly was just ice tea. Lotte probably could have done it. He didn’t mind the boy‘s praise though.

„Yes, my mom used to do it all the time, she taught me and now I’m the ice tea chef or however you wanna call it. It is basically just green tea, with some roasted rice, and added apple and elderflower. And some honey.“ Jens explained brightly, pouring two glasses and handing one to Lucas. Their hands touched. Obviously they would, no wait they really wouldn’t. Why was Jens so affected by it? He couldn’t help himself though and watched the glass instead, as it was been brought to Lucas’s lips, who in turn never took his eyes off of Jens. Shouldn’t this be wierd? 

„Wow. This is really good. I love it. I guess I’ll move in now, knowing you are amazing at ice tea making.“ He teased grinning like an idiot and Jens just stood there, absolutely overwhelmed and even a bit insecure for fuck’s sake. He never was that. He was Jens. Jens was confident and cocky and brazen at times. Now he didn’t know what to do with himself. 

„Already moving in, isn’t that a bit hasty, shouldn’t you take me out on a date first?“ Thank god for years of flirting experience and cheesy lines, his brain seemed to still be working, even if his body has decided to fail him, as he spilled half his drink as he had tried to put his glass back down.

„Shit.“ He mumbled, already grabbing for the paperr towel by the kitchen sink.

„Let me.“ Lucas appeared directly behind him. Jens could feel the heat radiating from the boy’s body, as he reached around him, taking it from the counter. He knew if he would lean back just a little, he would fall into the body of Lucas. A thought he found way too alluring to have on a saturday afternoon, with guests just across the room. And then Lucas was gone.

„Thank you.“ Jens said smiling anyway, ignoring the little dissapointment in their distance again, as they both cleaned up the tea.

„Could you bring us some spoons, to cave them out?“ Milan asked, looking over, presenting them with his pumpkin he held high up into the air. A proper halloween pumpkin face was outlined on it’s deep orange skin and it reminded him, that they actually were doing the whole pumpkin carving thing.

„Will do.“ Jens replied loudly, already opening the drawer to pull them out.

„Alright, Mister Artist, let’s see what you can do.“ He winked at Lucas, feeling much more poised to handle having the dutch boy here, and walked over. Followed close by Lucas, who plopped down next to him once Jens had taken his place in the circle.

„No, this is your pumpkin!“ Lotte complained pointing towards the flattest one in the middle, when Lucas had dared to take the tall one next to it. „This one is mine, Sander had promised me to put a witch and a cat on it.“ She explained, as if Lucas was dumb and it was common knowledge.

„What the hell are you doing, Robbe?“ Sander questioned his boyfriends dotted pumpkin, pecking a kiss at his cheek, delighted. Only recieving a wiggle of brows in response and a short: „You will see.“

„Am I the only one doing a traditional face here?“ Milan feigned hurt and looked between their designs that started taking shape.

„What can I help it, if you are just as uninspired as most of the boring people on this earth. Bad gay.“

„Sander! Very thin ice, my friend. I am the one on the rental agreement for the flat, that you decided was your new residence.“

„No, I love you, Milan. For real. Promise. Don’t kick me out.“

„Asshole, I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You are lucky I love my little Robbe too much to put him on the street. Because I swear to god, this boy would follow you right out, if I dared.“

„Good to know.“

„You better not use that as leverage in the future.“

„I wouldn’t even dream about it.“

Maybe not having a big, loud halloween party this year wasn’t as bad, Jens thought only half listening. Instead he observed Lucas intently drawing a scary set of teeth onto the pumpkin, biting his lip in concentration. While Milan and Sander went on teasing each other, in an endless cycle of jabs and quips, much to Robbe’s and Lotte’s entertainment. 

Yes, maybe Jens could get used to this quiet bliss.

[allie-writes]

Word of Mouth

Rating: General Audiences Warnings: None apply Category: Gen Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Ashe Ubert (implied), Sylvain Jose Gautier/Felix Hugo Fraldarius (implied) Word count: 1866 Language: English Read on: Fanfiction.net | AO3

Ingrid, Sylvain, and rumours.

Ingrid sits with her back exemplarily straight, her prim posture at odds with the grime in her hair and the stains on her clothes. That much is almost nostalgic—Sylvain vaguely remembers the Ingrid of his youth being constantly covered in more filth than the rest of them combined, and terribly proud of the fact as well.

 “I’m honoured you’d think to stop by here, honestly,” he tells her, pouring a generous shot of brandy for Ingrid before putting the stopper back on the carafe.

 “You know I try to visit whenever I can find the time,” she replies in that fondly chiding tone Sylvain misses sometimes and leans back into the plush pillows of the lounge chaise she is occupying.

 Sylvain walks over to her and offers her the drink. Ingrid’s small smile is grateful as she accepts it. “I take it the knightly life is still doing it for you, then?” he asks.

 “Of course it is.”

 It’s easy to tell just by her expression, if Sylvain is being honest. She seems awfully comfortable in her skin nowadays, like she’s found the place she’d always been meant to be. Looking at her makes something terribly warm bubble up in the pit of his stomach.

 A log cracks in the fireplace; the salon is almost stiflingly warm. Still, Sylvain sits right next to Ingrid, leg up in her space as if he was twenty again and trying to get a rise out of her. She seems entirely unfazed now, and it’s a bit disappointing. “And you? Are you doing well, Margrave?”

 Sylvain snorts a little laugh at the title. “Oh yeah, all that official business is absolutely riveting,” he replies. “As you can imagine.”

 Ingrid rolls her eyes with a smile and takes a sip from her drink. “If there wasn’t more to your life, I’m pretty sure you would have gone insane by now,” she says, gently knocking her knee into Sylvain’s thigh.

 “Totally. Securing the border is a real blast.”

 This actually earns him a shove. “Oh, come now!” Ingrid scoffs. “I know for a fact you’ve been to Fhirdiad a few times over the past year!”

 “Then why do you ask?”

 She sighs. “I want to know how you are holding up, not what you’ve been doing, Sylvain.”

 It’s curious how much his name can sound like a mild insult, coming from Ingrid. He feels a bit dense, anyway. “I’m alright, really. Better, now that I got to see my dear friend Ingrid again, of course.”

 “We missed each other, the last time you came to Fhirdiad,” she replies, almost bashfully. She swivels her glass and watches the brandy lap at the walls. “It’s a shame, really. It was only for a supply-run, and yet I couldn’t be there.”

 Sylvain considers throwing an arm around her shoulders for a second or two but ultimately thinks better of it. Instead, he makes sure his words come out in the worst drawl he can manage. “If you started slacking on your duties to see me, I’d tell His Majesty that you’ve been kidnapped and replaced by an impostor.”

 Ingrid huffs, pretends not to smile, and leans into Sylvain’s side. It’s unlike her; she must really have missed him. “Thank Sothis that’s not the case, then,” she says, grinning fifteen years younger than her current age.

 She’s shockingly pretty like this, and some impulse born out of a bad old habit compels Sylvain to sling that arm around her after all. “I talked to Ashe. Did he tell you?” he asks, and feels rather than sees Ingrid nod.

 “He didn’t tell me what about, though. So, what did you talk about?”

 “Oh, you know, all the fun things Ashe likes. Knightliness, chivalry, politics, books... girls.” That earns Sylvain an elbow in the ribs. He laughs in order to hide the wince. “Really!” he insists.

 “I kind of have an inkling that you were to one to start with that topic,” Ingrid replies, and Sylvain can’t see it, but he could swear she’s battling a smile in that exasperated way of hers.

 “Well, we did talk about you.”

 “O-oh,” she mutters. That, apparently, makes more sense in her book. “Well, I hope he only had good things to say.”

 Sylvain hums. “I don’t think Ashe could badmouth anyone if he tried.”

 That earns him a laugh. “I agree,” Ingrid says and leans forward, twisting in her seat to meet Sylvain’s eye. There’s something mischievous to her expression. She puts her glass down before she continues, “And did you glean anything worthwhile from what he said?”

 “Except for the fact that you’re the most exemplary knight serving under His Majesty, a beacon of bravery, chivalry, all that is good and that you’re an inspiration to all? Not really.”

 Ingrid flushes and averts her eyes. “Coming from him,” she mumbles, more to herself than anything. She wets her lips and glances back towards Sylvain. “Nothing else, apart from that?”

 “What do you want me to say?” Sylvain asks. “That he told me something embarrassing? That he decided to tell me he was madly in love with you?”

 Swallowing, Ingrid stares off into the fireplace. She seems to be debating whether she should go on before she says, “Well, there are rumours about that.”

 She’s still leaning forward, and the distance between them suddenly feels like a mile. “There’s always rumours,” Sylvain replies. A hollow feeling settles into the pit of his stomach. He gathers his hands into his lap. “But it’s just people talking.”

 The gaze Ingrid fixes him with is downright painful. “That’s easy for you to say.”

 Which is—fair, Sylvain concedes. He’d used gossip and rumours to cultivate an image for the longest time. Something shallow, something dumb, something of a whore, something that was one hell of a lot easier to explain than the mess buried underneath.

 But still.

 “Are they true, then?” he asks, maybe to be a bit cruel. “Are you and Ashe—“

 “No, we’re not,” Ingrid says firmly, brows knitted together. Her eyebrows have always been much darker than her hair. Right now, they look ugly. “It’s none of your business, anyways.”

 The air between them stills. Ingrid’s shoulders are tense, her mouth in a severe frown. Sylvain regards Ingrid calmly, just watching her breathe until the crease in her brow eventually smoothes out.

 “I didn’t think it would get to me like this,” she admits, apologising after a fashion, as the tension is drained from her system. “People talking behind my back, more concerned about whether I am courting someone than my accomplishments...”

 There’s a glassy quality to her eyes as she stares off into the middle distance, voice shaky and frail. She feels tiny next to Sylvain, suddenly, and he’s acutely aware of where he misstepped. “See, Ingrid, that’s why all I do is try talking to Sreng without getting stabbed and visiting the capital every few months,” Sylvain says, forcing a lightness he doesn’t feel. But it gets Ingrid to snort a laugh and look at him again—forest green and fond��and it feels like a win.

 “Here I am, working every day of my life,” she says, her lips quirked into a smile, “only for the esteemed Margrave to earn more praises than I for botching diplomacy and being lazy.”

 Sylvain puts a hand to his chest, gasping. At the gesture, Ingrid snorts again. “You wound me! I don’t botch diplomacy. I’m just that charming.”

 She grins now, resting her elbow on the chaise’s armrest to prop her head up on her hand like some religious painting. “You know, I’m kind of surprised I don’t have to clean up after your scandals anymore.”

 “Should I break a maiden’s heart for old times’ sake, then?” Sylvain offers, only for Ingrid to roll her eyes. “Anything for you, you know.”

 “I don’t think I’ll ever hold ‘consoling crying village girls’ in fond memory,” she replies drily.

 Sylvain slides down in his seat, picking up Ingrid’s abandoned brandy and taking a swig of it. Her whole face scrunches up in disdain. “Fair enough,” he replies, licking his lips. “Doesn’t the rumour mill of Fhirdiad have some choice opinions on me?”

 “You know I don’t care for gossip.” She tries to sound blasé, but Ingrid has never been good at lying or hiding things, earnest as she is. “You probably know more than I do.”

 “Really,” Sylvain says, flatly. “C’mon, Ingrid, you know I’m used to worse. You don’t have to coddle me.”

 She sighs, seemingly relenting. “How’s Felix doing, Sylvain?” she asks, though, slow and deliberate and pregnant with meaning and—

 “Oh,” Sylvain breathes before he can catch himself, probably—tellingly—flushing all the way up to his hairline. Ingrid’s brows shoot up in surprise, eyes wide as dinner plates. Sylvain looks anywhere but her and slaps on a smile that fools exactly no one. “Oh, I haven’t heard from him in a while. Maybe you should pay him a visit on your way back, too,” he blathers, shooting for normalcy, really, but his voice comes out strained.

 “Y-yes, that’s a good idea!” Ingrid agrees, equally as flustered.

 A beat, then.

 “Maybe don’t share your gossip with him, though,” Sylvain suggests, “Goddess knows it might upset him.”

 There’s a very clear admission between the lines here. Ingrid plucks the brandy out of Sylvain’s grasp and downs the entire rest in one go. “I won’t,” she says, slamming the empty glass down on the coffee table. “He doesn’t care for it, anyways.”

 “I’m sure he’d listen if you decided to tell him that you and Ashe—“

 “For Sothis’ sake Sylvain, let it go!” she scolds, swatting at his arm. She looks pinker in the face now, and Sylvain has a hard time deciding whether it’s from the brandy or something else. “I was being delicate, and yet you—“

 “I know, I know. I’m impossible, nay, incorrigible.”

 Ingrid huffs and crosses her arms, yet seems satisfied with that answer. “As long as you know it,” she says, not without humour, and stands up. She offers Sylvain a hand to pull him to his feet as well, smiling something pretty and lopsided. “I think we should turn in for the night.”

 Sylvain closes his hand around Ingrid’s wrists before he finds himself dragged up way too easily considering Ingrid is a whole head shorter. “Maybe we should,” he agrees, so of course, neither of them moves.

 Ingrid sighs, looking up at Sylvain. “Don’t let what others say get to you,” she says, only two decades late. Then, more quietly, “I know rumours are worse when they’re based on some semblance of the truth.”

 “Ingrid,” Sylvain exhales, and has to shake his head to prevent himself from shoving his foot in his mouth. That’s all she’s going to tell him, and that’s fine. He smiles at her. “I’m sure they’ll be done preparing a room for you by now.”

 “Then we should be going.” Ingrid gallantly offers Sylvain her arm, and he loops his own through it with exaggerated words of thanks.  She smiles mischievously, then. “Can’t have any rumours spreading about us, after all,” she says, and Sylvain can’t help but laugh.