[ Sylvain's answer brings with it a quiet blanket of content that drapes gently across her heavy heart. It's difficult for her not to feel some level of happiness at hearing that, and even more difficult to stop herself from squeezing him tightly in the process all thoughts of leaving for the Old Public Hall and the couch in her office that had become her bed most nights also drifting away in the process.
As her eyes grow heavy and sleep calls to her, several thoughts float through her mind: she hopes that Claude won't hold it against her for wanting this last, selfish thing, that she'll still have the courage to tell Sylvain how she feels and that her heart won't shatter when the inevitable end arrives and that she'll be a better friend to the both of them tomorrow and the days after that.
Her head nuzzles into just over his heart finally drifting off to sleep.
When she wakes the next morning, the previous day is hazy in her mind and there's a dryness to her mouth that is always a clear indication of having drank a little too much. It doesn't register immediately that she's curled up in Sylvain's arms, or that she's even sharing a bed with him. She blinks several times in confusion as her vision comes into focus as she glances down to the arms wrapped around her before her eyes travel lower realizing with a slow horror that she's completely naked underneath the sheets.
Her eyes blow wide open then as she shifts, twisting around to see who it is holding her. Is it a good thing that it's Sylvain holding her? Is it worse than waking up beside a stranger? The better question is why he's holding her in the first place in her bed, in the loft? And that's when last night comes rushing back to her - all the drinks, crying into Marshy's mane, Sylvain finding her, her puking on Sylvain. Hilda inhales. Oh Goddess, she puked on Sylvain.
Hilda scrambles backwards, forcing herself out of Sylvain's arms in a panic - and immediately falls out of the bed with a resounding crash. ]
no subject
As her eyes grow heavy and sleep calls to her, several thoughts float through her mind: she hopes that Claude won't hold it against her for wanting this last, selfish thing, that she'll still have the courage to tell Sylvain how she feels and that her heart won't shatter when the inevitable end arrives and that she'll be a better friend to the both of them tomorrow and the days after that.
Her head nuzzles into just over his heart finally drifting off to sleep.
When she wakes the next morning, the previous day is hazy in her mind and there's a dryness to her mouth that is always a clear indication of having drank a little too much. It doesn't register immediately that she's curled up in Sylvain's arms, or that she's even sharing a bed with him. She blinks several times in confusion as her vision comes into focus as she glances down to the arms wrapped around her before her eyes travel lower realizing with a slow horror that she's completely naked underneath the sheets.
Her eyes blow wide open then as she shifts, twisting around to see who it is holding her. Is it a good thing that it's Sylvain holding her? Is it worse than waking up beside a stranger? The better question is why he's holding her in the first place in her bed, in the loft? And that's when last night comes rushing back to her - all the drinks, crying into Marshy's mane, Sylvain finding her, her puking on Sylvain. Hilda inhales. Oh Goddess, she puked on Sylvain.
Hilda scrambles backwards, forcing herself out of Sylvain's arms in a panic - and immediately falls out of the bed with a resounding crash. ]
Fuck!