“Honestly.” Sylvain grumbled, and ran a hand through his hair beside you in the infirmary. His shoulders sagged with overexertion and he leaned close to you, the dark circles underneath his eyes contrasting against pale skin.

War.

War was on everyone’s minds, and Sylvain was sick of it.

“I don’t want next month to come.” He grumbled into your hair, and his calloused hands grasped at you almost desperately. “I’m afraid.”