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The last time she'd been to a formal party was the ball at Garreg Mach nine years ago, and she'd stayed half an hour before running back to her room. Why stay if no one was going to ask her to dance, and why bother hoping someone would ask her? She was a homely, pathetic girl who sang in the greenhouse, wrote stupid stories to make herself look better, and stuffed her face with cake.
After the war, she'd intended to go back to Varley and spend the rest of her life in her room. But then the invitation came for King Dimitri's coronation ball, and before she could toss it onto the fire a package arrived at the manse where she and Dorothea were staying for the time being.
"From House Gautier," the courier said, standing the large flat box on its end. Gautier?! Immediately a flash of red hair and playfully sincere eyes came to mind, along with words of praise and encouragement she'd brushed off as a plot to humiliate her. She hadn't written much since that day, a few sentences here and there during the war but it was as if her inspiration had died.
Gautier. Back then she'd stopped writing because she was so sure Sylvain was plotting against her, but once she realized he was serious she'd felt so ashamed of herself she couldn't bear to pick up the pen again. She'd taken a look at the writing he'd praised only to flinch from embarrassment. Prose full of overwrought emotion, flowery dialogue, plot points shoved in to make the main character look braver and smarter than she really was.
She didn't want to open the package, but curiosity got the better off her. She handed the courier some gold and once he left, she undid the ribbons and the wrapping with shaking hands and lifted the box's lid.
It was a dress. No, a satin gown in her exact size, a cut Dorothea would call flattering. It was a deep shade of purple with silver accents and bits of white lace and matching purple gloves. She held it up to inspect it and a card fell from the folds of the skirt.
Hey, Bernadetta,
I know you and I didn't talk much during the war, and I can't help thinking it's my fault. I mean, I meant what I said about your stories but I didn't consider maybe there was a reason you didn't like sharing them. Sorry for being so pushy. I know this won't make up for it, but I hope you'll wear it to His Highnesses coronation tonight.
I miss you.
Sylvain.
She shouldn't go to that ball. She was older now, but she was still Bernadetta, the nervous wreck, the hideaway. No one would be surprised if she didn't show up, they'd probably scoff if she did. Sylvain would be disappointed, but he'd find someone else to dance with and get over it.
No he wouldn't. House Gautier's trying to get back on its feet after a war and he still spent money on a dress for you! Usually, the little voice in her head tried to talk her out of doing anything by reminding her of her lack of social skills and warning of humiliation and ostracism, all in her father's voice.
This time it was her own, telling her the exact opposite. Go to the ball. Wear the dress, let him see you, at least talk to him. When Dorothea came home from shopping she would likely say the same thing, if she didn't outright go to Sylvain and suggest he pick Bernadetta up at the manse. You two could double date with me and Felix, she'd probably say.
She hadn't heard word of or from her father, even after Edelgard's fall. Maybe he'd stay under house arrest forever. Even if not, he wouldn't be anywhere near the Kingdom capital tonight.
So against her better judgement, Bernadetta carefully hung the dress in the front of her closet. She'd ask Dorothea if she could borrow a necklace to go with her pearl hair clips, and to help her with her makeup. She would go, and if nothing else she woukd try to have a good time.
She looked like an eggplant. The dress fit perfectly, wasn't too revealing, and was comfortable to move in. But she looked like an eggplant. That's not your fault, Dorothea had said, he's the one who chose it. Maybe he hadn't realized what it would look like with her hair.
But all the others told her was how nice she looked. Even Felix said so without getting embarrassed and grumbly about it.
"So where's Sylvain, anyway?" Dorothea asked. "Kind of rude for a man to send a lady a dress, invite her out, and then not show up."
"He's here," Felix said, "he's just hiding. Poor fool, got himself all worked up about tonight, too."
"Felix," Ingrid scolded from where she stood beside their former professor. "It's not as bad as he's making it out to be, Bernadetta, he's just..." She stifled a giggle. "He really wants to look his best tonight."
"So do I?" And suddenly the group became silent, except for a nervous cough from Annette as she tried not to laugh.
Sylvain stood in the doorway wearing a rust-colored suit that almost matched his hair.
"You look very neat and well-put together," King Dimitri said. The others threw in their own reassurances, which Sylvain accepted with a self-deprecating smile.
"Thanks, but it's okay if you say it. I look like a carrot." He shrugged. "It looked more brown last time I tried it on, maybe it's my hair." And at that moment, Bernadetta realized two things:
One: Sylvain had no sense of color coordination. Not to the extent of disaster, but his thought process when buying her that dress had been the same as when he picked out that suit.
Two: They both looked like vegetables.
"We match," she said without thinking, and before she could chastise herself for it he burst out laughing and so did she. Then everyone else did, even Dedue and the professor. Once it died down, Dorothea tugged on Felix's arm.
"Let's leave them alone for a while," she said. Felix pretended to grumble, but snuck a glance at Sylvain as if to both wish him luck and warn him not to mess up. That goes for both of us, Bernadetta thought as Sylvain offered his arm and led her to a corner of the ballroom.
"I'm glad you came tonight," he said. "I'm really sorry about the dress, I just saw purple and thought of you and didn't really-"
"It's okay! I mean...you bought it just for me, right? I appreciate it," she said, fingers running along the fold of her skirt. "Thank you, by the way. And...about the note..."
"I'm sorry," he said. "About your writing. I guess you started hiding your manuscripts after that, and I don't blame you." Bernadetta bit her lip, trying not to twist the beautiful satin between her fingers.
"I haven't written anything since then," she mumbled. "I just...lost my drive. I was mad, and then I felt guilty for being mad, then the war started up." She sighed. "I'm...not used to being complimented on my writing. Or anything I do." Even her uncle had never read her stories or seen her art projects, even knowing he truly cared for her Father had had fully convinced her that her interests were worthless and she would just be a bother.
"Oh." Sylvain ran a hand through his hair. "Well...why?"
"It's...not something I want to talk about here, not right now." He didn't say anything, and as much as she wanted to avoid his gaze she wound up looking in to worried brown eyes. "Please, don't-"
"It's fine. I won't push you," he said. "But for what it's worth, I think you're wonderful. Not just your stories, you overall." He reached for her hand, then jerked back. "It's me who should feel useless, I've not-" He looked away. "Never mind."
They stood there, two anxious and awkward vegetables, neither one feeling worthy of the other. Sylvain obviously had a few hangups himself, ones she didn't dare ask about but whatever they were made him understand her more than she thought someone like him ever could.
"I just wanted to see you again," he finally said. "I want to know you. At first I was just enthralled with your writing, but the more time we spent fighting side by side during the war the more I wanted to get to know the woman." He offered his hand again. "Can we start over?"
"Sylvain..." She'd been mad about him reading her stories, guilty for assuming the worst of him, but too afraid to apologize and reach out to him. She would have gone back to Varley without ever speaking to him again, hiding in her room for the rest of her life. But she was here, so was he, and she didn't want to lose this chance.
Smiling, she gently took his hand and nodded.
"Yes. I-I'd like that." He smiled back at her.
"Would you like to dance? Unless it's too soon, then we can just...stand here and talk more." Bernadetta took a deep breath and glanced towards the dance floor. It wasn't full yet, and everyone was too focused on their partners.
"I want to dance with you. I-I'm not very good, but-"
"It's okay. I don't care, as long as it's with you."
A carrot and an eggplant, shiny but imperfect, stumbling around the dance floor. Maybe she'd write a story about that tomorrow, and make sure he was the first person to read it.