Work Text:
Breakfast together has become a routine for them during the Kingdom Army’s time at Garreg Mach. Both Seteth and Rodrigue rise early, beaten only by a few servants and sometimes Felix, who slinks off to the Training Grounds as early as he can. Thus the Dining Hall has become their sanctuary of sorts, for a half hour or so at least each morning.
In the beginning, their conversation had been friendly, but distant. Talk of war, strategy, their concerns about Dimitri. Over the course of a month however, as news had become scarce and their acquaintanceship became more akin to friendship, both Rodrigue and the Archbishop's advisor had become open to discussing more personal topics. Seteth had shared his worries about letting Flayn fight in the army, a concern Rodrigue had sympathised with (even if Seteth’s worry seemed more like that of a parent, than an older sibling). Rodrigue had shared his own concern about Felix being on the front lines, the fear of losing another child a constant aching worry, though one he can’t express to his son. Seteth had managed to get Rodrigue to speak of things he had kept to himself, at 6 a.m. over tea and toast. He’d almost convinced himself once that Seteth had used some kind of charm upon him, but Rodrigue is too familiar with magic to believe it. Seteth even managed to break through his calm exterior on occasion, showing the fiery Faerghus spirit underneath. He isn’t ashamed of it, but there was a certain advantage to keeping such aspects of himself guarded, a sentiment which Seteth seemed to understand, even if he doesn’t outwardly state it.
Today is like any other, unremarkable aside from the war council later on. Rodrigue pours them tea as Seteth reemerges from the kitchen, tray in hand. It’s more than a little domestic, a scene incompatible with every other campaign Rodrigue has fought in. There was no time for leisurely chats during his time in Sreng, only-
No, going down that path is dangerous. No good will come of reminiscing on the past, on those no longer here.
He reaches for a slice of toast and tries to turn his mind to thoughts of battalions and supply routes, less… personal matters.
Then, the clattering of china onto the tray. Rodrigue thinks he hears Seteth swear, though he wouldn't want to outright accuse a Holy Man of such a thing. Tea floods the tray, making islands out of the small plates sat on it. He reaches for a cloth as Seteth stands back from the table.
“My apologies, I wasn’t expecting it to be so hot. It was foolish of me.”
“Please! There’s no need to apologise. Are you alright?”
Seteth isn’t quite scowling, but there’s a frown on his face as he observes his now damp sleeve. Rodrigue watches as he rolls them up; frankly, it looks ridiculous, the billowing sleeves now cut off at the elbow, the heavy material bunched up in a way that can't be comfortable. He doesn't pay that too much thought though, he can't when his attention is drawn to something else. Rodrigue had seen Seteth in battle, and after a lifetime immersed in training and combat knew he must have some manner of strength to wield a lance as he does. That doesn't mean he isn't still a little surprised to see how… muscular his breakfast companion is.
Those sleeves have been quite deceptive.
His heart quickens in a way he’d used to associate only with battle; that was before realising it was perhaps more associated with the person he was going into battle with. Ten years have passed since the last time he’s felt this way, ten years filled with duty and service to the Crown and the avoidance of such personal desires. Rodrigue averts his eyes back to the cloth, to the plates he now sets on the table away from the tea-flooded tray, but it isn’t enough to stop his mind from wandering.
“If you wish to return to your room to change, I wouldn’t mind. Your sleeves… It can’t be comfortable like that.”
If Seteth leaves, perhaps he will be able to regain some modicum of control over himself. This is ridiculous after all, pure fancy brought on by nothing more than loneliness and the companionship of a friend. He’d made an unfortunate habit of falling in such a way for friends, those he can keep close, but never as close as he truly desires. He recites a short prayer in his mind as Seteth seems to consider his words, one eyebrow raised. Oh Holy Goddess, Creator Of All...
Seteth doesn’t leave. Once again his prayers go unanswered.
“Are you well, Lord Rodrigue? You seem quite distant this morning.”
Rodrigue shakes his head, returns his expression to its usual serene smile.
“I apologise if I seem so. I am tired, but not so much that I can’t carry out my duties.” He reaches for the teapot. “Another cup of tea should take care of it.”
They settle back into an easy silence as they eat, occasionally breaking it for a small remark about something or other. It’s a soothing balm over the deep wounds that loss and the chaos of war have created. It is hard for Rodrigue’s thoughts to wander when engaged in conversation...
But those arms.
Seteth reaches across the table towards a plate, his fingers outstretched. Rodrigue should move his hand, pass whatever Seteth needs to him but he’s still transfixed. How embarrassing, the Shield of Faerghus felled by such a simple blow. He wonders how-
“Lord Rodrigue?”
He’s broken from his daydream, dazed.
“Yes! I must be more tired than I thought.”
Seteth raises an eyebrow and regards him in a way that makes Rodrigue feel as if he were at the Academy once more, called in for playing truant.
“Perhaps you should rest before the meeting. Could you pass the butter dish, please?”
As he passes the dish to his breakfast companion, Rodrigue gets the sinking sense that this is going to be a very long day.