Work Text:
A flash of red caught his eye as Sylvain walked down the hall of the monastery; a reflection, he realized— his specifically—and he paused. There was a war council within the hour, but as necessary as they were, Sylvain was reluctant to go. Dimitri was... still not himself; or, if Felix was right, maybe he was more himself now than he had been in their school days. Whatever the case, it made for tense meetings and set everyone on edge in the aftermath. So he allowed himself the distraction, let his feet carry him back to stare into the mirrored surface of the shield that had so captured his attention.
Even in the early morning hours, his hair was so very red.
People loved his hair, praised him for it, one more string of accolades he’d done nothing to earn. He’d heard it all: it looked like fire, it shined like gold, it flowed as molten copper fresh from the forge. To Sylvain, it just looked like hair; like his family’s hair, his father’s and his mother’s and his no-good brother’s. Family resemblance followed him like a shadow; like a curse.
Everything about himself reminded him of them. He tried not to be, tried to set himself apart, but staring in a mirror was like looking back on the long, distinguished line of Gautiers past. His eyes, too like his father’s—his mother’s nose on his face, her laugh flowed from his lips. He thought about dyeing his hair, once, or shaving it off completely, but the momentary satisfaction of displeasing his father would have brought more trouble than it was worth. So he tried in other ways. But his hair would always be that red, always misbehave; his laugh rang hollow off the walls. Even his smile carried the same forced perfection of Gautier.
Today, his hair looked like blood.
His blood, their blood—the blood of a noble. The blood of a Crest. The blood he had shed for Dimitri, and for his friends, even himself—in rage, in self-defense, in self-righteous fury. Blood is thicker than water, his father used to say. Over and over: blood is thicker than water. His family, his legacy, was more important than all else. Sylvain’s friends, his dreams, his feelings, had always been secondary to what was required of him.
He’d never be rid of it.
“Oh, Sylvain.”
The voice startled him from his thoughts; for a moment, his brother’s face glared back at him from the reflection on the wall. But that was his face, scowling into the growing light, not Miklan’s. He hated it.
Sylvain turned to face Seteth, all schooled smiles and nonchalance. “Seteth,” he said, as if they hadn’t seen each other just yesterday. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” says the man, his smile barely a quirk of the lips. “On your way to the council?”
“Couldn’t keep me away,” Sylvain laughs. It sounds forced, even to himself. “Just stopping to admire my roguish good looks. Can’t show up to a war council looking like a scrub.”
Seteth hums thoughtfully, expression carefully neutral. “Did you like what you saw?”
“Did you?” The waggle of the eyebrows is what does Seteth in, his face following its familiar trail to disapproval and staying there. “I’m joking, I’m joking!” Sylvain laughs, holding up his hands. “Don’t have a wyvern.”
“Hmph. Indeed.” But Seteth’s expression shifted to pensiveness again, and Sylvain called that a victory. “You know, I met your father, once. You look very much like him.”
Bile crept its way up his throat, but Sylvain forced it back down. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Like father, like son.”
“Hm. Perhaps.” Seteth looked him up and down, and Sylvain felt like the man could see right through his armor. And not in the sexy way. “Other than your looks, I don’t know that you’re very much like him at all.”
Ah, there it was. Here came the lecture Sylvain had expected from the start, laying out all his flaws and dragging each one through the dirt while they sang his father’s praises. Sylvain was no-good, Sylvain was lazy, why couldn’t he be more like his father—
So it very much surprised him when Seteth said, “That is not a bad thing, Sylvain.”
He blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You are allowed to be your own person,” Seteth continued, ignoring Sylvain’s surprise. “Even if that person is… you.”
That was more like it. “Ouch,” he laughed, “tell me how you really feel.”
“I am not going to sugarcoat it,” Seteth said, voice taking on that stubborn, brook-no-argument tone he was known for. “You can be wildly irresponsible, shirk your duties, and make questionable decisions when it comes to your studies, your training, and your interactions with others. Not to mention your… more amorous tastes.” He cleared his throat, lips pursed in disapproval. “But you are also a kind, dependable young man. Although I do not know the full details, you have had a hard life, and you have come through it without losing yourself. And you have grown these last five years. A person would have to be blind not to see it.”
Sylvain stared. Was Seteth… praising him?
“I-I don’t think that’s—”
“I was not finished.” Sylvain’s jaw shut with a pop. Seteth was smiling at him now, which was almost as weird as this whole conversation. “Do not be so quick to dismiss your good qualities, Sylvain. Your friends need you, just as you need them. I see how you care for them, protect them—even recklessly and to your own detriment at times. Such devotion is admirable, but do not ignore your own value. You are no less worthy of the same devotion.”
Seteth was absolutely looking through him now. All the layers Sylvain had carefully crafted over the years, each piece of armor he had constructed was useless under that gaze. And it hurt—he felt naked, vulnerable, and it was terrifying. It made him angry. All this time he had wanted to be seen, but not like this. It was too little, too late.
So why did he want to cry?
Sylvain cleared his throat. “Look, if something happens, they’ll find someone else. I’m just one lance—”
“No.” Seteth shook his head. “You are Sylvain Jose Gautier, son and heir of House Gautier, general of Faerghus, graduate of the Blue Lion house—” He smiled. “And comrade to everyone here. You are not replaceable, Sylvain. There is only one of you, and there will only ever be one of you. Do not be so quick to throw yourself away.”
“I… I…” His anger had left him, replaced with awe and an overwhelming sense of sorrow. “Why do you care?”
“May I not also call you friend?”
The air rushed from his lungs. Friend. He had called him—Seteth had called him a…
The man laid a hand on his shoulder. The weight of it anchored him to the real world, proved this was not some strange fever dream, and Sylvain took a breath.
“You are a good man, Sylvain. I hope that you will see that, in time.” Seteth patted his shoulder. “See you at the council.”
The green-haired man began to walk away, but paused only a few steps on. “You know, I have just remembered something. You have heard it said, ‘blood is thicker than water’?” Sylvain nodded dumbly. “Hm. It may surprise you to learn that it is a misquote. The original phrase is, ‘The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.’ Interesting, is it not?”
Blood of the covenant, huh?
“I guess,” Sylvain shrugged.
Covenant. A promise. A chosen bond.
“Mm. Well, I shall see you at the meeting. Do not be late.”
“Seteth.” Seteth paused, turned toward him with eyebrows raised. Sylvain shifted uncomfortably, feeling shy for the first time in as long as he could remember. “Thanks. You know… for talking.” Sylvain hesitated. “Did you really mean all that?”
“I always say what I mean, Sylvain,” said Seteth. His smile was gentle. “You know you do not need to ask.”
Sylvain chuckled. “Yeah, I guess not. …Thank you.”
“You are welcome. If you ever wish to talk again, my office door is always open.” With a nod, Seteth turned away again, his boots clicking sharply on the stone floor.
“So, does this mean I can hang out with Flayn, now?” Sylvain called after him. “Friend?”
Aah.
Well.
Worth a shot.