Seteth is a man of service.

True, as a high ranking official of the church there are times that formality deems him worthy to be given appropriate honor, but that aside, overall, Seteth thinks of himself as a servant of the greater good. And, on occasion, the... lesser good as well. Namely... now, as he scrubs the filth from out of the treads on the bottoms of Byleth's boots. He has given up long ago on trying to find grand gestures to do that would make him worthy of her attentions.

As he has discovered, neither roses nor fish delivered to her door worked, and trying to discern her favorite meal also turned out to be a failure. Worse still, all of his attempts thus far have only inspired rumors that Byleth has a secret admirer.

Amongst the student body.

Seteth is resigned to never recovering what they had in any realm of normalcy. Rather, he has settled on doing what he can to lighten the load of the professor in the slivers of leisure time he has left for the day. To what end, he isn't quite certain, but there is a small sense of satisfaction in the fantasies that persist, despite having nothing to feed them.

For example, Seteth wonders what she is thinking when she slips her feet into the shoes made shining by his own hands. Certainly, he thinks, unaware that he is the one who polishes them with the brisk, steady strokes of his brush, she would look down his handiwork with the soft eyes she once gazed upon him with. Once he finishes the work, he puts the polishing kit away in preparation for his monthly debriefing with the archbishop and the professor, sighing to himself as he washes away the muck coating his black stained fingers.

It's almost like a tale. A young soot-covered knave hoping desperately to be noticed by the princess despite having nothing more than hard work to his name.

Perhaps he ought to be the one to write it.

...Actually, he is certain that his station does not matter to Byleth. After he has misjudged her so severely, he is... more or less certain that it no longer matters to him as well. Placing the boots on the table in the candlelit glow of the night besides certain of her weapons he has polished, her sheets that he has laundered and the perfumed oil he knows she once eyed at the marketplace, Seteth tries not to think about how pathetic he has become as he shuts his office door behind him and hustles towards the Audience Chamber.

The moment his eyes light on the professor, he can hear her voice, feel her skin, sense her displeasure...

'There is nothing for us to say behind closed doors, Seteth.'

What words. What power in the lips that spoke them. He wonders if there is a reply that she was waiting for at the moment of their uttering and comes up curiously short.

"Greetings, Professor. Rhea." He nods briskly to acknowledge them both, and Goddess help him, those words are the only words he hears the entirety of their brief meeting, made briefer still by Rhea's worried glances in his direction. He isn't sure why she is so concerned about him. If anything, she should direct her anxieties towards Flayn as he has. Which reminds him.

I should have a fishing tournament for her... That is certain to cheer her.

And before he knows it, it is another meeting concluded, another mission doled out and, although he stands in the same room as Byleth, right across from her, he can't help but feel as though he could not be further away. Byleth nods to in acknowledgement of Rhea's dismissal, turning away to leave the audience chamber. As she has since Flayn's return, she only looks at him when he speaks to her directly, a folly he attempts less and less.

At the very least, it provides him ample opportunity to gaze upon her uninterrupted. He is... uncomfortable with the number of times he has found his eyes straying towards her in the dining hall. Or during class, in the times he happens to pass by her classroom. Or throughout seminars, in the rare event she would attend his, seated far in the back of the classroom, taking notes and avoiding making eye contact. He would commend her for coming despite her obvious desire to be elsewhere and avoid him, except for the fact that he has had enough.

Today, of all days, will be different. He is certain of it. "Excuse me, Rhea. I just remembered an important detail that I've forgotten to mention." She kindly doesn't point out that he's said nothing the entire meeting, waving her hand with a dismissive smile as she returns to the advisory chamber.

As he departs in pursuit of the professor, he cannot help but wonder for a moment what it is that makes her so impossible for him to let go of. All he wants really, he tells himself, is to reconcile. But in reality... he ignores the fact that he wishes first and foremost for the chance to redeem himself in her eyes.

"Professor." She walks crisply, her heeled boots echoing in the hallway as she pretends she doesn't hear him. Seteth grimaces as he calls out again, tasting the lie before he says it. "Rhea has asked me to speak to you on an important detail. May I ask you to my office?"

She stops in place, then nods.

"Fine."

Seteth's heart sinks at the lack of emotion in her tone. Is this what it was like when they first met? He presses his lips together and remembers the day he called her into his office to counsel her on volume and modulation in class. Perhaps now, it is more a slap than a memory.

At her reluctant reply, Seteth relents to relieve some of the pressure of guilt from his lie.

"We can meet in the library instead if it would make you more comfortable."

To his surprise, Byleth shakes her head. "I'm comfortable wherever you are." He knows she's just saying she's comfortable with meeting wherever he chooses but his chest stutters in a less than unpleasant way. If only she found comfort in the places he resided. He cannot help but to smile bitterly to himself. How I wish that were so.

"Come, then. My office awaits."

"I'm surprised you agreed so readily." He speaks the sentence nervously as he opens the door to his office. "I appreciate it."

She barely spares him a glance as she steps through the door. He moves to follow her when he hears her make an unexpected sound.

Byleth gasps.

He enters her the office in hasty confusion, shutting the door behind him and- Oh, no. On his table, condemning him, are her boots he forgot to put away. Her freshly laundered sheets that he forgot to put away. The oil he purchased for her that he forgot to put away.

"What is this, Seteth?"

All of his secrets exposed into the air, that's what.

"I... that is..." The words tangle in his chest. There is no denying it.

"Why would you do all of this?"

He stares at her helplessly. In reality, he isn't sure himself. "I'm sorry, Byleth." He's said it before. He says it again. "I am very sorry." He steps in front of his desk protectively, as if to hide the items from her gaze. "I know you said you have forgiven me, but you cannot deny that you have not looked or spoken to me in the same way since... since the day Flayn was found." Byleth is quiet for a moment as her stare shifts to her carefully repaired boots on the edge of the table. Wearily, Seteth takes a seat, casting her a rueful glance. "Is this where we are, then?"

Byleth looks at him steadily, hugging her arms around her. "We weren't anywhere before, Seteth." He would beg to differ, but it knocks him down a few pegs to hear that she thinks so little of their former trysts. He cannot help himself, nor the hope in his voice.

"Weren't we, though?"

Byleth lifts an eyebrow, then lets out a sigh, seemingly choosing her words carefully. "When was that established, exactly?"

When?

He thought it was obvious. Even if their relationship had been a secret, it isn't as though he'd felt ashamed of her. It was merely their respective positions that made it necessary to conceal the nature of their union.

"Am I convenient to you, Seteth?"

"Convenient?" He blinks. Whatever is that supposed to mean? Does she think he would press his skin to any woman who laid eyes or lips upon him? Does she think him so weak-handed? So loose hearted? He grimaces at the thought. "No, but you seem intent on impugning bad motive to me. Well, I will rise to the challenge."

There is fire in Byleth's eyes. Perhaps she is expecting him to try to cut her down with his words. How unfortunate, if so.

"Byleth, in some ways, you are correct." The silence is expected but... but oh, how he relishes in the disarmed expression in her eyes. "I did not guard my tongue, perhaps because I took our relationship too lightly. But if you think for a moment that I will pretend that I valued it less because in some way I value you less, then you are as much a fool as I." He frowns. "If not greater."

Byleth doesn't reply, but for once, to his great satisfaction, he has the feeling that it's because she doesn't know what to say. Seteth goads her because he simply is just not that mature enough not to, regardless of how he tries. Regardless of how he shouldn't.

"Is your silence because you have nothing you wish to say to me, or because you still believe there is nothing left for us to say to each other?" Byleth stares at Seteth as he continues breezily. "The door is, after all, closed."

To his immense surprise, Byleth's expression... crumbles, her eyebrows joining with worry. Her voice is quiet. "What do you want from me, Seteth?" She backs away slightly. He notes now that she has not dropped her arms from around her torso. She is... protecting herself. From him? "Am I supposed to just understand that you think highly of me, then?" There is a quiet bitterness in her words that surprises him. "Most of my time at the monastery has been spent with you lecturing me on how I should be better in front of others, and then kissing me behind closed doors. How am I supposed to just... know what you really think of me or feel about me?"

Oh.

It's the most he's ever heard her say at one time, and in that moment, Seteth realizes a crucial aspect of their relationship that he has missed all along. The deep, dark eyes that seemed to hold him in place and strip him bare... perhaps they conceal more than he first thought. He ought to have guessed as much-he is older than her, after all-but he is so often caught up in her mystery that... well.

He may have underestimated the fact that his own old bones may still have some mystery of their own. He may have felt as though he is the pursued of the two of them but really... perhaps he has had more of a hand in this than he originally thought.

"I see." He folds his hands together. "In that case, allow me to... apologize. Again." No, he thinks. This distance will not do. He stands, crossing the room to meet her, face to face. "I am sorry for speaking to you so carelessly, Byleth, and for making you think I thought little of you. I thought it clear, but I will say this now... I would never make myself your enemy. Not when you have done so much for me. Not when you have done so much for Flayn."

Byleth, looking up at him with dark, glossy eyes... she seems mesmerized, almost, and for a moment, he wonders if perhaps she is just as entranced by his existence as he is hers.

Impossible.

Ruefully, he banishes the thought.

Less ruefully, he props his arm against the wall above her, unable to stop himself from testing it out. She doesn't move, instead staring up at him. He doesn't move another inch, waiting to see what she will do.

"I accept your apology." He barely hears her, because his ears shut down completely at the sensation of her hands and face pressed against the fabric of his torso, as if waiting for an embrace. He resists for a moment. This would be the time to gently tell her that they must maintain a professional relationship. The time to say that perhaps it is best if they do not resume what they had before but-

Oh, my.

Oh, my my my.

He finds it difficult to say anything at all, the only sound in his ears his own heartbeat.

Seteth would be less surprised if having her body pressed against him would elicit the fantasies he is uncomfortably, but admittedly prone to, however... the only thought in his mind is how much he wants to hold her as well and how glad he is to finally be able to have her here in this space without feeling as though everything he touches will crumble away.

This woman will turn to dust, he tells himself. The moment your heart is fully open, she will disappear in death as all the humans do.

Regardless of what his heart says, he cannot help but to tentatively stroke Byleth's hair, the dark strands slipping through his trembling fingers effortlessly.

It is not an embrace, and yet... Seteth wonders how he will keep such feelings locked in his heart.

...Not that it matters. In this regard, he cannot help but to detect immense, immediate failure in his future.