[ To turn to Byleth could be disastrous. Already, he knows he must lack credibility in the eyes of this man, whom calls him "tsundere" and teases him so ruthlessly about matters of love and happiness — yet, Byleth is without malice. Even Set had noticed it about him, had even told him to his face, about his wealth of emotion and deep kindness. It exists without mercy or warning, and takes the form of streaks of dark ash upon Set's own skin and Byleth's fingertips.
He really had tried to burn the thing that frightened him, without question.
Standing in the field of growing crops, the dusting of red flowers — beautiful, but born of something sick and malformed — actually have been what Byleth's flames have struck. A whole pocket of them withered, crumbling to dust and ash and charred remnants, scalded away from where they would grow and choke the life out of Alenroux's food source. The sight of it — ]
Would you help me burn these away?
[ The rest of the blossoms, he means.
Though his arm sweeps out toward the red flowers he's grown, his body shifts into Byleth's space. He aligns himself with the mercenary's hip, as if seeking to find some sort of solace in the space between one arm and the next. Set is not a small man. His chest his broad, his arms and thighs muscled and posture that of someone who can kill in a thousand ways; yet, he folds a little, into the warm line of Byleth's body, and briefly drops his forehead onto his shoulder. ]
That, [ he thinks ] I think that would be a happy enough ending, for today.
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He really had tried to burn the thing that frightened him, without question.
Standing in the field of growing crops, the dusting of red flowers — beautiful, but born of something sick and malformed — actually have been what Byleth's flames have struck. A whole pocket of them withered, crumbling to dust and ash and charred remnants, scalded away from where they would grow and choke the life out of Alenroux's food source. The sight of it — ]
Would you help me burn these away?
[ The rest of the blossoms, he means.
Though his arm sweeps out toward the red flowers he's grown, his body shifts into Byleth's space. He aligns himself with the mercenary's hip, as if seeking to find some sort of solace in the space between one arm and the next. Set is not a small man. His chest his broad, his arms and thighs muscled and posture that of someone who can kill in a thousand ways; yet, he folds a little, into the warm line of Byleth's body, and briefly drops his forehead onto his shoulder. ]
That, [ he thinks ] I think that would be a happy enough ending, for today.