Dimitri nods, silent. For a moment his melancholy breaks lighter, and he huffs. "As if being womanly is anything to be ashamed of. I'd be honored to be compared to any of the women in my life."
He sobers; takes another sip of his tea, and rests one hand on his knee so his anxiously-tapping fingers won't damage the cup. He doesn't want Ossie to think that he thinks --
"It isn't even -- " He's passed 'grating'; this is yanking twine through gear-teeth -- "A knight's honor is in battle. His duty to his lord is to kill and die without thought or question. That -- chivalry," the word curdles in his mouth, "has seen innocents slaughtered by the thousands, and a nation swear that killing was right and just. It's taken people I love, and the ones I have left aspire to emulate their deaths -- would claim that grief and horror disparage their sacrifice. It's not ... it isn't ... "
His shoulders sink. He sets the teacup down; his hands tangle together, warped knuckles interlocked, thumb pressed into a scar across his palm.
" ... I told you once the world could use more cowards. That's what I meant."
Ossie stands, rounding the coffee table unhurriedly. He rests a warm hand on the back of Dimitri's neck, right at the nape.
"It's... difficult. To look upon the fruits of your life and see the seeds of wickedness they grew from. To know your place in that great monstrous mechanism. But it is all you know, all anyone around you knows, and to struggle against it would be to refute something as base to life as the sun rising and setting."
He doesn't move, won't move until Dimitri does, unless Dimitri wants him to.
"I'm glad that you're encouraging Dedue to participate in this. And I hope you can extend that to yourself, as well, if that's what you want. I would certainly like you to do something nice for yourself."
Dimitri loved his father. He admired his strength, and wanted to emulate it. He wanted his father's praise, his approval. It's not that he didn't want Patricia's approval -- or Ossie's -- but it's so much less conditional. He could be weak, and afraid, and lost with his stepmother in a way he never could with his father. He can be weak, and afraid, and lost with Ossie.
Still, he hesitates again, afraid of stepping out of line. He's being ridiculous. Compared to Ossie he's a paragon of manhood. He's a killer, obvious when he tangles his battered fingers on his lap. A knight, a prince, a future king.
... but he's more of a monster than any of those things.
"My father was -- exemplary, in many ways. Everyone tells me I how much I resemble him. They -- I must live up to his example. But I ... I'm not. They have no idea how much I can't. I'll never ... " His voice strangles itself to a whisper. "I don't know if I want to."
"You are your own person," Ossie soothes, "you needn't be anyone but that, whoever that is. In my home, certainly, at least."
He rests his hand on Dimitri's shoulder, trying to be a comforting weight and not simply something else he must bear.
"I certainly expect nothing more of you than your manners and excellent company. And you've exceeded my expectations on that. I hold no pretenses about what and who you ought to be."
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ossie_oswald) wrote2022-06-14 07:18 pm
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He sobers; takes another sip of his tea, and rests one hand on his knee so his anxiously-tapping fingers won't damage the cup. He doesn't want Ossie to think that he thinks --
"It isn't even -- " He's passed 'grating'; this is yanking twine through gear-teeth -- "A knight's honor is in battle. His duty to his lord is to kill and die without thought or question. That -- chivalry," the word curdles in his mouth, "has seen innocents slaughtered by the thousands, and a nation swear that killing was right and just. It's taken people I love, and the ones I have left aspire to emulate their deaths -- would claim that grief and horror disparage their sacrifice. It's not ... it isn't ... "
His shoulders sink. He sets the teacup down; his hands tangle together, warped knuckles interlocked, thumb pressed into a scar across his palm.
" ... I told you once the world could use more cowards. That's what I meant."
no subject
"It's... difficult. To look upon the fruits of your life and see the seeds of wickedness they grew from. To know your place in that great monstrous mechanism. But it is all you know, all anyone around you knows, and to struggle against it would be to refute something as base to life as the sun rising and setting."
He doesn't move, won't move until Dimitri does, unless Dimitri wants him to.
"I'm glad that you're encouraging Dedue to participate in this. And I hope you can extend that to yourself, as well, if that's what you want. I would certainly like you to do something nice for yourself."
no subject
Here's how Ossie reminds him of Patricia:
Dimitri loved his father. He admired his strength, and wanted to emulate it. He wanted his father's praise, his approval. It's not that he didn't want Patricia's approval -- or Ossie's -- but it's so much less conditional. He could be weak, and afraid, and lost with his stepmother in a way he never could with his father. He can be weak, and afraid, and lost with Ossie.
Still, he hesitates again, afraid of stepping out of line. He's being ridiculous. Compared to Ossie he's a paragon of manhood. He's a killer, obvious when he tangles his battered fingers on his lap. A knight, a prince, a future king.
... but he's more of a monster than any of those things.
"My father was -- exemplary, in many ways. Everyone tells me I how much I resemble him. They -- I must live up to his example. But I ... I'm not. They have no idea how much I can't. I'll never ... " His voice strangles itself to a whisper. "I don't know if I want to."
no subject
He rests his hand on Dimitri's shoulder, trying to be a comforting weight and not simply something else he must bear.
"I certainly expect nothing more of you than your manners and excellent company. And you've exceeded my expectations on that. I hold no pretenses about what and who you ought to be."