Chapter 96 - 95: Status Quo.

Chapter 96: Chapter 95: Status Quo.

It turns out that they are not the same size.

"I look ridiculous," Khobi deadpans, glaring at Rogard’s reflection in the mirror and daring him to laugh. Which honestly, Rogard really wants to.

"Yeah," he says, and unsuccessfully covers a snort with a cough, "You do." Khobi whips around to snarl at him for laughing, and a button jumps right off his shirt.

It hits Rogard in the nose. The next button down looks like it’s only seconds away from doing much the same thing,the shirt pulling dangerously tight across his chest.

He’s a little surprised he managed to get it buttoned up in the first place.

And the jacket, well. Blue is an excellent colour on him, but it looks about two sizes too small.

Rogard’s not going to make him try the matching pants.

It’s not his fault. Physique is hard to gauge when it’s all hidden under armour.

"This is no use," he complains, and thankfully starts relieving the buttons of his poor shirt before they all pop off. "I’m not wearing this."

"Oh no, you’re definitely not," Rogard snorts, shaking his head as the jacket hits him in the face.

It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to deck him out in his father’s colours, anyway. "Um, the no pile goes on the bed, Khobi."

So far everything is on the bed.

Anything that even mildly fits looks terrible. It all clashes with his hair, or his complexion, or is just way too much, as Khobi would put it.

Rogard had held up a fetching tunic with crystals embroidered into the breast and he had almost hurled it out the window in disgust.

"This is stupid," Khobi grumbles, managing to extract himself from the shirt with some degree of difficulty.

Rogard cringes when he hears something rip. He’s vastly underestimated the amount of bulk he carries, well, everywhere.

"Well excuse me for trying to help," he sniffs, wondering if there’s anything bigger deeper in his wardrobe.

"Is all this really necessary, anyways?" he ribs, poking his bare chest for emphasis. The muscle doesn’t give in the slightest.

"This is why I eat human-sized meals."

"Hey, this is all muscle!" Khobi growls, and flexes to prove it.

Rogard’s relieved he’s not wearing his shirt anymore because that probably would have burst every seam.

"Sure it is," he sighs, rifling through his wardrobe for what feels like the thousandth time even though it’s useless.

It’s just his luck that all the fashion-illiterate men who cross his path are just a bit too brawny for him to educate. Loac never used to fit his clothes either.

Oh.

Hold that thought.

Actually. Hold everything.

"Rogard," his father’s voice interrupts, and the blood instantly drains out of Rogard’s face.

And the rest of his body. His own name has never made him feel quite so faint. "...Care to explain yourself?"

Rogard swallows, and turns, grateful that in the course of the day some of the colour has come back to his face.

If he was still hungover he’d look haunted.

Lord Spidra’s standing in the doorway, looming ominously with his eyes not on Rogard, but on the uh, half-naked man currently perched on the edge of his son’s bed.

It doesn’t look completely inappropriate, but it looks bad enough.

"Father," Rogard coughs, the word coming out a little weak even though he’s tried to make light of it.

Khobi senses the change in atmosphere enough to be very quick about getting his ugly, ruined shirt back on.

"I thought you were uh, out today."

"I’m back," his father replies coldly, eyes frozen on Khobi like he would very much like to burn him with his gaze.

Or with actual fire.

"I uh, yeah. Obviously," Rogard swallows, acutely aware of how this must look. "I um. ...Khobi was just leaving."

He glances pointedly at the door, and Khobi gets the hint.

"Yes," Spidra states darkly, "He was."

"Are you good, Rogard?" Khobi asks in a low voice, as he passes, eyeing Spidra with suspicion and open dislike.

The way he asks makes it sound like something might just happen, if he says he’s not.

"It’s fine," Rogard replies quietly, and hopes Khobi understands that he appreciates the sentiment.

"Rogard, a word?" Spidra simpers forcefully, reluctantly stepping aside to allow Khobi to duck out the door.

He makes a beeline for the front door, but flings a look back over his shoulder.

"You go on, Khobi," Rogard laughs nervously, waving him away before Spidra can get any angrier.

If that’s possible, "I uhh, I’ll see you later, yeah?" Khobi looks like he doesn’t want to leave, but the worst thing he can do right now is stay.

He can handle Spidra. He shoos him again, more insistently this time, and to his great relief, he obeys.

Rogard flinches when the door slams shut—not because of the noise but because he knows he’s in trouble.

Again.

This is becoming a bit of a trend, recently.

"Have I not raised you better than this?" Spidra starts.

Sometimes he escalates to shouting. Today, he just starts with it. Rogard knows better than to argue, yet, because he’s about to answer his own question.

"First I hear you’re training with them. Now you’re bringing one of them into our home. To your bed??"

He spits the word them like it’s something dirty. Like Rogard’s dirty by association. It makes him want to tear at his skin, to rip off all the dirt his father seems to see there.

"Father, it’s not like that! You’ve got it all wrong!" he assures him crossly, because that’s not fair.

That’s not fair at all. "We’re not—I would never—" He wrinkles his nose at the very thought.

"Never what, Rogard?" Spidra prompts darkly.

"I’m not fucking Khobi, if that’s what you think, jeez!" he snaps, more irritable than he’d usually dare, because what an absurd accusation.

He’s a tad more classy than Loac, and endlessly more discreet. If he was sneaking around with someone—which he’s not—then he wouldn’t be stupid enough to bring them back to his own bed.

"You wouldn’t lie to my face, would you?" Spidra growls, stone-faced, searching his expression for any trace of a lie.

"No, father!" Rogard huffs, exasperated, "He was just here to...to borrow some clothes."

One would think his father would find that preferable to the alternative. But he doesn’t look any less furious.

"...So you were just dressing him like us," he hisses, icily, and Rogard realises that nothing he can say can soften this.

"...Yes?"

"Rogard," Spidra sighs; heavily, like he’s bearing a dreadfully heavy burden. "Rogard. When will you learn?" He sounds so... disappointed, and it makes Rogard’s heart wrench.

He tries. He tries so hard, to be the kind of man his father wants him to be, and but somehow he just keeps messing it up, every time. "...Where were you last night. I was worried, when you didn’t come home."

It’s obvious he already knows. He just wants his son to confess.

"I was out," Rogard replies quietly, head hung low.

"Where."

"In the city."

"The city," Spidra repeats, sounding so utterly betrayed, like Rogard’s just admitted to murdering his own mother. "With who."

"Soldiers," Rogard answers, and jumps as his father bangs a fist against the doorframe.

"Which soldiers."

"Lord Ynoro," he says, quickly. Which isn’t a lie at all. He spent most of his evening in his company.

And he’s hoping that the name drop will appease his father somewhat. Ynoro, and his father, is well-respected amongst the noble houses. "Lord Fricha was there, too—"

"Good names, that they’ve sullied, by aligning themselves with that gutter rat."

Rogard knows who he’s talking about. He wishes he wouldn’t call him names.

"Master Drooger is—" he tries to say, but his father cuts him off.

"Do not call him that."

"...The Captain," Rogard tries again, ignoring the way the title seems to cause his father some pain, "Is one of the best soldiers in the kingdom, father. I just thought that if I—"

"No, Rogard, you didn’t think. You never do, do you? You never think how your actions are going to reflect on me.

On our family. Getting drunk in a common bar like a fool,what will all our friends think?"

Rogard doesn’t know what friends his father is talking about.

The kinds of people his father associates with are happy with any excuse to get plastered and stupid on wine.

He doesn’t say that.

And he certainly doesn’t tell him he actually had a really good time.