Chapter Text
Dinner is a quiet affair– the two of them huddled about the hearth, Aymeric’s foot trapping his beneath the table as they devour the pie. ‘Tis good. A bit too salty, perhaps. Could do with some ajwain; he mentally makes a note to order some for their next attempt.
After, he shoos Aymeric back to the chaise as he washes up, vigorously scrubbing at their dishes until they shine clean. Towel goes on rack, apron hung over the back of the chair, and at last he is free to stalk towards the drawing room, to where his prey lies in wait.
Aymeric is dozing on the chaise when he enters, clearly exhausted, and made more weary by their hearty meal. He watches him a moment, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his skin reflects the firelight, the tangled muse of his curls atop his brow. He looks– soft. Vulnerable. Comfortable. Breathtaking, as usual. Snowball perches atop the chaise once more, standing guard over her charge, blinking slowly as she struggles to stay awake.
Fondness threatens to melt him through the bloody floorboards. He picks his way over, puts a hand atop Snowball’s back.
“Thank you,” he rumbles. “For watching him when I’m not here.”
Snowball chirps at him, arches her back into his hand. He smiles, scratches along her spine. He remembers the day he found her, how pitiful she looked covered in ash and half-frozen from snow; a smudge of soot upon the war-torn ground. He’d nearly stepped on her, but for the annoyed hiss she made as she swatted at his sabaton. Remembers Aymeric’s delighted smile when he discovered them ransacking his kitchens for sustenance in the middle of the night. How rapidly she adjusted to her new life of extravagance: the Queen of the household, and all who dwell within, her servants.
“I am going to take him upstairs, now,” he tells her seriously. “If you interrupt us again, you bloody minx, I’ll see to it you don’t get any skyfish for another moon.” An unenforceable threat; he knows that all it takes is one pleading meow and Aymeric will crack like an egg. Snowball seems to know this as well; she opens one eye at him, barely gracing him with a glance, and then settles down to nap.
That settled, he finishes his glass of wine, placing it by the near-emptied bottle atop the coffee table. Aymeric barely stirs as he kneels besides the chaise, only turns his head into his hand as he brushes the wayward curls from his face. Love makes light his chest as he brushes his thumb across his eyebrow, smoothing down the mused strands.
What he would not do, for this man. The keeper of his heart.
Look at you now, he thinks ruefully, waxing bloody poetic. You really have gone soft. He cannot bring himself to feel embarrassed; Aymeric above all others deserves every devotion, every onze of praise... if one has the persistence required to get him to accept said praise, the stubborn, self-sacrificing bastard.
Warm from fondness, he gently scoops Aymeric into his arms, lifts him from the chaise with ease. Aymeric blinks blearily, pulled from his sleep by the swaying of his steps as he carefully picks his way up the stairs.
“Apologies,” Aymeric murmurs. “I did not mean to be such a,” he interrupts himself with a yawn, “discourteous host.” Estinien adjusts his grip, smiling. Aymeric wraps an arm about his neck, pressing his nose into his skin with a hum of contentment. His lips brush against his collar when he speaks. “Escorting me to my chambers?”
Estinien snorts. “Aye, milord.”
“How gracious of you, Ser.”
“I live to serve,” he retorts dryly as Aymeric snickers, nudging open the door to his chambers with the toe of his boot.
‘Tis frigid inside, the fire barely smoldering in its grate. The bed lies neat and tidied; not slept in the night before, then, as suspected. Estinien grunts in disapproval, kicks the door closed and sets Aymeric gently upon the bed, stalks towards the fire to poke the embers back to a full blaze.
Task concluded, he sets his eyes on the man lounging upon azure silken sheets, the mused rumple of his shirt, the growing flush upon his skin, creeping up from under his collar. Aymeric looks at him upside down, eyes lazily tracking his movement, dark with anticipation.
He is so beautiful, dark curls fanned about him as a halo, languorously stretching his every chiseled muscle as he wearily tries to kick off his boots, to no avail. In a daze, he steps into the gap betwixt Aymeric’s legs, dutifully bends to assist.
Boots untied, ridiculous hand-knitted socks slipped from his feet, he works his way upward until he perches above him. Aymeric is blushing now, pupils blown wide, fully awake from his ministrations. He reaches to undo the ties of Aymeric’s shirt, gaze fixated on the slow reveal of rose-tinged skin as he loosens his collar.
“I begin to suspect, Ser,” Aymeric says wryly, as if unaffected, though Estinien can hear his breath quicken beneath his touch, “that you had ulterior motives whilst offering your assistance.”
“Nay,” Estinien responds as he pushes the hem of Aymeric’s shirt up his middle for the second time that night. “Did I not offer myself, as a distraction from your troubles?” he drawls, and gently lifts Aymeric to slip the shirt from around his neck. He leans over him, noses at the skin below his ear, inhales the sweet scent of him as his hand wanders upward. Fingers trail through the line of dark curls above his belt, thumb brushing lightly over a dusky nipple. Aymeric shudders, twists his fingers in the sheets. Estinien grabs at them, slips his fingers between his own. He pulls back to brush his lips over his mouth. “I am simply performing my duties, if it please you, milord.”
“You know bloody well how much it pleases me, you bastard–” Aymeric arches his neck up, trying to capture his mouth in a kiss; Estinien pulls away at the last moment, laughing. He catches sight of his trousers: the hard line of him a thick fold in the fabric, straining against the ties. In his youth, he might have clawed the trousers from Aymeric’s legs to get at the delicious length of him, yet ‘twas Aymeric himself who taught him the value of patience… mayhaps something said man regrets, at this very moment.
“Get down here,” Aymeric pouts, all pretense forgotten as he reaches for him. Estinien grabs his hand, brushes his lips over his knuckles as he smirks.
“I must attend to my task,” he admonishes, unbuckling his belt with a twist of his fingers. Aymeric’s breath hitches, hips jerking up into the touch as he bites his lip. With deliberate slowness, he unties the laces of his trousers, runs his hand up his thigh to soothe his trembling muscles. Claws and fingertips both curl beneath his waistband, drag his trousers down off his legs.
Disrobed down to naught but his woolen smalls, Aymeric is a vision unfit for mortal eyes. Draped in firelight, sculpted to perfection, dark eyes tracking his every movement, bottom lip flushed and swollen. A siren, surely, sent here to lull him into complacency, to lure him into such murky waters, forever entrapped by his song.
A fate to which he would happily surrender.
Mouth dry, he balances his knee on the bed, braces his hands aside Aymeric’s curls. Near unbelievable that he might yet be permitted to touch such a creature; that his soiled hands, stained from years of bloodshed and hard labor, should be sought after, even welcomed.
I do not deserve him, he thinks again, old worries unfurling amidst his gut; visions of his ultimate failure, the burdens placed upon those he holds dear, all due to his negligence, his faltering will. He remembers, in that fateful moment, in the midst of his ultimate idiocy, the last thought that had been his undoing–
My toils shall finally be at an end, he had said, and in his weakness, utterly unguarded, he had thought of him– thought of those many long years of denial and renewed dedication to his cause. Thought of his eyes, crinkled in fondness, thought of the way he would lean over his shoulder as they poured over maps unto the early hours of the morn, the feel of his palm against his own as he lifted him from the training grounds. Perhaps now, he remembers thinking, near delirious with yearning, with unfamiliar hope, perhaps now, that it is finally over, we might–
Aymeric’s hand curls about his cheek, pulling him from his thoughts. Estinien blinks his eyes open, meets his gaze– that same look, eyes creased about the edges, beholding him as if naught else matters on this star.
“Come here,” Aymeric demands softly, voice firm. An order. Helpless to obey, he dips his head, brushing their lips together once, testing, and then sinks into him, body and buggering soul, melting atop him as wax well-warmed, pliant as molten steel, molding to his shape, until no space betwixt them remains.
Aymeric’s hands, gripping about his waist, digging into his haunches, beckoning him closer– reshaping, reforming, gathering all the bloodied shattered pieces of him into a semblance of a man. He moans into his mouth, nips at his lower lip to taste its softness, down the curve of his jaw, addicted to the warmth of his skin, flushed with pleasure.
Aymeric gasps his name, just once, shocked from his lips from Estinien’s fangs dipping ever-so-slightly into his neck. His name pulls him from his stupor– he has a task to attend to, after all. He pulls back, just enough to breathe into the hairswidth of space betwixt them.
“You need to relax,” Estinien rumbles, brushing lips over heated cheekbones. He trails his claws along the middle of him, over light dustings of dark curls, down until he reaches the fabric of his smalls. He slides down his body, manhandles Aymeric more fully onto the bed, and noses at his hipbone, sucking a mark onto his skin. He plants his chin on his abdomen, looks up at him from under his bangs. “If you would allow me, my lord, I’ve been told that I’m quite skilled at providing,” he licks his lips, pauses for dramatic effect, “succor.”
Aymeric snorts, runs a hand over his eyes. “Terrible.”
Estinien grins, fangs poking his lower lip. Aymeric lifts his hips with an impatient noise. Dutifully, he slips his smalls from his hips, down and off his ankle, and then at last, Aymeric lies bare before him.
His gaze is instantly drawn to his cock– long and thick, velvety smooth perfection, and though he has hardly begun, fully erect, flushed a dark red. He grunts in sympathy, runs his hands up Aymeric’s thighs, down betwixt his legs to brush against his tight bollocks. Aymeric nearly topples from the bed, so hard does he startle.
“Gods in bloody heaven,” Aymeric curses, jerking his hips towards his mouth with a gasp.
He leans towards him, ghosting hot breath over top his cock, mouth watering in anticipation. “Been a while?”
Aymeric groans. He’s so bloody tense, 'tis almost painful to look at. “Mayhaps,” he says, fingers clenching in the sheets, eyes pinched shut. “I don’t know. I don’t– remember.”
Estinien winces. Too stressed and overworked to even jerk off. He pets at the inside of Aymeric's knee with no small amount of empathy, remnants of guilt churning in his stomach. I should have come here sooner, he thinks again, and then bends to mouth at his inner thigh in apology. Aymeric bites his lip, squirms on the bed, arm thrown over his face. Enough teasing, then, he decides.
Gently, he folds Aymeric's legs, scoops under his haunches to lift him up the bed until he lies comfortably against the pillows. He rumbles in approval at the sight, and slides his hands up his thigh to wrap about his aching cock.
Aymeric shudders, tenses further, hand snaps to grab a hold of his forearm, grip tight with desperation. Lightly, he strokes, bends to kiss his lips, his jaw, down his neck, nipping as he goes. He brushes his mouth over his nipple, bites at its perked tip to hear Aymeric hiss, and then kisses lower, down along the sculpted curve of his middle to breathe over his cock.
"Oh," Aymeric gasps, hips lifting temptingly towards his lips. ‘Tis all the invitation he needs; greedily, he takes Aymeric into his mouth, slides down to the root until his nose is pressed into his dark curls, inhaling the scent of his arousal. From above, a sharp inhale of surprise– the hand upon his forearm shifts, digs into the escaping hairs from his bun, twisting them about his fingers and pulling him closer.
Estinien moans around his cock, tongues along the side, watches Aymeric’s face as he swirls his tongue about the tip, sucking lightly as he sinks back down. Oh, but he looks rapturous, head thrown back in ecstasy, mouth parted in a silent gasp, muscles tensed and glistening. He slides his fingers along his inner thigh, parts them wider, pushes them up over his shoulders.
He remembers the last time he had him like this: Aymeric’s fingers clenching the armrests of his chair, pulling at his hair as he bit his own hand, desperately trying to stay quiet as he was systematically devoured beneath his desk. His own cock perks at the memory. He rocks his hips against the bed, intensely regretting not disrobing afore as his leather trousers chafe as his length.
Against his tongue, a pulse; cock jerking, Aymeric’s ragged gasps as he paws at his shoulder, scrabbles at his hair, curses–
“Estinien,” he hears, his name so sweet upon his lips, and then he spills down his throat with a cry, thighs squeezing against his ears, fingers twisting about his hair. He licks him root to tip, every twitching ilm of him, and pulls off with a smack of his lips, kisses back up his chest until he perches over him. He rests his chin upon his hand, gazes down at the languid heap he's made of Aymeric with smug satisfaction.
Aymeric’s eyes flutter, blink open with effort. When they focus on him, the lazy smile he blesses him with then sets every ilm of him alight, makes his heart rattle about as a caged animal banging against his ribs, makes him want to leap to the top of the basilica, to shout his devotions to the bloody moon.
Instead, he brushes mused curls from sweat-slicked brow, curls his palm around his flushed cheek, and kisses him thoroughly, letting him taste himself upon his tongue. Aymeric makes a noise of utter contentment, hand resting lightly over his heart as he allows himself to be pressed into the pillows, caged on all sides by his captor. After a moment, he pulls back with a kiss to his nose, laughing.
“I will admit to being quite thoroughly distracted,” Aymeric says, smiling so widely Estinien fears he might split his lip. “‘Twould seem the tales of your prowess are well-founded.”
Estinien snorts. “‘Twas merely an appetizer,” he rumbles, nosing at the clasp upon his ear. “A small taste,” he nips at skin just below, “to whet my palate.”
Aymeric snickers, runs his hand down his chest, fingers trailing over the buttons of his shirt. Deftly, he undoes the top button, works his way down, fingers brushing against fine silver hairs, patches of scaled skin. “Oh? And what is on the menu, I wonder, for the main course?”
Estinien bites him. “You.”
Aymeric laughs breathlessly, fingers working to slip his shirt from his shoulders. His other hand works between them, slides up the leather of his trousers to brush over the tent he’s made of its middle. Estinien bites his lip, dips his hips into the heat of his palm. He could spill just from that, he knows, just the press of his fingers and chased laughter on his tongue. Aymeric kisses his jaw, up to the skin below his ear, still tittering.
“And how do you mean to prepare me?” Aymeric murmurs into his ear as he unbuckles his trousers. Estinien drops his head to his shoulder, fighting back his laughter.
“First I’ll oil you,” Estinien rumbles. “And then– Fury,” he sucks in a breath as Aymeric slides his trousers from his hips. “And then– pierce you. Upon my skewer.”
“What–?” Aymeric barks. “Skewer?!”
Estinien does laugh, then. “Like a kabob.”
Aymeric breaks, curling into him as he cackles, whole body shaking with laughter. Estinien holds him through it, heart light as the winds about the peaks of the Spine, overcome with affection for this numpty losing his bloody wits betwixt his arms. He kisses his neck, down his throat, smiling at the sound of his chortling. He kicks his trousers the rest of the way off, sighing in relief as his cock is freed from its prison.
“A bloody kabob,” Aymeric laughs, presses a kiss to the side of his head. His hands slide from scarred shoulder down the length of his side, a delighted noise sticking in his throat as he encounters bared hips. Idly his thumb brushes over the spattering of scales that linger there; remnants of Nidhogg, etched upon his skin.
Afore, he might have flinched; cringed away from his touch, ignored such malformations upon his body, separated his mind from his form the best that he could, as he’s always done. How many moons had he thought himself tainted, corrupted by such bitter, ancient aether? A parting gift, he thought, from his most hated enemy, one that would consume him once more were he to falter for a moment. How many sleepless nights had he imagined it, lost to the broiling aether yet lingering behind his heart? Smothered once more by its power, until naught of himself remained, helpless as Nidhogg took his revenge against those he holds most dear once more?
Even after such reassurances from Nidhogg’s brother, long had he avoided Aymeric’s gaze for fear of what he might find there. Revulsion. Contempt. Or the worst of all– pity. He closes his eyes, inhales the scent of him where neck meets collar.
He should have known, even then. How had he forgotten? He remembers the first time Aymeric had undressed him, fingers trembling, inhaling in surprise as he brushed against scaled scars. How he had tensed, ready to flee–
Does it hurt? Aymeric had asked, eyes bright with wonder. Numbly, he had shaken his head, grinding his teeth, awaiting his judgment.
Then the soft press of lips to his shoulder, his forearm, down the line of his hip– acceptance, readily given, without a thought. A benediction. Aymeric had the grace to ignore the wetness of his eyes as he held his clawed hand between his own, as he explored every ilm of him with naught but sounds of delight.
Always has Aymeric accepted him as he is; stubbornly, and without fail. What a fool he had been, to think he might now do aught else.
Careful of his claws, he strokes down Aymeric’s side, pushing up his thighs to cage him more thoroughly. His cock brushes against his stomach, ridged and scaled, tapered at the tip; not usual of an Elezen, yet accepted with the same ease as all else. Well, mayhaps a tad more– enthusiastically.
Aymeric digs his fingers into his arse, tugs him closer. “Well,” he says, finally free of his giggling, “come on then. Skewer me.”
Estinien huffs, grinds his cock into his hip as he licks at his collar. “Eager, are we?”
“You did promise me dessert.”
“Ah,” Estinien admonishes, and flips them easily upon the bed, hefts Aymeric up onto his lap. “Only if you were good, if you recall.”
Aymeric flushes, perched above him, bared and perfect, haloed by the firelight. “And?” he asks, voice breathless, eyes dark as the icy depths of the Banepool. “Do I meet your approval?”
Estinien digs his fingers into his hips, overwhelmed by affection. Eyes trail from head to navel, down over the curve of his thighs, up his scarred arms, back to his eyes. He swallows thickly.
“Always,” he rasps. Aymeric softens, eyes crinkling around the edges, and cups his cheek, leans to kiss him.
Time blurs, lost beneath Aymeric’s hands, drowned by his delighted gasps, obscured by the taste of his lips. Oil gets fumbled from the nightstand, dripped over sheets in eagerness. Left fingers slicked, he delves between the tight heat of him, captures his trembling groan between his teeth.
“Estinien,” he hears, pulled from his beautiful throat as he swives up into him, fingers probing and stretching. Preparing.
He laughs into Aymeric’s neck. Aymeric swats at him, sinks back down on his fingers. “Focus,” he commands, voice wobbling. “Enough with the bloody kabob,” he says in a valiant attempt at seriousness, though Estinien can feel his chest shake with barely withheld laughter.
Estinien snickers, bites at his neck. “Aye, milord.” He curls his fingers, relishes in Aymeric’s yelp of surprise.
He pushes in with three fingers, watching Aymeric’s face as he hunches over, face blooming with heat, lips parted as he squirms and moans. His cock leaks steadily, smearing upon his chest, painting his skin with his spend. If he had more patience, he’d have him spill like this– speared on his fingers, perched upon his lap as he works him through it, shaking and desperate as he shouted his name; wait for him to calm down, and only then would he push into him, pound him into the sheets until he sobs with pleasure.
But now the temptation is too great; his cock throbs, aching where it’s trapped between them. Demanding. Ever has been a thrall to its incessant bloody urges, and now is no exception. Cursing, he removes his fingers all at once, fumbles for the oil with a shaking hand, hastily slicks himself–
Aymeric presses closer, lifts his hips to assist. And then he’s sinking into him, ilm by glorious godsdamned ilm, and every thought in his buggering head is wiped clean. He curls his arms around Aymeric’s back, molds his chest to his front, drops his head into his collar, overcome.
“Fury,” he rasps, utterly unguarded. “I missed you.”
A wet noise from above. “And I you,” Aymeric says, voice shaking. “So very much, I– Gods–!”
He swives up into him, gently, yet impatient to be closer, tapered tip of his cock spreading Aymeric open, easing the way in. ‘Tis been too long since last he’s had him like this– the pleasure of Aymeric’s thick cock splitting him open is too great for him to resist, and Aymeric is, as always, delighted to oblige. Yet to feel him thusly, to have him trembling around him, the tight heat of him encasing his cock like a bloody glove, squeezing and clenching–
Halone take me, he thinks fervently, near delirious from the feel of him. His claws elongate, stretching pleasantly as he curls them about his haunches, entrapping him in his grip. He rocks into him with a growl, lifting him from his hips to slam him back down upon his cock. Aymeric gasps, clawing at his shoulder, fingers twisting in his hair.
“Harder,” he demands, voice quivering. Estinien swears, slides his hips down the bed, plants his feet, and obeys. Aymeric braces against the headboard for balance, the wood creaking and groaning beneath his grip as he swives into him, angling his thrusts with precision, watching his cock disappear into him with senseless satisfaction as Aymeric pants against his brow.
“Oh,” Aymeric groans, head dropping to his shoulder, tongue hot against his neck. “Estinien– please, just–” another thrust, Aymeric shudders atop him, clenching pleasantly about his cock. “Just there– gods, yes.”
Heat pools in his navel as Aymeric melts, cock smearing slick against his chest as he snaps his hips, devotedly striking his target again, and again, watching enraptured as Aymeric sinks further and further into him, thighs shaking, fingers twisting in the sheets.
Aymeric tenses, gasps against his chest, muscles straining– an urge strikes him, and Estinien tugs at his curls, lifts his face from his shoulder, cups his cheek.
“Let me see you,” he rasps desperately. His cock jerks as Aymeric’s mouth parts in a gasp, beautiful eyes fluttering, brow furrowing. He brushes his thumb over Aymeric’s lips, curses as he bites at it, sucks it into his mouth. “Fury’s tits, ‘Meric.”
Aymeric’s gaze is as a dagger, the heat of it piercing through his heart, lancing down his spine, surging up his cock. He twirls his tongue over his finger, sinks back on his length as a dream, plucked from his deepest desires, manifested before him to send him to an early godsdamned grave. Swearing, he wraps Aymeric’s cock in his fingers, jerks him harshly in retribution.
“Estinien,” Aymeric gasps, thumb forgotten, and throws his head back, fingers clenching in his hair. “Gods, please–”
“I have you,” he rasps, stroking his perfect cock in time with his thrusts. “Come for me,” he begs, twisting his fingers. “Aymeric–”
Aymeric clenches tight about his cock, grasps at his wrist, groans his name once more, and then spills over his fingers with a choked gasp.
No man could resist such a sight; with a curse, he buries himself as deep in Aymeric as he can, and spills hot inside him.
The sounds of the fire crackling in the grate mingle with their calming breaths as Aymeric slumps atop him, languid and contented, fingers petting along the back of his nape. Estinien strokes down the length of his spine, every thought forgotten but the warm feel of him atop him, the affection simmering in his chest, the devotion that laces through his very bones, binding him to this man.
He presses his lips to the top of Aymeric’s curls. Aymeric makes a sleepy noise, murmurs something unintelligible– something that sounds suspiciously like skewered. Estinien snorts.
“Sleep,” he demands softly. Aymeric’s flingers clench about his bicep– an unconscious movement, sudden and sharp; fearful. Guilt tightens his throat; he swallows it back down, strokes along the small of Aymeric’s back. “I will be here when you wake,” he promises.
At that, Aymeric relaxes, presses his lips into his neck with a pleased sigh. As he drifts, eyes blinking blearily, he wonders what it might be like, to fall asleep like this always– to end the day with Aymeric in his arms, huddled in his sheets with his soft breaths lulling him to rest. To have the soft fluttering of his eyes be the first thing he sees upon waking. He knows Aymeric desires it, just as he knows that he would never ask it of him. To stay.
As sleep takes him, he finds the thought does not inspire such terror as it used to.
***
He awakes some time later to Aymeric’s grumbling atop him; the feeling of dried spend sticking between them, flaking over his thigh. He grunts intelligently, grabs at Aymeric to keep him still. He hears Aymeric’s huff of laughter in his ear.
“Just going to get a towel,” he insists, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Appeased, he lets Aymeric slip from his grip, blinks at the canopy of his bed as he hears Aymeric fumbling about in the washroom. He’s on the verge of falling asleep once more when a warmed towel dips along his thigh, brushes over his cock. He startles, very much awake.
“What is the time?” he rasps, voice thick from sleep. Aymeric folds the towel, tosses it atop the chair. Lifts the sheets, slides back atop him to press a soft kiss to his mouth. Estinien rumbles, pleased.
“Not yet dawn,” Aymeric murmurs, fingers brushing at his bangs. “We’ve time yet afore I must ready for work.”
Estinien frowns. Work. Aymeric’s work, Aymeric’s work which nearly killed him, again–
“Shite,” he curses, nearly topping Aymeric from the bed as he delves for his bag, tossed carelessly near the balcony.
“All right?” Aymeric calls from the bed, clearly concerned. He fumbles around clothes and lance polish, knives hastily stowed–
Fingers close around a crumpled package. He pulls it from the bag in triumph, plucks the envelope tied to it and kicks the bag back into the corner. The ribbon is rumpled, bow sideways, but still intact. Pleased, he stalks back towards the bed, to where Aymeric sits, sheets pooled around his waist, bared chest tempting in the smoldering light of the fire. He slips back beside him, presses him down into the sheets, kisses him deeply.
“I’ve something for you,” he murmurs as he pulls away, brushing his lips against his mouth, noses knocking. He rolls to his side, sets the package atop Aymeric’s lap, eyeing him in anticipation. Aymeric blinks, eyes wide.
“Estinien, you really needn’t–”
“Open it,” he interrupts before Aymeric can get started. He watches intently as Aymeric plucks at the ribbon, smoothes his hands over the crumpled paper, opens it along the seam.
“Oh,” Aymeric breathes, pulling the fine silk from its wrappings. The shimmering blue and gold catches the firelight, glinting in the dimness of the room, beaded embellishments clinking softly as he holds it aloft. He runs his fingers over the embroidered sash, eyes alight with wonder. “‘Tis so soft– never have I felt a cloth so fine.”
“Thavnairian silk,” Estinien rumbles, pleased at the reaction. He noses at Aymeric’s neck, watches as Aymeric opens the matching trousers with another awed exhale. He remembers well the weaver’s expression as he perfectly described the width of his arse. Small embarrassments, inconsequential in the face of Aymeric’s obvious delight.
“‘Tis so light,” Aymeric breathes, fingers sifting through the tassels that adorn the belt. Estinien smiles, brushes hair from his nape and kisses there, too.
“Aye, you’ll be thankful for its thinness in that damnable heat,” he drawls. “Everything you own is made of wool, ‘twill roast you alive atop the city’s bricks.”
Aymeric blinks, fingers pausing atop their journey tracing the golden strands. “Pardon?”
Silently, he hands him the accompanying letter, sealed and stamped in a bright teal, embossed with the Divine Eye. Aymeric turns it over, glances about, pats his bare chest as if searching for a pocket– then grabs his right hand, holds his clawed finger aloft and uses it to open the seal.
He’d been there as the Satrap had penned the letter himself, simulacrum’s fingers moving slowly over the parchment, stiff with unfamiliarity. Still, ‘tis better than a dragon’s claws– that attempt had proven disastrous for all parchment involved.
He watches as Aymeric reads, eyes darting back and forth across the letter. “He– requests a meeting?” he says at last, voice tight with something he can’t place. Disbelief, perhaps.
“Aye,” Estinien says, kissing down the side of his shoulder. “The great Vrtra of the First Brood, ruler of Radz-at-Han, requests your presence.” He follows the line of his shoulder down his back, noses at the long raised scar there with a frown. “Purely diplomatic, of course. To discuss– trade deals. Alliances. Whatever it is you heads of state get up to in your ceaseless bloody meetings.”
“A fortnight?” Aymeric questions aloud, as if to the room at large. He sounds so eager, voice bright with boyish delight. His heart aches. When was the last time he heard him thus? Years, mayhaps, well before his appointment. Estinien watches over his shoulder as his ears perk, and then wilt all at once. “Oh no, that’s– nay, I couldn’t possibly–”
“And ignore a potential new ally, and trade partner? One of the First Brood, at that?”
Aymeric falters. “I– no, of course not. But–”
Estinien presses on. “He does not blame Ishgard for the fate of his sister,” he insists, ignoring the sudden spike of rage in his gut. “Nay, his love for his people has stayed his rage, yet reassurances from Ishgard’s leader would not be remiss. You know well that this alliance would only benefit Ishgard, and its people.” He watches as Aymeric tenses, fingers trailing over the letter, bites his lip, seeking some other excuse to deny himself no doubt, the stubborn bloody bastard. “Besides,” he says, pulling his trump card. He bites at his shoulder. “I already worked it out with Lucia. She will see that everything is handled in your absence.”
“I see,” Aymeric says, and brushes his fingers along the silk once more. Alarmingly, he feels Aymeric shudder, give a telltale sniff. “I– Estinien,” he says, wetly, “verily?”
“Aye,” he says, wrapping his arm about Aymeric’s chest, fingers brushing along his beating heart. “A fortnight should be long enough for me to show you around, at least.” He noses at his neck, presses his lips to the underside of his jaw, humming thoughtfully. “What shall I tell him, then, Vrtra of the First Brood?”
Aymeric hesitates, fingers gripping the letter so tightly he fears it might rip. “I will go, of course. For–” he sniffs “– for the good of Ishgard, and new potential allies.”
“Good,” Estinien says, beyond pleased. To have Aymeric there under the Thavnairian sun, adorned in azure and gold, to free him from the imprisonment of his beloved city, if only for a moment– he can think of nothing he’d rather have more.
“But how will I get there?” Aymeric ponders aloud, finger tapping his lips. “The journey alone will take a fortnight by ship.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Estinien says. “I’ve already arranged it. We’ll go by air.”
Aymeric twists his head to look at him. “I was not informed any airship routes had been plotted to Radz-at-Han.”
Estinien smirks, noses at his jaw. “They haven’t.”
“Oh,” Aymeric says, grips around the back of his head to keep him there. His eyes widen in realization. “Oh. Really?”
“Aye.”
“Wonderful,” Aymeric breathes. He looks– happy. Creases of worry around his brow faded, eyes bright with eagerness, and hope. Something rumbles in his chest, undeniably pleased, as a raging beast placated. He sinks back against the pillows, tugs Aymeric back atop him, tucks his head over his curls. Aymeric hums, contended, brushing fingers along the silken brocade with reverence.
“Shall I try it on now?”
Estinien snorts, clenches his fingers about his hip. “Not if you don’t want it ruined afore you get there.”
Aymeric laughs. “Oh? Can you not restrain yourself, you beast?”
He tugs Aymeric's head from his chest, brushes bangs from beloved eyes, curls his fingers about his jaw. The love that he feels, then– the love that he thought a weakness for years, the love he denied and ignored, the love he hid for fear of it being taken from him– warms him heel to ear. No less terrifying, and still an undeniable risk, but in the face of Aymeric’s smile, with the weight of him atop him, the crinkle of his eyes– godsdamn him, but he had the right of it.
A risk worth taking, indeed.
“With you?” he murmurs, lips brushing over his mouth. “Never.”