Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night sky above Ishgard is beginning to lighten, though its streets are still deserted, void of life save for an occasional roaming stray cat. Nevertheless, even on a Lightsday morning the city would have already begun to wake up, with all of its activity confined indoors for these early bells — at least in this part of town.

So Aymeric thinks through the fog in his mind as he crosses Saint Valeroyant with stumbling steps, headed towards the ascent to the Pillars with one white-haired lancer in tow. Though there’s no one around to witness two of Ishgard’s finest new Temple Knights tripping over their feet, Aymeric does his best to conceal his inebriated state anyway, channelling all of his self-control into maintaining some semblance of sobriety.

“Ay– Aym— Wait.”

Estinien’s voice stops him in his tracks. His friend is not one to speak solely for the sake of making conversation, so Aymeric turns around, features shifting into a concerned frown.

For all his worry about his own appearance, it’s clear that Estinien’s condition is far worse than his — Aymeric could tell as much even before they’d left the Forgotten Knight. His companion has stopped to lean against a pillar, though he’s not likely to remain standing for much longer, judging by the way that he gradually slides down its stone surface with all the grace of a sack of popotoes. On any other occasion, Aymeric might have offered a jest to bring a rare grin to his friend’s notoriously serious expression, but tonight he abstains, his own mind hazy and body distractingly heavy.

“Estinien?” he asks instead, peering down at the other knight.

“Don’t feel well,” Estinien mumbles, rubbing his hands over his face.

Aymeric acknowledges his words with a thoughtful hum. Estinien’s never been a big drinker—at least not since Aymeric’s known him—so it’s no surprise that tonight’s celebration has pushed the limits of his tolerance.

“‘M not used to—” Estinien tries to continue, but a fierce gust of wind cuts off his next words.

“C’mon,” says Aymeric once it passes. He tugs Estinien upright by the hand and pulls him towards the covered steps.

Once safely inside and sheltered from the elements, the two knights lean against the wall for a brief respite. Aymeric feels undeniably better now, or at least more clear-headed, but a quick glance at Estinien in his sorry condition—eyes shut tight and breathing labored—induces a pang of regret within him. His gaze lingers on his friend for a few moments, as he thinks back to the evening’s festivities.

“There was no need for you to stay all night, you know,” he says quietly.

“Mm,” grunts Estinien without opening his eyes. “You were still there.”

Even as his words aggravate the guilt Aymeric already feels, they also serve to dilute the emotion with another, a very different one. One that probably isn’t a good idea to dwell on in his current state. “Let us walk,” he says instead, suddenly thinking of his fire-lit sitting room at the Borel manor. “You can lean on me.”

As Estinien slowly peels himself off the wall, Aymeric doesn’t wait for him to verbalize an answer; he slides an arm around his waist and begins to steer him up the stairs and towards his home in the Pillars.

Estinien follows his lead without saying a word. Although he leans a generous part of his body weight onto Aymeric, warm and heavy against him, it’s not a difficult burden to bear. The lancer has a slimmer, lithe sort of build, one that allows him to be light on his feet as he fights. It will undoubtedly serve him well in aerial combat as well; it’s almost too easy to picture him soaring and plunging with precision at their powerful enemy, when the time comes for him to follow in Ser Alberic’s footsteps and join the Order of the Knights Dragoon. Even having known Estinien for a relatively short period of time—mere moons—Aymeric has no doubt that it will happen. His friend will attain what he strives for. Right now, though, he must offer him solid ground — a sense of stability in a moment of hardship, however temporary.

So lost he is in his thoughts that Aymeric nearly finds himself on the ground, having misstepped on what he has to admit was a perfectly flat surface.

Estinien’s belated question comes then. “Where’re we goin’? A’mric.”

“Oh? Er—” Aymeric glances over at him briefly. “Mine, of course.”

“The manor?” For a while, Estinien doesn’t say anything, lost in thought. “Why there?”

The question makes Aymeric hesitate… Why indeed? “’Tis warm. Comfortable. ’Twould be good to sleep off the ale afore tomorrow’s training.”

Estinien accepts his reasoning with a grunt of acknowledgement and they continue, crossing that last stretch of the Pillars that remains between them and the Borel Manor. Once safely inside and out of sight of any gossipmongers or ill-wishers, Aymeric allows himself to take a proper breath of relief. The hardest part is behind them, and all that’s left now is to see to his own evening preparations and sort out his guest’s.

Getting Estinien upstairs in the state that he is, however, is a trial of its own. As shaky as he’d been on his feet outside, his lack of coordination appears even more prominent indoors: he uses the bannister to pull himself up the stairs with only Aymeric’s hand around his waist for balance, keeping him from tumbling back down. For a fleeting second, Aymeric almost considers gathering him up into his arms and carrying him up to the second floor… but the mere thought is ridiculous. Instead, he focuses his efforts on holding him steady until they reach the door to his rooms.

As they enter Aymeric’s chambers, they find a fire already lit in the hearth, and Aymeric’s heart warms at the thought of his manservant anticipating his late—or in this case, early-morning—arrival. With that chore out of the way, Aymeric’s free to move on to the next most pressing concern, and so he heads to the sideboard by the wall to get the two of them something to drink.

Water successfully poured—though he will admit it took some concentration—he returns promptly to the middle of the room, where Estinien has collapsed face down onto the nearest piece of upholstered furniture. His friend makes no complaint when Aymeric coaxes him to sit up and take a few sips; perhaps he feels poorly enough that he knows it’s for the best. The few sips turn into several long drags, and soon he’s emptied the entire vessel. Once Aymeric’s had his fill of his own, he sets both glasses down onto a table nearby and returns to Estinien’s side with slow, heavy steps.

“D’you remember where everything is?” he asks.

He’s not sure if he believes the affirmative grunt he gets in response from his once-again-horizontal friend, but Estinien has been in this room before and the bathroom should be easy enough to find. Aymeric tries to think of anything else that may help ease his discomfort, but nothing comes to mind, and the call of his own bed is becoming impossible to resist. Just before he can wish him good night, though, Estinien speaks, catching him off guard:

“‘M’ric?”

“Hm?”

Aymeric leans in closer to hear what he has to say, but when Estinien tilts up his head to look at him, the uncharacteristically soft, sleepy expression on his face nearly takes him aback. “Estinien?”

“Thank you,” he says with a squeeze of his hand around Aymeric’s, startling him with the sudden—but not unwelcome—touch.

Before Aymeric can formulate a response beyond the instinctual nod that he gives, the other man’s lids fall shut again and his grip loosens around Aymeric’s hand. For a few long moments, all he can do is sit there, watching the firelight dance on his friend’s features and fighting the temptation to run his fingers through his loose white hair…

But he abstains. Best not to risk it.

Instead, Aymeric stands up and heads to his bedroom, where a comfortable feather bed awaits.

Chapter Text

Two more. Two letters to read and answer, and then one final look through a report that is, in all fairness, done, but could use another read-through ahead of tomorrow’s assembly of the Temple Knights’ command.

Aymeric’s good at this kind of work, always has been, but today it feels like pulling teeth, trying to muster the required level of concentration through the fog in his head. He wouldn’t call it a headache quite yet, but there’s a tightness in the back of his neck and his shoulders, and an all-around unease gripping his entire body. He pushes the feeling aside, though, for it is already late enough; he must focus on the remaining work if he is to have any hope of making it home before midnight.

He’s midway through the second letter when the door to his sorry excuse for a command office opens and a familiar silhouette steps inside, startling him out of his tense concentration.

“Estinien,” Aymeric greets, letting relief show on his face when he sees that the newcomer is his friend and not some minor lord—with an even more minor problem—who has managed to intimidate the guard into letting him through.

“You didn’t answer,” his friend replies. “When I knocked.”

It’s a new development, the dragoon armor and the newly-forged lance, far superior to the Temple Knights standard-issue weapon that Estinien had wielded previously. Yet it suits him well, as if he were destined to do precisely this duty and no other, and despite Estinien’s notorious tendencies to keep to himself, Aymeric can’t help but look forward to that inevitable day when his friend assumes command responsibilities in his new organization. There’s no doubt that he’s headed for greater things than the novice missions keeping him busy these days.

“Ah…” Aymeric puts down his pen and raises a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Did you? I mustn’t have noticed.”

“Commander Tourcenet sent me to relay a missive.” When he sees Aymeric’s frown, Estinien elaborates: “Naught of any concern. ’Tis a record of last week’s campaign, for the Lord Commander to review.”

“I shall pass it along, then.” Aymeric sits back in his chair, feeling slight relief at having avoided yet another task that would have extended his work day even more.

“I was on my way to the manor when I caught sight of your lamps still lit. Have you been here since midday?” asks his friend.

Aymeric twists around in his seat, making a futile attempt to ease the tension in his shoulders. “Mm. I was just finishing.”

“Verily?”

“Verily.” A yawn overtakes him then and he shakes his head. “Apologies.”

When he looks up again, Estinien’s standing right next to his chair, having crossed the room while Aymeric wasn’t looking.

“‘Tis the tenth bell,” he says. “And you’re ill.”

Aymeric briefly considers objecting, but his friend has always been perceptive in these matters. Oftentimes he picks up on Aymeric’s condition before Aymeric does himself, though in this case, he’s well aware of it by now — and of the fact that it will inevitably get worse before it gets better.

“I’ll wait, then,” says Estinien, crossing his arms and leaning back onto the edge of the desk.

“For what?”

“Until you finish.”

“Oh no, no, my friend,” Aymeric replies with a chuckle, shaking his head. “It might… be some time.” After all, it’s not an easy thing to concentrate when the words are blurring together on the page, but there’s only one letter left and its response; even if it takes him a little longer than usual, the end is in sight. Just a little more.

Estinien, as always, is undeterred. “You said you were finishing.”

Aymeric takes another labored breath. His exhaustion seems to have balled up in the pit of his stomach now, making it hard to continue as before. Having to field Estinien’s questions isn’t helping either — even though Aymeric knows he’s one of the few who have his best interests at heart. The temptation to put his head down and close his eyes for a few minutes is overwhelming, but he knows from experience that following through on that impulse would only result in a harsh awakening: equally as tired and with his work undone.

“I am trying to, I swear it,” Aymeric answers at last. “But you know how the Lord Commander is — if this fails to be up to standard, the blame will fall solely on my shoulders.” As if in response to his words, one of the shoulders in question twinges in pain, making Aymeric suck in a gasp.

Estinien gives an unimpressed grunt. “Come on. I’ll take you back to the manor.”

“Really, Estinien… It’s– I’ll be alright,” says Aymeric, right before succumbing to another yawn.

“Your work will not fall short. It never does. No sense in pushing yourself until your body can’t take it anymore. Look at you. You’ll wake up tomorrow in even worse shape if you don’t get some rest,” he says, quietly adding: “Always happens that way.”

Aymeric slumps even more in his seat, sleep dragging him down.

“Come.”

As usual, Estinien has the right of it. Aymeric’s muscles are stiff, the back of his neck aches, and he’s starting to feel the beginnings of nausea. Admittedly, the work for tomorrow morning is squared away. He should be able to go over the report before the assembly in the afternoon, and sort out the second letter along with the missive after that.

His friend continues to watch him, unfazed, as he yawns yet again. There really is little excuse left.

Aymeric pushes himself up to stand, gathering the few papers that he needs to bring home for review tomorrow. The rush of blood to his head makes him feel worse, but he ignores it and keeps going; after all, even if he stops for a momentary rest, it will bring him no relief. He knows this well. The struggle to make it out the door also proves greater than he’d anticipated: each step feels unbearably heavy, and Aymeric’s lids refuse to stay open. At last he leaves the office, leaning on the door frame for support as he goes.

Estinien trails after him like a shepherd watching over a wayward karakul.

When Aymeric stumbles on the slope up, Estinien’s right there with him, stepping up close to offer a steadying arm around his shoulders. Though his friend’s face is now perpetually masked, he knows there’s no more judgment in his gaze — only concern for his well-being.

“Truly, I’m alright,” insists Aymeric, intending to reassure. “I’m grateful for your help, but I’m in no dire need of an escort.”

There’s no lie in his words. Aymeric has made it back to the manor safely in far worse condition, for late nights like this have been the norm rather than the exception lately. His superiors demand more of him than they do of his peers, but that’s something that Aymeric’s always been used to, and he does what he can to deliver on their expectations. A day will come that will prove it all worthwhile; he believes in this wholeheartedly.

Despite everything, Estinien’s presence at his side is never unwelcome — far from it. While the journey would have been perfectly manageable and he would have done it without complaint, the thought of having to do it all alone in his current condition makes Aymeric shudder.

“Mm.” Estinien says nothing more, though he doesn’t remove his arm from Aymeric’s upper back, gently guiding him in the direction of the stairs.

The rest of the walk is quiet and uneventful. It’s the first snowfall of the season, and the atmosphere is crisp and perfectly wintry; the snow covers the ground like a soft, white blanket, reflecting light from the street lamps in an enchanting, picturesque scene. It’s a shame that Aymeric can’t enjoy it the way he would on any other occasion. Instead, all he feels is the cold bite of wind on his skin and the slow pounding in his head, made more prominent by the rest of his physical unease.

They arrive at the door to the Borel Manor chilled and shivering, and Estinien waits leaning against the wall for Aymeric to retrieve his key. He’s the lord of the house now, has been for a while, but it still feels like a new development; at times, he finds himself walking through these doors expecting to catch a glimpse of his father dozing by the fire, or his mother’s knitting left out on the dining room table. Tonight, he’s under no such illusions.

The warmth that greets them inside is a welcome reprieve, and the upstairs rooms have been meticulously prepared, waiting for Aymeric’s return. Having helped divest him of his coat and boots, Estinien wordlessly gestures to the couch—as if Aymeric needs any more encouragement—but before he can recline fully, his companion stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Wait— Here,” he says, reaching into a concealed pocket within his armor. “Maenne gave me this.”

“What is it?” asks Aymeric.

“Ointment,” answers Estinien. “Your lip’s cracked.”

So it is. Aymeric had ascribed the feeling to his overall discomfort on the walk over, but as he runs his tongue over his lips now, the painful sting makes him flinch.

“Here.” Estinien comes closer and unceremoniously grabs his chin, using his thumb to spread something waxy and fragrant across Aymeric’s lower lip.

Though the smell is a little strong to appreciate in his present state, Aymeric can’t deny that it gets the job done — the remedy softens up his skin wonderfully. He sighs in relief, once again able to smile his usual smile. “Thank you, Estinien.”

“'Tis of no matter. Come on.”

At last, Aymeric stretches out his body, veritably melting into the cushions after a long day at his desk. He mumbles a slurred thanks to Estinien again—for no particular reason—and with another yawn his aching head finally meets the pillow.

“Sleep,” his friend quietly says.

Aymeric makes no attempt to resist.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s hard to tell how much time has passed. The pain has intensified, radiating down from his head to his neck and upper body, but that’s nothing new or remarkable either. By now Aymeric’s used to its unforgiving grip, trying to persevere as he waits for seconds, minutes, bells to pass. This tends to be the worst stretch.

There’s a blanket atop him, one from a lounge chair nearby, and he suddenly remembers about Estinien. Surely, he must have already gone home…

A quick glance around the room reveals his friend draped across said chair with a book in his hands. Now free of his armor, Estinien sits stretched out across the spacious seat, attired in nothing but the layer of underclothing that he wears beneath his equipment: linen hose and a simple long-sleeved shirt. He looks well-rested and serene—both a rarity for him—and Aymeric can’t help but watch him for a moment, before his head pulses with pain again and he speaks up to distract himself from the sensation.

“Which book is that?”

Estinien looks up, startled. “You’re awake. ’Tis an account of Nidhogg’s first attacks. One I haven’t seen before.”

“Yours to borrow, of course,” says Aymeric.

It always pleases him when he can be of use to Estinien, even with a gesture as minor and insignificant as lending a helpful book. He likes it when he can be of use… and he abhors being an inconvenience.

“You can go, you know.” He coughs, triggering another burst of headache, dull and slow.

Estinien watches, letting a moment of silence pass before asking: “Can I stay?”

“If you wish it,” says Aymeric. “But I won’t make for good company right now,” he warns. “I can—” another yawn, “—I shall make it up to you another time. Go, enjoy the evening.”

His urging falls on deaf ears. Instead, Estinien gets up from the chair and walks over to sit next to him on the couch. “How do you feel?”

Aymeric gives a shaky chuckle. “Awful.”

Estinien reaches out to touch his forehead—which brings a pleasant, cooling sensation—but when he moves to lightly rub at his temples, Aymeric can’t help but flinch in pain, appreciative though he is of the kind gesture.

“Apologies, Estinien… Not much feels good right now.”

“Mm.” His friend thinks for a moment. “What about this?”

He slides his fingers into Aymeric’s hair for an even gentler massage, and while it would be a lie to say that it does anything to lessen the pain, it’s somehow soothing and quite welcome, even as it brings more discomfort to the forefront of his awareness. An odd contradiction.

Though he’d never dare to confess it out loud, Aymeric would rather have Estinien here than face it alone.

“Better,” he answers.

Chapter Text

“At last, a fire and a good meal,” says Alaimbert once they have made camp for the night, voicing the unspoken relief shared by everyone in the unit.

The patrol group consists of several seasoned dragoons supported by a unit of House Fortemps knights, partly due to the See’s recent emphasis on joint activities, partly due to the Temple Knights being stretched so thin. Estinien listens idly as they chat about this and that—supplies, weather, upcoming campaigns—and avoid the heavier topics that weigh on everybody’s hearts. Dinner tonight is a stew prepared by one of the younger knights. While the taste is nothing to write home about, the meal is simple, nourishing, and does its job adequately, warming him from the inside out as the campfire before him does the opposite.

It’s been a tough one this time around, with injuries so numerous that not a single person in the party has managed to escape unscathed, be it due to dragonfire or hazardous terrain. Two knights, one belonging to House Fortemps and one to his own command unit, would not be returning home at all. Estinien’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach when he remembers the chain of events that led to their regrettable demise — and what he could have done differently to avoid that unfortunate outcome.

“Ah, but poor Estinien!” Brucemont exclaims, and Estinien looks up at the mention of his name. “At least they’ll have the chirurgeons ready to see you at the gates, you know. Lucky for you.”

“Hmph,” voices Estinien, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. His injury isn’t nearly as bad as it could have been, considering the sheer size of the diresaur who had cornered him back at the cliffs. It’s a wonder that he got away with only one broken leg—and a successful mission—but the fact remains that he’ll continue to be in pain until their return to Ishgard.

“Not to mention Second Commander Borel waitin’ up for him,” chimes in a different voice, eliciting a round of chuckles from everyone else. It’s a dragoon whose face Estinien knows very well, though his name continues to elude him.

“Now, now,” chimes in Haurchefant Greystone, as he walks up to the campfire and sits down beside Alaimbert. “Let the man rest. ’Tis a rarity and a blessing in times like these to have a friend who cares.”

“All I’m sayin’ is he’ll be fussed over,” says the nameless knight between sips of soup. “Ain’t a bad thing.”

The laughs die down to a pensive, companionable silence. After all, despite the obligatory grimace on his face, Estinien knows that the man’s right. Aymeric’s always been the type to take care of others, and there were few knights under his command who hadn’t experienced him going above and beyond to ease their troubles. He likes doing it and he does it well, and when Estinien happens to be the object of his attention, that tendency comes out in full force — he remembers with a blush creeping up his cheeks. It really isn’t a bad thing, but it does make being here all that much more miserable.

“I’m going to sleep,” he says, moving to stand up.

It’s a slow process, but his other limbs are strong and stable, and so he rises from his seat without requiring anyone’s help — waving off Haurchefant when he offers. When he reaches his tent at the edge of camp—pitched by Alaimbert while the healers were looking at his leg—Estinien climbs inside and begins to unpack for the night. This, too, takes him twice as long as usual, but at last he takes off his armor and crawls into the makeshift bed.

As he settles in and tries to relax, the pain in his leg only seems to get worse, escalating from the mild, easily ignored annoyance that he’d felt at dinner, to a deep, intense ache. Although the conjurers in the party had done whatever they could with the limited resources on hand, it proved not nearly enough for the degree of his injuries. Their ministrations will tide him over for the time being, but it’s unlikely that he’ll feel true relief until he can see the Temple Knights’ chirurgeons, equipped with their extensive arsenal of magics and potions.

One more night and then it’s back to Ishgard, but until they reach the Gates of Judgment, Estinien’s a liability, a danger to the whole group. He can barely stomach it.

The sound of raindrops hitting the top of the tent draws his attention, and it’s a harsh realization that the night will be as wet as it will be cold. Once upon a time he’d have scooted up next to Aymeric for warmth, arranging the covers over the two of them and letting body heat do the rest. He’d awaken well rested every time, no matter the conditions outside — be it rain or snow or simply a dip in temperatures. Of course, that’s no longer an option; those days are behind them.

With a sigh, Estinien reaches over to pull something else from his pack, something that he’d debated taking in the first place. It’s a shirt of fine linen dyed in rich Borel blue, borrowed from the lord of the house the day before he’d set out on patrol. It was a small training mishap that left him with a torn undershirt and no suitable replacement save for whatever Aymeric had on hand, and now Estinien finds himself thankful that it happened.

He can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed as he lays it out across his pillow. The fabric feels soft against his cheek and smells like everything he associates with Aymeric: the soap with which he launders his clothes, the hint of wood and spice in the oils he uses on his skin. While it’s nothing compared to the secure feeling of having Aymeric next to him, it does help—in whatever small way—to take his mind off the insistent ache in his leg. Still, even as Estinien closes his eyes and relaxes into into it, he finds himself a little mixed up, perplexed that he wants such comfort in the first place. After all, he’s been on his own for a long time, and he’s never before sought solace from anyone else. Why now?

Estinien knows full well that the chirurgeons will have his leg healing properly in no time. Their research has been progressing by leaps and bounds, and even the most severe recent cases within the Knights have already recovered to full health. Yet, he lies in bed dispirited and heavy-hearted, troubled by a feeling that he can’t quite identify, and it’s only the thought of Aymeric waiting for him back in Ishgard that allows him to fall asleep at last.

The following evening, it takes the Temple Knights Hospitaliers a laughably short amount of time to administer their treatments and send Estinien on his way, now mostly free of pain and leaning on a crutch that helps more than he would admit. As a first course of action, he heads to the Congregation to drop off his equipment for repairs, and it is on his way out that Aymeric catches up to him, rosy-cheeked and out of breath.

“How do you feel? They said you were injured. I came as quickly as I—” a helmeted guard runs up to hand Aymeric a sheaf of papers, which he tucks under his arm without looking, “—my thanks.”

The mere sight of him in his commander’s armor floods Estinien with inexplicable relief. A smile threatens to drift up onto his lips, and even though his face is mostly concealed by the helmet, he covers it up with a shrug anyway, instead choosing to brush off Aymeric’s concern. “It’s fine. They saw to it on my way in. The pain’s gone too, for the most part.”

Having dealt with the interruption, Aymeric shifts his attention entirely to him. “Have you finished here? We’ll go to the manor.”

“Aye.” It’s not a bad idea, and as Estinien glances around the crowded Forum, he realizes that he’s eager to get going. Best not risk any more delays — or worse, give his fellow dragoons more ammunition for the next time they decide to poke fun. “Let us go.”

With a nod at his destination, Estinien sets out towards the steps to the Pillars and Aymeric follows, matching his pace.

As soon as they walk into the manor and Aymeric ensures that the door is shut and bolted, he steps up close and throws his arms around Estinien’s shoulders, making him still in surprise. His touch is light but firm, infused with more emotion than he typically allows himself to express — even with Estinien.

“Thank Halone for seeing you home safe,” he mutters, and the heartfelt prayer on his lips makes something warm settle in the pit of Estinien’s stomach. After all, he feels it too: Home. That’s what this is.

“There’s no need to fuss so much,” Estinien says instead of confessing anything oversentimental, even as he leans forward to rest his chin on Aymeric’s shoulder, hiding his smile.

“I have to, a little bit,” his friend answers with a hint of amusement in his voice. Then, it takes on a note of something more serious as he continues: “I was worried, you know. They said it was a close one.”

Estinien doesn’t deny it. “Someone had to do it.”

They stay like this in contemplative silence for a few long seconds, until the moment slowly turns into a clumsy separation and an awkward pause, followed by Aymeric’s mumbled invitation to move upstairs.

Up in his chambers, Estinien removes his armor and allows Aymeric to lower him down onto the spacious couch. Though he certainly could have done it himself, his friend supports him with such great care and solid strength, that Estinien doesn’t want to deny himself the indulgence. At least not in private, when it’s only the two of them.

“Shall I get you something to eat, then?” offers Aymeric. “I made a stew earlier. ’Tis nothing special, but it—”

“Please.”

“Right. I’ll be back.”

While he waits for Aymeric to return, Estinien repositions himself so that his leg is elevated on the footrest and then pulls a blanket over his body. He has no doubt that the prescribed fortnight of bed rest will drive him out of his mind well before lunchtime tomorrow, but right now, he feels nothing but sheer contentment at the sight of the familiar room, at the comforting sounds and smells. It nearly lulls him to sleep—which is not unexpected, after a long day of riding injured on chocoback—but before that can happen, Aymeric is back with the meal.

“You’ve outdone yourself with this one,” mutters Estinien between big bites of popoto and meat, seasoned perfectly to his liking.

“’Tis a simple one, really. I think I’d like to try something new next time. Which, of course, you’re invited to sample.”

“Mm.”

“Ah, and with that I shall leave you to yourself,” says Aymeric, taking Estinien’s preoccupied grunt as something he hadn’t at all intended. “I’m sure you’d like some breathing room.”

“No! St— You can stay,” quickly says Estinien, having swallowed down the mouthful of stew that he’d been savoring. “Stay.”

“Then I shall,” says Aymeric, with a smile that warms him better than the fire in the hearth.

He steps away to change out of his own armor and then settles in next to Estinien, though he still takes some time to fully relax, arranging and rearranging the blanket covering them. Estinien watches with a smile, amused and fond in equal measure.

“So—” starts Aymeric, finally turning to face him. “Would you tell me how it went?”

“Aye, ’twas miserable. Remember last winter in the Western Highlands?”

Aymeric groans at the memory and Estinien continues.

They sit like this late into the night, chatting quietly before the fire until Estinien’s head comes to rest on Aymeric’s shoulder and he dozes off, not to awaken until the morrow.

Chapter Text

He knows something is wrong from the moment he sees Aymeric.

His eyes are watery and unfocused, his breaths quickened, his balance unsteady as he shifts from foot to foot by the grand fireplace, where he stands listening to someone in Durendaire regalia lay out his ideas for a better Ishgard. To any passerby, it would look as if the aspiring Lord Commander has simply had too much to drink, as if he’s overindulged in the bounty of gourmet dishes and fine wines set up along a back wall. Estinien, however, knows something that most people in the room don’t care enough to notice: Aymeric de Borel does not overindulge.

It’s a function like any other, one of countless that Aymeric is obligated to attend in the course of his work. This reception is one of the larger ones that Estinien has seen, commemorating something or other to do with the church, and while nobody particularly feels like celebrating in the midst of a war, that’s not enough reason to pass up a free dinner of this caliber.

Estinien has arrived late, as is his well-honed habit, missing all the speeches and the dancing and most of the unbearable conversation. His still-new title within the Knights Dragoon demands that he make an appearance from time to time—mostly when certain commanders are in attendance—but he keeps expectations to the bare minimum, and even the invitations have dwindled in recent days.

And yet, tonight, he mutters a quick thanks to Halone, for bringing him to this very hall on this very evening.

“Forgive the interruption,” Estinien says, walking up to the two men uninvited. He turns to Aymeric. “I need to speak with you.”

“Estinien?” Aymeric frowns as he looks up at him, but takes some time to meet his eyes, as if it requires additional effort to focus on his face. “Is- Is aught amiss?”

“Come with me,” Estinien says in response, not bothering to elaborate solely for manners’ sake. Instead, he takes Aymeric by the elbow, guiding him towards the door.

His Azure status comes in handy at times like this. Similar situations happen often enough that his behavior doesn’t raise any eyebrows; after all, nobody doubts his urgency when the head of the Order of the Knights Dragoon appears with an important communication for the Temple Knights’ second in command. Should Halone favor him tomorrow, Aymeric will be chosen as the next Lord Commander, though most would still agree that it’s a long shot. And more importantly: whatever the outcome, Aymeric needs to be there to see it.

With that grim thought on his mind, Estinien pulls his friend out into a hallway and through another door that leads to a large, empty kitchen. When he stops, Aymeric walks right into his armored shoulder, as if he’d mistaken the ilm between them for an entire fulm.

“E-Estinien?”

“Here—”

Estinien repositions him to lean against the wall, and at last takes a good look at his friend. He seems to be in even worse shape now: eyes staying shut more than they remain open, sweaty skin that feels cool and clammy to Estinien’s touch, hands trembling ever so slightly.

His stomach drops. “Aymeric? Are you ill? Answer me, what’s the matter?”

“I…” Aymeric swallows and then looks up at him, as if forcing himself to make eye contact. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Aymeric.” He grabs his shoulders.

Aymeric’s expression barely changes. His breaths have become rough and labored, but still he makes an effort to speak: “I… can’t tell. I was …well, and then– ‘Stinien—”

“Aye?”

“Estinien, I don’t feel… E-Everything—”

He slumps down to the floor unconscious and does not reawaken, no matter how many times Estinien calls his name.

His options are few to begin with, and there’s no help to be found here in the banquet hall — Estinien’s certain of it. Instead, he gathers his friend up from the floor and heaves him over his shoulders, walking over to the back door that leads out to a garden. He channels wind-aspected aether to his legs with his usual technique, and then sets out across town, headed to the only people who would help without any hesitation or unnecessary questions — the chirurgeons of the Temple Knights Hospitaliers, with many of whom he and Aymeric have a shared history.

When he’s on the move, it’s easy to focus on the task at hand, keeping Aymeric’s unconscious body safe as he jumps from ledge to rooftop. It’s when Estinien’s forced to slow down, whether to plan his next jump or to push open a gate, that the fear threatens to take over. His heart is pounding, hammering against his ribcage as he clutches the familiar armored form of his friend. Already his mind is running a malm a minute: if this is foul play, what’s his next move? What does he have at his disposal that can help him investigate? Whom can he trust?

The man in his arms stirs, but when he stops to check on his condition, he doesn’t get much of a response. “Aymeric?”

“Estinien… pray—” Those sky-blue eyes blink up at him once, twice. Slow and bleary.

Then they fall shut again. Dread turns Estinien’s veins into Halone’s glaciers; he needs to hurry.

He barely recalls the walk to the infirmary through the Congregation’s lengthy halls, but he’s finally here, hovering over Aymeric’s bedside while Captain Abel and his second in command examine his limp body.

“’Tis poison,” announces Abel. “Though… not one that we recognize.”

His aide imbues a wand with some unknown aetherial technique and holds it over Aymeric. Then he repeats the process with a different incantation, then another. None of it elicits any response from the body on the bed.

“What are you doing?” Estinien mumbles absently.

“Attempting to ascertain the type. Thus far it makes no reaction to aetheric-type manipulations… We must explore its chemical properties.”

“Explore? He needs help,” growls Estinien, feeling anger pool in his stomach. “Have you no antidotes in this Fury-damned place?”

“Ser Estinien, we must be certain beyond a doubt, or else—”

“Certain of what?” Estinien huffs out a breath through his nose. “He needs– You don’t know how… You don’t know—”

How important he is. How kind. How selfless.

How dedicated he is to giving Ishgard its best hope for a future.

How dear he is to me.

All of it’s painfully, undeniably true, but none seems fit to speak out loud. Yet Estinien can’t manage anything else, anger roiling within him like a Western highland snow storm.

Abel, on the other hand, keeps his composure. “Ser Estinien. If you cannot keep calm, I will ask you to leave so that we can focus our attention on the First Commander.”

Three more healers arrive right then and the captain gets back to work, turning to brief them on the progress thus far. The interruption seems to do the trick to settle Estinien’s nerves, however minimally. Deep down he knows that Abel is right — he’s no expert in these matters. But the fact remains that he doesn’t know what to do with himself: though he can jump and stab and slash at his Dravanian enemy, his lance is useless here. This is a foe that he’s veritably powerless against, and there’s no guarantee that things will turn out well. That Aymeric will live.

Again the thought makes his insides contract with fear, but he forces himself to ignore it, move through it somehow. Instead, he pulls up a chair to Aymeric’s bedside, while the chirurgeons stand hunched over a table across the room, occupied with some concoction. Estinien reaches out to touch his hand, flinching in surprise when he finds it burning-hot — so different from the way it was just earlier. It causes more tendrils of anxiety, but he pushes those away too, sitting back to allow the flock of healers space to approach Aymeric.

He can’t even comprehend why he’s so affected in the first place; they are at war, they’ve been at war. Losing friends and family and comrades is an eventuality that all Ishgardians face every day that the sun rises over the Holy See.

But this is Aymeric.

Then the chirurgeons go silent, and just like that, the noise in Estinien’s head quiets down to an unsettling hum.

“Oh.”

“Try— Aye, that one.”

Though Estinien’s heart beats faster and faster in his ears, his body stays quiet and still — breath held, mind blank. It’s reminiscent of the tense anticipation he feels out on the battlefield, when a wyrm is mere yalms away, when the smell of smoke and death and dragonfire envelops him on all sides. He can’t lose another one. Not again.

“Ah!” cries one of the new arrivals, jarring Estinien out of his trance.

“There— There.” Abel turns to look at him. “He’s reacting. ’Twas a cocktail of weakening potions, someone’s shoddy handiwork. Each cancels out another, and a patchwork of effects still lingers… We can stabilize him with this while we determine the proportions of—” He’s no longer talking to Estinien, having turned to one of his aides.

“What does— What?” Estinien mutters, grabbing his forearm to get his attention again.

“The First Commander shall make a full recovery,” Abel says simply, and without another look in Estinien’s direction turns back to his work.

Full recovery.

The relief that washes over him is immeasurable. Though it triggers another wave of nerves, the feeling is more manageable now, and he reaches for Aymeric’s hand once more to give it a reassuring squeeze — if not for Aymeric’s sake, then for his own.

Another obstacle conquered. Another day he’ll meet with Aymeric at his side.

He’ll have him home in no time.

Chapter Text

Three slow knocks, as is Aymeric’s habit. Estinien should know that it’s him by that alone.

His friend resides in a corner of the Congregation set aside for the one who holds the title of Azure Dragoon, but with space being constrained as it is, the living quarters are nothing to boast about. They consist of a sparsely-furnished bedchamber with an attached bathroom, not unlike what one might find in the upper tiers of the Cloud Nine inn. After all, whenever he’s in Ishgard, Estinien spends as many nights in the Borel Manor’s guest wing as he does in his own rooms.

There is no response or any sign of movement within, so Aymeric tries calling out his name. Brucemont had mentioned that Estinien fell ill en route back from the recent campaign, and although the others had assured Aymeric that it was naught more than a cold, he felt it prudent to come see for himself. At last he hears the sound of something falling, and Estinien replies with an invitation to come in. Aymeric can hear its stuffed-up nasal voice even through the door.

He pushes it open and steps inside, closing it behind him before shifting his attention to Estinien’s rooms. There’s armor and weaponry stowed away by the wall, and few personal belongings other than that. The only pieces of furniture in the space are a few chairs next to the fireplace, and the bed by the small window, which currently contains one blanket-covered lump of dragoon.

As he approaches, Estinien turns to face him, looking up from his cocoon of blankets. His nose is red and eyes watery, and he looks a little dazed, as if he’s just awoken from a deep sleep.

“How do you feel?” asks Aymeric.

“‘M fine,” Estinien croaks out in a scratchy voice.

“Forgive me, but you look far from fine,” returns Aymeric. “How long have you been here?”

“Since- Since last evening. I was just leaving to find dinner.” Before he can get the words out, Estinien succumbs to a coughing fit, and Aymeric raises an eyebrow.

“Were you?” he says in response, not convinced that his friend was about to do anything but continue lying in bed.

As if to prove his point, Estinien retreats into the blankets and closes his eyes. Seizing the opportunity to check for signs of fever, Aymeric leans down to brush messy bangs away from his eyes, surreptitiously sliding the back of his hand against Estinien’s forehead. As he had feared, the skin there is hot and dry.

“You’re feverish. Come back to the manor with me.”

Estinien’s anticipated refusal comes right away. “No need. I’ll be better once I eat.”

Yet as he says so, he shivers, and it becomes apparent to Aymeric that the heap of blankets is as much for warmth as much as it is for comfort — the spartan room is cold and somewhat drafty, and the feeble fire in the hearth doesn’t seem to be helping matters much. “And have you any food?”

Estinien remains silent for a while. “Gibrillont will sort me out. The Knight’s just— Just—”

“Estinien. You know better than anyone that I don’t lack for spare rooms.”

“It’s not… I would not be an inconvenience. What if I get you sick?” says Estinien quietly, punctuating his point with a sneeze.

“And you shall not be one,” insists Aymeric. “I have a set of curative potions at home. Captain Abel claims that his new formulation prevents the spread of contagion entirely.”

“Hm. And does it work?”

“I’d consider it worth a try.”

Estinien grunts in response, tugging the covers tighter over his body. For as much as he used to poke fun at Aymeric for falling ill so often in the wake of the Calamity—before his body adjusted to the new climate patterns—he’s always been a handful whenever he managed to come down with something himself. This time is no exception, and nothing Aymeric hasn’t seen before.

“Let’s go,” commands Aymeric with as much authority as he can summon. Without waiting for a reply, he looks around the room until his eyes fall on an hooded cloak, which he grabs and tosses to Estinien. It should keep him protected from the elements—and avoid drawing unnecessary attention—during the short walk to the Borel Manor.

Estinien does as told without another word.

At home, it’s smooth sailing. Aymeric faces minimal resistance from his charge as he ushers Estinien upstairs and directly into the bath attached to the manor’s large guest suite. Having left him to warm up, he then trots downstairs and prepares a bowl of simple porridge, mixing in a handful of dried fruits, but skipping most of the subtle spices; in his condition, Estinien’s unlikely to taste very much at all. He prepares two separate drinks: his usual tea for himself, and something special for Estinien that he hopes will be to his liking.

When he finally makes it back upstairs with the tray in his hands, he finds Estinien already in bed, looking just as miserable as he’d been in his own quarters, but a good deal more comfortable.

“Is that food?” asks Estinien before Aymeric can offer him anything, craning his neck to look over at the tray.

“Yes,” replies Aymeric, handing over the bowl.

Estinien pulls it out of his hands and digs right in. “–’s that?”

“This,” says Aymeric, gently lowering the mug in question onto the nightstand, “is hot chocolate.”

Still chewing, Estinien raises an eyebrow.

“It should help you get to sleep. Lord Haurchefant taught me the recipe one night on patrol, and I must say it gets the job done.”

“Hot chocolate on patrol. Nobles,” scoffs Estinien, even as he picks up the mug to take a tentative sip. One sip turns into two long drags, after which he sets down the drink and turns his attention to the porridge again.

While he eats, Aymeric takes the opportunity to retreat to his own chambers across the hall and change out of his armor into a set of lounge garments. From the lack of sounds around the manor, he can assume that his manservant has already retired for the night, but Aymeric doesn’t anticipate having any need of him. Most of his preparations for the evening are handled, and he should be able to do as he likes.

Once the promised potions are administered and Estinien’s dishes put away, Aymeric grabs a book off his shelves and returns to his friend’s bedside, but instead of finding him already asleep as he’d been hoping to, the dragoon is curled in on himself, visibly shivering.

Chills, most likely. After a brief moment of hesitation, Aymeric crawls onto the bed beside Estinien and wraps his arms around his friend’s blanketed form. There’s no need to cover up himself; his thick clothing and the fire in the hearth should be more than enough to keep him warm.

“Aymeric?” croaks out Estinien.

“Allow me to warm you up,” he says to the unstated question, face somewhere between Estinien’s shoulder blades.

“What if— What if you fall ill? What if the potion fails to work?”

Aymeric nestles closer and huffs out a laugh. “Then I trust you’ll take care of me. As you always do.”

Estinien gives no answer, but takes Aymeric’s hand in his and holds it tightly.

It’s a restful sleep, but Aymeric’s comfort comes to a sudden halt a couple of bells later, when he awakens from the feeling of Estinien shrugging off his embrace.

“Get off,” mumbles Estinien with a drowsy voice.

Aymeric does as asked. He moves away to watch his friend as he readjusts, shrugging off the blanket that he’d been wrapped up in. He sits quietly, obviously attempting to get his bearings after a rough awakening. Even in the dark, Aymeric notes the way his skin glistens with a sheen of sweat, and he realizes with relief that the fever must have finally broken — not that Aymeric had been particularly worried. After all, he’s seen Estinien weather far worse than this.

When he stands up, intending to fetch a change of shirt for his friend, Estinien’s hand darts out to grab his wrist; even in the condition he’s in, his reflexes remain sharp. “You’re leaving?”

“Just across the room,” says Aymeric, shaking his head, and Estinien reluctantly lets go. True to his word, it takes him seconds to locate what he’s looking for, and Estinien accepts it with a mumbled thanks, pulling it on immediately.

“I was dreaming,” Estinien finally says.

Aymeric sits down next to him on the bed, giving him his attention.

“’Twas Nidhogg.”

“Ah.” Not surprising. Nightmares plagued his friend often and quite a few of them shared the same theme.

“Yet— ’Twas different, this time,” Estinien continues. “’Twas I who… Through his eyes I watched— I saw all. And not just… my home. More.”

“Estinien…”

“I can’t make sense of it.” He shakes his head in frustration and then lies back down, turning onto his side and closing his eyes.

“And you’re not meant to. It… It happens,” assures Aymeric for lack of anything better to say, though he scoots a little closer and takes Estinien’s hand in his own.

Estinien says nothing more. It’s clear now that the fever’s gone, but his breathing is still labored, affected by the shock of the nightmare. For a few long minutes they remain like that in silence, and while Estinien makes an effort to relax and fall back asleep, Aymeric does the opposite, allowing his body to slowly acclimate to being awake.

There are still documents to sort through today, missives and reports that he’d abandoned on his desk in order to attend to his friend, and now is as good a time as any to finish them up; the impromptu nap has given Aymeric enough energy to make short work of it. Finally satisfied with the state in which he’s leaving Estinien—not that there was any cause to worry—Aymeric gently places his hand down on the bed and moves to stand up.

“‘M’ric.” Estinien’s voice comes so low, that Aymeric nearly misses it.

“Hm?”

“—think ’m in love with you,” Estinien mutters.

“Estinien?” whispers Aymeric.

Yet, only silence answers. The way Estinien’s breaths even out makes it evident that he’s fallen asleep again.

Aymeric doesn’t move for a long time after that.

Chapter Text

Mayhap they simply won’t speak of it again. Mayhap there’s little to speak of in the first place. Mayhap Estinien doesn’t even remember.

Yes, that’s the most likely possibility, Aymeric idly thinks as he tries—and fails—to focus on the paperwork in front of him. It’s been close to a sennight now, and he’s seen neither hide nor hair of his friend ever since leaving him to recover in his guest chambers the morning after bringing him home. Upon his return late in the evening, the manservant notified Aymeric that his guest had departed around the fourth bell, having been holed up in the room for the majority of the daylight hours.

It’s not out of the ordinary for him not to cross paths with Estinien for long stretches like this, but this time has Aymeric a little on edge, worried that there’s more at play than his friend’s tendency to wander off on his own.

Tonight’s another late night—just like every night, lately—and though Aymeric’s finished with his work and sufficiently tired out, he’s not ready to go home quite yet. It would be easier to stay here, catch up on some of the less pressing items, let it take his mind off the anxiety that’s been gnawing at him for days.

He trusts Estinien. Trusts him more than anyone in Hydaelyn, and yet, the tightness that has settled in the pit of his stomach refuses to let go.

“Ser Estinien!”

A guard’s muffled voice somewhere out in the hallway draws his attention, and indeed, the very next moment the man occupying his thoughts unceremoniously barges into his office. Aymeric breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of him, watching as his friend takes off his helmet and removes the leather band holding up his hair, letting it fall loose as he sometimes does — though it’s more common to see it tied up.

At last he turns to face Aymeric.

“Estinien,” Aymeric breathes out, not concerned about the relief that seeps into his voice. “How do you feel?”

“No complaints,” says Estinien with a smirk, walking over to stand by the desk. He looks hale and whole, skin tanned from the sun and cheeks rosy from the cold. He looks at Aymeric with relief and fondness, making his earlier worries melt away just like that. “How are you? Have you had any symptoms?”

Aymeric shakes his head and gives him an answering grin. “Not one. Couldn’t be better.”

Estinien takes another step forward and sits back onto the desk right in front of Aymeric, crowding him a little. “Come on. It’s getting late. Else you’ll fall ill without anyone else’s help.”

Aymeric chuckles and looks away. It’s not the first time that Estinien has come uninvited to escort him home, and certainly not the last. At times, his answer is a resounding no, most often due to some development in the war — a responsibility that Estinien understands better than anyone. Today, of course, there’s no such urgency, but before Aymeric manages to say anything in response, Estinien uncrosses his arms and comes closer, caging Aymeric in his desk chair as he leans onto its mahogany arms.

His mouth parts in surprise. While he usually has no trouble reading his friend’s intent, for some reason he struggles with it now; Estinien’s so close, ilms away, observing him without saying another word. That same attention can be dangerous and ruthless when deployed out on the battlefield, but at the moment it’s something completely different — soft and appreciative. Aymeric watches him in return, held captive by those steel-grey eyes, until his gaze unconsciously drifts down to Estinien’s sharp cheekbones, then down to his lips, where it lingers.

…in love with you.

He swallows.

When he looks up again, Estinien’s expression has shifted into a minuscule smirk, but he makes no comment. Instead, he leans closer yet, breaking eye contact as he touches his cheek to Aymeric’s. His skin is cold from the biting winds outside, but it doesn’t bother Aymeric one bit; he’s more concerned with keeping his heart from hammering out of his chest. Moving on its own, his hand lifts up to rest on Estinien’s armored side.

“Estinien?” he whispers.

“You’re so good to me,” Estinien mutters into his ear.

Pushing aside the rush of emotion that his words elicit, Aymeric turns his head to look at him. “You deserve it, you know.”

“Aym—”

Estinien’s eyes widen as he chokes out his name, but Aymeric’s confidence doesn’t waver. Now sure of his actions, he slides his other hand into Estinien’s hair and leans forward to bring their lips together.

Though the kiss starts out slow, Estinien escalates it in what feels like the blink of an eye, turning Aymeric’s signature gentle touch into something rough, insistent, impossibly needy. It transforms the embers within Aymeric into a full-blown inferno; without breaking the kiss, he grabs Estinien’s side with an iron grip and pulls him fully into his lap — easy enough to do with Estinien already halfway in his embrace.

He doesn’t bother stifling the moans that escape him, but Estinien doesn’t seem to mind in the least. On the contrary, he devours each one, licking deep into Aymeric’s parted lips as he shifts around in his lap, making small sounds of his own in the back of his throat. His hands roam all over Aymeric: running through his hair, sliding under his armor, dipping down into his collar.

When Aymeric attempts to return the favor, the jagged dragoon armor presents a challenge fraught with risk — one that he’ll gladly accept. If only he could slot their bodies even closer, if only—

Aymeric suddenly remembers where they are.

“Wait—” he says, breaking the kiss. “Someone could walk in,” he explains, trying to catch his breath.

“Let them,” his friend replies without hesitation, staring shamelessly at Aymeric’s lips. He’s all worked up now, hot and flushed, and Aymeric can’t recall seeing anything more beautiful in his life. He wouldn’t dream of denying him.

“Allow me to at least…”

He hesitates, distracted yet again by the man in his arms. His partner. His friend. His love.

“…take you home?”

“Always,” says Estinien, as the corner of his mouth twitches up into a small grin.

Aymeric leans in for another taste.