Chapter Text
“D’you— d’you think that’s his real hair? I could’ve—” Aymeric leans in, lowering his voice to a conspicuous whisper, “—could’ve sworn—“
It’s not the first time Estinien has to chaperone his refined, gentlemanly friend drunk off his tits, but it is certainly the first during the man’s tenure as Lord Commander of the Temple Knights. Aymeric’s never been a loud drunk, but he’s a giggling, handsy one, so it’s a good thing that few witnesses are around tonight — just the two of them in a shadowed corner of the Forgotten Knight, with the occasional appearance by Gibrillont bringing over the next round of drinks.
But, of course, that was by design.
They had arrived past the midnight bell, at a time when the usual crowd was beginning to trickle out of the pub. Those who remained were too far gone to pay much attention to the new arrivals: a man with white hair and striking features, for once not hidden behind a dragoon’s signature helm, and another trailing behind him with tired steps, out of armor but possessing a certain commanding presence despite it, one that few in Ishgard would have trouble recognizing. If they only looked.
The outing is a necessary measure, a most rare opportunity for the Lord Commander to let his guard down without worrying about gossipmongers or those who might harbor even more nefarious intentions — if only for a single, all-too-brief evening. It feels like a good time to do so, too, with a string of successful campaigns behind them and battles yet more perilous on the horizon.
Estinien raises his glass in a toast every time Aymeric does, but unlike his friend, he spends more time watching than he does drinking: watching the crowd for unwanted attention, watching Gibrillont’s new hire pocket someone’s wallet, watching Aymeric’s flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes. This nebulous feeling that has plagued him all week is heavy and unsettling, almost as if they’re on the precipice of something momentous, bigger than before. He can’t help but wonder whether this is a harbinger of Nidhogg’s next awakening — how the Eye would make it known, how much warning he would even have in the first place.
It’s a conversation that the two of them have been having more and more often in recent days, but tonight he doesn’t want Aymeric’s mind on anything but this fragile indulgence, perhaps one of the last they’ll ever get the chance to enjoy. Even if they succeed in bringing the war to an end, even if the Azure Dragoon triumphs over Nidhogg, it feels like wishful thinking to imagine that both of them would live to see what comes next. It’s a grim thought, but one that he’d be a fool to deny, even if it leaves him powerless to do anything about it in the moment.
Except, maybe, this.
With a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Estinien tears off a hearty chunk of knight’s bread and hands it to Aymeric, conscious of his friend’s tendency to ignore the food in front of him when he has a drink in his hand.
Aymeric’s too-wide smile stretches even further, and his eyes brighten with gratitude. “Thank you, Estinien.”
He whispers the name quietly and intimately, like it’s his own private secret, even though Estinien doesn’t go to any particular lengths to hide it. Still, there might be something to it, after all; these days virtually nobody else addresses the Azure Dragoon by anything less than his title — or sees him out of armor, for that matter.
Estinien finishes his own meat pie and washes it down with a swig of Gibrillont’s latest brew, far more to his taste than the previous batch. Then he turns his full attention back to Aymeric and changes the subject, recounting something that he’d overheard from the Durendaire commanders about the new bishop, that same one who has made it his mission to “whip the Temple Knights into shape”.
He’ll at least get a good laugh out of that one.
Tumbling into the foyer of the Borel Manor is nothing new for them either, though nowadays the bulk of their drinking takes place behind closed doors, in the privacy of Aymeric’s comfortable home. It’s nostalgic, in a way, familiar, to go through the motions like this again. It’s been a long time indeed.
Estinien leaves his charge to undress while he goes to fetch some water, but upon his return, he finds Aymeric unceremoniously slumped on the floor next to the bed, clutching his bare knee and biting into his lower lip.
“What happened?” he asks, putting the glass aside onto the nightstand.
“Mm… tripped. On the edge of the rug, ahh—“ Aymeric inhales a sharp breath and folds over his leg once more.
“Let me see.”
It’s not a large scrape, but from the looks of it, painful enough. Though, considering his friend’s current state, Estinien’s thankful that it hadn’t been anything worse. He steps out to the sitting room to fetch the emergency kit, and then, having sat Aymeric down onto the safety of the bedding, kneels in front of him and gets to work.
“I’m not letting you drink like that ever again,” he grumbles, cleaning the wound with a disinfecting tonic.
Aymeric’s eyes are half-lidded, noticeably tired, but he finds the energy to complain nonetheless. “’Twasn’t… all thatmuch.”
“And yet, here we are,” says Estinien, unfazed.
There’s a grunt in response from Aymeric, but no further protest as Estinien finishes his task and covers up the injury with a bandage.
Like an intrusive thought, he wonders just how many more such moments are in store for them… Whether the next time it will be something life-threatening, instead of a funny anecdote to tease Aymeric about the next day. Whether he’ll make it to the next day. Whether Estinien will.
He swallows down the thought and turns his attention to his friend once more. Aymeric’s hands slip over the last button on his satin-silk pajamas, and so Estinien helps him out with that too, watching him get comfortable beneath the blankets while he does so. Having rushed through his own bare-bones routine earlier, Estinien climbs in beside him and curls up onto his side with his head pressed into Aymeric’s shoulder. Afraid to turn his back on any of these moments as they come and go.
And… there.
It’s a soft, familiar noise followed by the rustle of bedcovers as small footsteps begin to approach.
“Miette?” sleepily mumbles Aymeric.
The cat chirps back.
She walks a small circle on top of Aymeric’s chest, and then, finding her owner too restless for her liking, settles down onto the side of Estinien’s torso — a spot that can’t possibly be any more comfortable. But one does not argue with cat logic.
Estinien chuckles in spite of himself. “She always does this.”
“Mm?”
“Climbs on top of me, but won’t let me pet her during the day.”
“Mm.”
The tone of his voice tells Estinien that there’s no point in saying anything more.
Even this is welcome today. The comforting weight of the animal on top of him, the warm sensation of Aymeric’s shoulder. Estinien’s words falling on deaf ears, because his friend is finally getting some rest.
He won’t take any of it for granted.