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On the rare occasions where Aymeric is able to cajole him into a brief moment of relaxation, he often manages to convince Estinien to spend his time at Borel Manor. Its warm oak interior, plentiful fireplaces, and small staff, mean it is considerably more comfortable than the austere quarters he keeps in the wing of the Congregation which houses the Knights Dragoon; and while Estinien has no need of creature comforts such as a soft bed or three warm, hearty meals a day, he certainly won't turn his nose up at them.
Taking his ease at the manor also means he is able to spend time with Aymeric, a rare occasion in and of itself, given that they are both often so busy that they have perhaps one meal together a week, and usually in one of their offices at that. Aymeric doesn't necessarily stop working when Estinien is around, but they're able to speak while he does, as well as share meals and, occasionally, a bed.
It doesn't happen often, but on those occasions where Estinien returns to the manor to find its lord in his study, wakefulness guttering like a nearly spent candle, he takes Aymeric from his desk and toward the warmth of his master suite. He helps Aymeric strip down to his woolen smalls and, exhaustion having loosened Aymeric's inhibitions, is tugged onto the mattress with him. Together, they curl up against each other as they did when they were mere recruits, albeit under blue sheets and woolen blankets instead of a bedroll in a freezing tent in the middle of the highlands.
These are brief moments of comfort that Estinien feels almost guilty in taking—for what comfort does he deserve while so many go unavenged?—but he takes them nevertheless. Those tender moments fill some part of him that Estinien does not quite know what to do with, but a soldier marches on his stomach and perhaps this feeds a hunger of a different sort.
Even so, Estinien has long since understood that his revenge is his own as much as it is Ishgard's, as much as it is that of Coerthas, for he is not the only one to have lost everything to the Dravanians. He understands that Nidhogg's death means the end to the war, means one more step toward Aymeric’s dream of a reformed Ishgard, of undermining the crushing hold of the Halonic Orthodoxy and the Archbishop over the people. Their paths demand control, discipline, sacrifice, and endurance.
Never in his life had he thought it would also involve so much damned paperwork.
He considers this as he spends the morning lounging on the chaise near the fire in Aymeric's personal study, which is filled with books that the other man finds personally useful or enjoyable, rather than the dense military histories and other reference material in the library downstairs. Aymeric sits at his heavy mahogany desk, still in his dressing gown and slippers, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as his quill moves from one side of the page to another. Occasionally, he turns his head to consult a ledger opened nearby. The lenses, Estinien knows, are a precautionary measure against the possibility of deteriorating eyesight, even though Aymeric is only twenty and six summers. Though he wields the sword far more often than the bow these days, Ishgard's Second Commander seems to wield pen and word even more frequently than either weapon, and has often insisted that he needs his sight to remain proficient at each of his tasks. Estinien has teased him for it on many occasions, but has not the heart to mention that he finds the delicate half-moon spectacles charming.
There are many things about Aymeric he finds charming, and he often wonders if he will take those to the grave.
Instead of dwelling on such things, Estinien dozes in front of the fireplace, basking in warmth until Aymeric's cat saunters in, decides she is affronted by his peace, and deigns to immediately hop onto his stomach. Looking for all the world like an enormously spoiled powderpuff, Miette kneads her paws on his abdomen for a moment before circling and settling down with a few pointed shifts for good measure, as if scolding him for the lean hardness of his body. Estinien sighs and settles his hand on her back, toying with her soft fur now that he's been well and truly disturbed, suddenly aware of how long Aymeric has been working at his task.
"What is it you're doing that has you so occupied, when you insisted that I take my ease last night?" he asks.
"Preparing my tax forms," Aymeric says, and stifles a yawn as he fills out something or another on the paper in front of him. "I told Madame Tristelle that I would have them for her by the end of this week, and I had been about to finish them when you returned from your mission last night."
Estinien doesn't feel particularly guilty for taking Aymeric away from a late night of filing taxes of all things. He's loathe to receive help from the chirugeons for anything but the most extensive of injuries, and his mission had gone sour enough due to misinformation—and he has already made a note to have Maenne review the technique of the scouts assigned to them by the Lord Commander, because only a true fool would mistake the imprints of a wyvern's thumbs for an antelope's hooves—that he had seen fit to come to Aymeric for the gashes on his arm and thigh. Hasty healing means they're scabbed over and itching fiercely now, and Estinien wishes he had more to distract him from it than bothering Miette.
"I can do yours as well, if you'd like," Aymeric offers without looking up, and Estinien snorts and rolls his eyes. "Truly, Estinien. The lack of complexity might be a welcome reprieve from mine own."
"I am the Azure Dragoon," he says peevishly. "I do not need to pay taxes."
The scratching of Aymeric's pen comes to a screeching halt as he stares at Estinien with his bright blue eyes wide over his spectacles. While Estinien is well-aware he looks ridiculous at present, wearing nothing but linen sleeping pants and staring at Aymeric somewhat upside-down while the cat bats at his fingers, he's sure the look isn't entirely warranted.
"Estinien, I'm currently Second Commander," he says slowly. "And I must still pay taxes."
"You are also nobility," Estinien points out.
"Even if I were not, my salary alone would necessitate the proper forms, especially if I was looking for reimbursement of personal expenses used on—" Aymeric cuts himself off as Estinien stares at him blankly. He pulls his lenses from his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Are you telling me, in all the time you have been salaried with the Temple Knights, you have never submitted your taxes for review?"
"The coincounters have the information already! Why in the hells would I need to submit it again?"
"Estinien—"
"And you know how much I loathe paperwork."
"Estinien."
Aymeric sighs deeply and takes a breath, then fixes him with a firm look. Estinien is suddenly struck with the knowledge that he has entirely ruined the possibility that they might have a quiet day in together.
"Get yourself dressed while I finish this. I intend to hand these to the Temple Knights’ Junior Minister of Coin, so we may as well see if she can do something to get you out of this mess."
Amianne Tristelle is not, technically, a Temple Knight. Though she has worked in the administrative wing of the organization for years, and she has taken the oath to serve Ishgard, she has no valorous deeds to ascribe to her name and has never so much as patrolled the capital. She has armor she has never worn but for ceremonies which require it, and had never been anyone's first choice for any duty but quartermastery.
That, however, she had attended to with a zeal brought forth only by one who was determined to find every possibility to make the war effort run smoothly and efficiently, and to ensure every person in Ishgard pulled their own weight to secure some chance at a peaceful future. Whether it meant resupplying their blacksmiths after some tedious clergyman had a fit about their 'tainted' tools, or ensuring that there was enough adamantite for axeheads and arrowheads both, Amianne had made her career ensuring that such task were completed with as much expedience (and as reasonable an amount of coin) as possible.
It has always involved quite a lot of flattery and cajoling of the nobility, but Amianne has managed to miraculously keep her patience intact, as well as her privacy. Few people truly understand just how much power she wields as the Junior Minister of Coin for the Temple Knights, commonborn or not, and while it is known she is married to an officer, not many are interested in finding out the personal life of a coincounter. It keeps all but the most lecherous souls away. For those, she keeps the dagger that had been gifted to her by her husband strapped to her thigh.
Said husband is leaning over onto her desk, his mousy brown hair fluttering in his face as dark green eyes scan the pages spread out atop the surface in neat stacks. Handeloup de Diambaux snorts as he hands her a stack of expense reports, which she dutifully rifles through for any that are relevant to her own personal tax reports.
Well, theirs now.
Though they had exchanged vows around the time Handeloup had joined the order, she had made sure to file their taxes separately until this year's change in policy had made filing together the more attractive option in a fiscal sense. She is quite sure her present 'delicate condition', as the chirugeons are wont to call it, is effecting her sense of judgment. No one, not even a coincounter, should feel this sentimental about filing a joint tax document. Handeloup had been surprised at the decision, but he had seen the logic in it, which is one of the many reasons Aimanne adores him.
"And how have the other returns been thus far?"
"Tolerable enough," she says with a sigh, shifting in her chair. Her long hair is caught underneath her, and when she clicks her tongue in discomfort, Handeloup shifts behind her and scoops the long curtain of dull slate blue off the back of her neck and out from under her, draping it over her shoulder. She offers a smile as thanks, then returns her attention to their forms, reaching out with long, slender fingers to slide the beads of her abacus from one side to the other with a series of intimidatingly paced clicks. "The newly retired Count de Dzemael at least has a shred more honesty than his crooked sons about their expenses, and he's a good sight more willing to use the money from his own coffers to fund the repairs in his neighborhood of the Pillars."
"An improvement from insisting their manor is a crucial fortification in need of repair," Handeloup says dryly. "I suppose digging up a voidsent gate tends to have a humbling effect on people."
"At least, it hasn't worsened anything more than normal," she replies, and lightly raps her knuckle against his thigh when she catches his eyes flicking down toward her belly. "Truly, I am fine, my love."
"You cannot blame me for worrying," he says leaning toward her further, as a new sprouted sunflower seeking warmth. She turns toward him, reaching a hand up to settle around the back of his neck, the snowy pale of her skin standing out further next to his own warmer tones. He is taller than she is, so she lifts herself just slightly in her chair to press their foreheads together, taking some small succor from his presence.
It is short-lived, as her ears twitch and she catches the susurrations of an argument down the hall, which only stops, along with two sets of tromping boots, in front of the door to the office she shares with the First Secretary.
"At least give me a chance to explain to the situation to her," says one voice. There is a knock on the door that could be described as sheepish, and Amianne reluctantly lets her husband go.
"Enter."
"Ah, Madame Tristelle, I'm glad to have caught you. I— Oh, Handeloup..." Ser Aymeric stands in the doorway, looking between them both. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything."
Ser Aymeric remains the same as he has ever been since they had first been introduced, broad of shoulder, with dark curls framing keen, pale blue eyes. Dressed in a light doublet to suit the warming weather outside, as well as a loose pair of trousers tucked into mid-calf boots, what isn't in his house colors is the pale cream of undyed fabric. Perfectly adequate, if one were inclined to that sort of man.
Amianne can't say she knows him personally. She has only truly spoken with him those few times that Handeloup has invited her to take lunch in the office they share, where they would occasionally be joined by the Azure Dragoon, though he never stayed for long and never doffed his helmet.
Still, it is difficult not to recognize Ser Varlineau's name when she hears it, especially given how much sleep she has lost over the dire state of his financial reports (or lack thereof) over the last two years of his tenure as Azure Dragoon. It is nice to finally have a face to put to the infuriating man, down-turned eyes the color of an oncoming storm, a sharp and severe face framed with long, snowy locks. His own clothes are surprisingly similar to Ser Aymeric's, though he wears no Borel blue, and they fit him suspiciously snug in some places and loose in others.
She's fairly sure they're borrowed, and wonders if this might make the information she may need to disclose today easier to swallow.
"You aren't interrupting anything," Handeloup reassures his commander with a smile, his eyes flicking to the scowling man that lurked behind him. "Did you and Ser Estinien have business with Amianne?"
"Of a sort," Ser Aymeric says as he coaxes Ser Varlineau into an office that is rapidly beginning to feel more cramped than usual. "I was hoping you might be able to help Estinien with his own taxes, as he's rather behind on them."
There is a brief pause that, had she been one for pithy little jokes, Amianne would describe as 'pregnant'.
She shares a look with Handeloup, who raises an eyebrow at her and tilts his head almost imperceptibly toward the bottom drawer in her desk. She frowns and folds her hands on her paperwork. Subtly, Handeloup shifts his stance so that he might put his sabaton at coeurl-corners with the leg of her chair and give it the slightest of kicks. Amianne resolutely refuses to look at her husband, but while the Azure Dragoon, pre-eminent dragon slayer in all Ishgard, looks to be falling further into a sulk, the Second Commander is paying close enough attention to their movements, looking between the two of them with calm eyes. He is likely well-versed enough in social etiquette to know that they are having something like a conversation, though he is too polite to broach the subject before it is time.
Ser Varlineau takes the opposite tack quite readily, clearly fed up with the silence.
"This is a farce," he said. "You're behaving as though I'm being charged with heresy. They are taxes, Aymeric." The way he wrinkles his nose makes him look like a cat who has accidentally caught the scent of furymint, which breaks a spell that Amianne hadn't been aware had been cast over the room.
These are two of the most accomplished men in Ishgard, and had Amianne any doubt that they would continue to achieve greater heights, she certainly wouldn't have taken the actions she had in the first place. Even so, this is partially her office, and while she doesn't doubt Ser Aymeric's ability to manage his own expenses, that she had needed to contact Ser Alberic several times over the intervening years regarding his former ward's finances speaks enough to the monetary acumen of Ser Varlineau.
She is the expert here.
Amianne flicks her gaze up to Handeloup, who looks down at the drawer and tilts his head toward it again. She sighs and shoos him away from her desk with several brisk flicks of her wrist, opening the drawer and pulling out a slim leather folio embossed with the House Borel crest.
"Now," she says, "I ask that this doesn't leave this room, and that you understand that what I've done here, I've done for the good of Ishgard." She pulls several sheafs of clipped together papers and turns them toward Ser Aymeric, who leans forward and pulls them toward him. "I wasn't about to let our best chances for an end to this war be wrapped up in some sort of pointless financial scandal, and as the two of you are known to be quite close, I found this to be a most expedient solution."
"She informed me of it beforehand," Handeloup says helpfully from her side, "and I thought it an elegantly simple solution to the problem."
There is a measure of relief that Handeloup is here to support her in this. While she understands that this conversation was going to happen eventually, she's glad that she isn't going to have to reason with the two of them alone.
"Oh," says Ser Aymeric, his eyes finally alighting on her solution. Ser Varlineau leans close to him, their shoulders pressed firmly against each other as he takes a look at the forms. Aymeric does not freeze, but he goes still as Varlineau processes the same filled space that he does, grey eyes widening imperceptibly. They turn to each other at the same time, then seem to realize how close their faces are. Varlineau jolts back and finds something interesting to do with his hands while Aymeric sways away with much more control and scans the paperwork again.
Amianne feels a slight knock against the leg of her chair again and, without looking down, shifts her foot so that she can set the pointed toe of her boot against the side of Handeloup's sabaton. It is a fleeting comfort, as she stands the next moment, smoothing out her clothing from her pale blouse to the hem of the dark, pleated skirt that stops above the tops of her thighboots. She adjusts the ribbon around her throat, then sets her hands on the table, fingers spread.
"Allow me to explain what I've been doing these past years."
Aymeric is only half-listening to Madame Tristelle's explanation. He can hear what she's saying quite well and, if pressed, could repeat the salient points. It is a technique he has mastered over the course of many years and many tedious meetings in which he needed to both fill his reports and listen to other officers discuss troop movements, enemy positions, and the other minutiae of war. Most of his attention is focused on the fields she has filled in on his forms, ones which he ordinarily leaves blank. Perhaps her mastery of his handwriting should unsettle him—she has even remembered the way he begins his capital 'E's with a swirling flourish—but he finds himself reluctantly impressed and fixated on the name to which that letter belongs.
Madame Tristelle, in her capacity as the Temple Knights' Junior Minister of Coin, has checked the little box next to the word 'Married', and has filled Estinien's name in the field for 'Spouse'. She is continuing to elaborate on her reasons for doing so as Aymeric checks the paperwork, which feels almost unnecessary. The only fields she has filled in are the ones relevant to her additions, and Estinien only has his income to contribute. He could likely justify further write-offs, given that his impatience largely sees him paying for expedited healing and repairs out of his own pockets, but Madame Tristelle is no miracle worker, and Aymeric is fairly sure Estinien has never kept a receipt for a purchase in his life.
Even so, his eyes are drawn to that first addition at the top, again and again.
'Married'.
'Spouse: Estinien Varlineau'.
"I feel as though I should be paying much more than this," he says, still feeling somewhat off-kilter. Before Madame Tristelle can launch into what is likely a long agreement and several suggestions to modernize their tax collection system—points which Aymeric has heard before from Handeloup—he pushes the conversation past the subject.
"Who else knows of this," he asks, tearing his gaze away from the pages and back to couple. She blinks at him owlishly, then settles back into her chair, folding her hands atop the crested folio.
"No one but Handeloup, myself, and now the two of you," she replies. "While the Temple Knights' Minister of Coin is responsible for organizing the collection of payments, he trusts my judgment where it pertains to the amounts disclosed in the forms." She begins gathering the papers on her desk, and Aymeric sets the packet he is holding on the tabletop to be gathered up with the rest, and takes advantage of the diversion to take a sidelong look at Estinien.
His dearest friend seems to have mastered himself in the time it took for the entire explanation to come out, though Aymeric can still see the residual blush that pinkens the tips of his ears. Estinien is not wont to fidget under pressure, but bereft of a precarious perch and a spear in hand to occupy himself, he has resorted to crossing his arms and squeezing his bicep, eyes fixed on the folio. Aymeric likes to think of himself as an expert in reading Estinien's moods, but while he can understand the man has been put on the backfoot, he's unsure what about the current situation is bringing about this agitation.
Is it the necessary paperwork? The unnecessary paperwork? Is it that Madame Tristelle has been lightly taking him to task with a series of well-placed firm looks during her lecture? Is it the prospect of being married, even falsely? Is it because the marriage is to him?
He hopes it isn't that Estinien finds such proximity to him to be distasteful, but there is a part of him which knows that cannot be the case. They have known each other only for a few years, yet it feels as though Estinien has always been by his side, the distance between them closing gradually as the other man invites him past the barbs of his armor in more ways than one. While Aymeric relishes those moments when he can, under the guise of exhaustion, pull Estinien into his bed for much needed hours of sleep, he has noticed that Estinien largely chooses to remain abed with him. That there are some mornings where he even seems reluctant to wake.
"Estinien?"
"Hm?"
"What say you?"
"Tis paperwork, Aymeric," he grouses, after a short pause and a long swallow. "If this is what is necessary for your peace of mind when it comes to my taxes, I see little need to change what has been working well thus far."
"It's been working quite well," Tristelle says. "Given your only income is from your salary, and that Aymeric supports you both—"
"He does no such thing," protests Estinien. Tristelle continues, heedless of his disagreement.
"—as well as his household staff, atop paying what he owes with no need to go banging on his door about it, no one has caught on that he's paying less than he aught."
Which he had thought was the case, what with the foreign investments and small country estate in the eastern lowlands he had inherited, along with a hefty sum of gil and several expensive art pieces and artefacts.
"Truly, I would be more than happy to pay the full value, regardless of the situation."
"You are perhaps the only noble who would insist on that course of action," Handeloup says fondly. "But the math wouldn't work out, and it would aggravate my dear wife, even if she is likely the only one who would see it."
"Thank you, darling," she replies, and rolls her eyes. "So long as everyone is fine with this arrangement..." Madame Tristelle trails off as she bends back down to the drawer and collects another folio and passes it to Aymeric, who takes it almost absentmindedly as he looks to Estinien, whose flush has made a surprising return to the tips of his ears.
"What's this?" Aymeric opens the flap on the leather envelope and peers inside to find a stack of slips ranging from crumpled and torn scraps of receipts that have been glued back together, to crisp sheafs of paper he knows to be notices of payment. He pulls one out and Estinien leans in close again, and then glares at Tristelle.
"Have you been rifling through my trash?"
"Of course not!" Tristelle says, clearly insulted. Then, she demurs. "I thought I might do a more thorough job with the finances of the Knights Dragoon this year, so I've asked the Sers Vimaroix to do so on my behalf."
Estinien looks about to launch to his feet and into a shouting match, so Aymeric settles his a hand just above his knee and squeezes lightly. Immediately, Estinien's eyes flick to Aymeric's face, then down to the hand on his leg. Aymeric watches his throat bob as he swallows, but he settles back into his chair.
"And now that we are all on the same page, I'll leave those adjustments to you," finishes Tristelle, looking pointedly at Aymeric, who slips the paper packet he had intended to deliver inside with Estinien's own paper.
"Now, if you'll excuse us, Ser Aymeric—"
"Please, simply Aymeric will do," he insists. Madame Tristelle offers him a smile, then gestures to the door.
"Handeloup and I have our own paperwork to attend to. Enjoy the rest of your day, and I will see you later this week."
The sun is high in the sky by the time they leave the Convocation, and it is a small miracle no one stops them on the way to the door. A miracle, Estinien knows, largely bought by his presence at Aymeric's side and the flinty glare he sent to anyone who looked like they might approach.
"The Junior Coincounter is Handeloup's wife?" Estinien says, and fails to keep the note of incredulity out of his voice. He had known the man was married, but from the way Estinien had half-listened him talk about his wife to Aymeric, he hadn't been expecting someone quite so unflinchingly financial.
"That she is. They were close in childhood. I believe she is the daughter of a business partner of his father's, and he proposed before he joined the service."
"How was I meant to know?" Estinien grumbles, and shoves back when Aymeric laughs and nudges him with a shoulder. "I assumed those luncheons she was present for were some sort of—" A vague wobble of the hand. "And all they ever discussed was the state of Temple Knight finances."
"Well, they were still within the working daylight hours..."
Once their conversation falls away from the topic of the infuriating woman who is apparently Handeloup's wife, Estinien finds himself losing the steam for small talk, not that he's ever had much anyway. Instead he minds their surroundings on the walk back to Borel Manor. It is a surprisingly quiet one, the spring day balmy and bright, and the carefully coiffed foliage of the city in full bloom. Even with the seemingly cheery day, the people they pass on the street still seem dour, aside from the children, who seem to be taking advantage of the warming weather and momentary peace to run about town, with some even having parents to follow in their wake, clucking caution or indulgence as the circumstances merit. Out of the corner of his eye, Estinien spots a scrawny boy with moon-pale hair peering out from behind his mother's voluminous skirts and tries not to think too hard about the ache it causes it his chest. His mind leaps for another thing to consider, and it lands on the flutter he had felt in his breast at the sight of his name on Aymeric's tax documents.
He knows he should broach the topic of their apparent marriage, even if it is largely for tax purposes, but Estinien isn't sure how. He doesn't know if he wants to be married—he had never given the idea any consideration before—but he does often find himself wishing he could wring whatever happiness there is to be found in Ishgard so he might drop it in Aymeric's lap. Aymeric, who believes so ardently that this city can be a better place than it is, deserves whatever joy it can bring him.
Yet Estinien is beginning to suspect that he might be a kernel of that happiness, and after years of almost subconscious scheming to take every scrap of intimacy he can get from Aymeric, he isn't sure what to do now that it seems he can openly ask for it. It is one thing to slake his thirst for the man's company subtly, and quite another to ask for it openly. This isn't something he should even want, it isn't something he deserves, not when his revenge remains unfulfilled. Not when he lives solely to kill Nidhogg. He had sworn off sentimentalities such as friendship when he made his oath. That portion of it, at least, has been well and truly dispensed with, thanks in part to Aymeric. Estinien can count on his fingers and toes the names aside from Aymeric's he has bothered to remember, and still have digits to spare. Even so, Aymeric has worked to make Estinien feel welcome around such people as Lucia and Handeloup.
And Handeloup's wife, he supposes.
He's baffled that she would do this for them, for him, in this manner. The woman—Amelie?—is apparently adamant that they are the best chance for peace. Her contribution? Keeping Aymeric's fiscal reputation spotless, and ensuring Estinien himself isn't arrested for tax evasion.
Idiotic, he thinks with a scowl. As if they would dare.
He uses the fall of his bangs to hide his sidelong look at Aymeric, who he hopes might have something to say about the ridiculousness of it all, but what he sees arrests him. His body keeps moving, their walk continues, but it is almost automatic.
Aymeric is looking at him almost pensively, and when he notices Estinien has caught him staring, redirects his gaze down to the folio where his own meticulously filled papers lay alongside Estinien's unorganized scraps. He holds it almost fondly, and Estinien fixates for a moment on the minute twitch of his hand as Aymeric rubs his thumb across the smooth leather.
Like it's something precious.
Aymeric seems, for the moment, to be so sentimental that he, too, is charmed by Estinien's name on his swiving taxes. For a brief moment that seems to waver between hope, incredulity, and sheer ridiculousness, Estinien wonders which one of them has it worse.
Miraculously, they also make it back to the manor without being accosted by any minor nobles intending to invite one—or both, as some have yet to learn their lesson when it comes to expecting the Azure Dragoon to make an appearance—to some ball or another, eager to throw eligible children at two single men of fair standing. As the only one being entertained in Borel Manor this day, Estinien has the privilege of plonking himself down next to the bench at the entrance of the manor door and shucking his own half-boots. He kicks them to the side as he stands, sniffing the air and predicting that lunch is on the horizon, judging by the smells wafting into the main entryway from the kitchens.
Which means he is the one who has to help Aymeric out of his ridiculous (and aggravatingly alluring) thighboots.
As expected, Aymeric is still on the bench, struggling to get one off when Estinien turns around. Even as often as he wears the things, the process is never any more dignified than the awkward combination of toeing at the heel and trying to peel the leather down from where it sits snug around his upper thighs. Estinien sighs and slips over, fixing his hands on the toe and heel of Aymeric's boot and yanking it upward. He doesn't bother stifling a small smirk at Aymeric's yelp, which is followed by a sulky glare.
"Why you wear these when they are such a hassle is beyond me," he says, shedding Aymeric's leg of the dark leather, revealing one half of the wrinkled cotton trousers clinging tightly to his muscular leg. Estinien smooths out the wrinkles and squeezes the back of his calf in a gesture he hopes is subtle.
"Tis fashionable, I'm afraid," Aymeric responds primly, a trace of vague resignation in his tone.
"Hm. Do you still need to worry about such things?' Estinien says, voice even and careful as he focuses on prying Aymeric out of his other boot. "You are a married man now, after all."
The smile Aymeric offers when he looks up is much the same as the ones Estinien has received from him throughout their friendship, bright and achingly fond, but now there is the slightest hint of a flesh cresting his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Estinien latches on to that color like a drake with pray in its jaws.
So that's how it is then.
Estinien stares Aymeric down, the remaining boot forgotten as he shifts closer until he's settled between Aymeric's thighs. His palms find the wall just behind the bench, just over Aymeric's shoulders, and he bends toward the other man slowly.
There is a part of him that desperately wishes for Aymeric to halt him—this sentimentality is something they can ill-afford—but Estinien knows that even if they were to stop here, the idea of losing Aymeric, even absent such intimacies, would send him into a grief-stricken rage even now.
Aymeric stares up at him with wide eyes for a moment, then Estinien feels a leg curl around the backs of his thighs as Aymeric reaches up and pulls Estinien down. His eyes flutter closed, his full mouth goes just slightly soft, and Estinien dives down and presses their lips together as he has so frequently thought about. Aymeric makes a soft, pleased noise into their kiss, his fingers coming up to gently trace the underside of Estinien's ear. He can't help the way it twitches, cradled between Aymeric's fingers, and Estinien bends his knees and ignores the slight twinge as he tries to find some perch that might let him move closer to Aymeric. For a brief moment, they're engaged in a shuffle of legs and mouths as he and Aymeric try to find some way to fit together without parting, until they're interrupted by a mild clearing of the throat.
"Sers," says the head manservant, a positively ancient elezen with drooping ears, dark eyes and hair, a silver monocle, and a name Estinien struggles to remember.
Coulont? Clouyix? He thinks it almost deliriously as he pulls away from Aymeric, resisting the guilty impulse to spring back and flee. Aymeric's face settles on a smooth, polite mask as he addresses his manservant as though he hasn't just been caught kissing his closest friend in the entryway.
"Yes, Cledant?"
"Lunch is ready to be served. Will you and Ser Estinien be taking it in the dining room this afternoon?"
"Ah," says Aymeric, sheepishly holding up the folder. "In the study today, I'm afraid. My finances did not meet the standards of Madame Tristelle, and I must make some alterations afore the week is out." Estinien, still nearby and partially braced against the wall, shifts so he can hide the bewildered stare he directs at Aymeric behind the fall of his hair.
This is what Aymeric has decided to be shame-faced over.
And then his traitorous stomach decides to flip inside his body when he realizes that Aymeric feels no shame at all about being caught kissing him in the entryway of his manor.
"Very good, milord. And will Ser Estinien also be taking his lunch in the study?"
"He will," Aymeric replies, "as he is helping me with the paperwork."
Cledant's eyes widen just a fraction, and he directs the most subtle raised eyebrow of skepticism toward Estinien, which is parried with the flattest stare Estinien can muster with a still fading flush. He still hasn't moved from where he's braced against the wall, bent over Aymeric. There is some part of him, leftover from long watches which lead into later ambushes, which feels as though moving will draw more attention to his position.
"Very well then, milord," says Cledant, and vanishes back in the direction of the kitchen. Estinien watches him go, then makes to slowly pull himself away from Aymeric, only to be stopped by the leg still hooked around his thighs. It's joined by a pair of arms that reach higher to circle his waist, forcing Estinien to straighten as Aymeric pulls him closer. Estinien feels the point of his chin press into the lean plane of his stomach, and he looks down at Aymeric, whose eyes are crinkled with mirth.
"Shall I call you the new Viscountess de Borel?" he says, and there is a raw vulnerability behind the sly humor of his tone that Estinien knows not what to do with. So, he reaches down and slowly places the whole of his palm on Aymeric's face, who makes a noise of quiet affront.
"Not on your life," Estinien says dryly. “Perhaps I could be convinced into the position of Viscountess if you were to become the Viscount Varlineau."
In reply, Aymeric pinches the flesh of Estinien's calloused palm between his teeth, and a scuffle well below both of their dignities ensues. It is, for one brief moment, as though they are simply two dear companions returning from a jaunt out-of-doors, as though there is not a war awaiting them the moment this brief leave is over.
Eventually, they part with a laugh and finally remove the second thighboot, leaving it discarded near the door like a shed serpent-skin. Aymeric reaches out a hand, and Estinien clasps it and keeps his eyes on Aymeric's as he laces their fingers together and pulls him from the bench. Aymeric laughs softly and, still flushed, reaches back for the folio as Estinien pulls him up.
They ascend the stairs that will take them to the study hand-in-hand.