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"You'll be disgusted."
Aymeric's brows knit, his face pinching into what Estinien can only describe as confusion.
"I could never be disgusted by you," he says, so matter-of-fact that Estinien nearly believe him. "You need not fear a negative reaction from me, but neither need you force yourself to show me."
Estinien shakes his head. He cannot even bring himself to meet Aymeric's eye, not right now. Not as his hands toy mindlessly with the latches of his left gauntlet, as his damnably kind voice washes over him, as his heart pounds in his ears. They'd already dispensed with the pleasantries and the apologies. Aymeric had already made it clear he was not angry, was not resentful of Estinien's long absence. He felt a fool for thinking he would be; he felt even worse for that fact, because all it showed was Aymeric's sickeningly unending kindness, even when his rage was rightfully deserved.
But this? This, he is not sure he can do.
It is not a pretty sight, he knows. Though the Warrior has ever been a stalwart friend, one with far more scars than Estinien has or ever will have, even they wince when met with the sight of what lies under his armor. The craters in his shoulder and forearm, overlaid with a mass of thick, ragged scars; the burns that cover most of his skin; the twin tears on his back, just over his shoulder blades, ever red and painful. He has gotten used to seeing them in the mirror. They're simply a part of him, one he has slowly come to accept, but Aymeric? Aymeric has not seen them. Aymeric has not had the chance to learn the full extent of the damage Nidhogg did, and Estinien has labored to make sure it stays that way.
If not to save Aymeric the pain and guilt he will surely feel, than to save himself from having to contend with the very real possibility Aymeric finds him too horrid to look at.
It's ridiculous. Presumptuous, really. Perhaps even wishful thinking, a self-destructive avenue of thought to give him a reason as to why he's avoided Aymeric since he left his sickbed however long ago. Most likely a mix of all three.
Still, Aymeric sits before him, determined to see them one day.
Would it be so bad to trust him? To believe him?
Is he willing to risk learning Aymeric's acceptance is conditional? To risk being cast aside for the crime of being too ugly and wounded to look at?
"Stop," Estinien whispers, pained. A last-ditch attempt to make his mind shut up. Aymeric is not the cruel, vain man his brain so desperately wants to think he is. That he's even allowed Estinien in, that he even forgave him after everything, is proof of that.
"Stop what?" Aymeric asks, gentle.
Estinien shakes his head. "Not you. I'm sorry."
"You needn't be. I have you, Estinien. I'm right here. Whatever it is you need to feel comfortable, you have it."
He manages to look at him, breath nearly taken away by the adoration in Aymeric's gaze. All at once, his worries melt into something easier to handle, something not so all-consumingly horrific. How could someone with so much love to give—to him, no less!—withhold it for such a silly reason? It is not as though Aymeric is not adorned in his own scars, some of which Estinien knows to be nearly as bad as his own. Ser Charibert and the inquisitors under him were…thorough. Estinien had only found a new sense of admiration after the initial anger, for it takes a certain strength of spirit to continue after being so horribly wounded. Maybe one day he will be able to feel the same toward himself without hours of internal debate.
Estinien breathes in, in. Closes his eyes for a moment. Exhales before opening them once more.
"I'd rather you let me remove my own armor," he finally says, and he can't help the smile he gives when Aymeric's eyes nigh sparkle once he realizes what Estinien's saying. His chest lightens the slightest bit. This is Aymeric. If he can still love Estinien after everything, this will be but a drop in the ocean.
Estinien playfully shoves him toward the bed, as gentle as he can manage, and relishes in the laugh it earns him.
Even with this newfound acceptance, he hesitates ere he undoes the latches holding his gauntlets in place. He glances once more at Aymeric. He finds naught but patience and love, and so he begins to pry them off. He sets them upon one of the large bookshelves before he sits and begins undoing his greaves. Were these normal circumstances, he would begin with his mail—right now, he wants to hold off for as long as he can. The latches unlock easily, and he then slips his greaves off before he begins removing his brais.
Aymeric stays quiet through the whole ordeal, but each short, furtive glance Estinien dare pass his way reveals naught but reverence. Aymeric watches him openly, eagerly, lovingly. Patiently. He has waited so, so long, and even still, he gives Estinien all the time in the world. How lucky he must be, he thinks, that he's found such kindness in the only person he's ever wanted.
His brais are soon removed, leaving just the padded underarmor on his legs. He takes the padding off. Only his smalls remain, now, and with a slow, deep breath, he begins removing his mail. Pauldrons first, then the armor that hangs from his waist. His hands shake as he reaches for the belts around his midsection that hold his armor in place. The thought of taking it off is…
Estinien takes a deep, deep breath. What happened to him? He never used to care this much. In fact, one might even say he still doesn't, considering how often he's had to hear Tataru scolding him for not washing his hair enough. But this is…different. Aymeric has accepted all his other physical eccentricities, but has not seen this.
He exhales, and in the same moment, undoes the remaining belts. Without allowing himself the time to second-guess his actions, he sheds what remains of the mail, then his underarmor, until he is left in naught but smalls.
He does not turn his front to Aymeric. He merely turns his head, barely meeting his eye. "'Tis not pretty," he says, quiet, "but it is me."
Aymeric is silent. That horrible anxiety from earlier begins to well up, begins to choke him. What a fool he was to truly believe Aymeric would—
The bed creaks, followed by quiet footsteps, by the ghost of a touch behind his back. He can hear Aymeric swallow.
"May I…?"
Estinien goes still, still, still.
"…Aye."
Aymeric's touch against his bare skin is nothing short of heavenly.
How long has it been since he's felt it? Three summers at minimum, though he knows it to be much, much longer than that. Not since before the fight with Vishap upon the Steps of Faith. Aymeric had touched him, then, much like he does now; it was not so long after the first time Nidhogg overtook him, and though his power had not left the wounds it left the second time, he had still come away injured both from the wyrm and from the thrashing the Warrior gave him. He had not told Aymeric what happened, but he knew. He always knew. His fingers had trailed down his spine, his voice gentle as he scolded, you can't keep secrets from me. How easily Estinien forgot.
"I will not lie to you," Aymeric soon says, his hand splayed across a mass of criss-crossed claw scars on the left of his lower back. "It is not pretty."
Estinien's heart sinks. "You think I'm—"
"I think you are beautiful, Estinien, scars and all. You are the most handsome man I've had the pleasure of meeting. But I will not tell you that your pain—your suffering—is gorgeous. It is not." His voice wavers as his hand slides up, up, coming to rest just below the twin scars. "It is abhorrent. It is terrible. It is your struggle laid bare for all to see…and yet I cannot help but admire it."
"You're giving mixed signals, here," he says, and he hopes he sounds more neutral than he feels. What is he playing at?
Aymeric's hand falls away. He soon enters Estinien's field of vision, his eyes raking over the craters in his arms, the burns across his torso. He meets his eye with a small smile. "It is a reminder that you survived," he finally says, soft. Impossibly gentle and loving. "For all you've weathered, you survived. There's beauty in that, I think."
Estinien's hands shake. Something burns in the back of his throat.
He remembers saying something similar, though far less poetic, when Aymeric had been given leave to return to the manor following his torture. Much like himself now, Aymeric had not wanted Estinien to see the wounds left upon him. A shame, then, that Estinien volunteered to be the one to change his bandages and tend to his injuries. Of course they're nasty, he had said, gently cleaning away some of the dried blood, you were tortured, Aym. I'd be more surprised if they weren't.
Do you find it ugly?
Your wounds? Aye. You? Of course not, never.
"I survived," he finally echoes. Aymeric's smile only grows. "You—you're right, you know. I didn't want you to lie or think they're gorgeous or what have you. I just wanted you to…"
He trails off, the words heavy in his mouth. This emotional vulnerability is new, is hard. Aymeric tilts his head, encouraging.
"Accept you?"
"Not leave me. To stay."
It's Aymeric's turn to break, his smile dropping into sad surprise. "How could I ever leave you, least of all for something like this?" he whispers, reaching for Estinien's jaw, cradling it like he's the most fragile thing in the world. The noise Estinien makes is nothing short of wounded desperation. "I don't love you for your looks. That's just an added bonus."
In spite of himself, Estinien laughs. It brings the smile back to Aymeric's face. He reaches up and wraps his own hands loosely around Aymeric's wrists.
"You really are handsome, you know." Aymeric presses his forehead to his, sharing his soft breaths. "I'm glad you're home."
Estinien brushes his nose against Aymeric's. "I'm glad I'm home, too."