Work Text:
Aymeric was never surprised when it snowed on his nameday.
As he drew back the curtains covering the window of his bedroom, he admired the thick flakes that coated the window edges and floated freely onto the street below. A couple of early morning pedestrians hurried their way through the snow: servants on their way to market, squires clocking in for shift, children on their way to school.
It was early in the morning, far earlier than one should have to be awake at, yet Aymeric was already up and dressed. Even if it was his nameday, a knight lived to serve and serve he shall, regardless of his wish to celebrate his twenty fourth nameday.
Not that he had any exciting plans anyway. His daily activities for the past two sennights had been unchanging: morning drills, a patrol of the city's busiest areas, and more training in the afternoon. Today was to be no exception, so he wrapped his body in a coat and gloves that he hoped would be warm enough, and left his home to pray before training began.
The visibility outside was poor, the air biting and cold as it rushed to pinch at any exposed skin. It was a dull winter morning, and as Aymeric sloshed through the snow towards Saint Reymanaud's Cathedral, he couldn't help but think back on some of his previous twenty three namedays. As a child he would spend the day with his parents at the festive markets, with snow falling all around them, before cuddling up at home with cocoa and presents. Growing older, after his parents had passed and responsibility fell onto his shoulders hard, the effects of the Dragonsong War destroyed his sheltered innocence entirely and every nameday since had been reduced to a normal day.
However, this nameday was slightly different from the others, even if no event in particular were to mark the occasion.
This year, Aymeric was in a relationship.
A relationship that was newly romantic, but long time platonic, with someone who he had trained with, bunked with, shared meals with, fought side by side in battle with — his best friend, Estinien.
The lancer had entered Aymeric's life in a whirlwind, after that fateful day involving a dragon, a cavern and a single arrow had brought them together in the most dire of circumstances. A flagon of ale had been shared upon their return, and despite Estinien's best attempts to rebuke him, Aymeric simply could not leave him be from that day on.
There was a magnetism to Estinien, a subtle charm that hid underneath all of the brooding hostility, that Aymeric had been desperate to reveal through their many shared experiences both in and out of the battlefield. They had lunches together in the mess hall most days, sharing repetitive meals of a hearty protein and vegetable, where they regaled tales of their days. Where Estinien would sometimes let slip the odd titbit about his life; how it was to live with the man who was his mentor and guardian but not his father, his difficulties with life in Ishgard, and — on incredibly rare occasions — his childhood.
And Aymeric would spout his own stories about anything and everything just to keep Estinien entertained, even if he was never sure if Estinien was actually listening or not. The man was so suspiciously quiet.
But it must have worked. Their hardy and stalwart friendship blossomed into a delicate, tentative romance, after a few too many drinks at the Forgotten Knight had led to a brief but passionate kiss beneath one of the city's many archways. It had made Aymeric's heart sing, the unknown crush he had been harbouring on Estinien unleashing with full force, and the look in Estinien's eye after they had broken apart had told Aymeric that his realisation was shared.
Both were too anxious to put a label on whatever it was that followed afterwards — the fumbling affections, the silent declarations — but it was theirs, and Aymeric was overjoyed to belong to someone like Estinien.
But, despite it being his nameday, duty had called and the pair were unfortunately separated. A common occurrence in their line of work; the potential dragoons-in-training and the commander's underlings very rarely worked together, the former being far more preoccupied with the finding and dispatching of dragons.
It wasn't going to bother Aymeric. He had spent enough of his namedays alone, one more would not hurt.
The chapel was quiet in the early bells, just how he liked it. He took his usual spot near the front right of the pews, clasped his hands together and prayed.
He prayed for his own good health, for Estinien's good health, for his safety while out on the field and for his return to Ishgard unscathed. He prayed for all of the people of Ishgard, for them to find peace and solitude in their turbulent lives. Heaven knew they needed all they could get in these times of strife.
After a brief chat with the serving custodian, Aymeric left the chapel, shovelling his hands back into his pockets to retain the heat, hunching his shoulders so he could make his way back safely through the cold. The sky had brightened slightly, yet visibility was worse with the now-tumbling snow.
Even with limited focus, as he precariously took the steps down towards the Astrologicum, Aymeric could still hear the unmistakable squeal of greeting from a Moogle.
He stopped on the stair and turned, almost in fright, as the post-Moogle came flying up beside him.
"Master Borel," it cried, "I am so glad to have found you here, before I had to make my way all the way down towards your manor, kupo!"
"Good morning," Aymeric replied, holding a hand up to shield his eyes from the snow.
"What a terrible morning it is, kupo."
Aymeric smiled. "Indeed."
He watched as the Moogle quickly shuffled through its satchel, pulling forth a small collection of letters.
"Let's see here… ah yes, yes, kupo! Aymeric de Borel."
Aymeric took the letters, surprised at how many there were. He very rarely received mail that looked personal, merely receiving the odd bill or Temple Knight correspondence as necessary, but he could already spy the insignia of House Fortemps on the topmost letter.
"Popular today, kupo!" the Moogle continued, unperturbed by the snow. "It must be your nameday!"
"It is, actually," Aymeric said, glancing up, "How did you know?"
"Ah, it is my job to know, kupo! Or, rather, my job to guess."
"Well. Thank you."
The Moogle's eyes crinkled warmly. "I hope this snow won't put a dampener on your nameday, kupo. Good tidings, Master Borel!"
Aymeric returned the smile and inclined his head, bidding the Moogle goodbye before turning away and continuing his way down the steps. The snow was coming on in thick, fast flurries now, and he was eager to be inside and warm, to see what awaited him inside his collection of post.
A part of him hoped that-
No. He knew Estinien would not write to him; he was malms away, in the depths of the Coerthan Highlands on a mission of great import, and for him to have the time to write to Aymeric was nigh unthinkable.
The entranceway of his manor was blessedly warm, his manservant's preparation of the daily fire doing well to heat the place. Once his outer clothes had been shed, he sat on the chaise in his entranceway and turned his attention to the letters.
The first was large and white, the words elegantly scrawled, with the Fortemps house sigil Aymeric had recognised from before. The next looked more like business correspondence, recognised as the regular billing he received on a moon by moon basis. On the third, Aymeric recognised the handwriting of his friend Artoirel de Fortemps.
Long gone were the days where Aymeric lived in hope for something — anything — from his birth father to celebrate his nameday, yet he still felt an inkling of disappointment knowing none of these letters came from him. He knew recognition of the event wouldn't even have crossed Thordan's mind, and that the man was far too busy directing the nation to do anything about it, but it still hurt all the same.
Sighing, Aymeric flipped over to the fourth-
By the Twelve!
Even though their written correspondence had been far and few between, Aymeric recognised Estinien's handwriting instantly. The lack of a detailed address, the dirt stains on the envelope, even his name written in the irregular scrawl of a warrior, not a scribe, told him everything he needed to know about the sender of this note.
Ignoring the others, Aymeric ripped open the envelope, and eagerly started to read.
Aymeric,
I do not have a lot of time to write. The buggering post-Moogle refuses to wait longer than five minutes in this weather, despite it clearly being in its best interests to take on our custom.
It has become almost unbearably cold here over the last week. However, that does not stop Captain from posting us outside. Mornings spent training in the icy marshes, afternoons patrolling the fields, evenings spent guarding the camp fence… I do tire of it. There is so much more I could be doing out here, yet I am stuck in this state of bloody waiting. Waiting and watching. But mostly waiting.
Captain did say on Windsday there that I am to be considered for a position with the dragoons come summer, which I suppose is good. I wish it could be sooner than six moons away, but I will take it with grace; something I am continually told I do not have a lot of.
I hope you are well. You might not believe me, but I do miss you. There is not much to think of while posted, and I aim to keep myself as distracted as possible, as you already know. So you are in my thoughts. I think of your hands in my hair while I soak in that too-big bathtub of yours, of your breakfasts covered in sugar and syrup, as sweet as your perfect lips-
"Master Borel. Happy nameday."
Aymeric startled and reflexively pulled the letter close to his chest, before glancing up at his awaiting manservant. The man had a suspicious smile on his face, and, despite never mentioning it to him directly, Aymeric had begun to suspect that his manservant knew more than he was letting on with regards to himself and Estinien. A healthy flush rushed to Aymeric's cheeks as he felt more and more like he'd been caught in the act.
"Thank- thank you," Aymeric uttered, as he stood and shoved Estinien's letter into his back pocket.
"Breakfast is served in the main room, ser," the manservant continued, "Are you ready to take it?"
Aymeric smiled and nodded. He reached for his other correspondence and followed his manservant out of the lobby, his mind aflutter with thoughts of a certain far-off lancer.
The rest of his morning went by without incident.
Breakfast had been a slightly more extravagant affair than usual. Aymeric had been served fresh blueberry pancakes instead of blueberry porridge, and a small jar of birch syrup was on offer, that Aymeric had been sure to use every last drop of.
He had read the rest of his correspondence over breakfast, and found it was as he had expected: a nameday card from all at House Fortemps, signed with the familiar signature of the elder Count, the bill he had been expecting, and a simple card signed from Artoirel. Both cards he had been warmed inside to receive, and he placed them on display on the mantelpiece behind his table.
He then dressed for the day, properly: adorning his Temple Knight uniform to prepare for his duties, fastening his earring in place and strapping his weapon holster firmly on his back. He then left his house for the second time that morning, this time following the path towards the impressive structure that was Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly.
Something couldn't help but niggle at the back of his mind, however.
Instead of reading it in front of his staff at the table, after breakfast, Aymeric had excused himself quickly to read the rest of Estinien's note. He found that even with his more-than-welcome words, Estinien had neglected to mention Aymeric's nameday at all.
It had been the main reason why Aymeric had suspected Estinien had written him in the first place. But, no, it appeared it was entirely coincidental that Estinien's note had arrived today.
No matter.
Aymeric was sure Estinien knew of the occasion, but if his note was any evidence of it, the man was clearly far too preoccupied with knightly duties to remember. Aymeric would be a fool to think Estinien's mind was concerned with such frivolities, when he knew that very little could tear Estinien away from thoughts about the war.
Even so, the feeling of light rejection still lingered as Aymeric hurried through the snow once more. Once he arrived at Congregation and checked in for his shift, only then could he feel his tension release, prepared to continue on with his entirely normal day.
The streets continued to be quiet, so Aymeric was able to put all of his energy into his afternoon training. He gathered in the training hall with the other knights, and at the call of his commander, he hacked and slashed away at the dummies lining the atrium walls. Training like this always helped to soothe Aymeric's worries, so he channelled his stress over the war, his longing for Estinien and his plain and simple distaste at growing older into his near feral attack on the dummy.
When the dummy was thoroughly beaten to a pulp and Aymeric was suitably warmed up, he moved onto training with a partner. He hardly wanted to admit it, but Aymeric trounced the majority of the recruits, with only a few of the more bulkier lads barely able to make a dent in his armour.
Round in circles he went on the dirt ground of the arena, turning over man after man like he was a hound toying with his prey. He liked to think that his many bells of training privately with Estinien had served him well; his friend was particularly vicious in the arena, even if he was using nothing more than a simple lance.
As Aymeric retired to the stands to have a more than deserved glass of water and a break, he felt someone approach the arena barrier.
"Bravo, my friend," the man said, clapping, and Aymeric smiled as he recognised his childhood friend, Artoirel de Fortemps.
"Thank you, Lord Artoirel," Aymeric replied.
"Are you always like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you are possessed by the spirit of Halone herself," Artoirel said, his smile crooked. "'Tis terrifying."
Aymeric laughed. "Not always. I shall put it down to the first snow of the season. It has invigorated my senses."
"Ah yes," Artoirel nodded, "And if I am correct, it is your nameday today too?"
"It is indeed, and I received your card in the post this morning, thank you. How did you know?"
"Aymeric, we have been friends for decades at this point, it would be disrespectful for me not to know," Artoirel said. His smile then dropped slightly, which Aymeric pretended not to notice. "Besides, my father makes a note in his diary for it every year."
Aymeric's mouth opened in mild shock, before he quickly closed it. He was still unused to Count Fortemps' almost fatherly affection for him. "I see."
Artoirel smiled again, clearly pushing through some sort of emotion.
"Speaking of my father, I am here to deliver a series of missives from Camp Dragonhead for him," he said.
"Ah, I was about to ask why you were here and not dressed in mail."
"I have the day off," Artoirel sighed, "Yet my father still feels the need to send me out on errands, like a serving boy."
Lord Artoirel was two years younger than Aymeric, but was in a far more precarious position being first in line to lordship over one of the high houses, and there were far more expectations placed upon him. Artoirel's preparation had started as soon as he was of age, and his time was mostly taken up with either knight's training or the duties that a young lord-in-training was expected to undertake. Aymeric didn't envy him; while his own responsibilities were vast, he would sooner challenge Nidhogg to a solo duel than lead one of the high houses.
"Well then," Aymeric said, in a fit of inspiration, "If you have the day off — would you join me tonight for a drink? At the Forgotten Knight."
"Of course," Artoirel beamed. "Would you mind if Haurchefant comes along? He is home for a sennight or two and father has asked me to make sure he remains busy."
Aymeric beamed back, as he had always harboured a soft spot for the middle Fortemps brother. Even with his background and circumstance, his bright personality and witty sense of humour made him incredibly likeable.
"Of course," he replied.
With his evening now looking a little more eventful, Aymeric bid Artoirel goodbye and took his leave from Congregation, to clean himself up and prepare for a night of fun.
The Forgotten Knight was swarming with people, and as Aymeric descended the stairs into the main floor, he struggled to find the familiar blue and black heads of the Fortemps brothers in the crowd.
With the cold weather now setting in, all manner of noble-leaning Ishgardians had taken to the warm insides of the pub to drink alcohol, hoping it would help warm their own insides. Men and women of all ages all huddled in, overwhelming the poor staff behind the bar, and without seeing it, Aymeric knew the lower floor of the inn would be just as busy with residents of the Brume.
While he figured out how to find Artoirel, he squeezed into the queue at the bar and eventually ordered himself a glass of dark wine.
Nestled in amongst the throngs of people, Aymeric could spy plenty of young couples spending an evening in each others' company, and his heart ached for what he could not currently have. What he would not give to be ordering two glasses of wine, to return to a table where his beloved awaited him — but alas, that was not to be the plan for this evening.
Aymeric understood the arrangement between himself and Estinien well enough by now.
Trying to distract himself, he turned his attention elsewhere, to the other patrons of the pub. Elderly residents had set up closer to the fire, huddled on threadbare chairs and nursing mugs of hot wine. Knights of varying ranks had gathered around free tables, relieved after a hard day's shift. The upper echelons of society that had deigned to enter the pub kept to their own too, filling out the rest of the space.
And in the corner of the pub, surrounding a lonely barrel used as a makeshift table, Aymeric finally spotted who he was looking for.
Artoirel was dressed in his finery: a long black coat embellished with a grand fur collar, and Haurchefant was dressed in a simple coat and slacks, the emblem of the House Fortemps on his breast.
They both carried large mugs of ale, and as Aymeric weaved between the crowd towards the pair, he could sense that whatever conversation they had been having had lulled into an almost awkward silence. He was aware of their somewhat strained relationship, their father's illegitimate relationship with someone other than the Lady Fortemps had caused great strife within their family, and the relationship between Artoirel and Haurchefant especially had only become friendly very recently.
Resolved to break whatever tension existed between the pair, Aymeric entered their circle, dipping his head and smiling. "Good evening, my friends."
Immediately, both men smiled.
"Ser Aymeric!" Haurchefant cried, as he clapped a large hand onto Aymeric's arm. "Happy nameday, my good fellow."
"Thank you," Aymeric said. "What a busy night, hm?"
"Indeed. We were lucky to even grab this table here," Artoirel said.
Aymeric looked between the two. "It is good to see you both. I must admit, I was pleased to hear that you were home for a time, Haurchefant. How does Camp Dragonhead fare?"
"Oh, fine, I suppose. Commander keeps me very busy. Even if he didn't, I suppose the constant slew of heretics and wyrms would provide enough entertainment."
At Aymeric's aghast expression, Haurchefant smiled wider. "Do not fret, my friend. The encampment's very design makes it one of the safest places in Coerthas. I cannot be in much more danger than the average Ishgardian citizen."
"Haurchefant, this conversation is far too sombre for the occasion," Artoirel interjected.
"Aye, brother," Haurchefant nodded. "Apologies, Aymeric. How have you spent your nameday so far? Reclining in that manor of yours? Whittling away bells on the drink?"
"Nay, Haurchefant," Aymeric chuckled. "Honestly, today has been like any other day. I very rarely actually wish to celebrate my nameday, it never feels like a momentous enough occasion."
"Oh I disagree! What a fortunate turn of events that I am in the city to celebrate with you. We shall drink the night away and tomorrow you shall be wishing you were one year younger, if only to allow the hangover to cease quicker."
Aymeric grinned, pleased to be in the presence of his two friends. The middle Fortemps brother always had such a sunny disposition, it was easy to feel warm and happy in his presence.
"To being one year younger," Aymeric said, raising his glass.
The brothers followed suit.
"To you, Aymeric," Artoirel said.
Haurchefant raised his glass high. "Aye, to the soon-to-be youngest Lord Commander in Ishgard's history."
Aymeric scoffed. "Not likely, I am not even close to becoming Commander."
"Only a matter of time."
They clinked their glasses together, and Aymeric took a large sip, the dry wine hitting his palette with such a strength that he was certain that the hangover might hit him sooner than Haurchefant had claimed.
Over the course of the next few bells, they shared stories of life in Ishgard, and, more interestingly, of Haurchefant's life while posted in Camp Dragonhead. Aymeric listened intently as he shared tales of battles with dragonets as irritating as flies, stories of spending their unseasonably hot summer sleeping on cool concrete floors, and he even filled Aymeric in on all the latest romantic goings-on between all of the young recruits. With many being the same age as Haurchefant — just twenty summers — flirtations were aplenty while marriage was temporarily off the table.
Aymeric was pleased to hear he was doing well, even if Artoirel looked vaguely unsettled by some of Haurchefant's stories.
At some point during their third drink, a familiar face approached their table, tapping Artoirel on the shoulder.
"Lord Haillenarte!" Artoirel said, his eyes as wide as saucers. "Good- good evening!"
"How many times do I have to tell you, Artoirel," the man said, "'Tis Stephanivien."
Grinning, Stephanivien then extended a hand over the table towards Haurchefant. "How do you do, Haurchefant? 'Tis good to see you."
"Well enough," Haurchefant shook the other man's hand.
Aymeric had little experience with the wayward Haillenarte, yet he was always struck by his beauty. As Stephanivien took his own hand in greeting, Aymeric couldn't help but return the flashy smile.
The attention given to Aymeric was short lived, however, as Stephanivien seemed far more interested in teasing Artoirel. With the volume of the pub now reaching deafening levels, Aymeric half-listened to their conversation until Haurchefant leaned in closer to speak to him alone.
"I am glad my brother is distracted," he said, "because I have been desperate to confirm these rumours I have been hearing, and Artoirel did not want me to ask."
Aymeric was taken aback. "Rumours?"
"Aye. Concerning yourself and one of the lancers… A "Wyrmblood", was it?"
"I- I am not sure what you mean, Haurchefant."
Haurchefant leaned in closer. "I apologise if I am mistaken, then. I had simply heard-"
"Heard what?"
"Heard that there was something going on between you two. Friend of a friend saw you looking chummy one night after a particularly brutal training session. I tried to chalk it up to the strong friendship between you two, even without knowing much about it-"
Aymeric sighed, resigned.
"Nay, Haurchefant. Your source was correct."
"Truly?"
Aymeric nodded. "Truly. But pray, I beg of you-"
"My lips are sealed, Aymeric. And I will keep up the denial, if you so wish."
"I would, if you please. There is not even anything to deny, really, it is all so new. We have barely even figured it out ourselves."
Something caught Haurchefant's eye as Aymeric spoke, and his blue eyes sparkled in mild wonder. "Perhaps you might get a chance to, tonight."
Confused, Aymeric followed Haurchefant's gaze, and found himself struck dumb at the sight of a man squeezed at the bar, a recognisable head of silver hair flowing long around his shoulders.
By the Twelve-
What on earth was Estinien doing here? Aymeric knew that Estinien was supposed to be off in the far reaches of the Coerthan Highlands, so to see him here, in the very pub he was sitting in, he was almost sure he was seeing a mirage.
He half-stood on instinct, before remembering where he was and sitting back down. Haurchefant placed a hand on his forearm, nodding at him in approval.
"Go to him," he said. "I am sure my brother will understand, if he can even tear himself away from Stephanivien's charm."
Aymeric grinned, breathless, before standing once more. "Thank you, Haurchefant."
He drifted through the crowds in a haze, his eyes glued only onto the man at the bar. He was partially afraid that the man would turn around and it would not be Estinien, but so few men had that hair, and even fewer were knights, and even fewer were knights who looked like the pub was the last possible place they wanted to be.
Aymeric reached a hand out to grip onto the man's upper arm, and as he turned around, Aymeric felt radiant delight flow through him to see that it was Estinien.
He looked exhausted. His hair was dull and lifeless, hanging like heavy curtains around his face, and his eyes were even more hollow looking than Aymeric remembered. At the sight of Aymeric, however, they brightened slightly, his thin lips curling up into a smile.
"Estinien," Aymeric gasped, "What are you doing here?"
Estinien's smile widened, and a feeling of adoration rushed through Aymeric. He had missed him.
"I could ask you the same question," Estinien replied.
"'Tis my-"
"Nameday. Aye, I know that now," Estinien replied, looking mildly frustrated. "I hadn't forgotten, I simply-"
"I do not care," Aymeric breathed, the smile on his face threatening to burst at the seams. "Is that why you are here?"
"Aye. I asked for you at your house, and they said you were here. I thought you did not celebrate?"
He went to my house? Aymeric let the thought slide, but he was immensely proud of Estinien for even broaching the manor by himself. He would have to ask his manservant later what had happened — not that Aymeric was worried that anything even had happened.
"I don't usually," he said, turning back to look at the table with the Fortemps brothers. Haurchefant had clearly been watching them, and he made a sweeping motion with his hands, pushing them along.
Aymeric chuckled. "But I arranged to meet with some friends."
"I see," Estinien said. "Do you wish to return to them?"
"Not particularly. Do you wish to meet them?"
"Not particularly."
"Have you ordered a drink?" Aymeric asked.
"Not yet, I hadn't had the chance to."
"Come, then," Aymeric murmured, realising his hand was still attached to Estinien's arm, and he squeezed it gently. "I have a bath at home and a mug of hot wine with your name on it."
They left the bustling warmth of the Forgotten Knight and ventured out into the frozen streets of Ishgard. The weather had calmed, leaving the ground padded with trodden snow, and the structures of the city dusted in a pristine white. The icy air rushed around Aymeric's warm cheeks and hands, although very little could cool him down right now.
He was still in disbelief that Estinien had actually shown up at the inn. It was most out of character for him — to be looking for Aymeric, usually it was Aymeric looking for him — and Aymeric couldn't help but feel incredibly special, even if he wasn't convinced he should be.
The sky had darkened considerably into night, and as they walked along the concrete pathways from the lower city to the upper city, the quiet of the evening and the alcohol coursing through him gave Aymeric the confidence to walk closer to Estinien, to let his fingertips bump into the cold leather of Estinien's gauntlets.
"How did you get away from Coerthas? I thought you were still to be posted for another two sennights," Aymeric asked.
"They do not know I am away. I was lucky I was not on guard duty tonight, if I return early enough in the morning nobody should know that I left."
Aymeric's heart sank slightly at the realisation. He had been naive to even think that Estinien could stay for a few days, maybe even a sennight, but he would gladly take what he was allowed of Estinien's time.
"How did you get here so quickly? And how do you mean to return?"
"Full of questions tonight, aren't we?" Estinien teased, but his fingers continued to brush along Aymeric's. "I got on the last airship leaving Falcon's Nest, and I intend to get the first tomorrow."
"Are you not exhausted?"
Estinien shrugged.
"Sleep does not come to me easily most days. I am used to it."
Taking note of Estinien's hollow eyes, of his strained voice, Aymeric realised that Estinien was exhausted. He could only imagine what went through his own mind on a daily basis, not to mention the physical toll being a knight could take. He could certainly relate.
Aymeric glanced around at the empty street before tentatively reaching out, wrapping his fingers properly around Estinien's. Even though they were shielded by two layers of gloves, he still felt Estinien tightening his grip, refusing to let go. If they were subtle enough, nobody would be able to notice a thing.
It felt right, to Aymeric. Like his fingers were meant to fit there all along.
As they continued to climb the steps from the lower level of the city towards the Pillars, they swapped stories on what had happened while they had been apart. Aymeric's stories were far more tame than Estinien's, his days having been filled with monotonous training, minor noble squabbles, and the overarching fear of attack in the city.
Estinien, on the other hand, was fighting major battles nearly every day.
"Your squadron was ambushed? Why did you not tell me?" Aymeric gasped, his hand instinctively tightening around Estinien's.
Estinien waved him off. "It was nothing. No one was seriously injured."
"Still. You could have mentioned that in your letter."
"Oh, you got that, did you? I sent that a few days ago."
"I did. But back to the ambush. What happened?"
"What usually happens," Estinien grumbled. "Captain assigns the newest bloody recruits on overnight watch, just to test them. The heretics always seem to know exactly when they've fallen asleep."
Aymeric sighed softly. The only downside of their relationship was that Aymeric was having to adapt to fretting over Estinien. He knew Estinien was more than capable of looking after himself, more than capable of looking after the entire unit, but it didn't stop the anxious nerves flowing through Aymeric at the thought of Estinien facing off against enemies without him.
"I wish I had been there," Aymeric murmured.
"So do I," Estinien chuckled, "We could have done with one of your perfectly timed arrows."
The laugh escaped Aymeric before he could stop it. "I will say it again, Estinien, you cannot put all of your faith into that lance. You should take the time to learn the art of the bow and arrow."
"And yet they say that a master of all is a master of none."
Aymeric rolled his eyes, but the smile remained fixed on his lips. "Agree to disagree, my dear."
After a brisk and cold walk back home, Aymeric unlocked the front door to Borel Manor and quickly ushered Estinien inside. They were immediately blasted by the heat from the fire in the lobby, left smouldering by Aymeric's incredibly attentive staff.
"Start drawing a bath," Aymeric said, hanging up his coat, "I shall be up in a moment, I am going to get you something to eat and drink."
He left Estinien to his devices and headed towards the kitchen. Estinien knew his way around Aymeric's house by now, and Aymeric wasn't afraid of his staff finding him this late in the night. Even if they did, he knew he could trust them enough to not say a word.
Aymeric found a bottle of mulled wine in the stores, and set it on the stove top to bubble away while he reheated the stew from the evening's dinner. It was a hearty chicken stew filled with carrots and potatoes, and Aymeric buttered a few slices of bread to go along with it.
Once the meal was prepared, he carefully ascended the staircase of the manor with his tray, being especially careful not to drop anything or make any excess noise. He was the master of the house, yet nights like this made him feel like a teenager again.
The bathroom adjacent to his bedroom was bubbling and steamy as Aymeric walked into it, the bath filled to the brim with Estinien already rid of his armour and resting inside of it. He looked completely at peace. Aymeric placed the tray on a counter near the sink, and pulled up the awaiting stool, to place his hands in the hair he had so longed to hold.
"I shan't ask you to feed me," Estinien said, relaxing into the touch. "Today is your day. You would be allowed to assume I visited you solely for this reason alone," — he gestured to the water — "even if that is not why."
"Nonsense. I would gladly do this for you at any time, my friend."
Estinien didn't say anything further, instead he quietly groaned as Aymeric rubbed soap through the long strands of hair, reaching down and massaging gently into Estinien's shoulders. Estinien felt tense, his shoulders skinny yet muscled, and as Aymeric continued to soothe out the knots, he could feel the man slipping into a state of calm.
Estinien was known to be a man of revenge, of powerful, raging passion — yet in these fleeting moments Aymeric had shared with him, he had unearthed a softness to him. A quiet wit, a deep desire to belong, and a bond in which Aymeric was loath to break.
"I appreciate you being here, Estinien," Aymeric said, quietly. "But you did not need to come all this way just to see me on my nameday. The strain of travelling, the pressure of return… It is not good for your goal to be distracted by me."
Estinien turned in the bath to look at Aymeric, his eyebrows knitted together.
"There is nowhere I would rather be than here. Do you not understand?"
Aymeric paused. Of course he understood, but-
"It is worth it, Aymeric… You are worth it."
Aymeric remained silent, as the words floated through him. It was strange to hear Estinien be so earnest, so deeply vulnerable with his feelings, that even Estinien himself looked to be struggling with it. But after a moment, he eased, turning back in the tub and resting his head against Aymeric's hands again.
"Go into my satchel," he murmured.
"Your satchel?"
"Aye."
Aymeric stood, reaching over into the pile of Estinien's clothes and belongings, pulling the satchel out. It was a weathered old thing; the standard issue Temple Knight bag, beaten and battered after a few years of duty. Aymeric opened it carefully, and found a paper cone-shaped object resting on the top.
He pulled it out gently. Inside was a bouquet of sorts, bushy green leaves wrapped around groups of white berries, and the whole thing was inelegantly tied together with a piece of red twine.
Aymeric looked up. "What is this?"
"'Tis mistletoe, I think. 'Twas all I could find on my journey here, with my arriving late and all. Happy nameday, Aymeric."
Aymeric felt his breathing quicken, as he stared into those stormy grey eyes he had spent moons thinking about. The thin cheekbones, the split fringe, the forever sneaky smile.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"'Tis nothing."
Aymeric looked back down towards the bouquet, feeling sheepish yet brave. "I suppose I should kiss you, then."
"I suppose you should," Estinien replied, his voice rough and low.
Aymeric shuffled along until he was nearly leaning over the bathtub, and with the bouquet still in one hand, he carefully reached down and pressed a gentle kiss on Estinien's awaiting lips.
The smell of soaps and warm skin swirled around Aymeric, the heartbeat-quickening feeling of desire rushing through him as he placed his other hand onto the curve of Estinien's jaw, pulling him closer and longing to let the kiss last forever.
But the angle was awkward so they broke apart, Estinien catching one last kiss on Aymeric's cheek while he could.
Aymeric smiled. "Let us endeavour to see each other on our namedays, from this day forward. No matter how hard it is. No matter how far away we are from each other. Would you consider it?"
"I am more than up for the challenge," Estinien replied.
Once Estinien had bathed enough, he dried himself off and ate his meal. They tucked themselves up in bed, and, despite comments of exhaustion and insomnia, Aymeric watched as Estinien fell asleep instantly. His eyes closed, his breathing gentle, he had never looked more beautiful.
And it was as Aymeric drifted off that he realised that, in comparison to all of his other namedays, his twenty-fourth nameday might have been the best one yet.