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Limsa Lominsa had grabbed his interest immediately on arrival, its verticality almost rivaling Ishgard's, but with structures of pale rock and dead coral standing in place of golden spires and grey brick towers.
As a port, it is also filled with the sorts of food Estinien never had the opportunity to try in Ishgard, and when he first arrives, Estinien wastes the better part of an afternoon eating his way through various food stalls, sampling miq'abobs made with spices from Ul'dah, and fillets of fried fish with breading so crispy that it sounded like bone crunching between his teeth. All the while, he keeps an ear out for any ships heading east, his interest piqued once he hears from a few Doman sailors that dragons are seen much differently in Doma and Hingashi.
By evening, he finds an inn with bathing accommodations and, while he rinses himself of the dirt and sweat from days of traveling—down from Coerthas, though Mor Dhona, and into Thanalan to find a ship to take him to Limsa, attuning to aetherytes as he avoids anyone who might inform the Warrior of Light of his route—Estinien resolves to seek a robust dinner and book passage to the East on a ship run by the Kraken's Arms before retiring for the night.
It takes a considerable amount of digging through his worn leather duffel to find a clean pair of trousers—likely, he would need to see to laundry before venturing onward—and it isn't until he is near the bottom of his bag in search of a shirt which could pass a smell test, that Estinien closes his hands around oddly soft fabric unlike anything he has ever owned.
Now, with the garment in his hands, Estinien can't help but stare at it with naked surprise for a few moments, not expecting such a sharp reminder of home so suddenly, when it is so far away.
The shirt is as blue as nearly everything else Aymeric wears, and Estinien cannot help but marvel again at how soft the linen is as it drapes elegantly in his hand. It isn't soft from make, but from wear, something he vaguely remembers Aymeric wearing on those rare occasions the Lord Commander had time to relax, the style being nothing Estinien has him in during formal occasions. The long, billowy sleeves are cinched at the wrist, the seam-line along the sides is slightly curved to accentuate the waist without clinging tightly, and the collar is wide enough that he remembers staring at Aymeric's clavicles while the other man had his attention elsewhere.
Handsome as it is, Estinien has to search his mind for how one of Aymeric's shirts got into his bag and the circumstances under which Aymeric would have lent it. Had he borrowed it one day and forgotten to give it back?
He shifts uneasily in places, running his thumb along a seam, wondering how intentional that forgetting might have been. Admittedly, he doesn't remember much about the specifics of what he packed when leaving Ishgard, aside from enough rations to see him to the next town. He had owned little to begin with, and been so anxious in his desire to leave the city that he had simply filled a bag and, after listening to Aymeric's speech and watching him take flight with one of Hraesvelgr's brood, immediately made for the Gates of Judgment.
Cautiously, Estinien lifts it to his face and takes a cursory sniff.
Even though the shirt has been at the bottom of his bag, it still smells a bit like Aymeric, like resin and cedarwood, with the slightest hint of minty sweetness from the pomade Estinien has seen him use to style his hair. There is the smell of leather from his bag and old sweat from his own clothes, but Estinien can still pick out the same scent that wafted off of Aymeric when he'd last been close enough to smell him; when, the morning of his departure, Aymeric had bent over his hospital bed while Estinien had feigned sleep, and pressed a tender kiss to his brow before leaving the room.
"It'll do," Estinien mutters to himself, and pulls it over his head. The fabric feels cool and sinfully soft against his still tender scars, and the scent of Aymeric follows Estinien out the door as he goes to seek his dinner.
Early evening is warm in Limsa, the stone having absorbed the heat from the day and not yet relinquished it to the chill of a coastal night. Compared to Ishgard, it's extremely pleasant, and Estinien is more than happy to take his meal at one of the restaurants boasting an outdoor seating area. The remains of his stipend from Ishgard is large enough that he decides to order a seafood tower that would likely feed two people, but he is voracious enough from his travels and his recovery that he has little issue polishing it off. It is all delicious, the oysters briny and tangy as they slip down his throat, the shrimp tender and complimented with a tangy red sauce, and Estinien only slows his pace when he reaches the crab legs at the bottom.
Likely, he would find the experience of cracking the shell more invigorating if he wasn't concerned about making a mess of his clothes. Not that the state of his clothing is something he typically cares much about, but...
This is Aymeric's shirt...
He's been doing his best not to think about his dearest friend—not his only, not anymore, but certainly his longest and most closely held. There are still frissons of guilt that work their way into his heart when he thinks about Aymeric, who he's left to pick up the pieces of Ishgard while Estinien has fled the place to find some use for himself, but though he's set himself to the task of becoming more worldly and knowledge, of having something more to offer on his return, that doesn't mean he doesn't miss Aymeric.
Estinien is used to being alone, but he isn't used to having no place to return to. Not anymore.
It smells as though heat of his own body has intensified Aymeric's scent over the evening, and when he inhales and sighs, Estinien can practically taste it. Though it seems to matter little to anyone else, it drives him to distraction. He tries to focus on the remainder of his meal, but at the end, when he laps the melted butter off his fingers, Estinien can almost hear Aymeric's soft laughter, hear him asking whether Estinien enjoyed his meal in that teasing tone he uses but rarely.
Estinien reaches out to his glass and takes a sip of his wine, some sort of sweet white that the waiter recommended and which has proven surprisingly tasty. He inhales the cloying, sharp scent of it, but though it dulls the smell of the sea, it seems his nose is determined to pick up the smell of his closest friend. He finds himself wondering what Aymeric would think of the meal, of the wine, of Estinien wearing his shirt, and heat spreads through his belly from drink and arousal both.
There must be something wrong with his sense of smell, some draconic affectation which lingers even now, though he has not seriously called upon his aether in days. Estinien cannot remember ever being so aware of Aymeric's scent, of fixating on it so readily, allowing it to permeate his thoughts. He sinks his teeth into his inner cheek for something to focus himself on that isn’t the way his cock is steadily swelling in his trousers, the normally exposed nub of it pushing further out of its hood.
Estinien reaches for the last of the crab legs with some determination. The shell snaps easily under his grip, and he pries it apart and scrapes out the meat with his teeth and tongue, mind only half occupied by the act. To say that he hadn't been interested in intimacy during his time in the Temple Knights would be an understatement, and when he became Azure Dragoon, reliance on Nidhogg’s aether dulled his connection to his own body further than it already was. Yet since his recovery, his libido has returned with an almost ironic vengeance, and it feels rather a lot like those years both leading up to and following his growth spurts, when he had hardly been able to keep his hands out of his trousers for about a week every moon.
He polishes off the rest of the wine far more quickly than it deserves, then calls for the bill and leaves more than his fair share of gil stacked atop the table, hoping the coin will distract from his flush and unsteady gait as he gingerly pulls himself out of the chair. With luck, the waitstaff will simply think he can't hold his liquor, which is true to some extent, but certainly not to the point where he can't handle two glasses of wine. Either way, Estinien doesn't stay long enough for them to express concern, striding to the edge of the balcony in the outdoor dining area and stepping over the railing to the shocked gasps of nearby pedestrians. He pivots in midair, wincing at how the sweat from the humid evening makes the leather of his trousers stick to his legs as his body twists, and he ignores several impressed murmurs and a low whistle as he sticks the landing and beats a quick retreat back to his room at the Wench.
Aymeric's scent dogs his every step as he follows the winding ramps and crests the low, long steps of a few staircases, shirt stuck to the furrow of his spine by sweat, cock pinned uncomfortably under his leather trousers and cotton smalls, folds swollen with arousal. There is some part of him that wonders whether this yearning for a specific someone is not also draconic in nature, something he can attribute to Nidhogg's influence now that the vengeance has burned itself out of them. Tioman was Nidhogg's consort—Before you killed her, he reminds himself—and perhaps there is something in him now searching to fill that void.
An embarrassing yearning for his closest friend is preferable to wanting to scour Ishgard off the map, less worrying and more terminally embarrassing.
Estinien doesn't bother with the main entrance to the Wench, simply scouts out his balcony from outside the building and carries himself up to the unlocked glass doors with a single, powerful jump. The landing is shakier than he would like, but he doesn't dwell on it as he pulls the doors open and shuts them quickly behind him, yanking the curtains closed with one hand as the other goes to the laces of his trousers.
Estinien barely gets them more than halfway down his thighs before realizing he has yet to take off his boots, but he can't be bothered to stop when he only got his smalls left, so he waddles to the bed and drops backward onto the mattress, staring down the length of his body as he shoves down the hem of his underwear, hands brushing against a fluffy bush of silver hair.
One of the few positives from his time in the dragoons had been how easy it had been to convince the Knights Hospitalier, those assigned to treat the particular maladies of dragoons and deal with the challenges that draconic aether posed to the healing process, exactly what he had wanted by virtue of being the Azure Dragoon. He was hardly going to put himself out of commission long enough for any surgeries, but various potions and magical procedures could accomplish some of what he wanted.
Even so, he hadn't expected the changes his possession would result in on top of those he had chosen for himself, and those that had been a side effect that all dragoons had to deal with, do some degree.
His back has muscles that he is not entirely familiar with, and the reach for limbs he no longer has in battle. His chest is a lot less forgiving than it once was, firm where it had been plush. His body grows far more scales during combat than it did even when he called upon the Eye, and the skin they leave behind when they slough off is rough and leathery. His nails are thicker now, growing in black and claw-like, which means he's much more careful when he rings his thumb and forefinger around his engorged cock, which is, at the very least, not particularly new. It's merely longer and thicker than it had grown when he first began utilizing draconic aether and, eventually, Nidhogg's as well.
Estinien thumbs at the tip of his twitching member, little effort needed to coax it further out of the hood. It slides out somewhat tacky, the slender taper widening toward the base until his hood is stretched around the base and the entire ruddy length of it has revealed itself.
His cock isn't a particularly large specimen, just about the length of his longest finger and about as thick as two of them crossed, but it feels far more sensitive than it used. Not that he'd had many urges to satisfy once he'd begun using the Eye.
Gods, he thinks, at least it's always tucked away, for a mercy.
Estinien strokes himself slowly, trying to let the slick build up around his hole so he can spread it upward, but his body is unfamiliar with such wants after such a long time abstaining, and eventually he groans and opens his eyes to scan around the room for his baggage. He finds the leather pack off to one side of the bed where he left it, and rolls onto his knees so he can drape himself over the other edge to fish around in his pack. His trousers and smalls are stuck tight around his thighs, and he feels ridiculous, rummaging around with his ass in the air as he searches for the small bottle of mineral oil he keeps around to help deal with his skin after the scales shed.
Furyssake, where is it...
The shifting of his body wafts more of Aymeric's scent under his nose, and Estinien almost fumbles the bottle when a sharp jolt of arousal sparks through him, making his cock throb and his holes clench around nothing. He yanks the cork out with his teeth and spits it back into the bag, to be found another time, and spills a fair share of oil onto the sheets in the process of slicking his hand. He barely manages to set the bottle on the nightstand before he finally cups his slick palm over his cunt and cock both, then grinding himself against the oiled calluses.
Estinien shifts himself enough so he's no longer in danger of falling off the bed, but stays on his knees and pushes himself up on one elbow just long enough to yank up the hem of Aymeric's shirt, pressing his nose to the and inhaling greedily. He falls forward onto his chest, cheek mashed into the mattress, openly panting into the cloth as he circles the base of his cock with his thumb and forefinger and wrings upward, each inhale sending pangs of longing through him. The glide is exactly what he needed, and while he had once been quick and perfunctory in his youth, there is something about Aymeric's scent that makes Estinien linger in the haze of his own pleasure.
He doesn't know how he can still pick up Aymeric's scent after all this time, swirls of cedar and resin, of sweet mint and pine, even though Estinien is the one who's spent the last few hours wearing his shirt. The scent of his own sweat, which dampens the shirt along his armpits and back, mingles with Aymeric's smell, becomes part of it, in some nebulous way. Estinien's imagination casts him back to those times in the Temple Knights where they slept pressed up against each other after a hard day's ride, to those times where he would wake up with his face pressed against Aymeric's broad back, arms held fast around his comrade's waist, their legs tangled together.
Tis just for warmth, he had told himself then, even as he had nosed against the back of Aymeric's neck, raising up just enough that Estinien could catch the slightest hint of his sweet, sleepy smile.
Estinien whines softly to himself, cringes at how pathetic he sounds, even as he tightens the circle of his fingers around the base of his cock, his body finally catching up and providing its own slick. He does away with the teasing in favor of slow, firm strokes of himself from base to tip and back down, cock ringed by his thumb and index finger. His other fingertips brush against his folds and his hole clenches around nothing. The back of the shirt drags against his skin, azure blue linen slipping forward on his back to start bunching up under his ribs.
Estinien shivers to think of how Aymeric's hands might feel holding his waist, hands calloused by bow and sword, yet so elegant in their every motion. He can almost pretend the hair tickling the back of his neck is from Aymeric leaning over him, raven dark curls brushing against his skin as he presses warm kisses to the back of Estinien's neck. A bead of sweat rolling down the side of his neck becomes a tongue tasting his skin.
Estinien growls and shifts his grip so that every roll of his hips grinds his cock against the heel of his palm. His fingers reach down past his slick, flushed folds, and Estinien presses them forward and into the clench of his hole, curling them slowly in a half-remembered motion, his body aching for release. Of all the things that could have sparked such a fervor in him, it is Aymeric that his mind fixates on when he shuts his eyes now, offering up the image after image of his closest friend in all manner of debauched positions.
Aymeric surrounded by a sea of deep blue sheets, his legs spread to display the flushed folds framed by coarse black curls, and welcoming Estinien to settle between his thighs.
Aymeric on his knees in the sitting area of the study at Borel Manor, mouth opened and tongue out so Estinien can rut his cock against that silver tongue.
Aymeric looming behind him in this inn room, hands gripping tight at his waist—Estinien rolls over onto his back and moans—pushing Estinien's legs apart and pressing their cocks and cunts together, looking down at Estinien with a flushed face and a fond sparkle in his eyes.
"Aymeric," he moans, tossing his head and pressing a cheek into the pillow as his hips push off the mattress and against his hand. His hair sticks to his face and his forehead, moans and cries half muffled by Aymeric's shirt. "Aymeric, Aymeric, please..."
He's so, so close, and it almost aches to open his eyes to remember he is alone, linen gripped tight in his teeth while ruts into his hand and pumps his fingers faster inside himself. Estinien inhales again, mouth open against the shirt, tongue slipping out as though he can consume that lingering scent and keep it inside him. His cock pulses against the meat of his palm as he clenches down on his own fingers, feeling himself start to tense as he spasms around them.
His finish isn't nearly as abrupt as the others he's coaxed out of himself on prior occasions, quick spikes of pleasure followed by an immediate plateau. This time, Estinien draws it out, pulling his fingers away so he can stroke himself through his orgasm. His thighs tremble and his toes curl, yet he keeps rolling his hips, keeps pushing himself as he always does, and it hardly matters when he hits that knife's edge between so good and too much. Even as he shivers with oversensitivity, eyes shut so tight he can see stars behind them, Estinien doesn't stop, moving his fingers up to stroke at his cock until he finally releases a deluge of thin, watery slick, and all his cock (and he) can offer is trembles and twitches.
Estinien lets his body drop to the bed, cock softening and slipping back away inside his hood until only the tip is exposed. He brushes against the tip with still slick fingers and his hips jerk away on instinct. He doesn't have it in him to be disgusted by the feeling of having collapsed into his own release, his body overly warm and damp with sweat as he shudders through the last dregs of pleasure washing over him in waves.
It's followed quickly by a queer mix of resignation and chagrin, Estinien laughing bitterly as he flops onto his back and wipes his hand off on a dry patch of the sheets. He pulls the linen away from his face with his clean hand and makes the titanic effort to peel Aymeric's shirt the rest of the way off his body, then flops back onto the bed with his pants still tight around the middle of his thighs, legs hanging off the end of the bed.
Fury's tits, he thinks. Didn't even get my boots off. And he's too well-sated to try now.
Basking in the afterglow, slick cooling on his thighs and becoming tacky in the thatch of silver pubic hair Estinien cannot hold back the tide of realization and isn't sure if he wants to.
He denied himself much in pursuit of Nidhogg's death, in pursuit of an end to their thousand year war, and it's almost a relief to know he can yearn for more than battle and death. He clutches the shirt to his bare chest, then lets it slip from his fingers so he can put his clean hand over his face and groan into his palm.
How long has he yearned for Aymeric in this way and not realized it? He has always considered Aymeric his dearest friend—and for much of his life, his only friend—and while Estinien would never consider himself particularly well-versed in the subtle intricacies of romance and sex, he's fairly sure that bringing himself off using Aymeric's shirt means that what he feels for the man is well past the usual bounds of friendship.
Yet until he is sure that the influence of Nidhogg's memories will not trouble him when he sees Ishgard's spires again, it would be folly to return. To say nothing of unwelcome his return might even be, how continued association with him might impact Aymeric's reputation. Perhaps it's for the best that something is drawing him away from the place, no matter how much he apparently longs for its leader.
Of course, Estinien thinks, bitter and almost vicious as he drags his hand down his face. Of bloody course.
He sleeps with the shirt on his pillow that night, and makes for the docks in the morning with it tucked safely at the bottom of his bag.