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Even after the revelations brought about during the final days of the Dragonsong War, the nobility of Ishgard remain known for the luxuries they surround themselves with; lavish parties and changing fashions meant to distract from the cost of their war. Though the fighting had only ebbed and flowed on the stirrings of Nidhogg and his brood, there had still been those who insisted on galas and an ever-changing wardrobe to keep up with whatever latest fashions had been imposed by other nobles. They had taken comfort from rich foods, even as those foods grew less rich and varied with the scarcities that followed the Seventh Umbral Calamity. Even then, with Coerthas locked in ice, balls had still been held and fashions had still changed, though most simply re-tailored old clothing for the new climate.
While House de Borel is a minor noble house, it is still noble, and so is its only heir.
Aymeric has his creature comforts; the master suite in his manor is always warm, even though he returns late more often than not, and more than once it has been pointed out to him that his idea of breakfast is almost indistinguishable from his idea of dessert. However, he lacks any interest in the more ostentatious displays of nobility, feeling more at home with the sorts of dress and hearty foods the men under his command preferred after having been a Temple Knight so long. Doubly so, considering how tone-deaf such displays might look to the far more numerous commonborn, given his position as Lord Commander and Lord Speaker both.
He dresses exactly as fashionably as he needs to in order to be taken seriously, attends the handful of parties and more humble gatherings that require his presence, but has little interest in hosting his own if he has naught to gain from it. He engages with frivolity only as much as he needs to in order to keep the gossip at a minimum, that he might be allowed to focus on the work of rehabilitating Ishgard. That said work keeps him so often in uniform that he need not care about the state of his wardrobe, and it remains a perfect excuse to turn down some invitations to balls he would rather not attend, is a pleasant side-effect.
There is a soiree taking place tonight at the house of one of his "fellow" minor nobles, and Lord de Braumair has made it more than clear how he feels about the new direction of Ishgard. One of the few benefits of the power he wields is that Aymeric can now afford to simply not attend, to send some trusted knights in his place to report back anything suspicious that might be said, while he remains in his study at Borel Manor, free from having to engage in political backbiting.
"It makes me wonder how many patrols you scheduled simply to avoid attending such things" he murmurs under his breath, casting a glance at the blood red drachen mail helm on his desk.
Estinien's voice doesn't answer him, which is unsurprising. The erstwhile Azure Dragoon has been gone for nearly a full twelvemoon, and Aymeric has little idea where he is now. While the rest of his armor had been peeled away from his body by the Knights Hospitaliers once Aymeric had delivered him to their care, the helm had been pulled off intact, and Estinien had left it behind when he took his leave from Ishgard, a move Aymeric could not see as anything other than deeply intentional. The shedding of a skin, as it were. Estinien was not a man inclined to frivolity, though given the reports he has been regaled with of Estinien's behaviour in the Far East—by a surprisingly alive Heustienne de Vimaroix, no less—he has at least grown inclined to some levity.
Aymeric had kept the helm in his office at the Congregation at first, even as the rest of the tainted drachen mail had been given over to the Manufactory to be melted into slag and disposed of, and he had gotten into the habit of talking to it, bouncing ideas off the version of Estinien who responded.
And the ideas did tend to bounce off, as even Aymeric's imagination couldn't possibly conceptualize a version of Estinien who was inclined to take a moderate stance when it came to dealing with the more recalcitrant—I would name them blind stupid and swiving stubborn, but if you wish to be considerate about it, feel free.—elements of the Orthodox Church.
The helm had migrated from his desk at the Congregation to his personal study on the second storey of Borel Manor after Handeloup had caught him talking to it one day in at his desk. Aymeric had been attempting to sort out the motives behind an invitation to tea by the Count de Dzemael by way of a whispered conversation with the facsimile of Estinien, who had mostly pointed out the likelihood that he would likely be mildly poisoned emotionally, if not physically. The ensuing gentle inquiries into how he was handling the stress he was under ensured that Aymeric took the helm back to the manor to prevent further inquiries, but only after reassuring Handeloup and Lucia both that it was not a case of him cracking under the pressure of his offices.
As though he could afford the luxury of a collapse from mental exhaustion with his busy schedule.
It is only that that he misses Estinien, that Aymeric finds it comforting to imagine his candor and tenderness in equal measure. And he has questions for his dear friend, about his reasons for leaving and about how he has been finding his travels, about the places he has been and the sights he has seen. He may as well practice how to ask, so that he might not make a fool of himself when Estinien returns.
Now, the helm sits close to a flickering lamp with a false flame—real candles being largely prohibited in any room of the manor that plays host to a surplus of flammable items—keeping watch over the Lord Speaker's stack of reviewed paperwork; a proposal on the appropriation of Church lands by the State for the purpose of paying off war debts in lieu of coin, which sits beneath proposal that such lands might be auctioned off to the people of Ishgard, which sits beneath a rebuttal on the proposal as a naked attempt of the nobility to further enrich themselves, which itself sits beneath a revision of the second proposal placing limits on who might purchase the properties.
Aymeric sighs and thinks wistfully on the naivety of himself from a year ago, thinking he might be able to retire and leave the business of running Ishgard to someone else.
At this rate, I would be lucky to retire before I reached my fiftieth nameday, he thinks, picking up another proposal. It turns out to be a refutation of the revision of the second proposal which hangs doubts on the format of an auction at all.
Make that sixtieth. Dutifully, he places it atop the stack of related documents.
The lamp continues to flicker as the aether within desperately tries to sustain itself when Aymeric has failed to channel anymore into it in the last two bells, his reserves running slim as the hour grows late. The helm throws a shadow along the wall that some might find ominous, but it only makes Aymeric achingly fond. He leans back into the worn black leather of his chair, hand finding his neck as fingertips press into sore muscles. He stares out at his shadowed study and briefly imagines Estinien leaning against a bookcase, carefully positioned in such a way that the spikes that jut out of the shoulderblades of his drachen mail settle next to one of the bookends. Aymeric smiles broadly as he remembers the one late night where Estinien had made to lean and fix him with a cool glare, displeased at his still being awake in spite of the hour, and sent one of the shoulder spikes clean through the spine of a book.
Yet the study in front of him is empty now, save for himself, a cold cup of tea, and the handsome birch furniture his Lady mother chose for the room, which Aymeric hasn't the heart nor the desire to replace. Its shelves bear the weight of no dragoon, though one does bear the weight of a repaired copy of The Gods in their Niches: A Treatise on Circumstantial Worship, which had been left on his desk two weeks after the incident.
"Wherever you have found yourself, my friend, I hope you are taking your ease more readily." He chuckles softly as the memory fades, exhaustion melting away the formal mask that is otherwise firmly plastered on his face these days. Aymeric looks back at the helm fondly, elbow propped on desktop and chin cradled in his palm. He considers the lateness of the evening and imagines Estinien giving him one of those flinty glare he is so known for.
Losing sleep over paperwork even now, Aymeric?
"Well, in all fairness, there's much more that needs my overview," he replies, hand moving to cover his mouth as he yawns. The grandfather clock near the door chimes the second bell, and he glances sheepishly at the helm like he once did at its former wearer. "But I suppose some rest is in order."
He cuts the flow of aether to the desk lamp and retrieves a household lantern, then picks the helm up from the desk and cradles it against his waist as he makes his way toward his bedroom. As he does, Aymeric passes the usual line of House Borel portraits, the size and number of occupants shrinking with successive frame, until he passes the final frame with himself and his parents; their eyes hazel are where his are bright blue, their grey hair shot through with dark brown streaks that the painter lent a warm shine, in contrast to the young Aymeric's coolly highlighted raven locks.
He is past the anguish of the secret of his birth in some respects, but still occasionally feels foolish for having pursued the truth as long as he had, as though any good could come of learning whether or not his birth father was an oath-breaking bishop. The importance of bloodlines had been drilled into him by his peers as much as his archery and his swordsmanship had been drilled into him by his superiors. There are still moments, though they are rarer now, where he stares down the squabbling lords of the noble houses and wonders if it might have been easier to simply usurp the Archbishop's seat, as many had claimed was his goal to begin with, and force them to change for the better.
Like pulling an ornery karakul out of the fence it's stuck its horns in, intones the Estinien-who-is-not-here, drier than Aymeric's favorite white wine.
"Yet it would be rather unfair, after all," he muses, "to put so much value in mine own blood, given what we learned during the war, hm?" He lifts the helm to stare into the visor, and can imagine Estinien rolling his eyes and grousing about how he shouldn't have put all that work into justifying his existence in the first place.
Aymeric sighs softly as he pushes open the door to his room, crossing to the bed for long enough to hang the helm on a peg of his footboard and drop the lantern on the end table. He pulls his regalia off piece by piece, armor first and then chain and leather following soon after, then hangs it on an armor stand, fingers working through the buckles and clasps from memory. He cannot recall the last time he opened his wardrobe to wear anything remotely casual. Usually, he goes from one office to the other, and there is little time or need to change his clothes. It is not as though the Lords are likely to forget he is their Commander as well as their Speaker, and there are some among them who even require the constant reminder.
He shucks himself of the innermost layers of his armor, the padded cloth and light linens, hanging what needs to be hung and throwing the rest in a hamper to be laundered. His smallclothes are the last to go, and Aymeric exhales with a mixture relief and wistfulness as he unlaces the garment binding his chest down and pulls it off, massaging the sore flesh.
I really ought to make time for that procedure, he thinks, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. He could hardly afford to be laid up for a surgery during the war, and he has somehow found himself even more busy after it.
At least he is spared a cold room, the hearth likely blazing courtesy of Faubault, the only member of his household staff that tends to stay so late. He's grateful for the warm room, though guilty for how he inconveniences the man with his late hours, and all he can do for a time is bask in the heat, pressing his chest as flat as he can and imagining what it might feel like for the weight to be gone.
More than anything, Aymeric would relish a bath, but he's exhausted enough from bringing his work home with him that he doesn't want to risk falling asleep. Instead, he simply has a hot shower—a luxury he refuses to feel ashamed of after years of bathing in frigid streams as a young Temple Knight—and lathers his body with soap that smells of resin and cedarwood, for the calming familiarity of the scent more than for cleanliness. He emerges from his bathroom scrubbed pink and drowsy, and in his daze, the helmet he's hung on the footboard seems like it could have been left there by its former owner, who might even be lurking somewhere in the room.
The thought of it makes him flush, sets a fluttering sensation in his belly matched by a tight, tingling feeling that spreads across his chest. He raises a hand and slides it up his body, finds a nipple peaked firm and idly circles it with the pad of his finger. The thought of Estinien watching him, head tilted back in that way he used when he wanted other to know he was looking at them, sends a warm shiver through Aymeric. He clenches around nothing, sets his palm flat against his mound, fingertips mere ilms from the head of his clit, which is already thick and jutting out from his folds.
Aymeric shakes himself out of it, nails scratching at his skin as he curls his hand into a fist and masters himself with a long, slow inhale. Then he clicks his tongue at the ridiculousness of the idea. It isn't as though Estinien had ever expressed any interest in him, in spite of all of Aymeric's subtle attempts to court him with gifts and meals.
He hadn't expressed interest in anyone, Aymeric reassures himself.
As though there is still some opportunity that might change, that Estinien might regard him with the same affections Aymeric has long held for him. Especially given that Estinien has fled the city and not sent him more two scraps of hastily written correspondence since, their contents largely consisting of the words 'I'm alive' and 'Doing well'. Hardly reassuring, given how familiar Aymeric is with how Estinien's idea of doing well often stops just short of fatal.
But perhaps he's changed.
Aymeric muses on that and hopes he is right as he pulls on the long, ramie nightgown that he hasn't worn since the last time he slept in his own bed. Likely at the start of the sennight. If anyone deserves to be safe, to indulge in all life has to offer after so long without, it is Estinien.
The moon is full, bathing Aymeric's chambers in pale light as he stares up at Estinien, who is leaning against one of the massive posts at the foot of his bed, fully clad in new drachen mail. Even with his visor down, Aymeric can feel the weight of Estinien's stare, and he feels vulnerable in a way he's never quite felt before.
"Let me see you," Estinien says, his voice a sultry rumble. Estinien bends toward him, armor-clad fingers hooking into the end of Aymeric's blankets and slowly drawing them away in a manner that might be considered teasing. It dawns on Aymeric, as more of him is exposed to the warm air of his bedchambers, that he isn't wearing anything at all under the sheets, his nightgown apparently discarded at some point in the night.
Aymeric shudders, face heating and flush crawling across his cheeks, down his neck and up his ears. His nipples tighten under the unbroken weight of Estinien's steadfast gaze, and he bites the inside of his cheek to muffle a soft moan.
Look at me, he thinks. Look at nothing but me.
He ought to feel embarrassed, though it isn't as if they haven't seen each other in the all-together before, having played look out for each other when bathing during their time together in the Temple Knights. He ought to scold Estinien, remind him of the late hour, and ask where he's been all these months. Yet there is something to be said for how alluring it is that Estinien is fully clad in armor, and Aymeric is not. A heat settles low in Aymeric's belly, and lower still, where he can feel his folds and cock swell, can feel his body begin to heat and the surface of his skin grow humid. He can't help but let himself be slowly unveiled, watching as Estinien's lips curl up into a satisfied smirk.
Finally, Aymeric comes to his senses enough to at least try to close his thighs and turn onto his side, but he's stopped by a hand that grasps his ankle. By all rights, the gauntlet should be freezing, but Estinien's grip is warm and he makes no move to force Aymeric's legs apart. Instead, his other hand moves to the side of his helm, flicking a catch there that allows him to raise his visor just enough for Aymeric to see the gleam of his slate-grey eyes.
"You would hide yourself from me now?" he murmurs and, hopeless to resist, Aymeric sighs and shakes his head, resigned to his own desires.
He parts his legs, and Estinien makes an approving sort of hum at the sight of damp, dark curls and Aymeric's clit, thick and shiny with his own slick. Aymeric knows his satisfaction by the sliver of a sharp canine he catches in a half-second smile, and by the way Estinien's hand strokes up his leg as he walks along the side of the bed.
The armor-clad hand stops at the middle of his thigh, fingers spreading so that Estinien can firmly grasp as much of the muscle as his hand can span. Aymeric can't help but stare at it, his hole clenching around nothing when he feels Estinien squeeze, watching his fingers dimple what fat he has there. All Estinien would need to do is move his hand a little further up, a little further in, and then...
"Aymeric," Estinien calls, and he is forced to look up, eyes drawn to the gleaming points of light under Estinien's helm. "Touch yourself for me."
He wakes with a jolt, though not enough of one to shake the lethargy entirely from his body. The his nightgown is stuck to his body just slightly, in all the places where his skin has gone tacky with sweat. Almost instinctively, Aymeric closes his thighs tightly, which only serves to make him more aware of how swollen his folds are, how sensitive his cock is, and how damp his smalls are. Shivering, he settles his hand on his upper thigh and squeezes through the fabric of his nightgown, fingers skirting so close to where he wants them.
The words from his dream shove their way to the front of his mind—Touch yourself for me.—and Aymeric inhales sharply, eyelids fluttering open to the hazy moonlit interior of his bedchamber.
There is no Estinien to greet him, but his eyes are drawn to the helm, which remains balanced on the bedpost where he left it. Moonlight glides along curves stained crimson, what few gold embellishments remain glint almost teasingly in the darkness.
Touch yourself for me.
He wants to. Merciful Fury, but he aches to. It would hardly be the first time Aymeric has touched himself to thoughts of Estinien, but he had promised himself years ago that he was done with such things, that he admired and respected his dear friend far too much to reduce him to a fantasy with which to slake his lust. It certainly made it much easier to look Estinien in the eye, as they grew closer.
"Dammit," Aymeric hisses, and the only answer he receives is the crackle of the slowly dying fire.
The room is still warm, and he feels flushed and overheated, so Aymeric has little issue with shoving the sheets down to his knees, then lifting his hips so he can yank his nightgown up to his waist. Even with what little light remains in the room, he can see how damp his smalls are, and he reaches down to round the nub of his clit through the damp fabric, moaning softly at the slight friction against such a sensitive place as he strokes his fingers down along his folds and back up to his cock.
Touch yourself for me.
Aymeric grits his teeth and exhales harshly, lifting his hips just enough to shove his smalls down to the tops of his thighs. If he can just get this over with as quickly as possible, he'll be able to return to sleep, wake up passably rested, and bury himself in enough paperwork to forget his lapse in judgment.
He's rude with himself, impatient, pressing firmly down on his cock with two fingers, the pleasure sudden and intense in its rarity. He runs his fingers along his folds, skirting his entrance and gathering his own wetness, bringing it back up to slick his cock. He spreads them just enough to catch the nub of it between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers and squeeze.
Even as his hips jerk instinctively into his own touch, Aymeric's eyes return ceaselessly to the helm, and it is embarrassingly easy to allow his mind to run wild with what he could do here, where there is no one to watch or judge. It would be a simple thing, to push himself up and pull the helmet down, to press it against his folds and slide his cock back and forth along the crests and furrows, to wet the metal with his slick. Just the thought sends a spike of heat into his belly, makes him clench around nothing, his knuckles slipping against his cock, fingertips petting at his wet folds.
No one to watch. No one to judge. No one to know except for him.
Touch yourself for me.
Aymeric swears under his breath and yanks himself up from the mattress, shoving down his doubts as he crawls down the bed and reaches up to lift Estinien's helm from the bedpost. He holds it in front of him for a moment, hesitation roiling at the pit of his stomach.
Surely this is some manner of profane, he thinks, sitting back on his heels. Still, the helm has been cleaned and cleansed for months, stained crimson only due to contact with Nidhogg's blood and aether.
Aymeric traces the grooves in the helm and swallows hard when he realizes that he is touching it with his slick fingers, a breathy grunt escaping him as he smears his slick over the metal. He reaches back blindly until his fingers find a small throw pillow to shove between his now spread knees, balancing the helm on top of it and keeping it in place with a tight grip on the remaining unbroken horn. There's a fire in his blood as Aymeric gathers up the hem of his nightgown, unsticking it from the sweat damp parts of his body, and clenches the folds of fabric between his teeth to keep it out of the way, then wiggles out of his underwear and leaves it pooled around one of his ankles. Somewhat blindly, he maneuvers the helm into the right angle and finally presses down against it.
The sensation that comes with pressing his cunt against cool metal makes him hiss, his folds sensitive and slick, flushed with hot blood. Still, Aymeric is not willing to back away now that he has come this far. He holds the helm still, cradles it between his thighs and keeps himself pressed against it, letting his body warm the metal as he starts with slow, stuttering rolls of his hips. He's still so wet from his dream, from trying to satisfy himself earlier, and it's little time at all before the metal is so slick that he has no trouble at all rutting his clit into the grooves of the visor.
There is still room enough in his mind for him to feel embarrassed about how loud it seems, given the lateness of the hour. Aymeric pants softly into the air, tries to bite off his moans before they grow too loud for his tastes. His intention to remain silent only makes the sound his wet, slippery folds rutting against the helm sound all the louder in a room that is otherwise silent, but for his own noises and the crackling of the fire.
Still, it is a poor substitute for what he truly desires; Estinien, settled between his thighs, mouth pressed to his cunt, tongue spearing into him. He wants to thread his fingers into silky white hair to keep the pleasure close, to hear Estinien chuckle softly as he noses at Aymeric's clit just to tease. He wants to feel Estinien's teeth sink into the soft flesh of his inner thigh, to have the hurt soothed with sticky kisses. He wants Estinien to throw a leg over his hip so he can better press them together, cocks and folds rubbing up against each other, the wet and filthy sounds mingling with their panting breaths.
"Dammit," Aymeric pants, bearing down harder and gripping the horn more firmly. The room is too warm. He is too warm, and so slick there's no friction as he grinds himself toward completion against slick metal, yanking the horn from side to side in little jerky motions so that the crest between two grooves flicks at the tip of his cock. He wants to finish. He wants this finished. He wants--
"Estinien," he gasps, and his peak hits suddenly and sharply at just the thought of the man hearing it. The waves of pleasure drive Aymeric forward, even as he slows the roll of his hips and relishes in the waves of pleasure that wash over him, his hole clenching and oozing more slick down the front of Estinien's visor. The intricate metalwork on the sides of the helm dig into the meat of Aymeric's inner thighs as he clamps them down around the helm, pulling at the horn and trying to eek out a second finish while he's still oversensitive.
There you are, murmurs Estinien's voice in his mind, sounding as sated as Aymeric feels, and for a moment, Aymeric lets himself bask in the relief of lust well-sated.
By the time he pulls himself around from the haze of his finish, his thighs are slick and damp and the curls of his pubic hair are sticky with his own release. His knees are sore and his calves are tingling, and when he spreads his legs again, Aymeric can't help the punched-out gasp at the stinging red imprints that Estinien's helm has left on the pale skin of his inner thighs. When he lifts himself from the helm, threads of cum stretch between his reddened folds and the crimson metal, only snapping when he pulls the it back up to eye level.
Holding it by the horn, Aymeric can see it is a complete mess, shiny with his release, which has gathered thickly in the grooves. He brings his other hand up to smear his fingers along the slippery metal and, still dazed with the strength of his release, flicks the tip of his tongue shyly along a single golden curve. The oily-salt taste of his own sweat mingles with the mild tang of his own fluids. Underneath, there is the taste of iron.
Briefly, and more than a little bitter-sweetly, Aymeric imagines what Estinien's face might look like were it as messy and slick as the helm he holds.
But only briefly.
Guilt settles in soon enough, a well-worn thing which exhausts him as much as his finish and the late hour. Aymeric flops back onto his back and straightens his legs out from under himself, helm cradled against his stomach. He throws his head back into the pillows with an explosive sigh.
And I'd been doing so well all this time...
He can't bring himself to roll out of bed and clean himself properly, already feeling lethargic now that he has lain back against the mattress. He lifts his leg enough that he can pull off the smalls still hanging around his ankle, using them to wipe himself clean and hissing at the feel of fabric against still sensitive skin. The smalls are folded before the helm gets the same treatment, though Aymeric knows he will not be satisfied (or any less guilty) until he's cleaned and polished it properly. That done, he drops them off the side of his bed to deal with in the morning, setting the helm on his side table and smoothing his nightgown back into place with a few lazy sweeps of his palms.
As Aymeric pulls the sheets back up around his shoulders, he rolls onto his side before shutting his eyes, resolutely refusing to let his eyes be drawn back to the gleaming helm.
In the morning, before he has put on his regalia for the day, Aymeric takes the helm from his nightstand and, using the same supplies he maintains his own armor with, cleans and polishes the crimson helm until it is gleaming.
Then, he takes it to his closet and shoves it onto one of the higher shelves at the back, next to several boxes of warm-weather clothing that haven't seen use in years. Hopefully, out of sight like this, it will tempt his yearning heart no further.