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It was Ser Handeloup who finally insisted on the Lord Speaker taking a vacation, backed unsurprisingly by the young Count Fortemps, who more and more grew into his role as Steward of a Great House and de facto Vice Speaker of his beloved nation. It happened after the eighth, or was it tenth, time the diligent knight found the Lord Speaker asleep at his desk when he brought his daily reports in the pre-dawn hours, a pot of cold tea and uneaten biscuits beside his sleep tousled head.
The Lord Speaker was deeply apologetic when Ser Handeloup gently nudged him to conciousness, his fair skin pink with an embarassed blush. Ser Handeloup simply shook his head with a fond smile and true concern in his eyes. He immediately wrote a missive to Lucia in Garlemald, requesting advice on what to do. She promptly wrote back with baldly stated advice.
Kick him out of his office for at least a sennight. Do not accept no for an answer. Do not let him stay in Ishgard.
The very thought of ordering the Lord Speaker to do anything was not a pleasant one for the ever dutiful and proper Ser Handeloup. That may have worked for Ser Lucia, who had such a long and deeply close working relationship with the man, but he had neither the rapport nor the authority to do so. In desperation he turned to the young Count Artoirel de Fortemps for advice on how to accomplish Lucia’s directive.
This appeared to be the correct choice as the Count was able to put his connections to work. Namely by linkpearling a certain storied heroine for her assistance. She had once told the Count to not hesitate to contact her if he ever needed any help, especially as related to the Lord Speaker and his tendency to overwork.
“We worked too hard tearing down the old regime. The last thing we need is more uncertainty because something happens to him,” she’d confided to Artoirel the last time she’d visited. To be fair, at the time the Lord Speaker had been confronted with schisms in the church and the crushing guilt of destroying the ministry’s mission and very way of life Ishgardians had been pursuing for a thousand years. No one could blame him for a few self-critical thoughts. Artoirel could sympathize with her concerns on that matter. When he explained the situation to her, he could practically hear her gremlin grin over the connection.
“I know just the thing!”
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Aymeric contemplated the collection of glass and ceramic jars set out on his dressing table and fretted. Perhaps fretted was an unfair description, but his lip was red from worrying at it with his teeth as he contemplated which products to bring on his upcoming trip. With a decisive note he set aside the various pigments and powders. There would be no need to conceal the bruises beneath his eyes or the paleness of his cheeks where he was going. No one there was going to judge his fitness to lead by his appearance. In fact, he had high hopes that not a soul but a select few would even know who he was, so — yes, the cosmetics would remain.
He did pack the lotions and tinctures and creams. There was no reason to cease taking care of his skin. In fact one might argue it was more important than ever given the environment. He packed a relatively minimal number of vials and jars, carefully nestled in padded sections of his trunk where they would be protected from shifting and breakage. Most prominent among them was a large jar that had been a gift from the warrior of light herself, specifically for this journey.
The rest of the trunk was filled with a pile of new outfits that he would never have the opportunity to wear in frozen Coerthas. The more he packed, the more excited he became for the trip. Why hadn’t he ever thought to do this before? Instead it had been a letter from his dear friend, and a shorter, more demanding missive from Estinien, requesting he meet them in Costa del Sol for a week of entertainment and company.
That Estinien was coming back to Eorzea even briefly was exciting enough, but that he thought to warn Aymeric — nay, to even invite him to spend the week together — was nigh on miraculous. So rarely did they have a chance to see each other with the dragoon working with the scions now. Nay, Aymeric would not dwell on that. He was happy enough to see his love on the rare occasion of his visits home. He wouldn’t tie the man down for all the world, not after all he had suffered. Let him travel if that was what he needed. They had time to be together once their work was done.
Even so, he couldn’t help the hope that bloomed in his heart when he received that invitation. It was a new step in the right direction, a trip together just the two of them. A far sight better from those bitter months where Estinien avoided him altogether for fear of being cornered and interrogated. Aymeric smiled softly and closed the trunk — by this time tomorrow he would be with his love for a whole blissful week. He couldn’t wait.
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“Halone’s Tits, what are you wearing?” Estinien barked, brows high, as Aymeric stepped off the airship. Aymeric looked down at his outfit, light slacks and a button down linen shirt with a pattern of bright blue flowers (and tastefully hidden chocobos) all over it.
“Is it not appropriate? I have been assured it is common garb for the clime,” he looked Estinien over and quirked a brow at the heavily worn traveling doublet and heavy boots. It seemed an odd choice.
“It’s just less authoritative than your armor would have been,” Estinien commented with a shrug.
“I shudder to imagine how I would bake in all that metal and robing,” Aymeric chuckled. Estinien snorted in acknowledgement. “Besides, I don’t think I will be needing a great deal of authority as it stands.”
“Mayhap,” Estinien did not seem to agree.
“Help me with the luggage,” Aymeric said kindly, risking a gentle touch to Estinien’s hand, something rarely done where they might be observed back in Ishgard. Truthfully he looked forward to this week for that alone, the chance to show his affection in public without worrying how others might judge.
Together they carried the trunk to the beachside lodgings arranged by their warrior friend and Aymeric set about unpacking. Estinien, having arrived earlier, had already emptied his meager pack, some simple toiletries by the sink and sleepwear in a single drawer. As expected of a man used to traveling light, Aymeric smiled fondly to himself. He was thankful he’d thought to pack clothing for both of them.
Aymeric was done with the clothes and beginning on his own beauty products when he realized one of the jars was missing. An exclamation of frustration came from the balcony just as he was searching through the bowels of his trunk in confusion.
“Confound it Aymeric what is this blasted cream? This isn’t weapon oil!” Estinien stormed in, brandishing the missing jar, a scowl on his face.
“There it is! Goodness no, of course it isn’t! That’s the sun barrier cream our friend recommended for our protection.” Estinien seemed even more aggrieved.
“Why is it in the oil jar then??” he groused.
“It’s just a jar, my love,” Aymeric smiled in bemusement. “They are very common at home. Can I help if they are used for many things including weapon oil?” He opened it, relieved to note the dragoon hadn’t used up too much of the contents.
“What by Halone would we need that for?” Estinien asked.
“What in Halone’s name do you need weapon oil for?” Aymeric countered in exasperation.
“To polish my lance, what else?!” Estinien retorted, throwing his hands skyward. Aymeric blinked, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and tilted his head quizzically instead.
“Estinien,” he said slowly, “What exactly do you expect this trip to entail?” Estinien’s brows snapped down in a scowl.
“Contests involving feats of skill and strength is what I was told, with you as a judge.” He folded his arms, frowning mutinously as Aymeric burst into laughter. “What is so amusing?”
“Beach games, Estinien,” Aymeric gasped finally, between peels of laughter. “Casual contests twixt friends, not a formal competition by any means. I understand there is an obstacle course built for the amusement of all during summer months that challenges visitors. I suspect there might be such ‘contests’ as low stakes group games. But certainly not sparring matches!” Estinien’s mouth gaped like a landed fish, a dull flush spreading across his rugged face. With a small sound of sweet concern, Aymeric rushed to his side, cupping his face between his hands.
“I suspect you were deliberately misled, my dear,” he tutted, “by certain parties with an agenda. I hope you will take it in the good natured spirit it was likely intended.” Estinien’s expression melted into something closer to a disgruntled pout as he leaned into the touch.
“It’s an evil thing to do to a man,” he grumbled under his breath.
“Vile and rude. How dare they,” Aymeric agreed lightly, finally making his lover snort a short laugh, “but I cannot be vexed if it means I can spend these next carefree days with you. Can you not try to join the activities our friend has planned?”
“Is that an order?” Estinien asked glumly. Aymeric tutted again.
“Even were you still under my command I would never do such a thing, but I can ask,” he says with a fond smile, “if you might set aside your lance and try something new.” Estinien leaned harder into his hand, eyes closing.
“I suppose I can try,” he mumbled, “as long as we spend some time alone as well.”
“Perhaps before we join our friends I can show you a game for just the two of us,” he suggested with a velvet purr, his smile wicked. “We could even practice our lance polishing.”
“Aymeric!” Estinien hissed, glancing around as though somehow they might no longer be alone, cheeks turning ruddy.
“Is that a no?” Aymeric teased. Estinien just growled and kicked the door shut before crowding his lover against the bed.
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Later — much later — the two joined the rest of the scions and the Warrior on the beaches of Costa del Sol to a hearty welcome and fruity drinks. They showed the two Ishgardians the various entertainments around the beach, although the dragoon was rather disappointed in the climbing course, scoffingly calling it child’s play as he bounded to the top like some mutant gazelle, much to their friends chagrin.
Over the days Aymeric and Estinien joined any number of games with the others. The beach volleyball ended prematurely when Estinien kept leaping about the court to hit the ball before his teammates had a chance, then eventually spiked the ball so hard it deflated against the sand. Estinien became pouty after “winning” the sack race with a single dragoon jump. The three legged race seemed like it might go smoothly until he became frustrated at their slow pace and lifted his partner with a startled yelp to jog across the finish line only to be denied his win for breaking the rules.
Hoping to find something less directly challenging, Aymeric urged him to help him in the sand castle building event, but nothing could contain Estinien’s competitive spirit — except perhaps the inevitable tide which rose to eat away at the foundations of their castle and collapse a whole section of carefully crafted battlements. Throwing up his hands, he stomped away in a pout. Aymeric found him seated on the bow of the Moonfire Faire ship, staring broodingly out to sea.
“May I sit with you?” Aymeric asked softly. At Estinien’s short nod he sat beside him and leaned his shoulder against Estinien’s. Estinien shook his head, lips pressed thin.
“I am sorry I seem unable to give you what you were looking for the last few days,” he muttered, glowering into the sunset.
“What can you possibly mean by that?” Aymeric asked in surprise.
“I cannot even win a simple game for you!” he snarled. Aymeric’s brows rise.
“Oh, Estinien that doesn’t matter,” he smiled, weaving their arms together.
“Don’t be absurd. Contests are contests for a reason. They must have a winner.”
“Games aren’t about winning, my love. They are about enjoying yourself and spending time with your friends. So the question remains, did you enjoy yourself?” There was a long silence before Estinien’s arm crept around Aymeric’s waist.
“Yes,” he said.
“Good. So have I,” Aymeric replied, kissing his cheek.