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Clank!
“Oh come now, Borel, you can do better than that. ”
Shwing!
“Was that good enough for you, Varlineau?”
Thunk!
“ Better , but not good !”
Aymeric huffs out a laugh which morphs into a grunt when Estinien shoves forward with his lance to parry Aymeric’s downswing. The force of it sends him skidding back, his boots carving tracks into the dirt beneath them. When he looks up at Estinien, his ice-blue eyes are glittering with mirth in such a way that he can’t help but grin back at Aymeric. With a twist of his sword in his hands, Aymeric launches forward again, steel meets steel in a cacophonous clash that rings in Estinien’s ears. The courtyard echoes their noises as their battalion battles each other in pairs down the length of the dirt-filled training grounds.
Outperforming most of the other soldiers, Aymeric and Estinien found themselves frequently paired together in these training exercises. Estinien quite likes this back-and-forth they’ve established, goading each other on with japes and jabs as they circled about each other. Surely it had been more than a dozen times that they’d sparred together by now.
Aymeric’s moves were growing more familiar. Estinien could sometimes catch the twitch of his shoulder or twist of his arm or change of his footing that preceded an attack. Anticipating it, he found himself following through with dodges or parries, flinging Aymeric’s blade away from him in moves that were growing much more akin to a dance than a sparring session.
Aymeric’s shoulder drops. Estinien’s eyes narrow in on it– loosening up before tensing for a forward thrust, if he remembers correctly. He tightens his grip about his lance, crouching low whilst keeping his feet light, ready to follow up with a dodge as they shift to the next position of their dance.
Only… it doesn’t happen like it should.
Aymeric takes a step forward, the loosened shoulder of his growing tense again as he prepares to thrust his sword forward, jabbing through the holes in Estinien’s defences as one who wields a lance. Before Aymeric can even finish putting his foot down, he suddenly falls to the ground in a heap.
“Borel!?”
Estinien leaps forward into the cloud of dirt that billows up from where Aymeric has landed. He looks up at Estinien with a smile on his face that somehow doesn’t feel right .
“No, no, naught to worry about, I assure you. I simply tripped. I’m perfectly fine.”
Estinien narrows his eyes at his fellow knight. Something about how he said that rubs him the wrong way, but Aymeric had no reason to lie to him about an injury. Tentatively, he shifts backwards a few steps, giving him enough space to get back up on his own. Estinien lowers into a crouch, watching through still-narrowed eyes as Aymeric assumes a battle stance once more.
It’s not quite right.
Over a dozen sparring sessions and Estinien is nigh overly familiar with Aymeric’s battle stance, tells, and attacks, and how to dodge, block, or parry most of all of them. Borel always leans his weight into his left foot when he attacks with his right side– so why is he leaning so hard onto his right?
A moment later, Aymeric throws himself forward, his sword arm raising so he can bring it down in a whistle of tempered steel through air. Estinien knows this move like the back of his hand and is raising his lance up to block it within a moment.
Only… Aymeric completely misses.
That whistle that he was supposed to hear is much more like a soft groan, as Aymeric fumbles through on the downswing. His face– it’s contorted in an expression that Estinien’s not typically seen on Borel. Gritted teeth and knitted brows above worried eyes. With the way he stumbles forward, Estinien hears alarm bells ringing in his head. His shoulders slacken as he straightens up. For as long as he’s been sparring with and watching Aymeric, he knows his tells– and this is one he’s not familiar with, meaning the man must be in some type of pain that he cannot hide behind his pearly whites.
“Borel, stop,” Estinien demands. There’s no room for argument, this much he makes sure comes across in his voice.
With practised ease, Aymeric’s expression evens out. He irons out the knot ‘twixt his brows, presses his lips together and relaxes his clenched jaw in mere seconds. Despite that, there’s a pallor to his face that belies what he is so desperately attempting to hide from Estinien, though he cannot figure out for the life of him why his fellow knight would do such a thing.
“‘Tis momentary, I assure you. I am hale enough to continue,” he says, lying through his perfect teeth. Does he truly think Estinien daft enough to believe such a bold-faced lie, right after he watched the man tumble and whiff his swing?
“No. Not until we check out your ankle.” Estinien points an accusatory finger at the foot that Aymeric isn’t putting weight on, and levels him with a look that has Aymeric squaring his shoulders and tilting his head up. Defiant, prideful, and infuriating .
“I said I’m alright, Varlineau.”
Estinien’s brow twitches. Brat, he thinks to himself as a sneer curls his upper lip, too much pride will be the death of you one day . He strides over to Aymeric in two steps, the length of his stride closing the fulms between them in an instant. Aymeric’s eyes widen when the space between them is naught more than half a fulm. This close, he can see the sweat that clings to his pale forehead and the furrow between his brows growing deeper. He shifts back a bit, defiant glory quickly fading.
“Enough, Borel,” Estinien hisses. Aymeric shrinks further, which dampens the effect of the glare that he levels Estinien with. “Your damned little lordling pride will have you injuring yourself further, and I, for one, won’t allow it. Now come.”
Estinien grabs Aymeric’s arm and forcefully slings it over his own shoulders whilst wrapping his arm around his waist. Any protests that Aymeric comes up with die in his throat before he’s able to get out more than a few words; not that they even mattered, as Estinien was resolutely ignoring anything that he said. He practically drags Aymeric with him, away from the training grounds and into a nearby building that he rarely finds himself in.
It boasts a dozen or so hard cots separated by sheets held up by poles, granting whoever may be on the cots privacy, and shelves lined with medical supplies on each side. There are potions, bandages, salves– anything that Estinien could think of that would be used by the medics and chirurgeons. He may not be one versed in the healing arts, but he’s sure he can help with whatever it is Borel managed to do to his damned ankle.
Luckily for him, there’s no one currently here. Estinien beelines for the nearest cot and sits Aymeric down on it. When his fellow knight attempts to stand, he presses him down onto the cot with his hands on his shoulders and glares at him.
“Don’t even try it.”
A pout forms on Aymeric’s face, but he listens and settles into his seat on the cot. Good . Content that he won’t try and get up again, Estinien walks away to one of the filled shelves nearby and stares at its contents. There’s all manner of containers that contain salves and potions of all different colours. There’s handwritten labels on them– ether, potion of healing, allergy potion, tincture of aether… Lucky for him, as Estinien knows he would not have a single clue what he’s looking for had there not been clear labels.
Estinien pulls a roll of bandages off the second shelf and a porcelain container with a wooden lid that’s labelled ‘minor healing salve’ before returning to the cot where he left Aymeric. He’s a bit surprised to see him exactly where he left him– Estinien figured that his stubborn fool of a friend would have tried to get up at least one more time.
Aymeric looks up at his approach. The pout that he’d been sporting when Estinien walked off was gone. Instead, the sides of his mouth are tilted downward– a frown on Borel’s face. The man whose expressions usually only ran the gamut of serious, sunny, or calm, with the occasional playful look he gets when he’s teasing someone, or goading him on during training.
This is the second new expression that he’s seen on Aymeric’s face today. First, the one contorted in pain, and now, this frown.
He doesn’t like the way displeasure looks on him.
“What?” Aymeric asks with a tilt of his head to the side. His black curls shift with the movement. Estinien stares at the strand of hair that falls in front of one of his eyes. Why are his fingers twitching?
“Nothing.” Estinien says quickly. Resolutely ignoring whatever this foreign feeling is, he strides over and drops to his knees in front of Aymeric.
“Estinien?!”
Why in Halone’s Halls is he looking at him with wide eyes like that?
“What?” Estinien asks flatly.
“Nothing!” Aymeric nigh squeaks out. He averts his eyes from Estinien then, fixing his gaze on something straight ahead. Alright… Strange.
Estinien stares at Aymeric a few seconds more, confusion clear in the arch of his brow, but his fellow Elezen does not deign to look in his direction again. Whatever it is that he has his eyes on has his entire focus right now.
With a shrug of his shoulders, Estinien sets to work on unbuckling the belts of Aymeric’s shin guard. As practised as he is at putting on and removing his own armour, it takes naught but a few moments until he’s divulged Aymeric’s right foot of his boot and sock until he can yank the hem of his trouser up. What he’s greeted with is an ankle that is clearly slightly swollen.
Gingerly, he holds Aymeric’s ankle with both hands and presses gently into the reddened skin with his thumbs.
“ Bloody swiving hells–”
Aymeric hides the rest of that curse by snapping his jaw shut, but it’s too damn late. Estinien blinks owlishly up at the man who is resolutely not looking at him. From here, he can see that the tips of his ears are red, and there’s a bead of nervous sweat forming on his brow.
“Aymeric de Borel… Was that a curse?” Estinien cannot help the grin that splits his features. Of all the knights in their battalion, Aymeric is the only one that Estinien cannot ever recall having sworn before. ‘Tis a miracle the man even knew what a swore was , given he grew up in a bloody priory. “Good child of Halone, Borel, cursing?!”
Estinien deserves the smack that Aymeric delivers to the side of his head.
“I only cursed because you squeezed my bloody ankle!”
“ You were the one that claimed not to be hurt! And it’s not like Halone will lance you through and drag you to an icy hell for cursing one time .”
Aymeric clams up at that, though the angle of his brows makes clear how irritated he is with Estinien. A strange sort of pleased feeling bubbles up in Estinien’s chest at the sight of his friend acting so out of sorts. It’s been some moons now since he enlisted, and Aymeric has always kept an air of calm, composed, and collected that rarely broke. It’s interesting to see him act like this– that’s all that has him near grinning ear-to-ear.
Estinien grabs the salve that he’d brought over and scoops a dollop out with his first and second fingers. Aymeric looks down at him, worry evident in his eyes, and Estinien feels a pang of regret in him. Here he was, claiming he didn’t like how displeasure looked on Aymeric, and he was putting the man through more pain. Gently, he says, “I’ll be more gentle, my lord .”
Can’t help but sneak a teasing remark in there, now can he?
Aymeric rolls his eyes at Estinien but relaxes nonetheless. Good, he isn’t truly angry. That’s the last thing he’d want.
Estinien smears the bitter-smelling salve onto Aymeric’s swollen ankle as gently as he can. For his part, Aymeric tries not to flinch away from the well-meaning touch, and Estinien is glad for it. It makes it easier to focus on his task without worrying that Aymeric would pull away.
After ensuring that as much of Aymeric’s ankle was covered by the healing salve, Estinien grabs the roll of cloth bandages and begins to wind it around the swollen joint. He glances upwards to ensure that Aymeric isn’t in too much pain or discomfort…
Why did his heart skip a beat?
Aymeric is looking down at him over the curve of his aquiline nose. His brilliant blues are half-lidded, curtaining them with his thick, dark lashes. It almost looks like he’s wearing kohl with those eyelashes of his. Estinien wonders for a brief moment how he’d look with actual kohl lining his eyes– how striking his eyes would be, how they’d draw Estinien in more so than usual. Aymeric’s lips are still downturned at the corners, pressed together in a thin line.
Estinien wants to wipe it from his face. Wants to see him smile again. Wants to… to…
“Estinien? Is something wrong?”
Aymeric’s voice is a douse of ice water, bringing him back to perfect clarity. Estinien shakes his head, serving to derail his train of thought and answer Aymeric’s question in the same motion, and turns his attention back to Aymeric’s ankle. Strange , he thinks to himself, I do not know what it is I wanted to do with Aymeric just now.
Surely it wasn’t important then.
Estinien wraps the bandage around the bottom of Aymeric’s foot, then behind his ankle, then back again, winding it four or five times until it is taut, keeping Aymeric’s ankle in one position. There’s about half the roll of cloth bandages left now, and Estinien realises that he did not bring a pair of shears to cut them with.
“Bollocks,” he grunts under his breath. Only one thing for it, then. He unwinds the roll a bit more, then brings the length of it to his mouth so he can bite down on the length of it with sharp canines. Takes naught but a second to twist his head whilst yanking the roll of bandages away at the same time. The resounding rrrrip of fabric follows, and a gasp from up above him. Seems he may have upset the little lord with his savageness.
“There.” Estinien nods at his own handiwork, then ties off the excess bandage as cleanly as he can, “‘Tis wrapped, but no more training for today.”
Aymeric makes a noise of dissent above him that has Estinien’s brow twitching. “I assure you, I’ll be perfectly fine to continue our sparring session. I do not wish to get rusty, and the time off my feet already has me feeling leagues better! Shall we get back to the training grounds?”
Before Estinien can say a thing in response, though, Aymeric pushes himself off the cot and onto his feet.
Then promptly pitches forward.
“Borel!”
Estinien grabs Aymeric’s waist with both hands, steadying him as best he can before the damn man can injure both of them. Prideful brat he is, unable to accept the fact that he’s hurt. Luckily for Estinien, he’s able to keep his friend from throwing them both to the ground in a heap. For some reason, though, his hands feel hot where they’re wrapped around Aymeric’s waist, which he can’t help but notice is so… trim . He fits nicely in his hands, and he’s so warm , and–
Aymeric is staring at him with eyes as wide as can be, lips parted, cheeks flushed in a way that has ice lancing through Estinien’s midsection.
Estinien sits Aymeric back down, using his grip on his waist to force him back onto the cot. The feeling of him in his hands– no , he doesn’t want to think about it. Whatever it may be. Estinien yanks his hands away as if they were burned. When he turns his gaze back to Aymeric, he tries to ignore the red in his fellow knight’s cheeks and the tips of his ears.
It’s easier to cling to irritation instead of examining whatever the hell made his stomach lurch at the sight of Aymeric staring at him with an expression like that.
“‘Tis not a break, but it is a sprain. You shan't be training any more today, or tomorrow, perhaps not even overmorrow. Not until you’re healed.”
Aymeric opens his accursed mouth again , likely to try and resist Estinien, but he’s had quite enough of his pride today. He will not suffer any more of it. Pushing himself up as tall as he can go without getting up off his knees and clapping his hand over Aymeric’s mouth is all it takes to shut him up. Aymeric makes a squeaking noise, his eyes grow impossibly wider, and his blush starts to travel down his neck.
A thousand thoughts flood through his mind as what feels like a thousand different feelings swell up in his midsection, all wildly unfamiliar save for one– lust .
Halone’s tits.
It’s a miracle that he doesn’t throw himself backwards into the partition that separates this cot and the next, likely breaking it in the process. It’s an even bigger miracle that he doesn’t stand up and run out of the room as fast as possible so he can find something to put his lance to that would take his mind off of this horrifying revelation that he now has to contend with. Actually, he has to commend himself at how calmly he’s taking this.
Estinien pulls his hand off of Aymeric’s mouth. Aymeric remains silent. His eyes don’t stray from Estinien’s, even as they go from being impossibly wide to something far more normal . And then the quiet starts to make Estinien itch , and the way it stretches out between them has his desire to flee mounting. Say something, his mind screams, stop staring into his eyes and say something you swiving fool.
“Naught a word of dissent, Borel. For now, you must rest. ”
Thankfully it breaks the spell between them. Severs the tension, Cuts the strings that have Aymeric and Estinien both sitting stock-still, backs straight, shoulders tight. Estinien has to stifle the urge to heave a sigh of relief as Aymeric’s expression shifts to that of understanding instead of whatever damnable expression he had that tilted Estinien’s world on its axis.
“Fine,” Aymeric says, resigned to his current lot, “loathe as I am to trouble you for another favour, might I ask that you take me back to our quarters so I can, in fact, rest?”
Estinien shoves the immediate thought that cropped up at being asked to take him back to their quarters into the corner where his newfound lust was, and simply grunts and nods in lieu of a spoken answer. Aymeric thanks him whilst Estinien stands and shifts so he can slot himself up against the lordling’s side with the injured ankle.
Aymeric feels unbearably warm against him. Winding his arm around Aymeric’s waist, hoisting his hand by the wrist over his shoulder, squeezing against each other– there’s a thrill there that wasn’t before. An aching need for more. A delirious feeling of desire that makes his head spin– surely this can’t have just begun? For how long has he been subconsciously looking at Aymeric like that?
Estinien clenches his jaw shut and focuses on walking Aymeric to their barrack room. It’s hard to ignore these thoughts when Aymeric is so damn warm and solid against his side. His heart feels like a bloody insect with how it flutters in his chest. This… this is not fair .
Sooner than he expected ( and sooner than he wanted , an unhelpful part of his mind supplies) they are at their barrack and he is untangling himself and Aymeric so that he can sit his friend down on the edge of the bed, much like he did with the cot. Every fibre of his being wants to linger, his skin tingles underneath the cloth and metal of his armour with the desire to be pressed against Aymeric, skin to skin.
Hot and cold war in Estinien’s midsection. He feels dizzy with the intensity of these nigh unbearable emotions that are raging within him, reason fighting desire to the death.
And then Aymeric looks up at him through those thick, kohl-dark lashes of his, with those brilliant eyes of crystal, and a bashful smile pulling at the corners of his chest…
The man may have well loosed a knocked arrow at him for how the sight of his expression lances his heart.
“Thank you, Estinien. I appreciate your concern and your care, truly. Even in spite of my… earlier protestrations. You were right– I was letting my pride get in the way.” Aymeric’s lips pull apart to show off that blindingly perfect grin.
“Fair glad am I that your stubbornness won out in the end, ere I found myself injured for far longer.”
Then, he softens. Melts into an appreciative expression. Leans back with his hands pressed to the mattress.
And Estinien knows that right then, right there, he needs to leave .
“Don’t mention it,” he says, much more gruff than he intended to be. He winces at his own tone, but Aymeric doesn’t seem to care. Instead, he laughs under his breath, hiding the noise behind a hand in a manner that Estinien hates finding adorable . His heart hammers at his midsection while he stiffly turns on his heel.
“Going back to training, Aymeric,” Estinien calls over his shoulder after a beat that stretched on too long for his comfort. The syllables of his first name sound strange leaving his mouth. But now that he’s said it, he wants to again and again and again until it no longer feels real on his tongue.
The suddenness of this, the intensity of his attraction– it scares him.
“That’s the first time you’ve called me by only my first name!” Aymeric near shouts after Estinien when his legs have taken him to the door ere he bid them do so. He can’t turn to look at him right now– he’s afraid of what expression he’s making, afraid of how Aymeric would react if what Estinien is feeling is writ plain on his face.
Instead, he ignores him, ignores this , ignores the warmth that lingers on the side of his body where Aymeric was pressed, ignores the twitching of his fingers and how Aymeric’s afterimage is superimposed on his eyelids, and that he can see his smile when he blinks, and that Aymeric’s waist fit perfectly in his hands.
He walks out of the door and beelines for the training grounds. He just needs to train and get his mind off of this . Fight and scream and sweat it out until his muscles ache and his lungs burn and his heart is beating fast for a reason other than Aymeric de-bloody-Borel. Then… then he’ll be better.
He has to be.