Chapter Text
They stagger home near sundown, a pair of newborn deer trotting through the darkened streets of Ishgard, their breath smelling of mulled wine. Fortunately, the foyer of Fortemps Manor is empty when they arrive. The house’s occupants have long since retired to bed, and there are none present to pass judgment upon Haurchefant as he hauls the Warrior of Light down the corridor, singing a drinking song under his breath – or at least, the single verse he can remember of it, repeatedly.
Aramond mumbles something unintelligible, then scoffs and snickers to himself, resting his forehead against one of Haurchefant’s pauldrons. The sound is catching. By the time they reach Aramond’s chambers, Haurchefant is also giggling like a schoolboy.
“Shh.” The Warrior of Light bids him be silent with an air of utmost earnestness, which redoubles Haurchefant’s laughter.
They spill into Aramond’s room. Haurchefant unslings the other man’s arms from his shoulders, pouring him into the bed. It has been stripped bare, he notices, of most of the covers. The duvet lies in a heap on the floor, along with several pillows, leaving Eorzea’s champion with naught but a drafty sheet and a solitary place to rest his head. He does this with enthusiasm, burrowing his face into the cushion.
“Hold,” Haurchefant says, straightening himself as he wrestles back his laughter. “That will not do, unless you aim to suffocate in your sleep.”
“Mmhm,” Aramond replies, his voice muffled. Sighing, Haurchefant grabs him by the shoulder and rolls him onto his back with a concentrated effort.
Aramond reaches up and curls his fingers over Haurchefant’s forearm, pulling him closer. It takes Haurchefant a moment to realize that the other man is merely using him for leverage as he settles back down onto the mattress, making himself comfortable. The realization does nothing to dislodge his pounding heart from his throat.
“'Tis stifling hot in here,” he remarks, reaching for his gorget.
It is the truth. Although the Warrior of Light keeps the curtains tightly drawn to block out the sun, the space is hot as a furnace and heady with the scent of incense. It is the same scent that clings to the man’s robes: crushed herbs and resin. Haurchefant unclasps his gorget and removes it, letting the humid air cool his neck as much as it can.
“Helps me think,” Aramond mutters, peering up at him.
A fond smile tugs at Haurchefant’s lips. “And the complete absence of light? Is that also to aid you in your contemplations?”
“I see better in the dark,” Aramond retorts, giving him a rare smirk.
“That, my friend,” Haurchefant replies, not unkindly. “Is ridiculous.”
“If the dark and heat are not to your liking, feel free to retire to your own chambers, ser knight,” his companion grouses, tearing off one of his gloves.
Haurchefant says nothing, his protests snuffed like a candle. For he does not wish to retire to his own chambers so long as he is welcome here.
His eyes follow the arc of Aramond’s hand as it ungloves the other, noting the ink stains on his skin. His only callous hugs his right middle finger, formed by the frequent holding of a quill. How different from the roughness of Haurchefant’s palms and the pads of his fingers, smattered here and there with scars.
His head is still swimming with wine. He plants himself on the edge of the bed next to Aramond, swaying as he reaches for his own gloves. The cool air on his bare skin as he peels them off is a relief. He does not realize his eyes have drifted shut until the soft sound of Aramond clearing his throat snaps him back to attentiveness.
“Truth be told, I am still adjusting to the light and the cold,” the Warrior of Light discloses, looking past him, his hands folded on his chest. “The sun does not oft reach the Brume, and I never went farther than Foundation as a child. The climes were different then, as well. As you know.”
Haurchefant’s lips part in surprise. “You hail from Ishgard? Why have you never said anything? I offered you the drinking tour— you accepted--”
“I was hardly familiar with the local taverns before.” Aramond sounds bemused as he sits up, propping himself on his elbows. “I left when I was sixteen.”
“Still!” Haurchefant exclaims. “To think. All that time. I might’ve passed you in the street!”
Wincing, Aramond mutters, “Well. Not likely.”
He tilts his chin toward the ceiling, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Haurchefant tries and fails not to follow the column of his neck to where it disappears into the open collar of his robes.
“You would have had no cause to speak to me, if you had noticed me at all.”
The words are almost an afterthought. Aramond is still pondering the ceiling.
“I am fair certain I would have noticed you,” Haurchefant replies carefully.
Aramond lowers his gaze, meeting Haurchefant’s eyes. “I was nobody.”
“Nobody?” The knight scoffs, incredulous, shaking his head of silver hair. “You? Never. I would have seen you, just as I did at Dragonhead, and known you straight away to be a friend.”
He can see the skepticism on Aramond’s face as he lowers himself back down, sinking into the pillow. The Warrior of Light sighs lightly, closing his eyes. Then, the ghost of a smile passes over his mouth.
“I can just picture us,” he says. “A scrawny orphan from the Brume and a young squire of House Fortemps: inseparable companions… it makes for an unusual sight. Do you think we would have sparred often? Tracked mud from the Brume through the clean halls of Fortemps manor?”
Haurchefant leans forward slightly, his own grin broadening. “Without a doubt. I did that any number of times without having made your acquaintance.”
“It would have been attributed to my terrible influence, I’m sure,” Aramond muses.
“On the other hand,” Haurchefant counters, indulging in the fantasy. “I imagine we would have been at the books in father’s library far more often than I cared to be on my own, as a youngling. Knowing you.”
“I would have liked that,” the Warrior of Light laughs, his expression softening.
“As would I have,” Haurchefant confesses. His face feels pleasantly warm, and he is not altogether certain it has anything to do with the wine. “If it were with you.”
“Haurchefant.”
Something in Aramond’s voice makes Haurchefant’s heart flutter. The Warrior of Light’s eyes are still closed, his mouth still curved into a slight smile.
“I have never liked Ishgard better than I do in your company.”
Haurchefant dares to inch his hand closer to Aramond’s, where it has alighted on the bed. “Then full glad I am that we met, even if it was later than I would have liked.”
“For my part, I am glad that everything came to pass exactly as it did,” Aramond mutters, his voice growing softer, dwindling to a murmur. “If, in any other life, I had not chanced to meet you at all, then I… I…”
He trails off, leaving Haurchefant to wait on tenterhooks for his conclusion, only to realize it isn’t coming. For a moment later, the champion of the Light, the chosen of Hydaelyn, the savior of Eorzea, lets out a quiet snore and shifts in his sleep, burying his face halfway into his pillow.
Haurchefant’s shoulders slacken and he chuckles lightly, an overwhelming sense of fondness welling up in his chest at the sight. He stands, reaching for the cover, and pulls it up to Aramond’s shoulders.
“Sleep well, my friend,” he says.