revolutionne | ❧ open post

An unending war is hardly a cause for celebration, but so embedded into Ishgard's way of life that there were few comings that would impede nobility from enjoying the wealth they had acquired. Galas were commonplace and their guestlist varied greatly on the House that was hosting, the Higher Houses often garnering a number of uninvited guests who hoped to brush elbows with the upper echelons of society. House Borel was hardly noteworthy, save for the reputation of their adopted son, by Aymeric has been to many events of the years of varying import. At least according to those in attendance.

In many ways they were a front for networking under the guise of merriment (and usually some level of intoxication)--a different sort of battlefield. Aymeric had become used to the pomp and circumstance required to play this game and as such, has been slowly climbing the rungs towards something of favor with a few circles despite the rumors surrounding his origins. Such favor led to Ser Aymeric de Borel (and a guest) to be cordially invited to a party held at House Fortemps.

Said guest does not have the same understanding of that pomp and circumstance that he does.

That Estinien agreed to accompany Aymeric at all had been something of as surprise. He has learned much of his friend over the past year and Estinien's dislike for large social gatherings (or social gatherings in general) and the haughtiness of upper class society made it seem that Aymeric's offer would be turned down outright. Still, he is glad to have the company, knowing that his acceptance into the Knights Dragoon with such esteem has earned Estinien no small amount of notoriety as well.

Of course he had been confused, but amused to see that Estinien showed up at the Borel Manor in full armor. Because of course he had.

Which leaves them where they are now--notably in Aymeric's room, the party having already started over the las bell, as Aymeric smooths out one of his own tunics over Estinien's shoulders.

"And it fits well, as I had suspected." He drops his hands, stepping back with a smile that reaches his eyes, crinkling at the edges. "I would say that you look much less threatening this way, but with that glare I am not sure that is the case."

It's a shame that Aymeric and he are approximately the same height and girth, because otherwise he might have had an excuse to return to the Congregation, the night being preemptively ruled a failure. He'd thought it would be like the other nebulous 'events' he'd been forced to attend, where wearing armor had been acceptable for those in the military. This, apparently, is meant to be a lot more festive.

As such, he's been starting to have second thoughts. Given what he'd heard from Aymeric of such gatherings, a small part of him had been genuinely curious - and another part felt that something like this could be considered a big deal in the noble circles. It seemed like the supportive thing to do, and a chance to use his new status as a Dragoon to Aymeric's benefit.

And he's so fond of Aymeric - a fact that has become more and more transparent over the last year of them having known each other. From tentative beginnings, his esteem for him has become less guarded, and their friendship stronger for it. To say that he values Aymeric, or even that he admires him, is no longer a secret held close to his chest. He's allowed himself that much.

What he was less willing to allow for was wearing Aymeric clothes, which he ruminates on as he casts his Drachen Armor a longing gaze, where it's been set aside for the evening. In reality, he'd been imagining himself attending more like a mysterious looming bodyguard and less like an actual guest.

His arms are crossed around his chest. He feels like he's been suddenly forced to wear a new skin.

"Are you finished?" he asks curtly, torn between wanting for this part to be over and being equally reluctant to move on to the next part. His hair is still largely uncombed, ruffled from having been in his helmet, which looks to be an increasingly sharp contrast with the rest of his outfit.

Aymeric, of course, had assumed that the difference in circumstances would be self-evident--previous engagements Estinien was invited or instructed to attend as a representative of his faction, while this time he is attending as Aymeric's guest for the evening. In hindsight he ought to have anticipated the confusion that would ensue, ever the creature of habit that Estinien is, and how despite they have gotten closer over the year, there were still many aspects of Aymeric's own upper class upbringing that he finds are out of the norm for the other man, balls and banquets not withstanding.

Still, there is something to be said of being fashionably late and it is not as if Aymeric believes his own presence is anticipated with any excitement at this juncture. Count Edmont de Fortemps has ever been kind and he means to return the gesture however he can, which includes making sure his friend does not overtly try to intimidate the other guests fully armed.

He sees that look of longing Estinien casts towards his armor with no small sense of amusement, but manages to keep any chuckling to himself. Truthfully Aymeric was not sure if Estinien would allow him to fuss so, but perhaps this is a small mercy on Estinien's part. He will attempt to make the process as painless as possible.

"Not quite." That hair is something of a mess, seemingly more so now that he is almost always seen with his helmet on.

Aymeric crosses over to his dresser, where several grooming items are placed and stored. A small mirror sits at the center, flanked by oils, moisturizers, and what is a shaving kit of sorts. Beside those are a few brushes and combs. Aymeric purses his lips for a moment before picking the comb with the largest teeth and sets back to the dragoon.

"When was the last time you took a comb to this, my friend?"

It may sound like an admonishment, but his voice is light with an audible quirk to his lips. Aymeric pieces out a section, holds it between the middle and forefinger on his left hand as he carefully tries to work through the tangles with his right.

It's true - being given full dragoon armor has seemingly only emboldened Estinien's ability to completely disregard his personal aesthetic. He would bundle his hair into the helmet and forget about it for long stretches of time on missions, and given that he'd been intending on wearing this helmet to this event, he did nothing to tame it before arriving.

It's a powerful indication of their friendship that Estinien allows Aymeric to get anywhere near that comb and his hair. Surely, any lesser person would be at risk of losing a hand in the exchange. Instead, Estinien looks about as unhappy as a housecat being lowered into a bath - but he lets Aymeric carry on regardless. It's a very indignant sort of aura, but something he's trained himself to tolerate. He keeps his arms crossed.

Aymeric could be very fussy and tactile when he was allowed, and Estinien has been more and more inclined to just let him be himself. It just came with the grim reality that Estinien was also going to be himself.

"I didn't exactly mark the calendar," he grumbles, which has its own damning implications. His white hair is thick and fairly resilient to the abuse he puts it through, so at least it won't be that hard to smooth it out, some light matting aside.

He well understands the allowances and familiarities that Estinien now affords him, embracing each and every one. It had taken some time and Aymeric is ever a patient man in most regards, wanting only for his friend to feel comfortable rather than just indulging his own desire to reach out to the people he cares about. He ever keeps a healthy boundary of space between himself and most others, but the few in his inner circle, Aymeric has found himself to be prone to physical contact--not that he needs the reassurance they are truly there, but that he can happily enjoy their presence and all that comes with it.

This is no exception--perhaps it is an even greater allotment than usual given the unique circumstances. While he is want to take care of the other man when needed, this is purely for aesthetics. Aesthetics, of course, play a great part in how one fares as such parties as they are attending, but he knows Estinien cares little for them.

No, Estinien is doing this for him and Aymeric makes a silent note to himself to make it up to him, somehow, at a later time.

The dark grumbles coming from the dragoon receive a gentle shake of Aymeric's own head as he moves from one section to the next. He tries to avoid pulling on any knots too hard--not because Estinien could not take the moment of pain, but more because it would give the other man a reason to pull away and put his foot down calling it the end of this charade. Both patience and deft fingers are what will win Aymeric the night.

"I can only imagine how the inside of your helm must look." His voice is breathy but musing. "Ser Croquembouche receives a good brushing at least once a week or else grooming becomes quite the undertaking." Which is likely a surprise to anyone who has met his young, but wilily cat.

Satisfied that Estinien's hair is much more presentable, Aymeric sets down the comb. He steps back, putting a hand to his chin and tils his head to the side as he considers the long strands before him.

"Ah!" Suddenly inspired, Aymeric makes for one of the drawers in his dresser that houses some of his accessories--cravats, scarves, ties, ruffles of all various sorts depending on the outfit or occasion. In that he pulls out a single black silk ribbon, to which he smiles a little too proudly. Taking his place behind Estinien once again, he takes all of his friend's hair at once and quickly weaves it back into a loose braid, tying it off with the ribbon.

Yes, that makes a world of difference. Aymeric is all smiles as he directs Estinien to his own reflection towards one of the full length mirrors situated by the wall.

"There we are. With any luck some might mistake you for a true gentleman, Ser Estinien."

Estinien hasn't been on the receiving end of this kind of attention since he was a young child, at the hands of his... well, his increasingly long diseased mother. As hard as it was for her to pull him in from the outdoors on some days, such grooming had felt natural and pleasant, even as he might complain. Since then, he's been left entirely to his own devices, and unwilling to take any offers.

Alberic had not been so bold as to assume it would be appreciated, and was more the sort to simply inform him that his hair needed to be dealt with if he was going to look even remotely civilized. It was a chore to be completed, and sometimes he would comply, other times refusing out of teenaged spite. As an adult, though, he's been entirely at liberty to do what he wants, with sometimes mixed results.

That he's here at all is incredibly meaningful in a way he doesn't even dare contemplate, hair combing included. At some point he'd just given in, relenting to the idea that it was allowable for Aymeric and him to exchange some degree of care for each other. They'd already come this far.

And look where that's gotten him.

"It's a cat, Aymeric, you need not coddle it so," he mumbles in disagreement, but otherwise refrains from grousing about how this was distantly compared to grooming a pet. As Aymeric appraises him, he lifts his eyebrows impatiently, only for his friend to escalate matters as he moves on from combing to actual styling.

Estinien lets him do it, however put upon he feels, though that doesn't stop his eyes from widening like something is bubbling up within him. Is this really necessary...

And then he's directed towards the mirror, in a gesture that so innocently and gently guides his thoughts to memories of the past... fragments of warm, homey moments that have long since faded within the pain soaked tides they now dwell. He sighs heavily, messing with his bangs.

"What a cruel deception," he says. "My first outfit would have been more honest."

Aymeric purses his lips at the (expected) admonishment of how he cares for his dear pet. Estinien and Croquembouche have not gotten along since the day they met, though in all fairness to Estinien, Croquembouche does not get along with much anyone other than Aymeric and his elderly mother. Alfred is allowed some leeway given that he is oft the bringer of food, so Croquembouche tolerates his presence more often than not.

"He is a beloved member of the family," Aymeric corrects. It only make sense that he care for a creature that he willingly took on responsibility for and who offers him comfort and companionship in turn.

Estinien's appraisal of his own appearance, however, forces a warm laugh to bubble up from deep in Aymeric's chest. One last brush of his friend's shoulders and Aymeric forces himself to stop his fiddling and fussing.

"I hold few doubts that your magnanimous aura will keep a few onlookers at bay."

His gaze stays on the mirror for a moment--the pair they make, two young men now presentable towards the most revered members of society. Aymeric may be a noble in status, but when he sees the two of them side by side, he feels greater kinship with Estinien than those whom he will be brushing elbows with for the evening. This man with whom he has shared so much all ready--darker secrets and admissions both on and off of the battlefield, someone of grand ambitions and the will to accomplish them, someone who does not begrudge him his origins or his thoughts, only his choice of feline companion--of which he gladly returns in kind to someone he is finding he admires so, grumbling and grumpiness in all.

Aymeric's smile slowly shifts from amused to fond, then he turns to face Estinien properly rather than their reflections.

"Jests aside," he begins. "I could not want for better company this evening. You have my thanks, Estinien."

Estinien is also contending with particularly fond feelings at the moment, something that always sets him off balance with its rareness. It enables a sense of contentedness that he is usually incapable of - and any time it arises in him, he can't help but feel some amount of guilt.

It leaves him feeling more cooperative than he usually might be, though, and he offers a smile approximating his acceptance of the sentiment. Even if that probably means that Aymeric just has bad taste.

"You might have found company that would not make you so late to arrive," he says wryly, though with generally good humor. "I imagine that I have delayed proceedings enough."

His smile brightens, slipping back into amused as Aymeric gives a shake of his head, as if the idea of having other company is just out of the realm of possibility.

"There is something to being 'fashionably late', as it were. And I do believe we now account for both being fashionable and late." Yet he clearly holds no ill will for the latter, at least this time. If asked, he would fully admit to having a good time getting to search through his wardrobe and see what might fit Estinien both physically and aesthetically, trying to be mindful of his friend's preferences as he could be.

He motions towards the door before leading the way out of his room. A quick stop down the hall to bade his mother a good night--her health has taken a significant dip in this last year, yet she does not want her son to spend what free time he does have waiting around on her--and then they are down the stairs. Alfred has light coats ready for the both of them, simple but with clean lines and the same shade of blue with the Borel family crest on the lapel. The manservant helps Aymeric's into his instinctively, though he has since learned to merely make an offer to Estinien. (His lance, it seems, is no longer kept in the closet during his visits.)

"We shan't be too late, Alfred," Aymeric says as he adjusts the line of his coat.

"Shall I have someone retrieve you at House Fortemps ere the end?"

Aymeric shakes his head. "Nay. Should we find ourselves lost in the Pillars I believe 'twould be our own doing."

Alfred bows, keeping a hint of his own smile in check. "As you wish, my lord."

Once Estinien appears ready, Aymeric offers a final wave to the sole manservant of House Borel and starts them off down the street. The evening is still young, the tiniest bits of sunset still visible through the towers, though the sky overall has grown dark and blue. Streetlamps have all ready been lit and they pass by families returning to their own homes, as well as other nobles clearly making their way towards the Last Vigil as well.

Estinien doesn't actually mind the outfit that Aymeric picked out for him, so his sense of things was accurate. It's simple enough to move in, and with no heavy additions like those enormous fur coats the noble families sometimes wear - close enough to military attire that it doesn't feel frivilous. When it comes to dressing up, it's more the principle of the thing that bothers him - dressing unlike himself for the sake of other people's respect.

Tonight, though, it's not just his own respect he's cultivating. He's an accompaniment to Aymeric, he tries to remind himself - Aymeric is the one that has to deal with these people, and he should avoid making things more difficult than they have to be. Yet, his own sense of contrariness nips at him for every part of the proceedings, reluctant to do things at anyone's bidding but his own.

He takes the coat from Alfred and puts it on himself, nodding his head in thanks regardless. He's never exactly become comfortable with being waited on, but he strives to make interactions painless for the family servant where he can.

It's once they are out on the street that his thoughts start to dwell on the actual events of the night.

"What are we meant to... do while present? Are there... scheduled activities?" Says the man who has barely paused to revel in any form for many years now. Spending time with Aymeric has been the closest, and that's still fresh unfamiliar in many ways. Estinien doesn't know how to dance or play any party games. He's only sort of learned to play cards recently, and that was for Aymeric's sake as well.

The journey toward House Fortemps is enjoyable in and of itself. Though Aymeric used to directing their conversations with his own musings, Estinien can be quite the partner when a topic catches his interest. Yet even so, he is happy to merely be in the other man's presence, whether it filled with words or naught. A walk from his manor towards the Vigil would be pleasant simply as that. Knowing that his escort for the evening his someone he is quickly holding dear.

And yet...the question is a fine one. Valid, even, as Aymeric just as quickly realizes he has done a poor job of preparing Estinien for what he is about to take part, save from the more amusing stories they both share over ale.

"Ah," he starts, more shocked at his own lack of foresight. Had he been truly just so enamored with the idea that they could go together? Perhaps, perhaps. Aymeric clears his throat. "There are a few, yes. A majority of the evening is to be spent mingling, drinking, or dancing, though there is oft a scheduled dance that most take part. Table games are common or tours of the estate for those who are attending for the first time. I, myself, am interested in Count Edmont's armory, as I imagine you may be as well. House Fortemps has employed numerous knights over the years, many of which now serve as our cohorts and superiors."

Is he trying to appeal to something Estinien may actually have interest in over the other activities that he will likely balk at? Yes, absolutely.

In Aymeric's defense, this is most likely the first time Estinien has asked, perhaps giving the incorrect impression that he already knows. Already on their way, though, he can no longer ignore the thought - what does he do, once they're there, if he isn't merely shadowing Aymeric while looking dangerous?

Some of his uncertainty shows on his face as Aymeric explains, though the idea of the armory does pique his attention. The high houses are effectively their own militaries, House Fortempts in particularly guarding most of Coerthas. It would be interesting to see what they keep so close to home.

"I have admittedly been curious to see how it compares..." he admits, pondering the subject, until something earlier in Aymeric's explanation violently pings his attention away from it. Scheduled dancing.

"Wait - scheduled dancing?" he asks, turning to look at Aymeric as they walk. "Does that mean mandatory dancing?"

Ah, he's doomed.

Edited 2020-10-20 04:29 (UTC)

"Well--" Aymeric follows up quickly to try and abate any growing concern on Estinien's part. Understandable concern, as Aymeric has not once asked about the other man's prowess on the dance floor. He is a dragoon, and a skillful one at that, very aware of his own body's movements. Surely he would not have a problem.

Right?

He clears his throat again, this time behind his fist.

"Most take part, but not all. There are merely a few popular steps that one can expect at the appointed bell." He waves his hand dismissively in the air. "They are quite simple, yet none would remiss should you decline to participate, save perhaps a few curious young maidens."

Estinien may not know the steps, but given his general dexterity, it would likely be no issue for him to learn. It's more the context of it that bothers him - like so many other things, it's the idea of social performance that makes him uncomfortable. Thinking about dancing at a party like this, all he can think about is other people watching him filled with undue expectations. The idea of trying to satisfy them bothers him on a primal level.

Besides, he finds himself thinking quite vividly - he'd only really like to dance with Aymeric, anyway, and he'd rather do it alone in the wine cellar than in public view. The moment after he's thought this, and realized he'd just thought it, the air completely leaves him. That is far too much.

Aymeric may notice that Estinien is clearly struggling with something here, though maybe not exactly what. Estinien tries to drag himself out of the hole he's digging within his own mind.

"Hmph," he says, partly to himself, enforcing how unimportant it all is. "They can't be that difficult." He stares at the stones ahead of their feet.

Edited 2020-10-20 05:37 (UTC)

Aymeric does notice, how could he not? He has become quite gift of reading the room and in particular those that interest him, of which Estinien is very high on that list most of the time.

At first he feels he had been right in his initial assumption--that Estinien would be opposed to dancing, at least at a party such as this or in public at all--so when he voices his grumblings of the dance itself potentially being the issue...well, Aymeric feels suddenly motivated.

"They are not, I assure you." He takes a step forward so that he is a fulm ahead of his friend, turning ever so to half-face him as they continue apace. He extends his hand, hoping that will catch Estinien's attention if his repositioning yet had not.

"If we take but a moment, I could teach you the basic steps. I have naught a doubt in my mind that you would catch on with the same ease and grace you show in training and the battlefield."

Aymeric's sudden repositioning means that he'll have a good chance of catching the flustered expression on Estinien's face as it happens. He was already feeling oddly warm at the entire concept, but now the reality of what he was just imagining is being thrust upon him. It's like thinking of it has miraculously conjured the scenario into existence.

He looks around them, almost like he's expecting someone to be staring - but with night having fallen, and them late for their engagement, the streets are fairly empty. They are alone, in a manner of speaking. More alone than they will be at the party, at least.

He takes Aymeric's hand, doing his level best to appear otherwise disaffected. A purely practical concern, of course.

"Alright," he says. "But we best be quick about it." As if Estinien is the one who would truly care if they were late.

Aymeric blinks, eyes wide and mouth ajar despite the smile he wears. He had been expecting Estinien to scoff at the offer, not to take his hand, let alone accept. So he stares for several beats. While he wields a blade, words are quickly becoming his weapon of choice and he finds himself feeling bare without them.

There is noting at all questionable about two men dancing in the street at night. Not at all. And it is definitely not the strangest the Pillars have seen of late .

He manages to snap his mouth shut before his gawking become too awkward.

"Well then, let us begin!"

Taking their joined hands, Aymeric extends them outwards as he steps forward, chests no more than a few ilms apart. He notes it keenly. Reaching for Estinien's other, he places it on his own shoulder before settling his hand at the other man's waist, trying to keep the touch light and unobtrusive.

"Most songs come in beats of three or four, so this standard step will serve you well. When you lead, as I am now, you will set the motion and direction of the dance. As I step forward with my right foot, you should step back with your left. It is not unlike some of our sparring."

He smiles, trying to keep the mood light.

"Let's try, shall we?"

With that, Aymeric takes that step forward, expecting Estinien to follow suit.

Estinien is at least familiar enough with dancing that the general positioning of the leader and follower doesn't catch him off guard - how incredibly aware as he finds himself of the location of Aymeric's hands notwithstanding. He wonders why Aymeric was staring at him just now, briefly wondering if he had mistaken some kind of jest as sincere. He hopes not. He's not sure he could bear it.

Yet, when the lesson begins proper, he has little difficulty following along. It is like sparring, or like doing forms... except even easier when it's a matter of following a simple pattern. His movements are stiff though, and strangely mechanical - very unlike the fluidity of his motion on the battlefield. That comes naturally.

This... well, dancing with passion probably requires a kind of emotional vulnerability he still struggles to share with anyone. For Aymeric, though, it's at least closer to the surface.

"And that is meant to be entertaining?" he asks bruskly, practically performing irreverence at this point.

Aymeric chuckles, finding the quip to be something of a relaxing balm. Why had his nerves reacted so readily? This is Estinien. The man may take shots at him as much as Aymeric does in turn, but they are good-natured. Perhaps he is still simply running off his excited energy that began the evening.

"It can be enthralling with the right music and partner." And that is not a tease. Though he has had no reason to express it to Estinien before, Aymeric is very fond of dancing.

Yes--that must be it. He's fond of dancing and of Estinien. That he gets to put the two together, what is there not to be happy about?

With that little problem solved, Aymeric throws himself fully into the lesson, taking one step, then another, unsurprised to see that Estinien has the idea all ready.

"With music I imagine you will not be so stiff. Here, on my count we will start to move to the right. One, two, three--"

He starts to turn them, taking each step forward and to the side with a sway and ease to the waltz that he can hear inside his head.

Enthralling. Estinien is genuinely not sure if that's the word he would use. It's certainly getting a strong reaction out of him, as doggedly as he keeps it buried, but it's not something he can easily put a name to.

He can dimly imagine his own version of the kind of music they'd be dancing to, though it would have to be playing from an orchestrion, because in any ideal arrangement they are still alone. He finds himself even more reluctant to carry on to the party, knowing that the only part he wants of it is right here.

It's not just about that, though, he tries to remind himself. Aymeric would be going to this event with or without him. Dancing back at the manor would never happen, because he'd never have reason to ask. On some subconscious level, it sends a pang of longing through him - that isn't the kind of life he's pursuing. It would be a betrayal to do so.

He can accept much more from Aymeric than he'd be able to before, but taking it too far will only get in the way. He has to remember that. There are limits.

He stays very quiet as Aymeric shows him the steps, the look in his eyes distant even as he follows directions with graceful accuracy. Once Aymeric has gone through a few different steps, though, he finally breaks it off.

"That should be enough," he says, a bit abrupt and a bit distracted. "We'll miss the whole affair if we carry on like this and your lessons will have been for naught." He lets go of Aymeric's hand.

It's all too easy to fall into that rhythm and Aymeric is unsurprised that Estinien does as well, even considering his lack of experience on the dance floor. As self-consciousness can sometimes overtake his friend's performances in new avenues, Estinien takes to this naturally and Aymeric cannot help the swell of pride in his chest at that. Why, even in the few minutes they share he is more fluid than--

And then it is over. Aymeric looks a little surprised despite himself, but quickly forces a smile and takes a step back, giving them both a little distance, congenially spaced though it is.

"They would not be," he says, quiet but with no intent to hide the comment either way. Aymeric pivots, suddenly feeling that his hands should be doing something as they were only just so occupied and starts to fiddle with one of the clasps on his own tunic. It is not out of place.

"I would say you are a natural, Estinien, though that comes as no shock." Feeling he has sufficiently regained his composure, he gives a bow of his head and sweeps his arm outwards back towards the street. "Let us be off. As delightful as dancing can be, I fancy a drink to begin with."

He feels that he needs one. Being fidgety is unbecoming.

The streets curve up towards the Last Vigil, the open expanse of the Coerthas Highlands visible out beyond the steps and beneath the stars. To the right stands one of the most proud and stately manors in Ishgard--House Fortemps. Though they are on the later side, there are still a few notable figures filtering into the manor, so Aymeric believes they need not worry about seeming rude.

The knight positioned outside offers the two men a nod as they take the steps up to the front doors, where one of the House Stewards verifies the invitation.

"Ser Aymeric de Borel and his guest--"

"Ser Estinien Wyrmblood of the Knights Dragoon," Aymeric supplies fluidly.

The Steward nods and hands back the invitation, bowing to the two men and gesturing them inside. The entrance is flanked with a servant on either side to assist them with their coats or check any other items they do not want to have on their person--a quick but efficient process.

Another manservant bows and leads the pair towards the main hall. They pass by a few other guests on the way, most of whom pay them no mind, though Aymeric trades a practiced smile and nod with a couple. The sound of music filters down the hallway, only to be nearly drowned out by the sound of talking and clinking of glasses. The two doors to the main hall are propped open and Aymeric steps over the threshold without hesitation.

A display of wealth and wealth of individuals are what greets them--small groups and couples standing all about the room, chattering and laughing coming from every direction.

"Well," Aymeric begins, inclining his head towards his companion. "This is where the challenge truly begins."

Edited 2020-10-20 20:36 (UTC)

Estinien regrets breaking contact shortly after having done so, the surprised look on Aymeric's causing a twinge of shame. It had been a nice moment, hadn't it? Nicer than what they are going to do now, but yet his gut turns, unwilling to accept it. And then Aymeric responds and his imbalance only gets worse.

It would not be.

Something about the way he says it immediately gains Estinien's attention. What does he mean? That it wouldn't be a waste of time, even if they missed the party? It could just mean that Aymeric sees value in teaching, even just for personal growth - that feels like the kind of thing he would say. He didn't mind taking the time to educate Estinien in the many ways he was ignorant, even if it was purposeless.

...But no, that was an uncharitable way of thinking about it, a bit of snippy contrariness that bubbles up to obscure the part he's really concerned about. Was Aymeric enjoying it, too? Well, of course he was, but more so than the dozens of other little things he did? More than the many ways he would patiently guide Estinien's hand through different facets of friendship he'd so pointedly ignored...

He gets so caught up on this point that he spends the rest of the walk thinking about it, glancing aside to Aymeric every once in a while before looking away just as quickly. Is he supposed to say something? Thank him for showing him that? No, that would be cloying, especially coming from him.

He only really snaps back to himself when he hears Aymeric declaring his full title for the doorman, a term of address that still feels new in some ways. Estinien Wyrmblood of the Knights Dragoon. It's exactly what he'd wanted, isn't it?

He lets the servants take his goat without even feeling ornery about it, staring at Aymeric's shoulder as he instinctively lags behind him. This is Aymeric's court, after all - one he is coming to know as well as the battlefield, if not better. He really would feel more comfortable pursuing Aymeric like some kind of fearsome bodyguard, and really it would give a better impression of his priorities. The sheer overstimulation Estinien is going through is present on his face, and something he has to actively bite down.

Where in the seven hells are they supposed to stand? He feels like every step might do something to unknowingly bring shame to his companion, the burden of which is only fully striking him now. If it were his own reputation it would be meaningless, but with his star tied to Aymeric's - is this what it feels like to have societal expectations bearing down on your shoulders?

"Where are those drinks you were talking about?" he asks breathlessly.

Estinien's aura is palpable. Aymeric himself is not an aether reader at all, but one not need be one to sense the growing unease from the dragoon. This, Aymeric knows, will be most of his night's charge, and not something he finds himself disinclined with. Estinien is doing him the favor of accompanying him to this ball in the first place, it is only fitting that he make sure his friend enjoy himself as much as is possible.

He would not have invited Estinien at all if he thought that the other man might leave empty-handed--nay, Aymeric is not such a glutton for punishment on either of their behalf. Though claiming the title of the Azure Dragoon is something of an earned right and acceptance of the Eye, making sure the High Houses are aware of Estinien's deeds and conduct will only work in his favor, in Aymeric's eyes. When the time comes, Estinien would be better off with their support, and his more recent acceptances in into the Knights Dragoon provides a perfect opportunity for that.

Of course he did not say as much, knowing that Estinien would be (rightfully) opposed to the idea of being pranced about for accolades. That is also not the sole reason for inviting him--

Truthfully, Aymeric just likes his company. Even if Estinien had not made the Knights, he was want to invite his quickly becoming closest friend at some point. Just, perhaps, not to an event this big.

"They should be..." Aymeric allows his voice to trail as a waiter stops in front of them with a tray full of wine glasses, and presented thusly. "Right here." Taking a glass of red wine for himself, Aymeric gives a nod of thanks to the help.

Once Estinien has received his glass and the waiter leaves them be, Aymeric's smile twitches upwards as he holds the wine out his friend for a small, but private toast.

"To a successful eve--"

"Ah! There you are!"

Aymeric's eyes widen, if only for a moment as his gaze shifts from Estinien to the silver-haired man approaching them widely spread arms and an equally wide smile.

"Ser Haurchefant." Aymeric's shoulders ease as he gives a polite bow before raising his glass and taking the sip he was denied.

"You did not think your arrival would escape me so easily, did you? Though I admit I had half-expected to see Lady Elsinne de Nourorault on your arm, I shan't say that this is a bad choice," Haurchefant says as he comes to a stop in front of the pair, a twinkle in his eye.

Aymeric nearly chokes.

Ah, yes, of course the alcohol is brought to them and not the other way around. Still, Estinien is grateful for something familiar about the experience. Even after their disastrous first effort, drinking has been a familiar staple of spending time with Aymeric. Estinien is quick to take his first sip, though he freezes mid drink upon hearing someone already beelining in their direction.

It's Ser Haurchefant. Estinien has no idea whether to be relieved or terrified, the man capable of being good fun and absolutely mortifying in equal measure. Given the first thing he says, Estinien is concerned it might be the latter.

He doesn't even know who Lady Elsinne de Nourorault is. He had thought that Aymeric was withdrawn from the courting process - has that changed since the last time they spoke of it? He finally lowers his glass. Did Aymeric really invite him instead of a noble lady...?

"Hm," Estinien says, making an ambiguous noise for lack of better words. He glances sideways at Aymeric as if searching for something. "I haven't been acquainted..."

All eyes seem to be on Aymeric and this is one such time he wishes it were not so. He takes a moment to clear his throat and compose himself, though his voice sounds a little hoarse when he finds it once again.

"A passing acquaintance..."

Haurchefant guffaws on cue. "Why there is no need to be so shy, Ser Aymeric! You had seemed well enough acquainted last moon."

"You misremember, Lord Haurchefant," Aymeric says, managing to sound both pleasant and stern at the same time. "You shared more than one dance with Lady Elsinne yourself."

"Ah..." Haurchefant looks dreamy for a moment, then shakes his head. "A fleeting fancy, as 'twere! It is not I who caught her most discerning eye." He taps his nose knowingly before turning on Estinien with a sudden flourish.

"Yet full glad am I to have you, Ser Estinien! Had I known that you would be so inclined to join us I would have begged father to send you a personal invitation. When was it that we last spoke?" Despite the question, Haurchefant does not give him the time to respond. "Too long, too long! And I hear that you have been fully awarded the title of Dragoon. A long time coming!"

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