[it's so reassuring to be pulled into aymeric's arms again that francel almost cries from the happiness of it. this whole time he's been worried that aymeric would judge him for not speaking up to his family properly — for not declaring his love for aymeric from the start — for not saying anything against aurvael's disapproval...
francel buries his face in aymeric's chest and breathes his scent with a hunger that surprises even him.]
Of course. Of course, Aymeric! Anything you want. I love you — gods, how I love you...
[it takes several moons for ishgard to stop buzzing with talk of how young lord francel of house haillenarte moved from frigid skyfire locks to borel manor.
they call him ser aymeric's lover, but francel's learned to ignore the whispers when he's out on the street — he doesn't go out much, anyway. today, he stepped out only to pick up some costumes from hairraint the tailor; there's not much reason for him to go out unless aymeric is with him. borel manor has all the things he needs — a well-stocked kitchen, his library (of both naughty and presentable books), a collection of fine instruments, and aymeric — in the evenings, anyway.
mercifully, the cat stays out of his new lord's closet, which is about all that francel can really ask for.
in times long past, borel manor was largely silent in aymeric's absence; now it rings out with francel's songs. he's playing a rousing tune on the manor's harpsichord when the borel family manservant comes in. "forgive me for interrupting your practice, lord francel," the old man intones, "but ser aymeric has returned."
francel stops playing; he thanks the old man for his service. leaving the harpsichord open, he rushes from his music room to the foyer. he's made sure to make himself look like something aymeric will be glad to come home to; he is a vision in a pretty silk shirt with a green velvet ribbon at his throat, and dark leather boots in a matching shade of emerald.]
no subject
francel buries his face in aymeric's chest and breathes his scent with a hunger that surprises even him.]
Of course. Of course, Aymeric! Anything you want. I love you — gods, how I love you...
[it takes several moons for ishgard to stop buzzing with talk of how young lord francel of house haillenarte moved from frigid skyfire locks to borel manor.
they call him ser aymeric's lover, but francel's learned to ignore the whispers when he's out on the street — he doesn't go out much, anyway. today, he stepped out only to pick up some costumes from hairraint the tailor; there's not much reason for him to go out unless aymeric is with him. borel manor has all the things he needs — a well-stocked kitchen, his library (of both naughty and presentable books), a collection of fine instruments, and aymeric — in the evenings, anyway.
mercifully, the cat stays out of his new lord's closet, which is about all that francel can really ask for.
in times long past, borel manor was largely silent in aymeric's absence; now it rings out with francel's songs. he's playing a rousing tune on the manor's harpsichord when the borel family manservant comes in. "forgive me for interrupting your practice, lord francel," the old man intones, "but ser aymeric has returned."
francel stops playing; he thanks the old man for his service. leaving the harpsichord open, he rushes from his music room to the foyer. he's made sure to make himself look like something aymeric will be glad to come home to; he is a vision in a pretty silk shirt with a green velvet ribbon at his throat, and dark leather boots in a matching shade of emerald.]
Aymeric! Welcome home!