dutyroulette | The Next Morning (Francel & Aymeric)

[the house haillenarte manservant gapes for a good two seconds before he bows and scuttles off to find his youngest lord.

when the manservant finds him, francel is still in his bedclothes: a plain linen shirt that ends at his thigh. he blinks at the manservant's presence; he wonders what guest has come calling for him. he should have risen hours ago, but he doesn't know how to face his family — stephanivien caught him in the halls as he left the manor bedchamber he was sharing with aymeric, and though his eldest brother hadn't asked any questions, his reproachful stare said more than enough. francel ran away. he hadn't wanted to explain to stephanivien that he'd bedded a man — and worse, a very important man.

the revelation that ser aymeric de borel has requested his presence at the gates makes francel fly out of bed in a panic.

he gets dressed haphazardly. he's still pulling on his bliaud as he comes to the front gates, and he stops in the middle of his movements to just stare at aymeric, in shock and surprise and something vaguely resembling fear.

the sight of aymeric's handsome face brings all of last night's memories flooding back.]

Ser... Ser Aymeric? Is... is there aught that you require?

No, nothing really. I noticed that you left without this. [He pulled a familiar little unravelled turban from his pocket. It was neatly wrapped in on itself and tied into a tidy knot. His held it out to Francel with a kind smile.]

You left this at the party last night. I thought you might like it back, milord. ...Could I impose on your kindness for a cup of tea? My manservant has been ill as of late so I have relieved him of his duties.

[This was an absurd lie, but he found himself saying it anyway.[

Oh... this.

[that's all that francel's dry mouth can manage as he takes the turban back and looks down at it as though it's some horrid monster from the deep. he swallows to wet his throat; he tries to find his voice.

why is aymeric here?

he only dimly registers that aymeric is asking to stay. francel nods numbly. he hadn't refused aymeric for anything before; he sure as hell won't do it now.

but why is he here?]

I... yes. Yes. Of course you may. I shall instruct Civerege... please, come in.

[he steps aside to let aymeric in through the front doors.]

[Aymeric gives Francel a warm squeeze to his shoulder He whispers, only just realizing that maybe his presence wasn't so wanted.]

Is this a bad time, Lord Francel?

[The halls were grand, the archways beautiful, and the ceilings lavishly high. He figured it must fortune to even keep this place heated. He had been inside nearly all of the noble homes in Ishgard, but he still took pleasure in looking at them. His home almost seemed modest in comparison.]

[word on the street is that house haillenarte's coffers are empty, and it shows in the corners of haillenarte manor. some parts of the manor, francel knows, have not been dusted in weeks. chlodebaimt's room, upstairs, has remained wholly untouched for years.

but even in a state of relative neglect, haillenarte manor shines more brightly than the manor of any lesser house. the halls are grand, the archways beautiful, and the beauty of the rose garden at the center of the house is unrivaled. francel does his best to project a certain sense of pride about letting his one-night-stand into his house... and yet, he still feels incredibly awkward.]

No. No, I had naught better to do. I simply... I thought you would not wish to see me. Not after...

[he doesn't get much further than that before he's interrupted. lord aurvael, secondborn of the haillenarte sons, calls out to both of them from the end of the hall. "francel?" he asks, and then, more confusedly: "and is that... ser aymeric of the house of lords?"

that's genial enough, but his voice takes on a slightly patronizing edge when he asks, "why, what business could you have with him, dear brother? forgive me, ser aymeric — we would have prepared a more lavish welcome had we known of your arrival."]

You left in such a hurry from the event. I was afraid you'd been... hurt. We had such fun- at least I had hoped you felt similarly. [his expression takes on a genuine bit of worry. He turns to address the second born son briefly and politely, though he doesn't appreciate that tone of voice. How unkind into ones own flesh and blood, he thinks.]

Nay, forgive me, I am imposing. You are kind enough to allow it, but do not apologize to me for my rudeness.

[His expression takes on one of brief shock as they thought comes to him. He says this as quietly as he can manage: ] Forgive me if I have assumed incorrectly and been foolish. I can take my leave immediately if you prefer it.

No, no — that is — I appreciate your company. I am glad you came. ...Please don't leave.

[try as he might, francel can't hide the vulnerability in his voice when he utters that last phrase. still, he maintains a stoic exterior as he turns back toward aurvael and bows deeply.]

Ser Aymeric and I will be fine, Aurvael. Pray, leave us to our own devices.

[aurvael raises his brows, but does as he is told, murmuring some polite excuse as he returns to his room. francel turns his gaze back to aymeric.]

...Forgive me. I simply, ah... I am not typically asked to spend more time with someone. Less time, more like...

[His expression brightens with that vulnerability. It's sweet and genuine.]

[He can't help himself, he laugh.]

What an honest admission, Lord Francel! [He places a reassuring hand on his shoulder and gives it a small squeeze.]

Mayhap you simply haven't allowed yourself to shine as brightly as you did last night. Let us have our tea. Have you suffered any bottle ache from the festivities?

Last night...

[francel blushes to even recall last night... but the positive reinforcement provided by the hand on his shoulder bolsters his spirits. unconsciously, he leans a little closer to aymeric as they walk through haillenarte manor. to the outsider's eye, they might look like two lovers on a romantic stroll.

they walk to the drawing-room — not unlike the one in fortemps manor, albeit with fewer chairs and rather more tables. francel did not, in fact, get the chance to tell civerege to make tea, but the manservant seems to have gone ahead and done that anyway. apparently, aymeric's reputation precedes him — a little bottle of birch syrup has been set beside one of the pretty white cups.]

...I feel fine. Truly, you needn't worry for me so. I... thought you might not like to wake to find me beside you, so I took my leave and — and I slept here, at home.

[a pause, and then he admits, very quietly:]

...But I enjoyed myself. With you, I mean.

[Aymeric takes a seat at the table, happily making his own cup of tea. He preferred to, anyhow. The amount of syrup in a man's tea was personal, and even his own manservant put in too little. ]

Perhaps it was wise to not be discovered in such a state- the rumors would certainly have made it to your doorstep by now. However, I enjoyed your company as well- and hoped that I might take advantage of the current recess in the House of Lords and Commons.

[he sips his tea with apparent delight. Each of his movements graceful, his expression at the parlor table were very honest. ]

What of you, Lord Francel? Do they still demand your presence in the camps these days?

[francel watches aymeric from across the table, suddenly struck once more by the lord commander's (now the lord speaker's) almost-obscenely handsome features. the man's grace and good looks are not lost on francel. he feels strangely nervous. but what is there to be nervous about, he asks himself, when we have already bedded each other?!

a great many things, apparently, and francel's hands shake a little bit as he reaches for his own cup of tea (sweetened, also, with sugar and milk instead of syrup).]

A-Ah... no, I... actually, I took a leave of absence. After... everything that happened, my knights felt it was best that I returned home for a short time. I had forgotten how very many social functions there were in Ishgard. The Saint's Wake ball was my, er, perhaps third in that week.

[he takes a sip of tea to still his beating heart.]

...I suppose I really should return to the frontlines.

[Aymeric watches Francel's hands, noting the shake. He listens with the rapt attention befit of a man in his office. He gives him a solemn nod. ]

At his memorial, I heard of your life long friendship. My deepest condolences.

[He tries to make eye contact.]

There are times when we must drink ourselves into the next moon. [He places a hand on one of Francel's and gives him a brief yet firm squeeze.]

Is there truly need for you in Coerthas? I ask not to be unkind. The end of the war and the alliance with the rest of the city-states has allowed us unforeseen possibilities. With your youth, there is so much yet you could do besides guard duty.

[francel's hand continues shaking beneath aymeric's. he hates himself, suddenly; he wishes that he could exert control over himself, that he could stop himself from trembling like some lovelorn lamb under the weight of aymeric's gaze.]

...Is there?

[he doesn't quite meet aymeric's gaze.]

...I have never been good at anything, Ser Aymeric. If ever I had dreams or ambitions, they are now long gone. I know not what to do in this... this peaceful world.

Truly? I must offer mine apologizes for being so contrarian in your home, but I cannot believe you. For years in my temple knights training I had neither the time nor the energy to go dancing, though I ended back there through mine own effort and determination. It is important to me for my happiness, as strange as it must sound. I desire the sociability, the expenditure of energy, and the art of it. There is that need within every man's soul, Lord Francel.

[He releases Francel's hand to wave his own in the air]

Never you mind if you are good at it! What matters most is if you derive some pleasure from it. Skill follows action. I believe true talent to be mostly folly. Do you have any interests that you hold more dearly than others?

I...

[francel wavers. his self-loathing is no small thing, but the warmth and kindness in aymeric's words are so tempting that it makes francel's heart ache. suddenly, francel finds his entire worldview doubted.

is he allowed, really, to want it? is it really possible for him to believe in a world where it's okay for him to fail so long as he enjoyed himself?]

...Can you promise that you will not laugh?

[francel finally lifts his gaze toward aymeric's, fixing him with a vulnerable, pleading look.]

I... I have always enjoyed... music. The performance of music, the writing of music... It has long been my heart's desire to compose something so powerful that all can hear the love in every note, and then to hear it performed by a grand orchestra...

[his voice quavers. he looks as if he might cry. it's a strange feeling, to talk about his innermost feelings with a man he met only a few times before.

and. bedded.]

...You must think this a... a foolish dream. A stupid dream. Even Haurchefant never took me seriously when I... when I spoke of it...

Now, why would I laugh? [His eyes flash true sympathy, a twinge of pain crossing his face as he hears Hauechefant's name]

What good is dance without music? We would all look like such jesters using old pieces. I've great respect for my contemporaries.

[He gave Francel a cheerful smile before his eyes darted towards the door. He saw no threat, but he still spoke quietly.]

Your sense of rhythm is wonderful, after all. I would love to hear something you've written or would care to perform for me.

[He offers a brief respectful silence before speaking.]

Ser Haurchefant for all his goodness and valor lived in a world still obscured by the lies of our forefathers. I am sure you do not think ill of him, but a knight's duty is singular and consuming. It would be hard for him to understand without seeing it.

[ah. that does it.

it's hard to tell whether francel's tears come from the compliment aymeric paid him or the comment about haurchefant. but they spill over before he can help himself and he reflexively brings his gloved hands to his eyes but it's too late — his long blond lashes are wet with tears.

he's not sobbing or anything; he's just crying, a little bit, and when he tries to reach for his voice it comes out strangled and soft.]

...I do not wish to speak any further of Haurchefant.

[Aymeric stands quickly to move to his side, a hand on his shoulder and a hand in his hair. He speaks softly, his expression pained.]

I am so terribly, terribly sorry, Francel. How thoughtless. How absurd- I should have known better. Should we retire somewhere more private? Or is this alright...? Should I go or would you prefer my company, as terribly as I have misstepped?

[This.... He really should have known better. Had he really become so numb to death? Surely not, but his depth did not match others with their personal ties.]

I'm fine — I'm fine, truly...

[francel wipes his tears; his eyes come out dry. but then, after another moment, more tears well up to replace what he took away — and he has to wipe his eyes again.

he feels a horrible sense of shame. of guilt. he's too old to be crying like this. he needs to stop. but the more he tells himself to stop the more he thinks about all the other times that people have told him to stop, and then he can't stop, he can't —

his hand catches in the soft blue folds of aymeric's clothing before he can help himself.]

Please — please don't go. I-I don't wish to be alone right now, I...

[their tea is going cold. this is all so ridiculous.]

I'll be fine. Please — just — give me a moment, pray. That is — I beg you.

I will stay right here.

[He does, afterall, feel an overwhelming sense of guillt regarding Haurchefant's death.

Had the Bishop not been his father.

Had he been more featherfooted, more careful, less blind. It surely would not have happened. A thousand times in his mind Haurchefant had died in his arms, after all. Who would he be to begrudge Haurchefant's dear companion his tears?]

It's alright, don't fret. The tears come whether we bid them or not. I think no less of you, milord. I would be lying if I told you I haven't been overcome by the tragedies amongst our sparse fortunes.

[He's already forgotten his tea, now.]

[francel sniffles, turning his head so that the hand in his hair suddenly becomes the hand in his cheek. he's not even crying for any particular reason anymore — he just can't bring himself to stop, and it frustrates him to think that he has such poor control over himself. he sighs and rests his head in aymeric's touch. he tries not to think about haurchefant. he doesn't want to think about haurchefant anymore.]

...Could I — could I do something rather — rather shameful?

[very slowlly, francel reaches out and presses himself closer to aymeric until his arms are wrapped around the older man's broad shoulders and they are locked in a tight embrace. he breathes deeply of the man's scent.

good. this feels... good. this feels relaxing.

he could never bring himself to do this with anyone else — not stephanivien, not their father, not laniaitte.]

...I'm sorry.

I cannot accept an apology from you, Lord Francel, you've noting to apologize for.

[Aymeric moves and wraps his arms around Francel too in a mirroring motion. When was the last time he'd truly hugged someone? Besides the lustful holds and cloying embraces he'd had with Estinien and nameless nobles...

He was coming up blank. Perhaps he'd been a child the last time.

He leaned in and savored this. He buries his face in Francel's hair, shielding him from the world for the moment. He speaks so that only francel can hear.]

Forgive me my gluttony, I would repent later with you if you would like, but I think we should take a bottle of wine away into a room with a door.

Mm...

[with that soft hum of assent, francel pulls back, looking a little less teary-eyed, though his lashes are still wet and his nose is still a little red. he sniffs.]

I... Truth be told, I already had some wine in my room ere you came. Please, it's just this way...

[leaving the remnants of their tea to the undoubtedly puzzled manservant on hand, francel leads aymeric to his room on the second floor. at some point, at least, francel must have been beloved by his parents: he has, easily, the best room in the house, with plenty of space and a balcony overlooking ishgard. the room is nothing like the shack he lives in at skyfire locks. but it's almost as if there's too much space — the only furniture in the room is his bed, a table, some chairs, and shelves of books that line the walls.

it's easy to imagine francel as a child in this room, with piles and piles of books laid out on his spacious bed. at the same time, it feels almost unbearably lonely.

francel pulls the chairs to the table, where, indeed, a bottle of wine rests on its surface. it's not exactly a luxury wine befitting a lord of the high houses — one would struggle to imagine lord (count) artoirel serving aymeric this wine — but it's a good year from a good brand, and francel seems to do a lot of drinking in his room.]

Is this to your liking...?

[Aymeric cracks a broad smile.]

It is head and shoulders above what I would drink in active service. You should have seen the swill we drank on rough nights in the Forgotten Knight. It almost creates its own sort of poetry. Nothing a bard would bother to repeat, but it was our lot.

[He turns to look around soaking it in.]

Your room is beautiful. If we moved the table, we could dance unimpeded! Have you glasses, or shall we drink from the bottle like a couple of miscreants?

[His tone suggests that either would be just fine.]

Edited 2016-11-15 03:57 (UTC)

[francel laughs, shyly and sweetly, with a slight hiccup that hasn't quite left his chest since he started crying.]

Oh, a bard can sing of anything so long as he has the tune for it. For that, perhaps, one might write...

[francel hesitates, then plows on, to the tune of a well-known drinking song, though his rhyme is original; his voice shakes a little as he begins, but he works hismelf to a rousing finish.]

♪ And in the tavern walked a knight
Intent on claiming some respite! ♫
♫ On day-old bread and week-old ale
He dined — thus ends our hero's tale. ♪

...That was a silly ending, was it not? Forgive me, I could not think of aught more fitting.

[while singing, he was looking around the room for spare glasses, but there's only the one that he set out for himself.]

Ah... It seems we've just the one glass. I could pour myself a drink, and bid you drink out of the bottle — or vice versa, but...

[a shy but impish grin claims francel's mouth before he can think otherwise.]

Why don't we share the bottle? Like schoolboys in the seminary... or, well, a pair of schoolboys that will be duly punished in the name of the Fury, I suppose...

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