dutyroulette | The Next Morning (Francel & Aymeric)

But of course, Francel. [What kind of bastard would just make the guy he just had sexwith carry his gloves in the cold???]

They were beautiful gloves, however. They were lined with soft white wool, the outsides a handsome, familiarly-colored blue leather with metallic detail on the knuckles. He smiled down at Francel before catching himself in the reflective glass of a neighbor's mansion. He straightened his hair a little- it barely helped. He turned his attention quickly back to Francel, however.]

Should I take you to my tailor?

[francel puts those gloves on so happily that one might think he has never owned a pair of gloves before. they're a little loose in the fingers — not that the difference in size between aymeric and francel is so great, but merely that francel has uncommonly delicate hands — but the lordling certainly doesn't seem to mind in the least. on the contrary, it seems to add to his enjoyment of the gloves; he almost seems to skip down the steps out from the last vigil toward the jeweled crozier.]

Oh, I... I shall go wherever you take me, Ser Aymeric. I've not had aught properly tailored in some years. The bliaud I wear now is... is a hand-me-down from Ser Chlodebaimt.

[He let out a soft chuckle at Francel's innocent maiden behavior, but took on an appropriately solemn expression at the mention of the departed Haillenarte son.]

Then it is well time that you were given a suit of your own.

[He caught up with Francel quickly enough, offering his arm for Francel to take. It was a bit public, but his fondness for Francel outsized his general shame right now.]

What are your favorite colors?

[even francel hesitates at the sight of aymeric's proffered arm, but his long-held desire to walk arm-in-arm down the crozier with a beautiful man far outstrips any concerns he might have about not attracting rumors at the moment. smiling shyly, he loops his elbow in aymeric's own.]

I... I suppose I have always been partial to the House colors. Dark red and deepwood green... I think greens best suit the color of my hair. But, ah... in my youth I was often told that a navy blue might bring out the color of my eyes...

[A soft blush came over his ears as Francel took his arm. He turned his head to look into Francel's eyes, noting the color.]

Blue would indeed be a lovely color on you. [He smiled as he spoke. If his outfit and the interior of his home had anything to show for it, he was being entirely honest.]

But the other colors would be very handsome on you as well. There's hardly a reason to only pick one. A man needs more than one set of clothes if he is to attend the theater with any regularity.

[francel smiles, too, breaking into a boyish giggle when aymeric mentions other colors.]

You're one to talk! There is a reason they call you Aymeric the Blue, you know.

[they're nearing the crozier now, and... and children might be watching, but all the same, francel feels daring enough that he lets his head rest on aymeric's shoulder for a moment as they walk.]

...I would wear any color that pleased you best, though. Even, ah... sunshine yellow.

It sounds as though you don't care for it. I don't think I do either. That color hasn't an ounce of class. [His voice falls to a dead whisper as they pass a lady in the selfsame color. He presses a hand to his mouth, looking sardonically mournful.

They breach the Crozier proper now. Everything was in its proper place in a comforting way. And not terribly comforting as Emmanellain seemed to snap out of his hangover instantly and tried to lock eyes with Francel.]

Edited 2016-12-27 06:21 (UTC)

[aurvael and stephanivien are one thing. emmanellain is quite another entirely.

francel's arm jerks in aymeric's, but he doesn't quite disentangle himself entirely. instead, he... tries to just... avoid emmanellain's eye contact. that's a nice, polite way to indicate that he doesn't want to talk, right?

...he doesn't dislike emmanellain, especially not in the wake of haurchefant's death. just. please. go away. i will tell you everything later, just... go away.]

Edited 2016-12-27 06:25 (UTC)

[It is by the narrowest margin that Emmanellain does not approach. While Francel flails, Aymeric turns his head to meet the gaze with a peculiar smile. Emmanellain shrinks back immediately, but stares after the two. This would not be the last they would see if him. He settles for waving to Francel and a tasteless wolf whistle. ]

Quite a day already, isn't it, Lord Francel?

[Though they were through Emmanellain's gauntlet, there were clusters of slack jawed ladies and a few unemployed lords loitering about.]

Are you uncomfortable in the center of attention?

[by the grace of halone, aymeric's piercing gaze stays emmanellain from outright interrupting them, and francel breathes an audible sigh of relief. to their onlookers, though, it might be more construed as a sigh of dreamy pleasure, a sign of how intoxicating aymeric's presence might be...]

...I am fine, so long as I am by your side. Though I imagine Lord Emmanellain will corner me for some juicy gossip in few bells' time.

Would you prefer to elude him? You are welcome into my manor whenever you wish.

[Aymeric begins to pull him in the direction of the tailor, though gently. He leads Francel down a set of stairs and opens the door into a small, reasonably well lit shop. A duskwight of middle age looks up with pins between his teeth and smiles. He pulls them from his mouth and stuffs them into a nearby cushion. "Ser Aymeric! What a tremendous pleasure to have you back. Pray, look around, look around. I see that you have brought Lord Francel. Welcome, milord." ]

Good day to you, Hairrant.

[Aymeric gave Francel a knowing little grin before unhooking his arm to navigate the smallish space.]

Pick whatever catches your eye, Lord Francel. He can alter the sizing and color with ease.

Oh... Hello. Good day.

[apparently taken aback that the duskwight tailor has recognized him, francel seems somehow even less at ease than he was under the watchful gazes of the garrulous lords and ladies from the street. he pokes about the tailor's shop with the awkward timidity of someone who isn't used to buying things.

it's a ladies' fur stole that catches his attention, not for its color or its sizing but simply because it looks to be made of the softest fur francel's ever laid his eyes on. francel lifts aymeric's gloves from his hands just enough that he can feel the fur with the side of one palm, smiling faintly to himself all the while.]

How soft...

[Aymeric goes to look at garments on his own, imagining Francel in a variety of them. He pulls one down to show Francel and catches him touching the stole.] Magnificent fur, isn't it? You could have a coat lined with it or made from it if you desire. Lord Hairrant has his ways of obtaining the finest materials.

[Aymeric shows the garment to Francel. It is a handsome take on the bilaud, certainly with a more roguishly masculine cut and a handsome little half-cape.]

What do you think?

[francel blinks at the coat aymeric is offering him, taking it with a tentative hand — it is finely made and very handsome, to be sure, and judging from the half-smile that francel is trying to suppress, he likes it very much. still, he never wears the clothes he dreams about wearing!]

Why, it... it is perfect, Ser Aymeric, but... but I think it would suit yourself or — or a man more like the late Ser Adelphel than I! I... I fear I lack the charm and dignity for such a coat.

Don't be so cruel! Perhaps you could see your own charm and dignity were you to give yourself the chance!

[ He turns to the tailor- ] Sir, could you fit this to my friend before the evening?

[ The tailor nodded with a grin and led Francel somewhat roughly behind a curtain with his measuring tape. Meanwhile, Aymeric browsed for things to finish the outfit ]

Take his inner leg as well, Sir! I've found a beautiful pair of pantaloons...

[francel half-stumbles as he's led behind the curtain, compliant to the tailor's needs though he protests softly all the while.]

A-Ah, just a moment, please, Lord Hairrant — !

[in the end, francel's every measurement (every. measurement.) is taken without delay, his figure is complimented more times than francel can remember ever hearing in his life, and lord hairraint's swashbuckling grin is burned into his vision like the lingering smile of a cheshire-cat.

then — just as francel thinks it's all over, and he finishes putting all his clothes back on — the tailor comes back with aymeric's selections of coat and pantaloons and leather boots, all swiftly pulled to francel's size. so francel has to take all his clothes off again and change into that — and it's a strange feeling, to have such fine fabrics against his skin, and so many new clothes at once.

finally he emerges from behind the curtain in aymeric's chosen garments, looking neat and nervous and very handsome. it was a good thing, really, that he left before he could grab his hat; francel looks like a completely different man without his, and it flatters his looks all the more to be without it.]

Is... Is this as it should be, Ser Aymeric? Er... Lord Hairrant?

Oh, it's perfect, Lord Francel! [He claps his hands together in joy.] You look as though you could make all the ladies in the play house swoon.

[He says, with complete irony, as he himself was biting the side of his index finger to quell is arousal. His eyes betray him as he looks Francel up and down. Lord Hairrant grinned and gave a singular sharp nod.]

Magnificent. Lord Hairrant, please bill my account. Add whatever gratuity you see fit. [They exchanged knowing little smiles as Aymeric changes his coat for another. Lord Hairrant gives him a polite bow. "I shall make repairs and have it send to your home tonight with the receipt."]

Have you worked up an appetite yet, milord?

All the ladies...

[francel colors slightly at the mention of ladies, knowing full well that he's being teased. and if hairrant the tailor picks up on the fact that francel is quite obviously not interested in ladies, well — thankfully, he's too professional to show it.

still, it feels good to dress up for aymeric's amusement and stand there being admired as the lord commander looks upon his handiwork with pride. francel shines with an unmistakable eagerness to please as he shyly takes one pose and then another — then he laughs softly, and stops his modeling.

the ease with which aymeric drops off his old coat and takes up a new one — and pays for all of it — impresses francel, in a silly sort of way. is this how men of means should act? he wonders. is this how i should act?

but aymeric's question interrupts his thoughts.]

Ah... yes, very much, actually. Come to think of it, I have not eaten a proper meal since I woke. Er... aside from the wine we had.

[Aymeric half covered his smile with a lightly curled hand. Even though Francel was being playful, it really did exhibit the transformation. It was slightly mismatched, but in an endearing and attractive way.]

Hardly a proper meal. We had only a few sips besides! [He led Francel outside, holding the door for him as a proper gentleman would. He was lost in admiration for a moment. He watched his delicate expressions and elegant little movements. ]

Have you ever dined at the Damsel's Dungeon?

[Snow began to fall as they exited, the soft powder collecting in Aymeric's hair.]

[for all that aymeric seems to be enchanted with francel, francel seems equally enchanted with aymeric — he takes a moment to just stop and stare at the snow gently falling on aymeric's hair and shoulders. it's a moment before he responds to aymeric's query.]

Ah... the Damsel's Dungeon? I... cannot say as I have ever been there. I must say, that sounds a rather off-color name for a restaurant...

Aye, they take joy in it. It was once the inquisitor's headquarters over thirty years ago, though with the expansion of the organization, they needed a larger space. Besides, it was always rather unseemly when they dragged men through the Crozier to get there. It was entirely too visible of an affair.

[He realizes this is pretty dark....]

But my parents always took me there for celebrations. The new owners were always happy to see us. As a matter of fact, the head chef of the Dungeon is a retired Inquisitor! [He gives Francel a soft smile, trying to set a more palatable mood. He looks over his shoulder before he lowers his voice:]

There's a rumor that they hold exclusive parties in the basement, though I have never been able to attend due to my duties.

A restaurant over the inquisitors' headquarters...?

[at least francel seems more bemused than terrified of the prospect. he supposes learning to burn flesh might result in learning to sear good steaks...]

I-I suppose we might as well go there, especially if you are fond of the place. But I do wonder... being raised by inquisitors, why did you opt to instead join the ranks of the Temple Knights? I imagine your adoptive father and mother's influence would have served you well.

[having been on the receiving end of an inquisitor's ire before, francel shudders to imagine what a man of aymeric's... intimidating good looks could do to make someone question one's faith.]

I think you will enjoy it very much, Francel. While its reputation may have an intimidating aura, the interior is as reminiscent of any man's home. [He pulled his new coat close to his chest as the wind blowed, and he fumbled slightly with the new garment to close it properly.]

My parents believed that I did not have the proper nature for the work. They thought it would leave wounds in my heart that would never toughen into scars. [He placed an arm around Francel's shoulders, leading him towards an inroad between two other shops. The path was a strange width, as if it were unsure if it were a road or an alleyway.]

Father owed it in part to the fact that I am not in the lineage by blood, but he never resented me for it. Besides the now dismantled Heavens Ward, there was little room for promotion in the Inquisition. Father lamented the struggles for funding and jurisdiction from the Holy see. He hated it, in a way, and knew that I would too. Moreover, he wanted me to surpass him, and so he encouraged my interest in the Temple Knights.

[Of course he had additional reasons, but he didn't need to talk Francel's ear off this second.]

[francel listens with attentive grace, feeling cozy and snug between aymeric's arm. he pulls his one-shouldered capelet closer to his body, over his chest.]

...I suppose 'tis true that dreams of power tend to die within the Inquisition. For they hold power enough over their accused.

[there's a hint of bitterness in francel's voice. he doesn't need to hate the inquisitors, no, for the guillaime that killed his kin was a heretic in disguise and not a true inquisitor, but... but he is secretly resentful all the same.

suddenly, he blurts out:]

I — I am glad that you are the man you are.

My thanks, Lord Francel. You speak so sweetly of me that it sets my heart alight. I hope that I can properly express similar sentiment to you.

[He gives Francel a firm squeeze in his arm, briefly tilting his head to connect with Francel's. He knows that they have this bit in common, and wonders then how many people of Ishgard have suffered and survived the torture.]

[He remembers his own time in the Vault, his brow cinching as he shakes the thought.] It is a terrible feeling to think oneself is safe, only to discover that your tower is crumbling.

[He takes a breath, coming back down to earth.] Though I have my ties to the people, I have no love for the brutality of the work. The power they hold over the people is gained through fear and not respect. I truly hope that we can dissolve their ranks and assimilate them into the Knights- Or as culinary craftsmen.

[He finishes this thought with a small smile as they come up properly to the door. He lets go of Francel to open the door for him with a small bow and flourish of his hand.]

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