(no subject)

[mostheavenly]

It is, as such things go, an exceedingly boring party.

Republic though Ishgard may now be, the High Houses are still technically nobility and still afforded all the pomp and circumstance that entails, so when one of the more notable eligible ladies of House Dzemael gets married, it's the social event of the year and, of course, anyone who's anyone would be directly snubbing the house and all who live there to refuse to come. Even if that were not the case, certainly it would be foolish to miss it, considering how many deals are likely to be struck in side conversations, plans made out of the seat of government that will be carried into it in the coming days.

Aymeric feels like he's going to go hoarse if he has to talk much more than he already has and the combination of all of the politician nobles who want to speak with him and all of the unmarried ones who want to dance with him has him frankly looking for an escape route with a near desperate fervor despite the placid, attentive disposition he gives both categories. A slightly stumbling Francel de Haillenarte isn't the best of excuses, but any port in a storm.

"Excuse me, my lords," he ducks out of the conversation, dodges three requests to dance and makes it to Francel's side just in time to catch his elbow with a steadying hand before he can run into a server with a drink tray.

"Ah, just who I was looking for," he turns the young noble easily out towards the back gardens and starts to lead him away, "I have a few questions about the restoration project I've not been able to quite catch up with you to ask." It's an absolute lie, but it keeps the circling social coeurls away, hopefully for long enough to get them both outside, if the young man will cooperate.

Comments

[mostheavenly]

It is likely for the best that Aymeric misinterprets that wide-eyed look, even if it brings him some dismay to see it. He is aware, of course, that the gesture was intimate, but not that it could be interpreted with a different sort of intimacy than he intended. When he was younger, he'd kept the world at arm's length, never entirely sure who or what he could trust to get close and, as he grew older and his star went on the rise, he soon found that the rest of the world also seemed to keep him there. Francel falling asleep on his shoulder is the first time in a while anyone has touched him beyond the perfunctory social cues needed to make it through an event or a healer's touch after injury. It is an absence he has only noticed with it's presence and it leaves him very curiously loathe to give up the moment, even though the touch itself has passed.

He considers every angle of the situation he can see, which is just part of how his brain tends to work, whether the issue is political or personal, and that keeps him quiet for a time, long enough to be very slightly awkward, perhaps, except that it's so clear that he's thinking, working through something behind his eyes. Finally he simply says,

"He was my friend, too-- though I did not get the pleasure of saying so for nearly so long as you," a brief pause, less because he doesn't know what he's about to offer and more to give it it's space, "I've no chocolate, nor any hope mine would taste similar if I did, but perhaps mulled cider will do? A poor substitute, but you need not either pretend to make merry nor suffer alone."

[haillenarte]

[he was my friend too, aymeric says. it makes francel lower his eyes to his lap, contemplative. he thinks selfish thoughts and then wishes they were not so selfish. haurchefant had so many friends. so many people believed in him, wished him well, offered francel their condolences after they died. other people forgot that francel and haurchefant were friends at all.

he had so many people in his life, francel thinks. i had no one save him.]

...Mulled cider would be better for me. If hot chocolate were served, I fear I would not be able to taste it through all the salt in my tears.

[a self-sabotaging impulse in his heart makes him consider refusing the offer to go home and drink his way through house haillenarte's wine cellar, but francel knows that won't make him feel any better, and drinking at the forgotten knight will only make him feel worse. whatever may come of agreeing to drink cider with aymeric at borel manor, it at least won't end with francel sitting on his basement tiles, feeling worse than when he began.

tearing his eyes away from the sky, the young lord looks again at aymeric and smiles wryly — a fleeting thing that is gone as soon as it comes.]

Will Borel Manor be warm?

[mostheavenly]

"Warmer than a stone bench in a garden, certainly," it's hard to tell if that's a joke or simply wry, but he's helping Francel to his feet all the same. Aymeric knows a back way out of the gardens, though he offers no explanation on his own for it. If Francel can walk on his own, he lets him but if the young man needs the assistance even after his nap, he's more than happy to provide it.

It isn't very far from here to his manor and the streets are dark. It gives the night a bit of an ominous feel, perhaps, but it's also peaceful, a far cry from the revelry of the party. Aymeric gives all of it his space, will not break the silence until he's opening the front door and murmuring a few words to his manservant, who is either the only member of the staff or the only one still awake. There's a small sitting room just to one side of the door and he selects it less out of a sense of formality and more just because it's already got a fire going, presumably to welcome him home with warmth whenever he returned.

"Please, have a seat," he's still moving about the room in a manner that is charmingly similar to someone who is not used to having houseguests and has everything set for their liking and not necessarily a vistor's.

[haillenarte]

[it is an odd and slightly charming thing to be led by aymeric through the shortcuts of the city. francel supposes he shouldn't be surprised. a man who draws the eyes of everyone around him must surely have developed ways to move about unseen, but he feels as though he's being let in on a secret. his heart is a quieter thing than he would have you believe when he addresses a crowd. here — yes, this is how he disappears when the stage is darkened and the curtains fall.

borel manor is warm. not just in temperature, but in spirit. haillenarte manor, too, only has one aging manservant left to manage it, but its halls are cold and dark, the wallpaper faded. house borel, on the other hand, has decorated its home in merry blue, and the fires still greet their master and his guest with blazing warmth and not cooling embers.

francel seats himself in a slightly timid manner that suggests that he is used to trying to take up as little space as possible, be as little of a burden or a bother as possible. he looks around with an obvious wonderment.]

...This is all yours?

[an odd question, perhaps, but then lord francel has — had, rather, the third brother is dead — three brothers and a sister with whom he had to share space growing up, and perhaps he has never before considered that a manor can belong to one man and his servants and his cantankerous cat.]

[mostheavenly]

There is an intimacy to the entire thing that is rare from him, certainly, the darkened streets and shortcuts, the house with a waiting fire and a quiet servant, an arrangement here that speaks of solitude. He does not often allow people to see his private life, less out of any desire to protect it specifically and more because it is private.

And also because none have asked. Not like the simpering women at the parties, who only really wish for Aymeric's public persona. No one care about this side of his life, it has never been important, and so it has lain a quiet treasure to be found on a night like this one.

He chuckles wryly to the question,

"All three bedrooms of it." Clearly that cannot be wholly true, if his servants live here, which would be likely and customary, and it discounts that he clearly has a larger set of rooms to entertain in (though Francel has never heard of him entertaining) but the point stands-- even the smallest of the homes of the High Houses dwarfs his several times over. This is his and he has earned it, but it is small in comparison to the lives of nobility. "Not what you're used to I'm sure, but not bad for a--" he catches himself just in time, made somewhat careless by the air of the evening, "-- former military commander."

Not bad for a bastard, he means, but even though it's the worst kept secret in all of Ishgard and Francel doesn't seem the sort to use it against him, to admit it out loud to a member of one of the High Houses could easily be political suicide. Less so now, of course, if even at all, but old habits die harder than good men, it seems.

[haillenarte]

[for a bastard, aymeric meant to say. francel thinks it instinctively, too. he is no astrologian, no mage and no mind-reader, but he can intuit, somehow, the word that almost slipped off the tip of aymeric's tongue. it's not a secret, what and who aymeric is; it's not a secret, either, that the circumstances of his birth bother him, as they bother many people in ishgard. but why should we be bothered at all?

francel knows well the downsides to siring a bastard. the infidelity, the fights, the crying, the arguing. but aymeric's situation was different. vows of celibacy and true faith rarely go together, and though he knows how the old men and women in ishgard speak of it, francel sees little shame in being the son of an archbishop. he shakes his head.]

Your manor suits me just fine, Ser Aymeric. I am accustomed only to the little house on the hill overlooking Skyfire Locks, where my men kept their supplies in my foyer, and my kitchen and my bedroom and my office were all one and the same.

[the young lord almost leaves it at that, but some rare courageous impulse seizes him. perhaps the wine from earlier has loosened his tongue. francel relaxes a little in his seat, leans back in his chair, and murmurs with surprising nerve:]

And... personally, I find bastards better company than most men who are nobly born.

[mostheavenly]

Aymeric blinks, surprised, but then cannot help but laugh, genuinely, to that.

"Yes, well, I find myself unsurprised to hear you hold such an opinion, all told, given your seeming affinity for them," it's teasing, but there's a bittersweetness behind it, considering why they are there this evening.

As if called, the mulled cider arrives, without alcohol for Francel, though it's hard to determine if Aymeric's is the same, and he finally settles in a chair near the fire, fingers wrapped around the mug.

"It should make no difference and even less now. But we both know that's not true. I must do everything those in the High Houses would do, twice as well and with no room for reproach, even now. I must confess, battlefields were easier and, some evenings, it feels that they were less fraught with peril as well. But then, I musn't wish for that, either. What does one wish for, when one has ended a centuries long war and looks forward to attempting a centuries long peace? I know not, anymore."

He shakes his head, chuckles a bit and looks over at Francel,

"I should not say so. But I suppose I feel of the two of us, I likely have more blackmail material, now," there's a curve of his lips that says that's a joke, though the tone is so mild as to make it difficult to tell.

[haillenarte]

[francel's mug of cider may be non-alcoholic, and he has yet to take a sip of it, but he flushes as darkly as he might if he were in his cups when aymeric teases him. well, yes, haurchefant was a bastard, as is aymeric, but affinity is a strong word! pink-cheeked, he mumbles:]

It's not some kind of fetish...

[...well, that's his first thought out of his mouth, but he regrets saying it as soon as it's past his lips. now the tips of his ears are a little red again as well.]

I mean — that is to say — [he groans, plants his face in one hand.] How do I buy your silence?

[mostheavenly]

"No? Just a preference on whom you choose to use as a pillow?" He means from earlier in the evening and he's seen Francel leaned up against Haurchefant's shoulder before, nearly everyone in Ishgard has, so he doesn't realize there's a much more scandalous way to take that comment, or else he wouldn't have said it. A lighthearted comment that is half about one's own parentage is one thing, insinuating an actual sexual preference is another.

"You need buy nothing, Lord Francel. I spoke out of turn and perhaps in poor humor. I am not used to being able to speak my mind among most of the High Houses, these days. Perhaps I'm so taken with the opportunity to that I have lost my manners," he sips at his own cider after a moment, letting the warmth run through him.

"In all seriousness, however, I have no complaints over the turn the night has taken. 'Tis good to be reminded of what all of it is for, once in a while."

[haillenarte]

[francel says nothing for aymeric's first remark, partly because it would be impolite for this conversation to become something lewd, and partly because he's abruptly at a loss for words. suddenly, he remembers how brazenly his inebriated self had decided to just... flop onto aymeric's shoulder and sleep there. it hadn't seemed inappropriate at the time, but aymeric's admirers would tear francel limb from limb if they found out he'd been so sloppy in the lord speaker's presence! and then the touch to his hair... the gentle curiosity in aymeric's eyes...

embarrassing, embarrassing, embarrassing.

all the same, francel does not forget himself so deeply that he doesn't have a response.]

...It must be passing lonesome, to always work for Ishgard's benefit, with never enough time to spend with Ishgardians themselves. As people, and... not as needs.

[francel is not delusional; he's well aware that aymeric has done nothing inappropriate this evening. he's even more aware that, if high society has its say, ser aymeric will one day wed some woman who is suited to his station, and coninue the lineage of house borel, and leave a thousand jilted hearts disappointed. but all the same, there is a side of francel that remains hopelessly naive. the selfsame childish part of him that once offered haurchefant a plateful of pudding and asked shyly if they could be friends — it's that naiveté that drives him to ask, a little boldly and a little shyly:]

Might we — could we be — might we think of one another as friends?

[that's all he wants, really: to set aside this expectation of formality. francel feels himself being judged as soon as the question leaves his lips, however, and so he begins a pre-emptive defense that ends as soon as it begins.]

I... did not think your humor poor, and... [his sudden nerve fails him. he seems to deflate in on himself, cradling the mug of cider between his hands.] Oh, never mind. I am sorry. Surely the only lonely man here is me.

[mostheavenly]

"Friends..." the response is much more measured than other times Francel might have asked this question. Aymeric takes another sip of his cider and stares into the fire for a long time, more than long enough for Francel to flail around a bit.

"I cannot recall that I have ever had a friend outside of the military, or near as could be called so," it's clear the last refers to the Warrior of Light, "I cannot say I would even know what that might look like," he looks over at Francel, "The other Houses will presume you've done so to curry favor, you realize. It is a political matter, to be so. And besides," the look turns very slightly sly in that way he can do, with barely the slightest change of expression at all, "I thought I was cold-hearted and fooling the populace of Ishgard. Would you really want such a man as a friend?"

It's teasing, but it's... also not. He's not unaware that several less-than-kind opinions of him and his motivations exist out there in Ishgard. Francel is just the first person with the balls to say some of them to his face.

"It is possible to have people around you, even trusted companions and friends, and still find yourself alone. I take such times as tonight when and where I can get them. There are not many who would offer to speak to me as a man and not an office and fewer still offer without expectation of recompense," his tone clearly disregards even the possibility that Francel is doing this for personal gain.

[haillenarte]

I did not...

[francel tries, and then he falters, and he falls silent. aymeric is half-teasing, but he is also half-serious, and francel takes rejection harder than he takes hatred. of course. it was foolish of him to think that the things he said while he was in his cups would have been dismissed as naught more than the ramblings of a drunken man. foolish of him to think that anything would be solved like this, over cider and the crackling of a warm fire.

he wonders if he should excuse himself and leave, but then he reminds himself that he is trying to be stronger than this. that he doesn't want to run away from his problems anymore. he is still for a long moment, and then his throat bobs in his slender neck, and his voice comes out quiet.]

Might I explain myself?

[the warmth of the cider is seeping into his hands through his gloves. his shoulders slump as he watches steam rise from its surface.]

...After Haurchefant died, I was — angry. I could not... I would not have said it aloud. But I was angry. Not only with the Archbishop, but with the Warrior of Light, for failing to protect him. With myself, for being so powerless, so inconsequential. With the Fury, for taking him too soon. And with you, because he died to save you, and you... sent not even a word of condolence.

[and there are any number of reasons for that, francel is well aware. his tone is a little apologetic.]

I suppose you must have spoken to Count Edmont. I suppose I would not have heard of it. I was not... I was only his friend. What value has a friend, compared to a brother or a father?

[i think i was worth less to him than i thought, francel almost says, but he swallows it down. aymeric doesn't need to hear that — what it was like to have no one but the man who charmed everyone. but it shows, perhaps, in the way that francel speaks without lifting his gaze. he has the manner of a man who has never expected others to look at him and find themselves seized by anything save indifference.]

I knew you were a virtuous man. He would not have died for you if you were not a virtuous man. But I wanted to resent you. I knew you were not someone to be resented, but still, it hurt to watch you smile from a distance while that seat at Camp Dragonhead stayed cold. So beautiful, so honorable, and he died for you. I knew you weren't to be blamed, but I wanted to believe that you were just that selfish...

[he shakes his head.]

Inebriated or not, it was unkind of me to say those things. I am sorry. I did not ask for your friendship as a political matter. I...

[finally, he wets his lips with a little sip of the hot cider, its warmth warring unpleasantly with the lump in his throat. his eyes are wet with tears that have yet to roll down his face. he swallows a little too loud.]

I am sorry.

[mostheavenly]

Aymeric watches the emotions play across Francel's face and he's opening his mouth to speak when Francel starts, and so he closes it again, let's him talk, finish, cry, if he doesn't pause very long before doing so. It is... a lot. To process, to address, to think about. He takes another sip of his drink and considers his next words as carefully as he ever does,

"Do you really think so little of yourself, that when a man asks you if you are sure that you want the peril of his friendship, you think you are being rejected? My apologies. I thought for a moment that, perhaps, it might be appropriate for me to express my own insecurities on a matter and not have it be taken as an affront," there's bitterness there, how could there not be, but no sarcasm, it is a genuine apology, "I do not know how to be friends, Francel, and trying to be friends with me is to invite political opposition. I did not think you did so as a political maneuver, or we would not be having this conversation to begin with. But others will."

He takes a deep breath, sets the mug aside and fold his hands in his lap, staring into the fire.

"Haurchefant didn't die to save me. He died to save the Warrior of Light," the way he says it is abrupt, "and if he had not, none of us would be standing here. My father would have succeeded in summoning his primal and he would have come back here and destroyed or tempered anyone who disagreed with him and there would have been none to stop him. He died to save Ishgard... and to save someone he loved. I know not a better eulogy to give a man. Surely mine own will not be so sweet."

There is a silence, and then he continues, softer, tired, and some of the earlier vehemence finds a reason for being there,

"I don't know how long my former compatriot and the others in the Heaven's Ward tortured me and no one has seen fit to tell me for certain. Long enough for them to need to send for chirurgeons to keep me alive so they could continue. Beyond that, I do not know. I know, because they did tell me in telling me how foolish I'd been, that I walked all the stairs up from my prison to the roof with my ribs broken and one of my arms fractured. And what good was any of that? My words didn't reach my father and Haurchefant died in my arms. I've still no idea if I was covered more in his blood or my own. I did not rise to Lord Commander pushing papers around a desk, no matter what anyone thinks, but I have never... never..." he breaks off, finally, closes his eyes and takes another deep breath,

"No. I did not send any prettily worded, political condolences-- for you know well that that is what they would have had to have been. Not to you or to anyone else for that matter."

[haillenarte]

[do you think so little of yourself, aymeric asks, and the answer, burning to come out of francel's throat, is yes. yes, he thinks little of himself, he thinks nothing of himself, and even more so now that he is quite certain that he has in fact offended aymeric. whatever else he says, what else is francel supposed to believe? aymeric is telling him, implicitly, that he is being a fool. that he is wrong, and that he has been selfish. he has not considered aymeric's position, aymeric's suffering, aymeric's wrongs. but he knew that he was being selfish. he knew that.

any man would be angry, francel supposes, after being told that he was hated — even wishfully. yet what was there to do but be honest?

they aren't going to be friends. it was stupid of him to even try. he's ruined the evening with this idealistic nonsense.

he blinks, and something splashes into his mug — the sting of salt in his eyes, and only then does francel realize that he is crying. he wipes his eyes on the backs of his gloves; he is grateful that they come away dry.

to save someone he loved, francel thinks, cold and lifeless as steel, and then he sets his mug aside.]

...I should go.

[his voice is barely there, and it sounds like rust: hoarse, serrated, cut to the core of him.]

Forgive me, Ser Aymeric. Forget that I have spoken. Tomorrow, I will be your Lord Overseer, and we can put this behind us.

[mostheavenly]

The problem with Haurchefant, perhaps, is that he was unable to read into a situation, to find the unspoken, and so it remains unspoken. The problem with Aymeric, perhaps, is that he can read a situation too well, and nothing is safe.

"Did you think to unburden yourself of your own honesty and not receive mine in return?" he asks, simply, looking over at Francel, "I wouldn't blame you, if so. Understand, I have spoken to no one of this, not even Lucia. Was I wrong to do so now?" he looks down and he doesn't sound angry, he sounds tired, softer than Francel might have expected, given the rest of the conversation, "I thought, perhaps, that you meant it, when you said you wanted something of me other than the Lord Commander. But if I have given you offense, I apologize. It was not my intent."

"I had thought to offer some kind of solace, but it seems we're both too wounded to seek it properly," he stands, and offers a hand to Francel to help him rise. "Come, the least I can do is make sure you're safely delivered to House Haillenarte."

[haillenarte]

[francel stares at aymeric's outstretched hand and not his face, but he makes no attempt to take it, this time. he closes his eyes, a slight furrow to his brow. his pulse is coursing too hot in his blood. he has to will his voice not to shake, and his curled fingers pull the fabric of his gloves taut over his knuckles as they rest upon his thighs.]

You make assumptions of me, Ser Aymeric, that are crueler than I ever thought you.

[he has to take a breath. there is too much that is threatening to spill itself out of his chest.]

When I asked you for your friendship, it was because I knew you were not the kind of man that I imagined you to be, and if you had wanted solace from me, I would have gladly given it to you.

[still he sounds as though there might be a knife in the rust of his throat.]

But you have made your point quite clear. I am not worthy of you. Do not waste your time, then, with my safe delivery.

[mostheavenly]

Aymeric watches all of this, not exactly impassively, but without much expression. Truthfully, he is not sure what one he should make. Every last word of this is nonsensical and completely counter to everything he believes he has done or said since he walked in the door, but since it's so entirely outside of the realm of his own reality, he has no idea how to counter it or help in any way.

So he just stares for a long moment as the young nobleman just sort of self-destructs in his parlor chair for no reason at all.

"I... must confess, you have me at a disadvantage," he says, at last, "I've no idea what assumptions I stand accused of making, nor what I've said to cause such offense."

[haillenarte]

[at this, at least, francel looks up. brow furrowed, irises too-wet, a clawing lump in his throat. past the anger and sorrow, at least, there is confusion. how can aymeric have no idea what assumptions he has made, what offense he has indicated? was this not all a grand indictment of francel's character to which he admitted?

eyes narrowed, francel ventures, in a quiet murmur:]

...Do you not think me appallingly selfish?

[mostheavenly]

"What? No, of course not," it is too immediate of a reaction for it to be anything but genuine, even before the slight warmth riding underneath the shock in his tone. "You're undeniably the least selfish person I have spoken with all evening, I assure you." It's not really formal, but it still seems a bit cool to him for how thoroughly upset Francel is, so he takes a knee to put them back on more even footing, height-wise, instinctively correcting for any kind of perceived power imbalance without even being aware he's doing it. He hands Francel a handkerchief, because the poor young man looks like he's about to dissolve in tears.

"You're grieving," he says, more gently, "... and you're likely still a little drunk," he adds, but with a warmth, "But no, I don't think you're selfish in the slightest. I offered for you to come here so you could grieve. It is hardly selfish for you to accept what has been offered."

[haillenarte]

...Oh.

[this is not what francel expected, and it's worse, somehow, to have to look aymeric in those too-piercing blue eyes as he comes to this realization.]

Oh.

[it's still — a little comically — flat. francel accepts the handkerchief offered him like a confused child, fingers fumbling a little more than they should (perhaps he is still a little drunk).

he's misunderstood everything, then. he'd been under the impression that aymeric was rebuking him, has assessed him and gauged him and expected the worst of him. was he wrong? he tries to replay the conversation in his mind, but he's already half-forgotten what was said in the heat of the moment, which words cut the deepest. he thought he was done crying, but now the shame and guilt digs into him as if thorns and brambles have wrapped around his heart, and fresh tears turn his eyes glossy again.

this time, at least, he does have the grace to bring the handkerchief up to his eyes before the tears slips past his lashes.]

Then... then I am sorry. For what I have said, and for... for everything after. I'd thought — I meant —

[a great sob claws up his chest to his throat, and he half-hiccups, half-laughs for how ridiculous all of this has been.]

I-I'm sorry. I've been an idiot...

[mostheavenly]

"You've been grieving," he repeats and then, "Has no one allowed you to?" it's certainly possible that there have been societal pressures that would keep him from being able to do so. "You have nothing to apologize for, you've done nothing wrong." He smiles just slightly, a barest curve of his lips, "And if that assertion is not enough, then it has all been forgiven. Certainly, you've said nothing I haven't heard before a hundred times worse. I'm not a fainting damsel to bow under a bit of fair criticism."

"... particularly fair criticism from my friends," he adds, after a moment, "New though they may be."

[haillenarte]

[ordinarily, francel has better control over his faculties —

but it's the smile that makes him melt. with another little sob, he soon abandons the handkerchief in favor of throwing his arms wide and pulling aymeric into an embrace. not too tight — not too clinging — but an embrace all the same. he buries his face in aymeric's shoulder, and he lets himself cry.

perhaps he would not do this if in some respects haurchefant and aymeric were not rather similar. perhaps he has not mistaken aymeric for haurchefant at all, but is merely in that much need of someone to hold. who can say, and which would be worse?

what is unmistakable, though, is his faint murmur:]

I'm so sorry...

[mostheavenly]

There's an unmistakable jolt of shock that runs through Aymeric as Francel buries himself against his shoulder, but after a moment, he wraps his arms around him, pulling him there more firmly. It's not in any bid to keep him there, but just a weight, a security,

"It's alright. There's nothing to be sorry for. Shh," he reaches up and brushes back some of Francel's hair, almost petting him, and if the motion seems to do more good than harm, he'll repeat it, the motion clearly one intending to soothe.

This is not the first grieving comrade he has done this for, but it has been years since anyone has come to him for this sort of comfort aside for, once (and only once) the Warrior of Light, for the same man. He has no tears for Haurchefant, not anymore, but he has buried his friends before and will do so again, he has no doubt. He still mourns, but it is a different kind of mourning, between soldiers. This is still a comfort for him, though, to be able to offer something visceral, real, for someone left behind, instead of more empty words. He can't think of a better way to honor a man's legacy than to take care of his dearest friend.

[haillenarte]

[that gentle stroking of francel's hair seems to do him a great more good than even he expects it to. he reacts almost like a little animal, a timid rabbit perhaps; as he's petted, tension eases out of his body with another shuddering sob, and then he squeezes aymeric a little closer, with all the desperation of a man who truly believes he has no one else to turn to.

it does take some time, but after a while, francel's sniffles and sobs turn to silence, and he grows still in aymeric's hold. heaving a sigh, one that quivers in the air but otherwise sounds quite calm, he at last manages to speak.]

...Thank you, Aymeric. I think I feel better now.

[he draws back, a little, though not quite enough that he's let go of aymeric. as might be expected, his eyelids are a little reddened, but otherwise, he seems a little happier than when he began.]

I apologize again for putting you through all this trouble. Are... are you all right?

[mostheavenly]

Since it seems to more than help, Aymeric keeps up the soothing nonsense and the petting until Francel stills. Even then, he keeps his hand on the back of his head, letting him just curl there for as long as he needs. He really does wonder if there's been anyone else Francel could turn to in all of this. Has he been holding this in since Haurchefant died, or does it come and go still for him with this ferocity? With things as delicate between them as they are, still, on the heels of everything else, he doesn't ask, but he does mark the entire matter for more attention and observation in the future.

"It is no trouble, so you need not apologize," his voice is a little lower than normal, softer too, "I offered," he reminds him, "And I will be fine." There's a moment of consideration, "However, if you'll indulge me, I don't think it's a good hour to be sending a young nobleman home by himself through the darkened streets and I am very much not looking forward to going back out in the cold. Might you allow my man to make you a bed here? I will send word to your house that I kept you up too late with talk of the Restoration project and you fell asleep at my dining table."

[haillenarte]

[at this, francel has the grace to smile a little through his tears. he laughs, too — it is a little toneless, but only because his voice has grown stuffy after all his sobbing.]

They'll know I didn't fall asleep at the dining table...! But I understand. I would be most honored to avail myself of your guest room here.

[hesitating, the young lord lowers his gaze a little, almost as if half-caught in a bow, not unlike hanging his head in shame. the wry smile on his lips is contrite, however, and there is something apologetic in the way that he at last disentangles himself from aymeric's shoulders, hesitant, as if he isn't certain that they should be touching any longer.]

I am terribly, terribly embarrassed at how I have conducted myself tonight, Ser Aymeric. Truly. Nevertheless, I... was serious when I said that I was willing to be your solace. Pray forgive me for demonstrating it so poorly.

[shaking his head, however, francel moves swiftly on — perhaps too embarrassed by his conduct to linger on the subject.]

If it isn't too much to ask, might I also trouble your manor staff to draw up a bath? I am — [he gestures vaguely, apologetically, at what he feels must surely be a blotchy face, but which is little more than a slight reddening around his lashes and nose] — out of sorts, as you might imagine, and I think it would help me... pull myself together, so to speak.

[mostheavenly]

"Mm. I'd merely thought to save you the embarrassment of an admission you were too drunk to make it home yourself. I can tell them whatever story you'd like," he offers, then shakes his head again,

"Really, there is nothing to apologize for. We have both been drinking and no one in all of Ishgard has made it through the war with their hearts intact. We merely do what we can, while we can." The look on his face might be a little bit more tilted towards the expression when a puppy does something adorable than Francel would like, when he asks about the bath, but even so, it's probably the softest he's ever seen Aymeric look, his smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes just a bit more than he's ever seen from the man before, even though the smile itself is still the same mostly placid one he wears for everything, it seems.

"Of course," he sits back slightly and then rises, "Let me see to it and then I'll be back before I take my leave. You can stay here near the fire, if you'd like."

[haillenarte]

Yes... Thank you. I will be here.

[falling silent, francel sinks into a different chair closer to the fire, a little grateful that his mug of cider is still warm. it does not bother him that aymeric might think him no more interesting than a kitten toddling on short, unsteady legs — it continues to surprise francel that aymeric is willing to speak with him at all. ishgard does not turn on the whims of young lordlings with more family honor than coin, and francel is — in the end, francel is no one particularly important at all.

that soft look in aymeric's eyes hurts to think about, when contrasted against his earlier confessions.

it is only natural, in francel's mind, that he should find himself friendless — but aymeric?

quiet and pensive, his palms warmer than the rest of him, francel stares out of a blue-curtained window at the cold grey moon above, waiting for aymeric to return.]

[mostheavenly]

Aymeric is not without allies certainly, nor without people who admire him. But he's also so intensely political. In some ways, he's not allowed to have friends. When you're more an office or a symbol than a man and people rely on you to be that office or symbol to hold a nation together, it's difficult to just sit around and drink hot cider with someone.

Also, no one's ever just... offered before. What use does someone like Aymeric have for someone's solace? And even if he wanted to seek it, who could he trust. Truthfully, the only person he's really felt that connection to has been either Lucia, who isn't the sort to share cider and idle chats, herself, or the Warrior of Light, who, even when they lived in Ishgard, was gone more than they were there. There's nothing in this house to really suggest loneliness, it's warm and cozy and well-kept, but there's everything to suggest solitude.

"Everything should be ready for you shortly. Here, let me show you where your room will be," Aymeric's voice cuts through Francel's thoughts, pitched even softer than normal to not startle him.

The bedroom he'll be shown to is small, but cozy and the servant(s? He's still only seen the one) have laid out a robe for him at the foot of the bed.

"Someone will come and get you when the bath is ready and if you've need of anything else, you can ring," he points to a bell pull.

[haillenarte]

[how strange all of this is, francel thinks to himself — and how oddly thrilling, too. with a sort of boyish nostalgia, the young lord suddenly realizes that this is his first time staying at someone else's home in any capacity; his friendship with haurchefant never won him much purchase in fortemps manor for obvious reasons, and though he stayed the night at camp dragonhead from time to time whenever the snows out in coerthas were too heavy for him to ride back to skyfire locks, it was never quite the same as being invited to stay over.

shyly, francel walks into the guest room, looking around with some wonderment — then he turns and looks over his shoulder at aymeric, smiling faintly.]

Thank you, Aymeric. I shall endeavor not to impose on you overmuch. And... have a good night. I will see you in the morning.



[the bath is warm and luxurious in the way that unfamiliar soaps always seem somehow luxurious. when francel returns to his room in his borrowed robe, he discovers that someone — the borel manor manservant, no doubt — has taken his attire from the banquet, likely to be washed and laundered, but he isn't especially concerned. he draws the curtains enough to let in only a little moonlight, he blows out his bedside candle, and then he goes to sleep.

when francel wakes from dreamless slumber, he feels so comfortable in his bed that he almost forgets that he is in aymeric's manor — at least until he opens his eyes and sees his bed curtained in borel blue.

what is the appropriate etiquette for staying the night in another lord's manor? francel had greetings and bows and farewells drilled into him as a child; he doesn't ever recall being schooled in how he should act or dress in the morning. he wonders if he should get dressed, but his clothing from the night before has yet to be returned to him, so he supposes he must merely wait to be summoned for breakfast in his borrowed dressing-gown...

mercifully, the manservant's knock at the door soon saves him from his thoughts.

when aymeric comes out to his dining room for breakfast, he will quite naturally find francel there, staring pensively at his plate — but the young lord soon looks up and smiles.]

Good morning, Aymeric. Did you sleep well? I fear your sheets were so comfortable, I almost did not wish to leave them.

[mostheavenly]

Aymeric takes his leave quietly and leaves Francel in the silence of this side of the house, though it's unclear if the master bedroom is on the other side of the house or if there is more work to be done somewhere else. Either way, he doesn't see or hear Aymeric again for the evening.

The bath is surprisingly luxurious. A lot of the rest of the house seems more designed for comfort than to impress and though it's clear that no small amount of money has gone into the presentation and items within the house, it doesn't have the over-the-top ostentatiousness that a lot of the Ishgardian elite seem to prefer. The bathroom isn't actually ostentatious, exactly, either, but the bath itself is wonderful, large and deep, and whatever is in it smells wonderful, relaxing and nuanced.

It makes sense, if Francel thinks for very long about it. Aymeric has an office elsewhere and he's not throwing parties here. If there was a place to spend money, wouldn't it be to soothe a soldier's aching muscles or unknot a politician's tension? Still, it's probably a little bit odd to see it, like he's being let in on a secret.

Aymeric shows up for breakfast looking... well, not exactly like he's still asleep, but definitely entirely less put together than Francel has ever seen him. He's in his own dressing gown, which looks like a partially quilted, slightly more ornate version of the one Francel is in. His hair's a little tousled, as though he'd tamed if from being every which way after sleep but hadn't attempted anything else yet and he's just got that ever so slightly slower processing time that comes with not being fully awake yet, a lack of his normal, laser-like focus.

"Good morning," his lips curve just a bit into a smile, "I did, and I'm glad you did as well," he chuckles softly, "If you think so, you should see mine. It is only my duty to Ishgard that causes me to get out of bed in the morning." He claims what is clearly his usual seat and his breakfast is served shortly after.

[haillenarte]

[francel returns that same faint smile, helping himself to a serving of heavenseggs, a slice of toast.]

Your duty to your country is nonpareil, Aymeric. But few would begrudge you the occasional late morning, given that Ishgard is no longer at siege. Does not First Commander Lucia exhort you often to rest? You might listen to her words...

[inwardly, he is cursing himself for having put himself in this position. it is impossible not to notice how — how good aymeric looks, though he has no right to be, given the early hour! the lord commander's tousled bedhead merely seems wind-swept, and he fills out that dressing-gown well; by no means is it immodest, but his broad chest makes more skin peek out above his neckline than francel ought to be contemplating as an innocent houseguest.

for shame, he scolds himself inwardly. you are here as his guest; you promised to be his friend! and now here you are, looking at him with your common lusts and your carnal worship —

he tries to recollect his thoughts.his own borrowed nightgown fits well, if somewhat loosely at the shoulders; he pulls it more tightly across his chest in a slightly girlish attempt to stop himself from being so flustered, though it remains loose at the nape of his neck, almost like a hingan kimono.]

You do look... soft. You wear it well. 'Twould not be a crime to become better-acquainted with leisure on occasion.

[mostheavenly]

"Believe me, on my rare days where there is nowhere to be, I can easily sleep through lunch," it's hard to imagine. Or perhaps it's all too easy to imagine, right now, Aymeric curled up in quilts and pillows, sleeping through the sunlight slanting across his bed. "I do manage a break every now and then," he considers for a moment, "Ah... though mostly only when Lucia makes me, now that I think on it."

Seeing any expressions at all on Aymeric's face is something of a rarity, but Francel has the twin knowledge now that it is partially simply that his expressions themselves are quiet to go with the rest of him and partially a matter of controlling himself in public, as he doesn't seem to feel the need to, currently. The change is still mild, but the way Aymeric's eyes widen and his cheeks heat when Francel says he looks soft is definitely not a public sort of expression. He looks aside a moment later,

"I... ah... I suppose I should at that," it's very clear he's a bit flustered himself by the compliment, "I have had so precious little of it in my life, I worry I would not know what to do with myself."

[haillenarte]

[ Francel stares. He doesn't mean to stare, of course, and he hopes very much that he does not look as though he is gawping — but it's impossible not to be charmed by the slightly bashful expression Aymeric is wearing. The gentle touch of color to his face, as if some aesthetician's brush has taken the barest hint of powder to his handsome cheeks.

He has a sudden and somewhat violent urge to find out where this ends. Namely, this cannot be the Lord Speaker's first time being complimented in such a manner, so why is he reacting like this? What happens if Francel pushes still further? Is this a normal reaction for the Lord Speaker, or is something else afoot?

It can't possibly be that there's anything special about Francel in particular. Francel doesn't believe that. He believes, very strongly, that he is not particularly special in any way. ]

...Well, what do you like to do when you are not working toward the betterment of Ishgard?

[ Faintly, he perceives that one likely answer to that question is that Aymeric leaves himself little time for other pursuits; he blocks off that route with all the deft insight of a strategician. ]

Surely there must be something. Do you like to read novels, perchance? Listen to the music of an orchestrion? Play an instrument?

[mostheavenly]

In many ways, there is truthfully nothing at all special about Francel, at least in regards to where or how he fits into Aymeric's orbit. Perhaps, if there is anything, it is that there is something trustworthy about him, though whether that has spawned from some internal quality of Francel himself or just that his grief has left him vulnerable enough that Aymeric doesn't believe he has ulterior motives is anyone's guess. Regardless, what Francel is, is earnest, one of the first people who has ever sought Aymeric out for friendship that hasn't seemed motivated by political gain, but rather as a desire to get to know the man himself better.

Aymeric doesn't fully trust it yet, knows that it could all be a lie to get in his good graces, a different version of the fluttering, flirting women or the men and their false smiles. But he wants to believe it's genuine and so he is cautiously genuine in response.

It doesn't take Francel being special. It just takes Francel being real and there.

He considers the question for a moment, not overly long but long enough for it to be clear there's some real thought there,

"I do occasionally read or listen to music. But I usually just enjoy..." he seems to struggle for a word, "being, I suppose," he can't help but shrug slightly, give a little, helpless sort of laugh, "I know it sounds as dull as one might expect for a man who spends every waking hour in the fight for Ishgard's peace, whatever form that takes. I believe I'm rumored to have no hobbies or preferences at all. But... truly," if he looked soft before, he really seems to double down on it now, though he doesn't seem particularly aware of it, "I spend so much of my days in industry. I often find that, when I have a spare moment, it is an absolute delight to simply sit still for a time, to have a cup of tea and watch the snow fall outside or the people pass, and do nothing at all."