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Aymeric does not know what strange miracle of Halone's mercy this is, that twisted and ruined as he is now, he is allowed to be curled in bed, his fingers buried in Estinien's long silver strands, touching him with soft intimacy as his wild dragon sleeps. Not just allowed, but encouraged by the man in question, the touch not something he has stolen out of petulant distress at his new role or indulged in because he is too weak to stop his overly intense emotions from spilling out, unwanted. Threads of morning light seep in around the boards wedged in the window and, oh, he should sleep, or be planning revenge, escape, figuring out something to deal with all the wolves that surround them, but nothing can break through the fragile blown bubble glow of joy that hearing those hesitant words summoned around his heart. Let him savor it, just a little longer…
He wonders, in the haze of memory, when he'd crossed the line from thinking of Estinien the way as he had on first meeting, dazzled by skill and looks, all that confident ease and sleek movement. In those earliest days, Aymeric had believed the mask, like he never could now, seen and believed that perhaps the dragoon's heart had been burned from him and replaced with ice, as some recruits joked. But somewhere in there, after becoming friends, he'd had his first glimpse of the aching chasms behind that facade, the brutal depths of sentimental feeling and endless fierce love for his home and his lost family.
That, perhaps, was the true moment his feelings turned from a fondness, an obsession, into the germinant seed of a love that rooted and overwhelmed his soul. When he'd seen that the force behind Estinien's heart meant to reshape the world without ever letting on why and some keening monster from the depths of his own had let out a cry of longing that would never end without the food it craved, for all that wild power to include him among their charges. He would have sworn and thought it hopeless, Estinien too willfully blind to notice his feelings even when he was weak and grasping, when he failed to meet his own rules and restrictions. Aymeric knows his failures, that he let slip hints of what he longed for, in overlong glances and hands that did not move away fast enough, in the slightest throaty burr to words, in the way he jumped to read every time those eyes rested on him thoughtfully as meaning something, feeding the monster on scraps of delusion.
He'd meant to live out his days that way. He had no right to ask for more than what he had; what he had was of use only in what he could do with it, in any case. His name, his position, for all he knew even the skills of his body, could be traced back to lineage, to adoption, to what was pressed onto him. To claim more with the shame of being what he was; bastard, proof of the true corruption of Ishgard, another preening fool paraded above the harder working who have nothing… No. The best he could do was try and be the agent of preventing and undoing as much of his father's evil as possible and to do so without letting his heart blacken either. Within that, what right was there, to want from someone who had truly suffered?
When Thordan revealed his current hand and he'd been able to talk Estinien into leaving the city Aymeric had not known if in the days after he hoped more that he never saw the other man again or that he would, the honest worry twisted with the greedy poison of wanting. Disgusted with himself, he'd thrown all his attention and will into his work, into the city and the politics. Only to ignore Lucia's warnings and his own senses until he'd been dragged down by the undertow. Ishgard was lost in the shadows and he, well, he had been well on his way to becoming one of them.
If he had been poisoned before, now, he was rot and decay, a vile veil of flesh and sick spirit. No matter he kept some control. No matter he still did what he could for those less powerful. Estinien accepts his justifications for why he gave in to demands given and forced him. And to himself, he can not lie about that: he forced Estinien to his hand, claimed him with power and magic and his sick love, made him a bleeding and bound and still beautiful thing. All he says of his reasons is true. But it's true too that he'd dreamed of it aforetide, that he'd bond with him, and Estinien would understand, open his heart and body to him, and…
A ragged shudder shakes his form, and aware of the hypocritical nature of the gesture, Aymeric buries his face in the sleeping dragoon's hair, reminding himself that the pathetic daydreams of a lovestruck, lustful fool were not what led to this. Because even in his dreams, Estinien had never been like this, loving and jagged all at once, first bitter and sniping, then suddenly pivoting as he did in battle, protective and trusting. More than anything, more than life, more than Halone's grace, more than not being the wretch he has become, what Aymeric wants is to never prove unworthy of that miraculous trust, bequeathed even after he has engaged in the worst betrayals. To find a way to deserve the wild and thorny brambles of Estinien's love. A word he has not spoken, mayhap not even thought, but there are ways he knows the dragon-blooded better than he knows himself. This is one of them.
He had been close to fading away to shadows and nothing, until Estinien returned to him the ability to see the buried light that still lurked inside. For that, for their friendship, for the dragon-blooded's brutally clear devotion, and yes, perhaps because he is soft for how the other looks lit by moonlight, he is determined to keep fighting, to keep trying now to stay as close as he can get to the man he once was.