Chapter Text
As much as he oft missed the snowswept mountains of his childhood home, Estinien much enjoyed travelling by sea. It was an opportunity but a few Ishgardians had, cloistered within the city's walls, and thus was he grateful for it.
Setting sails had ever been his favorite part, for there was naught else the dragoon enjoyed more than to feel the wind behind the ship's sails, steering them towards stranger horizons. This particular ship was bound to Radz-at-Han, and her captain was none other than Carvallain, with whom Estinien had had the pleasure to voyage with a few times before. With his infamous navigator on board—a sibling to the Warrior of Light themselves—the voyage promised to be entertaining indeed.
In the course of his many wanderings, the dragoon had travelled with friends before, old and new—but as fingers gently laced with his own, Estinien realized it was the first time he ever made a seafaring journey with Aymeric.
He turned to face him, and stood bewildered. Aymeric was gorgeous, as was his wont; clad in blue—of course—yet wearing breathable garments to accommodate a much warmer weather. His thrice-damned beautiful, beautiful blue eyes looked resplendent in the sunlight—matched in color only by the purest of azure skies—and Estinien had to look away for a moment, lest he be blinded by his radiance.
“I begin to understand why the minstrels speak so fondly of the sea in their songs,” Aymeric declared, staring at the endless horizon beyond the vast expense of water. “And why you spend so much time away from me.”
There was no resentment to be found in the space between his words; they had found creative ways to make their relationship work with all that separated them—their duty ever to be served in opposite manners, the Lord Commander within Ishgard’s walls, and he without.
Estinien had once wished things were simpler between them—but years had passed, and their love had endured all the same. He could practically hear the mischievous smile in Aymeric’s words before he saw it for himself.
“Surely the Lords and Commons would allow more visits to the esteemed Satrap of Radz-at-Han to be made? All in the name of diplomacy, of course.”
Aymeric came nearer, so much the dragoon could count all of the freckles on his face, and his hands absentmindedly fell on his waist. It felt as simple as breathing to kiss him right there—it tasted like saltwater, dried cornflowers, and newfound adventures under the setting sun.