𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐲𝐫𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
subsidence) wrote2018-04-14 01:38 am
subsidence) wrote2018-04-14 01:38 am
and suddenly my heart is wrung by his distracted air, and i remember wildness lost
[First he sat on the windowsill. Well, first, he made locksport of Aymeric's window, as ever. Then he sat upon the sill. He held the bouquet of flowers--hydrangeas, blue and white--in the crook of his arm, then reconsidered and set them on his lap. No, no. He held them at his arm again. No, no...
That's what he keeps thinking: no, no. None of it is right, not this nor that. He wasn't far into Ishgard when he thought it the first time, and thus he stopped to drop some gil into a girl's hand for the hydrangeas. He is still thinking it now (no, no) as he leaves the windowsill to pace about Aymeric's room. Here his boots are on the hardwood floor; here they're on the carpet. He mutters as he goes.]
I trust you saw me, as I did you--and I reckon you did not expect to see me again so soon-- [No, no. He shakes his head, paces in the other direction. Here his boots are on the carpet; here they're on the hardwood floor.] Weren't we a little busy earlier, the two of us, and I gather you have been busy for some time yourself, and I-- [No, no.
He passes Aymeric's wardrobe. He remembers the weight of their doors and he wants to open it now: he wants to press his face into the sleeves, to turn his face against an empty breast and feel brass buttons at his cheek. But, no. No, no. He's got to get this right.
He resumes his pacing.]
Evening, Aymeric. 'Tis a late bell you're coming home, but I've not been waiting long-- [No, no.] Thought I'd stop by with a gift--I recall your fondness for... Ahem. Thought I'd stop by with... [No, no.] Evening, Aymeric. Good evening, Aymeric. Oh, these? They're just-- [No, no. He shakes his head sharply, just frustrated with himself by now. None of this is coming out the way it needs to. Estinien breathes, and all the air is filled with the smell of Aymeric plus something fresh and crisp coming through the open window.]
Aymeric. I had meant--I had meant--I had wanted...
[His steps have stalled again, while a painting on the wall catches his sight. It has been there for years. Estinien noticed it during one of the first nights he spent in this room. Aymeric was asleep beside him, nightshirt unbuttoned, hand close to Estinien's but with no brushing of their fingers. Estinien would leave soon. But he stayed a bit longer to look at the painting. Aymeric slept, and Estinien looked at the little white stars that had been dotted into being by somebody's brush. It was Coerthas in Autumn--Estinien could tell what moon, even, just by the shade of the heather on the hills--and the sky was a washed-out lavender-grey. It was dusk, and there were just a few of those little white stars. He stayed long enough to count them, and then he left Aymeric's bed.
And, as much a fool as ever, Estinien has once more gotten caught up in that painting. It is only now that he notices the boots here on the carpet, now here on the hardwood floor--they aren't his boots. His shoulders go taut. He turns around.
Aymeric has come into his bedroom.
Estinien stands before him with the loose shirt of a traveler, with stained breeches and always, always with the greaves of a dragoon--and with an open mouth and an armful of fresh flowers.]
That's what he keeps thinking: no, no. None of it is right, not this nor that. He wasn't far into Ishgard when he thought it the first time, and thus he stopped to drop some gil into a girl's hand for the hydrangeas. He is still thinking it now (no, no) as he leaves the windowsill to pace about Aymeric's room. Here his boots are on the hardwood floor; here they're on the carpet. He mutters as he goes.]
I trust you saw me, as I did you--and I reckon you did not expect to see me again so soon-- [No, no. He shakes his head, paces in the other direction. Here his boots are on the carpet; here they're on the hardwood floor.] Weren't we a little busy earlier, the two of us, and I gather you have been busy for some time yourself, and I-- [No, no.
He passes Aymeric's wardrobe. He remembers the weight of their doors and he wants to open it now: he wants to press his face into the sleeves, to turn his face against an empty breast and feel brass buttons at his cheek. But, no. No, no. He's got to get this right.
He resumes his pacing.]
Evening, Aymeric. 'Tis a late bell you're coming home, but I've not been waiting long-- [No, no.] Thought I'd stop by with a gift--I recall your fondness for... Ahem. Thought I'd stop by with... [No, no.] Evening, Aymeric. Good evening, Aymeric. Oh, these? They're just-- [No, no. He shakes his head sharply, just frustrated with himself by now. None of this is coming out the way it needs to. Estinien breathes, and all the air is filled with the smell of Aymeric plus something fresh and crisp coming through the open window.]
Aymeric. I had meant--I had meant--I had wanted...
[His steps have stalled again, while a painting on the wall catches his sight. It has been there for years. Estinien noticed it during one of the first nights he spent in this room. Aymeric was asleep beside him, nightshirt unbuttoned, hand close to Estinien's but with no brushing of their fingers. Estinien would leave soon. But he stayed a bit longer to look at the painting. Aymeric slept, and Estinien looked at the little white stars that had been dotted into being by somebody's brush. It was Coerthas in Autumn--Estinien could tell what moon, even, just by the shade of the heather on the hills--and the sky was a washed-out lavender-grey. It was dusk, and there were just a few of those little white stars. He stayed long enough to count them, and then he left Aymeric's bed.
And, as much a fool as ever, Estinien has once more gotten caught up in that painting. It is only now that he notices the boots here on the carpet, now here on the hardwood floor--they aren't his boots. His shoulders go taut. He turns around.
Aymeric has come into his bedroom.
Estinien stands before him with the loose shirt of a traveler, with stained breeches and always, always with the greaves of a dragoon--and with an open mouth and an armful of fresh flowers.]