#eggpens

“you said it was from your grandmother?” 

“mhm. heirloom. it’s outlived so many of us—like a good luck charm of sorts.” she grinned, wielding the rosary higher above their heads. the midday winter sun was caught in the intricacy of the mythril and silver chain, an image of halone at the center of the cross. truly, the shine reminded him of her eyes. 

“...though whether or not it truly works is another thing entirely.” she lowered the chain onto his open palm with a subtle clink.

“it fits you.” his eyes were still half-lidded—sleepy like the smile he gave her, as his fingers closed around the cross-pendant.

“of course it does! i wouldn’t wear it everyday if it didn’t.” a confident sway of her head, and the curtain of ash-blonde that fanned with it. even unbrushed with her religious routine of one-hundred strokes, it was lovely—as was the whole of her, unkempt and newly-risen, still untouched by what grime and gore the fury would ask of them again—as was the nature of their damnable profession.

“few things don’t.”

“you flatter me.” 

“you know i don’t mean to.” if anything, she would always count on him for his honesty.

“but you are a suitor. and a suitor is wont to wile with words so sweet and shallow.” the thread of her words became like the prose of scripture once more—the very scripture she detested. but euphemie was more fond of irony—and so she took the style for her own devices.

“you must forgive me.” from the side of the pillow where he lay, head turned to face her, he smiled wryly.

“i’ve never…pursued anyone in the past.”

“one could hardly tell.” she leaned in close, elbows propped atop the mattress and chin cradled in her palms.

“there’s usually a lot more deception involved, but you? hardly.” their noses were close to touching.

“it is our wont as dragoons to encounter peril every way we look. as if i’d allow myself to cause you more harm…” the cadence of his words fell to a comfortable mumble as he brushed a wayward strand of hair from her eyes. 

“…it’s almost as if chivalry found itself a vessel.” she sighed dramatically.

“thank the fury i know it not to be wholly true—or i would’ve thought you insufferable. you know how insufferable i can be—at least, that’s what the others say.” she rolled her eyes and shrugged as he chuckled, and moved to sit up on his side of the bed, careful to place his pillow closer to the headboard. unlike her, he was used to making his own bed in the morning. 

as she rose to part the bed-curtain in full, she became aglow in the morning sun: illuminated, as if in the image of the fury herself. but in place of stone was tangible flesh, moon-white scars that shone almost pearlescent when wet—the way her knee fell atop the mattress as she reached for the drawer of her nightstand, one hand in her hair as she sought what must have been her hairbrush—

“...shouldn’t you be heading off somewhere, captain?” he was at a loss for words when their eyes met, and he could only manage a nervous cough as her dimples rounded with an ever-growing smile. angelic was her countenance, and the descriptor only rang truer in light of all it had persisted through—all it had endured. haldrath had seen many a fair face in their city—but euphemie stood apart from them all, for what she believed in and how she went about it—

being so partial must have come from being in love, he thought.

“...you almost forgot.” the sharp cold pressed to his palm was his salvation, offering the rosary with its chain neatly coiled in his grasp.

the lieutenant blinked, and the spread of her lips ceased—bending ever so slightly at the waist towards where he stood on the opposite side of the bed. But instead of simply taking it, her head lowered, too—she wanted him to do the honors, returning it to where it lay close to proximity to her heart for the better part of the day. 

(he never thought he’d find himself envying halone, and yet.)

with her so close, he took his chance to steal a kiss, the chain light on his fingertips as he delayed letting it—and her—leave his grasp. the want was mutual, as her mouth sought his in bittersweet warmth, though at the first temptation to send them back to bed he broke the kiss with a sigh, her fingers threading through his undone hair, the cross-pendant pressed tight between the rise and fall of their chests.

“...’ve a good day.” she managed to whisper, though her eyes betrayed the nature of her words.

“...i’ll need to leave again soon.” 

“where?” his brow furrowed. there were many reasons that signaled her lie, her half-truth—regardless of what it was archombadin knew it all to be the same: deception. he would’ve thought her to know better. after all, it hadn’t been so long ago that they—that she—had uncovered the greatest deception in their lives. he could always count on douceline to be sincere, and he liked to think he was one of those who could see right through her when something else was on her mind.

“...dou. what’s happening now?” archombadin couldn’t hide the growing irritation in his voice. it wasn’t meant for her. rather, whatever it was that would inevitably cause her strife once more—these days it seemed like all of eorzea wanted something from her, at the risk of—well, everything. the two of them had discussed her obligations before, face to face and over the linkpearl and through countless letters that he kept locked in a lacquer box she’d sent his way from her time in kugane—

it had to be one of those things easier said than done. 

“...sharlayan. i told you about what happened at stillglade fane…” focused were her eyes as she raised her head to look at him once more. this time, he sensed nary a breath of hesitance—the way he wanted it, the way he knew her to be.

“...with leveilleur.” he nodded. 

“they have the answers. whether or not they’ll tell us, we’ll find out.” douceline’s breath fell to a hushed whisper as he felt the gravity of her situation, the drum of her heartbeat—and his own mimicked in turn, right down to what weighed heavy on his chest—pure, wretched trepidation. he would have to settle for the faint scent of lavender on dried ink, for the crackle that came with her voice from malms and mountains and seas away. 

“...this is a purely diplomatic visit, is it not?” it slips off his tongue too fast for him to think—foolish, utterly foolish, and he knows that—but the repercussions, he thinks, are worth the risk. the rising desperation that suddenly made it difficult for him to even raise his tongue was at a boiling point. archombadin would simply be at home and await their next correspondence, all the while managing the affairs of the dorm and the student body along with the others. he knew this, he’d lived this, and yet—

(he doesn’t realize his gaze has fallen from her dusky-rose hues and onto her pendant—his earring—chipped from her encounter with the crown prince of garlemald at ghimlyt.)

“it’s…meant to be.” she closed her lips and swallowed tight.

“i hope we don’t need to resort to anything more…drastic.” she sighed, knowing full well that they had done so before—and would do so again, if needed.

“do you plan on crossing paths with that man again. sevestre,” his teeth bit the name of the pale-haired hyur who had seemed all too enthusiastic about ending her and the others from the astrologicum. 

“i don't plan on it—but i’ve a feeling it will happen regardless…lev—lord rufin said he was a member of the forum.” he blinked, but let it slip, for he was still too occupied with the topic at hand to entertain a tangent.

“i’ve a few choice words—”

“then i simply cannot take you with me.” her sweet lips dipped in a low scowl, that her prominent cupid’s bow became the high-point of her small mouth.

“that’s what you were going to ask me, wasn’t it?” he froze, tongue stilled behind lips slightly parted. in his efforts to try and unravel her thinking, she had turned his tactic against him, right at his moment of vulnerability. 

he sighed, the quiet humiliation doing its part to humble him once more. dearest douceline was unchanged in some things—arguably improved in said things, even.

“...i concede.”

“that you will. but i need you to promise me you won’t do anything to jeopardize this. you know it’s—”

“—of the utmost importance.” he nodded, curtly—already he was making a mental note of what to pack, what to delegate, what to tell his parents, the student body—not that it would be difficult to have anyone understand the very serious business of accompanying the warrior of light on her travels. before he hadn’t a proper excuse—much less a proper reason—to join her, but now was the long awaited chance that he simply couldn’t afford to miss.

“i’d say that went rather well.”

idly her elbow rested on the carriage window, acting as if she hadn’t heard his sly quip. though he had sworn to end his harassment of skysteel manufactory and all its associates, tedalgrinche had directed his ill-favored attention onto other things—and as recent events had damned her closer to him in more ways than she had been willing to ever fathom, she too had felt the collateral damage in the form of embarrassment from his countless blunders, all in the supposed name of the knighthood, of the nobility, of everything that had once been and may no longer be.

“it did. you’ve practically volunteered for target practice. the generosity of house dzemael never fails to inspire.”

“i simply thought to repay the debt i owe to those at skysteel.” he stood square-shouldered against the seat, still seemingly oblivious to the failure of his so-called courtesy he’d given the common folk under stephanivien’s good-will—and his good-will had come with guns, and by now she believed it nothing less of a miracle than tedalgrinche had left another day without so much as a graze of a bullet.

“from the way they looked?” vintage rose hues, originally fixated on the passing scenery, shifted in his direction.

“they would have gladly collected.”

instead, he sighed—his brows creased in haughty, hollow heartbreak.

“and yet! they chose to send us on our merry way. the cold shoulder, i must say—are we not doing our part by seeking collaboration?”

her stomach and throat tightened—simply to swallow her sigh before it could begin.

“‘grinche, fury help you or else—”

“that’s a given, dearest—” the most detested of monikers, delivered with the most detested of grins—the grin that tucked his eyes thinner under the pinch of his raised cheeks.

“we must do well to remember such trials are her method of teaching—”

what failed to shift in her expression—darkly-painted lips slightly ajar and eyes devoid (or rather, drained) of ire, the latter of which made itself more known in the growing quietness of her voice—instead fell with the weight of a bertha’s cannonball in her chest, in perfect tandem with the push of her closed fist against the door handle.

radegonde only caught a glimpse of his smile collapsing into horror before her knees collided with frost-slicked stone, the creak of wheels unceasing for one missing passenger.

fortunately, there weren’t enough passersby to make it more of a spectacle—for now. radegonde knew better than to think the people of the pillars to be above gossip; on the contrary, it seemed more the daily bread than the enchiridion itself. someone who carried as much infamy on her shoulders as she would inevitably find herself at the center of unwanted attention. it seemed these days that such a fixation was something she passed to and fro amongst her younger sisters—house dansereau had, for better or worse, become a fixture not only in ishgardian high society (at least, moreso than before) but also throughout eorzea, thanks to the larger-than-life exploits of their youngest sister, douceline—now deemed a ‘warrior of light’.

in the past week, there had been three journalists—from three different periodicals (one of which she had never even heard of! she, who had spent many a listless hour draped across a chaise with some form of print in one hand and fruit-blend tea in the other—had maneuvered an interview under the steel-silver gaze of her newly-titled baby sister only with a promise of having said periodical delivered daily to the manor) that had arrived at their doorstep. she still took delight in the terror of the second, a lalafellin lad who peered up at the sentries from underneath a cap a size or two too big for his little head.

she dwelled on such thoughts as she turned one, two corners in an effort to dodge tedalgrinche and the carriage. she had intended to return home, anyway—she was intent on keeping away from his family’s manor as much as possible until that dreaded day.

it wasn’t that she didn’t see the benefit in wedding a higher-ranking retainer of the dzemaels; rather, it was the individual himself—the mutual spite and snides that never saw ceasefire for as long as their eyes met—one of the few wars that intensified in the wake of the dragonsong. but the union itself would not only mean gil (that both families, so embedded in the knighthood, would be in dire need of), but security in where they stood in social rank. when neither the warrior of light nor the famed euphemie of the broken maw accepted—radegonde was the next closest candidate. and unlike the others, denying meant having far, far more to lose.

pride was the heart of it all—pride in being kept in the household at her father’s behest, pride in being dressed as glamorously so as her trueborn siblings, pride in being raised noble in everything but name—being cast to the corners or to her suite in the presence of others was, to her, a small price to pay for the pampered and sheltered treatment by all those in their employ. that, and the stark divide between her and her siblings born by her father’s legal wife: the dismal lack of expectation versus the constant drive planted in them by both their dansereau and beauharnais blood. not once had radegonde met her own mother, and she had already decided, long ago, that she didn’t want to. after all, it was her father that claimed her as his own, in spite of everyone—including his own mother—warning him against it. that was what she loved about him best—the one thing she hoped, above all others, she’d learned from him: rebellion.

an onlooker would think, then, that  agreeing to wed lord tedalgrinche made her a hypocrite; in a decision where denying seemed paramount to maintaining what little she could call her own, radegonde saw opportunity—opportunity for more of the life she already had—and of course, there would be other chances to say no—this time with his reactions far up close and personal than had ever been before.

but none of this changed the fact that tedalgrinche was truly insufferable. her bolting out of the carriage was but a fraction of what she believed was in the machinists’s every right to land one, or two, or three bullets at that horrid smirk. if he were as every bit the sanctimonious knight as he were, that trial by combat in the highlands must have been enough to prove him wrong. but clearly there was still more to be done—more to be experimented as the blade that would grow the cracks of his hard-headed skull.

once she reached home, every sentry and servant knew what was best for them by not questioning her on the ongoings of her day. by now, her expression served as their only warning—once the silver tray of tea and treats were delivered and the door to her suite was shut, she would be left to her own devices, in her own cherished respite.

until.

a newer hire to the staff was at her door—the tremor in his words gave it all away. that the lord tedalgrinche had sent his page to their gates, bearing a message. she had a mind to believe that there were flowers in place of an actual apology—and if she was lucky, berries in place of an actual understanding. the man couldn’t have the gall to show his face so soon, though if he did, she was already planning her next move to upstage him once again. there would never be an opportunity so promising as wedding she and all she had to offer—and there would never be prospects so favorable offered to a greystone.

radegonde strode past the hyuran lad in the raspberry-red coat with the black-fur trim, for the usual night robe simply wouldn’t do. tedalgrinche was far from deserving of seeing her in such casual comfort, and even now with her sash tied tight he would never know of the negligee underneath.

the flash of platinum blonde in the reception room, however—dashed all her hopes of this being a said and done exchange, and pouting, she raised her arm, resting her elbow against the edge of the corridor entryway, placing her forehead against it. exasperation, spelled out by the letter.

“why did you choose to make such a scene.” gritted teeth in place of a grin, gauntlets clenched at his sides. still better than the usual, she presumed.

“because i could stand the one of your making no longer.”

“can a man not speak freely of his thoughts? of the day’s happenings?”

“not when such happenings were the product of unrealized idiocy.” she delayed taking any step closer into the room where he stood. it seemed like surrender—and even feigning that seemed too soon, for she sensed that by the way his chest was frozen stiff he had plenty more to say.

“‘tis no fault of mine that they failed to understand chivalry.” her eyes sought the glow of the room’s hearth.

“such is the task of the church, is it not?”

“...and they have failed you, as well.” oh, she couldn’t resist the lift of lips at that one—though the squeeze of gauntlet-plate against glove-leather meant he’d only clenched his fists harder.

“...what is it you would have me do?”

the magic words. her smile spread wider, and finally, her gaze began to creep back to where he stood, several paces away.

“...the chocolate-dipped rolanberries—the oldroses. then,”

with an open hand, she gestured to the large, vacant sofa seated before the hearth, with the low table in-between.

”You’re going where now?”

Incredulously, Radegonde peered at him, seated on the playroom floor where the twins sat beside her, cooing and toddling amidst the toys strewn around them.

“The thirteenth,” Samson hissed between teeth clenched in a smile. The last thing he wanted to talk about was work, but he was simply too polite for his own good—and did his best not to leave any questions unanswered. Besides, with his sister-in-law he knew the topic would circle back around eventually…

“Weren’t you just in the first not long ago—“ Gondie winced as a fistful of her long hair was yanked by her giggling niece. He frowned and stooped to his knees, gathering the child up as he continued:

“I was. This is different.”

“I should hope it involves less of that ancient nonsense.” Radegonde frowned as the other girl crawled onto the dark skirts of her aunt’s lap, reaching for a brightly-painted rook toy not far from her grasp.

“It doesn’t seem that way.” Samson relished in the girl’s toothless smile as he handed her the toy, while the other in his lap toothed on the tail of a stuffed wyrmling.

“…And I doubt anything called the thirteenth means you’ll be taking them with you anytime soon.” He grew quiet at the words he’d known and ruminated on since he’d returned, this time with Zero in tow. After discussing with Vrtra and Y’shtola they had decided it best to wait before having her accompany him back home to Ishgard, as it’d still been relatively early since she awoke. He couldn’t begin to comprehend how different everything must have been to her, but then again, they now learned that the Void had formerly been as vibrant as the Source; it was chilling to think back on the fate they had so narrowly avoided. Samson was grateful they’d survived the ordeal—he just couldn’t shake the feeling of how hopelessly unfair it seemed, that such ceaseless sacrifice was asked of him.

The girls had only seen their first summer, and yet Samson felt at odds with everything else thrust upon his shoulders that everyone expected of him—that Eorzea needed of him. How he wished he could’ve been home with his family as much as he’d wanted; while this wasn’t the idyllic life he’d once considered back when he was but a boy in the La Noscean countryside he was stalwart in protecting what he had now, and he would never surrender it for anything else.

“...We brought back a friend.” He pivoted her question—and she seemed happy to oblige him, though the look in her eyes said otherwise.

“So I heard.”

“Likes apples…” Gondie blinked.

“Maybe that’s why Peep loves his apple pie.” The darling little Deepeye that often followed at her ankles proved more friendly than his housemate Gus. Any minute now, Sam believed he would hover by and demand affection in the form of chin-scritches or treats. 

“I was thinking we should let her try apples in different forms, too. Maybe we can get Puddingway and—”

“I don’t recall applesauce being pudding.” The other girl, still secure in her aunt’s lap, had exchanged the rook for a toy unicorn.

“I think it’s close enough. Apple pudding…”

“I would imagine it’s smoother—like cream.” The one in his hold turned her attention to the other dragon—this time, colored red instead of blue, but with the same sewn buttons as eyes—and discarded the latter on the floor by her father’s knee.

“We can even have one of them test it. They should be old enough, right?” 

“I…would ask the physician first.” He coughed while the girl on his lap stared up at him, as if on cue—big bright eyes like her mother’s. The same eyes he had trouble refusing.

“They’ll probably end up liking it anyway.” Radegonde gestured to a servant and offered up the girl, standing and brushing the skirts of her indigo dress.

“I still don’t want them to get sick…” Samson murmured as he watched her stretch with a yawn.

.“...This one.” His first and second finger trace the edge of a patch, the pure white scales slightly charred at the edges. 

“What happened here?” His eyes, gentle for her and a select few, turn a touch sharper at the implications of what and who could have done this. Douceline’s mouth opens, but the words still before they leave her tongue. Her brows knit, and she swallows--she has to do this, or else all those words she promised him will be as empty as she fears them to be.

“...I--tried,” It’s a start, though the way his eyes widen down at her doesn’t help her one bit.

“to...get rid of them.” Archombadin grimaces when the meaning of her words seeps in deep, and deeper. There was a reason he tried so fervently not to think of all she had experienced in the time they all thought her dead.

“As you can see,” She breathes a laugh, bitter and cold.

“it didn’t work.” In fact, it made it worse, she wanted to say, but held back for his sake more than her own--she had made him uncomfortable enough, not only bearing witness to but feeling what had been deemed sin by scripture, and false doctrine as some of it may be, there are things that simply don’t go away.

“...Whatever it may be. You’ve done more than enough to prove you’re still--” He stops, hesitant with his next choice of words, hesitant to let her go.

“...am I?” Instead, she fills up the few seconds he leaves lingering in the air between them, her hovering hand falling back to her side, and to keep herself from suddenly shivering she uses her free hand to brace it. One would think that, given all that had happened--all that she had risked life and limb to see through to the very end, such doubts would fall away like the snow in spring. 

But still, they remained—in the way Lebrassoir never turned back to look at them while being led away, in the way Cyr vowed never to set foot in the city as long as he lived, in the way her mother could only bear to look at her for a mere few seconds before hastily turning away.

If these few things so near and dear to her heart were left broken, unfixed—had it all been for nothing at all?

“You are.”

It’s his voice that breaks her out of her reverie, and she blinks once, twice, turning her eyes from the floor at their feet to look up at him, returning his gaze. He looks so much stronger than usual—in their debates, and all the others through which he had looked down on their peers in his false entitlement, Douceline realized how much he really had been mimicking a certain breed of their elders, the staunch Fundamentalists, set in their ways of superiority. Had it not been for the discovery of Lebrassoir’s plot—and the unraveling of everything that all of them had known to be true—that the look in his eyes began to change, chiseled into a strength all his own. 

“You are still Douceline. You can change, as I and so many others have, and still remain who you are.” Usually he would flush at such sentimentality, especially if it was coming from his own tongue—but for now, there was a truth that needed to be said, a comfort that he had a good feeling she was desperately in need of.

“...Sometimes it is as necessary as you say. Painful, but necessary.” Not unlike the Halonic discipline in which he’d taken years to fervently know and abide by. 

“But in the end, much good came out of it.” He gives her a smile--kind but knowing. Knowing that it was something she couldn’t argue her way out of.

“And if it’s the Inquisition you fear--”

“Not them. No longer,” She laughs, shaking her head.

“I just wish you’d walk out once. Just once.” 

He sighed as she took a seat on one of the velvet-blue chairs in his home office. Here, where the air was less stuffy and the distant clatter of greaves and armor were replaced by the gentle footfalls of the few servants under his family’s employ, though he viewed them more as family than anything else.

Elegant as Borel Manor was, it still held an air of modesty that Euphemie found refreshing. Of course, nothing compared to her family’s own manor where she was born and raised, and wreaked havoc on her elders and household alike—she could only imagine Aymeric to be quite the contrary as a boy, as meek and considerate so much so that it followed him into adulthood. 

Not that those were purely positive qualities, for she and a select few could tell both the physical and emotional toll it took, and how little he’d allowed himself to rest in the recent days. There was an undercurrent of uncertainty that trembled just under the stained-glass surface of peace that they had fought for, and as the Lord Speaker the burden weighed heavier to none other.

“You know I can’t.” He sent her a dry smile and a brow quirked in amusement. She got that look from him quite often, it seemed. Some things never changed.

“You can. You just don’t want to.” She leaned back against the chair, hoisting her rain-soaked hair up over her head, falling like pearls onto the dark wood floor. He was quick to pass her a towel, which she took with a grateful nod and smile.

“...I don’t want to.” His shoulders sink as he echoes her, defeated. He can only run from the truth so far, and at the very least his pride took a step downwards in the privacy of his own home.

“Everyone would understand if you took a respite.” With the towel draped over her hair, she crossed her arms, head tilted and eyes ever searching his own–regardless of how they strayed elsewhere. Her hues of silver were bright, so bright they cut like the sharp edge of a crescent moon—he’d noticed it since their early days as knights, and was silently grateful that they remained the same as ever in spite of everything that had happened in the years in-between. 

Neither Aymeric nor Euphemie were willing to admit that they sought in one another a sort of muted, distant dependency, the way one expected there to be a rainfall to quell the summer heat, the way one expected the night to surely follow the day. Though the space between them had grown further and further apart as their paths diverged, both took comfort in knowing that the other was simply there—granted, no longer shoulder to shoulder or walking astride—but the simple act of knowing was enough.

Or so they thought.

“This is respite enough,” The dark-haired Elezen rolled back his shoulders and settled onto a nearby chaise, with a plum-colored throw tossed over the tufted back. The dragoon drew closer, still rinsing her hair free from the rainwater. Her visit hadn’t been entirely on a whim, having overheard some of the sentries outside the Vault that the Lord Commander would be retiring earlier than usual, and for that she wanted to ensure his well-being in person, and far from the frenzied crowd.

“Then I suppose I shouldn’t overstay my welcome.” A small smile danced across her sweet mouth as she hesitated from taking her assumed seat beside him, to which he breathed a laugh and shook his head.

“Not at all. In fact, it’s been too long since…” His words trailed off in realization of the implications as to what he planned on saying next. His tongue stilled and a heat rose to his cheeks—she had been far more versed in the topic of more intimate encounters, whether with friends or lovers and all the complexities between—and yet he didn’t want to put either of them in a situation neither were comfortable with.

Thankfully, Euphemie laughed, the silvers of her eyes aglow with mirth.

“Since I bothered you?” It was his turn to laugh, soft and merrier than it had been in a very long time.

“...Visited.” His word of choice was neutral, tame, and dull—three things that could certainly be never attributed to her. The knit of her brow and the hard press of her upper lip urged him to try again, and so he did, the smile now never leaving his lips.

“Alright then, bothered.” 

“Thank the Fury! I thought I needed to try harder. And once I start to make an effort I tend to crack.” She giggled and he laughed again, unconsciously inching closer to where she sat.

“I must admit, I’ve yet to see you falter in your talents.” Euphemie feigned a gasp, and raised a hand to her chest.

“What’s this? Praise from the Lord Commander himself?” 

“Rather, from an old friend.” Daring as it was, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the shape of her mouth, small, plump, and tipped with a cupid’s bow. Even while helmed he could always tell her apart from the other dragoons because of it. 

“Mm, an old friend, then.” Shivers pricked up his skin as her voice fell to a whisper, and he freezes at the realization that they’re mere ilms apart, and her hand finds its way to the side of his finely-carved jaw.

“Then tell me.” Their eyes lock, azure on silver.

“Would an old friend do this?” 

What he gets isn’t the crash of her lips against his—what he waited for far longer than he wants to admit—but rather the cold, damp towel wrapped around the back of his head, and her fingers kneading the heavy fabric into his dark curls, the surprised gasps that tumble from his lips turned to broken, hearty laughter, louder than they’ve ever been, as if all the pressure amounted on his chest, on his body, on his very being suddenly lifts like a cloud.

Aymeric shoves her shoulders down against the plush of the chaise, and he can hear her bubbly laughter over his own, and she finally ceases, the wrinkled towel crumpling around his neck and shoulders.

With smiles imprinted as they catch their breath, she finally takes his face in his hands, and this time he doesn’t hesitate to kiss her first.

“...An old friend would.” He adds once they parted for air, his thumb at the base of her lower lip while he admired her heaven-sent features from mere breaths away. She grinned and bent her knee against his hip, for even if he was directly on top of her there was still plenty more that could be done.

She brings her arms up and around his neck, hoisting herself closer in the process, and by natural instinct he draws his forearm down beneath her back, mouth set in a rare smirk as her nose touches his. 

“And an old friend would do more.” She breathes the remnant of a laugh, fingers weaving their way into his hair, and he’s quick to move one leg, then the other, off the chaise’s edge, all while providing support for her smaller frame around his own. 

“An old friend has no right to that,” He continued for her, nose against her loose, ash blonde curls sent wayward and tousled by the thunderous storm she braved for this timely rendezvous, and the two of them knew he would do the same and more if it ever came to it.

After all, tonight she had managed to do what he thought he was beyond accepting, what he believed he hadn’t earned.