He looks at you intently, saying nothing, simply waiting for you to go on – though he's not impatient, just letting you pace yourself. You blush hotly – have you ever reddened so much under someone's gaze as you do Aymeric's? Probably not, certainly not recently. You've faced down fearsome enemies and not even shuddered, and yet here you are with the color rising again and again in your cheeks –
Well, there's your answer, truly and unequivocally, as if you hadn't known before you'd shown up on his doorstep unannounced (really, before you fled Ishgard as if pursued by demons). You would never dare say no one's ever made you feel like this before, but he's the one that makes you feel like this now. That's what matters. And yet you hesitate.
So you decide to change tack, and ask if he remembers the question he once asked you, not really that long ago – half a year, perhaps, maybe a little longer - that you never got to answer.
"Ah, what it is you wanted for yourself," comes his near-instantaneous response. Apparently it sticks out for him, too. It had been a novel question in your mind, though you're sure he thought it quite innocuous. But it was a rather singular question for you, as no one had ever – at least since everything started, since you set your feet, unknowing, on this path – asked what you wanted, just for you. And, like many singular things, it had lodged itself in your brain, tickled at you occasionally. What do I want? Prior to that moment, you'd ceased thinking of yourself as someone with personal desires and wants, though you had - have - them, of course. You've just learned to ignore them with the single-minded determination you channel to get everything else done. Aymeric was the one that reminded you – accidentally, perhaps – that not everything had to be like that.
So, he remembers the question. You incline your head in reply, a silent yes, that's the one as you let go of the goblet, reach to take one of his hands that simply rests on your waist: he's not being forward, not pulling you to him. But after all, the last time you left him, you were in his lap, so you can understand this bit of tactile – want, perhaps. It's not overstepping anything, since you had been bold enough to straddle him, to try and sate yourself on hungry kisses (is it overstepping, you wonder idly, if both parties are willing – more than willing, are desirous of it?). You're happy to have him so close, too. He lets you take his hand – watches you, as you examine his fingers, his palm, the small sliver of the thin skin of his wrist you can see above the cuff of his robe, so you don't have to look him in the eyes – and you explore all of it with your calloused, roughened fingers as you talk. Your battle-worn hands, the ones you occasionally feel the need to hide in your sleeves when not in gloves - at least in this city, at least when among the idle rich, but never with him.
More time riding, you try and explain to him, grasping at your ideal future. More time out of cities. More time just to be. There's not enough of that these days … you trail off for a bit as you realize with a bit of surprise that his hands are still rough like yours. You studiously refuse to look him in the eyes: this was not the answer he was expecting, you think. It was not the answer you were expecting to give, you know. You take stock of his palms, the pads of his fingers, the nails - perhaps a little more cared-for than yours; but despite his responsibilities, more battling bureaucracy than battling enemies these days, he still bears the obvious marks of a life spent handling weapons, seriously so. You haven't even seen the scars that shine in some light, the ones he must have - that strange, silvery roadmap of blows dealt and taken, the ones that are probably just like yours, save their particular twists and turns – and who knows if you ever will. So you examine the evidence you have in front of you, and continue to talk – of the imagined somedays you hope will be some day. Open skies, riding, ambling along with no particular responsibility – you leave unsaid his role in all this. You're not even sure yourself what it would be, other than … there would be a role, a rather important one.
You're distracted with too many thoughts and so you alternately stroke your fingers over the calloused flesh of his palm and twine your fingers with his, flexing, gripping. You're playing, letting yourself touch and be touched as you stumble over what you're trying to give voice to. He is patient, letting you do as you will while you talk. You're rambling about what you do want, you do, you want it so badly it aches, so badly you can't stop the sentences tumbling out, adding more things to the list. Still, you aren't able to get around to broaching what you really want. You start to panic internally. You weren't sure how this was going to go, but this certainly hadn't crossed your mind as a possibility.
He senses it, because of course he does, he can feel it, he is nearly as fine as you in battle and knows how to gauge another being without even thinking of it, as you do – the tension and nervousness is singing through you like it would on a wire, and he feels that – and his hand not engaged in your exploration is suddenly upon you, presses your hands together as if in prayer. Your breath catches. You go silent as you let your eyes glance up to his for a moment. He is smiling his inscrutable half-smile. You look back at your hands trapped between his and try to breathe.
Aymeric says nothing. Opening your twinned hands like a book, he brings them to his lips as he leans down slightly, so you really have no choice but to look at him. And so you do, thus blue eyes look back at yours, because he has been watching even when you couldn't bear to. He kisses your palms reverently, one, two, you count silently in your head – such a simple thing, but it is so gentle and intimate, you don't know what to do in response. He takes the decision from you, presses your hands to his chest, to where his heart beats beneath. You feel it, strong and steady and there. You're not quite sure what to say to such a demonstration: to think, the Warrior of Light can be rendered totally mute and still as a statue by such a humble gesture, you comment to yourself. If only your enemies knew.
You're frequently silent, of course - more out of a sense of duty, and a sense that it doesn't matter what you say. They won't listen. People will request you go do something, and you will go do it, so what's the point in naming the flaws in the plan, the problems in the conception, the surefire disastrous ending that will result if even one part goes wrong? And it often goes wrong. Horrifically wrong, and then you get to clean up the mess – because people request you go do something, and so you do ... Rinse, repeat. But in this moment, here, with him – this is different. You're speechless in a good way. And so you just look at him with a bit of wonder. The Lord Commander has just kissed your hands the way he might kiss those of a saint. You are no saint. You are just you – unvarnished, not Warrior of Light, just you. And astonishingly, that seems to be enough for him.
After you catch your breath, you respond in kind, rearranging your hands so you hold his. You kiss those beautiful calloused palms of his – one, two – though you let your lips linger longer than he did, so kiss again. Three, four, you count to yourself. You hope for a thousand - a million - more. And then you slowly mirror his action: this time, placing his hands over your heart.
You stand there, looking at each other, and you're silent still – but maybe nothing needs to be said, at least not right now, this is enough. It's not a frustrated silence, but a comfortable one. You smile faintly, the tension dissipating. He smiles back. Maybe, you think to yourself, hope rising in your heart, you can feel it - maybe this will turn out. Maybe your someday will become some day. Some day soon.