Months pass, and life carries on as it has for the past few years: go here, do this, talk to so-and-so, kill that, come back, go back out again, deliver this thing, go speak with someone else, take that other thing back, keep your eye on a looming political problem that will eventually be solved at the business end of a weapon or several (only to create a new crisis in its wake, because of course it does: what fun would a problem with an actual end be? And people wonder why you're sometimes not the beacon of shining optimism you're apparently supposed to represent), and on and on and on. But having something – someone, more precisely – to ground yourself in takes the edge off. Still, you are in no one place for much longer than a few days, and that includes Ishgard. So he writes you letters during your long absences - nothing effusive, but affectionate, close.
You treasure them, not simply because they're from him, but because they are one bit of normalcy in increasingly abnormal times. Who knew you'd one day dream of those simple days past, back when the biggest worry was some beast tribe or another summoning a primal, or solving ancient blood feuds? He writes of bureaucratic headaches, the way the snow looks in late afternoon light, what books he's been reading in your absence, rebuilding efforts, asks how you are faring, always says he looks forward to your next appearance in the city. That he misses you.
You write back when you can, more often than not late at night when you can't sleep. You miss him, too, more than you can bear to say. His letters to you are on crisp, heavy paper, his penmanship elegant; yours to him are scribbled on whatever you can find – a page torn from your worn journal, the backs of flyers from all over the realm, hawking various snake oil remedies, dodgy-looking armor at suspiciously cheap prices, or back-alley restaurant specials that seem to offer little more than the promise of food poisoning. And the less said about your penmanship, the better. You write most often with a nub of pencil, which smudges – but at least doesn't run if it gets wet.
More than a few letters arrive to the august halls of the Congregation bearing soot and browned edges after you and your possessions get caught in a downpour, which necessitates having to dry them out over campfires. You found it mildly embarrassing to be writing the Lord Commander notes scrawled on scrap paper (though you suppose some of them at least give him a taste of the wild world of commerce beyond Ishgard), which you said in a letter written shortly after your departure, until he wrote back and said he rather likes your missives and doesn't care about your penmanship, since the immediateness of them makes him feel a little closer to you and your travels. Singe marks, advertisements, and all.
He's wonderfully unpretentious, despite the trappings and the titles; you've always liked this about him.
Half a year after you fled Ishgard, the Lord Commander's embrace, and your own feelings - maybe a little longer (or maybe a little less – you're still not much for keeping time) - you come back again as you often have. There's a lull as the Scions ponder their next move, so you do something for you, and come back to a city you grow fonder of with each passing moon, and someone you've been fond of for a very long time. Thus, you find yourself making the familiar walk from the Holy Stables to the Congregation once again.
You are let through without an announcement, and he glances up from his paperwork as you enter, looking slightly astonished to see you – not Lucia, not a knight. Just you. You smile as you lean against the door to shut it. He smiles back, says he wasn't expecting you so soon. You tell him you'd fling yourself on him in happiness, but alas – he's arrayed, as always, in his clanging trappings.
He leans back in his chair, arches a brow and inclines his head at you, smiling faintly. Something that could be attended to a few hours hence, should you so wish, he replies coolly. A shiver runs up your spine in anticipation – but it's the middle of the afternoon, and as much as you wish you could insist on it now, the Congregation is buzzing with activity and it would be folly. You haven't been sneaking around, precisely – you've been gone too much for your movements to register even to those who might be paying attention – but you haven't been openly flaunting everything, either.
You make your way to his desk, lean across it – smiling still – and tell him you have a few days to yourself. How many, you're not sure – two or three at least, though. You leave unsaid the fact you came back just for him; he knows. He leans forward, reaches across the desk for your hands, which you offer up willingly, just so that you can touch him again, and he places a kiss on each palm – one, two, you count silently once more. You're well on your way to a thousand. And, in movement that has quickly become ritual for the two of you, you shuffle your hands and kiss his palms – three, four – before straightening up again. You'll be by after you've seen to your other obligations in the city. He'll be waiting patiently, minus the clanging trappings.
Later in the afternoon, as you sit in the library of the Fortemps Manor, keeping Count Edmont company as he works on his narrative, you gaze out the window and take in the flurries beyond. It's true, the endless snow is tiresome, but it's also pretty at times. You let yourself just follow the shifting patterns, the way the sun changes, the various colors. The count breaks your reverie by asking what – he gives a knowing glance, accompanied by a gentle smile – has such a hold on you. He knows, you know. Not because you told him, but because he is quite perceptive, and you don't feel the need to keep your defenses up in this space, haven't for many years. Also: you're not given to sitting by windows and daydreaming, yet here you are. You smile back at him, saying nothing, and simply shake your head.
Hours later, long after you've excused yourself from the Fortemps manor and made your way down a curving staircase, past the airship landing and the loitering elites gossiping about scullery maids and romantic liaisons (not yours, thankfully), you're pressed against Aymeric, drowsy, sated for the moment.
It is late in the night – or early in the morning, depends on your perspective – and he is beneath you as you prop yourself up on his chest, both of you still slick with sweat, just talking as he runs his hands over your back, fingers working into the knots that have built up. You tell him of the past few weeks, few months: things you've alluded to in letters, but haven't felt comfortable writing in detail, just in case. The Warrior of Darkness nonsense had you on edge – such an odd interlude, is it actually over? You're not sure – but worse yet is the Griffin. You have a sense of foreboding, which – even considering everything else you've come through – is rare for you. Everyone is missing something … you try to trace the roots of your apprehension, but can't figure out what it could be, and that makes you nervous.
He watches with those eyes, strokes you all over with great tenderness, and – perhaps most importantly – doesn't say everything is going to be fine. He believes in you, but also recognizes (as you do) that you are not a god, all things cannot be done through you. He doesn't offer some pat, tidy plan that will fix all eventualities (like those ever work, in any case): he just listens as you talk through possibilities and maybes and perhapses.
And when you tire of talking, just want to feel again for a while, he acquiesces to that, too. He exhausts you in the best way; enough so that you are able finally to sink into a quiet sleep, after folding yourself into him.
When you wake, the morning sun is finally breaking through the clouds. You're a tangle of limbs and flesh and bedsheets, twined with one another. The rays catch the angles in the cut glass of the windows, casting a multitude of tiny, pale rainbows on the wall – you lay there in this bed of his, as he slumbers yet beside you, and watch as the pattern of colors moves slowly alongside the dawn. A minor thing, but quite beautiful nonetheless.
You have no idea where this will lead in the long term, but in the now, you are simply grateful that he is beside you, sleeping. You long ago stopped trying to guess what twists and obstacles would be flung in your path, as it had become an exercise in futility that simply left you frustrated and sleepless. But perhaps there are ways to move forward that don't only involve flinging yourself headlong from one problem to the next. You can't fix everything; and at least at the moment, there is something in your life that doesn't need to be fixed.
He moves in sleep, or half-sleep, reaching for one of your hands, which you let him take – his calloused palm and fingers grasp yours reassuringly. A veritable army of rainbows is creeping up the foot of the bed as the light shifts with the rising sun, the moving clouds. There is time enough later to think and ponder and plan, you muse as you watch the riot of color with quiet delight. For now, you press closer to him as he wraps an arm around your waist. Now is time to just be.