Five days come and go, and it's entirely too long a wait. Estinien is near chomping at the bit to meet Aymeric on the field again. It makes him messy.
Though not messy enough.
This one ends with Aymeric on the ground again, Estinien's boot on his chest, and he's damn near feral looking down at that beautiful Borel boy. Wanting, but not taking.
Three questions, three answers. And five days is far too long, so they mark the next bout in four.
He's more collected this time, but Aymeric's much improved. The gathering crowd's grown, too. Knights and cadets and a handful of tittering sisters, who might've lent a comical bent to their fight had Estinien not been wholly preoccupied with his opponent. Today, it ends with Aymeric's sword in Estinien's hand, and Estinien's lance pointed at that delectable adam's apple.
Three more questions, three more answers. It goes on like this twice more. Each time, it's a match harder fought, victory less cleanly taken. Each time, their crowd of onlookers grows along with the cloud of rumors that follow. Each time, Estinien expects he'll run out of questions, but always, a new one comes to mind. A new thing he wants to know, a new reason to eke out a few more moments of Aymeric's attention without seeming too obvious.
Too obvious. Gods damn it. It wasn't supposed to take this long. Aymeric was to be a craving satisfied, not a brand upon his mind. The memory of him sweat-soaked and breathless, is nigh all Estinien can think about as their sixth match draws near. And worse, he finds himself thinking over his questions, wondering not just at how Aymeric will respond, but what he might find most amusing to talk of.
It rains all that morning, a cold downpour that lightens to a miserable drizzle by the time they meet on the muddy field. The foul weather, far too foggy to see anything well, has kept all but the most rapt of their audience away. Again, Estinien doesn't notice. Because even in the relentlessly drab afternoon mist, Aymeric is beautiful -- almost incandescent, the way the rain glazes all of his most vibrant colors and deepens the dark ones. Looking at him, Estinien can't help but think to himself, what if I just...lost?
And, oh, that will not do.
"Hold."
Before Aymeric can draw his blade, Estinien's feet carry him to the object of his obsession quite without his permission. Lance at his side, he sets in right away on the first thoughts that comes to mind, "We needn't make a contest of this any longer. I'm half mad, thinking of you and my mind will not rest 'til I've had you."
"i have struggled in vain and i can bear it no longer..." but make it AGGRESSIVELY Worse
Though not messy enough.
This one ends with Aymeric on the ground again, Estinien's boot on his chest, and he's damn near feral looking down at that beautiful Borel boy. Wanting, but not taking.
Three questions, three answers. And five days is far too long, so they mark the next bout in four.
He's more collected this time, but Aymeric's much improved. The gathering crowd's grown, too. Knights and cadets and a handful of tittering sisters, who might've lent a comical bent to their fight had Estinien not been wholly preoccupied with his opponent. Today, it ends with Aymeric's sword in Estinien's hand, and Estinien's lance pointed at that delectable adam's apple.
Three more questions, three more answers. It goes on like this twice more. Each time, it's a match harder fought, victory less cleanly taken. Each time, their crowd of onlookers grows along with the cloud of rumors that follow. Each time, Estinien expects he'll run out of questions, but always, a new one comes to mind. A new thing he wants to know, a new reason to eke out a few more moments of Aymeric's attention without seeming too obvious.
Too obvious. Gods damn it. It wasn't supposed to take this long. Aymeric was to be a craving satisfied, not a brand upon his mind. The memory of him sweat-soaked and breathless, is nigh all Estinien can think about as their sixth match draws near. And worse, he finds himself thinking over his questions, wondering not just at how Aymeric will respond, but what he might find most amusing to talk of.
It rains all that morning, a cold downpour that lightens to a miserable drizzle by the time they meet on the muddy field. The foul weather, far too foggy to see anything well, has kept all but the most rapt of their audience away. Again, Estinien doesn't notice. Because even in the relentlessly drab afternoon mist, Aymeric is beautiful -- almost incandescent, the way the rain glazes all of his most vibrant colors and deepens the dark ones. Looking at him, Estinien can't help but think to himself, what if I just...lost?
And, oh, that will not do.
"Hold."
Before Aymeric can draw his blade, Estinien's feet carry him to the object of his obsession quite without his permission. Lance at his side, he sets in right away on the first thoughts that comes to mind, "We needn't make a contest of this any longer. I'm half mad, thinking of you and my mind will not rest 'til I've had you."