A hot little ember burns to life in Estinien's stomach when Aymeric answers his exasperation with one of his smooth, perfect little smiles is most assuredly not shame. And the blasted tilt of his chin only makes it worse.
He isn't sure what exactly he'd call the feeling, though. Only knows that it burns all the hotter when Aymeric confirms what he's long suspected -- that the adopted scion of House Borel is just as consumed by thoughts of the two of them together as he is. And when he answers, so perfectly collected, as though he's hardly bothered by the feeling at all?
Oh, those seconds of silence drive Estinien absolutely mad.
"The Fury take you, Borel," Estinien curses, annoyed with himself and his impatience, with the fog and the rain and the cold...but not with Aymeric.
No, because Aymeric is unrelentingly honorable. Never once has he complained about their matches, about the way Estinien fights, or the oft rudely worded questions that come after a match. He has only ever been indefatigably driven toward his goal.
Estinien tamps the mud from his boots with the blunt end of his lance and decides that, no, actually he is furious with the perfect Ser Aymeric de Borel. All his distracting little details. The smiles, the honor, those warm winter eyes, that blasted flawless composure.
If it is to be a match of wills, now, as well, so be it. They will drive each other mad, together.
"Come and try to earn what's yours, then," he grunts, trudging back to his starting spot and readying his lance, "But don't fool yourself into thinking I'll be giving myself away, now."
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timeasmymeasure
Re: better*
Date: 2024-04-18 06:19 am (UTC)He isn't sure what exactly he'd call the feeling, though. Only knows that it burns all the hotter when Aymeric confirms what he's long suspected -- that the adopted scion of House Borel is just as consumed by thoughts of the two of them together as he is. And when he answers, so perfectly collected, as though he's hardly bothered by the feeling at all?
Oh, those seconds of silence drive Estinien absolutely mad.
"The Fury take you, Borel," Estinien curses, annoyed with himself and his impatience, with the fog and the rain and the cold...but not with Aymeric.
No, because Aymeric is unrelentingly honorable. Never once has he complained about their matches, about the way Estinien fights, or the oft rudely worded questions that come after a match. He has only ever been indefatigably driven toward his goal.
Estinien tamps the mud from his boots with the blunt end of his lance and decides that, no, actually he is furious with the perfect Ser Aymeric de Borel. All his distracting little details. The smiles, the honor, those warm winter eyes, that blasted flawless composure.
If it is to be a match of wills, now, as well, so be it. They will drive each other mad, together.
"Come and try to earn what's yours, then," he grunts, trudging back to his starting spot and readying his lance, "But don't fool yourself into thinking I'll be giving myself away, now."