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An Acquired Taste	By : WonderMint Category: Final Fantasy XIV > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 976 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy FFXIV: ARR is owned by Square Enix and based on the creation of Hironobu Sakaguchi. May they ever walk in the light of the crystal. I own no right to the characters and settings herein and seek no profit therefrom.

Chapter List
- 1-An Acquired Taste
- 1
A/N: This is a stand-alone Omake for Chapter 9 (The Fugitive) of Bellyachin'. It happens pre-calamity and is therefore not actually a spoiler except for a little bit of Ch. 9. But as that pretty much tells you what happens here, they effectively spoil each other. I can't actually figure out a reason why you shouldn't read this one first if you'd rather. So have at it, I'm not the boss of you, you can read whatever you want.
My apologies but this is a no-sex fic. That doesn't mean there isn't action, but it certainly won't be hardcore. It is at least enough to make me think I've chosen the wrong pairing to work with for the main story. Oh my Lord Haurchefant... well, there's always later.

Cool sun on the dingy gray stone of the Holy See might have been dreary to some, but to Haurchefant, it was home. The city was ancient and venerable, but full of life right down to the colorful veins of mineral running through each carved block. There was joy, and beauty, in every corner of the city. You just had to know where to look, and with what eyes to see. Others looked with the eyes of faith and saw nothing. He looked with eyes the color of the clearest sky, and he saw everything that was important. The dance of clouds around the feet of the towers that held the city high above the cliffs. The kiss of wind against his wild blue hair, the tiniest flowers growing in the cracks between steps. The smiles of young lovers, giggling and ducking out of sight.
He called the city home, and he called life good.
There were many things people would call the young Lord Haurchefant, bastard son of House Foretemps. He preferred to ignore them all. Himself, he preferred to think himself privileged. Lucky even. He had everything he could ever have wanted, all that mattered anyway. A loving father, a happy childhood, a warm home. Two adorable brothers. And a friend in whom he could always confide.
Young Artoirel had grown distant from him as he aged, beginning to show resentment at being denied the right of first-born. Truly, the loss of the boy's respect hurt more than the words hurled at his back by the nobility. But little Emmanellain, he was a treasure, always toddling after him with a toy sword and broad smiles. He spoiled the youngest Foretemps as his father had spoiled him, and he would listen to no-one who would counsel him otherwise.
He had everything he could ever need.
Most dearly held of all was the friendship of a certain knight. Not long a Ser, Aymeric had been his companion for many summers now. When he had crested the carefree games of childhood and taken up a sword of steel, he had happened upon the wiry youth while he trained alone. He could tell there was something different about the young man, only beginning with his impossibly long blade. There was no air of play in his swings, only a grim determination, as if every joust were a real battle. He had been unable to resist joining him for swordplay, and when his shaking arms could not withstand another brutal blow, they simply talked. He knew instinctively that his father would not have approved. Something about the skeptical look he'd received, as if the boy didn't quite believe his easy smiles were sincere. Only later did he understand why. It had been but one of many lessons in the cruelty of noble blood, that a man of Aymeric's skill and grace was counted lesser than a noble bastard, unfit companionship for one who carried the name of House Foretemps.
It hadn't mattered to him then, and never would. It took time to woo the friendship of the young man, but he counted the hours worth it. He had sought him out again over the next week, but it took time to learn his habits and haunts. It had been almost counter-intuitive to seek for him in the Brume and various secluded alleyways, and time un-watched and unattended by his tutors was not as frequent as he'd liked. But find the boy he did, and he was rewarded for his persistence with a small smile, so quick he might have imagined it but for the warmth it left in his breast as evidence. This time he made Aymeric promise that they would see each other thereafter, and he waged a campaign of friendship so fierce the other boy could not help but succumb to his charm.
It had been beneficial for him as well of course. His tutors were older and stronger than he was, and had always pulled their blows. Aymeric never held back. His long, unadorned sword was the weapon of a barbarian, so heavy he could not spare an arm for a shield, making a brutal offense his only defense. It was made for killing, not protecting. And the young lord felt every onze of it as he struggled to keep up with savage strikes, a mad dance that could well have killed him save for their skill and the Fury's grace. Their song was ended when his shield arm gave out, but he gradually learned to use the length of Aymeric's swing against him, darting out to stab and skirting aside to dodge and parry. Bleeding the force away rather than absorbing it, the same technique that availed him against forked tongues.
If his tutors wondered how he had learned to defend so well and strike so quickly, they did not ask. But he could see the approval in the old men's eyes, the pride in his father's hand on his shoulder. He did not tell them from whom he had learned his lessons.
Now, of course, they were men. Young men, newly minted, but with the responsibilities entailed in leaving the innocence of youth behind. Aymeric was now a Temple Knight, and he... he was a Lord. It mattered not that he was misliked by his peers, only that his father entrusted him with business for the House. He knew, deep down, that Artoirel would later take over many of his responsibilities, representing House Foretemps in the eyes of the nation. He would not resent his brother for it. He would be receiving the respect he was due, a fine young man in the full bloom of adolescence. Haurchefant would be proud of his brother when it came time for him to step aside, serving his family instead in a quieter capacity, away from the shaming eyes of the nobility.
Emmanellain kicked him in the leg, a careless action, bringing him out of his memories and into the Saint Valeroyant Forum. The sun had not yet set, but the high walls of the See had already shunned the majority of its rays, giving a gloaming quality to the late afternoon. “You're too old to be doing that,” Haurchefant admonished playfully, and dropped his hold on the boy's thighs to slide him off his back. His brother tried to compensate with a strangle-hold on his neck, but he was unfazed, and let gravity take its course. Small fingers swished all the way down the fine fabric of his shirt, but no objection could stop the boy from being deposited safely on the ground at last.
“I'm too old to be carried, and yet you persist,” the young lord answered, voice carefully controlled, regal despite the high pitch of childhood. His guileless grin mirrored Haurchefant's own, his cheer unspoiled by the bitterness that always pursued his eldest brother, yet never caught him. The taller lord could not avoid reaching out to ruffle the long black hair, in such easy reach. It was soft and pliant beneath his fingers, warm like the faint rays of the sun. He secretly preferred it to stick up in places, making the little one look even younger, holding back the tide of the responsibilities that would strip his innocence away.
“That is because you've been neglecting your turnips. Once you've grown properly, then I will stop babying you.” He poked a small, finely sculpted nose for emphasis, but he didn't mean a word of it. Instead he took Emmanellain's hand in his own, larger than he remembered, and continued their constitutional down the steps toward the Aetherite Plaza.
“Then I will not grow up, and we shall ever play knights and knaves together. Is it true that I will turn green without turnips?”
“Absolutely true. You can be an ogre, the smallest ogre ever there was. I shall make you some horns, and a tiny club,” he declared. He let his voice ring across the broad plaza with confidence and affection, not caring who heard. But there was sadness in his joy, the swelling of his heart sweet like honey cakes, and just as soft.
The boy frowned, thinking silently for a moment, steps shuffling carelessly against stone. Haurchefant cast one eye downward, wondering what he was thinking, resisting grabbing him into a hug.
“I should not like to play the knave,” he declared at last. “I suppose I can eat some turnips. Then I can play the knight a while longer, and you can be the ogre. Will you promise you will make some horns?” He looked eagerly up into Haurchefant's face, all seriousness and only a little play, the games of childhood constituting a hard day's work.
“Yes,” he said without thinking about it, sealing it with a warm smile, lips closed against the warm sensation in his cheeks. He would deny him nothing. A piece of bone would serve, perhaps... or yeti fangs, filed dull. “I think I can come up with something.” Emmanellain's delight was well worth it, and he would revel in it as long as he was able.
They strolled along the periphery of the Plaza, bending their steps automatically toward the stairway winding beneath the Arc of the Humble. As they crested the rise that brought the great fountain of the Saint Rienette Forum into view, Haurchefant's eyes were immediately drawn to a group of knights. He had never given them much thought before beyond the respect due to warriors who defended their nation, but now he had ulterior motives. Sure enough, one of them immediately distinguished himself, tall and lithe, stately even as he fidgeted in discomfort. He was not happy from what the lord could make out, though it may not have been evident to the other two with whom he conferred, listening more than he spoke. The man's movements spoke volumes to him, however, loud enough to identify him as Ser Aymeric before even registering his gently-curled black hair or barbaric longsword.
He hadn't been aware that he had altered course until his feet met level ground. He had subconsciously steered away from the man, walking tangential to some fixed radius, simultaneously putting more distance between them and lengthening the time he would spend nearby. While neither shame nor deception was in the lord's nature, he was painfully aware of the need to keep his friendship with the knight separate from his family's politics. It would do no good for either of them. He kept his gaze fixed on the other sights of the plaza, pointing to a flock of doves congregating behind the large fountain and watching Emmanellain stumble after them in delight.
The motion brought the attention of his friend, the short glance equally cautious out of the corner of his narrow eyes. It might have spoken of irritation had it been directed at another, but the lord knew better. Not long after, the conversation amongst the knights seemed to conclude and the other men made to leave. Aymeric took the opportunity to turn halfway to him and hold up one gloved finger, then tip it toward the tumbledown chaos of the Brume. Haurchefant gave a bare nod of agreement. Face clear of any emotion, the impassive knight then followed his companions down the steps he himself had just climbed, and the lord went the opposite direction after his young brother before the boy could toss himself into the fountain and earn him a severe reprimand.
It was not truly the poor district to which the young knight had pointed. It was in fact a place adjoining it, the Forgotten Knight pub, where they were to meet in one bell. It would mean cutting their walk short, but it was enough time to stop by the market and then drop his brother off at home, likely shocking everyone with his punctuality.
“Say, little colt, are you hungry? Let's get some bretzels before supper,” he suggested, catching him around the waist to stop his forward charge toward a dove that had failed to retreat in time.
Honestly, he needn't have asked. He knew of no recipe for bretzels that contained turnips.
Lord Haurchefant was only slightly late to the meeting. The Jeweled Crozier was a maze of options, designed to ensnare those with coin and status, and frustrate those missing either. It had been easy to purchase the bretzels and a pair of wolf fangs of the appropriate size. The difficulty was in the details, and he had had a devil of a time persuading anyone to sell him a cheap file or a simple pot helm. The idea that he might use a blacksmith's tool on bone was evidently insulting to the craftsmen of the market, and the concept of substandard tools and armor in the hands of a noble apparently too confounding to believe. In the end a lie saved him, the clever lad catching on to his aims and supplying a yarn about wanting to give the items to his retainer. Only once a personage of inferior breeding had been invoked would the craftsmen part with poor-quality goods, though he was certain the price was still too great. He supposed the extra cost went into the time wasted on pleading and explanations, as if the deaf ears of the shopkeepers had been his doing all along.
His worries evaporated once he saw the knight tucked into a table in the corner of the dark little pub, eyes closed and shoulders relaxed. He was still wearing much of his armor, adding to the world-weary air about him, as if work was never entirely left behind. The Temple Knights didn't have much of a uniform other than whatever mix of practicality and preening each knight saw fit for themselves, but Aymeric had only been able to afford a basic set of plate mail. The dingy steel complemented his long, simple blade. The ridiculous sword was propped against the wall behind him, never far but not needed now, allowed to rest like its master.
The lord slipped into the chair beside him as quietly as he could manage, but one icy blue eye was immediately open, regarding him with narrow suspicion. The game up before it had begun, Haurchefant casually pushed the chair closer, both to the table and his companion, pretending only the former as his intent. As expected, Aymeric made no move to push away from him, as doing so would have acknowledged his discomfort at the proximity. The only sign the knight gave was a slight tensing of leather-clad shoulders, clearly aware of his ploy. He had known the other man far too long. He knew precisely which buttons he could not get away with pushing, because he had pushed nearly all of them already.
Which meant it was time to stop, for now. He smiled disarmingly, innocence coming naturally to his face despite his masculine jaw and puckish nature, and let his eyes drift nearly closed in genuine pleasure at greeting his friend. He set a small paper bag down on the table and pushed it across the stained surface. “Bretzel? They're quite nice. There are no turnips in them, we checked.”
The steady glare he received in return as Aymeric took the bag was warmer than it appeared, signaling ready forgiveness and perhaps even welcome. It had grown cold nearly a bell before, but the doughy knot was still soft, covered in crunchy cubes of salt and begging to be pulled apart little-by-little. To his disappointment, the knight did not oblige, merely tearing back the wrapper and taking a small bite. The action brought his attention to long fingers, stained with dirt though they had lain in gloved gauntlets much of the day.
“You are quite right. Not a turnip to be seen,” the stoic knight agreed after a moment to chew. His thanks was expressed in a sly smile rather than words. It was not as if he feared to be overheard in the noisy pub, rather the man was simply quiet by choice. He was more than capable of expressing himself verbally, his voice deep and melodious now that he had grown into a man. But as long as Aymeric wasn't cross with him, the lord seemed to be the one person with whom he could manage a conversation in near silence. He seemed to prefer the narrowing of his eyes or a soft hum to long-winded speech. It was comfortable, and Haurchefant basked in the trust it implied.
A subtle movement, and the knight had caught the eye of the waitress. It was no great perceptiveness on her part, rather more likely increased attentiveness, applied selectively. The girls had always seemed to gravitate towards the dark-haired man, fair in every respect but for his birth. Fortunately for Haurchefant, the man was too dedicated to his work. He much preferred to monopolize the knight's time with idle chatter and thrilling swordplay. He should have had to be jealous if he had instead wasted it with fraternizing and frippery.
He didn't realize he was giving the girl a sour look until the knight frowned at him in the form of a question. Haurchefant just shrugged in return, easily calling forth a gentle smile. The tiniest twitch of one shoulder stood for a shrug on the part of the knight, and he turned his attention back to the lass, too young and comely to be properly called a wench. Her attention had never left Aymeric, nor did the lord expect it to do so for much of the night.
“A pint of beer. Weiß, if you have it today,” he said, lingering on the long hiss at the end of the word and making the lord's spine tingle. He was even and polite in his tone but give the barmaid no additional care. Another man might have been tempted to flirt, but he seemed wholly focused on his order and the grain of the table.
She looked confused for a moment, evidently unfamiliar with hearing brews ranked by their pedigree rather than their alcoholic content. After a moment she recovered and turned her eyes to the blue-haired young lord, smile less genuine now that she regarded him. He liked to think he was good-looking in a roguish sort of way, rakish looks but fine manner, but most days he could have been a pile of chocobo dung next to Ser Aymeric, no matter how dingy the other man's armor. “Tea, if you please,” he said with his most beguiling grin, and yes, she did flush just slightly and dip her eyes. Small victories.
“Heaven forfend,” he heard the other man mutter. He looked at the knight with a little alarm, wondering dimly if he had misliked the maid's attention. More distinctly Aymeric said, “Please, bring a beer for him instead. It will be easier on all of us.”
“That's disgusting,” he objected, forgetting all propriety in his outrage. “You know very well--”
“Do as I say, please. I am paying and spirits bring more coin.” Aymeric seemed to be simultaneously pleading with them both. He hardly seemed aware that with a different tone he could have ordered the girl to do absolutely anything, Haurchefant's preferences and perhaps even the cost be-damned. The girl looked between them a few times in indecision, torn between which of them she wanted to displease.
“Two pints of beer, certainly,” she said after a moment's thought, but it was Haurchefant she smiled at as she went. Trying to have it both ways, evidently.
The lord blinked in confusion, staring after her swinging hips for only a moment. Aymeric did not hold back a frown, aristocratic brows level with precise irritation. Directed at him of course.
“I haven't the faintest idea what you're implying,” Lord Haurchefant defended with a pretense of dignity, though there were a few possible options that he had pointedly not considered.
The knight closed his eyes in reply and shook his head a fraction, giving the impression that it was no longer worth looking at him. “Please, just let me relax a little.” His voice was once again soft around the edges, the minimalist tone that seemed to put up walls around them and shut out the rest of the world.
He could not fail to oblige him. They sat together for several long, empty minutes, Aymeric leaning back heavily with eyes closed to trap his thoughts. Silence was nearly always comfortable with the quiet man, though Haurchefant was partial to activity and even a little bedlam from time-to-time. The knight's presence was soothing to him, and he supposed the other man took something similar from their time together, or he would not seek him out merely to sit by his side.
Too soon, the maid reappeared with drinks, though now Haurchefant felt as if he would rather she hadn't intruded. The smile he gave her was mere courtesy this time, fading quickly like breath against a mirror. She shook her head in annoyance, evidently deciding the pair of them were too oblivious to bother with, and went back to her work. Leaving him with a beer he hadn't ordered and no distractions.
Sidelong, he eyed the other man's bretzel. “No,” the knight growled, already sipping his amber drink. To emphasize the point he took another bite, no-doubt spoiling the salty treat with the brew on his tongue.
Haurchefant made a face before even sampling his, the smell being quite enough. But he did manage a small sip. There was a quick hint of sweetness, but it was soon overwhelmed with a cloying sour bile. The bitterness that clashed against it a moment later fought valiantly, but it was little comfort, making him wince and salivate and generally wish to wash his mouth. He resolved to drink it in quick gulps so that it would have less contact with his tongue. “Is this... actually what you ordered? How can you like this? Do you even like it?”
A precise crease formed along Aymeric's temple as he blinked his eyes tight in annoyance, like as not more due to Haurchefant's complaint than his dislike. “Yes. This is a wheat beer. If you aren't going to enjoy it then at least be silent and let me.” He spoke in a flat voice, tired but gruff. “You might like it if you gave it more of a chance. And there is more to drink than flavor, after all,” he finished, speaking more to his cup. Something in the man's posture gave the statement more importance than it might have seemed, a grim tension that the lord was suddenly aware had been with him all evening, even when he had seemed relaxed. It was not merely the need to unwind after a day's work, as he had supposed.
Feeling immediately sorry he had missed it, he let his teasing air fall away, looking quietly at the man and simply waiting. He was well capable of seriousness when needed, and that, he realized, was why Aymeric had requested his presence. He would prod the man later, but first he would listen. He leaned his elbows on the table and nested his fingers together, making a bed for his chin while he focused his vibrant blue eyes on the knight. No more pretense or play.
The lithe man took another sip of his beer, taking little time to notice the change in Haurchefant's countenance. This was familiar between them, and the man hummed a soft note of acceptance, warm and brief. Gradually the barriers fell from him as well, subtly revealing a little more of the reserved warrior. When at length the lord could see the trouble and confusion in his normally guarded gaze, he finally gave his thoughts voice.
“I slew a man today,” the knight said with quiet gravity. He did not meet Haurchefant's eyes, staring at some fixed point on the table, slightly to the right of his cup and half a yalm forward. Haltingly he answered questions that had not been asked. “It was not the first time, and it was not unjustified. But... his woman was nearby.”
The lord did not need to hear what happened next, his eyes widening immediately with alarm. His hands seized suddenly, needing to reach out to the man and offer comfort, but he resisted. Touching him would do no good, not at this moment. Instead, he waited for the inevitable, keeping his gaze steady though he wished he could block out the words.
“Her scream... such anguish. I could hear what he meant to her in that wail. She was like a vengeful spirit. A banshee. Like the living could haunt the dead.” The knight's voice was a tiny thing, as if it had fought from some deeper place within him and gotten so lost on the journey there was hardly any volume left. Despite the bustle and merriment around them, it seemed as the only sound in the room.
Haurchefant could do nothing but reflect the sadness he felt. It was shared between them now, and with luck, it would lessen the burden a fraction. He waited for the other man to take a drink, steadying his nerves to continue.
“That wasn't why I joined. I want... I want to protect the people, not rip out their hearts. I never wanted to cause such grief. Surely even criminals and heretics deserve better.” He bowed his head, retreating behind soft black curls. Drowning in his thoughts.
So young. So naive. But they both were, weren't they? Eagerly volunteering to serve a nation that had no love for them.
Words bubbled forth, though he had hardly been thinking them. “I believe in you, you know. The Fury does not test us with easy choices. But when the time comes, we will be grateful it is you who protects us and not some other, drunk with power and the illusion of righteousness. When the time comes, you will always act with compassion and justice. I know it to be true.”
The vote of confidence seemed to surprise them both. Aymeric's hand tensed almost imperceptibly, evidenced only by the golden beer sloshing against the glass in agitation.
Now was the time, Haurchefant knew it as certainly as the toll of a bell. He loosed a hand to move beneath the table, fingers landing lightly on the cold steel at the knight's knee. He dragged back a few ilms to find the fabric of his trousers, warm with the day's exertions and very much alive. He made the move slowly, resting first fingertips and then his palm against the man's outer thigh. It didn't move away from him, though he felt a twitch as if the man had suddenly tensed. Narrowed eyes darted to him accusingly, peering sidelong from behind raven hair. He relaxed when the lord returned his gaze with open sympathy. No games, just simple contact.
It had taken all their years together to acclimate the shy man to his touch. He still rarely accepted it, but Haurchefant kept his tolerance high with a mixture of careful application, such as now, and measured teasing, as was the norm. The key to avoiding Aymeric's ire was not in respecting his boundaries, but knowing exactly how hard to push them and precisely when to stop. Now there was no boundary, he was simply allowed in, and he savored the moment like a brief ray of sunlight in a heavy rain.
But he knew when the rain would resume. He gave the man one last firm squeeze, and retreated. He would pester him later.
The knight's reply was unexpected. A hum of approval low enough in pitch that he thought perhaps it signaled something else, and some unidentifiable emotion flashed in pale blue eyes before he turned away. The lord's breath caught for a bare moment, then, and he thought perhaps he had been wrong. But then Aymeric relaxed, all the tension seeming to drain from him at once, the sadness in his countenance dulled like snow half-melted.
Relief flooded him. He hadn't fully sensed his own anxiety, but now that it was gone he almost felt he could sing. Instead, he hazarded a small smile, girded his metaphorical loins, and took a large gulp of his forgotten beer.
The coughing fit that followed his struggle to swallow it was enough to make Aymeric laugh gently, and he counted the endeavor a success. His laughter was precious, and he was unable to contain his affection at the sound, letting his hand brush against the man's strong but graceful fingers, skin tingling at the small act of theft long after the knight jerked away from him.
“Don't push your luck,” Aymeric growled, eyes sharp and accusing, but it was without heat or anger. This too was unusual, the man ordinarily too shy to acknowledge that a transgression had occurred, as if doing so would sanction it. Haurchefant let his lips curl into a small smile, one much more dangerous than his wide grins. Challenge accepted. The other man could only grind his teeth at the response before looking away in resignation, knowing precisely what it meant. Any other reply would only make it worse. He could only weather the storm.
Now, of course was, not the time to strike. Haurchefant let his hand trace his lips absently while the knight composed himself, attacking his drink with renewed vigor. He would have to nurse his own, not wanting to waste the man's misplaced generosity, and vaguely wondering if a slight buzz might be pleasant after-all. He took a more measured pull, controlling his disgust with great effort. Bitterness he would have accepted, with some complaint. The rancid sour-sweet flavor was something else, assaulting him afresh with every sip and completely resistant to habituation.
“You should let me buy,” the lord offered after just enough time had elapsed, trying to throw the wolf from the scent. “Save your coin for a new blade. Or better, allow me to have one crafted for you.”
The way the knight relaxed suggested not so much that the misdirection had been successful, but that Aymeric had been looking for an excuse to be misdirected. He allowed the silence to roll out comfortably on the table, staring at his empty cup. “I will agree to the first proposal on the condition that you abstain from tea. I refuse the second.” That decided, he signaled the barmaid for more beer, knowing from long experience that Haurchefant would not mind.
What was wrong with tea? The young lord managed to look mildly indignant, yet with an air of generosity befitting a representative of a high house. “Very well. I graciously accept your acquiescence, though I reserve the right to renegotiate your refusal at a later date.” He took another sip, too soon on the heels of his last, making him wish for something else to put in his mouth to calm his salivary glands. His eyes wandered once again to the abandoned bretzel, and this time Aymeric pushed it toward him with a quick roll of his eyes, as if he had known all along it was not truly for him. Haurchefant was very nearly disappointed by how easily he gave it up, but the man hadn't been eating it correctly anyhow. Good things were often wasted on those who drank.
“There is nothing wrong with my blade,” the knight continued quietly, as if in a different conversation, or perhaps a different place entirely. “Though... I have grown. Mayhap it is too small for me now.” He was staring off toward the corner, looking at the dull steel with what might have been affection, prompting a tiny spike of what was most certainly not jealousy.
The young lord paused in the act of drawing the half-eaten pastry from its bag, not quite believing what he had heard. He was torn between laughter and mockery, but Aymeric was serious. He quickly reigned in his reaction, redirecting it, snatching attention back to himself like a coeurl playing with a mouse. “Your sword is already bigger than mine. What else do you need?” He batted eyelashes playfully. It was difficult in principle to choose between the bretzel and the knight, but he took no time in slipping his free hand beneath the table again, tracing fingers along to the man's inner thigh before darting away. Far too close to forbidden warmth to be considered appropriate for a friend, but brief enough to limit the scope of reasonable retaliation. He had wanted to wait before upping the ante, but he could never resist innuendo.
Before he could fully retreat, Aymeric had snatched his arm, holding it like a vise beneath the table, calloused fingertips digging painfully into the soft underside of his wrist. He had not been expecting the man to show teeth, bared in a dark, narrow snarl that seemed to view him as prey rather than an enemy.
“If you wish to cross swords with me, have care lest mine prove too sharp. I will cut you.”
Yes, that was pushing too far. Much too far. Haurchefant shivered unconsciously, equal parts fear and delight, breath quickening. He rarely saw this side of the man, the dangerous side, when he was no longer embarrassed by his antics but willing turn them back on him as a weapon. Quickly he committed the threat to memory, letting his eyes roam the other man's face so that he could recall the moment later. He didn't even bother to hide his reaction. The other man must have known he was excited, and it seemed inadvisable to compound the error with further teasing just now, even a cutting grin. It was regrettable that Aymeric was in such a dark mood, but it was moments like this that encouraged him to test the knight, to see him lose control.
He was a tempest, and it was hard not to stir the pot. If it stirred something else within him, that was for him and him alone.
The maid returned with another pint, breaking the tense moment and the knight's grasp. Somehow Aymeric was always able to conceal his emotions at a moment's notice, regarding her blandly and nodding his thanks, so cold as to be almost hostile. The lord resisted the urge to rub the discomfort from his wrist, staring after her hasty retreat in something like dull shock. Instead he turned to his bretzel, deciding to demonstrate the proper way to eat to his misguided companion. He gripped a segment in both hands and pulled gently, making the knot unravel in slow motion. A gruesome way to go, drawn and quartered and chewed.
To his delight, Aymeric did watch the display with some interest, though he showed none of it in his blank expression. He rested his chin absently against one hand and watched the lord side-long, not exactly concealing his attention but merely de-emphasizing it. Something in his narrow gaze was different now, clouded with thought. Haurchefant didn't think it was his earlier cares, either.
Finally he had teased the bread beyond its limits, one long limb breaking free and scattering a few chunks of salt on the table, droplets of its lifeblood. He let the bretzel rest on the wrapper and turned his attention to the twisted length he had prized free. It took only a little willpower to resist darting his tongue out to taste the salt and draw it to his mouth, but with Aymeric's eyes so openly upon him he was aware that doing so would seem deliberately provocative. Instead he put it to his lips and bit a small piece, looking back to his companion only at the last, from the corners of his eyes as if a direct look might burn him.
The knight broke the awkward moment for him, turning away to look at some point further into the room and sip his sour beer. The feeling between them now was strange, not bad, not uncomfortable, but still fraught with some kind of tension. Haurchefant's heart had calmed from their moment of charged contact, but it still beat with a new rhythm, and he was aware now of every little thing. The way the bretzel dimpled against his fingertips. The way he had to force his tongue to stay still with every fresh beat of his heart. The tap of a long aristocratic finger against a ceramic mug. The constant temptation to look up at Aymeric and trace his jaw with his eyes, following the line to his exposed throat and up to his elegantly tapered ear. The way he had failed, again, not to do so, taking advantage of the knight's diverted attention. Only he had to be aware of it, was aware, because now the other man was looking at him with those thoughtful, narrowed eyes, and it was Haurchefant's turn to look away.
He would have managed not to blush had Aymeric stayed silent. But as it was the man made a sound that was a cross between a snort and a chuckle and a low hum, amused but not entirely displeased. Warmth tickled the lord's cheeks almost immediately, blooming quickly like a wild desert flower after a once-a-year rain.
Quickly he grabbed for his beer, once his bane and now his salvation. A hasty gulp left him coughing hard enough to wipe any trace of emotion from his face, and even better, Aymeric laughed at him again, a warm gentle sound. A thin smile stayed on his lips afterwards, though he diverted his attention back to the empty table, some of the tension between them diffused and calm reigning once-again.
So maybe beer wasn't so bad.
He took another bite of the bretzel's severed arm, not as conscious of his own mouth now, just chewing a bit and letting the dough dissolve. He could taste now the kinship between the brew and the bread, the sour note of the yeast highlighted now on his tongue for a quick moment, replaced momentarily by a gentle sweetness. He popped the last of the chunk into his mouth and savored the texture. Rubbery hard exterior giving way to the soft feathered edge where the dough had been torn asunder, absorbing his saliva and softening to mush. He made his own little hum of contentment, closing his eyes and focusing on the world in his mouth. A reprieve. A quiet interlude between movements in a grand composition.
When he opened them again, Aymeric was watching him from under dark lashes, eyelids half-closed. Haurchefant froze, swallowing the remainder of the sweet slurry in his mouth and wondering if he should run. “You know,” the knight said languidly, voice low and deep. “I'm beginning to think you want me to cut you.” Then he blinked his eyes shut in a slow and deliberate movement, distracting himself again in his cup and paying the lord no more heed.
Oh yes he did! The words were like electricity pulsing across his skin, giving him goosebumps and making his muscles seize randomly. It was terrifying and wildly inappropriate. And yes, he very much did.
But no, something about the other man's behavior was very different tonight. He watched his companion like a hare eyeing a wolf, careful to keep it in view so he would know just when to bolt. He tried to think back, wildly searching his memory for signs. Ogres, turnips, bretzels, beer... sadness, touches, teasing, castration. Flirting? Haurchefant was always flirting with the other man, the tactic being to make it so obvious that it couldn't possibly be interpreted as his true intention. This was the first time he could recall being aware that the other man was flirting back, and the thought scared him. He gulped his own beer nervously, surprised when his cup was suddenly empty. That would make sense, correlating with the mild buzzy feeling pressing against his thoughts, as if his mind didn't have as much room when it was filled with drink.
Perhaps the flush in his cheeks was from alcohol. He was fairly certain he had never drunk as much in one sitting. A few sips of wine with dinner was usually the extent of it, more to please his father than out of any actual desire. He wondered absently if he was actually drunk, and if so, if he would do anything he might regret.
Aymeric, of course, was not drunk. It would take more than two pints of beer to make him behave oddly, he had seen the man drink far more in the past. But that didn't mean his companion wouldn't be feeling like he was, a little unhinged and a little vague around the edges.
Did that mean the knight was behaving unlike himself? Or more like himself than ever he had?
Deep in his musings, he pressed his fingertips into the top of the bretzel's wrapper, adhering little bits of salt to his skin. Then he lifted them to his mouth and caught them on his tongue, focused on them as if they were the only things in the world. They exploded with flavor, intense and sharp, then spread smoothly to counteract the sourness of the beer still lingering on his taste-buds. The relief was pleasurable in an odd way, the absence of flavor almost delicious. Fortunately, Aymeric wasn't watching him now, frowning into his cup in his own isolated world. He had space to breathe, to think.
For a wild, uncharacteristic moment he considered ordering another beer, but thought better of it. He wasn't that far gone, nor did he want to be. He didn't want Aymeric to be either, come to think.
“No more,” he said suddenly, and fortunately it didn't sound as panicked as he felt. His mouth was ahead of his brain, thinking for him now. But he was catching up to the plan, and yes, it just might be worth it. If it didn't work, he had several opportunities to call it off safely. He just had to prevent the knight from drinking much more. He didn't like the idea of his judgment being impaired. The thought left him queasy. “Finish your drink, then walk me home. I should at least make an appearance for supper, or father shall be cross.”
The other man regarded him for a moment with a frown, apparently not expecting the interruption. He looked at the lord sideways, fingers tracing the rim of his cup and glowering. His hand circled around, and their little corner was quiet enough to admit an audible little squeak from the moist rim of the glass. “Since when do you require an escort? Should I request backup?”
So it wasn't going to be so easy, but he could play this game. Haurchefant was ever-so good at games, and they were more fun with a little challenge. “Since you made me drink an entire pint of chocobo piss. I tried, really I did, but I'm afraid I don't like it, and I don't like feeling so out-of-sorts.” It was all true, though he was certainly exaggerating the mild inebriation. “Next time I shall order for you, and see how you like it.” He let the false threat of his words cover for the true threat of his intentions, making the sly smile he wore seem ordinary, though not quite innocuous. He felt a little guilty for the ruse, but it wasn't as if he had ever hidden his desires, unless one counted hiding in plain sight.
Aymeric squinted at him with some skepticism, evidently trying to calculate how much liquor it might really take to make the young lord drunk, and correlate it with his strange demands. He probably wasn't far off, but it didn't matter. Shrugging, the quiet man downed the last of his foul beer, knowing full well the futility of arguing Haurchefant out of anything he wanted.
The lord hesitated, on the brink of madness. Then he decided to fortify his spirit with a small test. “Or I suppose we could remain here as long as you like,” Haurchefant purred, letting his hand wander below the table again. His fingers grazed the knight's inner thigh, picking up where he had left off earlier: too close, too warm. This time he did not remove them right away, stroking another ilm closer and malms too far, searching for some reaction.
It was his own body that informed him of Aymeric's response, excitement flaring before his eyes could catch the signs. It was subtle but he was sure of it, like he was sure of the winter's chill. The man's eyes had actually widened in surprise, and he had given a short, near-silent gasp. His lips remained slightly parted as if he feared he would suffocate otherwise. Before he could give any further sign, though, Haurchefant had snatched his hand back. He had not been burned, but he behaved and felt almost as if he had.
It was now or never, and though he had always accepted 'never' he was starting to like the idea of 'now.' He ripped the remains of the bretzel in two and poked a twist into his companion's mouth, the other into his own. Then he pushed his chair back and stood from the table in one swift movement, making sure there was no time for any objections or second-thoughts. He fished some gil from his coin-purse and left it on the counter, then made to leave—through the lower exit. He made sure to catch Aymeric's eyes before heading down the stairs, not wanting to give him any excuse to get lost and thus escape his grasp.
So much annoyance and confusion was adorable on his friend's face. He had already snatched the bretzel from his mouth with those long fingers, but was at least eating it, scowling with his eyes as his mouth was occupied. Haurchefant had never dared force-feed the man, being rather fond of his own extremities. But this, too, had an important purpose, though he steadfastly refused to think on it. He didn't want to give himself away too early. Instead he chewed his own bit of bretzel, hastily downing it in a blatant act of disrespect for fine baking, waiting for his companion to collect his sword and meander to the exit with more grumbling than necessary and less than expected.
“And I suppose there's a reason that we are taking the long way to the Pillars? Or are you so addled you can't remember the way home?” Aymeric had caught up to him as he made his way into the early evening air, not chilly even with the breeze that met them on the raised porch outside. The irritation was indeed building. That was unavoidable, though it was hard to tell if it was from the abrupt treatment or the teasing. Or perhaps the abrupt cessation of the teasing. The best he could do to forestall it was delay with his words and hurry with his feet, as much as he was able without seeming rushed. Haurchefant only rushed when there was something very good to rush towards, and that would give away the game entirely.
“I thought some air might help clear my head. It would be unseemly to seem so affected, don't you think? What example would I be setting for my dear sweet brothers?” It wasn't so strange, actually, if you discounted the oddity of the first-born of one of the four great houses taking a dusk stroll through the unsanctified hell of the poor district.
“Yes, of course,” the knight muttered behind him. “They might think they needed to practice at drinking so that they wouldn't become so besotted by a single pint.” Aymeric was no longer speaking to him, but about him, which was both good and bad. Good because he was no longer going to object directly, and bad because he had lost patience already. He was actually extremely patient when it came to the eccentric lord's whims, but he could only take so much odd behavior at once, and there was the factor of his strange mood to consider. He had a narrow window of time in which to strike, and he had exhausted his opportunities to back out. It was all or nothing, raise or fold.
It could never be said that Lord Haurchefant was not willing to take risks. Rather the opposite, though like any wise strategist, he weighed the potential gain against the potential loss, and never committed without knowing the odds. This would be the single riskiest move he had made, but he was confident now, confident that he had read the signals correctly. No-one knew Aymeric like he did. And if he failed... well, if he failed, he was certain he could salvage things somehow. He refused to let himself ponder the matter further. He would have faith in his friendship.
Halting that line of thought in its tracks, he instead busied his eyes as he walked. He scanned his surroundings, not for the dagger-men that he should likely have feared, but rather for a secluded spot to make his move. He had only the alley leading to the Athenaeum with which to work, or he would lose his opportunity, wasting the night and more. Fortunately it didn't take long for him to spy a large crate shoved up near a corner, veiled in shadow in the deepening dusk. The space behind it looked too small to be occupied except for the sort of task for which he intended it, so he took a chance and committed. He stopped just before passing the spot, waiting for the knight to catch up the few steps between them. Then he looked back and grinned, his most charming and sweet.
This was a seduction, after all.
Aymeric stopped, regarding him with suspicion he absolutely deserved. He knew something was up by this point, and he was not amused. But it didn't matter, wouldn't for at least five more seconds. Haurchefant reached out to clasp one of the knight's hands in both of his, and then he bolted sideways, using inertia rather than strength to drag the other man after him. The otherwise agile warrior tumbled after him innocently, as if the game they played was for children and not very, very adult. Into the dark, the space between the crate and the wall being just enough to accommodate them both in its furthest reaches.
In that flash of movement, he remembered another hand in his, small, trusting and warm. In the dark recesses of his own soul, he wondered if he was breaking Aymeric's trust, if he had already by even thinking such things, his traitorous body giving lie to his friendship for years on end.
The secluded spot they found themselves in was, too, a test of a kind. Obviously the knight could leave at this point, being well capable of inflicting many and sundry injuries should he wish. That would have been disastrous, even leaving aside the pain and convalescence. But he didn't. He just waited, hand still linked with Haurchefant's own, too close, too warm, in the darkest part of the city. Dark in spirit and deed, a place where light feared to tread. Too late it occurred to him that he would have preferred to have the man cornered, but a sudden flash of insight informed him that he would be less likely to want to leave if the option were not denied him. He had no idea what body parts he was thinking with anymore. He would have to evaluate their comparative intelligence and cunning... later.
At length their eyes adjusted to the gloom. He thought perhaps the knight was showing fear. It was too much like the startlement he had seen earlier though, so he couldn't be sure, both expressions so unfamiliar to him. He was nervous himself, really, perhaps terrified. He bit his lower lip in indecision, torn between embracing the man and apologizing.
He compromised, and stepped backwards, leaning against the far wall. It would be Aymeric's move. The other man's eyes watched him, wonderingly, and when he gave the captive hand a little tug he unexpectedly stepped forward, as near as he could get without touching further. He was suffocatingly close now, and their height difference was apparent as the knight peered down at him, curious now, or perhaps suspicious, or perhaps they were the same thing. Haurchefant was slightly bulkier, but Aymeric was several ilms taller, making him seem even more lithe and poised. The lord realized he was breathing a little too loudly, too late to really stop himself. He tried at least not to tremble.
“What are you up to,” Aymeric asked, but his voice was low, too low. Haurchefant did tremble now, and he went for broke. His hands moved almost by themselves, winding their way up the solid breastplate before him until they reached the other man's neck. The knight did not pull away, though he narrowed his eyes into serpentine slits, seeming to flash a warning in the darkness.
Good enough. He let one hand caress the tender flesh below the man's jaw, lightly oily and a little sticky with dirt, but warm, so warm. The knight should have pulled away, should have stopped him, should have hit him, but he was only terribly still under his touch. So he let his other hand thread into dark hair, almost as soft as it looked. And he waited, two heartbeats, then three. And then he licked his lips, making sure to look the other man in the eye, waiting for something, any sign at all beyond the piercing stare he was getting, and then... he pulled him down into a kiss.
He should not have been able to get this far. But here he was, lips against the frighteningly still man before him. He thought he could hear a reaction though, a tiny groan, almost a whimper that made his spine tingle unexpectedly, sparks traveling from his ears to the depths of his stomach. The lips softened against his, allowing him to move them gently together, so slow but more thrilling than he had ever imagined. For a moment his frantic mind allowed time to stop, memorizing the feeling and wishing it would never end. But then it was over, the knight's hands at his shoulders and pushing firmly away. It was over. He supposed he deserved that, but he had tasted the forbidden, and he could not be sorry for it.
If the forbidden tasted a little of beer and bretzels, he supposed he had now acquired the taste.
It did hurt though, the way the knight looked at him. Disappointed? Angry, for certain, though it was a slow simmer, eyes that cut like ice and shoulders tensing, not quite enough to shout or strike. If it got out of hand they could hash it out with swords, but only if he could talk him through this stage. He had to stay alive long enough to retrieve his own blade and shield, or dear Artoirel would get his wish to be counted as the eldest son.
His anxiety made him speak first, afraid of what would follow if he didn't. “Is this the part where you cut me?” That was probably the exact wrong thing to say, but he was half-expecting castration at this point anyway. It might do them both good. Build trust, and lead to better decision-making, perhaps.
“You're not drunk enough for this,” came the response. The quiet calm of the knight's words belied the storm shimmering below the surface, barely registering on his face but for the tension around his eyes, the set of his jaw. His mouth had become a tight frown, short like the blade of a dagger and just as thin.
“Neither are you,” parried the lord, utterly incapable of saying anything more intelligent. He had thought he had given him more than ample opportunity to back out. He at least hoped that by implying the fact rather than stating it, the other man would be more likely to accept the truth of it and less likely to blame him for everything and draw steel.
The knight continued to ignore his words, which might have been well. “I have no more patience for your games. I will not be toyed with.” A venomous hiss now, and to his surprise, Aymeric stepped closer to him again, leering over him like a cobra spreading its hood over a rat. Haurchefant allowed himself to be properly frightened, shrinking away and giving the display its due respect. He peered upwards, licking his lips again, reminding him of the contact they had shared only a moment ago. Reminding them both, making the other man twitch his cheeks in irritation, his sclera reflecting dangerously in the gloom.
So cowed was he that it took him a moment to register the implication of the words. No, that was ridiculous. It was Haurchefant's turn to be hurt, angry, incredulous. With a little effort he kept his voice low and even, containing it within their boxed-in world. “I thought you knew me capable of accomplishing multiple aims at once. Just because it's a game doesn't mean it isn't serious, you know. I'm neither stupid nor cruel; I resent being treated as such.”
It wasn't surprise that registered on the knight, as much as... relief. He closed his eyes and sagged his head a fraction, apologetic and heavy with care, wilting in slow motion like an autumn leaf. Now that the predator-prey dichotomy had been disrupted, they seemed almost the same height again, just leaning too close to be polite, or even platonic. “You know there are consequences,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Haurchefant blinked, no longer following the conversation. “There have always been consequences. So we will be cautious. Is that really the problem?”
Aymeric was looking at him like he'd grown a second head, prompting the lord to kick the taller man in the shin lightly, just enough that he'd feel it through his armored boots. “Don't look at me so,” he reminded. He couldn't stand being treated as a fool, and it stung coming from his friend.
The other man looked away for a moment, not moving far but feeling somehow more distant, as if he might drift off into the sky. “You said before that you believed me just. How can I serve the Fury as I am? I thought perhaps if I resisted, she would cure me... but you... you tempt me so. The vessel is too weak. I am broken, unfit.”
This was beginning to seem serious, even if Haurchefant couldn't begin to understand it. “If you are unfit, then what am I? I seem to recall being the one to tempt you. For... how many years now? I have done almost nothing else, though you hardly seemed to notice.”
“You are... exceedingly odd,” the knight replied, and the lord had to chuckle, leaning his head forward against the other man's shoulder. He took the chance and wound his arms around his back, pressing against the plate and leather that hugged the man's narrow frame. Aymeric let his hands drift uncertainly until he, too, found an embrace, gathering Haurchefant close by his shoulders and nosing against his unruly hair. He felt so warm, suddenly, that it almost seemed impossible to breathe. Yet breathe he did, inhaling the scent of the other man's sweat and armor and fear.
“Wait,” he said suddenly, brain catching up with the beating of his heart. Even he knew it was the wrong moment to speak but that had never really stopped him. “You resisted? You mean to say you haven't been with another? Not even a woman?” That was so preposterous Haurchefant hadn't even considered it. It would have been so easy for the beautiful man to seduce anyone he pleased. Had that been his first kiss? It would explain the awkwardness, but it beggared belief.
“If you don't wish me to think you daft, then shut up,” growled the knight. As it happened, the growl was issued directly against Haurchefant's ear, making him melt a little inside, hot blood flowing downward to parts best not spoken of. “I don't like women. I assumed that as you clearly do, you were not truly interested in me. Forgive me for believing you capable of any consistency whatsoever. No, I have not been with another, so please rest assured that you are the one damning me to the seven hells.”
And then the knight kissed him. An angry kiss. Haurchefant decided he liked angry kisses, at least from Aymeric, and responded enthusiastically. There was rather more biting than he was used to, but that was nice too, even if it was clumsy and... really, it didn't matter. It was Aymeric, and he had wanted to taste him for so long. He eagerly opened his mouth to the other man's teeth, thrilling as his lower lip was sucked and bitten, almost hard enough to bruise and then softer, slower. The other man seemed to pause entirely, letting out a small shaking breath before tracing the lip with his tongue instead. He hadn't thought it possible to feel so sensitized, and the sudden softness of the action made him dizzy. It was only the pressure in his chest that alerted him to the sound he was making, a soft gurgling sigh that was almost a moan. One of the arms around his shoulders tightened, the other hand winding into his hair and petting the wiry spikes, settling on his jaw and taking firm command of the exploration.
Just because Aymeric was in charge of the kiss didn't mean Haurchefant couldn't have his way. He relaxed his body against stone and allowed the knight to do as he pleased, carefully encouraging him with pliant lips. The other man licked along his upper lip now, and along his teeth, and the lord sharpened his tongue to dart out at the knight's own, not attempting to influence or move it but stroke along it in quick, strafing motions. It didn't discourage the other man, though it did slow his movements. Finally the frantic energy that had possessed the kiss from the start had wound down, and the dark-haired knight allowed their tongues to simply meet. Still like pre-dawn dew, almost not a kiss as their lips hardly touched. Just a warm slide of tongues and gasping breath, mouths open more to the air than each other. And then the hand in his hair seized suddenly, and the stillness was broken, prompting a long slick slide as the knight allowed himself to be drawn deep into Haurchefant's welcoming mouth.
Godsdammit yes, was what he would have said, but every bit of his vocal hardware was occupied and so he responded only with a deep, encouraging moan. The other man seemed pleased as well, rumbling deep in his chest, a sound that was more touch and feel, in his hands and on his tongue.
It wasn't at all what he intended or expected. He had thought the stoic knight would be more reluctant, shy. He thought he would need to take his time, open him up slowly. Taste him, tease him, wind him up so tightly that he could not remember why he was reluctant. Instead Haurchefant was being plundered and eaten, and it was so, so good.
Of course, that didn't mean he couldn't play. It wasn't in Haurchefant's nature to submit, not unless it got him something. And what it got him now was an eager mouth, a willing tongue, a trusting body. Slowly he tilted the dynamic of their kiss, increasing the boldness of his own touches, guiding the other man to the places he most enjoyed. Eventually darting into the knight's mouth, a place of forbidden mystery and faded bitter notes of flavor, more a source of fascination now than repugnance. He tasted the man's teeth at first, leaving him time to decide if he was willing to allow more. He was greeted with a playful nip, but he decided that it hardly hurt and that it was invitation enough.
But it wasn't enough. As good as it had been to let Aymeric have him, he needed to ravage the other man in return. He flexed the fingers embedded in raven hair and pulled at the man frantically, pressing their chests together, setting his other hand free to wander down his side as he claimed the deeper places with his tongue. This was why he didn't like to wear armor unless he expected to fight, he thought. One never knew when it would be desperately important to be felt up by a friend. As it was his own light tabard felt far too constricting, and he regretted that he probably couldn't pry off the man's breastplate without spooking him like a deer. He didn't need nudity, just contact, a ground for the vivid electricity generated by their needy mouths.
Next time.
For now, he contented himself to slide his roaming hand to a bony hip, caressing warm fabric barely accessible below the stifling plate. He contemplated the teasing curve of the man's rear but... he opted to go the other way, splaying his fingers and moving with trembling caution, not sure if it was his own nervousness or Aymeric's that made him hesitate.
Perhaps he shouldn't have. That moment was all it took for the knight to release his head and seize his wandering wrist, pulling away from the heated kiss to glare at him steadily. It was a challenge, not anger, but the message was clear as he pulled the offending arm upwards, twisting his grasp around it savagely to smack it into rough stone. It was pinned solidly by his head, and Haurchefant wasn't sure if it was shyness at the threat of being touched, or a merciless desire to own and control. Or perhaps it was both. He could live with that.
“You have no idea how sexy you are,” the lord admitted in an awed whisper, the edges of his voice tearing like paper. The threatening growl the other man returned was better than any response, and he figured talk was unnecessary at this point. He took the hint and let the knight come to him, the only encouragement a quick moistening of slightly-parted lips. Aymeric seemed mollified by the offer and leaned in to accept, but kept the kisses brief and shallow. Now that Haurchefant was nearly ready to molest the air in front of him, their lips met softly, no teeth or tongue. Regardless, it was anything but chaste. His breath came in short gasps, louder than he would have liked but every bit as desperate as he felt. “Fucking tease,” he mumbled.
“Be silent,” the whisper hardly heard at all against his lips. Otherwise the knight ignored him and traced along his jaw with his moist mouth, tasting him occasionally with a flat tongue and winding down to his neck. He felt his eyes close and wander up into his skull, and he hummed a long note of pleasure. Tongue and teeth did not restrain themselves here. He felt possessed, and it was exquisite.
He let himself go for several long breaths, no longer wondering why he was allowing the other man to claim him. He could no longer pretend it was a matter of exchanging quiet submission for what he truly wanted. No, this was what he wanted, Aymeric's lips on him, soft grumbling sighs and hot breath. He would do anything the knight wanted. Anything at all.
At length his eyes slid open, an involuntary reflex rather than any expectation to see. He was distracted, fascinated by the drag of a sharp canine tooth against the soft skin beneath his jaw. But still in the dim light he could make out the beautiful vision of the man, his short dark hair curled around one long, aristocratic ear, and he didn't even think. He just moved, pulling carefully against the base of his skull, pulling him closer and darting his tongue out to taste his ear. He ran his tongue along the top-most ridge, from the base to the narrow tip, and Aymeric didn't even struggle in his grasp. Instead he gasped, seizing Haurchefant's shoulders in both hands and going very still. Meek as a lamb, twice as delicious.
He overcame the short-lived desire to whisper something dirty. He was capable of learning, after all, even at his least sensible. Instead he grasped the cool skin lightly between his lips, not quite a kiss as much as gentle fondling. He dragged his mouth from side-to-side teasingly, touches light. When his tongue once again reached out to stroke under the fold of cartilage along the leading edge, the contrast of heat and wetness made the other man moan, the sound coming from somewhere higher in his throat, and higher-pitched besides. The hand that Aymeric had held in a death-grip a moment before came up to wrap around the knight's back, caressing tenderly, offering support as they both leaned heavily against the wall. The man was trembling, just a fraction. Showing just enough weakness to make Haurchefant want to eat him alive.
It took him a moment to remember the knight was a virgin. Apparently he wasn't aware that he had erogenous zones, or where they were located. The ears were an easy target. He wondered what else he could discover, what combination of provocation and obedience he would need to unlock permission for more. The thought stirred him deeply, distracting him from teasing swirls around the precipitous dip of the man's ear canal, making him drag his teeth instead along the lobe and then suck the pointed tip entirely into his mouth. It earned him another long moan, a little deeper now, though Aymeric wiggled a little in his grasp as if he wanted to escape, as if it were too much for him to bear.
No. Not that easily anyway. Haurchefant felt like he had burst out of his skin and was no longer constrained by the bounds of reality. He needed more... but he knew he was already pushing his luck. Every other impulse had to be thwarted, subsumed, twice as hard now that the man was willing in his arms. Not for the first time he resisted turning to press him against the wall at their side, taking command of their exploration and probably pushing the knight much farther than he was comfortable going—a potentiality that would be good for neither of them. He contented himself with letting his tongue return to the shadowed recesses of the deep canal, circling a few times with slow precision and breathing hot puffs of air against silky skin. When he finally zeroed in on his target and slipped into the tight channel, Aymeric swore vividly, sagging his chest against him and shaking, digging his fingers into the lord's shoulders hard enough to bruise.
It was Haurchefant's turn to moan, suddenly achingly aware of the lack of contact and friction against his lower extremities. “Gods alive,” he croaked, clutching the knight's back to him securely. The intense reaction had been more than worth the odd flavor, bristling quickly on his tongue and fading to what he could only describe as alive and earthy, almost like green grass. He had mercy then, releasing the knight's dark head and letting their lips meet, the kiss worlds different from Aymeric's demanding pillage. He was admitted willingly, and he took his time to savor it. As arousing as their kisses had been, it was almost a cool relief from the constricting heat of the taller man's ear, the act of penetration far too suggestive of other things. He was going to lose his goddess-damned mind, and he let the pliant tongue be his lifeline to sanity, calming him with long caresses and playful licks.
And then, just like that, it wasn't calm anymore. The only thing that had changed was the touch of long delicate fingers, fingers that haunted his dreams and drove him to distraction every time they flexed around a cup or a fork or the hilt of his sword. Now they flexed around his hips, pushed up beneath his shirt and did to him exactly what he had wished to do to the other man earlier. This was why... but he lost his train of thought entirely, then, a rough calloused thumb having brushed against the hollow of his hip and tickled all vestiges of sense entirely away.
He realized that he was truly blushing now, his whole body feeling heated with the intensity of the moment, having crossed the threshold of desire and emerged fully into need. Anything, anything, he chanted in his mind, just please... but the only sound that he actually made was a low keening whimper. He felt soft lips against his neck, caressing his adam's apple and making him wonder when he had escaped the kiss and lain his head backwards against the rough-hewn stone. He didn't know much of anything anymore, only that Aymeric was touching him, and it was so wonderful he could almost cry.
As if answer his prayer, the knight pulled at his hips, driving away the last space between them and letting their lower bodies meet in a shock of heat and motion quickly-stilled. 'Anything' was an easy request to fulfill, but the delicious contact between their hips was a dream come true. It was Haurchefant's turn now to clutch the other man and swear, following it up with a deep throaty moan that was likely inadvisable if they wished to remain unobserved. Aymeric was panting heavily in his ear, each little breath carrying enough emotion to qualify as a small sigh of pleasure or groan of need.
He could feel every ilm of the man. There were no secrets between them anymore.
They could find fulfillment just like that, Haurchefant was sure of it. Pressed against each other in the dark, fully clothed but desperate. It would only take a little movement, a little surrender to madness. It wasn't that he was too easy to please! But the way his blood was racing at every kiss and light touch, it was inevitable that such direct contact could push him over the edge. One of his hands was already snaking lower to grasp at the small of the knight's back, not pulling or forcing but... offering. The shock of contact was wearing off and the urge to thrust, claim, rut was seeping into his dumb mind and drowning his sense. He hissed between his teeth, keeping his eyes clenched shut and trying somehow both to focus on the sensation and push it away, keep it from ruling his actions but only save the feeling for later. For ever and always.
And then, those sinful fingers stilled. And stopped, warm hand withdrawing from beneath his tabard. Haurchefant opened his eyes with difficulty now, taking a moment to focus them on the vision of beauty before him. He probably looked like some adoring puppy, and he felt just as intelligent. But Aymeric looked troubled, a little sad, perhaps even apologetic. His brows were dipped with care and his mouth—oh his soft mouth—was pressed in a tight frown.
And then the knight pushed away. Softly, without anger, first making sure Haurchefant was well steadied against the wall, and then he drew back a few fulms into the cloak of darkness.
Suddenly it became much easier to breathe, the crisp night air tasting of innocence and longing. His skin crawled with the denial, but there was no insult, just a vague surprise that it had proceeded so far and ceased so abruptly. Absently he opened his mouth and licked his own lips, like a coeurl cleaning its mouth after a meal, keeping his eyes locked to the other man's wary gaze, sharp eyes barely visible against the darkness. It had been to comfort himself and diffuse his own arousal, but he thought he could hear a sharp intake of breath that suggested it had affected them both. Unable to hold it anymore, the young lord let out a little groan of frustration and disappointment, but his smile was soft and genuine.
“Thank you,” was all he could think of to say. But he meant it. He planned to take the memory to his grave and terrify the life out of his mortician.
A sharp exhale left the other man, nearly an undignified snort, but to Haurchefant it seemed deeply masculine and very attractive. When he finally spoke his voice was gentle. Deep with affection and desire, with just enough growl to make one think it was best spoken in the bedroom.
“I really do hate you,” said Ser Aymeric, and then he abruptly left.
The force of it finally brought the young lord to his knees, where he remained for quite some time, wondering whither his composure had fled.

Bells later in the warmth of his own bed, Haurchefant relived the evening over and over again. His pillows were welcoming but not nearly warm enough, his mattress far too soft. But his memories called to him like a siren in the dark, whispering until his own voice joined with sighs and soft moans, whispered until he had no more to whisper back.
When it was all through, and his thoughts wandered like hazy clouds, he finally settled on one question.
Would he have wanted Aymeric to say something else, when it was said and done? Would he have wanted him to speak of love, rather than hate? Sweet words rather than cutting bitterness and sour beer?
He pondered unhurriedly for some time, not thinking as much as drifting, pleasure and fulfillment buoying him to dreams. But at the door to sleep, he suddenly had his answer, rising unbidden like his affection for the man himself.
No, he realized. Next time, he wanted Aymeric to hate him, too.
Harder, if at all possible.
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An Acquired Taste