Aymeric spoke sense. His words pierced Gareth. He held his gaze for a moment, his own smile gone, something solemn taking its place. With a small sigh, he looked away, finishing his lukewarm team. “You are right. All I have done is run from this. I’ve convinced myself I am not worthy of it. But I must be. That is what I owe Ishgard.” He looked to Aymeric again, a small, somewhat sad smile appearing on his lips. “I know what I must do. May I ask that you hold me to my word?”
A few days after their drink, Gareth answered a summons to visit the Lord Commander at the Congregation of Knights Most Heavenly. Something serious, no doubt. Was there a mounting attack somewhere? Some sort of call to arms that would test Gareth’s new position amongst the dragoons? Surely it was his nerves over such a prospect that caused his heart to pound as he was escorted through the hallways and allowed entry to Aymeric’s office.
Gareth looked to Lucia first, returning her nod of greeting before bending his attention to the lord commander. He had seen little of the elezen in the intervening days; affairs of state were keeping him busy, no doubt. It was clear he was busy now, even at this hour, bent as he was over a stack of documents. Seeing him, even in such an overworked state, brought an unexpected sense of both serenity and excitement to Gareth. His heart seemed to grow slightly faster as he looked at the other man, noticed the way his dark hair curled slightly at his collar. He watched as Aymeric rolled his shoulder, the muscles clearly tense.
A light smile touched Gareth’s face. “May I help?” he offered. When he was still a boy, his mother had sometimes taken him with her to the infirmary. There, he had learned how to massage the stiffness from atrophying muscles so the recovering warriors would not grow lame or uncomfortable. He rounded the desk now, glad for the chance to grant some small favour to his friend.
Gently, Gareth pushed aside some of the fabric encircling Aymeric’s shoulders, revealing a small glance of the pale skin beneath. He brushed some of the hair away from the nape of Aymeric’s neck, his touch fleeting. Yet for just a moment, he felt the silken smoothness of Aymeric’s hair and resisted the odd urge to let his fingertips linger. He began to tentatively massage his shoulders and the muscles near the base of his neck. Aymeric’s muscles were frightfully tense, and Gareth could detect their considerable strength. He pressed a bit more firmly. Something about this felt different from when he had helped the patients. Back then he didn’t recall contemplating the warmth of their skin, nor its smoothness, nor had he found aiding them remotely pleasant, not as he did now.
A sudden nervousness began to suffuse his chest as a strange heat filled his cheeks. Gareth’s faint smile began to vanish. He slowly became aware that it was not just himself and Aymeric in the room. And how odd it was that part of him wished it was. There was nothing unusual or wrong about what he was doing or what he was thinking. There was no reason for him to feel awkward about Lucia being there. It was not wrong to think about how handsome Aymeric looked from this angle, even though Gareth’s view of his face was rather limited. It was simply a fact that the lord commander was a strong and attractive man. Fact. Not emotion. Just as the nature of his kindness and the refreshing quality of his pragmatism were facts. Surely these contemplations did not mean anything outside of a platonic affection. A grateful man admired his friends.
When the door opened, Aymeric looked up from his paperwork and smiled as his guest strolled in. “I appreciate your coming, Gareth,” he said.
He placed the pen down beside his paperwork and took a moment to roll his shoulder. Setting to work on the less exciting aspects of his job usually meant sitting strained in one position for too long, never mind the constant stress that undoubtedly had an effect.
The suggestion took Aymeric somewhat off guard, and he stared at the dragoon quizzically a moment before replying with a certainly. Strong hands firmly kneaded his shoulders; at first the pressure felt a bit sore, but soon the tension eased. Though his gaze was directed at the paperwork in front of him, he didn’t acknowledge any of it. For the first time in a long while—perhaps longer than he could even try to remember—he had a moment to breathe and not think.
But what was it about those hands that struck a match in his nerves? Their touch suggested a deeper feeling that was likely far from what was intended. Something small and locked away stirred, and he found himself wishing they were alone. We’re not alone, he reminded himself. It quietly startled him, and snuffed out the spark in his nerves. No. His mind wouldn’t wander there, not now. Not when there was so much more to deal with.
His reason for summoning Gareth came back to him, jarring him from his nearly trance-like state. He shifted a glance to Lucia, who was staring hard at both of them. He looked away and cleared his throat.
“I am grateful for your assistance. I believe that did the trick,” Aymeric straightened, looking over his shoulder with a smile bending toward sheepishness. “Where have you learned this technique?” His interest was earnest, and some of the Ishgardian healers could learn a thing or two from it, admittedly.
His expression then grew serious. “However, there is a more pressing matter I wish to speak with you about, involving the Dusk Vigil. We would have the dragoons reclaim it.”
