Estinien did not attend balls, and Aymeric knew this.

In their particular blend of

art (the culinary, the decorative, the musical, the performative—dear Halone, the
performative: the art of etiquette, conversation, insinuation, compliment,
compromise...) he seemed even more ungainly than usual, a grounded and irritable
gyrfalcon, full of resentment for his anklets and jesses and wanting nothing more
than to be free to ride the wind and hunt once more. It was a relief to both of
them when the attempts to invite him finally dried up: Estinien no longer had to
repeatedly decline them, Aymeric no longer had to give politic explanations at the
event itself as to why the Azure Dragoon wasn't there.
But, this also meant that when Aymeric was having his foot stepped on again by
someone too eager to impress with most current dances to have actually learned
them, when he was cautiously pretending to have a better palate for distinguishing
wine varieties than he actually did when hobnobbing with the lords de Dzemael, when
the utterly ancient Countess de Durendaire was recounting the story of her first
great-grandchild's birth for the fifth time that evening and just as expectant of
his rapt attention as if it were the first—it made it that much harder to daydream
about Estinien interceding to rescue him from his tribulations.
Though, of course—knowing Estinien, and knowing Estinien's luck, and knowing
especially his own luck, likely he'd only intercede to get Aymeric to head off some
ardent admirer, or to petition for an excuse to leave early, or because he was
actually dying of boredom, or—
"And her afterb—oh! Oh, heavens, Aymeric—" Stooped Countess Durendaire quickly
abandoned attempts to peer over his shoulder to peek around his hips. "I do believe
that young man is going to kill someone!"
Her voice managed to hit the precise volume and pitch to break through a lull in
the general conversation—so the crowd turned with Aymeric, turned as one to see a
the back of a compact elezen man, in ill-fitting work clothes, stealing up on a
knot of tipsy ladies de Haillenarte with knife drawn. Aymeric acted instantly—he
lunged for this man, knocking the hand holding the knife aside and pushing him
down. But—he was stronger than he had looked, and was twisting around even as
Aymeric tried to tighten his hold, and get that knife out of his hands before he
was in a position to use it. Around them the heels of fine shoes were clattering as
the guests backed away, but even now Aymeric could hear loudening jingles of Temple
Knight mail—all he had to do was hold this squirming heretic still enough and safe
enough for a few more seconds.
"Damn you, Aymeric!" ...That said struggling heretic would swear angrily at him
didn't startle Aymeric, that he would use his first name did. "Get off!" And,
Aymeric realized, he recognized that voice.
"Estinien...?" Incredulous, Aymeric let his captive turn over enough to see his
face, and was greeted with what was unmistakably Estinien's angry scowl,
immediately followed by Estinien's elbow in his solar plexus. His strength leaving
along with his breath, Aymeric's grip loosened and Estinien twisted out of it.
Instead of standing and going for his knife again, though, he turned on the floor
just enough to sweep his long legs along it—and catch the ankles of the maidservant
who'd been waiting on the ladies he'd been stalking.
With a cry, her legs were out from under her, her tray of delicate champagne flutes
smashing to the floor and shattering—but more than that, from her opposite hand, a
vial of much sturdier glass arced up in the view of all before crashing to the
tile, breaking with a lower-toned crash and a liquid much redder spilling over the
ballroom floor.
The crowd gasped as one, and the responding Temple Knights now found their duty to
be trying to contain rising panic. One tried to help a coughing Aymeric stand, but
he pushed him away. "The maid," Aymeric said hoarsely, pointing in her direction.
"Detain her." Though his tone and his gaze were as hard as any heretic deserved, he
wasn't looking at her. "I'll speak with him."
Estinien, now that the dragon's-blood threat was powerlessly puddling on the floor,
appeared quite pleased with himself—casually adjusting his ridiculous shirt and
slops, and even giving the maid a last taunting smirk before turning his attention
to Aymeric. "Well," he began, clearly expecting to be complimented, "interference
aside, it was nonetheless successful. ...Isn't that so, Aymeric?" Estinien prompted
when Aymeric remained silent—then "Aymeric? ...What?" when, without a word and
barely making eye contact, Aymeric took Estinien roughly by the shoulder and walked
him out of the ballroom and to a quieter hall.
"Aymeric, wha—"
"What did you think you were doing?!" Aymeric demanded, voice low but still
vehement.
"Stopping a heretic," Estinien said, his surprise vanishing and bemusement turning
to offense, "from killing people, ser."
"Why were you acting alone? Why didn't you tell any of my knights what you planned?
Or me?"
"Because I could handle it alone. I did handle it alone." Estinien's expression
grew steadily stonier.
"And in—I have to assume this is some kind of disguise. Do you think you're an
Inquisitor now? I—Fury's truth, Estinien," Aymeric sighed, aggravated, "why?"
"Everything ended well enough. I don't see why you're making such a fuss." Estinien
stubbornly refused to answer Aymeric's questions, only voicing sullenness.
"Because I thought you were some kind of madman!" Aymeric's voice was no longer
low, and his anger with Estinien no longer politic. "We could have injured you, we
might have killed you! How could you have been so reckless?"
Now well and truly affronted, Estinien pushed Aymeric's hand off his shoulder. "I
got the tip, I acted, I saved your people the trouble." Scowling, he turned aside
and folded his arms, leaning against the wall. "I thought it would be appreciated."
Now that Estinien's back was to him, Aymeric rolled his eyes, exasperated. "I do
not appreciate your recklessness endangering yourself and others."
Estinien turned back to face him, possibly because he felt his own, more dramatic
eye-rolling deserved an audience. "I thought I could stop the heretic, get rid of
the blood, and not disrupt your party. ...And leave before anyone recognized me and
made me stay."
Aymeric blinked once, eyebrows raised. "So... this was your idea of a favor?" Then
again, Aymeric knew, if there was one person in all of Ishgard who would consider
an unplanned armed military operation in the middle of a ball to be a favor to
anyone—it would be him.
"Yes." Estinien was obviously (and uncomfortably) torn between emphasizing the word
to rub in how long it had taken Aymeric to grasp this, and the appearance (and the
safety) of aloofness.
"If you want to do me a favor," Aymeric began, in a measured tone, "Next time,
leave the weapons at the door, attend in clothes that actually fit, and let me have
the first dance." By the time he finished, he wore the unique and distinctly
mirthful expression of a person trying to appear as anything but, with more than a
little sly mischief in his tone.
"I thought you liked balls," Estinien said slowly, but with a little smile of his
own. "Am I needed to rescue you even here?"
"For ever and always." And perhaps it was more than a little silly to say—Aymeric
being who he was—but if it made him so, then Aymeric did not mind at all.
"Ridiculous," Estinien murmured, just as he leaned in close to Aymeric—and Aymeric,
if he minded being so called by the Azure Dragoon, didn't mind enough not to kiss
back, quiet, serene, peaceful—and with a depth of longing few pegged him as the
type to feel.
"You had better escape," Aymeric whispered, when Estinien would let him form the
words. "Any longer, and they really will make you stay."
"Halone preserve me, I'd—mm—I'd die of boredom." He lingered for only a moment—just
long enough to ensure the fondness of his touch and warmth of his breath would
linger much longer on Aymeric's cheek and ear—and then he was gone, retreating
further down the hallway while Aymeric turned back to the ballroom. By now, Aymeric
could compose himself and put the "friendly diplomat" face back on quite quickly,
and when he re-entered the party it was with a broad smile and an apologetic bow to
the Countess de Durendaire—first person he saw, and looking a little lost.
"Terribly sorry, my lady," Aymeric said, offering her his arm. "Rather more
excitement than I had planned for."
"Quite alright, young man, quite alright. They all blend together otherwise," she
said, taking his arm and starting to lead him in the approximate direction of the
nearest trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. "If you must apologize, I'll take the
second dance at the next ball. Now, as I was telling you, my Evie's first day in
the seminary..."