Pray Tell Me, Sir, Whose Dog Are You?

It began, like many such complicated situations, with the simplest of things -- he and his valet Honoroit, as they often did, had a disagreement over an article of fashion.

"My lord," Honoroit said, his lips drawn into a tight frown and his brow furrowed. This was, typically, the point in their dressing routine where Honoroit would tie, tighten, and fix his collar or cravat or whatever adornments were present, and then move on to the finishing touches -- tying up the ribbons on his shoes and stockings, and then the business of arranging his hair to fall just so around his ears, a process that Honoroit seemed to regard with much the same care and artistry as other men regarded the penning of poetry or arias for the lute. This time, though, he had stopped at the collar. "I do not think this selection is..." here he coughed theatrically, as though to emphasize that he simply could not find the words to describe the tragic scene before him. "Entirely suitable," he finally settled upon, letting the prim understatement do the work of conveying his ill feelings.

"What do you mean?" Emmanellain looked down at the lace jabot, shot through with scarlet ribbon, that he'd buttoned under his chin. "It's in fashion."

"It suits neither your ensemble nor the occasion, is what I am saying," Honoroit sniffed. "And, if I may venture to say so, my lord's complexion is not flattered by warmer colors. It gives my lord a hint of the unwell."

"I think it looks just fine."

"No, my lord."

"What do you mean, 'no'? This is a matter of opinion, isn't it?"

"My lord, there are some which are factually incorrect. Besides," he continued, holding up the much plainer cravat that was apparently his preference, "I suspect that a state function marking the Centennial of the martyrdom of Saint Mocianne is not the appropriate venue to be fashion forward. It is likely to be viewed askance."

"Oh, come on. I never took you for the pious type, my boy--"

"I am thinking of your lordship's reputation, not your immortal soul, I assure you. I feel perhaps that task is a touch too great for me to undertake, but cravats I can manage."

Emmanellain huffed, crossing his arms petulantly. Honoroit, presuming capitulation, reached for the brooch which held the burst of vibrant lace in its position beneath his master's collar. Emmanellain, however, was not ready to concede the battle, and shrugged out of the way of Honoroit's hands -- easy enough, when Honoroit had to stand upon the tips of his toes to reach, even with his arms raised over his head, and even Honoroit had difficulty undoing a brooch and an overhand knot without looking directly at it. "I think," he said, shielding himself with one raised arm (cuffs still un-linked), "that I'm going to put my foot down, because nobody takes these things seriously and I want to stand out."

"My lord has selected a very unflattering hill upon which to die. I have only your lordship's best interests at heart."

Honoroit's hand batted at Emmanellain's wrist. Emmanellain, in turn, went up on the balls of his feet, putting the offending article fully out of Honoroit's reach.

He was just teasing, really, but apparently Honoroit had had enough by this point. Perhaps they were running a little later than Emmanellain realized, or perhaps the boy was simply not in the mood to banter at the moment. He rolled his eyes, clucked his tongue and snapped in the same tone of voice one might use with recalcitrant dog, "Oh, would you sit down and stay still."

It was not phrased as a question, and Emmanellain dropped straight onto the ottoman at his feet before he even realized what he was doing.

Now about eye level with Honoroit, he could see that the boy was thoroughly amused by his swift obedience. Emmanellain could feel his face flush with embarrassment, his cheeks hot -- perhaps Honoroit wouldn't notice?

No -- not in this lighting, and not with Honoroit's eye for detail. If there was any doubt, the slight smirk playing across Honoroit's features (a very slight, barely noticeable twist of his lips, the kind of thing you may not even spot if you hadn't spent a great deal of time examining his features) banished that entirely.

Honoroit moved behind Emmanellain to undo the cravat, patting him on the top of the head as he did so. "There's a good boy," he said, which only made things so much worse. "Now, if you're feeling so helpful, hold out your hands. I need to fix your cuffs."

Emmanellain did so mutely, his heart pounding. Honoroit chuckled darkly, and Emmanellain was suddenly very glad his heavy fur coat had somehow ended up on his lap.

In the days that followed, Emmanellain found his thoughts returning to that particular moment and that heart-pounding feeling of satisfaction.

Of course, it did make sense on a certain level. Time and time again he'd been chided by those around him for simply following -- but it seemed to be something in his nature, and in any case, it was undeniable that there were many better men out there than he. Why should he not let them lead, and do as they bid?

Granted, Emmanellain's judgement had not, perhaps, been especially keen in the past upon the subject of what constituted a "better man". But Honoroit...surely there was no better in all of Ishgard than Honoroit. Time and time again, when Emmanellain felt that surely the boy could prove himself no cleverer, Honoroit had exceeded his expectations. Emmanellain fully expected him to be Prime Minister one day, assuming politics pleased him; if not, he was going to invent something as world-changing as the airship, or perhaps reinvent the position of Archbishop (was it possible, he thought, to become Archbishop of the entire world?) There wasn't a man alive who wouldn't find himself improved by following Honoroit's orders, in Emmanellain's opinion, and on top of that, well...he trusted the lad to make the best decision, all things considered, in nearly every circumstance. He’d ceded him control over the majority of his personal effects and personal schedule — all duties of a valet to be sure — and as much of the management of the barracks as he wished to take on as aide-de-camp. In terms of experience he was not strictly qualified for either position, but so far no one had seen any cause to complain. Even Emmanellain, as much as he would sometimes bicker with Honoroit over some insignificant matter, ultimately meant nothing by it. Ultimately he always did as he was bid.

As for his more primal response to Honoroit’s forcefulness, well...Emmanellain had long come to accept that he possessed something of a degenerate urge within him, some kind of feral longing that responded to such things (a hand on his wrist, a raised voice, a used and abandoned feeling after a stranger had taken their wine fueled pleasure and gone). Honoroit was still young, still yet to grow up as tall and long of limb as he would one day be, but he was already starting to leave behind the unavoidable awkwardness of youth for the elegance and presence of manhood. It was perhaps inevitable that Emmanellain would respond this way someday; he responded a lot of ways to a lot of things, and generally speaking he’d gotten better at, as Honoroit had described it, putting more space between his thoughts and his tongue.

Since Honoroit clearly saw him as something akin to an older brother, and because in any case it was utterly untoward to be fraternizing with a servant in his employ regardless of the beauty and charm and wit the servant in question had come to possess, he would simply have to ensure Honoroit never found out.

Of course, Emmanellain’s impulse control only went so far, and he could not help but worry at the perverse thought like a loose tooth.

"Honoroit," Emmanellain found himself saying, while Honoroit was busying himself with some manuscript or other. Since the rousing success of his travelogue, Honoroit had been writing a great deal, encouraged by Emmanellain who had never been more delighted with his valet and had paid extra to the printers to have the title page done up with red ink and commissioned text ornaments with the heads of stylized vanu-vanu among swirling clouds.

The boy raised one eyebrow and looked up from his book, cocking his head slightly to the side. "My lord?" he asked. It was astounding, the number of ways a simple inflection could carry a wealth of meaning for the same two words.

"What are you writing?"

"Observations regarding our recent travels to Ul'dah, my lord," he said.

"Ah." Emmanellain thought back to the recent travels in question; Emmanellain had been drafted by his brother (now Duke Fortemps) to assist House Hallianarte's attempts to expand their textile concerns outside of Ishgard by showing off the height of Coerthan fashion at society functions. Dressing up and drawing attention, Artoirel had said in that particularly dry manner of his, fit neatly into Emmanellain's skillset. It wasn't until he was actually en route that the comment had struck Emmanellain as perhaps a touch backhanded.

Regardless, it had been a bit of an adventure, and Emmanellain remembered their excursions fondly as well as looking forward to the next one. Perhaps some day they might even have the opportunity to visit the other city-states of the Alliance (though Gridania was supposedly in the woods, which was a little alarming, and Limsa Lominsa apparently full of cutthroats, although he had heard that it was lead by a woman who stood a full eight fulm with a bosom to match, which Emmanellain strongly desired to see in order to believe) and perhaps even the restored Ala Mhigo or the Far East. And wherever Emmanellain went, of course, Honoroit followed. There was never any question that it would be some other way.

The nobility of Ul'dah -- perhaps because they were mostly of diminutive stature, and thus inclined to view the shortest individual in the room as the natural leader -- had often mistaken which of the two of them was actually of aristocratic rank. Frequently Honoroit had been bowed to at parties, while Emmanellain had found himself shooed away to fetch drinks or h'ors d'ovres -- all of which Honoroit seemed to find delightfully funny, and Emmanellain had had a great deal of fun indulging the boy with bowing and scraping while taking the opportunity to shirk responsibility and disappear towards wherever they kept the better bottles of arak.

In retrospect, however...

"I say, Honoroit," Emmanellain asked, swallowing. His throat suddenly felt dry. "Do you recall how--"

"How a merchant matron mistook my lord for a servant, and it pleased my lord to keep up the appearance of such for quite some time?" Honoroit asked.

"Ah, yes. Um...about that."

"As I recall, we had a bit of fun with it. My lord even permitted me to reprimand him in most rancorous terms, to sell the charade to the utmost."

Emmanellain shifted in his seat. "Are you actually writing down all of that in your book?"

"Oh, this is not yet intended for publication. Merely recording some personal recollections."

There was a long moment where the only sound to be heard was the scratch of Honoroit's quill, and the occasional light clink of feather on glass as he dipped the tip into the inkwell. The silence quickly became unbearable, and Emmanellain found himself compelled to say something, regardless of what it was.

What came out, as it happened, was, "Ah, um... do you think, if we should revisit Ul'dah sometime, we ought to simply swap places before we arrive?"

Emmanellain had intended it to be a joke, but Honoroit didn't laugh -- at least, not exactly. He looked up from his writing -- the first time he had done so since their conversation had begun -- and smiled with a raised eyebrow.

"Swap places? Would my lord not prefer to present ourselves, perhaps, as equals?

No, of course he wouldn't, because playing servant had been pleasant in a manner Emmanellain was embarrassed to examine. "Oh, I don't think anyone would believe it," he joked. "You've got a way about you, my boy, that makes people want to take you seriously. I know you're a servant of the House and all, but I don't think--" And here Emmanellain trailed off, his thoughts veering wildly between dismissive jocularity and honest, unvarnished emotion. "I don't think of myself as above anybody, really. You, least of all."

"Really," Honoroit said, smiling again. It was difficult to tell if it was a statement or a question. Then he looked over at Emmanellain again, and their eyes met. It was probably the light of the mid-afternoon sun filtering through the window hitting the constellation of warm freckles on Honoroit's face, but he looked a little flushed. "Tis a good thing, I suppose, that the aristocracy of Ul'dah is not particular fond of hunting, or my lord might decide he ought to visit in the guise of a dog on a leash."

Emmanellain choked, burying his noise of surprise behind a coughing fit so loud and prolonged that Honoroit's look of amusement faded, replaced by a furrowed brow of concern. He slid a tin mug of water across the table to Emmanellain, who accepted it gratefully.

There was no way Honoroit could possibly have any idea what he was doing. It was clearly just more of his innocent teasing -- and Honoroit was used to being able to say whatever he wished to his master, especially in private; Emmanellain had often been chided by his peers for giving his servant far too much free reign. It was, they said, unseemly, and perhaps more proof of Emmanellain's childish character and general lack of spine. As though Emmanellain could ever have cause to complain about Honoroit's service (which was impeccable) or his banter (which, in his heart of hearts, he knew was usually true), and as though he could ever bring himself to reprimand the boy.

Once Emmanellain had downed a few gulps of water and settled himself, Honoroit quirked one eyebrow in amusement and added, "I could put it in a dish on the floor if your lordship prefers."

"Honoroit," Emmanellain said, standing up so suddenly he almost knocked over his chair, "I'm going for some fresh air." He practically bolted for the door, hoping Honoroit was not unduly upset by his sudden exit, or -- gods forfend -- thought he'd made Emmanellain angry.

If Honoroit knew the ideas he was putting in his head... of course, he wouldn't know. Emmanellain would never let him know. But damned if he wasn't making it difficult -- almost as if he was doing it on purpose somehow. Of course, if Honoroit had noticed how dreadfully well pleased Emmanellain was by such comments, he would never encourage him by continuing to make them -- meaning it must be some kind of awful coincidence designed to drive Emmanellain mad.

Often, something that was completely invisible and overlooked became impossible to ignore once pointed out. A stain on a wall that went unnoticed until a friend commented upon it, perhaps, and from that moment forward it was the first thing you saw every time you walked in the room, drawing your eye implacably until it seemed to fill the entire wall.

Emmanellain wondered if what he was feeling now was something like this. Nothing had changed about how Emmanellain went about his days with Honoroit in attendance, but there were things he now noticed more strongly -- things that drew his attention to the point of drowning out almost anything else.

Honoroit came to wake him the next day after their conversation regarding Ul'dah -- just as Emmanellain had instructed, if he slept past the tenth bell, which he was almost certain to do. Emmanellain relied upon Honoroit for this almost more than anything else in his life; no matter what accomplishments Emmanellain managed to scrape together, no matter how much he improved in confidence and skill as he struggled to live up to his brother's faith him, it seemed he would never be able to overcome the urge to sleep in. Usually Honoroit was businesslike about it, wrenching open the curtains to let in the bright Coerthan sunlight and knocking on the headboard until staying in bed became untenable, and then progressing to removing blankets and folding them on the floor until Emmanellain dragged himself upright

It might have been coincidental, and certainly Emmanellain would have barely noticed how close Honoroit leaned over him as he tried to eke out a few more moments of rest before Honoroit began to get aggressive about it. For one long, desperate moment Emmanellian was aware of Honoroit's face very close to his, as he kept his eyes shut pretending to be asleep; they were close enough that he could feel the light exhale of Honoroit's breath on his cheek and -- unless he imagined it -- the very slightest brush of something, fingertips perhaps, against his hair.

Emmanellain held his breath for a long moment, half terrified and half dizzy with excitement, before Honoroit drew back and hit him lightly in the face with the pillow he'd been reaching across the bed to grab.

And then, later on when he was finished nearly finished getting dressed, Honoroit (who had ducked out for a moment to leave Emmanellain to his own devices and prepare whatever esoteric paperwork he had for him today) walked casually into his dressing room as though it was his own. This was not at all unusual for Honoroit, who considered the entirety of Emmanellain's private chambers to be his personal domain, over which he had a certain amount of absolute power; it was just that recent events and changes of perspective had thrown their arrangement into sharp relief.

Once back in his master's dressing room, Honoroit strode over to Emmanellain with a cluck of his tongue, seizing his wrist.

"My lord," he said, fingers tight around his arm. The boy's fingers did not quite reach all the way around, a detail that Emmanellain could not help but take note of. "Please, do pay attention when doing up your cuffs." And he held Emmanellain's hand in place, thumb pressed close to his pounding pulse, to re-do the laces on his shirt-cuff.

It was the sort of thing Honoroit did all the time -- he would casually stride over and fix something on Emmanellain's clothes, tuck a stray lock of hair into place, or simply call his attention back from whatever wild pasture it had wandered off to. It was, after all, his job. And certainly, Honoroit had lived up to his promise to remind him of his duty as often as possible, and could be thus credited for a great deal of his success.

But now that Emmanellain thought about it, Honoroit almost acted as though he owned him.

And, again, maybe it was simply that he noticed it more now, but Emmanellain found Honoroit seizing him with more force, pushing him more often, losing his temper just that much faster, and -- worst and most unbearable of all -- smiling radiantly and praising him when he was good and obedient.

If this continued to escalate, Emmanellain thought he was either going to have to fling himself into the Witchdrop or simply go mad.

As it turned out, there was a third option -- one which seemed obvious in hindsight but from Emmanellain's current perspective unthinkable. This option was to present itself the day before they were to receive a visiting dignitary from nearby Gridania. There had been some production planned to show off how much Camp Dragonhead had to offer travelers now -- one of Emmanellain's ideas -- but he'd deferred the bulk of the preparations to Corentiaux, as a show of respect. Truth to tell, Corentiaux had never quite warmed up to Emmanellain, seeming to view him as a poor substitute for the camp's original master; as much as Emmanellain tried to emphasize that he wouldn't dream of trying to overshadow Haurchefant's memory, Corentiaux still seemed sometimes to hope that he could banish Emmanellain from Coerthas through sheer force of resentment. So, Emmanellain had graciously entrusted him with all the workings of this important diplomatic event, which had gone a long way towards soothing the waters between them and, coincidentally, had gotten Emmanellain out of doing most of the boring work that he disliked. Truly, it was satisfying when things worked out to benefit all involved.

There was, however, one problem that remained insurmountable: Emmanellain had to be actually presentable in order to greet the Gridanian dignitary. Ordinarily this would not have been an issue. Emmanellain prided himself on being fashionable, if nothing else. But Honoroit, whose duties were closely tied to Emmanellain's appearance and bearing, was making the very thought of letting the boy lace him into a tightly-tailored doublet and do anything with his stockings made Emmanellain feel dizzy with how strongly he both dreaded and desired it.

It was wrong, it was dreadful of him, and the worst thing about it was that Honoroit took his profession with a seriousness that belied his age, so if he eschewed his help it would surely hurt his pride and his feelings. Of all the lines in the world, that was the one that Emmanellain was most unwilling to cross; if Honoroit pouted at him, he felt he would surely be damned to the deepest of all seven hells for eternity.

And that was how Emmanellain found himself sitting in his dressing room on the day prior to the function, feeling like a convict facing execution, for Honoroit to finish honing the razor and laying out soaps and oils.

Was it dangerous, he thought as he listened to the quiet slice of the straight razor on the sharpening stone, to feel so many conflicting emotions at once? Emmanellain had hardly paid much attention to his tutors when he was a boy, but he was certain they'd never covered anything like this.

He swallowed hard as Honoroit moved to stand behind him. Emmanellain did not actually shave very often, comparatively speaking -- it simply wasn't necessary, as he didn't really seem to have the capacity to grow much more than a light dusting of actual facial hair on his perpetually boyish face. However, incapable of producing the neatly-trimmed mustaches popular among older gentlemen or the debonair scruff of a fashionable young dandy, it was necessary to make sure no trace of it remained if he was going to put in a formal appearance. Ordinarily, he actually rather enjoyed the process -- after all, it amounted to little more than laying back in a chair with one's eyes closed while someone else paid a great deal of care and attention to you. Honoroit, though scarcely old enough to require the razor himself, was a deft hand with it (as he was a deft hand with everything he put his mind to, the implications of which Emmanellain was trying very hard not to think about). He'd rarely, if ever, drawn even a drop of blood, and looked after his shaving kit with the care of an artist with his brushes. He seemed to enjoy it, much as he enjoyed the process of dressing and setting hair, and his enjoyment elevated it to the status of an art form in Emmanellain's eye, at least.

That very sense of mutual enjoyment was precisely why Emmanellain now dreaded the prospect. Still in his dressing gown, he sat mutely in the well-worn tufted armchair that served for a barber's chair and waited, watching Honoroit prepare. The boy was equally silent -- unusual for the both of them, as ordinarily they bantered as easily as brothers -- and it seemed to Emmanellain that he was taking particular care with his razor this morning. His eyes were focused on the edge as he honed it on the well-worn stone, even though it had hardly seen much use since the last time Emmanellain had sat in this exact place, and his tongue lightly wetted his lips in concentration as he lightly drew his thumb crossways across the blade, testing that it scraped sharply. Then, he took up a brush and lathered it in a little dish of soap, sending up the fragrance of twining jasmine -- along with a hint of exotic orange blossom and bergamot fruit that Honoroit had been delighted to acquire from one of their excursions to Ul'dah, where he'd been met with a delightful cacophony of new fragrances to consider and spend his master's coin upon. That was, in fact, one of the greatest things about traveling, Emmanellain had found -- an entirely new world of ways in which to spoil Honoroit far beyond his station.

Honoroit made a quiet "tsk-tsk", and Emmanellain realized he was staring. Obediently, he closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and leaned his head back. The shaving brush, laden with soft lather and carrying the perfume along with it like a rich cloud, ran down the side of his cheek first, the bristles soft and cold against his skin. He shivered involuntarily, and Honoroit ran it down the side of his neck before continuing with the rest of his face. Emmanellain nearly flinched.

Keeping his nerve was proving even more difficult than he'd anticipated.

Even with his eyes screwed shut, Emmanellain could feel Honoroit's tangible presence behind him -- even before the boy gently ran his fingers through his hair, holding the strands back from his cheek as he swirled the scented soap along Emmanellain's jaw and throat. The soft touch of his hand was calming, steadying, and Emmanellain had to resist the urge to lean into it. Not only would it be improper in the extreme (somehow, this was the line of propriety he drew for himself, never afraid of scandal in other things), it would disrupt Honoroit's process. He had to remain still, for the most part. It had never been quite this difficult before, nor had he been so acutely aware of the sheer effort involved in holding still -- the rise and fall of his breathing, the quick dart of his tongue to wet dry lips. The question of what to do with his hands suddenly became of the utmost importance, when it had never really mattered prior. What did he usually do? He couldn't recall. He fidgeted with the velvet of the chair's arms, running his thumb along the pile back and forth, hoping he wasn't too noticeably nervous. After all, this should be routine -- boring, even.

There was a click behind him as Honoroit fixed the razor's blade into its handle, the mechanism settling into place with a noise that reminded Emmanellain of the solid metal-on-metal sound of a sword being loosened in its sheath.

And then, with a small hum of concentration, Honoroit laid the razor to Emmanellain's throat to begin. The boy's fingers curled up into his hair, tightening ever so slightly until he could just barely feel the tug on his scalp, ostensibly to...keep him in place? Except Emmanellain barely dared to even so much as breathe. Even though Honoroit had scarcely ever drawn blood, the edge of the razor sliding crossways against his skin felt dangerous -- he was painfully aware of just how sharp it must be, how easy it would be to turn the blade's edge just so and slice. The boy kept the thing so assiduously sharp that Emmanellain was sure he wouldn't notice even a serious cut until the soap made it sting, until he felt the line of blood running down the hollow of his collarbone.

Honoroit could do whatever he liked with that razor and Emmanellain would barely be able to do a thing about it before the deed was done. And it was routine by this point -- lying compliant under Honoroit's power, letting him tug his hair this way and that and put a knife to his throat.

The train of thought was impossible not to follow, and gods, he knew not why, but the idea that Honoroit could hurt him quite badly right now and simply elected not to stirred his blood. Very carefully, because Honoroit would be irritated with him if he interfered with his work, Emmanellain shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

The blade scraped against his skin, his head head held still by Honoroit's gentle grip. The sweet, expensive scent was overpowering -- dizzying. He wondered if Honoroit had spilled some perfume somewhere, because it was starting to be difficult to breathe. He tried his hardest to steady himself and not end up gulping air into his lungs in short, shallow gasps -- though he did not doubt Honoroit's skill with a razor, he didn't want to risk knocking the blade from its course.

It seemed, despite his best efforts, that he'd caused Honoroit some annoyance. The boy's hand twisted into his hair a little harder, until Emmanellain could feel it start to tug painfully at his scalp. Emmanellain let out a yelp of surprise that he was not able to fully suppress; Honoroit had never pulled his hair that strongly before, and that hadn't done much to help his current situation. At the moment, he was torn entirely between wanting Honoroit to stop before he lost his mind, and desperately wanting Honoroit to do it again.

Emmanellain's confusion on the matter, however, was short-lived. Honoroit leaned close to his ear, propping one knee up on the seat of the chair -- between Emmanellain's legs, pressing forward until his knee was bearing down on his groin. That meant that there was no hiding his arousal anymore, and furthermore -- which the action swiftly made impossible in any case. Emmanellain was not granted much time to ponder what could possibly be going through the boy's head to do such a thing, though, as he hissed in his ear "Stay still" -- an order that could not possibly be controverted. Somehow, Emmanellain felt he would sooner be able to leap off the top of Camp Dragonhead and fly before he could do a single thing that contradicted Honoroit's demands.

It seemed, however, that Honoroit was determined not to make it easy for him. Emmanellain squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the boy's other hand leave his hair -- meaning that Emmanellain now was forced to keep his head still unassisted -- and instead dipped below his waist, wrapping around his cock through the fabric of his robe and squeezing down.

"Don't move," Honoroit whispered, and almost instantaneously Emmanellain was harder than he could ever recall being in his entire life. He was so dizzy he feared he might faint, and that would be a shaving accident he'd struggle to explain. The razor ran across his cheek again, and Emmanellain swore he could feel his pulse pounding against the edge as Honoroit began to stroke him slowly though the cloth. Even that was enough to nearly drive him halfway to the edge; the thin barrier of fabric was a blessing in disguise, it seemed, as Honoroit responded to the small moan Emmanellain stifled deep in his throat by clamping down on his cock with an iron grip, the soft pad of his thumb firmly over the tip like a finger laid against someone's lips to motion for silence. The intention was evident, made crystal clear by Honoroit saying, in a low and confident tone, "I do have a job to do at the moment, my lord."

"You're n...not making it...exactly...." Not making it exactly easy, he meant to object, but he couldn't bring himself to even finish the sentence. Nothing in him wanted to object. He wanted nothing more than to do precisely as he was told, but if Honoroit didn't let go of him right this moment, that very eagerness to obey was going to make it impossible.

The razor floated back to his throat, the edge of it teasing over an already shaved portion just below Emmanellain's jaw -- not pressing hard enough to draw blood, but once again showing the promise of something dire should he grow a little too unruly. As Honoroit went back to shaving, he kept his hand firmly around Emmanellain's cock, stroking leisurely whenever his other hand wasn't occupied. Emmanellain dug his fingers into the arm of the chair, nails scratching on the worn velvet, and screwed his eyes shut as hard as he could as he prepared to turn his whole focus and, indeed, his entire being on the increasingly insurmountable task of not spending immediately into Honoroit's palm. Honoroit only left his master's cock alone when he found the use of his left hand was absolutely necessary to achieve some angle of the razor or navigate some curve on Emmanellain's face; instead of simply being prodded or pulled this way or that, Emmanellain was forced to respond to taps with the flat of the razor indicating he should turn his head this way or that and look up or down. These moments distracted him from the boy's attentions in his lap, but shattered his concentration as well. Every stroke of his fingers seemed to bring him back to the start.

"Your hair, my lord," Honoroit murmured close to his ear again. With the hand holding the razor, he carefully brushed at a strand of hair that had fallen in front of his ear, obscuring a tiny stretch of sideburn that was apparently in need of some attention. Just that gentle movement lit Emmanellain's nerves up like lightning, and it was a moment before he realized that Honoroit wanted him to hold the offending lock back. He was punished for being slow on the uptake by Honoroit hitching up his knee and putting painful pressure on him -- he almost cried out, but if someone heard him making noise and came to investigate he didn't think he'd ever live it down even if he outlived the foundations of Ishgard itself.

It was hard to say how long the process took. Emmanellain felt as though he was floating, or perhaps standing upon the edge of a cliff looking down into the abyss and being tormented by the traitorous urge to leap into it. He thought he might faint, or scream, or do any number of things as Honoroit continued to tease him with a devilish expertise that suggested some not inconsiderable time spent thinking of this very thing. Through it all, he kept in mind that implied command -- my lord must under no circumstances come before I am through, or the consequences, though vaguely indicated, will surely be dire -- loomed large in what few thoughts he was able to muster. He had never wanted both to do something and also not do it, with the same powerful intensity, at the same time before. Occasionally Honoroit's leisurely stroking would tip him too close to the edge and the boy, sensing it, would draw his hand back to navigate some aspect of the shave, which left tears pricking behind Emmanellain's eyelids with mixed frustration and relief.

Finally, after what might have been a few minutes and might have been full years of suffering, Honoroit seemed to be finished with his work. Freshly shorn and now clean of soap and perfume, Emmanellain peeled his eyes open very slightly to see Honoroit, freckled face dusted with a light flush of crimson that ran down his throat and across from ear top to ear tip, smiling faintly at him with obvious fondness. "Very good," he said, and shifted from his pose with the knee between his master's legs, going up slightly on tiptoe to press his lips against the crown of Emmanellain's head.

The climax that followed, pulled out of him by an embarassingly small number of vigorous strokes of Honoroit's hand, was almost plain in comparison to that moment. Emmanellain felt as though he could die at that very instant and arrive at Halone's blessed halls without regret, and indeed have the great statesmen and warriors who stood at the Fury's side look on him with envy at all he'd accomplished.

After a moment, as his senses slowly returned from the blazing firmament one by one, Emmanellain realized that he no longer felt Honoroit's presence close at hand when he reached out for him and his fingers touched only empty air.

Slowly, Emmanellain peeled his eyes open, a rush of guilt coming upon him all at once. Of course, he ought to have done...something, at any rate. Stopped the boy, or at least raised some modicum of resistance. He knew that. But Emmanellain was so dreadfully terrible at saying no, least of all to Honoroit, who always seemed to know exactly what was best.

Honoroit, as it turned out, had not fled the room entirely. Instead, he was merely standing by the side table where he'd set the soap and sharpening stone, face turned aside and hands held up to his mouth in an attitude that suggested internal conflict, or worse -- distress. Instantly Emmanellain wanted nothing more than to reach out and lay a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder or something of the sort, but as ridiculous as it seemed given what they had just been doing, Emmanellain was terrified that the gesture would not be well received. Now that the haze of climax (if Emmanellain was fully honest with himself, the most incredible one of his entire life) was starting to recede, Emmanellain felt rather like he always did after such things: a little used, which was actually rather appealing because it was Honoroit, and painfully guilty, which was stomach-churningly dreadful for the exact same reason.

The silence began to stretch long enough that Emmanellain felt he had to say something, even though he was not sure what to say to make things right rather than worse. Looking over at Honoroit where he still stood frozen, the boy looked smaller and younger than he had a day, or even an hour, ago. With his fingers laced together, Emmanellain could see his wrists were slender enough that he could likely take them both in one hand; the curve of his neck and turn of his calf put one in mind of a yearling fawn, if one were inclined to the poetic. Swallowing hard, running over in his head all the times that someone had mistaken the boy for his own bastard (as though Emmanellain would ever be as careless as his father -- everyone always presumed the worst of him, and right now, in this moment, Emmanellain could hardly blame them), Emmanellain grabbed the nearest towel to clean himself off first before starting to speak.

"Honoroit, I--" His tongue sticking in his suddenly dry mouth, he struggled to speak even though he absolutely felt he must say something -- an apology, perhaps, would be a place to start, but as he had experienced many times before, the more sorely something needed saying, the more difficult it was to actually come up with the words. He took a deep breath, collected himself, and ran through his next sentence in his head before opening his mouth to speak.

And that was as far as he got before Honoroit blurted out, "Forgive me. I have imposed upon my lord's trusting and agreeable nature, most wickedly and selfishly indeed."

Emmanellain was so taken aback that anything else he had been planning to say vanished from his thoughts immediately. "I...what?" he said, blinking.

Honoroit turned briefly towards Emmanellain with a look of genuine contrition before glancing away again, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. "I knew my lord's temperament was such that, in his desire to please others, he could be led into the performance of unseemly activities with ease. I confess that I have done so with naught but my own gratification in mind, and now that I have seen how easily my actions have borne fruit, I...I cannot help but reflect..." Here, Honoroit blinked rapidly and swallowed, as though he was on the verge of tears.

Once again, Emmanellain wished with all his being to rush to the boy's comfort at the sight, but he restrained himself. Instead, he pondered what Honoroit had just admitted -- it took a moment, as Emmanellain himself was in no state to untangle the formal diction that the boy seemed to employ as second nature by now -- and found himself even more startled. A great many things of the past weeks suddenly clicked into place smoothly; it was like he had been struggling to open a lock for quite some time, but had just now realized he was simply using the wrong key.

"Do you mean to say...you were doing all of that...on purpose?" he asked, cautiously. This only seemed to make Honoroit more contrite -- he actually winced, as though Emmanellain had said something that had only increased his guilty conscience tenfold.

"You see what I mean," he said, "about my lord being easily led. I suppose you must have thought, all this time, that it was your idea."

It had been his idea, he thought -- or rather, it had been his errant feelings that had been the beginning of all of this. Of course, just now it had been Honoroit that had made his move, but Emmanellain had been certain that must have somehow been his doing as well. He had not been entirely sure how, exactly, but was certain that he would figure it out once he'd had a bit of time to think.

He had been certain -- but if Honoroit had been scheming for who knows how long, to the extent that he felt such guilt at his own rousing success, then...

Well, truth to tell, Honoroit was now so contrite that Emmanellain couldn't help but find it just a touch insulting, almost. Here, Emmanellain had been proceeding as though he was in the wrong, and here Honoroit was -- a boy near half his age, and in his employ to boot -- carrying on as though he'd taken advantage of a wide-eyed innocent. That, of course, made him the wide-eyed innocent in this situation. Was he really that tractable, that eager to please, so easily dragged by the nose into whatever anyone wanted of him?

"I mean, is it so dreadful?" he found himself saying. "To be easily led. I mean, you've...you've always made better decisions than I."

"That's the thing," Honoroit began, and then paused. Apparently they were both warring with their consciences at the moment. "If my lord will be so easily led, how am I to know that I am doing right? How am I to know this is truly in my lord's best interest? That it is what you truly...want?"

Once again, these were almost the exact words Emmanellain had been searching for, but Honoroit had gotten to them first. Was this right? Almost certainly not, Emmanellain thought. Was it in his best interest? Well, Emmanellain was fairly certain it was not that either, but it would take a great deal of thinking and weighing of various options to come to a solid conclusion. Emmanellain had never been good at doing what was right, nor what was in his best interest -- that had always been Honoroit's area of expertise, gods bless him for it, and quite frankly if the boy had decided to develop a vice or two then he had truly earned the right, more than anyone else in Ishgard as far as he was concerned.

But what he wanted, well...that was easy enough to answer.

"Honoroit..." he began. "I don't know that I can answer most of those questions to...to your satisfaction. I mean, you can think circles around me at the best of times, so I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually without my help. But, as to what I want..." He swallowed nervously and tried to stand up out of his chair, only to find that his legs did not quite want to cooperate yet. Staggering, he gave in to gravity and dropped to his knees, then down into a sitting position on the floor -- which did conveniently now put him lower than Honoroit standing. Looming over the boy didn't seem like the right thing to do on a number of levels. "Well, that I can be sure of."

"And what is that, my lord?" Honoroit finally turned to look at Emmanellain for the first time since their conversation had begun, and his eyes were full of emotions far too complicated for his age. Though he obviously must know the answer by now, it seemed he wanted to hear it out loud, as a form of assurance, and Emmanellain was all too happy to oblige.

"I want," he said, "for you to do whatever it is you wish to me."

"Don't say that," Honoroit said. "What if I think of something really awful?"

"I won't mind. Not if it's you." When this response elicited a frown from Honoroit, Emmanellain hastened to clarify. "I mean, I...I trust that you won't use me ill, if you know what I'm getting at. But I...I like the thought of letting you have the opportunity."

"I have a cruel imagination that I have but rarely indulged, my lord, and you frustrate me endlessly."

"All the better, I suppose, that I should give you liberty to, ah...employ whatever...measures you see fit." Emmanellain wasn't sure if Honoroit's statement was supposed to be a warning; it sounded, to his ears, like a ringing endorsement.

There was a moment of hesitation, as Honoroit considered. Then, he (carefully, as though dealing with a shy cat or perhaps a delicate creature he was suddenly afraid to injure) he reached out to put his hand upon Emmanellain's hair. Emmanellain closed his eyes and sighed.

"You still ought to keep your appointment," the boy said, in a quiet and gentle tone, "but I took the liberty of informing the captain that you had sustained a minor injury in sparring last night. It would excuse any absence or tardiness, and give the impression of valor if you showed up regardless. And," he continued, experimentally twirling one lock of Emmanellain's hair into a spiral around his fingers, "it would neatly explain any marks sustained should my plan have proved successful."

Emmanellain shuddered. "You really thought of everything, didn't you? Clever devil--"

"Now now, is that any way to address your betters?" Honoroit replied, a hint of his usual slyness beginning to creep back into his voice.

The damnedest thing, Emmanellain thought as Honoroit slid his fingers down to caress his cheek, was that even after all of this, he'd still managed to produce a perfect shave.

The most embarrassing thing, in the weeks that followed, was how little their relationship changed.

Not a single person commented that Honoroit seemed more forceful than usual with his master, more prone to talking back unreprimanded, nor did anyone seem to think that Emmanellain had grown meeker or more tractable. Those with a traditionalist bent had always criticized Emmanellain for allowing his manservant far too much license, especially to speak out of turn and criticize his master upon matters both important and trivial. House Fortemps as a whole employed a very small staff, many of which had been loyal members of the house since before Emmanellain was even born. Servants, in Emmanellain's life, had never been the meek ornamentation and invisible labor that many other aristocrats considered them to be. And besides, he and Honoroit had been friends before they'd been master and man, and his father had specifically hired the boy on for his keen insight. Punishing him for speaking out, even if Emmanellain had ever wanted to do something as horrible as that, would have been an insult to his father's investment in any case.

As far as any onlookers were concerned, Emmanellain and Honoroit were the same as they ever were -- the boy outspoken, his master indulgent and inclined to banter. Emmanellain's peers and elders would be even more appalled if they knew how they carried on behind closed doors, away from the prying eyes of society. That had always been true to an extent, of course, but now their casual companionship had, at Honoroit's urging, developed a certain amount of peculiar formality. Namely, when there was no one to observe them and if it pleased him to take the role, their equitable partnership instead became an inverse vision of their public and formal relationship -- save with Emmanellain in the role of subordinate. In many ways, this too was not much different than the way they had been before. Emmanellain still teased and bantered with Honoroit, who still exercised control over his noble charge's schedule and mode of dress and many other things that were not, strictly speaking, his job. It was just that now, Honoroit no longer felt the need to restrain himself in order to maintain the polite facade that he did not at the most very basic level hold sway over his master rather than the other way around.

And true to his threat, Honoroit did prove to have an exceptionally wicked imagination indeed.

One of the first things that Honoroit requested, and the first sword upon which Emmanellain had some hesitation in throwing himself upon, was his most perpetual of vices -- that of lying in bed, if not roused forcefully, until sometime in the vicinity of lunch. Honoroit had employed a number of stratagems to circumvent this in the past, including a good solid whack with a handy pillow; after it was agreed that they ought, for the sake of propriety, to continue keeping separate chambers (and in any case, thus far the idea of spending the night together as ordinary lovers might had proved essentially superfluous), Honoroit had made a request that was very particular and more than a little bit shocking, even to Emmanellain.

"My lord," he began, his attitude a touch sheepish as though he wanted Emmanellain to know that this was something he ought to refuse if he truly could not bear it, "do you recall saying that you would not object should I do anything I want to you?"

Emmanellain had been leafing through something or other that did not capture his full attention at that moment; he nodded absently. Of course he remembered -- he had repeated the sentiment upon numerous occasions, even, in order to convince Honoroit to act upon whatever desire was percolating inside his devious head at the time. More than once this had resulted not in anything salacious, though the boy wanted such things often enough, but with being given a cup of tea and sent to bed or a drawn a warm bath. Emmanellain had started to suspect that this, too, was gratifying in some way he could not entirely fathom. Honoroit, for all his youth, seemed to have an emotional depth and breadth that Emmanellain, who had been a simple creature since boyhood, could scarcely comprehend. This suited him just fine -- there were certainly things he enjoyed, like Honoroit reaching over to fix his hair in full view of the knights, that he did not truly understand either.

"What if," Honoroit continued, when Emmanellain had nodded assent, "you granted me allowance to do as I wish without limit if you are still abed past the tenth bell?"

Emmanellain swallowed nervously. "Without limit?"

"I mean," Honoroit shrugged, "within reason, I suppose."

On the one hand, this was Emmanellain's favorite vice, exceeding even wine and dice and flirtations that never reached fruition. On the other hand, he suddenly had the mental image, vivid as a painting, of Honoroit waking him with a riding crop or with tongue and fingers and...his imagination veered off into the realm of things that he suspected might not even be possible.

Curiosity got the better of him, and besides -- as much as he bickered, ultimately Emmanellain loved nothing better than to do as Honoroit asked.

Of course, they had to keep things quiet. The scandal that would ensue should the youngest son of a high house, the current Duke's own brother, be found carrying on with a young servant in such a manner would be insurmountable at such a politically sensitive juncture in their house's history -- and worse even than fornicating with servants would be the degrading nature of the acts committed. A true-blooded son of Ishgard, with impeccable lineage stretching back centuries, turns out to not only be a coward and a drunkard and a libertine but one of perverse and esoteric taste, who allowed a lowborn boy to strike him, bind him, treat him as a plaything for his every adolescent whim...gods, every muck-raking printer in Eorzea would be staying up all night to rush out the salacious broadsheets.

But more and more, Emmanellain found he didn't mind being private about it. Why ought anyone else to know of their secret? What business was it of anyone else what they did out of sight and beneath everyone else's notice? Honoroit, too, seemed content enough to keep this something the two of them shared, no less precious for never being shown to the world. There was still the odd traditionalist who looked askance at the license Emmanellain allowed his valet, but he disregarded them as he had always done -- and he was starting to hear more compliments. The young lord had begun, finally, to come into his own, people said. Lofty Emmanellain de Fortemps, who had fled from his responsibilties in terror, was finally starting to grow up. And his young aide-de-camp, risen from mean circumstances, was often mentioned in the same breath -- intelligent far beyond his years, pragmatic and ambitious, the fact that Honoroit's attachment to Emmanellain had coincided with so many changes for the better did not go unremarked. The boy was a good influence, or so it was said -- and, since Emmanellain had spotted this impeccable diamond that the whole of society had overlooked and Honoroit's loyalty had never once wavered despite what must assuredly have been a turbulent career as the manservant, personal assistant, and ward of one of Ishgard's most infamous prodigal sons...perhaps, they began to think, this insightful young fellow had simply spotted potential no one else could see. Perhaps they had been wrong about Emmanellain all along.

Their relationship, as a result, did in fact cause a great deal of comment, but not in the way Emmanellain had so direly predicted. Perhaps that would change should those around them learn the details, but...for now, even Emmanellain's stuffy elder brother had commented on what a fine pair he and Honoroit had made.

All this was only proof that Emmanellain -- or rather, Honoroit, who had drawn him into all of this -- had ultimately made the right decision. If it were anyone else, all of this might be wrong, but...Honoroit deserved everything he could be given, and there was no question of that in Emmanellain's mind.

And in any case, Emmanellain always managed to find himself with better things to do than worry.

The success of Honoroit's travelogue detailing their experiences in the Sea of Clouds had given the boy a passion for writing, so for the past few months he had waded deeply into the composition of another, encouraged as always by Emmanellain who could not be more delighted with his servant's success.

At the moment, Honoroit was leafing through his manuscript, quietly reading over his work as he polished it again and again to shining perfection. He had nestled himself into a great plush armchair -- a House Fortemps heirloom that had stood in Camp Dragonhead since Emmanellain's father was young -- and despite his studious frown, the boy looked quite contented in his commandeered wool coat by the firelight. This was one of the things Honoroit liked best -- nestling into a coat far too large for him, warm and safe as can be. It had been one of the first things Emmanellain had ever done for Honoroit; whenever he could manage, he would stop by the salt-seller in the Jeweled Crozier, Honoroit's employer at the tender age of nine, and pay the awful fellow for the boy's services as a porter for the day. Emmanellain never had any work for him, of course -- it was simply a pretext to buy Honoroit some idle time and perhaps some companionship for himself.

Honoroit would trot along at Emmanellain's side as he went about his day, venturing more and more commentary as he began to understand that this particular rich and noble man would not so much as scold him no matter how sharp his tongue. Often, they would play cards; Emmanellain would teach him, and he learned quickly. And not just the rules of various gambling games popular among the nobility -- Emmanellain watched as his young charge learned to read Eorzean and do increasingly complex sums in his head, and felt a sense of warmth and contentment beginning to fill that lonely abyss in his heart he'd so often tried to fill with wine, gossip, and the passing attention of cruel or indifferent lovers. The night Emmanellain had determined to convince his father to buy out Honoroit's contract, he had sat with the boy on a balcony and wrapped his coat around his small shoulders as they watched the moon rise in the cold Ishgard night.

It had been so long since then, and so much had changed. Soon enough, Honoroit was going to be far too tall to burrow into his coat like this, so perhaps he was enjoying it while he could. Emmanellain briefly considered commissioning him an enormous coat, twice the size of one any elezen could wear, just for personal use.

At the moment, Emmanellain's coat wasn't the only piece of clothing that Honoroit had commandeered. He'd taken the coat for himself, and the majority of the rest he'd ordered Emmanellain remove and place on the foot of his bed; early on, Honoroit had also had him fold the removed articles of clothing, but he had been so continually frustrated by Emmanellain's carelessness in this area that he'd given up on training him properly. Now, stripped down to his shirt and nothing else, he sat in what felt like his rightful place by now -- legs tucked under him on the ground, head laid on Honoroit's lap. At the moment, he was happily thinking of nothing in particular, but Honoroit often liked to read passages of his work out loud, and Emmanellain was always an eager listener. Additionally, as it turned out he had a good ear for rhythm and thus was often a great help with puzzling out particularly tricky turns of phrase. They had passed a great many quiet nights just like this in the past few moons, with Emmanellain at Honoroit's knee, workshopping Honoroit's writing until sleep overtook one or both of them.

There was no sound in the room besides the rustle of paper and the crackle of the fire. Honoroit gently stroked Emmanellain's hair, much as one might a beloved lapdog. The night was so quiet that Emmanellain was on the verge of falling asleep -- until the petting stopped and was replaced with an equally fond but slightly less gentle poke at his cheek.

"If my lord would fetch me the volume over there," he said, inclining his head towards the table where a survey of Sultanate literature rested. It had been quite expensive to obtain -- books were not exactly the first import the rest of Eorzea had offered to the newly opened Ishgard, nor the third or the even the tenth -- but quite worthwhile, in Emmanellain's opinion.

"I really wonder," Emmanellain mused as he stood from his place on the floor, "if you ought to keep calling me that when there's no one around to hear. Seems a little out of place at this point, don't you think?"

Honoroit's eyes, green as a cat's in the dancing firelight, flicked up from his work for a moment, and he chuckled slightly as though Emmanellain had said something very funny. "I don't see why," he said. "Are you not a lord by inheritance still, and are you not mine?"

And, as usual, as always, Emmanellain felt Honoroit was right.

I am His Highness's dog at Kew
Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you?
-- epigram by Alexander Pope, to be engraved upon a puppy's collar