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“Well,” Maric sighed, adjusting his collar in the mirror for what had to be the thousandth time, “I suppose this is going to have to do. Can’t get someone to fix it this late, not with the ceremony in a few hours.”
"There’s nothing to fix,” Loghain replied, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He had barely done more than glance at Maric within the last hour, waiting impatiently for him to be finished with this sudden fit of vanity. They had Summerday celebrations to officiate, a feast to open – mind-numbing tedium, for him, but one of Maric’s lighter and more pleasant duties. In honor of the festivities, Maric’s tailors had designed a brand new outfit for him, bright as spun gold and arguably prettier than anything he had owned in years. For all his other faults, Maric was practical at heart.
“It’s too fine,” he complained, picking at invisible loose threads. “I’m not meant for ornate embroidery and flashy colors.”
“True. That is more Cailan’s suit.”
Maric laughed a little sheepishly, turning to look at himself in a different angle. “He does rather like to parade,” he said, still more fondly than perhaps was necessary. “He’s a handsome lad. Let him have his fun while he’s young; it’ll be gone soon enough.”
“You talk like you’re decrepit,” Loghain said, feeling his temper get that little bit shorter. “You’re barely more than forty and will live many years yet, I’m sure. Can we go?”
Heaving another dramatic sigh, Maric tugged at the collar a last time. “If we must.” His hands roamed to every place he could fidget with – cuffs, hem, straightening and pulling, but as he turned, he made an obvious effort to stand still. “Is this all right?” he asked, spreading his arms a little in presentation. For the first time since the head tailor’s little assistant left the clothes on Maric’s bed and bowed out of the room, thoroughly embarrassing them both, Loghain turned his full attention on his king.
While Maric was being rather melodramatic about his age, he was certainly not a young man anymore. Strands of silver hair lent an extra sheen to the blond mop Loghain was more used to, pulled back today in a ponytail so it was out of his face. A few wrinkles touched the corners of his eyes, and when he smiled, the creases in his cheeks turned into hints of lines that were to come. But the shirt and breeches did suit him, no matter what he thought, creating the effect of a glow that might rival the sun in direct light.
To Loghain, Maric looked the same as he ever had. In fact, he could think of nothing to say. He felt more like falling on his knees.
“That bad, is it?” Maric teased, bringing Loghain back to himself with a start. He felt a heat rise in his cheeks, sure he was turning a very unpleasant red color. “I didn’t think I looked so awful.”
Loghain had never known how to make grand speeches or gestures, not the way Maric did. As a compromise between uncomfortable declaration and continued silence, he stepped forward and caught Maric’s mouth with his own. It was a chaste kiss, short and hardly impassioned, but he felt Maric sink into it with a palpable relief. He pulled away again when fingers brushed his jaw so gently he shivered.
“Is that your way of telling me I’m being ridiculous?” Maric murmured, grinning at him in a way that often spelled nothing but trouble. Loghain snorted, shaking his head against Maric’s touch. He slid his hand down to Loghain’s shoulder instead.
“You’re always ridiculous,” Loghain said. It didn’t come out half as accusatory as he’d wanted. Maric laughed.
“At least I’m consistent.”