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The stack of documents toppling high on his desk that Arslan is required to read through has been steadily declining throughout the day. Meetings and discussions regarding the plans for Ecbatana’s rebuilding infrastructure are endless, but the young Shah pushes on. By the time evening approaches, the sky outside gradually darkening into a lush sheet of violet, rose, and, amber splattered with early stars, Arslan is ready to begrudgingly wait until tomorrow to complete the remaining work.
Peaceful times in Pars mean prosperity for the citizens, but Arslan and his followers have been working excessively hard to maintain the well-balanced yet still fragile structure. After all, there’s no telling when the neighboring eastern countries will choose to invade Pars once more.
A hint of the pale crescent moon appears in the corner of the arched window when Elam enters the office with a tray; on it are a pot of the king’s favourite green tea and a dish of freshly-picked figs.
Arslan turns around to face the window, stands up with his eyes fluttering closed, and stretches, arms reaching high when a flare of hot pain starts across his lower back, and hiss escaped from his parted lips before he can stop himself. He carefully makes his way to the more comfortable cushioned seat placed in the middle of the vibrantly furnished room.
“Your Majesty?”
As he places the tray atop the table to Arslan’s left, Elam’s concerned gaze strays to Arslan’s figure.
A few strands of his pale hair, highlighted into champagne gold under the candlelight from above, have escaped from his ponytail, and there are shadows under his eyes.
“I’m fine. It’s just – it’s been a long day is all.” Arslan gives his friend a small, tired smile, and nods his thanks when Elam hands him a cup of tea, the steam a warm, soothing hallow as he breathes the fragrance in.
“Lord Narsus has been working you hard.”
“I still have a lot to learn from him and the others.” It’s not the easiest job – being the leader of Pars at such a young age – but he’s thankful that he has such capable and trustworthy comrades by his side aiding him everyday.
When he leans to the side to place the cup back on the table, another stab of throbbing pain burn across the muscles of his lower back. It’s been bothering him for the last few weeks, a slow-building pressure bleeding into pinpricks of star burst flares of dull heat. He has concluded quite some time ago that it must have been caused by the prolonged hours of sitting in a stiff chair and maintaining the same position day after day. His sword training sessions with Daryun and archery exercises with Farangis have been cut short lately due to the influx of paperwork Arslan has to read through, and because of that, he hasn't been able to stretch his limbs for a while.
"Your Majesty, your back pain has been troubling you for the last few weeks. Are you certain that you do not wish to call upon a doctor?” The frown on the dark-haired young man deepens, and Arslan has half a mind to reach out to smooth out those displeased lines between his brows.
“Nothing ever escapes your observation, Elam,” Arslan only replies with a gentle smile, but doesn’t seem eager to consider Elam’s suggestion.
He’s not one for giving in so easily though, and before he can comprehend the implication of his own words, he already finds himself stuttering out an offer that lends an uncomfortable flush to his cheeks, “Your Majesty… Do you… well… I mean… I could give you a massage?”
It’s more of a question than a suggestion, with the way his voice lilts at the end.
But it’s too late to take it back now. He’s wringing his hands behind his back and with his head lowered so that he’s forcing himself to stare at the lush carpet under his feet while Arslan, slightly confused, blinks at him blankly for a few, torturous seconds.
“It–it won’t be too troublesome for you?” The midnight blue of the young king’s eyes is bright when Elam finally musters up enough nerve to look up.
“N-not at all.”
The heat crawling over his skin and leaving traces of sparks doesn’t stop him from taking his liege's hand; it doesn’t stop him from pulling Arslan up gently and leading him to sit on the carpeted floor; it doesn’t stop him from sweeping the man’s long, silvery hair, gathered loosely in a low ponytail, over his shoulder with utmost care; and it doesn’t stop his fingers from lingering a little too long on the warm skin on the nape of Arslan’s neck before he places his hands on the other man’s lower back.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you by my side, Elam,” Arslan murmurs after a brief moment. He can feel the knots in his muscles steadily loosen under the ministration of Elam’s firm and skillful fingers.
There’s a slight pause in his hands’ movements, and Arslan blinks his eyes open, afraid that he’s said something wrong or strange, but before he can voice out his concern, Elam returns to massaging the middle of his back, fingers steady as if he’s never been interrupted.
“I’m merely one dispensable man among many others in this country.”
“Even after all these years, you’re still so modest,” Arslan chuckles, and the vibrations of his laughter travel through his entire body, reaching Elam’s fingertips.
He can never quite express the gratitude he holds for this man – this boy of many facades that Elam has come to know, to understand, to respect and love over the years – so he’ll do the one thing that he excels at, and that is to remain by Arslan’s side for as long as he wants him.