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It starts almost accidentally. Liandrin catches Moiraine idily stroking her clothes, the bright red standing out so perfectly against Moiraine’s deep blue. They clash in some ways but also compliment. It’s almost like destiny was telling them to belong from the start.
Danger comes for them, of course. People expect Liandrin the Red and Moiraine the Blue, so they swap clothes, Liandrin smoothing the blue over herself carefully, ensuring it sits properly, before inspecting Moiraine’s red clothing again, cinching in the waist to pull more eyes to Moiraine’s curves and buttoning her in tighter still, aware just how free she was in Moiraine’s own clothes, own colors.
Later, so much later, Moiraine will smile, watching Liandrin’s light steps almost dance ahead of her, her own more steady steps seeming to match her new color, lyrical as ever but deeper, harder, more concealed.
Clothes fall away of course, at the end of the night, red and blue mingle in a muddled pile and Liandrin moves over Moiraine as she always has, pressing and holding and ever tender, ever sure of her love. Here, colors and clothes mean little, touches and whispered kisses rule.