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Every morning during the warmer seasons, a bouquet of fresh flowers set in a glazed vase by his bedside table will greet Arslan as he wakes from his slumber. The subtle fragrance lures him out of his hazy dreams, and he always confronts the new day with a smile, the face of the person who thoughtfully places the flowers there for him vivid and bright in his sleep-muddled mind.
For a few days, it’ll be the lush petals of chrysanthemums decorating his bedside.
Then, the chrysanthemums will be replaced by white, dainty bell-like blossoms of lily of the valley, shivering in the morning breeze by the open window, and Arslan imagines the delicate tinkling as the flowers sway against each other.
As the unforgiving heat of summer usurps the crown of gentle spring, red camellias dominate his bedchamber, the vibrant colour adding a hint of excitement in his otherwise sparsely-decorated room.
Arslan never questions about their presence anymore except for the first time when it happened. It was only a few weeks after his coronation ceremony, and as the newly crowned Shah of Pars, the fourteen-year-old could already feel the stress and pressure piling up on his body in the form of headaches and insomnia. Shadows had appeared beneath his eyes and even Daryun had began to worry, his overly-concerned mother-hen fretting only barely impeded by Narsus, who gave him a warning look before sending the Black Knight away on an “errand”.
Arslan had nodded at the court painter and tactician with a thankful smile. That evening, as the silver-haired teenager was getting ready for bed, he noticed a new addition to his bedside decoration.
“Elam,” he called quietly to his companion, sitting on the edge of his bed.
“What is it, Your Majesty?” The dark-haired boy had been laying out the king’s fresh clothes for the next morning, and he turned to face his liege with a tilt of his head.
“Is this your doing?” Arslan nodded towards the stalks of dark and pale violet blossoms inside a small but elegantly-designed vase.
“My apologies for not asking your permission first,” Elam quickened his steps so that he was only a few paces away before the Shah, his gaze lowering to the carpeted floor as a deep flush stained his cheeks.
“It’s all right, Elam,” Arslan replied in a gentle voice, a trace of smile laced into his soft timbre, as he reached for his companion’s hand; their fingers interlocked loosely, but Elam could already feel the violent thunder in his heart calming. “But, what are they for?”
“These are lavender, Your Majesty,” he said, lifting his head up sheepishly as he retrieved his hand back to his side. Arslan didn’t miss the hint of pink still evident on the younger boy’s face, but he said nothing and instead, waited for Elam to continue. “According to the botany books that I borrowed from Narsus-sama, they are the best antidote to insomnia since the flowers’ scent supposedly induces better quality sleep and reduces anxiety. But, ah, if the scent bothers Your Majesty, I can remove it right away!”
“Please, you don’t need to do that.”
The naked sincerity in Arslan’s midnight-blue eyes as he stared up at him through his silver lashes was too much, and Elam froze in his tracks. The ability to move his limbs or to speak had suddenly fled from him, and Elam could only nibble his lower lip in a nervous silence, his fingers restlessly wringing on a piece of loose thread along the hem of his shirt.
Arslan leaned in a little closer to the plant, eyes slipping close as he took a careful whiff. A contented sigh exhaled through his slightly parted lips, and he opened his eyes once more, the dark blue warm and inviting.
“I think I can feel some of my stress disappearing already,” Arslan joked lightly, a bright grin tugging one corner of his lips higher than the other in a mischievous expression.
“I-I’m glad it’s helping!” Elam stammered, having finally able to locate his voice.
The lavender had started out as a nightly remedy for Arslan’s insomnia, but as the king gradually grew accustomed to the amount of work and responsibility over the next few months, the frustrating inability to fall into a satisfying slumber disappeared. There would still be a few nights when some sudden misfortune – a rainstorm that triggered a flood in coastal cities or attempts at invasions from neighboring countries – that befell upon Pars, thus requiring the Shah and his men to work extra hard and causing Arslan long periods of restless sleep, but on those nights, he’d always find a vase of the familiar violet blossoms on his nightstand before he went to bed.
Nightly lavender eventually becomes bolder species, brighter hues, and floral notes blooming under the sun.
It becomes a habit, and when Arslan realizes this one morning, he can’t help but glances over at his best friend – who’s arranging his breakfast and placing utensils for two on the table at the moment – who has remained by his side through out these last four years as a stream of comforting and familiar warmth spreads from his heart to the tips of his fingers.
After a visit to the court garden later that day, when the sun begins to set along the horizon and paints the sky with splashes of orange and purple, the transforming shades much like the marigolds and crocuses that Elam has given him in the past, Arslan finds his companion in Narsus’ office.
The tactician is no where in sight, for which Arslan is thankful for. An audience would have made this more difficult.
“Arslan-heika,” Elam greets his liege when he hears footsteps behind him and whirls around, a heavy book in hand. “Good evening. Are you looking for Narsus-sama? He said he’ll be in the court garden working on a few still-life paintings.”
Arslan notes the slight grimace on Elam’s face that swiftly disappears; the Shah tries to hide the chuckle that threatens to burst out from his mouth, so he covers it with a light cough instead.
“Actually, I was looking for you, Elam.”
Elam places the book on Narsus’ desk before glancing back up at the silver-haired boy, his russet irises painted with puzzlement. “What can I do for you, Your Majesty?”
“I should ask you the same question,” Arslan takes the few steps that shortens their distance, so that if either of them reach out, they’ll be able to touch. Neither of them dares to move. “You’ve already done so much for me, Elam, but I feel helpless when it comes to providing you with what you need and desire.”
“I don’t wish for anything except to be of aide to you, Your Majesty,” Elam murmurs, “and besides, the companionship that we share now – it’s more than I could have ever hoped for. Wanting more…” his gaze swerves from the intensely dark blue of Arslan’s eyes down towards the king’s lips before he forces himself to look away, “… that would be too greedy and selfish.”
“What if I want you to be selfish for once?” One more step brings the Shah directly before the dark-haired boy, and he’s crowded Elam against the desk, one of his hands bracing the edge of the table and efficiently trapping the younger boy in between. “It’s all right to take something that you want without the fear of consequences once in awhile, isn’t it?”
“Arslan-heika… I can’t…” Elam turns his head to the side and away from those eyes – passionate eyes that can persuade anyone to do anything, the same eyes that conveys the determination and flames that led him to where he is right now, those dangerous, beautiful eyes that Elam has fallen in love with a long, long time ago.
The silver-haired king heaved a defeated sigh, and pushes himself away.
Elam tells himself that the heaviness that suddenly makes it impossible to breathe isn’t due to the widening distance between them.
“I apologize, Elam. This – this isn’t the reason why I’m here. I just need to –– here,” Arslan hands him what looks to be a bouquet of flowers, but under closer inspection, Elam notices that the flowers have been arranged into a circlet of plush blossoms, “these are for you. Happy birthday.”
“Y-you remember?” Elam takes it carefully into both of his slightly trembling hands. The petals are soft and yielding as they brush against his fingertips, and the sweet fragrance drifts up like a gentle caress, a slow dance of a lulling, forgotten melody.
“Of course. How can I forget? I –– It looks a bit crooked even though I’ve been practicing whenever I have free time, and it’s nothing like all the beautiful flowers that you’ve arranged for me every morning, but I hope you like it. These are ––”
“Damask roses,” Elam finishes for him as he stares at the delicate pale pink blossoms wreathed tightly together, the smooth stubs where Arslan has roughly shaved off the prickles are obvious, but he can’t deny the intricate work the Shah must have put in while making this gift for him. “I know.”
He releases a shuddering breath, teeth gnawing at his lower lip because words refuse to find their way out, because there are simply no words for him to voice out what he’s feeling right now, overwhelmed as he is – blissful as he is.
“May I?” Arslan offers a hand, and Elam gives him the flower crown, arms moving automatically; his hand has stopped shaking.
With utmost care, Arslan balances and secures the wreath upon his companion’s head, the bright-hued roses a dazzling and lovely contrast to Elam’s night-black hair and tanned complexion.
“There,” Arslan murmurs, midnight-blue eyes flickering for a moment as his breath catches, fingers lingering in his messy locks, and they glide down, along the curve of Elam’s ear, which has grown incredibly warm from his touch, and past the line of his jaw. A crooked smile tugs at his lips; he looks satisfied with the final product of his handiwork.
He’s about to step back when he feels Elam’s fingers clasp tight around his wrist.
“Elam?”
“Will you allow me to be selfish just for today, then, Arslan-heika?”
There’s no hesitation in Elam’s tone, or frail indecision swimming in his dark eyes.
“For a start, why don’t you try dropping the formal title?” Arslan suggests, before he allows Elam to pull him in for a kiss.
The birthday celebration doesn’t stop at the hand-crafted flower crown, however, as Elam finds out later on that night.