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“Daryun, are you ready?” The hint of impatience in the Court Painter’s melodious voice cannot be muffled even through the closed door.
“A moment,” he bites back with gritted teeth as he attempts, with very little success, to flatten the stiff and expensive fabric over the span of his chest, where, whenever he moves his arms slightly, the flat material would protrude in the most awkward and inconvenient of places. The dark-haired knight is just about to give up and opts to attend the ceremony in his usual garbs, with maybe that slightly more lavish sash that Vahriz had given him for one of his birthdays years ago, when the door to his bedchamber pushes open to reveal the figure of his companion.
The blond-haired artist enters with a flourish, the tail-end of his elegantly-trimmed tunic swishing majestically behind him.
“What part of ‘a moment’ did you not comprehend, Narsus?” Daryun, with his head lowered and eyes narrowed with irritation, is still trying to fix the collar of his shirt, but his fingers – usually so steady when swinging a broadsword at an enemy and impeccably nimble while handling a spear – fumble with the small, finely ornate buttons near the top.
“Oh, I understand that you need some time, but you were taking too long and I was worried,” Narsus drawls in that infuriatingly pleasant voice of his that is of equal parts unperturbed and impertinent. He picks up the matching sash discarded on Daryun’s bed and saunters to where his friend is struggling with the buttons of the tunic that’s supposed to be worn beneath his ceremonial robes.
“Like hell you are,” Daryun snorts, glancing up briefly so that his golden eyes can flash the other man a knowing glare. “What do you want?”
“If we don’t head out soon, we’ll be late for the ceremony. Surely, you do not want Arslan-heika to await our presence?” His pale fingers run across the gold-threaded stitching on the black material of the sash, violet eyes carefully scrutinizing over Daryun’s aggrieved expression and the disheveled state of his clothes.
“I know that,” Daryun grunts with effort, finally succeeding in buttoning up the collar, though on the other hand, breathing is becoming almost painful with how tightly the neckline of the shirt is choking around his neck. Pulling on the fabric in an attempt to loosen the collar proves to be unhelpful, as it just snaps back against his skin, leaving red, angry lines around the column of his throat, nor does flexing his neck left and right, which only makes Daryun’s breathing more difficult.
Fighting an army on his own is easier than putting on this damn suit, Daryun thinks but doesn’t complain out loud. His eyes flicker towards his friend, a hint of plead in his gaze. “Narsus, a little help?”
Narsus heaves a soft sigh, but the curve of his mouth is more out of fondness than annoyance. “For goodness sake, Daryun, can you not even dress yourself properly?
“Clearly not,” Daryun huffs, and allows the blond-haired man to step in closer, right into his personal space, close enough for the Black Knight to catch a whiff of whatever scented oil Narsus has used after his bath – a mixture of floral notes and something muskier. It’s a little intoxicating, and Daryun feels himself leaning in a little closer, his lips almost touching the blond strands near the man’s temple.
After Narsus unbuttons the stubborn shirt that has been trying its best to strangle its owner and orders Daryun to strip the offending garment off – to which the Black Knight responds with a confused expression but follows the tactician’s instruction anyway – he wanders to the closet and casually looks through his friend’s wardrobe. What he finds doesn’t impress or surprise him, but it does make his brows pucker, teeth worrying his lower lip in concentration.
“Do you own any pirahan that’s not black?” Narsus mutters.
“Blood stains are less obvious on black fabric,” Daryun retorts with his arms crossed.
“Who are you planning to slay tonight anyway?”
“One should never let their guard down under any circumstances,” is Daryun’s rational response.
“This will do,” Narsus says with a tone of finality and relief as he plucks out a shirt from the stack of mostly dark-colored clothes, handing it to the bewildered knight. “Put it on, quickly. The open collar should be better than the other tunic, and it will go equally well with your robe.”
The knight puts on the garment as instructed, untied hair slightly disheveled when he’s done. When he reaches for his ceremonial robe next, Daryun realizes that his friend is already holding it out for him, his tranquil violet eyes and a single nod beckoning him forward.
Daryun swallows but doesn’t allow himself to dwell in unnecessary thoughts for too long, as he strides towards the blond-haired artist and turns around when he’s directly in front of him; he spreads out his arms slightly, waiting. His face feeling warmer than usual, and the knight blames it on the temperature despite it being a cool, November evening.
He can feel Narsus’ breaths, steady and warm, his heat flushed against his back covered meagerly with a thread-bare cotton shirt, as his friend assists him – first guiding his arms into the sleeves and then, walking around to face him so that he can straighten the lapels and the front of the garment. His hands – pale and delicate against the black, stiff fabric embroidered in intricate gold threads of vines and flowers that cover the entire robe – linger a little too long along his broad shoulders and the plane of his chest, but neither of them comments on it.
“I’ll put on the kamarband, too,” Narsus tells him as he reaches for the wide belt lying on the mattress, “come.” He makes himself comfortable leaning against the post of the bed, casting an expectant gaze towards the knight who still looks slightly uncomfortable in his formal attires. His restless hands continue to smooth out the fabric even though there’s nothing wrong with it.
As he wraps the sash around Daryun’s waist, eyes and hands transfixed on his task so that he’s oblivious to Daryun’s appreciative gaze as the knight allows himself to look at his companion properly for the first time this evening.
For tonight’s ceremony, the first of its kind to celebrate both the harvest season and the commemoration of the completion of the reservoir repair, Narsus is dressed more extravagantly than usual. He still picks his set of robes with his favourite colour scheme, which mostly consists of blues and whites, that he claims compliments his complexion. This evening, however, his ceremonial robe is of a darker, richer lapis lazuli-dyed cloth covered in sophisticated embroidery patterns of silver threads, and his collar, though high on the sides and around the back, is opened at the front to reveal the creamy skin of his throat.
His hair is fashioned in its usual style – long, pale gold locks tied with a piece of white cloth that rests across his shoulder, and a few frayed strands covering one side of his face.
Before he realizes what he’s doing, engrossed as he is once again by Narsus’ breathtaking elegance and the brilliance in his eyes, the lids are thinly lined in kohl so that the violet of his irises is even more prominent than usual, Daryun is reaching a hand out. His fingers are careful as he draws his thumb following the curve of Narsus’ ear, tucking a strand of hair behind it, and moves down to his cheek.
Daryun observes with quiet delight as his companion’s skin bloom rose-pink at his touch, his willowy frame shuddering as he quickly finishes tying the belt.
Narsus doesn’t move away as the knight lets his arm fall to his side, the pleasant warmth of the other man’s skin lingering on the tips of his fingers.
“We should do something about your hair as well,” Narsus hums, sharp gaze eyeing his companion’s messy hair in distaste as his fingers gently comb through the man’s ink-black locks. The blush on his cheeks is still present, but Narsus mentions nothing of it as he swiftly turns around and grabs the hair-tie on the bedside table.
“I can manage at least that much,” Daryun says, a hand stretched out with his palm up.
Narsus, as Daryun should have expected, is having none of that. If he’s going to dress his companion up, he should at least get to do the most enjoyable portion of all.
“Your usual ponytail? I think not,” Narsus sniffs indignantly, winding back so he’s standing behind the taller man. “Special occasion calls for a special style.”
“I hope you won’t make me look too outrageous,” Daryun sighs. It’s no use arguing with him at this point; besides, they’re running late as it is without getting into another petty argument.
“Please, Daryun,” Narsus chuckles, gathering the man’s hair into a bunch in the lower center but leaving some strands on the side and under layer so that they flow out naturally over his shoulders, and he begins to loosely braid the hair. “I may be an avant-garde painter, but I still know a thing or two concerning the current fashion trends.”
Gentle fingers sifting and raking gingerly through his hair makes Daryun’s eyelids slip close as he lets the sensation overtake his better judgment and senses; it’s over much too soon when Narsus announces that he’s done.
“What do you think?” Narsus’ grin is victorious, and honestly, Daryun is a little afraid. But when he reaches a hand back – since there’s no mirror in his room – the knight notices that the tactician has merely braided his hair half way while leaving the rest, and though his forelocks are falling haphazardly into his eyes when he lowers his head, he can also easily tuck them behind his ears for practicality’s sake.
“Not bad,” the Black Knight admits, mouth curving reluctantly into a grin, and he turns around to face Narsus, “for a third-rate artist.”
“Is this the gratitude I receive for helping you in your time of need?” Daryun is not exaggerating when he notes that the blond-haired man, twenty-seven years of age and a Court tactician who’s helped the Parsian army win numerous battles, is actually pouting.
“I supposed I can do better than that,” Daryun laughs, the sound smoky and rumbling like summer thunder, and he strides over to where Narsus is standing, an arm reaching to wind around the other man’s waist to pull him closer as he dips his head and places a kiss squarely on the artist’s lips.
“Mm. Much better,” Narsus declares in a whisper when he can breathe again.