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Coming home with a broken right arm after a particularly bad run-in with Judal, Sinbad was discovering, was far more annoying all around than he would have expected. His writing hand was out of commission, that was about the only good part--well, not according to Ja'far. It hurt too much to even get any good pity sex, and while he categorically refused any help getting dressed, he had to admit after about the third morning that he wouldn't have minded. Though by then, he minded more that he was getting stubbly. He'd never, never looked good with a beard.
He was sitting before the gleaming bronze mirror scratching his bristling chin--and seriously wondering if he could shave with his off hand without killing himself--when Spartos came in to deliver the morning report. Knelt to kiss his hand, as was always his wont, and normally Sinbad might smooth his hair for one brief moment with the other--he wished he could, wished to touch him, wished to damn well get better already so everything could go back to normal. Instead he settled for a hand on his armored shoulder, briefly, when Spartos straightened. Spartos' eyes went half-lidded for a moment, surprise at the disruption of routine, then flicked to his splinted arm, and he let out a faint sigh and nodded in sympathy.
"Is the pain fading, My Lord?"
"A little. Not enough." Sinbad pulled his hair back and gathered it up, fumbled to try to tie it up one-handed. "Go ahead with the report, please, I'm awake enough. Before I have the poppy tincture, I'll be useless then." That much he could manage, at least. Spartos nodded, unfurled scrolls, delivered it as always. They spoke, the daylight grew warmer through the window, the pain in Sinbad's arm more and more intense as the dose from last night wore off along with his sleepiness.
"Pass this all on to Ja'far?"
"Of course, My Lord." The scratch of quill on paper stopped for a moment--Sinbad realized he hadn't even noticed Spartos was taking notes, and sighed, leaning back in the chair he'd claimed by the mirror. The pain made him only slightly less useless than the tincture, really.
"Have him double-check it and make sure I didn't suggest anything phenomenally stupid?"
"Of course." Spartos rolled up the scrolls again. "Though...I don't think you did."
"My thanks. This is embarrassing."
"No," Spartos said, quiet and almost gentle. "You're bearing it well, in all truth."
Sinbad focused with supreme effort. Spartos had stood, brought over the bottle of poppy tincture--foul black relief. "Yes, I suppose I really should."
"Ja'far said I should pour it up your nose by the second bell if you don't."
Sinbad laughed. It hurt. "And yet he didn't dispatch you with a funnel. He must have some faith in me yet."
"Quite." Spartos poured the small cup, handed it to him, and Sinbad knocked it back like Imchuk little-water. Appropriate, it tasted slightly more foul than that terrifyingly pure alcohol and left him feeling like slightly more of a pillow. His hair swung back in his face when he set the cup aside, the ribbon falling to the floor, and he huffed.
"...may I?" Spartos asked quietly, crouching to pick up the strip of worn white cotton, and Sinbad opened his mouth to protest--and closed it. He knew Spartos well by now, knew that particular cast in his eyes, the quiet satisfaction he gathered from serving him. His own pride had nothing to do with it, he was being a porcupine at a dear friend.
"Of course," Sinbad said gently, finding a smile for him. "Of course."
Spartos gave his bare, almost tender hint of a smile back, and set aside his vanbraces with delicate clicks on the table under the mirror. They tangled horribly, they'd discovered long ago. Sinbad drew deep, slow breaths, managing the pain, relaxing--well, some of the relaxing might have been the tincture slowly dragging him down, but he could have some faith in himself. Leaned back a little, slow and careful to not jolt his arm. Spartos knew exactly where he kept his comb, and dealt with his hair with familiar ease, brushing it smooth, tying it back snug, just as he'd do it himself if he could. Sinbad let his eyes fall half-closed, watched him in the mirror, watched the peaceful concentration in Spartos' face as he worked. That never quite got old, how happy this sort of thing made him; he found himself smiling too, content.
"Thank you," he said when it was done, and Spartos kissed the top of his head lightly. Now, Sinbad thought, perhaps he could get away with smoothing his hair, and reached up behind him, but his brain was thick with poppy and the mirror made things backwards--
Spartos caught his hand lightly--and guided it just where he'd wanted it. For a bare moment, they simply stayed like that, silent, adoring, Spartos' cheek turned just a little into his palm.
"You are in need of a shave, My Lord," Spartos said eventually.
"I know, it itches." He blew out a breath. "And I'm whining."
Spartos cracked a lopsided smile, set the comb aside. "If you would be willing to accept it..."
Sinbad blinked, his breath hitching for a moment, tried to turn to look up at him properly, didn't get far. It honestly, utterly hadn't occurred to him--he could have gone to a barber, one who Ja'far trusted to have a razor at his king's throat, would probably even have managed to have the thought somewhere between poppy doses. It seemed ridiculously intimate--that was a silly thought to have about a man he'd lain with more than once, he supposed. Not that they'd done that recently, they'd found themselves more comfortable without it in the end...
"Yes," he said. "Thank you."
Spartos just nodded. "Where is your kit?"
"Near my comb, the other door in that cabinet."
Spartos left, searched, returned, along with a basin and cloth. Laid everything out at perfect right angles, mixed the lather. Sinbad slowly eased himself to lean back further, stared at his beautifully coffered ceiling, watched it blur slightly. Spartos delicately pulled his hair out of the way and lathered him up, callused fingers nimble; he was thorough, rubbed it in, took far more care than Sinbad usually did. He wiped his hands, ran the razor over the strap, tested it by picking off one of the fine red hairs on his own arm, and stood silently behind him for a few minutes with one hand resting on his shoulder while the lather soaked in. Sinbad melted slowly, between the comfort and the poppy spew, and found the crown of his head resting on Spartos' breastplate, which wasn't even particularly comfortable, except it was Spartos, so it was.
"You spoil me," he murmured.
"No more than a Comrade would do for another when he was wounded." Spartos let out a soft huff, the closest thing he usual came to a laugh. "And we are hardly spoiled."
"Is it usually done so tenderly..."
Spartos was silent for a moment, moving his hand to rest on the top of his head, turning it with a light touch as he reached for the razor. "You are my Lord, and I will follow you always. It is not inappropriate." He paused, one slow stroke of his thumb through Sinbad's hair, affectionate. "Do you trust me in this?"
Sinbad couldn't help a bright, fond smile. "Of course. In anything." And fell silent, as Spartos brought up the razor, fell very still as it kissed his cheek. He almost never did go to barbers, he liked doing it himself, was hardly used to another man pulling his cheek taut and running a blade over his skin. Spartos had a light, skilled touch, curled around him a little with soft clinks of armor, all but cradled him. Tilted his head back gently, shaved his neck with slow, perfect care. Sinbad barely breathed, barely felt the razor, floated in contentment. Spartos did the second pass with little lather, picking him perfectly smooth; cold water across his face to wash made him shiver with a little laugh. His skin tingled, he felt warm and peaceful, the pain in his arm had faded to a dim blurry weight.
"Are you satisfied, My Lord?"
Sinbad slowly pried his eyes open; Spartos' face hovered somewhere above him. Picked up his good hand to trace his own jaw for a moment. "Very." He was still leaning back, far back. Spartos' arm cradled his head, Spartos looked down on him with tender fondness, fingertips resting gently on his collarbone. "Thank you," Sinbad murmured.
Spartos bent to kiss him again, his forehead this time, lingering for a moment as if in benediction. "It is, as always, my honor."