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He didn't care much for clothes, as a rule.
Of course, like any reasonably sane person living under the scorching sun of Egypt, he had his selectivities and preferences in favor of not dying in the desert, parched as a beetle husk, thank you very much. Light linen tunic, shendyt belted at the hems, a pair of leather sandals and he was ready for work.
(Of course, there was still khol, the silver and gold rings when the occasion called for it when dealing with a more important client. Priests, younger sons of pharaohs and secondwives were the kind of people who refused to even exchange glances with someone who looked like a rung below their food chain.)
Still, he didn't consider himself the conceited type. Elegant, of course, like his position within the Brotherhood of the Phoenix demanded, but did not go any further than that.
Until the Interviewer met Cleopatra, of course.
The woman in question was more screwed up than a drunken alligator, but he had to admit that she had a certain... pioneering charm about her and he'd never was one to dodge the eccentricities of others, even if for the moment it meant having one's back to the client, pretending not to hear the wet splash of milk as the most powerful woman in Egypt bathed and chatted about suicide, royal drama and Roman soldiers. And he was paying attention, this was an incredible, eye-watering story and just the honor of being able to be a part of it – to be involved in this pivotal turning point was worth all the trouble of actually working with Cleopatra and all the subsequent complications .
But he couldn't stop his gaze from wandering past the limestone blocks of the wall to the heap of fabric thrown in a corner.
White linen woven with gold thread and he had never seen kalasiris with that kind of scabbard full of intricate arebesques in the leather. Gemstones catching the eye, beads and beads stuck to the fabric and he wasn't expecting to find the piece currently crumpled in the corner so oddly pretty or make him feel so underdressed all of a sudden, even if by all measures he wasn't. .
That was, not by male parameters.
In addition to the dress that was worth a small fortune, there was a linen shawl and the man didn't hold back before held it in his hands, only half paying attention to the tangent Cleo had just started to go on.
It was a rich shade of purple. Phoenician purple.
(It reminded him of stories about phoenixes and children of craftsmen. It was so beautiful to the eye that it made him believer he was holding something made with magic.)
The man wondered if the rest of the clothes were as soft against the skin as this one, curiosity suddenly piqued by such a small reason. Would the stitching be so delicate? Like a caress? The gold, the beads. The sapphires and emeralds drawing anyone's eye as they had his?
The Interviewer felt as if he had stumbled upon something important about himself as he delicately folded the Mistress of the Nile's garments with exaggerated care.as he maneuvered the fabric light as a lover's whisper.
The man thought no more of it as he planned the events that would follow Cleopatra's death. Gods, there was too much to focus on on this case to justify daydreams about the fashion trends that the woman had created. And after the disappearance, one still has to deal with relocation and publicity and all those gruesome administrative details he would love to push to the nearest idle scribe.
When things are back to normal, however...
Well, Ithobal did not question why he had begun to trade the shendyt for white kalasiris, the girded hems in the lap that were so often seen on women of high caste. Gold threads and beads gleaming in the sunlight of Egypt's red desert.
And he didn't question why he felt so much more comfortable in his own skin with a Phoenician shawl draped around his shoulders, even if it occasionally earned him a confused look in certain circles.
It felt natural.
(He sent thanks to Cleo later, of course.)
*
“Ouch!” Arthur exclaimed, grimacing as he backed away from the offending brush. It was a pretty little thing of delicate ivory that was currently used as an instrument of torture. Maybe they should patent it for the Inquisition. Jean-Baptist– that was his name now, wasn't it? God, it had barely been a few centuries and it was getting hard to keep the names fresh in one's mind–rolled his eyes in disbelief, but there was affection in having the same discussion for so long.
“Combing your hair is one of the prices you pay for having it,” Jean explained patiently, while parting the locks that flowed in wavy cascades down his back “Especially when it’s long like yours. I'm being as gentle as I can, yes?"
Arthur sniffed, displeased, but didn't complain again as the man ran the comb through his hair again with exaggerated care, undoing the hidden knots. Arthur just played withwith the sleeves of his dress.
It was simple, perfect to fit the life of a commoner: Long cotton dress dyed in the royal blue, common here, the white linen apron over it the same color as the cloak that draped his shoulders.
He had a hat that went with the ensemble somewhere in the closets, but he preferred to wear his hair down, it helped frame his face into something softer, more feminine, even though that was the expected behavior and appearance of single young women of marriageable age and this wasn't the kind of attention they were looking for right now.
Although with the whole Inquisition, bonfire and heresy thing the kind of attention they were looking for was basically none, they didn't need it.
With the chase mood in the air, cases were falling through the door and he had already lost count of how many witches he had made disappear that month alone, right under the Church's pert nose.
Honestly, being royalty or one tier or another of the nobility would probably make things easier, but after playing the role of patricians in Rome and Greece for a few decades, the palate demanded change and the stories that bubble up among the commoners in a manor were positively scandalous and amusing in their own right.
Nah, they weren't in that business because it was easy!
In short, they lived like this because it was fun.
And for the time being it was fun to have a small hut on the rural fringes of Paris. The idyllic climate of the fields, the sun setting against the streams, scent of greenery and flowers and he would get bored at some point, but that moment had not yet arrived.
Meanwhile, he had dresses to experience, stories to hear and customers to help.
(And if the neighbors were surprised by the constant coming and going inside that hut, well Jean-Baptist was a craftsman, didn't they know? The best tailored clothes on this side of Paris and you shouldn't judge a man for serving his customers at his house, duh! It was, in fact, where he kept the best fabric, hm?)
It was good to be like this, the court could be fun with parties and noise, but it didn't come close to Carnival in the streets of the most…humble of the city. These guys did know how to party.
(And if they went to court, it would certainly be more difficult to have the discretion necessary to have Jean comb his hair, play with the ruffles on his dress, or, God, make him up—subtly, butcompetent enough to soften the jawline, the rise of the throat.)
Eventually, Jean was done with his hair, but kept playing with the locks– he'd been growing them out for a while, it reached the end of his back, and he still didn't mean to cut it off – humming softly.
“You are looking particularly elegant today if I may say so, dear friend” Jean murmured against the top of his head, hugging him around the waist. Magnanimous, Arthur allowed it.
“You are saying that because you made this dress?”
"You offend me."
“You didn't deny it.”
Jean just flashed an amused smile and Arthur pushed him away, with no real strength behind the gesture as a token protest before curling back up against the man, resting his head against his chest. Jean chuckled softly, placing a soft kiss against his temple.
“Well, I can't deny that I'm a fine craftsman” Jean declared in a voice too placating for Arthur to retort and well, it was true “But you, my dear, are devilishly charming and would look lovely in a sack of potatoes.”
Arthur rolled his eyes as if he wasn't blushing, his cheeks burned pink and only half-wishing that the other would go back to teasing him instead of praising him.
“Trying to take me to bed, monsieur?”
Jean chuckled, looking ready to retort before being interrupted by a succession of heavy knocks against the front door of the house. The man arched an eyebrow at him inquiringly.
"New customer?'
Another succession of knocks.
More aggressives even, if possible.
“New customer” Arthur nodded reluctantly slipping away from Jean's arms “And in a hurry”
Arthur left the room and went to answer the door before it was knocked down, hoping to find one of the familiar faces that now and thenhe met him at the fair. Maybe even a noble!
They might not be at court, but the Brotherhood had friends in many places, especially so close to the crown, but the image that greeted him when the door creaked on its hinges was not one he recognized.
It was a middle-aged woman with a furrowed brow and a determined expression. She dressed soberly, the deep red of her dress accentuating the pallor of her skin and the cerulean blue of her eyes that stared at him with military precision.
(Was that linen? Good linen. There was a shortage of good linen and he made a mental note to ask where the woman bought fabric.
A burgundy linen dress wouldn't get lost in his wardrobe.)
“Are you Artie?” The woman asked sharply like a soldier on a mission.
“It depends on who is asking, ma'am...?"
“Miss Catherine Peyretone, nice to meet you” The woman took a deep breath, some of her hardness softening “Sorry, but are you or aren't you Artie, girl? I have pressing matters to attend to and I can't waste time on silly pleasantries and—"
A sharp flash in those pale eyes and oh, Arthur recognized that gleam for what it was: fear.
In dark times like these, it was common to have fear slamming the door, especially his.
Arthur opened the door with a smile he hoped was confortin and opened the door wider for her in an invitation to enter which the woman readily accepted. The man closed the door behind him and cleared his throat.
“So, what can I–”
“Your husband, go get him for me, will you dear? I have business to discuss with him.”
It took Arthut a moment to process the words, but less than that for him to react with a offended "What?!".
(Jean? She thought Jean–)
(Jean?!)
The woman smiled kindly at him as if hoping to comfort a young wife who, for some reason or another, does not understand the machinations of the world or her husband's side job.
“Jean-Baptist is your husband, right?” She didn't wait for confirmation before continuing, “I assume you're aware that he does… less common work as well? You don't need to worry about it, dear girl, just go fetch him for me, will you?”
Arthur opened and closed his mouth a few times, unable to produce a response other than exasperated babbling.
Of course, he was aware of the persona he had built around around himself: Among the neighbors and merchants of the manor, he was Artie, not Arthur– that would not only be too hard to explain but would also lead to a one-way trip to a bonfire– and he lived with the craftsman Jean-Baptist who was , most likely her husband although he never confirms or denies anything.
(“You and Jean?”
A vacant look, shrug.
“He's around.”)
(“You have a good husband, don’t you?”
Little smile.
"Husband? Oh! Jean? Oh, he takes care of me")
But their customers, the ones that were smart or knowledgeable enough to get to their door have never treated him with such condescension. As if it were possible to hide such a thing from him!
As if it were possible to do such a thing without him! Jean was an extremely competent man, of course, efficient and the best surgeon in Europe as far as Arthur was concerned, but they were a package deal! There was no Phoenix Brotherhood without the two of them, side by side and the idea was so ridiculous that he–
He was saved from the need to a response of any kind to Jean's arrival in the room, who promptly greeted the woman and thrust a hot cup of posset into his hands as a peace offering.
"...Then, please come" Jean guided, indicating the back room and accommodatingup in one of the chairs as soon as they entered.
Arthur sipped his drink, the taste of the wine tingling his tongue as Miss Peyretone settled across the table.
"... Like I said, Artie is a member of the Brotherhood" Jean finished the explanation “ It's our Interviewer, to be honest. The person who decides whether we will take your case or not.”
The woman visibly flushed with a gasp of surprise, looking like—finally! -To realize the gaffe she had committed.
“Oh, a thousand pardons, I didn’t know that–” The woman rubbed her temples hard “It was foolish of me to assume, but you'll have to forgive me for that mistake, since I got the… news, I can hardly eat, sleep, or even think with any clarity.”
This simultaneously smoothed his feathers and the man's curiosity was ignited.
"What news?"
The woman seemed to lose all the color she had gained in a split second, looking away before answering.
“The Inquisition summoned me to appear before the Holy Tribunal where I will be judged.”
Arthur arched an eyebrow, curious. Previous offense already forgotten.
“Oh, judged by what?”
“They believe I made a pact with evil forces” The woman took a deep breath, looking up at him as if daring him to say something “And to have lain with the Devil.”
Silence.
Arthur whistled in surprise.
“And you did it?”
*
“You have to take a deep breath.”
Arthur, currently leaning against his desk, propped up on his elbows, half-naked, flushed and out of breath, none of those things in the fun way, snorted weakly—there wasn't enough air in his lungs to waste with bullshit – to the particularly unhelpful comment of the man tightening the corset behind him.
Arthur was no stranger to corsets, but apparently the masculine corsets a gentleman would wear under a suit were extremely different from the torture device he was being squeezed into.
The goal, unlike what he was used to, wasn't necessarily to straighten out his posture, accentuate his shoulder or anything else that would make him pass some time smiling at his figure in the mirror when he was particularly charming.
No, a feminine corset had totally different purposes, one of them being to crush the organs and other viscera inside it, in addition to in theory keeping his torso more erect, tapering at the waist to provide more… elegance to the dress he would wear over it. God he prayed it was worth it because this was an exquisite kind of torture.
The man stroked his lower back as if to soothe a particularly skittish animal.
“You know it don't have to be so tight, don’t you?” Henry punctuated softly in that careful tone he was so familiar with despite the new accent—something more British this time. It sounded good in his voice. “You will end fainting in the middle of the dance.”
“Hm, fainting is in fashion, isn’t it?”
Henry snorted, tying the strings at the end of the last eyelet deftly, before wrapping his hands around his ribs and—oh—if he were any smaller, his fingertips could have touched. He leaned over and Arthur was suddenly confronted with the reality that Henry was a much bigger man than he was and was effectively pressing him from behind against the firm wood of the desk and something deliciously warm bubbled up in the tight space of his chest as Henry leaned in, lips pressed to the shell of his ear and:
“Take a deep breath for me, will you?”
Arthur shuddered, gasping out a breathless breath, the pressure of the man's palms against the unyielding fabric of the corset just enough togo to make him dizzy.
“Some expandability is maintained at least” The man's hands slid to the end of his shoulder blades “As long as you don't push yourself too hard, I don't think you'll puncture any lungs.”
Suddenly, the heat building up in the pit of his stomach turned as Henry began listing the signs and symptoms of pleural effusion and compression asphyxia so that Arthur could identify if he suffered one.
Arthur grunted, disentangling himself from the man with a slight, sullen push. This did not interrupt the man's dissertation as Arthur finished dressing for the evening.
(He had taken a brief break from wearing the dress when the design got particularly complicated. He loved a show, but not enough toh olding on to the metal structures beneath the skirts, or the complete inability to move around in so much brocade.
When the nobility decided on something more reasonable, he returned to the more eclectic selection of clothes, and even then, there were still plenty of layers.)
Foundation skirts, petticoats, that's the process of putting on the dress itself. Not to mention the tunic inside the corset.
It was an expensive linen baby blue dress, long enough to drag the ruffles and lace to the floor, puff sleeves that tapered into the folds of the elbows and wrists with the same white lace in intricate frills. The high collar, tight around the neck, tracing silver buttons to the smooth curve of the bust – provided for by a decently tight corset, thank you very much. The well defined waist, opening in folds of thick wool giving the impression of having even more layers.
And finally, he was dressed and Henry had stopped the medical jargon to watch him, silently, from the corner of the room. There was a soft smile on his lips as their eyes met.
“I had forgotten how pretty you look like that” Henryshe reached out, taking his hand and bringing his knuckles to his lips. Arthur rolled his eyes smugly. “Need some help with your hair, little nymph?”
Arthur grunted an acquiescence, color rising in his cheeks at the praise.
(He liked the suits very well, but God, if the dresses didn't make him feel beautiful in a much more visceral way.
Like…well, a little nymph for lack of a better term.)
Henry carefully combed his hair before braiding the curly strands into a French crown that would fit perfectly in the hat he had chosen for the evening.
Finally, Henry did his make-up: Nothing much more than powdered rice crushed with rose petals to provide a little color to his cheeks. Makeup, per se, was not approved on a lady in the circles they frequented, but Henry's brush strokes were precise, delicate, and not overdone.
Of course the man did his job by complaining every two seconds about how he hated the exaggerated pallor that was in vogue and that Arthur's freckles—sprinkled around his cheekbones and nose—were lost beneath that cadaverous whiteness.
There was no way to wear crimson on your lips without making sure it wasn't talked about on the streets for the next month, so for the natural pink.on the mouth, Henry kissed him.
*
On Phoenix Island there were two men around a precarious bonfire.
One of them was asleep, wrapped in a gaudy coat with flamingo feathers so bright they could have been used as an emergency signal.
The other, in the precarious light of the fire and under the shifting, infinitely silvery glow of the moon and stars, was looking intently at a small photograph in his hands.
Kozlowski remembered when the photo was taken like it was the day before: The opening of what would become their favorite cabaret in all of Berlin.
He remembered the warm yellow light of the room, casting drunken shadows around the corners of the establishment. The strong smell of alcohol and expensive cigars, the bitter, insistent taste of cocaine against his palate. The familiar dizziness that dulled reflexes, drowned out the music in the background, but still kept the moment sharp and precise.
It was so late it could almost be considered early and Arthur was snuggledlying quietly on his lap, which could have been dangerous, but under the circumstances it wasn't.
Arthur couldn't dance on stage to save his life, but he was wearing the typical short dress you'd expect from a dancer in that type of establishment. Black and red silk, soft against his fingertips. Sleeveless, exposing his freckled shoulders and cleavage to the cabaret lighting, the scarlet bodice hugging every soft curve of his torso, sin-dark lace dripping from the hem of the garment down plump thighs and at just the right angle, you could steal the smallest glimpse of the garters underneath the dress – equally lacy, equally provocative.
Kozlowski remembered the man's bubbly laughter against his neck. The dark shadowsshadows of the makeup he'd painstakingly applied himself around the glittering eyes. The irises were an unearthly shade of orange and fiery red, looking even more magical from the contrast. Vibrant crimson painted on the lips, smudged in the corners where it had been rubbed against a glass. His hair – now cut short, as required by costume – curls around his face.
The photo taken by who knows who, but delivered directly into his hands by Arthur with that moment immortalized. Arthur laughing at something, arms around his neck as he smiled too, holding him close to his chest with a hand. The other holding a cigarette he vaguely remembered sharing with the other man.
There was the distinct mark of a kiss with red lipstick in the bottom corner of the photo, next to the phrase “Remember me for centuries” in Arthur's messy handwriting.
It was a joke. Something a man takes for granted and hides from his wife, a favorite mistress of a favorite cabaret and none of them resisted the irony of “remembering for centuries” someone when you have literal ages to do so, but even knowing this, Kozlowski treasured the photo. Something that would never fail to tug at his heartstrings because he loved Arthur with the same feverish intensity he remembered him and even when the man was on his side, Kozlowski was constantly falling in love with every version of him he could remember meeting of the man.
When they were young and the man's eyes were still green against the dark khol and they played around the Nile, even if it smeared dark mud on his clothes.
When they were two patricians listening to philosophers argue near the temples and all the confusion when they not only did they fake the death of Socrates, they also ensured that there was nothing to prove that he existed.
And Rome. Gods, Rome had been fun.
(Except when they were burning people, of course.)
France when they were a…couple? a couple of plebeus?
Well, Artie made a great image of the caring wife, cotton dress and all, and at least it was easy to get off.
The same could not be said for the thousands of layers Arthur wore in the Victorian era. Even when it came to suits, the man still managed to make undressing him a little puzzle.
It was reward enough, though, to have him twirl the skirts of the dress in his arms as they danced together. Always a little breathless for the corset, no less perfect for it.
A sharp sigh robbed him of the sweet trail of memories Kozlowski followed and the man turned his attention to Arthur.
He had sweat, a feverish sheen to his flushed cheeks as he writhed in the soft tangle of his coat, muttering under his breath to himself in obvious discomfort.
There was a marked bloody red dripping from his nose and Kozlowski sighed in sympathy moving closer to him.
Abstinence sucked, but they'd made a deal.
Before Arthur could struggle again and get really hurt, Kozlowski put the photo in his pocket and lay down next to him holding his hands and trapping the man's legs against his.
A startled pair of glittering eyes stared at him in confusion.
“Ithobal?”
Kozlowski smiled softly.
“Sshhhh… It was just a bad dream.” Kozlowski released his arms, pulling closer against his chest. Arthur was hot with fever, but he relaxed against him.
Kozlowski kissed him on the temple and held him tight for the rest of the night.