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“I need a nap,” Kaladin declares as he flops down on his bed. Syl flits around him, giggling and landing on the headboard
He’s finally returned to Urithiru after his investigation into the Parshendi transformations across Roshar. Was it enlightening on what Parshendi really are? Yeah. Did it help him figure out how to stop the Voidbringers? Not in the slightest.
In fact it only muddled his perception of them further.
At least Bridge Four was excited to see him. It seems they didn’t cause too much damage while they were gone, but Kaladin heard something about the Unmade, more murders, and Shallan doing something impressive, so he’ll have to ask her about that later.
Sleep now though.
.
.
.
Knock, Knock, Knock
“Storms…” he grumbles, not looking up. Maybe they’ll go away?
.
.
.
More knocking. Nope.
The Windrunner sighs. “Syl, who is it?” He asks tiredly, turning his head just enough to look at her.
“Why do I have to check?” She pouts, but is already zipping over to the door and peering through the crack. “Oh. Great, it’s—”
Syl’s annoyed tone is cut off by a familiar voice. “BRIDGEBOY! Open up! You cannot simply return without saying hello!” Just perfect, the Princeling is here.
Honestly, he really isn’t that bad, Kaladin has begrudgingly begun to respect the foppish man. Syl doesn’t like Adolin still, but that’s just because of the Shardblade thing.
Kaladin grumbles as he sits up and ambles to the door. He really shouldn’t have to deal with this right now.
Syl is perched on the doorknob, leaning down and glaring through the lock. “I still don’t trust him,” she pouts, zipping up to Kaladin’s shoulder, “He’s too… pretty.”
Kaladin grunts. He unfortunately can’t argue with that. The storming Princeling is pretty, especially for a man who enjoys fighting this much. He should be ugly with scars, but the few Adolin does possess make him look even prettier somehow.
He opens the door to find Adolin standing there with his hands on his hips, uniform crisp as ever, however his hair is a bit messy. He’s glaring at Kaladin, and it only worsens when he goes to speak.
“Damnation— you smell like Chull crem!” Adolin hisses, pinching his nose, “And what is that horrible thing on your face?!”
Kaladin sighs, reaching up to scratch at the scruffy beginnings of a beard. He’ll have to ask Rock to shave it for him, he always preferred no facial hair on himself.
“Nice to see you too, Princeling,” Kaladin sighs, “Listen, I’d love to make merry and braid our hair or whatever, but I’m exhausted. How about we just—”
Kaladin is cut off just as Syl was before by Adolin interrupting.
“Oh no you don’t! I had nice bedsheets sent to your room, I will not tolerate you immediately soiling them with that disgusting odor,” Adolin argues, poking Kaladin’s chest defiantly, “You will bathe properly like a civil man and then you can sleep like a log, hm?”
Kaladin stares blankly at the shorter man. Is Adolin really saying he’s going to force Kaladin to bathe before he sleeps because of storming sheets??
“Princeling, you can’t be serious—” Kaladin’s arm is suddenly grabbed in a surprisingly strong grip. Adolin begins dragging Kaladin out of the Barracks hall towards the lifts in Urithiru that carry them between floors.
“Hush! I am going to clean you up, no matter how much you brood about it, Bridgeboy,” Adolin declares, and Kaladin just stumbles after him in tired confusion.
They arrive at the lifts and Adolin sticks an infused Sphere in, before jerking the level upwards. He begins fussing over Kaladin’s face, examining him for any injuries and yapping about what’s been going on while Kaladin was gone, all while the lift moves upwards.
“I believe I have an extra razor, so I can shave this horrible mat of hair off,” Adolin says, pouting as he feels at Kaladin’s chin, “Maybe trim your hair too… keep it long, obviously, but a little trim would help you with hair maintenance.”
All of Adolin’s words are essentially in one of Kaladin’s ears, then out the other. He’s completely zoned out as the elevator stops and Adolin drags the Bridgeman to Adolin’s personal quarters, which he has of course been sprucing up. He already has most of his furniture from the Shattered Plains moved in, as well as his clothing, which is scattered in a corner atop crates.
Adolin brings Kaladin into a bathroom off of Adolin’s bedroom, which has a bathtub and sink, along with another separate room for the toilet.
“Alright, strip down,” Adolin orders as he pokes at a heating fabrial in the tub, clearing recently attached. Kaladin blinks, confused. Adolin turns the tap on without the stopper plugged, glancing at Kaladin. He frowns. “What? Did you forget how to listen, Bridgeboy? Strip down!”
“…no?” Kaladin says, confused, “Princeling— are you trying to bathe me like I’m an axehound pup you found in the mud?” Kaladin is incredulous, but Adolin simply sighs and removes his overcoat and vest.
“I’m trying to refresh you after a long trip that left you smelling like fresh crem,” Adolin scoffs, folding his coat and vest before setting them on a side table by the sink. “Just strip, I promise I won’t peek or whatever you’re so worried about.”
If Kaladin wasn’t so exhausted, he would have pushed back more. But as it stands, he wants to lay down, and a warm bath does sound nice, even if Adolin is being a pushy brat.
The Bridgeman shrugs his coat off and tosses it aside, followed by his vest, shirt, boots and socks. He’s more hesitant to just remove his pants, but Adolin glares at Kaladin expectantly as he plugs the tub and lets the warm water rise. Clearly the Princeling won’t let up about this, so Kaladin gives in and unbuttons his pants before tossing them with the rest of his clothes.
He just kind of stands there awkwardly in his braies as Adolin gathers a whole tray of soaps and salts and odd liquids… Kaladin has never been one for pampering, and hasn’t had the time to do so if he wanted to. Along with that, he rather dislikes showing his body off with all the scars marring his skin. It makes him feel like a spectacle— something to be pitied or ogled. Eventually Adolin stops the tap and looks at Kaladin.
Those blue eyes drag over Kaladin’s form and linger on his face, chest, and thighs. Adolin approaches, still barely shorter than Kaladin despite his boots having a heel, and smiling. “You’re so modest, Bridgeboy,” Adolin chuckles, reaching a warm hand up to rest on Kaladin’s chest lightly, “You’re acting like I’ll suddenly grab you or something.”
The taller man blushes slightly, looking away. He feels embarrassed, and only more so when Adolin laughs.
“You’re so broody too,” he teases, tapping Kaladin’s nose, “Like a grumpy Axehound pup. I tease you at all and you glare like I just personally bruised your ego.” Kaladin huffs but relaxes his face, not wanting to prove Adolin right. The Princeling hums and smiles at Kaladin’s more relaxed face. “There we go. Shallan said you were handsome when you weren’t glowering.”
Kaladin’s eyes widen at that. However, before he can ask any of the questions he wants to, Adolin turns back to the bath.
“Braies off, Kal. I won’t perv on you,” Adolin scoffs lightly as he folds Kaladin’s vest and coat, before laying a towel out beside the bath. He glances half over his shoulder at Kaladin. “C’mon, I won’t bite.”
The Captain hesitates. His mind is still on what Adolin said, about Shallan saying Kaladin is handsome and Adolin agreeing for some storming reason. Aren’t you supposed to get jealous about something like that?
Kaladin shakily unties and drops his braies, before slipping into the water. It’s surprisingly warm, and Adolin seems to have added some kind of bubbling solution to the bath to obscure Kaladin’s body below the water, which is appreciated.
“Now,” Adolin says, dragging a stool over and sitting down, “What’s your usual routine? Do you use conditioner, body scrubs, face washes…?” As Adolin lists things, he sees Kaladin’s confused expression and trails off. He groans and rubs his temples. “Storms, no wonder you’re always grumpy! You have no self-care!”
“I don’t have enough time for that kind of frivolity,” Kaladin huffs defensively, a flush rising to his cheeks to embarrassment, “Not all of us are Princes.”
Adolin rolls his eyes before cracking his knuckles. “I have my work cut out for me it seems. Be lucky I’m nice,” he says, before grabbing a bottle with pink liquid inside and drizzling it on his hands. “We’ll start with that greasy hair of yours.”
— 1.5 hrs later—
“I can use a storming towel, Princeling,” Kaladin points out as he wraps a soft towel around his waist. He feels cleaner than he ever has, with his hair feeling very light and skin feeling weirdly smooth.
“I’m going to have several soaps sent to your room and glyph instructions along with them,” the Prince says as he drains the bathtub, “I’ll send your clothes to be washed, they smell like crem too.”
Kaladin glares. “And you just want me to go back to my quarters naked?” He asks sarcastically as he grabs another towel to dry his hair, knowing Adolin would chide him if he used the same towel to dry his hair as his body. This storming Princeling didn’t shut his mouth when Kaladin was in the bath, but it was… oddly nice to just chat. Even if Adolin is a stupidly pretty brat.
“I’ll send someone to grab you some clothes,” Adolin says casually as he dries his hands on an even smaller towel, before looking up at Kaladin and laughing.
Kaladin glares. “What?” He spits, his face warming against his will. Adolin steps closer and grabs a robe from a hook that Kaladin assumed was a towel without looking closer.
“Don’t just wrap the towel ‘round your waist, silly,” he says, “Dry off then put your robe on when you dry your hair.” Kaladin feels shame rise in his chest, feeling a fool for some reason, even though before now he would have scoffed at the idea of a bathrobe.
Once Kaladin is dry mostly, Adolin sits him down on the stool and places a towel around Kaladin’s neck and chest. “What are you up to know?” Kaladin sighs.
“Shaving that ugly mess of hair from your face,” Adolin says like it’s obvious, before he returns with shaving cream and a razor. The cream smells like roses and soap, and Adolin carefully rids Kaladin of the messy scruff on his chin.
Once Adolin cleans Kaladin’s face off, he steps behind Kaladin to examine him in the mirror. Kaladin feels his chin and hums. “S’not bad, I suppose,” he begrudgingly admits, even though his face feels softer than it ever had.
“I think you look very handsome,” Adolin chimes, smiling. Kaladin gives him a confused look. “What? You’re a very handsome man, Bridgeboy. Even if you spend most of your time glowering at the world like it personally offended you.” Adolin says this all like it’s lighthearted and obvious.
“…you are a very odd man, Princeling,” Kaladin says, standing and removing the towel around his neck, which is now covered in shaved off hair. He folds it and sets it aside, but as he’s turned away from Adolin, he suddenly feels something touch his neck.
On instinct, Kaladin whirls around, though he only finds Adolin standing very close, smiling thoughtfully.
“You have quite the scar on your neck,” Adolin says, like it’s normal to just touch people on their neck. He steps even closer now, pressing himself to Kaladin. The Bridgeman feels his face heating, and frustratingly, something stirring within him at Adolin so close.
“‘S from the bridge runs. First few times are hell on the neck, eventually your skin builds up and scabs over, but it leaves a scar,” Kaladin explains, looking away. Adolin smiles.
“Oh? How interesting,” he says, bringing a hand up to Kaladin’s chest again, “I didn’t look very close before, but I saw quite a few scars on the rest of your body. Do you have a habit of collecting them?” It’s teasing, but Kaladin can feel Adolin’s very real hand slipping beneath the edge of his robe. Adolin had let Kaladin scrub his actual body during the bath, and appropriately averted his gaze, but now Adolin seems to have lost that hesitance.
“N-No, obviously,” Kaladin grumbles, feeling himself glare with embarrassment, “Just happens when you go out on the battlefield without big, heavy shardplate on.” Adolin laughs lightly at that and smiles that gorgeous smile of his.
“Oh, you’re so rude,” he chirps, resting his head on Kaladin’s chest and closing his eyes, “So warm as well… you should really invest in better skincare, Bridgeboy, you smell so much better when you’re properly washed.”
Kaladin scoffs, unsure what to do with his hands, eventually settles one on Adolin’s lower back and the other in his hair. It’s so soft, like fine golden thread intermixed with rich, ebony fibers. “We’re at war, Princeling, not all of us have time for that kind of thing,” Kaladin grumbles, feeling so… sappy, “Besides, surely I don’t smell that different.”
“Oh, you definitely do,” Adolin laughs again, smirking up at Kaladin, “But now you smell less like dirt and sweat, and more like you should. Like… polished leather, and rain.” He leans ever closer, plump lips parting as he examines Kaladin hungrily. The Bridgeman shivers with unfamiliar need at that gaze.
Adolin meets Kaladin’s gaze, and sees Kaladin’s confused and flustered expression. He sighs, then steps back, breaking the odd bubble of tension around them and looking away with a deep blush on his high cheeks.
“Well, I won’t keep you longer. As I said, I’ll have your clothes cleaned and sent back to you, along with perhaps some soap.” Adolin looks at the floor, then back at Kaladin. “Do try and rest properly, will you?” Adolin says with a gentle, almost loving smile, “I… I’m glad you’re back, Kaladin. Everyone missed you, especially your men, but I did as well.”
Kaladin feels his heart twist in his chest. “M-Missed bugging me, eh?” Adolin grins and snickers at that, before bowing to Kaladin.
“I’ll see you around, Bridgeboy,” he declares, winking.
Kaladin makes his way back to his bedroom, clad in his robe, given by Adolin…
“He’s so weird.” Kaladin looks up as he’s in the lift, and sees Syl perched in the air, her arms crossed as she pouts. “Something’s off. He’s too nice.”
“He’s…” Kaladin trails off. Months ago — storms — weeks ago he hated Adolin. But now…
“I think you should be careful, we don’t know what he’s up to,” Syl declares, “He’s too nice and pretty to be trusted.” Kaladin simply grunts, his mind lingering on the Princeling.
“He’s… I don’t know,” Kaladin sighs, rubbing his face tiredly as he exits the lift, “I’m too tired to make these judgments, Syl.” She huffs but zips down to his shoulder.
“Just be careful. Remember that guy who betrayed you? Moash or whatever?” The mention of him makes Kaladin wince. Moash was… a complicated man. Ultimately, Kaladin doesn’t blame him for his reasoning, he’s just hurt that the man left in the end. Kaladin could have forgiven him if he’d stayed to talk, maybe even could have convinced Elhokar to pardon him. But instead he left.
Moash was Kaladin’s best man in Bridge Four, maybe his closest friend in years. It’s hard to think about Moash and how close they were without feeling sick. Especially comparing how close he was with Moash to how close he is with Adolin now. How hungry Adolin’s gaze was at the end, and how hungry Moash looked at times late at night when neither him or Kaladin could sleep…
The feelings there, at that edge that blurry line between deep friendship and something Kaladin has never known…
“Adolin isn’t Moash, Syl,” Kaladin whispers, “Moash was troubled. Adolin is… he’s different. I think we can trust him.”
Kaladin is really hoping he’s right about this. Syl is skeptical, clearly, and maybe Kaladin is being blinded by Adolin being so weirdly kind. But maybe, just maybe…
Maybe this Princeling can be trusted.