“Areti, you’ve returned.”

Petros said it like a statement, a mere observation, not with the excitement the words usually would have elicited. And yet, Areti smiled at them as if they had been a doting wife waiting on their husband to return. 

They stood at the entrance of Pethra castle, guarding nothing of importance, but doing it with a strong sense of seriousness and duty. Ambrus’s words flooded his mind, reminding him of the truth of why Petros was there, why they weren’t fighting in battles with their partner or the thousands of other soldiers. 

Not that working at Pethra was such a bad thing. It was necessary, should the enemy break through the lines of people at Kallus and the front lines, but it didn’t feel like the kind of place Petros should be. They were trained for battle, not for standing around in silence. And while Areti would have preferred that they and Ambrus were able to exist in peace, he believed that the two of them would be near unstoppable in battle together. 

Where this belief came from, he did not know. He had seen neither of them in battle. The fact that Ambrus was still alive said enough of his ability, however.

“It took me longer than I thought,” he explained, putting voice to the gnawing sense of guilt that had been within him for the last few days. “I was ordered to take a short detour to deliver war plans.”

Petros waved him away with a noncommittal hum. “You have more dire responsibilities than carrying messages for Ambrus and I,” they said, voice low in case anyone else heard them. Even if someone did, Areti doubted they would care. 

“That doesn’t stop me from feeling bad,” he replied. Ambrus’s letter was stashed in the secret compartment, safe from the summer storm that had hit him not two days beforehand. He pulled it out, silently apologising for the damp corner, and handed it to Petros. 

His friend stared at it for a moment, their face expressionless, before they turned to Areti. “I really do appreciate this, you know,” they said and averted their gaze once more. “Whatever I can do to repay you, let me know.”

“Dine with me tonight, if you’re so adamant.”

Petros didn’t even stop to think about it. “That, I think I can do,” they said and sighed. “I should leave you to it. Thank you again, Areti. You don’t know what this means to me.”

He couldn’t hold back his smile. “It’s my pleasure,” he said, entirely genuine, and moved to walk into the castle proper. He was desperate to deliver his information and sleep until the sun set, but a single thought stopped him and sent him back to Petros. “Your description of Ambrus wasn’t entirely correct. I wasn’t sure if it was him at first. His hair is short now.”

Petros blinked at him, mouth opening and closing as they tried to find the right words. “I’ve never seen him with short hair,” they muttered, eyebrows furrowing. “Why did he cut it?”

“You’ll have to ask him that,” Areti said, chuckling in a way he hadn’t for a long time. An idea struck him and he found himself nervous to present it, words struggling to escape the confines of his throat. “Do you think- I mean, would you be amenable to me drawing a sketch of him when I see him next? So that you can know what he looks like now.”

The way Petros’s eyes lit up was answer enough. 

***

Drawing a sketch of Ambrus proved to be more difficult than Areti had first envisioned. Not because Ambrus didn’t have the time (that, he seemed to have plenty of for a man at Kallus), but because he had not cut his hair properly the first time around and it was growing back in ugly clumps. 

“Am I wrong to assume that you cut it with a sword?” Areti asked when he first tried to sit before Ambrus and draw him. 

The man in front of him was silent, a sheepish grin on his face. “Would it be better if I said I used a dagger?” he replied. 

And that was how Areti ended up sitting behind him instead, with his personal pair of scissors in hand. He used it mainly to cut up war information when requested, but it should be enough to cut a few uneven strands of hair. He’d used it enough on himself to know that his thin locks were nothing to the sharp blades. 

Ambrus’s hair was far thicker than his own, but surprisingly soft for a man who had been at war for only the Gods knew how long. As he cut the chunks into something a little nicer, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would have felt like between his fingers when it was longer. Petros had told him that it had come down to just below his shoulders, wavy and thick. How beautiful it would have been. 

“I know Petros asked in their letter, but I am also curious. Why did you cut your hair?” he asked, smoothing down the wavy mess until it sat as neatly as it could on Ambrus’s head. 

The scoff Ambrus let out was rueful, his voice full of self-deprecation as he spoke. “My helmet fell off while I was fighting in the last battle,” he said and shied away from Areti’s touch on the back of his neck. “Someone grabbed ahold of my hair, tried to slit my throat. Someone else saved me. I decided that… I decided that it would be safer to cut it off, just in case that happens again.”

The images Areti’s mind supplied were horrific and he struggled to push them away. “You didn’t tell Petros that, did you?” he asked. The words were choked, begging to stay away from the open air. 

“No, but I will now,” Ambrus replied, but didn’t offer any further explanation. 

The silence that followed was heavy. For a moment, Areti wished to take back his words, but there was no doing so. All he could do was push forward and distract Ambrus from whatever thoughts had risen in his mind. 

“Do you miss it?” he asked. 

“My hair?” Ambrus said, frowning when Areti nodded. He paused, lost in thought, and turned over his shoulder to stare at the scissors Areti held. “I suppose I do. I’ve gotten used to it being this length, but I’ve been growing my hair out since I was a child, always trying to match Petros.”

“You’ve known each other that long?”

“As long as I can remember,” Ambrus said and turned away, not before Areti could see the longing on his face. “Is it looking neater now, at least?”

Areti gave one final snip to a particularly long lock of hair and shuffled back on his knees. “I believe so,” he answered and tapped Ambrus’s shoulder to make him face him. He tried hard to continue breathing, to not let himself freeze up at the sight of the young face that stared back at him and the lips tilted slightly into a smile. “I think I could sketch you now. I can’t promise it will be entirely accurate. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a reason to sketch.”

“I look forward to seeing it.”

***

That sketch ended up stuck to the wall of Petros’s quarters, directly above their bed. Areti had watched them stick it there the last time he had arrived in Pethra and tried to ignore the awkwardness at seeing a piece of his art displayed so easily. 

“Ambrus… wants you to sketch me in return,” Petros said from where they sat on the edge of their bed, tanned hands clutching tightly to the thin pieces of parchment. 

Areti, fingers around a goblet of wine that tasted decidedly awful but was too rare to waste, raised his eyebrows and tamped down the wave of excitement within him. “Is that something you’re comfortable with doing?” he asked instead. 

“He knows I’m not. I never have been. All those family portraits…” Petros said and pushed their light brown hair over their shoulder. They’d taken it down from their braid for once, let it fall to the middle of their back in loose curls. “And yet… I don’t think I can deny him.”

“It won’t be like a family portrait, I promise. Ambrus talked to me through the whole thing,” Areti said, resisting the urge to reach out and place a hand on their knee. “As long as you sit relatively still, I don’t mind what you do. Whatever helps you to be comfortable. I only need to draw your face.”

That seemed to be enough to convince them, or perhaps it was simply Ambrus’s request. They didn’t tie their hair back up again, apparently wishing to push the limits of Areti’s artistic abilities with the sheer volume of their hair. 

There was something intimate about drawing another person, about detailing every line in their face and capturing the waves of emotion in their eyes. Areti was given an opportunity to unabashedly stare, to document every minute detail of Petros’s face under the guise of making a gift for their lover. 

And it would be a gift for Ambrus, but it was also a gift for himself, just like the sketch of Ambrus had been. 

Petros hadn’t had a chance to shave for a while and stubble covered their jaw and cheeks. It hid the mole near the corner of his mouth from view, but Areti sketched it anyway. He caught the dark shadows under even darker eyes, and tried to ignore the apprehension he saw within them. 

He filled the silence with talk of Ambrus and his travels between Pethra and Kallus. Petros didn’t speak much, offering only little hums of acknowledgment, but it was better than nothing. It meant that Areti could stare without being questioned, without having to explain anything to himself or Petros. 

There was so much to see, like there had been with Ambrus. They were so different from each other. Aside from the obvious differences in skin tone and hair length, there were the laugh lines that were starting to form around Ambrus’s eyes and those of stress about Petros’s. There was the ease with which Ambrus made most movements, the optimism he held despite where he was. There was the serious nature of Petros, the way everything they did was calculated and thought through, the way they made everything calm and feel like it was easy to manage. 

There was the softness of Ambrus’s hair, the roughness of Petros’s stubble. The severity and hard lines of Petros’s face, the boyish pudge to Ambrus’s cheeks when he smiled. All of it was beautiful, all of it available for Areti to stare at and draw. All of it untouchable. 

If he kept copies of the two sketches he did, roughly redone while he was on the road, no one was to know. 

***