Chapter 56: The Finishing Touches.

"What would that be?"

"Hair," Bellamy said, spinning Elian gently by the shoulders to face the mirror properly.

"The tight bun is good for the usual drills, I agree. But tonight, we need something a little softer."

"You know how to do hair?"

"I know how to do many things you don’t know about yet."

He was already working, fingers surprisingly careful, undoing the tight practical braid and starting something looser, a few strands left loose to frame his face instead of pulled back entirely.

It took more than a few tries to get right.

Though it weird Elian out that Bellamy somehow didn’t complain once, humming something tuneless under his breath the whole time, entirely focused.

By the time he finished, the candle on the desk had burned down to barely a stub, and the window had gone from black to the particular deep blue that usually meant morning wasn’t far off, whether either of them was ready for it or not.

"There." Bellamy said, stepping back to survey his work with the satisfaction of a man looking at a finished painting. "It’s perfect. The rulers of Selenoire aren’t going to know what hit them."

"That’s not comforting phrasing."

"It’s the best phrasing I’ve got, it’s four in the morning."

A pause.

"Oh, and before i forget."

He walked into his own wardrobe, rummaged for something in their for a while, and walked out with three things in his hand.

An onyx black corset, an ornamental hairpin that matched the rest of Elian’s outfit, and surprisingly of all, a corset that looked like it was made of very, very expensive silk.

Elian stared at the small pile in Bellamy’s hands like it might rearrange itself into something less alarming if he looked hard enough.

"...When did you even get a corset."

"It came with a shirt i bought a while ago, if you actually want to know."

Bellamy set the pieces down carefully on the bed—the silk corset, pale and soft-boned, clearly meant as accent rather than a main piece; the crescent-shaped hairpin catching the last of the candlelight; and, folded neatly on top, a knit cardigan in deep charcoal-black, soft-looking, the kind of thing that would sit loose over the shoulders rather than restrict anything if the situation called for it.

"The cardigan’s also mine. You’ll thank me for it—the nights get cold these days, and you’ll want something to throw on without ruining the whole look."

"I don’t know how to wear the corset."

"Good thing you have me, then!" He was already circling behind him, patient still even as the both of them crossed the limit of how much longer they could stay up for.

"Arms up."

"Bellamy—"

"Arms up, we’ve got maybe two hours before you need to actually sleep, stop trying negotiate with me."

Elian, too tired to argue and slightly too curious not to find out, lifted his arms.

The lacing took longer than either of them expected, mostly because Bellamy kept stopping to adjust it half a notch at a time, muttering to himself about balance and proportion like he was solving an actual academic problem instead of dressing his roommate at an ungodly hour.

When he finally stepped back, satisfied, Elian turned toward the mirror on pure instinct and went very still.

The corset sat over the shirt exactly the way Bellamy had promised—soft, unstructured. Again, more suggestion than restriction, cinching in gently at the waist and giving the whole outfit a shape it hadn’t quite had before.

Bellamy draped the cardigan over his shoulders next, unfastened, the piece of clothing just settled there loose and warm-looking, softening the whole silhouette further.

Combined with his now greatly enhanced hair, Bellamy having known exactly what to do with the remnants of the miracle Nessa had worked into it, and the pale floral embroidery peeking out at the collar, the person in the mirror looked...

He didn’t have a word for it.

Or he had one, and it embarrassed him too much to reach for it directly.

"There," Bellamy said again, quieter this time, no teasing left in it.

He held up the hairpin last—small, silver, shaped unmistakably like a flower, matching nothing in particular except somehow completing everything at once—and tucked it carefully into the loose part of Elian’s hair without asking permission, stepping back only when he was sure it was settled.

"Now it’s finished."

Elian looked at himself for a long moment, turning slightly, still not quite able to name what he was looking at, only that it didn’t feel wrong the way he’d braced for it to.

It felt, unexpectedly, like relief.

No, not relief.

He felt elated, somehow.

"It’s a lot," he said after a long moment of struggling to find the words.

"It’s exactly enough." Bellamy nudged him toward the bed with a hand on his shoulder, already yawning again, the adrenaline of the last few hours draining out of him all at once now that the job was done.

"Take it off before you sleep in it and ruin all my hard work. Hang it up very carefully. I mean it, If you wrinkle the outfit I’m throwing you out the window."

Elian did, unlacing it with careful, unfamiliar fingers, folding it over the chair beside the shirt and cardigan like something worth protecting.

By the time he laid back down, the window had gone fully grey with the start of morning, and Bellamy was already half-asleep, sprawled diagonally across his own bed without having bothered to pull a blanket over himself.

"Bellamy."

"Mm?"

"...Thank you."

"Mm." A pause, barely conscious.

"Told you. You’ve been doing amazing with the thing. Keep doing the thing."

Elian didn’t ask what thing.

Though he thought he might, for the first time, actually know.

He fell asleep without meaning to, the last thought in his head not about kings or cults or duty, but simply the quiet, strange comfort of having, for once, let himself be looked after—and looked at—without running away from either.