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On Wednesdays We Wear Pink

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“Why, pray tell,” Armand Chauvelin scowled, gesturing to his own person, “am I wearing this.

Percy grinned. “Why, my dear citizen Cabernet–”  he was cut off by his dear Armand, who slapped him quite harshly (unjustly harsh, if you asked him) on the back of the head, sending his lovely new pink hat flying to the other side of the room. He cleared his throat.

“As I was saying, before you so rudely interrupted me,” he grinned, as Armand glowered at him from under the brim of what in his opinion was a quite lovely mauve hat to match his own, “you are wearing that because we are going to this ball– oh do get that dour expression off your face! And I can’t very well show up with the famous citizen Chau– drat. Well I never… I’ve run out of fun names to call you, dearest.”

Armand stared at him, one eyebrow raised, before saying in the most deadpan tone he’d ever heard him use: “You’ve run out of insults so you turn to endearments? Truly Percy, is this how you wooed Marguerite? Because I can’t say I’m charmed.”

Percy chuckled. It was good to see dear Armand’s sense of humour return to him, even if he did still complain an entirely unreasonable amount if you tried to dress him in anything but black. He walked closer and straightened Armand’s cravat, tucking it in neatly into the truly resplendent frock coat he was wearing. He knew that it was a bit much, perhaps, but really. He could have made it much, much worse. The only true extravagance of Armand’s current attire were its colours and the quality of the fabric. He glanced up, hoping to catch the other’s expression in an unguarded moment, hoping that perhaps he didn’t hate the suit quite as badly as he insisted. He was not prepared for the undeniable look of fondness that he found on Armand’s face. The other man was smiling slightly, in that crooked way he had, one corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. He knew that others often mistook this for smugness, or assumed his smiles were not sincere, but Percy knew better. It wasn’t the mouth you looked at, with Armand, it was his eyes. And his eyes spoke volumes. They beheld Percy with the same look he had so often seen Armand give Marguerite from a distance, the same gentle warmth. He was (intimately) familiar with the blaze of Armand’s eyes, their passion and fervour, but this gentle warmth caught him off guard. He blushed. Armand’s smile widened, and Percy felt a finger gently lift his chin as Armand’s lips met his in a gentle kiss. Then Armand pulled back and let out a long suffering sigh as he rolled his eyes dramatically.

“Fine,” he said, drawing out the word, “But just this once. I will not indulge your foolishness more than once a month.”

Percy beamed, and quickly stuck a rose through one of Armand’s buttonholes.

“Deal,” he said, and sealed it with a kiss.