Work Text:
Kaladin feels like he's floating and falling all at once, like when he Lashes himself into the sky to leave the ground behind. Only, right now he is very much on the ground; on a pile of cushions on Adolin's bedroom floor, to be exact. The Prince is next to him, head on his shoulder and breath soft in his ear, and he's giggling softly at something.
This started several hours ago, when Wit had shown up at Kaladin's door with a small bag of what looked to be some kind of ground herb. The strange man had pressed the bag into his hands, telling him “I went to a lot of trouble to get this, because you need it and I think you should share it with your princeling.” Kaladin had questioned Wit, of course, but all the man had done was produce a beautifully carved wooden pipe from his pocket, and pushed that into Kaladin's hands as well. The instructions were: put some of the herb — apparently called cannabis — in the pipe, use a match to set fire to it, and inhale the smoke; also, have snacks and water and maybe some pink wine on hand. Wit had then disappeared, as he was in the habit of doing, and Kaladin had been left standing, very confused, in the open doorway of his quarters. Still, he had taken Wit's instructions, and gone to Adolin's quarters and now…
Now he feels like he is floating and falling, and Adolin's face is pressed into his neck, and the Prince is giggling. Kaladin feels his own laugh leave him, a short little snort of mirth because Adolin's warm breath on his skin tickles, and then suddenly he is giggling as well. This only makes Adolin laugh harder, which in turn feeds Kaladin's joy. He doesn't know how long they laugh, but tears are streaming down his face and his stomach aches when he finally managed to start gasping in proper breaths again.
“Why?” The word is sticky, and Kaladin reaches beside him to grab his glass of water. “Why were you laughing?” He asks, his voice working properly once he's had a deep sip of water.
Adolin giggles again, and clutches his own stomach with a wince. “Your hair was tickling my face,” he says after his own drink of water.
“You could've moved, princeling,” Kaladin tells him, like it's not obvious.
Adolin shrugs, the gesture loose and lazy. “I was comfortable,” he says with a grin — also loose and lazy.
Kaladin grins back, and reaches for the pile of food on the low table in front of them. Wit hadn't specified what kind of food they should have, so Adolin (once Kaladin had explained himself and the Prince had been fully on-board) had ordered a little bit of everything from the kitchens. Kaladin grabs a piece of flatbread and dunks it into some kind of sweet and creamy sauce. He moans exaggeratedly around his bite, and decides that is all he wants to eat for the rest of the night.
“Careful with that sound, bridgeboy,” Adolin teases, and Kaladin feels himself flush.
Adolin also sits up enough to grab a handful of dried, curried meat chunks mixed with dried, curried vegetable slices. Seeming just as pleased in his choice of food as Kaladin is, the Prince grabs the bowl and pulls it into his lap. For long, hazy moments, the two men sit on their pile of cushions, eating their snacks with an almost single-minded focus. Then Adolin breaks the silence.
“Can I braid your hair?” It's not the first time he's asked, but Kaladin has always refused. Now though, the thought of the Prince's strong fingers in his hair sounds like the most amazing thing on Roshar, so he nods.
Delighted, Adolin awkwardly scrambles to his feet and stumbles over to his bedside table. When he makes his way back he has a short length of cobalt blue ribbon in one hand and a hairbrush in the other. He instructs Kaladin to shift around on the cushions, and then settles in behind him. For once in his life the bridgeboy simply follows orders, and as soon as both men are settled Adolin is running his fingers through that long, thick, surprisingly soft dark hair. It feels like silk under his clumsy hands.
Kaladin sighs in pleasure as Adolin’s fingers card through his hair, and then calloused hands are replaced by the smooth glide of the brush. Adolin gently works through all the tangles, until Kaladin’s hair is shining in the soft light of the room. The Prince almost forgets what he had sat down to do, so distracted by the glorious mane before him. He wants to wind his fingers back into it and pull, to see what responses that might elicit.
“Adolin?” Kaladin’s voice is quiet and hoarse, and he reaches for his water again.
“Sorry,” Adolin chuckles, embarrassed. “I got distracted by your hair. It’s — well I’ve never seen it all brushed out like this and it’s…it’s beautiful.” His voice goes soft at the end, like he’s afraid to say the words.
Kaladin feels himself flush. “Just get on with the braiding, princeling,” he huffs, but Adolin knows him well enough by now to hear the smile in his voice. Or at least the lack of actual annoyance.
Slowly, Adolin raises his hands back to Kaladin’s glorious mane, and begins to tame it into a braid. It seems almost a crime to do so, but the bridgeboy makes pleased little noises at the feeling of the Prince’s fingers working through his hair, and it would be more of a crime to not hear those sounds. With the same single-minded focus as he’d had with the snacks, it doesn’t take long for Adolin to have Kaladin’s hair twisted skillfully into a single, long braid down his back, and he sits back to admire his work after he ties it off with the ribbon.
“Lovely!” He declares, and Kaladin reaches back to pull the braid over his shoulder to inspect it.
“Huh,” is all the bridgeboy says.
“Do you like it?” Adolin asks, maybe a bit too hopeful. “Shallan lets me braid her hair so I’ve gotten pretty good at it I think.”
Kaladin turns to face the Prince, fingers still running over his plaited tresses. “I like it,” he says, eyes crinkling with a soft smile. “Last time anyone brushed my hair was my mother, when I was small.” His smile turns sad for a moment before he lowers his gaze. “It felt…it felt really nice,” he admits. “Your fingers in my hair were — it was good,” he continues, cheeks heating up.
“You know what else I think would feel really nice right now?” Adolin asked, struck by a sudden desire and hoping he isn’t reading the situation wrong.
Kaladin’s eyes lift back up, and he cocks an eyebrow. The expression isn’t nearly severe as usual with his flushed cheeks, hazy eyes, and relaxed face. “What is that, princeling?”
“Kissing,” Adolin replies without miss a beat, worried he might not if he hesitates. “The — the cannabis? Well, whatever Wit called it, it enhanced our enjoyment of food, and me braiding your hair. Maybe it would be the same for kissing?”
Kaladin looks shocked for a split second, before he is nodding like what Adolin said makes perfect sense. The Prince isn’t sure it does, but he is happy that Kaladin agrees with him. The Captain’s lips look so soft and inviting that Adolin thinks he might go crazy if he doesn’t find out what they feel like against his own. Slowly, Adolin leans forward and is overjoyed when Kaladin meets him halfway. Bright blue and deep brown eyes flutter closed as their lips meet, and both men sigh into the kiss like they’ve found something they have been missing all their lives. It isn’t long before Adolin is pulling Kaladin into his lap, the bridgeboy going willingly where the Prince wants him.
Hours later, both men are asleep in the dreamless haze of cannabis. Under Adolin’s silk sheets, Kaladin’s head rests on the Prince’s bare chest, arm wrapped tight around his solid waist, legs tangled together. Neither has ever looked so peaceful or happy, and somewhere in the darkness, Hoid congratulates himself and marks this as another story to tell.