Agravain receives a commission

When Mordred commissioned Agravain for a garment, they leapt at the opportunity. They’d never received a commission before. They’d sewn clothes for their friends and family, and lent their help to the Court tailors back at home, but never before had someone offered to pay them not only to sew them a piece, but design it as well.

They’d tried to argue that there was no need for coins, that they’d be willing to do it freely for a friend, and accept only the supplied materials. The sentiment behind the argument was halfhearted, though. Agravain needed – wanted – the money, half to send back home, half to put aside for themselves. Besides, there was a new sort of gratification to enjoy here, of having one’s work valued in more than kind words with a heavy bag of clinking, glimmering coins. When Mordred shook their head and smiled, saying they wanted to be their first proper commission, Agravain protested no more.

The textiles arrived packaged neatly with satin bows. They took their time taking them out, handling them with a care reserved for porcelain. They ran their fingers over the patterned silk velvet till their pads tingled and all sensations had been rubbed off, then pressed it against their cheek just to relish in its softness. They stared enchanted at the intricate needlework of the lace, tracing with their eyes the shapes of flying birds and unfurling vines till they grew dizzy. The materials rustled, a sweet murmur to echo Agravain’s whispered marveling.

They'd never worked with such material themselves to the extent and freedom they’d been offered now – but in their mind's eye, they'd cut and sewn it, again and again, into all those designs, mere fantasies in ink, that took up page after page of their notebooks.

Envy not so much crept as swept over Agravain, and they let it carry them in its murky waters for a bit, miserably indulging their worst instincts for a mere miserable moments before shame put a dam on them.

They held up the silk-velvet again, with its vivid, pretty pattern. So luxuriously made, they could hardly call it exorbitantly priced, given all the craft and effort that had gone into it. Yet they knew very well that it was coin they'd never had and might never come to have, as neither would those whose careful fingers rendered real this cloth. Such velveteen decadence both fascinated and sickened them, made them want to pack it back up with the gentlest of touch, made them want to cocoon themselves in its tender embrace, made them want to snatch the scissors and destroy it. But that would be a terrible waste.

There was double the material that Agravain had roughly deemed necessary, and they couldn’t decide if that had only been Mordred overcompensating, or if they had in mind a vision of obscene opulence they failed to mention.

Or, a third option unspooled from that hungry, covetous part of them, perhaps they’d meant for Agravain to keep the rest. There would be enough for another piece. They’d immediately shamed themselves for such a far-fetched, selfish conjecture.

Once they started taking the measurements, Agravain soon became overly aware of their close proximity. Their fingers brushed over Mordred’s waist as they looped the tape around it, skimmed over the exposed skin as they measured the length of their arm. Mordred’s breath blew warm on their cheek, sending shivers down their spine.

They did a quick job out of it, relieved when they could finally step back and bury their head in their notebook.

And now, a few weeks later and with the garment well under way, Mordred was back to try their commission on. Once again they had to step in close, close enough to smell the faint scent of soap on Mordred’s skin.

It wasn’t only the proximity itself that sent Agravain’s heartbeat off at a canter. It was the honing in on Mordred, on the shape of them and the way the garb fell across their frame. It was the quiet that swept over the room, a silence in which every breath they took, every rustle of fabric, every brush of skin was tenfold amplified. It was the knowledge that just as Agravain studied them closely, so could Mordred do in kind.

Not that they seemed to do it. Their gaze never lingered too long on Agravain, flicking between their own reflection or the floor, the walls, any random spot away from them. Agravain, for their part, had a garment to inspect, and adjustments to make.

Their heart beat so quick it threatened to unbalance them, to jostle their hands and slip the pins through skin instead of cloth. Prickling themselves might at least jolt some sense back into them, pin back together their slowly unraveling self.

They managed to finish with no injury, and looked around Mordred in the mirror to assess their work. Their eyes met in the reflection; they’d both looked away so quickly Agravain couldn’t tell who’d been the first to do so. They swallowed thickly, and hated how loud it sounded in the deafening quiet.

“Let me…” They trailed off, shuffling before Mordred, avoiding their eye as they went about further adjusting the garment.

Their hair was long enough to tie in the back, but the shorter strands in the front kept slipping from behind their ears and as they tilted their head to examine some stitching, a black curl fell across their eyes. They blew at it, sharp and impatient, but the stubborn hair only fluttered back in place. Before they could shake their head in another impatient attempt, Mordred’s hand reached out and gently brushed back the curl. Their fingers grazed against the shell of Agravain’s ear, their fingertips warm.

Agravain didn’t look up. They stood stock-still, a deer in the woods who heard the crunch of twigs too close, too loud, hands clutching the piece of garment they were examining. The scrap of skin Mordred touched still tingled and Agravain’s stomach, which had emptied as if they’d taken off into the skies, still struggled to remember they were firmly planted on the ground.

“Thanks.” Their voice came out too hoarsely. They wanted to swallow it back, bite down that clumsy tongue.

They fussed a bit longer over the fit of the piece – staring aimlessly at first, mind still fogged by the rush of heat to the head – then sharply stepped back, out of view of the mirror (out of view of Mordred) arms crossed and hands tucked to keep from picking at the nails.

“How does it feel?” they asked. “What do you think?”

Mordred turned this way and that, timidly studying their own reflection. Agravain saw the vision clearly, already so well reflected: the piece befit Mordred just as much as Mordred befit it, an image of elegant glamour. A surge of pride – and something else, all heated blood and tingling skin – overcame them, chased soon after by slithering, creeping doubt.

What if Mordred utterly, completely hated it? As the moments stretched on, so did the list of imperfections that Agravain could count; they sprung out of nowhere, just to spite them.

The self-inspection done, they turned to Agravain with a bright smile. “It feels good. Well fitted now.”

Agravain considered their expression and weighed their words, lest there was a sign this was all a polite lie and first chance Mordred got, they’d toss the garb at the back of a wardrobe to be eternally forgotten.

When nothing in their kind face seemed to betray that, their shoulders relaxed. “We’re done for now then.” They made to move past Mordred to the opposite corner of their little chamber, to stand with eyes to the wall like a shamed child – thinking of all those little imperfections, real or imagined – while they changed. Mordred reached out to stop them, their fingers feather-light on Agravain’s arm.

“Thank you.” Simple, heartfelt and utterly honest.

For a couple moments, they simply basked in the brilliance of Mordred’s smile. Then Agravain briskly nodded and cracked a smile. “Just giving you your money’s worth.”

They went off into their corner to offer Mordred privacy, smile still affixed to their lips, growing only wider as the words rang – again and again and always just as sweet – in their head. A beacon to keep the circling, preying doubt at bay.

“Have you thought of what you’ll do with the extra material?” Mordred asked once they’d changed.

Agravain’s brows shot up. They’d yet to bring themselves to ask about the excess of fabric, secretly hoping Mordred would forget about it and they’d get to keep it. They’d even sketched a couple designs, but didn’t allow themselves to become much too eager.

Had Mordred planned this all along, then? The overestimating they assumed being, in fact, thoughtful calculation.

“I may have some ideas,” they said.

Mordred smiled. “Can’t wait to see them.” They walked towards the door, dithered. “Perhaps...you could tell me all about them over a drink?” Their expression was half grimace half smile, as if bracing for a refusal.

It seems Agravain wasn’t the only one.

Their reply was playful. “Perhaps I could.” When Mordred perked up, they added: “I’d like that.”

For a moment they simply stood, dumbly smiling at each other.