Martín had a lot of pajamas.
He had more pajamas than Mirko had ever owned, by his reckoning. He simply wasn't the type to make use of them- when it was time to sleep he was comfortable enough in just his boxers, or nothing at all, if the night's circumstances had been favourable. If he was cold, that's what blankets (and companions) were for. Special clothes only for sleeping had never really been available in his youth- and so now, even when wealthy, he didn't think to buy them for himself.
But Martín had plenty- he had an entire drawer in his wardrobe dedicated just to such things. Matching sets in different fabrics, colours, and patterns. Some were flannel, for the winter, others silk, for the summer. Both kinds were unbelievably soft to the touch, so much so that Martín had gotten used to Mirko rubbing his leg or arm at random moments when he was wearing them, just to feel it (and to feel Martín, too).
The designs were all very classy. Black and red checkers, silvery blue and white plaid, smooth gray with dark trim. No love-hearts or leapfrogs or sleeping sheep here. Most had buttons, which seemed like an awful lot of work to Mirko- when he wanted to sleep, he didn't have the mind to be doing up tens of tiny ivory buttons, especially not the ones on the cuffs! He never wore shirts with cuffs during the day, either (unless Martín was the one dressing him).
But he had learned at least one appeal of the buttons- Martín undoing them one at a time, purring filthy nonsense as more of his skin was slowly revealed. That was a very enjoyable use for buttons indeed.
(Martín had also, once or twice, requested that Mirko rip such shirts off, tearing the buttons from their fixtures- he really seemed to love that, but Mirko always felt a little bad, since it meant he had to buy a new set. Despite what had become of his life- war, prison, robbery- Mirko found he didn't really like destroying things.)
Martín also kept slippers, and a properly fancy housecoat, and though Mirko did have these for himself somehow Martín's versions came off as classy when he was wearing them, instead of sloppy. He also changed out these things for new ones whenever they started to show wear and tear, which probably helped. His current housecoat was black, with a Japanese-looking sun and cloud pattern, and his slippers also black and fluffy.
He made quite a picture, late into a night spent in, fetching olives or milk from the fridge in the complete attire- silk pajamas and a silkier housecoat, fluffy slippers on his feet, hair probably wet from the bath.
Just too pretty, his Palermo.
If Mirko ever pointed out how much he was wearing, Martín would huff a little and say it was because he got cold- and this made sense. He really was very little. There surely wasn't enough on him to survive a winter in Serbia alone.
(All the more reason to hold him, then.)
"I know what you're thinking," Martín called from the kitchen. "And it's ridiculous. I'm not 'small', you're absurdly large."
"Okay," Mirko replied with a small laugh, and when Martín returned with a piece of cheese in his mouth Mirko had him sit on his lap, which was what he had really wanted in the first place.
