Joe is the winner of a TV show to paint a royal portrait of the crown prince. Nicky hates sitting for paintings, and it's worse because there's a camera crew filming it too so he's a bit waspish to start, but Joe is charming and chatty and talented and over the course of three sittings Nicky has an OH NO moment.
(this is just a teaser sorry/not sorry because this is TOO good as a marriage of (in)convenience au)
The first thing Nicolò thought about Joe al-Kaysani, when they shook hands in front of three cameras, eight crew, and two members of his father’s PR team, was that he had an impressive amount of self-control. Nicolò had let himself forget, in the years he’d been out of the royal spotlight, how people tended to act when introduced to a member of a royal family, much less the Crown Prince. Even the most self-possessed ones got nervous. It was strangely similar to how they behaved with doctors, sometimes, except in emergency medicine patients usually didn’t have time to be nervous.
After three months back in Genoa and most of those as the heir, Nicolò was already adapting to the ones who went nearly silent, and the ones who babbled, and worst of all the ones who looked at you like you were a lock they had to unpick to get what they wanted. al-Kaysani was none of those. He smiled and looked Nicolò in the eye, and his grip was firm but not too tight, warm but not sweaty. It was an astonishing degree of self-possession for someone who was here because he’d won a competition to paint a royal portrait.
Or, no; they’d probably picked him in part because of that; certainly they had to have picked him in part for his face, Nicolò thought, trying not to let it be cynical. He really didn’t doubt the man’s talent, but it seemed altogether too coincidental that he should be beautiful as well.
Nicolò was so busy thinking about this – he was, truly, very striking – that his mouth went on autopilot and the next thing he said was “So, what do you do, Mr al-Kaysani?”.
al-Kaysani laughed out loud, the corners of his eyes crinkling up, then hastily ducked his head. “Ah, I’m sorry, your highness – they did tell you what this was about?”
Three cameras, eight crewmembers hovering, one of them the director – Nile Freeman, if Nicolò remembered her name right – and two PR flunkies with very pinched expressions; the only way out of this was through.
“You’re here to paint my portrait, yes,” Nicolò said, smiling a little to ease the sting. “Shall we try that again? I’m sure it would be appreciated.”
The producer, who was hovering just behind Ms Freeman, shut his mouth; he had been about to say something, probably just that.
“Of course,” al-Kaysani said at once, and held out his hand again. “Your highness, my name is Joe al-Kaysani; I’m so honoured to have the chance to paint you.”
“I’m grateful you’re lending your talents to this – to us,” Nicolò replied, meaning it; the file he’d been given had included a selection of al-Kaysani’s work, and it was very good. They shook hands again. This time al-Kaysani smiled at him, and Nicolò couldn’t help smiling back. He fought to keep it out of his eyes, and knew he was failing.
Three cameras, eight crew, two PR staff. There was no way on Earth that they could have selected this man intending him to be quite so precisely Nicolò’s type. That was something Nicolò was going to have to grit his teeth and ignore, for the three sittings that were scheduled to complete this painting. Which was a problem, because sitting still while people looked at him was Nicolò’s personal idea of hell as it was.
Their hands parted. Having shaken al-Kaysani’s hand twice in as many minutes, Nicolò had had ample time to feel that his fingers were as long and slender as they looked, making Nicolò feel like his hands were large and clumsy. All the better for holding brushes with, he supposed. Or –
No. He couldn’t afford that even in the privacy of his own head.