Everyone assumes that Yaten is the connoisseur of beauty, and if Seiya is honest with herself, she has to admit that everyone is right. If she is really, really honest with herself, she has to admit that the assumption first stems from the fact that Yaten is the prettiest of the three and then is later proved through her skill.
Luckily, Seiya is never that honest.
But even if Yaten knows what color of cosmetics to wear, even it Yaten knows how to style hair to offset the shape of her face, and even if Yaten knows what silhouettes look abysmal on Taiki (and she tells the brunette frequently, when she is not wrinkling her nose at the other girl's prominent brow), there is one thing Yaten cannot do. She has no appreciation for fabric. To her, it doesn't matter if the gown is made of cotton or taffeta, silk or courdoroy, velvet or polyester. The materials are of no importance to her if the shape and color please her well enough. This one place where Seiya knows better, so if her dresses are too baggy or the colors wash her out, at least the feel of the material against her skin will always make her feel superior. (Among many other things of course.)
Of the many things Seiya finds to love about her princess, Kakyuu, the fabric she wears ranks surprisingly high. Kakyuu doesn't vary her wardrobe overmuch. She wears the colors of fire, the vibrant dawn, and the ever present rose-kissed dust of their planet. She knows that ruby suits her well. She favors structured bodices and flowing skirts because she knows it suits her well. And every dress, even down to the ones she romps in on the days when she escapes the court, have at least one bolt of chiffon stitched in.
Then her skirts float away from her as if caught in a constant breeze. Then they dance around her marvelous legs as if bidden by a thought. Then they swing around her hips like the rocking of the ocean, and Seiya's eyes, grown black with desire, cannot look away. In the darkness of the night, where as many secrets are kept as they are whispered, Seiya lays awake for hours. She thinks of peeling away that chiffon and feeling it slip between her fingers. She longs to touch the smooth skin of those marvelous legs, to move up to the thighs and beyond. And then there's a fire between her legs she does not dare relieve and she can barely fall asleep for her misplaced desire forever unspent.
The black longs for the red in Seiya's one-sided game of lustful chess. Seiya longs for the princess in the wars, in the leave-taking, in the search, and in the finding. She longs for her before, during, and after her death. She longs for her when they finally return to Kinmoku, but always, her hands are at her side and her lips claim nothing.
And then in those dark, secret nights, Seiya tells herself that it wasn't unfaithful to long for the pale princess with the golden hair and the fragile sensibility. She tells herself it was nothing to press her lips to the moon child's brow. She tells herself it was nothing to long for a woman with heavier responsibility and weightier fabrics.
But when that distant angel leaves her panting in her bed, Seiya finds her relief.