Princess Tutu, Fakir/Mytho, Fakir knows what Mytho has on under that nightshirt.
Fakir knows exactly what it is that Mytho wears under that long nightshirt.
It's whatever Fakir tells him to put on... which, sometimes, means nothing at all.
The knowledge of how easy it would be to reach for Mytho--to put his hands between Mytho's legs and slide them up under the hem of his nightshirt, to stroke his fingers over Mytho's thighs and to fondle his body into arousal--makes Fakir's breath come short sometimes. It would be the simplest thing in the world; Mytho would permit it, as calmly as he permits Fakir to tell him what to dress and what to eat.
It would be so easy, the dark part of Fakir's soul tells him. So easy to reach out. So easy to possess and take his prince, the only way that seems possible now.
Fakir turns his eyes away from the long lines of Mytho's legs, bare and muscled. "You should get dressed," he says, managing to sound bored in his own ears.
Silently, Mytho does as he suggests.
Fakir hopes that his prince never realizes what a sham of a knight professes to serve him.