#hadeswol

"They absolutely were not and you know it! Not to mention poor Altima would be devastated if you showed up to their gala underdressed."

Hades wrinkles his nose; Hiraeth's right, Altima would be upset and then Hades would be subjected to heavy sighs and 'woe is me that Emet-Selch doth not think highly of the arts! However shall I go on!'

"... You have a point," he admits with a grumble.

Still. He prefers his regular robes. They're comfortable and free of unnecessarily flashy embellishments. And his face being left bare, out in public like this leaves a bad taste; it was one thing to do so in Elpis, but here in Amaurot...

Altima and their avant guarde tastes seems to have seeped into their gala dress code.

Something about 'appreciating the masks we're born with, not just the ones we choose.' In all honesty, Hades' thoughts had drifted at that point, much like they are now.

The weight of Hiraeth's hand settling on his arm, drawing him closer, anchors Hades back in the here and now. Returning the touch, the not quite embrace, loosens the tension along his shoulders that he hadn't noticed building.

"Of course I do, I'm always right," Hiraeth says with a playful gleam in his eye. Gaze softening as he leans in, he adds, "These really do look good on you, by the way. I'm tempted to drag you back home instead..."

Leaning in as if he were Hiraeth's mirror is the most coherent answer he can think to give in this moment, far too focused on golden eyes that are bright with happiness that the aether glow in others could never compare.

"Now," Hiraeth says, stepping back and the moment falls away. "We should get going. Before we go from fashionably late to actually late."

Cheeks suddenly warm, Hades clears his throat. "Right. Yes, of course. The gala."

"We don't have to stay the entire time either," Hiraeth says, now walking a little closer than he had been before, reaching out a hand to wrap around Hades' own. "We can always do a Lominsan Goodbye and get those fig tarts you like so much."