...And all the flowers will bloom...

(Yet she remembers him holding her in the same manner when he lingered in her bed what feels like a lifetime ago, when she had the voice to snap and curse at him and he delighted in it.)

Hythlodaeus has a hand resting over one of hers, and she has no way of knowing whether she – they – have been lying still and quiet in the dark for an hour or hours when she feels his thumb track gently over the back of her hand in an idle, soothing motion that makes her blink open her eyes to discover him watching her and Hades with an unmistakable fondness absent of the taint of worry and anxiety that she recalls from their time in Elpis.

Is it that they have all been pretending to sleep, unwilling to disturb one another?

Or unwilling to face the morning sooner than necessary?

He feeds a tendril of aether into the light on the nightstand, to which Hades responds with a huff that ruffles her hair as he tightens his grip on her for a fraction of a moment, before seeming to reluctantly loosen his hold, then rolls onto his back.

She takes the opportunity to push back the sheets and make to slip from their bed, something that has Hythlodaeus reaching to curl a tentative hand at her wrist as he follows her progress with a faintly pained stare.

Will they spend the next few weeks or months, or however long it is, forever trying to keep her from running away from them?

Allowing him to keep his light grip on her wrist to prove she has no intention of fighting him, she leans over to pluck from the floor the slightly crumpled plan of the building that she has been offered, then settles back down between them, sitting back against the headboard to smooth out the paper and first tip it towards Hythlodaeus for him to study.

“You have... been offered a home?”

She inclines her head a little.

Hades is suddenly too tense. Too alert.

Hythlodaeus, meanwhile, begins to ask a soft, “...Would you...?” only to seem not to know what to ask or how he might phrase enquiry after what it is that he wishes to know.

There is nothing to hand with which to write, and so she glances at the nightstand and then at the table across the room, during which he must realise what she needs and brings to life another of the mechanical quills that he made for her, offering it without a word.

The kitchen and the living area, as well as bathing rooms, are marked on the plan, along with a dining area and small study. On the second level, three bedrooms of similar sizes are numbered, and she first writes the names of her bedmates beneath one number, then hers below another, and lets the plan sit atop the tangle of sheets in her lap for them to get a closer look at.

It is Hythlodaeus’ turn to be still, if in a fashion immediately different than his husband, defeat lining his frame as he seems even to take shallower breaths so as not to draw attention to himself.

Hades’ eyes narrow, a tight dissatisfaction lining his features, before he snatches the plan from her lap and takes the bronze quill from her fingers for good measure, and scratches clear, aggressive, lines through her work, nothing short of adoration in Hythlodaeus’ gaze as they watch his husband write three names beneath the corner bedroom and then select one for the son or daughter that they have yet to meet.

(And have not mentioned since informing her of their existence.)

She gulps down what could be tears or could be fear, or could be something much more terrifying, and drags in a deep breath as he presents to them his work with the determined pride of someone who has spent many a month crafting an elegant document.

She is still trying to remember how to breathe when Hythlodaeus declares, “Yes,” and, “I think that will do quite nicely.”

She need not glance in the mirror to be assured of his sharp little smile as he noses at her neck and hums a low note of lazy satisfaction quite at odds with the fact that she knows very well that he yet awaits his own, his focus presently on watching her return to something like awareness as he endeavours to seemingly use as light a hold as possible to keep her on her feet.

That is, until that hold shades fierce once again, hauling her tight to him as he delivers a bruising kiss just beneath her jaw, the soft sound of hazy surprise that escapes her answered with a thrum of amusement and—

“What’s all this?”

Their husband’s voice, Hythlodaeus drifting into view as she looks over at the mirror once more, his steps a leisurely amble as he wanders to a halt behind Hades and rests his head on his shoulder to first look down at her, then angle more than a glance at the glass that she has been all too willingly captured before.

Lifting a hand to scrabble for purchase until she can secure a clawing hold just south of Hades’ collar, she wrenches fabric into her grip to steel herself to take a look herself, where she finds herself flushed and dishevelled, one of his hands yet beneath her skirts, as if he might resume his attentions at any moment. Hades’ features have taken on the bright blush that she so enjoys to see when he is flustered or wanting in a fashion he cannot conceal, his eyes near aglow with a pleasure that tips over into something more rueful as the reality of being trapped between them must settle over him and he shifts against her in a manner that does not seem entirely under his control.

Hythlodaeus lets free a soft breath of laughter, easing back to graze a kiss against Hades’ cheekbone before he steps back and murmurs, “Turn around.”

She is absolutely certain that fingers stray just enough to make her gasp at the too much of it, just as Hades seeks to acquiesce and bring her with him, where Hythlodaeus’ pleased scrutiny only makes her burn all the brighter.

A theatrically thoughtful hum finds Hythlodaeus closing the short distance between them to gather her up, encouraging her legs around him as he claims a heated kiss that belies what is a plainly affected absence of urgency, then carries her over to their bed, where he gently eases her back and seeks out further kisses.

“Don’t move,” he tells her, the softness of it closer to a plea. “I want to enjoy taking this dress off you, lovely as it is.”

That he so rarely tells her – either of them – exactly what he wishes has her obeying without question, moving no further than to sit up as he retreats with a low, “Watch.”

And she does, as he herds Hades back against the wall in precisely his own time, knowing very well that that their husband will yield and permit him...

Anything.

Has that not always been the case?

So, there is not the slightest resistance to be seen when Hythlodaeus starts to unbutton Hades’ shirt, only a quietly eager thrill at being cornered and a deliberate surrender that does not dare to make demands.

As open-mouthed kisses slip lower and elegant fingers fumble with Hades’ belt, she has to twist her fingers into the skirts of her new dress, so desperately does she find herself wishing to cross the room, and no more so than when Hythlodaeus sinks to his knees and their beloved tips back his head, golden eyes drifting closed in a moment’s silent bliss.

When a hand lifts, Hythlodaeus reaching for one of Hades’ to encourage an anchoring hold in his hair, a sound escapes her in unison with a wanton plea of a thing from Hades, an all too obvious shiver teasing at Hythlodaeus that betrays amusement or delight.

Or both.

By the time those she loves most move to find her upon their bed, she is trembling all over again and lies back to welcome Hythlodaeus into her arms as he begins to gather up her skirts.

“I thought,” Hades utters in smug and heated tones, bowing his head to murmur in Hythlodaeus’ ear, “that you desired to undress her.”

The warmth of the musing note provoked sings through her.

“We should save something for later.”