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

Before he can speak, Hythlodaeus decides to have mercy on him and, offering over the second mug of spiced tea that he has brought with him – now also to give the poor man something with which to occupy himself – takes in the sight before them and tells Astraea, “It’s what some people do to show that they like one another very much.”

“...Oh,” his daughter utters, brow furrowing. “It looks like fighting, to me.”

“That is flirting, to them,” Estinien mutters, only to belatedly note that he has spoken aloud and hastily take a longer than necessary sip from his mug.

Indeed, it looks like there is nothing more than an exchange of magic and the clash of weapons occurring below, Hades standing grimly resolute as he sends tangles of aspected aether at their wife, who keeps darting near enough to touch and then away again, trying to snare and trip him each time. Except, as they observe, either she makes a genuine error or deliberately lingers too close for a second too long, and Hades reaches out to snag a hold on the front of her jacket and hauls her close enough to steal a kiss that she does not resist in the slightest.

Teasingly, Hythlodaeus covers Astraea’s eyes with one hand.

“I know about kissing!” she exclaims, trying to bat away his hand. “I know you all kiss each other!”

And then: “I know Estinien kisses Aymeric!”

He sneaks a look to the sorry aforementioned soul, who is staring straight ahead, flushed crimson, and looks quite as if he would very much like for the ground to crumble around him and drag him down to the aetherial sea.

Hythlodaeus allows himself a moment of laughter, then, both for Estinien’s sake and because there is every chance that his husband and wife may shortly be more than kissing, he swiftly reaches to wrap an arm around Astraea and hefts her into a dangling hold purely to make her laugh, before turning to journey back along the path that brought them to the rooftop.

“Now, I think we owe Estinien lunch,” he informs her.

“Why?”

“We just do.”

“Aye,” Estinien rumbles. “You do.”

“…About?” he presses, ever so gently.

“Us.”

“Us?”

“Us. And our husband. Our husband and us.”

Hythlodaeus pushes away from the wall and reaches a hand towards her, clearly hoping she will offer him the book as he asks, “What sort of stories?”

She relinquishes her find in silence, though shuffles close enough that she can scan the words as he does, and it only takes him the turn of a couple of pages to finally understand what she means and why she is still blushing rather furiously.

“Well, we don’t do that,” he surmises, tilting his head a little as he reads on. “…At least, not in Radz-at-Han…”

Elbowing him, she exclaims, “That’s not the point!”

A few more pages and he stops again to linger on one in particular, murmuring, “To be fair, you do look at Hades like that. And I am all but certain that he does think those sorts of thoughts in response.”

“You are most certainly not helping.”

More pages.

“…I know you enjoy that…”

“Stop it!”

“And he does beg ever so nicely…”

“Are you sure that you didn’t write this?” she utters, hiding her face against his shoulder.

“My version would be much more accurate about the sounds you make,” he informs her in a deadpan fashion.

She only answers that with a low growl.

Flipping closer to the end of the book, he pauses to examine another page and declares, “We did do that, if you recall. Beneath the night sky, when we thought the city was suitably quiet.”

The recollection gives her pause, and she hears herself concede, “…I remember…” before she shakes her head and insists, “Anyway, the trader isn’t selling them anymore, which is the… important thing. You know how… persuasive… Y’shtola can be.”

“You mean that they have stopped selling them in public view,” Hythlodaeus replies.

“You are determined not to be helpful today, aren’t you?” she fondly accuses, lifting up on tiptoe to murmur the words against his cheek before pressing a kiss there.

“There are likely—“

When their husband appears before them, the shadows of teleportation magic evaporating around him, all Hythlodaeus does is turn back to a page that he has marked with one finger and tilt the book more obviously towards her to draw her attention to what he means when he suggests, “Shall we?”

After casting her gaze over the page, she agrees, “Very well.”

And they swiftly escort Hades to bed.

---

Thankk you very much for the prompt @keytarsolo! :)

...It is cute.

But he knows that what Rafayel can see is also quite true: that her new acquaintance is standing just a little too close, and that he seems quite taken with her.

Not that it is anything to be concerned about.

Truth be told, Sylus finds himself more worried about the fact that he has spent the past twenty minutes trying to convince himself that he does not need to buy every single one of the fantastical creatures that he can see. Oh, they are not carved from precious gems, but they are beautiful and they catch the light just so, and, combined with her evident delight in them, it is increasingly difficult to tell whether he actually wishes to acquire them or that it is not his own hunger that there is every threat of him yielding to.

Perhaps that is why Rafayel keeps shooting him those sideways glances. Maybe it is that he has not done as good as job as he believes at keeping his own darker facets from flickering to the surface; that his jealousy has hoped for companionship and found only an incomprehensible desire.

(Either of them could buy out the collection without a second thought. But for Rafayel... For Rafayel, it would be a much easier affair. A transaction. Items now his – more likely hers. Not a matter of obtaining and hoarding and keeping, hoping for her to catch glimpses of them so that he might ration out her joy in them and not have it evaporate all at once.

...It would be much better if he were merely jealous.)

“Come and meet them,” has him blinking back to reality to find her approaching with a quizzical little furrow between her brows.

Not quite concern or chastisement, but...

Something.

She knows.

Hearing a soft huff of discontent from Rafayel, Sylus straightens his shoulders and takes in a deep breath, ready for—

She hooks a hold on the front of Rafayel’s shirt, seemingly deliberately tight enough to rumple fabric, and tugs, pressing a fierce kiss to his cheek that betrays precisely how she would like to kiss him, were they not to be in public and were they plainly not about to be introduced to her new friend.

He barely has time to settle into his amusement at how so easily she has disarmed their lover before she has a lighter touch at his own collar – the pad of her thumb ghosting over his pulse – to encourage him to bow his head to let her brush her lips against the line of his jaw.

Beyond her, the mind behind the exhibition averts his gaze, as if he means to avoid witnessing something a touch too private.

“Everything okay?” she murmurs, one brow arched in enquiry as she looks from him to Rafayel and back again.

Sylus almost laughs.

Rafayel’s scowl is a flimsy thing that he does not look to be able to maintain command over.

“Right. So, let me introduce you...”