unfortunately, i have been writing roathe/oc pre-protoframe tonight,,, have a wip
Roathe cuts a fine silhouette even on his worst days, but today he looks especially splendid, all red and gold finery draping his sturdy frame. His leminya tonight is a longer one, luxurious and embroidered with the most intricate of golden designs. Behind him, his tail — still a fairly recent addition to his body modifications, something he has still been getting used to — flicks idly, the knife attachment he wears with his armor traded in for delicate golden jewelry. It takes him only a moment to catch sight of Hythlodaeus, standing silhouetted by the moonlight of the window overlooking the gardens.
The Orokin smiles, but it does not reach his eyes — as it so often doesn't, when he comes to him at night. At least at first.
"Kairos," he says, and Hythlodaeus knows then that the Dax must be guarding the still open door. The look Roathe shoots him affirms this, even as the door slides shut slowly a moment later. He glances at the door briefly before he strides toward the window, clasping his hands politely behind his back. "How are you this evening?"
Hythlodaeus chuckles, hugging his tablet to his chest as the man drifts to his side. Roathe keeps his eyes fixed on the grounds below them, a tension in the set of his jaw that speaks of ill tidings. Hythlodaeus drinks in his sharp, handsome profile, lingering on the elegant curve of his nose as it leads down to the plush curve of his lips. He knows that this is not Roathe's original body — indeed, he had actually met him briefly in a different one — but this is, by far, his favorite. It suits him, in a way the other had not.
"Have you heard the music?" Roathe asks softly. "There is quite the party happening in the ballroom past the gardens."
Hythlodaeus hums, following his gaze out the window. Indeed, he can see immaculatley dressed Orokin gala-goers milling about on the lawn far below, though the closed window keeps out the sound. "I have not," he murmurs, shifting closer until he can rest his chin on Roathe's shoulder.
Ever so slightly, he feels some of the tension in Roathe's frame ease under his touch.
Roathe gives a soft sigh. "You should open the window. The music has been lovely."
Hythlodaeus scoffs, pulling away to toss his tablet on the window seat cushions before returning to Roathe's side, slippng his arms around his waist and resting his cheek against his back. "Mm," he hums, grinning when he feels Roathe's tail snaking around one of his legs. "Is that what you came here to talk about?"
"I'm making conversation, Archimedean."
Hyth grins slightly, inhaling deeply as he squeezes his arms around Roathe's waist. Beneath the cologne, he can smell something else — cloying, sickly sweet, sticky — and his stomach turns.
"You saw her tonight."
It isn't a question.
"I see her every night," Roathe hisses, but there is no real venom in it. He seems… resigned. Tired. Remarkably clear-headed. Though he had seen the Executor, Hythlodaeus gets the feeling that it was a rather short, painless meeting compared to most nights. It's curious, to see him in such a state — neither frenzied, nor manic. He seems preoccupied with something.
While he seems uninjured, the smell of death clinging to his clothing still makes Hythlodaeus want to vomit. There is something almost worse about the lack of outward signs of horror. He cannot picture what she would have had Roathe doing that sunk her stench into him enough that it lingers like this — he cannot decide if it is better or worse than the activities that leave welts and bruises and weeping wounds.
The invisibility feels more insidious, somehow.
Like it often does, the thought of Nitokh's mismatched hands on Roathe's body makes his stomach turn, and so he wants to do something to help. Resting his chin on Roathe's shoulder, he murmurs, "Shall I draw a bath?"
Roathe turns his head ever so slightly toward him, but his eyes stay locked on the party below. "Don't you wish to see the gala?"
Why is he fixated on that?
Shaking his head, he runs his hands up his chest until they rest over Roathe's heart. "I prefer being alone with you when I can."
Roathe snorts, bitter. "Afraid to be seen with me?"
Hythlodaeus rolls his eyes, leaning around Roathe until he can dip his head and catch his eyes, "No. I simply like to have you all to myself — without the chance of it getting back to the Executors."
Roathe's eyes widen at that, ever so slightly. Hyth watches, fascinated, as his eyes dart back and forth across his face for a moment, surprisingly open — surprised, touched — before something falls behind them, and he returns his gaze to the window. "She knows most everything, my dear. If she hasn't figured us out yet, it is because she is willfully ignoring us."
Hyth's not so sure about that — more likely she doesn't think anyone is brave enough to attempt to seduce one of her most famous Consorts right out from under her nose — but rather than argue, he just hums in response.
"Nevertheless," he says, pressing up on his tiptoes to kiss Roathe on the cheek, "I shall take these moments where and when I can."
