Time to bed down soon, don't you think?

Bear with me for this one: the buildup is a little dull. Before springing inspired moments from the mold of the mundane, we must first experience that mundane. And there is nothing quite so dry and (sometimes, depending on your outlook) dead as the start, and thus following on to the end, of another day.

The night before the ceremony that was to be Lora's first foray into formal society since she'd been born, the party was afforded sleeping quarters in Aureus itself - what more magnanimous show of greeting and esteem could the king make? Perhaps Zettar grumbled about it, and Amalthus carefully noted down what it would mean as regarded public perception, but other than that, they were summarily left to their own devices.

And this? This was...somewhat different to what they had been experiencing in the days and weeks prior. In Hyber and Spefan, the rooms (never more than two or three) would be, counting relatively, brimful of milling bodies who didn't quite want to turn in yet but didn't quite have anywhere else meaningful to go before doing so.

Haze would toy with redoing her braids, or beg Lora to come sit next to her on the bed so she could do much of the same for her lady, and Mythra and Brighid would tepidly join in, and Jin and Aegaeon would watch, seemingly determined not to meddle or even to comment to each other about their shared predicament, though Hugo would likely chuckle to himself about it, and there would always be someone walking in and out to check provisions or make reminders or steal pillows or...something. Anything. Everything. Nothing, all at once.

Minoth valued his independence not just as an individual but as a sharer of public space; he liked being gregarious, but when he didn't want to be bothered, well, he simply didn't want to be bothered. So for him, the offering of six rooms to eleven people was nowhere near such a stiff, alienating thing as Lora's group seemed to think it. She and Haze took the first, Jin and the boys the second, Mythra and Brighid the third and fourth, Aegaeon and Hugo the fifth, and that left Minoth with only Addam to contend with in the sixth.

He wasn't worried about this. At least, he didn't let himself think about it. No, he simply sat at the desk and began to outline a new script within which to pack every scintillating detail concerning and commending the travails of Good Lady Lora, the Knight of Torna, the first and the best (and hopefully not the last) of her pure-scioned kind. He knew someone would eventually get to nitpicking it, whether it be Haze or Addam or Jin or Lora herself, but that could wait. While he would prefer being in the mood to get some actual writing done when he had this peace and quiet to hand, he could only plan carefully, and hope that it served him well later on.

When Addam, slowest of all to concede gregariousness, finally entered the room, he seemed almost surprised to see Minoth there, scribbling away, entirely inattentive to the sound of the door opening and closing. This was his first cue; it wouldn't be his last. Instead of calling the other man's name, he simply slipped as quietly as he could into the adjoining bathroom to wash up and change into some actual comfortable pajamas for once.

The room had only one bed, queen-size - surely Minoth the overthinker of ever would have factored this in, no? But he kept writing, and writing, and writing. He'd struck upon a ripe set of parallel and contrast between Lora and Ornelia, past knights and those of yore, such that he could build up to a true epic romance's conclusion of everyman's glory without once doing colloquial or academic disservice to either proud woman or the Blade whose resonance they had shared.

In short, Minoth was inspired. He had not the patience nor the energy for any others at the present moment, nor would he ever, if this flow kept up. He was writing for Lora and all of her legacy, but the direct conclusion of that devotion was obstructed by the page, the page, the page.

He turned another one over. It was white, almost blaring blindness up into his eyes since Addam had reappeared and silently turned the lamp from full-on to near-off, the light of the moon through the window soon the only illumination.

It should have kept him awake. But he felt very, very asleep.

Pushing back the desk chair in which he had been seated, which no promises laid upon proper posture, Minoth shoved his notebook and associated pen to the side before flopping unceremoniously down on the table, chin hugged by forearm and cheek tucked into crook of elbow.

"Tired, Minoth?"

Minoth didn't jump, just blinked absently and chewed for a second on his bottom lip.

"That you, Prince?"

"I think so." He didn't quite look it, clad in a snug sleeveless sweater and shorts that barely reached his knees, but he was indeed Addam, and no matter the heritage that meant that he would always be Minoth's one and only prince.

And so surely, surely, surely at this point Minoth would start up, would realize, Architect, I got roped into sharing a bed with Addam alone in the same room all night and I can't leave the king will be offended beyond repair and Amalthus will reappropriate me even though he doesn't want anything to do with me and I'll have ruined Lora's entire life and she doesn't even want to stay here but we're all stuck here and I have to spend the night with ADDAM--

Addam. Addam Origo. Minoth cocked his head to one side, thinking deeper, only because he was so perfectly half asleep the motion was more like a loll, and the lazy smile was positioned just exactly in the frame of Addam's vision.

How does one describe...Addam Origo? He's just as tall as I am, only not quite, and he's just as much of a screw-up as I am, only not quite, and his hair is soft and gray and his eyes are warm and gold and his cheeks are...

"You look so..." Involuntarily, Minoth paused, yawned. At this point, Addam's cheeks were flushed; he was oblivious to many things, but not quite to something like this.

"You just." Use your words, Minoth, you've not said anything of any significance or even any meaning yet. "You look so kissable right now."

Addam turned bright Barbed Tomato red. His hands, dangling by his sides, slowly coalesced into round little fists, and the tension in his arms drew them ever so slightly out to the side. But Minoth didn't notice, especially. He was too busy.

Too busy: "I wanna like, get up and kiss you..." (Addam flushed somehow darker, and violently) "...on the cheek. But 'm too tired. Too tired to get up but you look really kissable right now. Addam," he finished, somehow hastily through all the indolence.

"I..." Addam pursed his lips. "And what am I meant to say to that?"

The words took a few moments to seep through Minoth's skull into his brain, or Blade facsimile approximation, but he parsed them soon enough.

"Should I not have said that?"

"No, I don't mind. If I may?"

"Shoot."

"Your hair looks especially fluffy, the way you're all scrunched up in your chair like that."

In order so as to not disturb the supposedly precious sight, Minoth fought the instantaneous urge to reach back a hand and test Addam's hypothesis - or was it more of an observation? He supposed it was.

"I suppose I'd like to kiss you, too."

"Oh, well." Yes, the neurons were activated now. Minoth was considering the enormity of all he'd just said, and he...

"Well."

He figured he might as well spring for it. "Shall we?"