CHAPTER 178: CHAPTER 173: BURIED ROOTS (2)

"Do not think I forgot what you did to me last night."

Damian’s smile curved with slow, deliberate satisfaction, more of a promise than a reaction. His thumb brushed just below Gabriel’s lip, chasing the memory he’d left behind.

"I would be worried," Damian murmured, voice low and velvet-soft, "if I thought you’d stopped wanting me to."

Gabriel exhaled, sharp and quiet. "You tested the limits of every piece of furniture I liked."

"You didn’t stop me," Damian replied, eyes gold and unreadable.

Gabriel’s fingers tightened slightly in the folds of the imperial cloak still draped over his shoulders. "Next time, we’re doing it somewhere away from Edward. I can take another round of his bantering."

Damian chuckled, low and warm, against Gabriel’s ear. "He cares about you."

Gabriel groaned, resting his forehead briefly against Damian’s shoulder. "You say that now, but you didn’t see his face this morning. He looked like he was preparing my funeral, but he didn’t have the decency to let me die in bed today."

Damian laughed—quiet, deep, and so genuine it rumbled through Gabriel’s chest more than his ears.

"He would’ve, if you hadn’t gotten up on your own. You ruined his mourning speech."

Gabriel groaned again, the sound muffled against the embroidered edge of the imperial cloak. "It’s not fair. I did my duties. I got dressed. I endured the bloodletting and the diplomatic flower arrangements. I even tolerated fruit shaped like the Ministry of Agriculture."

"That strawberry was an insult," Damian agreed solemnly.

Gabriel leaned back just enough to look at him, eyes narrowed. "And then he had the audacity to say he’d schedule another test next week. Biweekly, Damian. Like I’m a seasonal plague."

Damian raised a brow. "He’s just being thorough. It could have been weekly."

Gabriel lifted his head just enough to glare. "Then I would’ve thrown myself off the palace balcony. I gave the thought a chance when Anya came to me before the tribunal; too bad Edward gaze promised violence."

Damian huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his thumb along the edge of Gabriel’s cheek. "Violence is Edward’s love language."

Gabriel deadpanned, "So is passive-aggressive tea service."

"He gave you tea again?"

"Chamomile. Kinda helped my stomach, but I’m not going to tell him that."

Damian’s smile curved, just enough to be dangerous. "You just did."

Gabriel scowled. "If he hears that, I’ll never see coffee again."

"Then you’d better pray he doesn’t have this balcony warded."

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, immediately suspicious. "...Does he?"

Damian said nothing. His silence was far too innocent.

Gabriel groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "Gods, I’m going to find clover tea in my chambers for a month."

"You’ll live."

"Will I?" Gabriel deadpanned. "Because this Empire is more likely to kill me by tea overdose than assassination."

Damian brushed a stray hair from Gabriel’s cheek. "At least you’ll die well-hydrated."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. "I should have chosen exile."

"Mhmm..." Damian murmured, voice low, amused. "You chose me."

Gabriel didn’t deny it. He just let the silence stretch between them, the warmth of the cloak around his shoulders and the weight of Damian’s presence pressed to his side.

"...Still want coffee," he muttered eventually.

Damian kissed his temple. "Noted."

—

The warm comfort of Damian’s cloak still clung to Gabriel’s shoulders by the time he returned to their shared wing, but it did little to prepare him for what came next.

Waiting just inside the door like a herald of doom, Edward stood with his hands folded neatly behind his back, a set of clothes already prepared and draped over the arm of a nearby chair. The sight alone made Gabriel sigh.

"I was promised a moment of peace," he said flatly.

"You promised not to flee before dinner," Edward replied, tone dry. "Yet here we are, minutes away, and you’re still dressed like a romantic scandal."

Gabriel didn’t move. "I am a romantic scandal."

"Yes," Edward said. "And unfortunately, you’ve already been filed under ’public interest.’ Now, change. Your father doesn’t take well to lateness."

Gabriel rolled his shoulders, wincing. "My back still hurts. Your precious physician gave me a tonic, not divine intervention."

"I’m sure Lord Lucius will appreciate your suffering," Edward replied smoothly, holding up the new coat. It was black, as was everything imperial, but the collar was more modest, and the gold embroidery was limited to subtle accents.

"Can’t I just show up in this?" Gabriel tugged slightly at the cloak still clasped over his chest. "It’s warm. Stylish. Smells like power and sleep deprivation."

"His Majesty would prefer you not wear his clothes to meet your father," Edward replied, prying the clasp open himself. "There’s only so much symbolism even this palace can take."

Gabriel reluctantly shed the cloak, then began changing into the new outfit. Every motion reminded him of the morning’s bloodwork, the faint ache at the inside of his elbow, and the phantom pressure of Edward’s clipboard.

"No coat tonight," he muttered. "Lucius can meet me like this or go to hell. Either is fine."

Edward didn’t flinch. He handed Gabriel the same coat again, calm as ever.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "That wasn’t a suggestion."

"It’s not a coat," Edward replied, his voice gentle with the kind of pity that never boded well. "It’s a diplomatic shield. With buttons."

Gabriel exhaled, long and slow. "I’m not playing a role tonight. I’m going as myself."

"You’re going as the Imperial Consort," Edward corrected softly. "And they’ll see you, whether you want them to or not. This coat ensures they see the right version."

Gabriel’s jaw tightened.

"And if I wanted to go as a son?" he asked, voice lower now.

Edward met his eyes in the mirror. There was no judgment there. Just quiet understanding—perhaps the most dangerous thing of all.

"Then wear something sharper," Edward said. "Sons bleed. Consorts don’t."

Gabriel didn’t move for a moment. Then, without a word, he slipped his arms back into the sleeves and let Edward fasten the collar. It clicked into place with the finality of a sealed oath.

"I’m not wearing gloves," he muttered.

"I wouldn’t dare suggest it," Edward replied, stepping back like a craftsman satisfied with the finishing stroke. "They’ll need to see your hands when you reach for the knife."

Gabriel smirked, tired and brittle. "Thanks for the motivational talk."

"I’m just here to ensure you don’t stab anyone before dessert," Edward said, then paused. "Though I’ll be disappointed if you don’t at least scare them."

Gabriel rolled his shoulders once, straightened the front of the coat, and turned toward the door.

"Let’s go disappoint them."