Past immediate danger, yet the air feels the way cloyingly sweet drinks taste: sticky, wrong, leaving something to be spat out again. Babylonia, the name of the snarl in time that had been smoothed back down, still sat heavy in the entirety of Chaldea. Like a deep, ominous cloud: a mist that hovered all around the sleek walls and the hearts of everyone in them -- a thing that would not leave minds or mouths so easily.
It had not left without placing down physical marks, either: new people registered under the FATE system (Heroic Spirits were always, as far as Roman cared to think, people -- even if some insisted otherwise), new things he'd had to tend to (Ritsuka's wounds caused by recklessness; making sure Mashu treated herself like a human being and took downtime). And then it simply whirled back into the daily grind: gather supplies, take up “missions” -- hardly such grand endeavors, those small fights and little skirmishes, but it seemed giving them a big name made it more fun for the hapless human being at the end of the world.
As much as he didn't want to admit it, it was wearing him down a little: the smiling, the carrying on. The dread of knowing the weight of all things past was going to overtake that group -- this group, his group of survivors in this lonely little shelter (family, if they could rightly be called it). Tense and jumpy, strained and raw at the edges. Doing his best not to let that show as he dismissed the redhead scampering their way down the hall towards the reyshifting area, following behind a tired few feet and lonely dragging. (He was going to scream if this kept up.)
Send them out, set the daily grind to its usual pace, proceed to drink coffee and become a recluse wrapped in a blanket pulling at his own hair. That was, of course, today's agenda. A glance in a darkened screen reflected a tired, freckled face, bags under the eyes and the hair fringing it all mussed and untidy (oh, he didn't look like he was surviving this, not at all).
The faint click of a latching lock: the team would be okay, would contact if he was needed. That was how it always was. Or -- how it should be, were it not for the insistent banging almost as soon as he'd settled down (one of those not on the main team -- relegated to helping make up for short staff -- likely needing him as much as anyone else). And yet the door flies open with its whirring click, a force of turbulence in this gray dim day.
Instead of allowing him to process, he was simply moved aside with a surprising amount of care, registering the person who entered the room the moment he'd set the doors open: Caster, Gilgamesh. Wise king of Uruk. Possibly the only person on the same level of essentially stressed tiredness as himself. The last person likely to enter this solitary and sterile abode (as sterile as all the blankets and cushions in the world could be).
He doesn't question it, instead simply flattening himself against a wall in some catlike primal form of self-defense: of all of Ritsuka's unoccupied Servants, this is the one who chooses to assail him (tactless, bumbling Romani, who will invariably say something wrong -- easily bullied weak-willed Romani, who everyone instinctively distrusts). And yet all this gets him is a laugh: full of mirth and the pealing of bells, bright as a spring day.
“You act as though I've come to do you harm, Doctor.” The voice that speaks the words is soft, yet playful: the tone borders coy and mischievous, but he can't place what it really is, or why this man would be here. There's some small amount of a hand gesture made by the weary-eyed king whose smile so echoes his own (that same, “seen it all” look). Eyes glitter at him: heavy kidded, apple-colored, ringed by dusty brown lashes. “Come here, you foolish man, I only wanted to check in on you -- isn't your position much as my own was? Overseeing all of this has surely made you a tired man.”
Ah. He places the tone, suddenly, in Gilgamesh's voice: seduction, or something deathly close to it. Of all the people this man could seek -- it's him, the one who can scarcely find worth in himself aside from being human. The one who shovels sweets in his mouth when he should be working. The bumbling fool: he is not a match for this man in the heavens or upon the earth, and yet he leans a little bit away from where he's pressed himself.
It's like being a caught rabbit: he can't move away and he can't object much, as there's no reason to be unkind (he's hardly uncomfortable, more confused). Roman's lips part, the gap in his front teeth visible in the quick moment a grimace flashes across his face. “What exactly did you -- I mean, why would you --”, the words are jumbled staccato of messy phrasing, an attempt made to right it moments later. “Why would you bother checking on me? You don't need to, really, and I'm -- hardly as important to this place as you think.”
It gets him another laugh from the Caster, accompanied by the lazy yet surprisingly gentle brush of olivine fingers across the warm, freckled bronze of his cheek -- the digits settling into the doctor's salmon-blond hair in a way that's as tender as it is luring. The king smiles, a catlike thing, and raises his brows. “Then, good doctor, would you prefer I prove it to you? I've already allowed you to be placed at a station near my own -- perhaps it hasn't set in in a way that's tangible yet. There are ways to remedy such disbelief.”
And the tired, lonesome doctor known as Romani Archaman allows himself to take the bait. He flashes what he hopes is a winning grin, lopsided and hardly what he thinks is charming, and allows himself to attempt some manner of playfulness (it seems, somehow, he's been granted a strangely close space -- so he'll take it). “Then show me your ideas of a remedy for -- my not believing you. For my not believing myself.”
What surprises him is the act of being kissed: not fast, not suddenly or jarringly, but gently. With a softness that's alien to him (it's hardly the first kiss he's had, but it's the most recent), a softness he didn't expect this man to possess. And yet he's the hungry one, leaning as close as he dares try to against his blond companion.
The man responds in kind, tugging at Roman's shirt with deft hands (and the doctor nods, allows it, helps in turn) -- a teasing smile, a soft whisper of “you do need to let me know if this displeases you”. He gives a sigh to this -- pointing out that maybe, he's just a little rusty on the finer points of intimacy. (“Then I'll have to be careful with you” is not the response he expected, but one he feels warmer for.) It's not a long process for either of them, the act of removing attire, albeit one slightly clumsily done.
A doctor and a king, an odd pair -- Roman lets himself note that as he guides his companion's hands across his body (touch here, don't touch there, scars from top surgery aren't off limits to be touched or kissed). It's endearing, how oddly eager to please this Servant is (ah, but kings do serve their people, he supposes) -- quick to note what he's enjoying and what he isn't, very nearly ignoring himself.
He stifles a moan at the probing of fingers to that soft, tender region between his thighs: the only digits that had slipped into that place in a while were his own, having someone else care to tease and stir such an area was a delight (he could live without being eaten out if it meant this -- he much preferred fingering to oral after all, given the uncomfortable sensation someone else's tongue gave him). Yes, it was like being given a treasure all his own, this experience of being wound around Gilgamesh like loose string for the other to tie and unravel as he chose (neither of them was really leading this, it was a give and take of what worked best).
“You're proving your point --”, the words are quiet, shaky and scratchy, Roman straining to sound composed in such an undignified and glorious moment (sprawled as he was with his hair loose and the bulk of his form against the cool, hard floor), “-- but you're allowed to actually, y'know, fuck me.”
“As you wish, good doctor.” The first words spoken after a silent period of eerily feline observation from the other, followed by a shameless act of the divine royal simply licking clean his fingers (and Roman doubts any taste left behind is hardly so pleasant as the man makes it seem -- it's not as though he's some romance novelist's sweet-pussied dream guy).
The penetrating thrust is faster (and rougher) than he expects, part of a fluid motion synchronized with hands grasping at his hips; a pair of lips prying his own open for yet another kiss while his body finds itself pinned at an awkward but comfortable angle -- but is there ever truly an uncomfortable angle in such circumstances (having a cock slammed in as deeply as can be, in rhythmic time to voraciously hungry growling kisses: now is the time of beasts, among gods and mortals). The dizzying clip keeps up, the all-too-human half of the pair doing his best not to let his body simply give out on him (he presses himself to the Caster's form with a tight-legged wrap of himself, hands seeking and reaching and needy and too eager to please in a way he so desires: not many can claim to put clawmarks down the back of such a king, not many would dare) -- it's a fool's game of an attempt, but one he doesn't dare surrender unto.
It ends abruptly as it all started, punctuated by surprisingly sharp teeth sunk into Roman's lower lip (enough to draw blood and elicit a yelp, but still -- pleasant in its sharpness, like a mark of being claimed as right rather than being reprimanded) -- two elastic snaps of some internal rubberbands as the sweet peak of orgasm hits both parties.
To his surprise, the doctor isn't simply left on the floor: rather, he finds himself pulled close to this surprisingly gentle yet wild king who bothered putting him at a higher tier for but a moment. The words that escape the servant are a soft rumble, a static purr as they slip out.
“If you need another reminder, I will gladly do this again. As many times as you need until you realize your importance.” The statement is punctuated by a small, soft laugh: playful, cheerful, gentle. An open offer and an open challenge to take up at any opportunity, if he so feels inclined. How strange.
And so the doctor greets the rest of the day feeling just a small amount warmer: a change in routine is always nice, a set of reminders even better...particularly when those reminders were of such a savory variety. That could hardly be such an unpleasant thing to dwell on, after all.
He stills the jittering of his hands as he pulls his clothes back on, not bothering to tie his hair back up; reckless abandon and the heat of something like spiced wine lingers on his lips, his skin, in his heart, and he's loathe to let go of it. Just as the sun reflects the moon, chasing after it eternally: perhaps this tense little peace could provide something like that.