The room was illuminated by moonlight. After the downpour the previous day, the night had turned still and clear, almost reverent in its silence. The storm had left behind a sharp cleanness in the air, and the moon—full and pale—hung low outside the window, casting silver light over the chamber's interior.
Inside, the fire burned low in the hearth, its amber glow flickering across the stone walls and throwing gentle, dancing shadows. It filled the room with a drowsy warmth, softening the edges of everything it touched. The remnants of dinner lay scattered lazily around the low table: a half-eaten bread bowl, a shallow dish of honeyed figs, and a nearly untouched bottle of wine at Aiden's side. The other bottle—emptied completely—sat by Elliott's.
Elliott, still in his rumpled day robes, was slumped against Aiden's side like a weary cat, head heavy against the younger man's shoulder. An empty glass dangled from his fingertips, forgotten. His eyelids hung low, breath slow and even. He wasn't quite asleep. Just—exhausted. Drained. Lulled into quiet by the wine and the day and the strange comfort of the body beside him.
Aiden, on the other hand, was very much awake.
Painfully so.
And unfortunately, painfully aware—of every inch of Elliott pressed against him. The weight of his head on his shoulder. The faint puff of his breath. The way his fingers occasionally twitched against Aiden's arm.
They had been sitting like this for a long time now—entangled, close, too close—since the conversation earlier in the evening. Aiden hadn't wanted to let go. Elliott hadn't asked him to.
He wasn't even sure when night had fallen. At some point, servants had arrived quietly with dinner. Aiden hadn't moved. Elliott hadn't noticed.
Elliott had refused to eat at first, too deep in his haze to bother. Instead, he'd accepted the wine—far too quickly.
But Aiden wasn't about to let the man drink on an empty stomach. Even if said man happened to be the Emperor.
So he'd picked up the spoon, dipped it into the spicy broth, and held it up wordlessly with a narrow-eyed glare that very clearly translated to: don't even think about arguing with me.
Elliott, to his credit, hadn't argued. Just accepted each spoonful with quiet, drowsy obedience. His movements were uncoordinated, his gaze unfocused. He kept leaning into Aiden's side, his body tilting, inch by inch, until he was practically seated in Aiden's lap.
Aiden had tried very hard not to react. Or stiffen. Or think about how utterly absurd this situation was. Him. Spoon-feeding the Emperor. Elliott.
It used to be the other way around—when he was younger, smaller, sobbing and clinging to Elliott while the older boy held him and fed him warm food and wiped his tears. Elliott had always known how to soothe him, how to make the world feel less sharp.
Now, the roles had reversed.
And that was what made it worse.
Because it felt... right. Unnervingly right.
Like this was how it was always supposed to be.
And Aiden hated how much he liked it.
Eventually, the bowl was empty. Aiden set it down and glanced over. Elliott had shifted again, curling more fully into his side. His head tucked perfectly into the crook of Aiden's neck, as if molded for it. One of his hands had wound into Aiden's clothes, limp but secure—like he was afraid the younger man would disappear if he let go.
"You want any more?" Aiden asked quietly, voice low so as not to disturb the peace.
Elliott didn't lift his head. A warm flush had spread across his cheeks—presumably from the wine—and his brow furrowed slightly as he scrunched his nose, murmuring something that sounded vaguely like, "Spicy..."
Aiden barely managed to control his laughter. He felt a sudden voilent urge to boop the other man's nose.
He prevailed. Just barely.
But Elliott wasn't done.
Still buried against Aiden's shoulder, the older man leaned back slightly—and then opened his mouth. Just... opened it. The warm, red cavern of it was visible, a flicker of tongue peeking out. He didn't say anything. He just looked up through drooping lashes, mouth parted expectantly.
Aiden blinked. His brain stalled.
Elliott clearly expected him to understand what that meant.
And Aiden—who was usually quite intelligent—was, in that moment, the exact opposite of that.
When nothing happened, Elliott's brow furrowed again. His lips moved, mumbling something with visible effort: "...sweet."
Of course. Of course Elliott wanted dessert.
Aiden's jaw clenched. He didn't know whether he wanted to scream, laugh, or cry.
This man. This man was going to be the death of him.
He swallowed, forced himself to breathe, and reached for the small dish of chocolates. Picked one up with shaking fingers. Then slipped it gently into Elliott's waiting mouth like an offering to some smug, hedonistic god.
The offering was accepted.
Elliott's mouth closed around it with a satisfied hum. "Mmh," he sighed, pleased. His lips curled at the corners, positively glowing with delight.
Aiden was in pain.
No—he was in agony.
This was not normal. Not fine. Not casual.
"This is normal," he told himself.
It was not normal.
"This is fine."
A lie. It was not fine.
"This is absolutely going to kill me."
At last, a truth.
Elliott, blissfully unaware of the psychological torment he was inflicting, nuzzled deeper into Aiden's shoulder. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, then lazily blinked open again. He'd finished the chocolate. And now—
His gaze lifted. His eyes were bright, sparkling, far too mischievous for someone supposed to be drowsy. And then—
He opened his mouth again. Just slightly. A silent, expectant, more?
Aiden did not hesitate.
He shoved the next piece of chocolate into Elliott's mouth so fast he nearly choked him.
Elliott grinned, lips curved into a smug, pleased smirk so feline it nearly purred. He looked victorious. Too victorious.
Oh god. Aiden was going to ban chocolates. Across the capital. Across the entire damn empire. Effective immediately.
Because this? This was not innocent.
This was not wholesome.
This—this was a kind of sensual torture. And Elliott didn't even know what he was doing.
And that just made it worse.
Aiden's grip on the bowl of chocolates tightened dangerously.
He needed a drink.
Maybe ten.
Preferably something that burned. Or knocked him out cold.
Oh, but Aiden's hell wasn't over yet.
The two of them were still tangled up in the chair, limbs half-overlapping, Elliott's weight a constant, burning pressure against his side. Aiden still had to get him to bed.
"...Aiden," Elliott mumbled, voice thick and heavy with sleep.
Aiden tilted his head down slightly. "...What."
"You're warm."
Aiden's pulse spiked. Just a bit. Okay, a lot.
"...Thanks?" he offered, uncertain.
Elliott didn't elaborate. Of course he didn't. He never did. He just burrowed closer with the persistence of a sleepy cat—squirming as if trying to merge their bodies together, melt skin into skin and bone into bone. As if Aiden wasn't a human being but some living, breathing furnace.
And then—silence. Elliott's breaths deepened, evened out. Steady. Slow. Asleep.
He was asleep.
Just like that.
His wine-warmed breath tickled Aiden's throat, each exhale a ghost of heat dancing over skin. His head rested firmly in the curve of Aiden's neck, golden strands tickling his jaw. His legs were still half-flopped over Aiden's lap. His hand had somehow found its way to curl against Aiden's chest.
Aiden stared at the wall like it had wronged him personally. His gaze was blank. His soul had evacuated the premises. His heart? Traitorous. Beating far too fast.
This was fine. Really.
Elliott was drunk. And asleep. He had no idea what he was doing. He probably wouldn't remember any of this. That thought was supposed to bring comfort.
Instead, it stabbed.
"...Let's get you to bed," Aiden muttered under his breath, more to himself than the half-conscious emperor.
Untangling Elliott without waking him was a delicate, infuriating, slow-motion ordeal. His limbs didn't cooperate. Every shift threatened to drag Elliott back into semi-consciousness, but eventually, Aiden managed to slide out from beneath him.
The room was quiet, save for the fire crackling low in the hearth, its flames painting everything in a molten amber colour. Aiden lifted Elliott into his arms.
The blonde's face scrunched in displeasure the moment he was moved—like a cat being taken away from its favorite sunlit corner. He gave a soft, indignant huff and immediately burrowed his face back into Aiden's shoulder, as if reclaiming lost territory. His arms—previously loose—tightened around Aiden's neck with unexpected strength.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Aiden muttered, under his breath. His ears were bright red.
He somehow made it to the bed without tripping over his own treacherously shaky legs. The sheets were cool against his knees as he lowered Elliott down, but—
Elliott didn't let go.
Not when Aiden tried to pull his arms from around his neck. Not when Aiden attempted to gently tuck him in and take a dignified step back.
The blonde clung to him like ivy on stone.
Like he belonged there.
"...Stay with me," Elliott whispered.
Aiden froze.
He had just managed to pry Elliott's arms away—barely—and now he was clutching at Aiden's sleeve instead. His fingers curled into the soft fabric near the wrist, so fragile yet so firm, like the grip of a drowning man.
Aiden wasn't an easily swayed man.
He could stand motionless for hours, even in full armor. He could hold his tongue under torture, keep his expression unreadable as his bones broke. He could recite the Empire's military code backward while bleeding out.
But this?
This was different.
This was Elliott's hand wrapping around his. This was the press of soft, pale fingers against his scarred knuckles. This was the quiet desperation in that voice—so raw and vulnerable it barely made it past his lips.
"Please."
That broke him.
Like a house of cards in a passing breeze.
Elliott murmured it again. Softer. Barely audible.
"...Please."
Aiden's breath hitched. He was a soldier. A prince. A man who had trained himself to feel nothing and need no one.
But right now?
Right now he was just a man standing at the edge of a precipice, with Elliott's hand in his and nowhere else to go but down.
And the worst part?
Elliott wouldn't remember any of it.
Not the touch. Not the way his voice cracked. Not the way he looked at Aiden like he was safety. Like he was warmth. Like he was something to be held on to, if only just for one night.
And Aiden?
Aiden would remember it all. Every last breath.
He always did.