It was nightfall. The soft hum of the palace had dulled into a hush, the corridors bathed in flickering candlelight as servants retired and shadows lengthened along the ornate walls. Aiden had been checked by the palace healers earlier that evening—his injuries, while not debilitating, still warranted rest. He'd been told that with time and proper care, he'd recover quickly. After all, he was young, and in the prime of his health.
Aiden, unsurprisingly, did not listen.
While he was instructed—sternly—to remain in his chambers and rest, the prince had left the bed cold and untouched. Instead, he now stood silently outside the emperor's chambers, posture stiff, eyes trained on the gilded door as if it held all the answers he didn't want to ask for.
The guards standing by the entrance stiffened to attention at his approach.
"Your Highness," one of them greeted, bowing respectfully.
Aiden nodded curtly, then asked quietly, "Has His Majesty gone to bed yet? Have the attendants left?"
The guard shook his head. "No, Your Highness. The emperor wished to take a bath after dinner. The attendants are most likely helping him dress, even now."
Aiden nodded again, distractedly this time. He lingered. His hand hovered for a moment, hesitant, uncertain. Normally, barging into Elliott's chambers wouldn't have been an issue. He'd done it countless times—while Elliott was reading, while he was undressing, sometimes even while the older man was napping mid-scroll.
But... recent realizations made the idea feel suddenly more intimate than it ever had before.
He stood there in silent contemplation for a full minute before finally knocking.
A soft shuffling followed. The door opened a moment later to reveal an attendant, who looked startled to see the prince at this late hour. He'd probably been expecting another servant. The man bowed quickly, almost fumbling.
Aiden waved it off, impatient. "Is the emperor dressed yet?"
The attendant nodded meekly, mouth opening to say something, but Aiden didn't wait to hear it. He slipped past the servant and into the chamber.
The emperor's chambers were a familiar sight—perhaps even more familiar than Aiden's own. Warm light bathed the room from chandeliers and scattered candles. The scent of fresh-cut flowers lingered, mingling with the faint aroma of bath oils and clean linen. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting dancing shadows across the luxurious furnishings.
And then Aiden saw him.
Elliott sat in a chair, towel draped over the backrest, a loose nightshirt clinging delicately to his still-damp skin. His hair was damp and tousled, strands catching the firelight like threads of molten gold. His cheeks, still flushed from the warmth of the bath, held the faintest trace of pink. A rivulet of water traced a path from his temple, down the elegant slope of his neck, vanishing into the hollow of his collarbone.
Aiden stared—and swallowed.
Don't look. Bad, Aiden. Stop looking. He tore his gaze away, fixing his eyes firmly on a point somewhere near the fireplace.
Elliott's gaze flicked to the younger man, surprised at the unexpected visit.
"I thought the healer prescribed you bed rest, Aiden," he said mildly.
Aiden gave a lopsided shrug, his voice tinged with dry amusement. "She prescribed bed rest to you too. Never seen that stop you from doing whatever you want."
Elliott chuckled, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I never claimed to be a good role model."
"Doesn't matter," Aiden replied softly, voice light but sincere beneath the jest. "I'd still follow you."
There was a beat of silence between them, something warm and heavy settling in the air. Elliott smiled again—smaller, fonder. "Is that so? Well then—at least sit. Since you're here. No use sending you back when you've already ignored medical orders."
Aiden took the offer, moving toward the chair opposite Elliott. He leaned back, watching the older man quietly as an attendant gently combed through his damp hair.
A few moments passed.
Then, abruptly, Aiden stood. He reached forward, taking the towel from the attendant's hands with a quiet but firm, "I can do it."
Elliott blinked in surprise. "Aiden, you're injured—"
"It's just combing," Aiden cut him off, tone clipped. "My hands are fine."
His face remained carefully impassive, but his eyes—his eyes betrayed him. They held a silent plea. Please let me do this. I want to. I need to feel closer to you. Just for a moment.
Elliott's heart softened. He recognized the look instantly. Aiden had worn it before—too many times over the years. It was the look he wore when he was hurting, when he couldn't ask for comfort with words, when he needed closeness but didn't know how to say it. And more often than not, he sought it through gestures like this: brushing Elliott's hair, adjusting his robes, pouring him tea in silence.
Elliott gave in without a fight. He leaned back slightly, wordlessly granting him access.
"...Be mindful of your wounds," he said gently.
"I will."
The room quieted. The flames crackled, filling the silence between them as Aiden began to carefully comb through Elliott's hair—slow, reverent motions, as though trying to piece together something unspoken.
He moved gently, fingers brushing against the nape of Elliott's neck with careful precision. Neither of them said anything more.
But in that quiet, in the intimacy of candlelight and careful touches, something shifted. Something softened. And for once, neither of them needed words.