The Emperor's Chambers, Around Midnight
Elliott lay in his bed, the thick mattress and silk sheets practically swallowing his weary body. He'd changed out of his court robes into something softer-plain sleep robes, loose at the collar. But despite all efforts, his eyes remained wide open. Not even the faintest droop in his lashes.
He had, theoretically, done everything right. Changed into night clothes. Taken a warm bath, like the physicians suggested-"to soothe the nerves," they'd said, as if his nerves were knots to be steamed away. He'd even drunk the medicinal wine they'd left for him. A thick, syrupy thing that tasted like fermented grapes and regret. He'd pinched his nose, tipped the cup back, and downed it in one gulp.
And yet-here he was. Still awake. Wide awake.
Elliott was, by nature, a logical person. And logic dictated that every problem had a solution. To find that solution, you had to identify the problem. And thus began his three-part hypothesis.
First hypothesis: The bed. The most straightforward reason for a fitful night.
This, of course, was objectively the least likely. He was sleeping in his own chambers, in a bed made of materials so luxurious they could bankrupt a small country. He slept here every night.
Still, he rolled to his side. The pillow under his head felt too flat. He flipped it. Too lumpy. He threw it across the room.
"Useless," he muttered.
The second pillow fared no better. The third and fourth suffered a similar fate. Eventually, he was left lying in the empty bed, surrounded by a circle of discarded pillows on the floor like victims of a failed coup. He flopped back, limbs spread dramatically, as if a change in position might, by some divine grace, send him into unconsciousness.
It did not.
Hypothesis One: disproved. The bed was comfortable. But comfort, apparently, did not equate to sleep.
Second hypothesis: The temperature.
He kicked off the blankets. Too cold. He yanked them back on. Too hot. One leg out? Perfect. Still no sleep.
Well. That was that.
Third hypothesis: The silence.
Now this was more plausible. The palace was never truly silent. Not even at night. There were always the distant footsteps of the night guard, the shuffle of armor, the low murmurs of soldiers changing shifts, and the occasional whisper of wind brushing against the windows. His chambers, too, had their own quiet rhythm.
But tonight? It was too quiet. Unsettlingly so.
Elliott groaned, dragging a hand down his face. What was wrong with him?
After a while, he gave up on sleep altogether. He flipped onto his stomach and opened a book, squinting at the candlelight. That didn't go well either. The minute he started reading-something dry and academic about war strategy-he immediately felt drowsy. It was almost laughable.
Stunned, and a little elated, Elliott had slammed the book shut and dropped it beside him. So that was the trick, huh? All he needed was military theory to lull him into slumber?
He laid back down, willing the drowsiness to carry him off.
He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Thirty minutes later, he was still there. Eyes closed. Lying still. Doing everything one does when they're asleep-except, of course, for the actual sleeping part.
So apparently, he was too tired to do anything productive but too awake to sleep. What a brilliant, utterly useless place to be.
He exhaled slowly. Let the silence wrap around him again.
And that's when it hit him.
Like sunlight breaking through after a whole day of relentless, gray rain.
Maybe-just maybe-the problem wasn't the bed. Or the temperature. Or the silence.
Maybe the problem was...someone. Or more specifically-Aiden.
Not that it mattered, of course. It wasn't about Aiden. Obviously. That would be ridiculous. Completely irrational.
Right?
It was just-well. Aiden had been there. Every night since the poisoning. Always there, just within reach. At first, it was practical. Elliott's health had been fragile. Aiden had kept watch. Sat beside him. Read reports late into the night. Grumbled about Elliott's inability to fall asleep at a reasonable hour.
More than once, Aiden had dozed off in the chair beside the bed, only to wake up with a sore neck and Elliott muttering at him to "go to your own damn chambers." Not that he ever listened. He'd either return to the chair or slump to the floor, leaning against the bed like a very large, armored guard dog.
And now? Now he wasn't here.
This was what Elliott wanted, wasn't it? He'd always complained. About the snoring. About Aiden being annoying. About the noise.
So why did it feel so...empty?
It wasn't about Aiden.
Not really.
He had simply grown used to the presence. That was it. The background noise of another person. The sound of someone breathing softly. The feeling of not being completely alone in a room built far too big for one person.
That was it.
The way Aiden's breathing evened out when he slept, the quiet rustle of his clothes when he shifted positions-those weren't the point. The little flutter in Elliott's chest when Aiden would mutter a groggy, hoarse "stop moving" wasn't the point either.
The point was: Elliott's body had apparently decided that sleeping alone was unacceptable. After weeks of having someone near, it had rewired itself. How annoying.
He threw an arm over his face.
Ridiculous. That's what this was. Absolutely ridiculous.
Gabriella's arrival had complicated things. Not that Aiden disliked her- he probably did but that wasn't the reason right now. The reason was- her presence seemed to have knocked some strange sense of "propriety" into the man. A sudden epiphany about appearances.
Which led to that moment earlier in the evening.
"You're staying, right?" Elliott had asked, casually. Like it was nothing.
Aiden had stiffened like a man caught red-handed stealing pastries.
"I-" he'd hesitated. "Not tonight."
"Why not?" Elliott had asked, voice carefully neutral.
"Your mother is here," Aiden replied, as if that explained everything. When Elliott blinked at him, unimpressed, Aiden clarified further, in that awkward, defensive tone. "It's... improper."
Improper. He'd actually said that.
As if they hadn't been sharing the same airspace every night for the past month. As if Elliott hadn't practically grown used to the sight of him curled in that chair, legs sprawled, mouth slightly parted in sleep.
Elliott had scoffed. "Since when do you care about propriety?"
Aiden had muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "since always" under his breath, before walking off in the opposite direction like he was fleeing from a ghost.
And so Elliott had been left alone. In the hallway. Like a scandalized emperor abandoned mid-conversation by the one person least qualified to lecture him about propriety.
Now here he was. In the darkness. Wide awake. Alone.
Elliott sighed.
He'd drunk a second and third dosage of the "medicated wine" earlier, in a desperate, increasingly pathetic attempt to summon sleep. And now, he was starting to feel the effects.
The alcohol hummed in his veins, making him feel all warm and tingly from the inside out. It was a soft, creeping warmth-an insidious kind that wrapped around his limbs and dulled his thoughts, nudging him gently towards bad, bad decisions.
"Just go find him," a voice in his head suggested, far too casually for the chaos it could cause.
Elliott groaned and sat up. He tried to bury his face in a pillow-only to remember, unfortunately, that he'd exiled all of them earlier in a fit of rage. Those treacherous, disobedient lumps of fluff.
So, instead, he buried his face into his hands. It wasn't nearly as satisfying.
"Just go," the traitorous, up-to-no-good, red-robed voice of his heart urged again, sneakily planting the idea like a rebellious court official whispering nonsense in his ear.
"No. That's absurd," the last-standing voice of reason-also known as his brain-protested from somewhere in the background.
Aiden was finally sleeping in his own bed like a normal royal person- a standard his actions rarely measured up to. Elliott wasn't about to drag him back here just because he missed having him within arm's reach. That was ridiculous.
The heart perked up smugly. "But what if... he's also awake?"
"This is a terrible idea," the brain warned, but the voice was growing quieter, drowned by the gentle buzz in his head. The wine was lulling his thoughts into a hazy, slippery state, blurring the line between decisions and whims.
"Still a bad idea," the brain attempted again, as a last-ditch effort.
It was, however, completely ineffective.
Because Elliott's legs were already swung over the edge of the bed. His feet hit the floor with a purpose. Not a very graceful purpose, but a determined one.
Before his brain could provide anything close to a reasonable counterargument, his heart delivered the final verdict:
"You're the emperor. You can do what you want. If you can't sleep, you can absolutely go to find Aiden and demand to know why he's being difficult. After all, odd hours have never stopped him into barging into your chambers."
Yes.
It was a perfectly reasonable plan.
A regal, majestic plan, if you will.
He took a step.
He stumbled. Hard.
He would've face-planted straight into the marble floor-unforgiving and cold-had it not been for a wayward pillow that had been disgracefully exiled earlier and was now lying in just the right place.
Maybe these pillows aren't so bad after all.