With the right directions, they reached Aiden's chambers in under ten minutes. By now, the wine had completely done its job-loosened Elliott's limbs, blurred his thoughts, and filled him with the serene confidence of a man who had absolutely no business being here at this ungodly hour. His steps were uneven, teetering just slightly-graceful only in the way a falling leaf is graceful right before it hits the ground face-first.
The guard accompanying him raised his hand, presumably to knock and announce the emperor's arrival, like a well-trained, law-abiding citizen.
Elliott sprung into action immediately, grabbing the knight's wrist with the urgency of a man about to commit a minor felony.
The knight blinked at him, clearly confused. Elliott pressed a finger to his lips in a conspiratorial hush, leaning in like he were about to whisper state secrets.
"Don't knock," he whispered gravely. "Aiden is sleeping. He needs sleep. I'm..." a small hiccup interrupted him, "-considerate."
Elliott was, in fact, not considerate.
He seemed to decide that his companion had now served his purpose and gave a dramatic little wave, the kind reserved for dismissing loyal footmen in stage plays. A silent, sweeping gesture that screamed, 'off you go now, shoo.'
The knight left.
A wise decision.
Which was how Elliott found himself standing alone outside Aiden's chambers at an hour only ghosts were known to wander-swaying slightly, his lace and satin night robes whispering against the marble like a master conspirator creeping through castle halls.
His plan was, in theory, very simple. He would sneak in. He would do so skillfully, quietly-like a thief in the night, because he was considerate like that. He would steal exactly half the bed-because he was, if nothing else, a fair and benevolent monarch. Then he would sleep. What could possibly go wrong?
Apparently, everything.
It went wrong at phase one of the plan itself.
Elliott pushed the door open-gently. Very gently. It had the audacity to still creak, like some unkempt, ancient relic. Which it most certainly was not.
"Shh," he scolded it sternly, his voice laced with imperial authority.
The door, insolent as ever, creaked again in protest.
Elliott let out a long-suffering sigh and slipped inside.
He thought the hard part was over. He thought wrong.
Apparently, Aiden's chambers were not a normal room, but a goddamned obstacle course designed specifically to sabotage drunken emperors with poor motor coordination.
The first offender: the footstool. Elliott stubbed his toe on it-a sharp hiss of pain escaping his lips.
"Treasonous," he whispered accusingly, staring at the footstool with all the betrayal of Caesar meeting Brutus.
Then, guilt followed swiftly after. He crouched down slightly and patted the footstool apologetically, as if he'd wronged a loyal servant.
The next: the armchair. He bumped his knee against its edge, recoiling with a low groan.
"Why are you like this?" he muttered, wounded pride dripping from his tone. "Ugh."
But the final offender-the final boss-was the bedside table. Elliott thought he had made it. The bed was within reach. Freedom, rest, and warmth lay just a few steps away.
Then came the ambush.
His hip collided with the bedside table's unnecessarily sharp edge-why was it even that sharp? Was it made to stab unsuspecting monarchs?
He stumbled, the wood creaked, and the table rattled ominously. A small vial of ink-probably something Aiden had been using to review documents before bed-tipped over, spilling its contents across the parchment with all the drama of a battlefield casualty.
"...Oops," Elliott mumbled sheepishly.
A smile curled at his lips, slow and slightly unhinged. Apparently, spilling ink on critical documents was counted as a victory by his wine-addled brain.
"I'll say it was the rats," he added brightly. Then, he giggled. Actually giggled-like a five-year-old who'd drawn on the palace walls and blamed the cat.
Meanwhile, Aiden-who lay stiffly on his side, eyes wide open in the dark-did not even dare to breathe.
He was, in fact, not asleep.
He had been-until his finely honed reflexes jolted him awake at the very first creak of the door. Years of military training had taught him to wake at the sound of cloth rustling or the shift of breath that didn't belong in an empty room. Elliott's entry, which resembled a drunk raccoon breaking into a nobleman's study, had been loud enough to wake him from the dead.
But Elliott, completely oblivious to his audience of one, continued with his mission.
He finally reached the bed. His gaze landed on Aiden's form-still, facing the wall, blankets pulled over him almost dramatically. His breathing seemed even. Unmoving.
Sleeping, probably.
Elliott nodded to himself sagely, pride blooming across his features.
"Stealth," he murmured, like a general praising himself in a war journal.
With exaggerated care, he lifted the covers.
The empty side of the bed called to him-inviting, warm, soft. It practically had his name embroidered into it.
Without hesitation, without thought, without a shred of dignity, Elliott slid in behind Aiden like he belonged there. Like this wasn't wildly inappropriate or deeply confusing. Like he didn't just commit casual furniture assault and felony ink-spilling minutes ago.
The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. Warmth. Aiden's warmth. It welcomed him.
A contented sigh escaped Elliott's lips before he could stop it. He felt... victorious. Safe.
Perfect.
Aiden, on the other hand, was not basking in perfection. His pulse was roaring in his ears, his muscles tense. His whole body stiffened at the contact.
And then-then Elliott moved closer.
He nestled in without hesitation, his forehead brushing against the nape of Aiden's neck, breath ghosting warm against his skin. He inhaled deeply, as if memorizing the scent.
Cedar. Pine. Leather. Aiden.
Even in his inebriated state, the smell comforted him-grounded him. Something about it made him feel safe. Like home, if home had shoulders you could cling to.
"You're so warm," Elliott mumbled, voice slurred with sleep and fondness, his face practically buried in Aiden's hair now. "Warmer than my room. Like... a furnace. But softer. And nicer."
Aiden's fingers clenched in the silk sheets. His body still didn't move.
It took every ounce of training and willpower not to react. Not when Elliott sighed again. Not when he, of course, snaked his arms around Aiden's waist, because apparently, the contact still wasn't enough.