Aiden Lancaster, Crown Prince and decorated war commander, was losing his mind.
He was in pain- no, agony.
He wondered what sins he must've committed in a past life to deserve this. Probably something incredibly heinous. Maybe he started a world-ending plague. Maybe he betrayed a god. Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.
Every point of contact burned.
Elliott's arms were wrapped around Aiden's waist, face buried in his hair like some sort of devastatingly beautiful, soft, clingy barnacle. A barnacle who smelled faintly of expensive wine, honey and sunshine.
Elliott had finally settled. His breathing slowed, then eventually evened out. His body lay curled against Aiden's back, like it was not supposed to be anywhere else. Like it belonged there.
Which, objectively, formally, etiquette-ly, it did not.
Aiden exhaled through his nose. Even his breath was slow and controlled. He didn't dare to move too suddenly, in case Elliott was still awake. When he was sure the older man had finally succumbed to sleep, Aiden turned his head slightly and cracked his eyes open.
And that was his first mistake.
What Aiden saw... it was something, alright.
Moonlight spilled through the curtains, painting Elliott's sleeping form in soft silver and shadow. Like some sort of divine messenger- or worse, a god in disguise. The alcohol had left a flush blooming across his cheeks, providing a natural, almost bashful blush against skin that had no business being that enchanting.
It wasn't fair.
Aiden was sure this was some kind of trap. A test of temptation, like they wrote about in the old myths about how the greatest warriors were tested by gods, sent beauties from the heavens to seduce and distract them from their sacred path.
He used to think those stories were ridiculous. What kind of fool would be undone by a pretty face alone?
He was very, very wrong.
Because for him, the heavens didn't need to send their finest courtesans or temptresses.
They only had to send Elliott in lace and satin.
Silk and satin. Oh gods, the silk and satin.
The neckline of Elliott's nightshirt had slipped off one shoulder as the older man shifted restlessly in his sleep, revealing a collarbone sharp enough to cut glass and elegant enough to pour wine off. And the lace- the damn lace- traced a delicate lattice over his ribs, translucent where the moonlight caught it, whispering of things Aiden absolutely should not be thinking.
Aiden's fingers twitched. Toward Elliott... or toward his own dagger, he wasn't sure.
Who designed this?
Who, in their right mind, looked at the Emperor and thought, "Yes, he should sleep in something that looks like it was spun by sirens and temptation itself"?
Aiden would like to have a very calm, very respectful conversation. Preferably in a soundproof room. With no witnesses.
He was not, by any means, a lustful or easily swayed man. He had spent years mastering his self-control, his tolerance for pain, and his ability to suppress emotion. It was something he took immense pride in.
He could hold a sword stance for hours. He could keep fighting with broken bones. He could survive interrogations under the cruelest, most torturous conditions without so much as blinking.
But this? This was unbearable. Even for a man of his caliber.
This was temptation.
This was longing.
This was... love.
This was everything Aiden found hardest to resist, all in one lace-draped package.
And Elliott, meanwhile- true to his nature- couldn't sleep in a single position for more than ten minutes.
He shifted again, knee sliding forward, thighs pressing flush against Aiden's. The contact made Aiden's breath catch. He was now being hugged, quite securely, by the Emperor of the Empire- who was, somehow, also half-lying on top of him.
Almost every part of their bodies that could touch, was touching.
Aiden stopped breathing.
This is it, he thought. I would like to perish now.
"Hah..." Elliott sighed in his sleep, deep and satisfied, like a cat curling up in a sunbeam. He burrowed even further into Aiden's side, cheek pressed to his neck, completely unaware of the chaos he was wreaking.
Then- Elliott inhaled.
Deeply.
"Spicy," he muttered with a pleased little noise.
Aiden would very much prefer not to know what he meant by that.
And then, because fate was cruel and the gods above had a grudge, Elliott leaned in even closer. His lips brushed against Aiden's pulse point.
Accidentally.
Surely.
Accidental.
Right?
Aiden's grip on the sheets was fatal. His knuckles were white. His eyes were wild. He wanted to scream. To scream and cry and then scream again.
Somewhere, at the very back of his mind, a calm and rational voice-probably a hallucination-murmured:
You could move.
You could leave.
You could push him away.
You could throw yourself out the window.
Aiden did none of those things.
But the fourth option was starting to sound real tempting.
Instead, he lay there. Perfectly still. Eyes wide. Chest tight. As Elliott Lancaster- Emperor, pacifist, walking embodiment of divine punishment- absolutely ruined him.
By just existing.
Drunk.
And asleep.
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