It was late at night in the Vellurian palace. The imperial chamber was bathed in the soft silver glow of moonlight streaming through the wide windows. The curtains hadn't been drawn, leaving a clear view of the endless night sky—inky black, dotted with stars that twinkled faintly, as though keeping watch.
Elliott stirred. His eyes fluttered open, a silent yawn slipping past his lips. He turned his head slightly on the pillow, his gaze immediately seeking one particular presence. He didn't have to search far.
There he was.
Aiden sat slumped in the chair beside the bed, still in his day clothes. His head tilted back against the high carved back of the chair, a forgotten document still clutched in one hand. In the other, a quill dangled loosely, threatening to slip from his fingers. It looked like he had simply fought exhaustion until it won, collapsing into sleep mid-task. Even now, though he no longer held regency, he was still essentially doing all of the emperor's work. Elliott had offered to help more than once, but Aiden had been firm, almost harsh—telling him no. Not with his hands the way they were. Not when the physicians had warned him. Aiden had made it very clear he wouldn't let him so much as touch a quill.
Elliott couldn't stop staring. There was something disarming about the sight. Aiden looked... peaceful. His face, usually sharp and tense, was softened in sleep. Younger. Free of the furrow that so often sat on his brow, free of the guarded sharpness he carried like armor. He looked almost like a boy, untouched by the burdens pressing down on them both.
A small, tired smile tugged at Elliott's lips. He didn't even know why. Just looking at the younger man made something in his chest feel lighter. He looked...free. Free from the stress he usually carried nowadays, like a second skin.
But Elliott was not so relaxed himself. His hands still throbbed. The burns had retreated from sharp agony to a dull, persistent ache. The physicians had rewrapped them that evening, loose and careful, but the blisters that had formed beneath the bandages made even the slightest pressure a torment. He had been instructed to keep them untouched, away from strain, for fear of tearing them open. The pain wasn't unbearable—it was just constant. Irritating. Enough to keep him from finding sleep again.
And now there was another problem.
A more pressing one.
He needed the restroom.
Elliott's gaze flickered toward Aiden again. The other was deeply asleep, and clearly exhausted. His chest tightened. He couldn't—he wouldn't wake him. Not for something so small. Not when Aiden had finally allowed himself rest.
Nor could he call for an attendant. The sound, the footsteps, would wake Aiden anyway.
No. He could handle this himself.
With quiet resolve, Elliott slowly pushed himself upright, bracing with his elbows. His body protested, muscles weak from strain, but he bit it back. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he placed his feet carefully on the cold marble. The chill raced up through his body, but he ignored it.
Step by step, cautious and deliberate, he crossed the room. His breaths were shallow, measured. He couldn't risk making a noise, couldn't risk alerting Aiden.
At last, the adjoining washroom door was in sight. Relief loosened his tense shoulders. He was almost there.
Then his foot caught on the edge of a plush rug.
The stumble was sudden, violent. His body pitched forward. The cold stone floor rushed up to meet him—he would crash face-first if he didn't stop himself. Instinct took over. His hands flew out. One hit the washroom door, the other gripped the frame.
The impact never came. Not against the floor, at least.
Instead—white-hot pain exploded across his palms.
Agony. The pressure tore through the delicate blisters beneath his bandages. His breath left him in a sharp, choked cry. Tears sprang up in his eyes as his body crumpled, sliding down the wall. He curled in on himself, cradling his hands against his chest, heart thundering as though the pain had torn into his very core.
For a moment, the world blurred. His vision swam. All he could feel was the searing burn, raw and merciless.
He didn't notice Aiden at first. Didn't notice the scrape of a chair or the sudden rush of movement. Only the desperate voice managed to break through the haze.
"Elliott!"
Aiden was at his side, kneeling so quickly it was as though he had flown. His face was stricken, panic stark in every line of it. His eyes, wide and frantic, flicked over Elliott like he didn't know where to look first. His hands hovered uselessly, trembling in hesitation—afraid to touch, afraid to make it worse.
"What happened?" His voice was rough, nearly breaking. "What did you do? I heard you scream—are you hurt? Where? Why didn't you call me? Why didn't you—" His words spilled out, rapid and sharp, panic sharpening them. His face was furious- though not a shred of the anger was for Elliott himself. It was for the pain. For the fact Elliott was suffering at all. For the fact he hadn't been there.
Elliott's bleary gaze lifted, half-lidded, unfocused. His breath hitched with pain as he forced out. "Nothing... just—just wanted to use the restroom..."
"The restroom?" Aiden's voice broke into a groan, equal parts disbelief and worry. "Why didn't you call a servant? Me? Anyone? You know your body is still fragile, and the physicians warned you—they specifically warned you about the blisters." His eyes darted to the ruined bandages, stained dark where they had burst. His expression tightened. He didn't need an explanation.
Elliott shook his head weakly. "I... didn't want to wake you. You finally slept, and you looked so... tired..." His voice trembled, thin and strained.
Aiden froze. Whatever reprimand had been on his lips dissolved instantly. The anger died in his throat, leaving only silence—raw, heavy silence.
Finally, he whispered, voice thick with a desperate ache, "You idiot."
There was no real bite in it. Only the kind of fragile anger born from worry so deep it nearly cracked him in half.
Then—gently, almost reverently—Aiden reached out. His fingers circled Elliott's wrists, carefully, so carefully, avoiding the ruined flesh. His touch was feather-light, but his grip? It was steady.
"Let's get you back to bed."
---