Chapter Text
i. where it began
At fourteen, Azir spends his days tucked away in the Great Library, hiding from his father’s mounting disapproval and his brothers’ cold indifference. It is here that he finds comfort—beneath the towering shelves of ancient tomes, between the aisles upon aisles of forgotten history, in the tales of the Ascended long dead.
It is here that he first sees the boy—not much older than himself—with his olive-stained complexion and chocolate curls. Azir is skimming the pages of The Reckoning when he first enters, the linen of his ill-fitting robes dragging on the marble tile beneath him. He watches intently as the boy wanders past pillars of gold, eyes wide and filled with awe, lips parted ever so slightly in wonder. He is mesmerizing and when he reminds himself of his studies, Azir finds he cannot look away.
It is when the boy is sitting down, scroll in hand, that Azir is caught staring. He is too distracted by the gentle twinkle in the boy’s eyes as he drinks in the knowledge of the manuscript, the fleeting smile that ghosts across his lips. Azir watches the boy, tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, the taut muscles of his arms, entranced by the slight dimples that grace his face, when the stranger glances up, meeting Azir’s gaze.
“Azir!”
Instantly, he is pulled out of his trance. Azir looks up, eyes meeting those of his elder brother.
“There you are,” Adom says, voice heavy with disappointment. “You are late for training. Renekton is waiting for you in the courtyard.”
As he’s being dragged out the door, he takes one last look at the boy, only to find him gone.
ii. spark
For months, Azir watches him from afar, sneaking glances of the boy from behind dusty pages. Most of the time, Azir finds himself tucked in secluded corners and hidden alcoves in hopes of avoiding his father’s scorching rage and his brother’s attempts to drag him to training. He doesn’t understand why they care. He is the youngest of seven. The closest thing to ruling he will ever get is in the governor’s villa at some backwater colony in the West.
This time, Azir sits huddled over the dilapidated pages of The Rise and Fall of the Kohari in the farthest corner of the Great Library and though he’s tried to decipher meaning from the archaic language of the text, his efforts have thus far proven to be in vain. Hours have passed and the words have begun to blur together—a dark smear across the parchment.
“Need help?” Azir looks up. It’s him. The boy is looking down at him, eyes bright and a small smile hovering on his lips. "The language is a bit confusing, but I could translate it for you.”
“Yes! Uh, yes. Yes, please,” he stammers. But when the boy settles down beside him, Azir can scarcely concentrate on the words flowing out of his mouth; instead, his heart races inside his chest, his eyes enraptured by the fervor in those of his companion.
“Sorry,” the boy says, looking away. “Was I—did I overstep?”
“No, that was amazing! No, really! It was—really good.” Azir blurts out. The boy looks back at him, a hesitant smile ghosting his lips. For a moment, they’re just staring at each other, eyes wide and lips parted; though it lasts only a second, it feels like an eternity.
“So what did you think?” With that, they’re launched into hours of deep conversation. They discuss everything—from Shurima’s countless conquests to ancient Ionian architecture. The two get lost in the history of Shurima’s emperors, laughing about his ancestors’ eccentric vices and their hubris-fueled escapades.
Azir listens to the boy recount the tales of his childhood, of how his father would take him to the capital square to see the sun obelisk at the end of every week. He describes the people of Shurima’s capital, from the gruff blacksmith with only one eye to the jubilant baker who never failed to sneak him a treat, and it makes Azir’s eyes go wide with wonder.
Before they knew it, the two were the only ones left in the library, the sun having set hours ago. Abruptly, the other boy stood, eyes widened. Azir watches the sudden panic wash over his face and frowns.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“It’s late,” the boy says. “I have to go. Sorry.”
“Oh,” Azir breathes, and the boy turns to leave, taking a couple of books with him. “Wait! What’s your name?”
He stops and looks back at him.
“I don’t—I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have—” Azir starts, but before he can finish, the boy is out of sight.
iii. insomnia
As he lies awake, gazing at the dark ceiling above him, Azir thinks about the boy without a name. He wonders about him—where he’s from, where he’s been, what he does—and finds that he knows nothing about him. He doesn’t even know his name. The only people who don’t have names, Azir thinks, are slaves. He dismisses the thought immediately; the boy is far too educated, too well-read to be a slave.
When he closes his eyes, all he can see his face, with its sharp angles and glowing eyes. He can see his soft smile when Azir rambles on about the grandiose domes that characterize the Sun Palace or the massive pyramids of the Temple and his chest vibrate with laughter after Azir proposes some ridiculous scheme to erect a monument to the Xer’sai that ate his great-great-grandfather.
Just the thought of him fills him with a strange, inexplicable breed of happiness that makes his heart sing with joy and his warmth envelop every inch of his soul. It fills him with certainty.
I must see him again, he thinks, as sleep pulls him into her embrace.
iv. gone
He doesn't see him again for three days.
v. bruised
It’s only when the boy steps into the Great Library a couple days later, bruises marring his perfect skin, lacerations jutting across his chest, its ends snaking around his arms, that it clicks.
He is a slave.
Anger flashes within him. Anger and hatred and outrage spiral through his heart and when he rushes over to him, all he can think is Who did this to you? As he approaches, the boy’s jaw clenches and he looks away, a mounting sadness in his eyes. He wants to call out his name, to make him face him, but there is nothing to be said.
Lightly, his fingers brush against the boy’s bicep, tracing a scar. He notices the way he tenses under his touch, but he doesn’t pull away. He faces the bookshelf, resolutely avoiding his gaze.
“Who?” he murmurs, rage simmering beneath his quiet voice. He stays stubbornly quiet.
“Who? ” he presses, looking up from the scar. He is silent. The boy swallows and his hands shake. Finally, he speaks.
“Amon,” he whispers. “The architect.”
He is as good as dead.
vi. wrath
They do not speak of his former master—of his mangled body in the sand, his bloodied face crushed between the hands of Azir’s brutish guard. By his command, the boy joins his family’s household slaves, becoming Azir’s personal attendant.
“Thank you, friend,” the boy whispers, as he’s being led into the palace.
Friend, Azir breathes. His heart sings with joy.
vii. christening
The boy is sitting on his bed as Azir lies across the silken sheets, attempting to name his newfound friend.
The boy gazes out the window, looking out into the city, sunset washing the skyline in gold. The sunlight illuminates the brown in the boy’s eyes and Azir finds that he can’t look away.
Slaves are not supposed to have names. They are doomed to remain nameless forever, stripped of any concept of self, of humanity. But this? This is their secret—precious and lovely and most of all, theirs. They carry this burden—this treasure—together; they share the weight of this forbidden name.
“Xerath,” he says, finally. One who shares.
“Xer-ath,” the boy says, tasting his name on his tongue. He shifts his gaze to Azir and their eyes meet. “Xerath. I like it, I think.”
Azir grins and his heart soars.
viii. reunion
“Do you ever miss it?” Azir asks, suddenly, as Xerath dresses him.
“Miss what?” Xerath asks, slipping Azir’s arm through the curtain of jade silks. By now, his master’s cruel whip and fiery temper are merely distant dreams of the past.
“Life before,” Azir says, hesitant. Xerath moves to face him. His delicate fingers press against his chest as he buttons the front of his robes and Azir can’t stop staring at him. They’re so close and if Azir only presses an inch forward, they would be—
“No,” Xerath says with certainty. “Not since—not since meeting you.” Azir’s eyes widen ever so slightly as he looks up at his servant. “Sometimes I miss my parents.” His jaw clenches as he speaks. “My father was forsaken, left to die after his legs were crushed beneath the stone of the Emperor’s monument. But my mother left me. Abandoned me with the architect, like they abandoned my father. I never saw her again.”
“I’m sorry,” Azir whispers. He draws his hand up, wrapping his fingers around Xerath’s. He can feel his body shake beneath his touch, thrumming with emotion—anger, hate, hurt.
“Don’t be.” Xerath looks down at Azir and for a while, they just stand there lost in each other’s gaze. Azir looks at him and he wants. Wants like he has never wanted before. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears, feel the tension in the air, the lightness in his head. He could stay like this forever, he thinks.
“Azir!” his brother shouts, swinging the doors open. In an instant, Xerath is ten feet away, bowing in deference to the prince as he strides into his brother’s chambers, outfitted in a general’s uniform and a daring crimson cape.
“Nadim?” Azir gasps. It has been over three years since his eldest brother rode out to the east to bring home glory and conquests in the name of the Emperor, leaving Azir alone and friendless. Azir welcomes his brother home with open arms and a warm embrace.
“How old are you now?” Nadim bellows heartily, hand ruffling his little brother’s hair and affectionate smile lingering on his lips. “What, fifteen? Sixteen?”
Nadim lifts his hand, dismissing his guards.
“Sixteen,” Azir says, happily. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Xerath watching him. He wants to introduce them: his best friend and his favorite brother.
This is Xerath, Azir wants to say. He is smart and kind and perfect and I think I--I think--
I think I am in love with him.
But Xerath is a slave. A slave with no name and no family and no friends to speak of. So instead, Azir says nothing. He can see Xerath shift unpleasantly before turning around and tidying up the room. Nadim takes no note.
From there, his brother tells him of his journeys across the sands. He spins tales of exotic paradises a million worlds away and describes the charming melodies that reverberate throughout the halls, the beautiful stained glass windows that each tell their own story. When his brother speaks of the new provinces added to the empire, Azir notices the way Xerath pauses, his shoulders tense. Suddenly, Xerath turns to face him and Azir is caught staring.
“My lord,” he starts, cutting Nadim off mid-sentence. His brother turns, first to Xerath and then to Azir, surprised and curious, but lacking anger. “May I be excused?”
Xerath’s expression is unreadable—emotionless—but his displeasure is palpable and Azir swears he can taste it in the air. He wants to ask him what’s wrong, to rush to his side and apologize for his brother’s boasts—anything to make things right.
“Yes,” Azir says, finally. “Of course.” And with that, Xerath strides out of the room with the same confidence that his brother entered with. His brother gives him a questioning look but says nothing. To speak to royalty without being first spoken to is in itself a death sentence; to interrupt the heir to the throne while he is speaking is to invite suffering beyond imagination. And yet, Azir yields to him, lets him go without a rebuke.
Interesting, Nadim thinks, watching the slave boy leave. Quite interesting.
ix. adoration
Springtime in the capital is a wonder in itself. The palace gardens brim with exotic perennials from all corners of the empire, a tribute to the greatness of Shurima. Paved paths of sandstone split acres and acres of lush fields of grass and deep green shrubs, dotted with red and splashes of yellow, line the pavement. Thick vines climb the white trellises of the garden and pale flowers emerge from their stems.
In the evening, it is even more beautiful, especially now; the premises are covered with lanterns to welcome home the crown prince—the heir to the throne—back home.
Deep within the gardens, Azir stretches out in the grass beneath the moonlight, Xerath seated at his side and no guards in sight. From here, Azir can see the small movements of Xerath’s arm as he sketches a lavender hyacinth, carried all the way from Icathia. He watches, entranced by the focused expression on Xerath’s face—the way he knits his eyebrows as he peers up at the flower before him, the set in his jaw as he examines the curves of each petal. The warm glow of the lantern light illuminates what the moon does not.
“Azir?” Xerath has turned to him now, catching him in his trance. He looks away quickly, pretending to find the grass quite interesting. Xerath’s concerned expression quickly shifts into something much more mischievous.
“What?” Azir mumbles, face heated. He turns his body away, but Xerath’s gaze burns holes into his back.
“Were you staring at me?” Xerath teases. He can hear Xerath shift in the grass beside him, can feel the warmth of his body as he scoots closer.
“No!” Azir denies vehemently, wishing the earth beneath him would just swallow him whole.
“What’s so interesting, my lord?” Xerath asks, drawing out his title in mock deference.
At that, Azir goes to hit him, but Xerath catches his wrist with ease. His touch burns, fills him with a heat he can’t comprehend or explain. It makes his heart beat faster and faster, while his head seems to spin. Xerath is still laughing when Azir turns around to face him. He swings at the other boy with his loose arm, but it is caught just as easily.
“Let go,” Azir commands, still avoiding Xerath’s gaze, like maybe it will stop him from seeing his heart in his eyes.
“No.” Azir twists his arms out of his grasp and launches himself at his companion. The two wrestle for control in the warm grass beneath them and without realizing, Azir finds himself laughing too. When Xerath traps him beneath him, he pauses for a moment before wiggling out beneath him and runs across the field.
He feels alive like this: sprinting across their own little haven with the cool evening breeze flowing through his hair. It’s just them out here, free from bothersome titles and meaningless status. They are alone here—safe.
It feels like he’s been running for an eternity when Xerath catches up to him, sending them tumbling through the grass. Azir is lying on his back when they fall, Xerath’s hands on either side of Azir’s head. Slowly, their giggles fade into the night until all that is left is the sound of their heavy breaths and pounding hearts.
“Azir,’ Xerath murmurs. His heart races and suddenly, he is hyper-aware of everything—the beads of sweat forming on Xerath’s forehead, the hard press of Xerath’s leg between his thighs, the way Azir’s own desire, his want, is reflected in the eyes above him. And oh, how he wants. He wants to feel the press of Xerath’s soft lips against his own, to feel his calloused hands on his body, to stay like this forever—just them together against the world.
When Xerath doesn’t move, Azir doesn’t hesitate—doesn’t stop and think— before leaning up and pressing his lips against the other boy’s. The kiss is brief. Chaste. Innocent. It ends just as quickly as it begins and before he knows it, Azir’s head returns to its place in the grass.
As they lie there, unmoving, Azir feels the rapid, steady beat of his heart, can hear it in his ears. The silence is deafening, the space between them suffocating. When Xerath still says nothing, Azir can feel his heart drop, the shame leaking through. He worries that Xerath will push him away, cast him aside in disgust and disdain. He wonders if, perhaps, he had misread the signs: the longing gazes, the fleeting touches, the affectionate words.
But when Xerath places a warm hand on his cheek, thumb tracing his lips, and kisses him—deeply and fervidly—with years and years of pent up desire and longing, all of Azir’s fears and worries and doubt are silenced. All he can think about is the way Xerath’s tongue traces his lips and explores his mouth; in the moment, it feels like all of Azir’s foolish hopes and senseless dreams have all come true all at once.
Eventually, they separate, panting and breathless, and when Azir sees the same elation in Xerath’s face as he feels within, he kisses him again and again and again, willfully ignorant of the consequences if they are caught like this, a slave atop his master.
“Xerath,” Azir breathes out, reverent, worshipful and when he looks at the boy above him, he knows with the certainty of a love-drunk teenager that there is nothing in this world that he wants more than him.
When they tire, Xerath falls over into the grass beside him and gazes up at the moon. They lie there for a while in a calm, peaceful sort of silence; it is comforting and steady and nothing like the tense quiet of moments before. It feels good. Feels right.
As Azir’s hand finds Xerath’s and their fingers clasp together, he turns to face the other boy, gentle moonlight illuminating their faces.
I love you, he wants to say.
So he does.
-
tbc.