Chapter Text
one.
He is lucky, he is told, to be tasked with fetching books and running errands for his good master, instead of toiling away beneath the depths of the sand, mining for riches that will go to the Emperor, or overheating under the Shuriman sun, building monuments for men who care little for the people who suffer endlessly under their rule. Luck, he thinks at the time, must be relative. The boy— and that is all he is, a boy, one without a name— chafes under the shackles of servitude, no matter how lucky he may be.
He goes, for the first time, with one of the other slaves, when he is thirteen. She had long been by the master’s side, helping him with his research and indulging his every whim with her abundant knowledge; she knew more than the master ever did and ever will, but she would never be his equal, not while Shurima brands its slaves with glowing iron and holds them down with unbreakable chains.
Every trip is hurried, his companion rushing to get the required materials and back before the master had any reason to punish them. The library is beautiful and he is never given the chance to fully appreciate it. It’s filled with aisles and aisles of ancient tomes and a wealth of information that he knows exists nowhere else. It all goes to waste in the hands of his master, in the hands of his companion, who lacks the ambition he does, the discerning eyes needed to see this opportunity for what it is.
It is during these trips that he catches glimpses of the princes, with their easy smiles and carefree laughs. As if they are not the reason he is here on someone else’s behalf instead of his own. As if they are not the reason he is bound to servitude by nature of his birth, the reason his mother was forced to abandon him, the reason his father’s body was left to rot in the sands.
He hates them. He hates how they can be so happy while so many suffer beneath their rule, while they take the lives of thousands and enslave countless more. They do not even look at him once, as if mere slaves are beneath them, are less men than they are.
By the time he is fifteen, he is allowed to go to the Great Library by himself, though only ever for the master’s benefit.
But the boy was not created to serve; he feels it in the depths of his soul, knows it with a certainty he can’t quite explain. He tests the limits of his master’s anger and finds it lax. He spends hours and hours in the library, exploring his own interests and sneaking ancient manuscripts into his robes or between the pages of his master’s books. He learns of powerful magic, ancient and forbidden; the possibilities are endless for him.
Every day, he is berated for his disrespect for punctuality and slowness in getting home, but it never goes beyond that. His master has grown complacent and the boy takes full advantage of it.
Even still, he does not think himself lucky. Not when he is forced to serve a man who he owes no allegiance, who extorted his desperate mother, who wanted nothing more than to guarantee her son’s safety.
It is only when he sees the crown prince seated in the center of the library that he begins to understand just how lucky he is.
Azir is something of a mystery to the boy. He’s heard tales of the eldest prince’s conquests across the continent, of his gallantry and charm, and talk of the second’s fierce brutality in the midst of battle; the others are much the same, caught up in glory and gore and blood. They spend their time under the lord Renekton’s brutal training, but not Azir. No, Azir spends his hours poring over history books and fairytales with a look of wonder written across his lovely features.
He can feel the prince’s gaze on him, wide and curious. Azir looks at him like no one else has before, with rapt attention and quiet admiration and though he is loath to admit it, it is thrilling. At one point, the boy turns to meet Azir’s gaze and graces him with a smile that makes the prince’s eyes widen with surprise and look away in the blink of an eye. It’s kind of… cute.
The thought makes the boy blush; he shouldn’t be thinking of the prince like that, not when his father’s blood is on his hands. But it isn’t, is it? Azir is not his father, nor his father before him. Azir is something entirely new, piquing his curiosity more acutely than any dusty old book ever could.
There’s something endearing about the way he steals glances at the boy when he thinks he’s not looking and reddens when he realizes he’s been caught. No one, and certainly not a member of the royal family, has ever looked at a slave like that before, with innocent curiosity and shameless appreciation. It makes his heart stutter just a bit, even though he’s never even spoken with him, never even heard the prince’s voice.
(He finds he would like to, though.)
He tells himself he shouldn’t be feeling this way, should stamp out this hopeless curiosity before it can grow into something more, but when he’s back in his bed, dreaming of that careless smile and Azir’s bright eyes, the boy knows he is lost.
two.
It’s only when his master leaves on a day trip to the museum that the boy finally gathers the courage to talk to him. He visits the library on his own behalf this time and to his pleasant surprise, nobody stops him. The prince is there, as always, poring over piles and piles of books that the boy isn’t sure he quite understands.
This time, the prince is hunched over a particularly thick book, brows furrowed, as he narrows his eyes at the passage. There’s something about that little crease in his brows that has the boy smiling and his feet moving, almost of their own accord, toward the prince.
It’s stupid, this. Approaching royalty unasked for, offering help where none is needed, the punishment of which is death. He imagines his mother’s deep frown, imagines her yelling at him for doing something so foolish as this. Yet, there is a part of him that is sure this is right, that this is where he belongs, what he’s meant to be doing at this exact moment.
“Need help?” the boy asks, bright and confident, willing himself not to lose his courage. He looks down at the words and recognizes them for the ancient dialect that it’s written in; linguistics were always his strong point. “The language is a bit confusing, but I could translate it for you.”
The prince is looking at him now, eyes wide with a mix of embarrassment and awe, lips parted, just a bit. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and the boy considers apologizing and leaving, but suddenly the words come spilling out of the prince’s mouth like a broken dam.
“Yes!” he sputters. “Uh, yes. Yes, please.” He pauses for a moment and gestures towards the chair. “Please, sit.”
The boy gives him a curious smile before the prince looks away, staring intently at the pages, like if he looks anywhere else the whole library will come crashing down upon them. He goes over the pages easily; this language is of the Kohari and his father was always fascinated by their culture, their language, their history. He told him they would visit their ancestral lands one day, when they were free.
(It was an empty promise, but the boy remembers it nonetheless.)
He reads the whole passage, glancing at the prince every so often, taking in the curl of his lashes when he blinks, the quirk of his brow when he reads out a particularly interesting line. After a while, he finishes, having read the whole passage and still, the prince does not say a word. He begins to think that perhaps this was a mistake, that he has said too much and noticed too little, too caught up in his foolish fixation on the prince’s pretty eyes.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, then, cutting through the silence. He turns away, cheeks heated. “Was I— did I say too much?”
The prince’s head shoots up then and suddenly, his hand is on the boy’s arm burning, burning, burning.
“No, that was amazing!” he says, and the boy looks back at him. He has that look on his face again, eyes wide with reverence and wonder, innocence written all over his expression. He smiles weakly. “No, really! It was— really good.”
Azir bites his lip then and averts his gaze for just a moment before it drifts back to him. Then, it’s like they’re frozen in time, just staring at each other like nothing else matters, like they’re not breaking a million unspoken rules and traditions just by speaking to each other.
He worries someone will see, will tell his master or worse, Azir’s father, so it is the boy that speaks first, breaking the silence. It isn’t awkward though, after. In fact, the conversation seems to flow more easily than ever and they get lost in conversation about everything from the accomplishments of Azir’s ancestors to the races held weekly in the colosseum.
Azir is nothing like he’d expected. The boy expected arrogance, pride, and thoughtless cruelty, but there is none of that. Instead, he finds something entirely different: boyish uncertainty, hesitant smiles, unending kindness— all things the boy never thought to find in the nobility, much less in royalty.
The prince’s humility is astonishing; he listens, enraptured, as the boy tells tales of ancient Shuriman history, and asks questions about anything he doesn’t quite understand. He asks about the boy, too— his parents, his siblings, where they live, what they do, everything. He tells him that his parents were builders, that he is apprentice to an architect in the city, that he is an only child; he does not tell him he is a slave.
When the boy asks the prince in kind, he learns that Azir finds little joy in his family. He goes quiet and sullen and stumbles over his words, and the boy changes the topic not long after. He learns a lot of things about him in that moment. He learns of his distaste for fighting wars and conquering distant lands. He learns that he believes it’s a task better left to his brothers. He learns also that he believes it shameful, cowardly.
He tells him he does not agree, that he finds his restraint admirable, and when he does, the prince blushes so hard, the boy swears he can feel the heat from here.
Azir blushes a lot, like that, he notices. He looks at him differently too, different from anyone else— slave or peasant or noble. He looks at him like he’s the smartest person he’s ever met in his life, like he holds all the world’s secrets in his dark eyes, like he’s worth more than all the knowledge in Nasus’s Great Library, and the attention is dizzying. A part of him feels invincible and basks in that worshipful gaze, even as the other tells him he is a fool, that as soon as this boy realizes who he is, what he is, all of this will be over in an instant.
The hours seem to blur together, too fast and too short at the same time. He loses track of time when he’s with him and the boy finds this wonderful, curious, intelligent little prince fascinating. Everything about Azir enthralls him like nothing else, like no one else, and each little smile and surprised laugh has unfettered affection and pride and happiness swelling in his chest like never before.
It’s only when his stomach begins to ache with hunger that he realizes they’ve both missed their meals. The sun had set long ago and the moonlight that filters in through the Great Library’s grand windows tell him his master is home, that his absence will not go unnoticed.
“What’s wrong?” Azir asks, once he notices the panic rising rapidly within. He frowns, concern filling his gaze.
You’ve done it now, the boy thinks to himself angrily. He’d been so foolish, so stupid, so caught up in the moment that he hadn’t even noticed the time. He imagines what his mother would think of him now, getting lost in this gentle prince’s eyes like some fairytale princess, throwing away all that her sacrifices had bought him.
“It’s late,” he says, rushing to his feet. “I have to go. Sorry.”
“Oh,” the prince breathes and the quiet disappointment in his voice is evident.
He looks at him for a while in silence, unable to tear his gaze away, and when the prince looks at him right back with the same sort of longing, his chest aches. Finally, he manages to turn away. The boy goes, then, gathering up all the books he’d meant to take for himself and hurries toward the door, trying to ground himself, trying not to raise his hopes, trying, desperately, not to think about the boy he’s leaving behind and focus on the punishment awaiting him at home.
“Wait!” Azir shouts, before he slips away. Despite himself, he turns around. “What’s your name?”
His heart pounds in his chest. He should lie, should give him a fake name, any name, anything to keep him from asking questions. Instead, he chokes out, “I don’t— I don’t have one,” and flees.
three.
His master is waiting for him when he returns, furious with his disobedience, his audacity. He tells him he should kill him for it, that others have died for less, but that he is a merciful lord and as such will subject him to only fifty lashings. (The boy knows it is because he is far too useful, too clever, too valuable an investment to throw away so easily.)
He carries out his judgment himself in his private quarters. The boy refuses to scream, to let even a gasp of pain leave his lips, but his master is cruel and hits ever harder in response to his silence. He screams despite himself and hopes his father cannot see him like this, cannot see his torn and bloodied flesh, weak and prostrated before one so worthless as his master.
When he is done, another slave enters and helps him out of the room even as every part of him trembles with pain and sensation. She cleans his wounds in silence and says nothing as he whimpers in pain at the sting. She wraps his wounds in clean bandages and when she is done, she does not ask for thanks or offer her pity. She simply leaves him alone in his chambers and shuts the door behind her with a click.
Was it worth it, he wonders, as he lies on his stomach, back still raw, tears staining his cheeks. Was it worth it, he wonders, as he shuts his eyes and tries to dreams of messy curls and an innocent smile. Was it worth it, he wonders, and hopes that it was.
four.
He is sent back to the Great Library not three days after. His wounds have just begun to heal and the marks are still there, red and raised and angry. He wants to cover them, just in case, so that the noble scholars there will not see his shame, will not look at him with the realization that he is nothing but a lowly servant, a slave, and treat him accordingly.
(So that Azir will not see his shame. So that Azir will not look down upon him, that warm affection evaporating like spilled water over the desert sands.)
His master does not let him. He says it serves him right, that it is only fair that his shame is put on display for all to see since he shamed him with his disobedience. He is allowed his usual attire, which covers a portion of his chest and back, but still the marks snake over his shoulders clear as day.
The boy enters the library, head bowed and face burning with humiliation, and when the heads inevitably turn, he hurries to the aisle where his master’s requested books sit, making none of his usual stops on the way.
When Azir looks at him, shame courses through him. Shame because of the scars he let marr his back, shame because he was too weak to fight back, shame because even now he is letting his master win by lowering his head. He lifts it then, head held high despite the embarrassment burning hot inside him. He does not even glance at Azir, too afraid of what he will find in those precious eyes.
He wonders what the little prince thinks of him now, knowing the one he so admired is nothing but a slave. He supposes he will not have to wonder long, because despite everything, Azir is crossing the room to him now. The boy clenches his jaw and focuses on the books on the shelf in front of him, taking the ones on the list his master threatened to have carved into his skin.
His prince stops mere inches away, close, so close. Then he feels them, his gentle fingers against his skin, tracing the scars that will never leave him, not really, not in his head. His breath hitches at the touch. He does not move. Does not dare move.
His face burns.
“Who?” his prince murmurs, quiet.
He does not dare speak.
“Who?” he asks again, insistent with the stubbornness and entitlement that comes with royalty. Azir looks up at him, demanding an answer, and still he does not speak. He swallows down a hopeless, pathetic whimper and wills his hands to stop shaking as they handle the books.
Azir’s fingers trail downwards, stopping at his trembling hands, gentle. Comforting.
“Amon,” he whispers, his master’s name slipping out like a curse. “The architect.”
He exhales.
His master is dead by nightfall.
five.
It’s freeing, in a way, when Azir gives him his name, weeks later, hesitant and with barely contained excitement. It tells him he’s been waiting to do this for ages, stopped only by his own shyness.
“Xerath, ” Azir says slowly, like he’s afraid Xerath will hate it.
“Xer-rath,” Xerath echoes. “Xerath.”
The name slips off his tongue, sweet like honey— innocent and pure.
It’s a secret, their secret, this name. By law, slaves are not allowed names by order of Azir’s great grandfather and upheld by Azir’s father. It’s what makes it so special, what sends a thrill of independence and rush of freedom coursing through him at the sound of it.
Xerath looks at him, a small smile forming on his lips.
“I like it, I think,” he says, and the wide grin that graces Azir’s face has a glimmer of hope bursting inside him. He is beautiful like this, the picture of boyish ignorance and naive joy. Fondness floods his heart at the sight, renders him breathless and speechless, and Xerath finds he is unable to do anything but smile back at him in kind.
It is in this moment that he knows, this moment that marks his fall for this prince: his foolish, naive, young prince whose smiles are too wide, too bright, too warm to be directed at a slave, whose heart is too pure, too innocent, too good for a son of this accursed dynasty. It is all of these things that tell Xerath that this can end only in doom and despair, but it is for all of these things that he loves him anyway.
(It is here that his only weakness sprouts, persistent and bothersome like a weed that refuses to die or a flame that will not be snuffed out.)
six.
He becomes friends with other slaves there. He still gets his own quarters, courtesy of Azir’s position, but it is still in the servants’ wing. They seem satisfied, tired, and Xerath hates it. Hates that they have become so complacent as to not wish for more, hates that this cruel dynasty has ripped the life from them even as they claim benevolence and mercy.
He does not say so, though, not yet. He is still new here and as such, he gets to know the men and women here, gracing them with charming smiles and comforting words, learning all that there is to know about them.
Xerath tells Azir so and he seems pleased that he is getting along well in the palace, that he is fitting in, that he is happy. The smile on his face is so fragile and earnest that Xerath cannot find it in him to tell him the truth, to tell him that he cannot be happy like this, not when he is still in chains, still bound to servitude. Instead, he just smiles back and lets his prince lean further into him.
seven.
They spend most of their days in the library. On most mornings, Azir goes to his lessons with Renekton and Nasus as requested by his father. It is only by nature of his birth that he is allowed this privilege— of training under two of the greatest Ascended to have ever lived and being able to skip their appointments on a whim simply to spend the day laughing with Xerath.
Azir brings him everywhere: to training with Renekton, to banquets with his brothers, to the gardens, just the two of them. Xerath is his personal servant, but Azir treats him as a friend, as a brother, as equals. (As perhaps something more.)
The Emperor does not approve. Xerath can feel it in his gaze as he walks by, in the disapproving frown that darkens his expression as he accompanies his youngest son. Azir can feel it too. He bows his head low in the presence of his father, speaks in a small voice, as if it will make him suddenly disappear. Xerath hates seeing him like this, timid and cowed by a simple glare.
Instinct tells him to step between them, to raise his head high and tell this proud, arrogant Emperor that his son is more than he thinks, more than he knows. He does not, though, because it is not his place, and it would only get them both into more trouble. Instead, he watches silently and bitterly, always just a breath away from opening his mouth.
He has grown protective of his prince. His prince. He wonders, for a moment, when he started thinking of him that way, as his. It should feel wrong, like a betrayal of his father, his mother, of every single one of his brothers and sisters in bondage, but instead it feels right, feels true in so many ways.
(Except, perhaps, the one way he wants most.)
Every second spent in his company should feel like a betrayal, but something about Azir has his heart melting, ambition and pride softening in the face of his radiant gaze. In the months that follow, Xerath learns everything there is to know about Azir and finds himself falling little by little until all he can see Azir, Azir, Azir.
He learns about Azir’s brothers; Azir tells him that Nadim is his favorite— the crown prince of Shurima, the heir to the nation’s golden throne. He tells him that he is kind, compassionate, brave— everything a true warrior should be. He tells him he’d like them to meet one day, when he returns from war, that he would like him. Xerath tells him that if Nadim is half the man Azir himself is, then it would be impossible not to, and watches with amusement as Azir blushes at the words.
He learns about Renekton and Nasus, that they are something of father figures to all his brothers, offering guidance and wisdom where needed. Azir tells him where most of his brothers have great love for Renekton, it is Nasus Azir respects more than anyone, that it is his path to Ascension he finds most fascinating. It is because of him that they have all the knowledge they have today, that they are blessed with the privilege of spending their days curled up in the library together, closer than a boy and his servant should be, than even friends should be.
He learns lastly, and less explicitly, that Azir is lonely. That though he loves his brothers and shows kindness to all who grace his halls, he has nobody who he calls friend. No one, save Xerath. Perhaps that is why he looks at him like that, with all the reverence and admiration reserved for the Sunborn, for the gods. At least, that is what he tells himself when he finds himself gazing right back, heart in his eyes.
It is merely friendship he feels for you, he tells himself when Azir looks at him so. It is merely friendship, he thinks, when Azir’s fingers brush against his in the hall. It’s friendship, he reminds himself, when Azir rests his head upon his shoulder and falls asleep with his hair tickling Xerath’s neck.
It’s friendship and yet Xerath can’t help but want more from this prince who cannot ever be his.
eight.
They’re in the gardens when he’s proven wrong, the sun setting before them, bathing them in orange light. Xerath still feels strange here. Never before had he even dreamed of being here, of being allowed to laze about the legendary palace gardens, filled with every manner of flora from every corner of Runeterra. Shurima’s gardeners must be skilled indeed, he thinks, for these plants to flourish in this hot, desert climate. Perhaps it is not their gardeners at all, though. Perhaps, it is their sorcerers.
(The thought sits in his mind for ages. It does not leave.)
The grounds are beautiful this evening, lit up by thousands of lanterns in celebration of the eldest son’s return. Even Xerath can appreciate the sight, despite his distaste for the man’s perpetuation of his father’s sins, the sins of their entire lineage. He tries to erase it from his mind for the time being, because tonight is meant for celebration, to be divorced from anything but joy.
They’re alone out here, but for how long, Xerath doesn’t know. Everyone is inside the palace, enjoying fine wine and finer company as they welcome their crown prince back from the war front, but instead, Azir is out here with him, lying on grass, watching Xerath sketch a flower taken from the resting place of Icathia.
Icathia has always been fascinating to Xerath. Tales of their ancient chronomancers and skilled thaumaturges have filled his ears, his head, his mind since he was a boy, and he’s never stopped wondering where all that magic could have gone, how it could be recovered once again. It’d always been a dream for him, though, impossible and distant.
Azir watches him for a while, which is nothing new or strange in itself; he does it often, always, and Xerath has gotten used to it, grown to like it, need it even. This time, though, his gaze seems to burn a hole through him with its intensity, like Azir’s thinking just a little too hard.
By the time the sun has set and the moon has risen, Azir still hasn’t looked away.
“Azir?” Xerath says, questioning but not unkind. He turns away quickly like he hasn’t in a while, like a boy caught doing something he knows he shouldn’t. Xerath smiles, fond, even as Azir turns his back to him.
“What?” Azir pouts, refusing to look at him. The tone only makes him smile wider in amusement and he holds back a laugh.
“Were you staring at me?” Xerath teases. It’s meant to be a joke— only a joke— but Xerath can’t help but hope there’s something more to the longing stares, the lingering touches. He scoots closer, almost gravitating toward him, and stops just shy of pressing his chest against his back.
“No!” Azir almost shouts, and curls into himself. It makes him want to reach out and touch, to pull him close and bury his face in the crook of his neck and tell him that he shouldn’t be ashamed, shouldn’t be scared.
“What’s so interesting, my lord?” Xerath asks instead, drawing out his title in a way that he knows Azir hates.
He expects the blow when it comes, childish and impetuous, but this time, Xerath catches it, hand wrapping around Azir’s wrist, thumb pressed lightly into his skin so that he can feel the steady thump of his pulse.
When Azir swings again, Xerath catches the other wrist just as easily, except now, he does not even try to hide his amusement or hold in his laughter.
“Let go,” his princeling commands, but the words carry little weight when Azir cannot even meet his eyes.
“No,” he says— an act of defiance toward his prince that no man would ever dare attempt, much less a slave. For any subject of the King, it would mean lashings in the public square, regardless of status or wealth; for a slave, it means death.
But Azir— Azir is different, and Xerath can’t quite figure out why. He’s fascinating, and Xerath finds he just can’t look away.
It’s like Azir notices, because he takes the opportunity to wrest away from Xerath’s grasp. Azir lunges at him and suddenly, they’re rolling in the grass together, laughing like there’s nothing else that matters in the world, like the weight of their statuses doesn’t hang over them like a darkening cloud. No, this is different, completely different. Azir is all sunlight, radiant smile brightening all that it touches as he tries to slip out from beneath him. It’s blinding, that gaze, and for a moment, Xerath can’t help but stop and watch, and it’s then that his prince slips away, darting across their little sanctuary, leaving only sweet laughter in his wake.
He catches up not long after, but Azir is small and lithe and he slips through his arms like grains of sand through parted fingers. Xerath gives up trying to catch him or stop him by then; instead he lunges at him and when they’re sent tumbling through the grass, he should be afraid of the consequences, but all he’s doing is giggling like he’s five years old and listening to his parents tell stories of life before.
They stay like that for eternity: Xerath’s hands digging into the earth on either side of Azir’s head, one knee slotted between Azir’s thighs, as they stare at each other. He’s breathtaking like this, blades of grass tangled in his hair, a sheen of sweat shining across his forehead, wide eyes staring up at him, enraptured, like there is nobody more worthy of praise than he.
Neither of them are laughing now, just panting in the otherwise silent night, lanterns illuminating the desire clear in both their eyes. It’s startling just how clear it is, that Azir does return his want, his desire, his love. Immediately, he’s reminded of every traitorous dream he’s ever had— of holding this lovely, perfect boy in his arms, of feeling his delicate skin beneath his fingers, of leaning forward and pressing his lips against his plush lips like he’s always wanted to.
He does not move. Shouldn’t. Azir is the crown prince and Xerath a slave. He will marry a beautiful duchess or princess or someone one day and forget about him, and Xerath will— Xerath will not. All he will have is this, memories of his lovely prince who showed him something more than hate, more than bitterness.
It is Azir that starts it, who presses forward with only innocence and kisses him, mouth closed and chaste. It is all perfectly respectable and yet not at all.
He should get up and leave now, run back to his quarters and pretend this never happened, pretend that he didn’t want this, that it wasn’t his fault. He knows Azir would accept it, would never talk about it again if Xerath pushed him away now, the shame too much for him to bear. But he can’t. Not when Azir is looking at him like that with such hopeful innocence in his eyes, his glistening lips parted with want. He can’t push him away now.
So he doesn’t. He pushes all of his rationality to the back of his mind and lets his emotions guide him, hand coming up to graze Azir’s soft skin, fingers brushing against his cheek. Thoughtlessly, his thumb traces his lips in an act of intimacy afforded to no one but him.
When Xerath kisses him, slowly and without urgency, he forgets all else. His father, his mother, his master, the emperor — all of them burn away in the heat of the moment, and Xerath deepens the kiss, tongue tracing his prince’s lips and pushing further and further still— just a taste of the thing he’s wanted for so long.
He basks in the moment, eyes closed as he strokes his cheek and tastes his tongue, sweet like candied apples. He drinks in Azir’s soft whimpers as he presses against him, body warm against his. He lets thoughts of Azir consume him until there’s nothing else, until he swears he could be happy like this, if only Azir asked.
Reluctantly, Xerath pulls away, breathless, and it’s like all his senses come rushing back, telling him that this was stupid—stupid and foolish and reckless—that he’s betrayed his father’s memory, threw away his mother’s sacrifice. The guilt courses through him, violent and emphatic, screaming that he has made a mistake, but when Azir breathes his name, soft and reverent, he hears nothing else save the sweet song of fate.
He kisses him again then, gets lost in him so that there is room for nothing else, so that he cannot think straight, cannot think of all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this. All he sees, hears, tastes, smells, feels is Azir, the prince invading his senses like some glorious disease. He watches, enraptured by the dark lashes fluttering against Azir’s cheek. He listens intently to chorus of his prince’s muffled cries and tastes the sugared strawberries that he’d eaten for dessert only hours ago. He inhales the harsh scent of sweat and grass that clings to his skin, so different than the Emperor’s precious, perfumed son.
And lastly, he feels him everywhere. Feels him relaxing under his touch, pliant beneath his fingers. Feels him seeping into his heart and into his mind, telling him wordlessly that everything will be alright as long as they are together, promising that he will never leave, that he loves him, that there is nothing more on this earth that he wants more than Xerath, and in the moment, Xerath feels the same.
Even when he tires, he keeps going, wanting to savor every moment, every second, so that when they are caught, he will die with no regrets.
Eventually, he does pull away, though, collapsing into the grass beside his prince, eyes trained on the moon above. They say nothing, but the silence feels only right, peaceful and comfortable, and when the guilt comes seeping back in, Azir entwines their fingers and squeezes, and just like that it disappears.
“I love you,” Azir whispers, after a moment, and despite it all, Xerath says it back.