The Grand Ballroom, Altherian Palace — The Coronation Reception
The entire ballroom froze. It wasn't every day an emperor appeared unannounced at a coronation ball halfway across the continent—much less one who was supposed to be in a coma. Every pair of eyes in the room turned as the man—now unmistakably recognized as Emperor Elliott of Velluria—stepped forward.
He was radiant, that infuriatingly self-satisfied kind of radiant, with that slight tilt of his head that screamed I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm enjoying every second of it. His bow was a picture of formal grace—deep, precise, elegant—but it held just a hint of mockery, like a performer bowing after a particularly well-executed trick. His gloved hand extended toward the newly crowned King of Altheria in a clear, unmistakable invitation to dance.
The orchestra faltered mid-note.
No one breathed.
It was as if the anticipation itself had become a living, breathing thing, hovering thick in the air. Every noble, every foreign envoy, every servant, every advisor was glued to the two men at the edge of the dance floor.
Aiden's body moved before his mind caught up. His hand set the goblet down on the nearest table with a shaky clink—somewhere between unconscious reaction and surrender. He didn't care where it landed. His entire focus narrowed to the blonde man standing before him.
He ignored Elliott's outstretched hand.
Instead, his larger, calloused fingers came up to cup Elliott's cheek. The contact was gentle—achingly so. His thumb brushed against warm skin, the sensation so painfully real that it sent a tremor down Elliott's spine.
For a moment, Aiden just stared—his face a perfect blend of disbelief, awe, and something dangerously close to heartbreak. His throat worked soundlessly before he managed to find his voice, which came out rough, hoarse, and barely above a whisper meant only for the other man's ears.
"You... you're here. How—?"
Elliott grinned, the corners of his lips curving into that unmistakable, trouble-making smile. His eyes glittered like mischief itself. "Surprised?"
Aiden blinked. That was one word for it.
Elliott, of course, didn't wait for an answer. He simply took Aiden's hand—casually, as if he hadn't just shattered the king's composure in front of the entire court—and began nudging him toward the dance floor. The crowd parted in silent awe, like the Red Sea before Moses. The musicians, after a moment of dumbstruck paralysis, seemed to collectively remember their purpose and struck up a slow, stately waltz.
Elliott guided Aiden's hand to his waist, keeping the other clasped firmly in his own. And only when they began to move—when the first turn of the waltz spun them into the soft glow of chandeliers—did reality finally hit Aiden like a blow.
Elliott was here. Awake. Smiling.
Alive.
He looked at him as though afraid the image might vanish if he blinked too hard. His chest ached with the sheer relief of it. His lips parted, fumbling for words that couldn't possibly hold the weight of what he felt.
"You... you look..." he started weakly.
Elliott completed the sentence with zero hesitation. "Magnificent? Breathtaking? Stunning?" His smirk was nothing short of criminal. "I would hope so. I had the tailors working day and night on this."
Aiden could only stare. He hated how that smug smile made his chest feel light and tight all at once.
As they moved, the pair drifted to the center of the ballroom. They were a sight out of legend—sun and moon, gold and silver, warmth and stillness twined together in perfect symmetry. The entire room—filled with nobles, foreign monarchs, and dignitaries—watched in reverent silence.
But Aiden couldn't see them. He didn't care about them. For him, the rest of the world had simply ceased to exist. There was only Elliott—his Elliott—in his arms again.
The initial wave of awe and relief, however, was already shifting into something far more volatile. The shock gave way to a deep, simmering irritation—born from sleepless nights and days spent pacing, waiting, spiraling.
He was going to nag. Oh, he was absolutely going to nag.
His grip on Elliott's waist tightened—not a romantic squeeze, but a possessive, borderline exasperated one, like a man holding onto the only thing that mattered after nearly losing it.
"You, " he said, his voice a low growl near Elliott's ear, "have a lot of nerve."
Elliott blinked up at him, his lips parting in mock innocence. It was a look that could've fooled anyone else, but not Aiden. His cheeks were flushed a charming shade of pink—perhaps from the champagne he'd downed earlier on an empty stomach—and his eyes sparkled with barely suppressed laughter.
"Hm?" he tilted his head. "Whatever do you mean?"
Aiden exhaled sharply through his nose. "Don't act oblivious now. You know exactly what I mean. Traveling all this way despite the strain. Saying nothing when you woke up."
"Well, technically," Elliott started, tone dripping with self-defense, "it was Mother who said nothing—"
Aiden shot him a look. A flat, unimpressed look sharp enough to level cities.
"Uh-huh," he said, his voice perfectly deadpan. "Of course. This whole thing must've been her idea."
Elliott grinned, unrepentant. "Okay, fine. I told her not to. But I'm fine! See?"
He spun under Aiden's arm with a practiced flair, his hand extending outward mid-turn as if to display himself. "See? Healthy. Mobile. Glowing."
Aiden stared at him. Then sighed, long and slow, like a man whose soul was being tested by forces beyond mortal comprehension. He was tempted—so tempted—to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"You were poisoned, Elliott," he said finally, his tone clipped and heavy with restrained frustration. "Gravely, might I add. You were in absolutely no condition to travel."
"I was perfectly fine," Elliott countered smoothly, still swaying to the rhythm. "Besides," he added, his grin turning positively wicked as he drew slightly back—only for Aiden to pull him right back in, "I couldn't possibly miss the great prince's coronation. You looked very regal, you know. Very kingly. It was extremely becoming."
If he thought that would placate Aiden, he was sorely mistaken.
The compliment only deepened the younger man's scowl.
"Do not try to change the subject," Aiden muttered, his voice low but sharp.
"Oh, please," Elliott huffed, that mock pout returning in full force. "Can't I even admire my lover now?"
Aiden froze.
Lover.
That word—spoken so casually, so boldly in the middle of a crowded ballroom—hit him like a strike to the chest. His composure cracked just enough for color to rise up his neck, blooming across his cheeks.
Elliott saw it. Of course he did. And of course, his grin widened to the point of smug perfection.
He leaned in closer, just enough for his breath to brush Aiden's jaw, and whispered, "You're blushing, Your Majesty."
Aiden gave him a glare that could have ended dynasties.
Elliott just laughed, eyes sparkling with the kind of delight only chaos and victory could bring.
"You— you are making this whole thing up to me," Aiden hissed, the words slipping through gritted teeth, sharp with restrained fury and worry. His mind was already racing ahead, conjuring up an entire list of punitive measures that involved confining Elliott to bed, forcing down every bitter tonic in the palace, and ensuring he didn't so much as look at a carriage for the next fortnight. His voice dropped into that low, dangerous tone that usually made grown men scramble. "After this— you're not allowed to step out of bed for two weeks."
Elliott froze for all of half a second—then his entire expression shifted.
The mischievous glint returned to his eyes, brighter than the chandelier's light, and the curve of his lips turned slow and deliberate. His mind, thoroughly marinated in champagne and euphoria, immediately twisted Aiden's words into a far less innocent meaning. The exact wrong meaning, in fact.
"Oh," he breathed, eyes widening in exaggerated scandalized delight, voice dropping to a soft purr that practically vibrated with amusement. He leaned in close—far too close—until his warm breath fanned over the sharp line of Aiden's jaw. "Oh, Your Majesty..." His tone was syrupy-sweet, sinful. "So bold. So dominant."
Aiden blinked. Once. Twice. That tone was not reassuring.
Elliott's grin only widened, devilish and utterly unrepentant. "Make it up to you in bed, you say? I suppose..."—he tilted his head just enough for his lips to brush teasingly against Aiden's neck—"I suppose I'll have to obey my king's command then." He gave an exaggeratedly innocent look through his lashes, voice soft and dripping with mock submission. "Please... be gentle with me."
Aiden stumbled. He actually missed a step. His usually precise, measured rhythm faltered, sending the pair momentarily off-beat. The ballroom gasped softly, but Elliott—smug bastard that he was—covered for it smoothly, pretending it was part of the choreography.
Meanwhile, Aiden looked like someone had just dropped a flaming crown onto his head. His eyes widened in sheer horror as the meaning of Elliott's c words—and tone—finally hit him. A flush crept up his neck, flooding his ears crimson.
"That— you— that is not what I meant and you know it!" he snapped, voice strangled somewhere between outrage and flustered disbelief. He tugged Elliott a little closer, partly to keep him from slipping away, but mostly to hide their faces from the crowd.
"I meant," he hissed under his breath, "that I'm putting you to bed. As in—sleeping. Resting. Alone. You— this damn alcohol—" He groaned, exasperation bleeding into his tone. "Not another drop of champagne, do you hear me? No more of this rich food either." His jaw set. "You're eating porridge later. Plain porridge."
Elliott's mouth fell open in exaggerated despair. "Porridge? Really, my king?" he gasped as if Aiden had just announced his execution. "That's your grand romantic gesture after a month apart? How tragically unromantic of you."
"It's romantic to not have you faint and look like a ghost," Aiden shot back flatly.
Elliott clutched at his chest with a dramatic gasp, the picture of wounded vanity. "A ghost? Truly? My own lover, using such cruel words against me?" He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in theatrical misery. "My confidence in my flesh is forever scarred!"
Aiden rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't get stuck. He was too used to this—too used to Elliott's dramatic nonsense—to even attempt to argue. The fight drained out of him, exhaustion softening the sharp edges of his tone.
Slowly, the chaos between them settled into silence. A comfortable, heavy quiet—like the sigh after a storm.
Elliott's grin softened, fading into something small and content. He rested his head against Aiden's shoulder, a soft sigh escaping him, one that carried months of strain melting into peace. The music slowed, slipping into a warm, steady rhythm.
Aiden's hand moved automatically, his thumb drawing small, absent circles on Elliott's back. He wasn't thinking about the steps anymore. His body moved from memory while his mind... finally stopped racing.
For the first time in a month—a month of blood, betrayal, and a crown that sat heavy on his head—Aiden felt something resembling peace. No politics. No duty. No gnawing ache. Just this—this warmth in his arms, breathing softly against him.
A faint, imperceptible smile touched his lips. The harsh lines that had carved into his face over the past weeks softened, and the fire in his eyes dimmed from burning fury to somethi
ng quiet, steady, and full of warmth.
He was holding his entire world again.
And for once—and maybe for always—this was enough.
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