The song began winding down as the first dance by the king and his chosen partner was about to end. The final, sweeping notes were slow and fading, the sound wrapping through the air like the last sigh of a storm. The ballroom moved in a flurry of activity as the other participants assembled with their partners, ready to join the second dance. And as the music ebbed, so did the solitary, almost protective bubble that had formed around the duo. Reality, sharp and unrelenting, began settling in.
The second song started. Elliott almost expected Aiden to lead them off the dance floor, considering the younger man's notorious aversion to dancing earlier. But Aiden made no move to do so. Instead, as the next song began, they shifted into a practiced rhythm, moving as though they had done this a thousand times. This time, however, other couples had joined them on the floor—the pair no longer being the only figures gliding across the vast expanse of marble. Yet it did nothing to lessen the eyes or the attention on them. Even among a sea of dancing couples, they stood apart. The emperor and the king. The sun and the moon. No matter how many people twirled around them, it was as if the rest of the world had blurred, and only the two of them existed in focus.
The attention, for now, was the least of Aiden's concerns. His body moved with Elliott's in perfect synchronization, though his thoughts were far from calm. Over the music, he spoke—his voice a low murmur, hesitant, the faintest flush creeping up his neck in a way so uncharacteristic it almost embarrassed him. "Elliott," he said quietly, catching the blonde's attention.
Elliott looked up at him, head tilting slightly, silently prompting Aiden to continue.
Aiden's hand around Elliott's waist tightened just a little—not enough to hurt, but enough to ground himself, to keep from unraveling. His words came out tense, almost defensive, as if dragged out from the depths of his chest. "...The first time we kissed. The night you broke your blisters. Do you remember?"
Elliott blinked, the faint haze of alcohol making his mind pleasantly foggy. The memory wasn't forgotten—far from it—but it took him a moment to gather his thoughts before he nodded, slightly delayed.
Aiden continued, and there was an edge to his tone now—something desperate, fragile, and heavy. "That night... you made a promise to me. You promised me."
His grip on Elliott tightened more. Now he was holding the blonde's waist in an almost frantic hold, like a drowning man clutching the last piece of driftwood in a storm. His gaze darkened, filled with something both possessive and pleading. He was already bracing himself for a denial, a deflection, anything that would reopen wounds he had barely managed to stitch closed.
Elliott blinked again. His brain worked sluggishly, thoughts moving through honey. "Promise?" he murmured, brow furrowing in confusion as he tilted his head. "Which promise...?"
That hesitation—just that moment of vague forgetfulness—was all it took to send Aiden's mind spiraling straight off the cliff. His expression hardened in an instant, the small flicker of a smile from earlier snuffed out like a candle in the rain. And just like that, every fear that had plagued him for months slithered back up from the depths. The fear that this—they—were temporary. The fear that what they had would always be hidden, tucked behind closed doors and political necessity. That Elliott would always see him as something that had to be concealed.
"The promise," Aiden repeated, his voice sharper now, clipped, defensive. "You promised me that we were, for then, involved. You said we would hide until the conflict with Cyrus was resolved." He leaned in closer, his voice trembling with equal parts accusation and ache. "It's resolved now, isn't it? Everything's resolved. The war is over. He's dead. There should be no more reason to hide."
He tried not to sound bitter. He failed spectacularly. The words were sharp, yes, but beneath them was something raw—terrified, almost childishly vulnerable. He was laying his heart bare in the most dangerous way possible, and he hated himself for it, hated how much power the other man still held over his every nerve.
Elliott just stared at him, mouth slightly agape, his mind still fuzzy but not that fuzzy. Even through the fog of champagne, he could see it—the pain under Aiden's tone, the cracked edge in his voice. The earlier playfulness faded, dimming into something softer. Because right now, Elliott wasn't looking at the mighty Altherian king or the warrior with a blade sharper than his temper. He was looking at the boy beneath the crown, the one who carried the weight of the world and still feared being forgotten.
And as much as Elliott understood, as much as some part of him wanted to respond with tenderness and gravity... he was still very much drunk. And a drunk Elliott was a dangerous Elliott—no filter, no restraint, no concept of appropriate timing. Diplomacy? Overrated. Public discretion? Boring. Grand, scandalous gestures? Now that sounded fun.
"Oh," he said finally, a slow smile curling across his lips as comprehension dawned—or, well, what he thought was comprehension. His eyes curved into amused crescents as his hand came up to cup Aiden's cheek, halting their dance. "That promise. I remember."
His palm was warm and steady against Aiden's skin, grounding him even as the rest of the ballroom seemed to freeze in collective anticipation. Dozens—hundreds—of eyes were fixed on them now, watching as the emperor and the king stopped mid-waltz. But Elliott didn't seem to care. He had decided that talking was tedious and words were overrated.
Instead, he decided to show him.
Without another moment's hesitation, Elliott tugged Aiden closer by the collar, stood on his tiptoes, and—ignoring every startled whisper and gasp that rippled through the crowd—he kissed him.
It wasn't a polite brush of lips or a quick peck. It was firm, deliberate, sensual in its audacity. Just long enough to be unmistakably intimate, but short enough that he could technically claim good manners later. The scent of champagne lingered faintly on Elliott's breath as his lips pressed against Aiden's—soft but sure, teasing but unyielding.
When Elliott finally pulled back, the grin that curved on his lips could only be described as sinfully smug. Aiden's face was an absolute picture—red as a soldier's banner, completely stunned, eyes wide in disbelief and outrage and something else he'd rather die than admit.
"There," Elliott whispered, voice honey-sweet and dripping with triumph. His eyes sparkled with mischief and warmth. "There's your recognition. Satisfied now?"
For a moment, Aiden didn't move. He just stood there, utterly frozen. His mind was caught somewhere between a furious spiral and the stunned realization that the love of his life had just made a very public, very unsubtle declaration in front of everyone. Every thought that had been eating away at him—fear, bitterness, that awful creeping dread—just shattered. Gone. Like fog burned away by morning light.
The music had stopped. The entire ballroom had gone silent, stunned into stillness. The only sound was the faint echo of their breathing.
And then Aiden—stoic, perpetually composed Aiden—laughed.
It wasn't a small laugh, either. It was full-bodied, unrestrained, warm and real. It filled the hall, bouncing off the gilded walls, echoing through the stunned crowd. It was a sound no one there had ever heard from him before—rich, unguarded, alive.
"Yes..." he said, his voice low and shaky from the force of emotion bubbling beneath. His hand still rested on Elliott's back, grounding himself in the man who had just, quite literally, upended his entire sense of decorum.
"Yes. Satisfied."
And then he kissed him back.
There was nothing shy or uncertain about it this time. His hand came up to cradle the back of Elliott's neck as he pulled him in, the kiss deepening—slow, consuming, the kind of kiss that made the world blur out at the edges. Elliott melted against him, laughter still caught between their lips, and Aiden thought vaguely that he would never get used to this—the taste of champagne and defiance and Elliott's ridiculous, infuriating audacity.
The crowd could watch. The court could gossip. The world could burn.
He had his world in his arms again. And for now—and for always—that was all that mattered.
THE END.
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AN: I guess...thats it. 🥹. It's time to go. This story has a special place in my heart- it's the first historical fantasy BL novel I started and actually completed (my unfinished projects are side eyeing me so hard rn). I'll probably start updating 'Rag me up' in a few days. I've already started writing it, but I think I should start uploading it with like 5 chapters so anyone reading can get a general idea of the story and how it'll be. I will be uploading side stories of this, but the main story is completed now. Feel free to drop suggestions of anything you'd like to see in side stories. It would make my day if everyone reading writes a comment on this chapter- kinda like a review of the whole story (constructive criticism is VERY welcome pls i need to improve). Thankyou in advance to everyone who did you made my day!!! Secondly, I want everyone to pls pls PLS write a review about what you liked about the story so it can motivate new readers to pick it up. Even like a rating review helps. Thank you to everyone who does.