#ezamahual

[notapaladin]

Ezamahual: Acatl-tzin’s gonna kill us when he finds out!

Teomitl: you mean IF he finds out.

Ezamahual: if...if is good.

[notapaladin]

Ezamahual: Acatl-tzin looks so calm and composed. i wonder how he does it?

Acatl, internally: fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck--

[notapaladin]

keep on stretching towards the light

Acatl, A Fool: “oh i’ve been zapped by a truth spell, that’s fine, I’ll just avoid Teomitl until it wears off” Teomitl, totally known for gracefully leaving people alone: “you wanna bet??”

Also on AO3

-

He hadn’t actually meant to kill the sorcerer. The boundaries of the Fifth World hadn’t been broken, and he’d entertained hopeful thoughts of taking the man—Tocatzin, age about fifty-three, relatives estranged—alive. They had courts for a reason, after all. He’d been halfway through an introductory sentence when the man had rushed him, and the ensuing fight had been...short.

Acatl had reluctantly submitted himself to his priests’ care as they stitched and bandaged the wounds he’d taken, listening with half an ear to their words as he chewed over some of the things Tocatzin had been shouting as they fought. There had been a short, aborted spell still lingering in the air when he’d burst into the man’s hut, not one he was familiar with, and then they’d closed the distance and it had all been knives and profanity and chaos. One phrase in particular had stuck in his mind. “You priests are liars!” Tocatzin had screamed at him. “I will loose your tongues for you!”

Hm. He hadn’t felt any particular urge to start chattering like a grackle yet.

“Acatl-tzin!” That was Ichtaca, not quite rushing in but certainly bustling more than Acatl thought warranted. “How do you feel?”

I’m fine, he wanted to say. I’ve had worse.

What actually came out was a sharp snap of, “Like shit, what do you think?!”

Ichtaca jerked backwards. Ezamahual’s eyes widened. Palli dropped the bandages he was holding, letting them unroll across the floor unimpeded.

Acatl blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed his mouth again, because the apology that he knew he should be giving—for his language, if nothing else—was simply nowhere to be found.

“Well,” he started, and then had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek because there was nothing he could say that wasn’t profane or idiotic. Because he knew that, and he knew his priests expected dignity or at least basic decency from him, and yet—he tasted blood—he very much wanted to say it anyway. Because suddenly, Tocatzin’s threats were making a lot more sense.

Not blurting out his every racing thought was far harder than it had any right to be, but Ichtaca spared him from having to talk by squinting at him suspiciously and saying, “Oh, by the Duality. I knew there was something wrong after that battle. That sorcerer didn’t leave you with only physical injuries, did he?” After a hasty moment, he added, “Don’t answer that.”

Acatl didn’t. Acatl, in fact, kept his mouth resolutely shut for the next several hours as his priests examined him again, this time with an eye towards any lingering curses. And now that Acatl was looking, he couldn’t believe he’d missed it himself—an oily black film gleamed greasily in his priest-senses, clinging to his mouth and tongue no matter how much he tried to scrub it away. Palli and Ichtaca were careful not to speak directly to him or ask him questions; any other time he might have been pleased at that, but not when he could guess the reason why. He’d already proven himself vicious.

“A truth-telling curse,” Ichtaca finally pronounced.

“Great,” he muttered, laden so heavily with sarcasm that the single word dripped with it.

If it had happened to anyone else—Quenami or Acamapichtli, maybe—he might have been impressed. (Honestly, if it had happened to Quenami he would have cheered.) It turned out to be a remarkably clever bit of spellcraft; for all that it only lasted four days, that was still four days in which he would be compelled to answer any questions or observations with the direct, unvarnished words of his heart or suffer an agonizing burning, choking sensation in his throat. In the Imperial court, such honesty would be a death sentence. And even outside of politics...well, Acatl didn’t flatter himself that he was a tactful man. People who might consider themselves his friends and allies probably wouldn’t stay that way for long if he let his truest thoughts meet the open air.

There was no cure, at least not one that they’d been able to find. Ichtaca had apologized, but he’d waved the man off. True, such a curse was definitely going to be annoying, but avoiding ill effects wouldn’t be too hard. He just...wouldn’t talk to anyone for four days. He could manage that, surely.

But no sooner did he feel the first stirrings of relief than the emotion faded, ice dropping into the pit of his stomach.

Teomitl.

Fuck.

At least his priests had blessedly left him alone, so there was no one to see the face he pulled or—Duality forbid—ask him why. Suddenly no longer hungry, he set down the cold leftovers he’d been halfheartedly chewing through and drew his cloak closer around him, staring up at the stars without really seeing them. Any other night, he might have taken advantage of the clear autumn sky to gauge whether they’d brightened recently—whether Tizoc was, maybe, closer to death and Teomitl to the throne. He didn’t. He didn’t want to think about Teomitl at all, but he abruptly couldn’t stop.

Not that he wasn’t used to being unable to stop thinking about Teomitl. It had done something to his heart, seeing the man on the temple steps and knowing deep in his soul that he was looking at his future Emperor. At first he’d thought it was despair; knowing that Teomitl was no longer his student, that they wouldn’t have that excuse to spend time together anymore, that he’d have to let him go, had twisted his emotions into knots. But then Teomitl had kept just being around, the next day and the next week and the next month, and that despair had slowly melted into something warm and tender.

And from there, it had very quickly turned into—well. The cousin of what he was feeling now.

He took a mechanical bite of chili-smothered fish, barely noticing the burn. Breathless desire was bad enough when he was reasonably assured Teomitl didn’t know about it; he’d managed so far to keep the occasional stammer to a minimum, and he was nearly certain the man hadn’t noticed his gaze wandering over thighs and shoulders and abs. But if they actually spoke, with him suffering as he was now...

He squeezed his eyes shut. I can’t. I can’t risk that. Gods, I’ve tried so hard.

Teomitl was a dozen years younger than him, married to his sister, and due to become the next Emperor of the Mexica. Acatl had taken vows of celibacy. He’d long since accepted he didn’t have a chance; gods, he was lucky to still be in Teomitl’s life at all. Once, he’d thought that only his hatred and bitterness could have wrecked his relationship with Teomitl, but that had been when he’d been seething over Tizoc and Teomitl had still been reeling from the bastard showing his true colors. He hadn’t realized that them being fully on the same page could tempt him to do the same thing, but there it was. When Teomitl stormed into his courtyard grumbling about morning meetings and temple reconstruction, Acatl felt his mood lift. When Teomitl spat fury over Quenami’s continued existence in the Fifth World, Acatl grinned—grinned!—and joined in. When Teomitl met his eyes or brushed their fingers together, Acatl didn’t pull away.

When Teomitl smiled, it took all his efforts not to blurt out something stupid. And that was on a normal day, when he was half-distracted by his latest case or an upcoming funeral vigil or whatever Teomitl had been up to recently. As he was now, he didn’t stand a chance.

Grimacing, he scrubbed a hand over his face. Alright, then. He could deal with this. The situation probably wasn’t completely hopeless. Sure, Teomitl had developed a near-daily habit of stopping by for a meal, and sure, he could probably charm gossip out of Acatl’s priests no matter how much they’d been impressed with the need for secrecy, and sure, he would be worried for Acatl’s health if he realized he was avoiding him—but all that could be dealt with. It was only four days. Less than a week. He’d claim to be busy. They’d been separated for longer.

Not while Teomitl’s in the city, his mind pointed out unhelpfully. Not while the Fifth World isn’t in danger. Not while one of you isn’t hiding a secret you’re terrified of revealing.

He surged to his feet, cleared away the remains of his dinner—he hated wasting food, but he definitely wasn’t capable of finishing it with the state he was in—and threw himself down on his mat.

Sleep was a long time coming.

&

The first day turned out to be remarkably easy.

He woke, made his devotions, washed his face, remembered to eat—breakfast was becoming habitual by now—and headed straight to his temple, throwing himself into two autopsies and half a vigil before Palli burst in with news of a haunting that had killed two people in the Floating Gardens a good hour’s brisk walk away. By the time he got back from that—ghost banished, families comforted, the dead tended in their own calpulli’s temple—it was heading towards midafternoon and the greatest danger was past. Teomitl usually ate his dinners with Mihmatini, anyway. Just to be sure, Acatl buried himself in work until well after sunset before slinking back home to a cold meal and a colder mat.

It was on the second day that things started to unravel.

He was far too close to the temple gates, deep in conversation with Ichtaca about the state of their budget and the necessity of actually selling some of the quetzal feathers and jade beads noble families kept giving them, when he heard a familiar set of approaching footsteps. He barely managed to clamp his jaw shut around a curse.

Worse, Ichtaca noticed. “Acatl-tzin?”

“I’m going,” he gritted out, and swirled his cloak around him as he strode—not fled, thank you very much—into the depths of the temple complex. The archives would be a good place to hide. Teomitl knew where they were, of course, but Acatl could count on one hand all the times he’d seen the man reading anything for fun and still have fingers left over.

For the first time, he was almost glad that Ichtaca had been markedly cool towards Teomitl ever since that attempted coup. If he didn’t seem to desire Teomitl’s company, his Fire Priest would be happy to keep them apart. Perhaps he’d even be merciful enough to wait until Acatl could lie again before asking why. Maybe he thinks we’ve had a fight, he thought sourly. It was possible; Teomitl was a man of strong passions, and even with their newfound openness towards one another it was easy to imagine a disagreement blowing up into something that required distance.

He sat down, his back to the wall, and took up a codex detailing the case notes kept by his immediate predecessor. There weren’t many; Huitziltemoc had been more interested in the state of the temple accounts (never full enough) and politics (Acamapichtli had probably loved him)  than slaying monsters, and he’d been old enough at his death to have been mostly retired from that anyway. Still, what was there made for interesting reading, especially when he got to the absolute debacle that had been the fall of the priestesses of Mictecacihuatl.

Midway through an account of a particularly pushy tlacanexquimilli—the possessed funeral bundle had gone from simply giving useless gifts to actually throwing them at people and then trying to smother them when they turned it down—he heard measured footsteps and hunched his shoulders up, fighting the urge to try and hide in the corner.

“Acatl-tzin,” Ichtaca said. He sounded exhausted. “What on earth was that all about.”

It wasn’t a question. But apparently it was close enough for the curse, because instead of just holding his tongue he blurted out, “I can’t face him right now,” and immediately prayed for the earth to swallow him.

He wasn’t that lucky. Worse, Ichtaca didn’t even look surprised. “...I see,” he said finally. “I told him you’d stepped out on a case. He brought you a newt skewer.”

Acatl took it, because you didn’t turn down food and because his stupid, traitorous heart still kept going all warm and gooey in his chest every time Teomitl brought him anything. He was midway through his first bite when Ichtaca added, “By the way, there’s to be a banquet at the palace tomorrow night. You are required to attend.”

The delicious newt suddenly tasted like ashes in his mouth. “...Ugh. Fuck. Gods damn it.”

So much for his plans to avoid Teomitl, he thought bitterly, before a much worse realization sank into his chest. A banquet meant the presence of Acamapichtli and Quenami. Teomitl finding out his true feelings would be humiliating. But his fellow High Priests? Or worse, Tizoc?

He wondered if it was too late to find a priest of Tlazolteotl and confess his sins before he died.

&

The banquet was already worse than he’d thought, and he’d only just sat down.

For one thing, he had the worst seating arrangement humanly possible. Granted, he always had the worst seating arrangement humanly possible—on his right a man who’d tried to execute him, on his left a man who’d nearly gotten his brother killed—but at least he wasn’t usually so strongly tempted to greet them with “you bastards” instead of their actual names. He’d managed so far to get away with a nod and a grunt, hoping their mutual animosity wouldn’t encourage them to speak.

And then Quenami said casually—as casually as he ever did anything, which meant Acatl could practically see the scorpion’s tail arcing over his shoulder—“A lovely night for a banquet, isn’t it?”

He ground his teeth. It didn’t work. “You’re here and speaking, so no.”

“s that any way to speak to your superior?” Now the threat was clear, and any other night Acatl would have backed down. He wasn’t suicidal.

It was the curse that spoke for him. “No, but then I don’t see a man worthy of the title.”

Quenami’s lips drew back from his teeth, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by Acamapichtli leaning around Acatl to clap a heavy hand to his shoulder. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we? Disharmony threatens us all.”

Thank the gods it hadn’t been directed at him and so he didn’t have to respond. Biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, he awaited the arrival of the first course and breathed a sigh of relief when it was placed in front of him. Even Quenami couldn’t have a conversation with his mouth full. And maybe—just maybe—the food would lift his mood as well.

It didn’t. It was delicious, but that was of no use to him when he had ample time to let his gaze wander around the room. Entirely predictably, it wandered in the direction of Teomitl. Teomitl, who gleamed in the flickering torchlight, who was dressed in nearly as much gold as his imperial brother, who looked so preoccupied and worried sitting next to Mihmatini that Acatl’s heart ached. Gods, he hoped nothing had happened between them; it felt like they’d only just made up.

Acatl lowered his gaze before Teomitl could catch him staring and scooped up another bite of baked squash, trying to think of what could have put that expression on his—student’s? Friend’s? No, he couldn’t even lie to himself in his own head and the word that came to mind was beloved’s—face. Maybe Tizoc had done something foolish again. Maybe he was just tired. Or maybe—Acatl’s chest twinged—maybe he’d noticed Acatl’s absence, and was upset by it. I’m sorry, he thought in Teomitl’s direction. I’ll come see you when this is over.

(Staying away would have been the smarter decision, but he’d made his choice on that already.)

He was aware of Acamapichtli studying him out of the corner of his eye. It was better than another one of Quenami’s little comments, but not by much; they would never be friends. He bent his head to his plate again, studiously ignoring the man and hoping he’d take the hint.

Of course he didn’t. In fact he leaned closer, well within Acatl’s jealously guarded personal space. “Why, Acatl. Anyone would think you don’t want to be here.”

Chew. Swallow. Catch the eye of a servant for more maguey sap. But even with those distractions, he evidently still had to respond. “I don’t,” he snapped.

That earned him one of those smirks he always wanted to knock off the man’s face. “You’re pricklier than usual.”

Gods, and even his voice was annoying, as though Acatl’s ill temper was funny. It made his teeth grind, and he suddenly regretted having come armed. “Have I stabbed you yet? No.” It would be so easy. It was terrible, how easy it would be. He wondered if the curse was affecting his mood as well—and against his will, his gaze flicked to Teomitl again. His former student was starting to smile at something Mihmatini had said, which should have made him feel better but didn’t. He grimaced, shoving down the sick twist of jealousy in his chest.

Acamapichtli blinked at him. “...Much pricklier than usual. What’s Teomitl done?”

He stiffened. That tone—like Teomitl’s an unruly child, like he still needs someone to keep him in line, like I’ll take it out on everyone around me because—what, because I had some kind of lover’s spat? But that was a bad choice of words even in his own head, because now he was blushing and Acamapichtli had to see it. His voice was a half-strangled hiss. “Absolutely nothing—and why is that your first question?!”

Mercifully, Acamapichtli lowered his voice to match. The banquet was loud and Quenami was calling for another drink, but the discretion was...oddly appreciated. “Consider me a concerned friend.”

Acatl growled, fingers twitching. “Not if you paid me.”

This didn’t seem to faze the High Priest of Tlaloc at all. “Fine, then consider me someone who doesn’t want the Fifth World to be destroyed. What’s wrong with you?”

He sucked in a breath. “I’ve been cursed, not that it’s any of your business,” he hissed.

Acamapichtli’s eyes gleamed. “Interesting. I suppose that’s why you keep hunching up like you’re expecting a knife between the shoulderblades.”

Not an inaccurate statement. Quenami was still sitting on his other side. “In case you’ve forgotten, multiple people here have threatened my family.”

For a moment, Acamapichtli was silent. Thinking. And then his gaze slid past Acatl and he remarked, barely audibly, “I’m surprised Teomitl hasn’t offered to...remove the problem for you.”

“He has,” Acatl muttered. “Multiple times.” The memory made his heart race. Probably, he thought, it should have horrified him. But after all they’d been through...well. It was touching, in a twisted way, even if the warmth in Teomitl’s eyes as he’d murmured, “I can kill them for you, Acatl-tzin,” had entirely robbed him of breath in the moment.

Acamapichtli raised an eyebrow, jerking his chin towards Quenami—who was decimating a roast duck, thankfully, and wouldn’t have been able to hear them over the flautists even if he wasn’t. “And you turned him down?”

“Yes,” Acatl snapped, voice clipped. “It wouldn’t have been right.” A quick breath that scorched his lungs, and he added bitterly, “Not that you’d know anything about that.”

The man had the nerve to roll his eyes. Acatl could very cheerfully have punched him. “Good to know his regard for you is all that stands between us and political upheaval.”

Acatl’s gaze had drifted back to Teomitl as he spoke, admiring the way light flickered across his skin and sank into the blackness of his hair, so it took an embarrassing few heartbeats for Acamapichtli’s words to sink in—and when they did, he nearly choked on his own spit. Wonderful. “Regard?!” he half-yelped.

Acamapichtli snorted. “I’d have to be even blinder than I already am not to see it.”

Knowing he was gaping like a fish, he quickly snapped his mouth shut before anyone (Quenami) took note of it. When he found words, it was more of an incoherent spluttering than a real protest. Duality, if Acamapichtli had noticed—Acamapichtli, who he only saw when necessary—and he’d thought he’d been so discreet—then that meant Teomitl might have, too. “I don’t—that’s not—”

This time, he was too stunned to do more than twitch when Acamapichtli patted his shoulder. “Mm-hmm. If you say so.”

Counting to ten didn’t help. Counting backwards from ten didn’t help. His tongue burned as he muttered, “...I hate you so, so much.”

For a moment, Acamapichtli just looked at him—and then he sighed, shaking his head. “You and Teomitl are cut from the same cloth. I don’t know what we're going to do when he’s Revered Speaker.”

An odd sense of calm washed over him. Oh, he was furious and violence was sorely tempting, but the noise and bustle of his surroundings and the knowledge that Teomitl was here, that Teomitl would see, that starting a fight here would truly anger Tizoc and this time he wouldn’t hold Teomitl back if Teomitl decided to remove the problem kept him still as stone even though his voice trembled and his fists clenched hard enough to leave marks in his palm. “How dare you,” he breathed, locking eyes with Acamapichtli. “When he is crowned, we will kneel and pledge our allegiance and we’ll be glad of it. He’ll be the best Revered Speaker we’ve ever had.”

Acamapichtli didn’t look convinced. “...Have you told him that?”

A direct question. He couldn’t lie. “...No.” No, because if he told Teomitl than then he’d wind up telling him everything.

“Think about it.”

Ice slid down his spine, but he did. And he kept thinking about it all through the banquet—when courses were cleared away, when Tizoc made a speech, when Teomitl caught his eye across the room and he bit his lip to the blood to keep the words in.

&

Really, he should have expected to be woken up just before the conch shells by running footsteps. His life was already horrible. But it was still a nasty shock, and so before he was entirely awake he snarled, “Unless the Temple is on fucking fire, fuck off and let me sleep!” through his entrance curtain.

Hm. Maybe that wasn’t the fault of his curse. In his defense, he’d slept rather poorly; his dreams had been full of Teomitl again. He’d practically fled from the banquet the instant it was over, aware of Teomitl getting up and moving after him as though to follow him before the crowd separated them. Though he still cursed himself for a coward, it had just been too much to face in that moment. He’d known what Teomitl was going to ask—”what’s the matter, are you well, what happened to you”—and it had been bad enough answering those questions from a man he despised. So he might have started a fight? Well, he was used to that. He could have held his own.

But this...

“Acatl?”

Teomitl. Of course it was Teomitl, and of course he sounded shocked and hurt. Acatl had never sworn at him before. Acatl had barely even sworn in his presence before.

He took a deep breath, raking his fingers through his hair. “What,” he said flatly.

“Uh.” There was an inarticulate mumble, followed by a somewhat clearer, “What’s this I heard about a curse?”

Acamapichtli, you asshole. Grimacing, he called, “I don’t know what you heard. Let me get dressed.”

If his hands shook as he tied his loincloth and slung his cape over his shoulders, he made himself ignore it.

Teomitl was waiting for him. Even in the dim gray light he was beautiful, but he didn’t look like he’d slept well either; there were dark shadows under his eyes, and the furrow between his brows deepened as he looked Acatl over. There was a sort of nervous energy to him, as though he was holding himself back from—what? Pulling Acatl into his arms? No, that was just wishful thinking. “Acamapichtli said you told him you’d been cursed. He didn’t say with what. Are you—what happened?”

He inhaled, “I fought a sorcerer.” Not enough of an answer. “As he died, he put a truth spell on me.”

Teomitl went pale. “Is there a cure? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, but I’m fine.” He was. Really. It wouldn’t kill him, even if he wished it would. Even if he couldn’t stop his tongue from digging his own grave. “It only lasts four days, so it should wear off at midnight.”

Teomitl bit his lip. “And...is that why you’ve been avoiding me?”

He inhaled. “Yes.” He couldn’t say he was sorry. He wasn’t. But he could add, “I’m just glad it was placed on me and not you. If you were hit with a truth spell, you’d probably cause seven diplomatic incidents in the first five minutes.”

Teomitl looked about to argue, but then he paused and frowned skeptically at him. “Are you sure you’re cursed?”

Well, some things never changed. “Rude!” he huffed. “I love you madly, but if you don’t learn some tact before your brother dies we’re all going to be in trouble.”

Teomitl didn’t appear to have heard him. He was staring at Acatl like a stunned rabbit, mouth slightly open. Acatl tried not to think about the curve of his lower lip until the man spoke, drawing his attention right back to it. “You...love me?”

Oh. Shit. He’d never meant to say that. His face felt like it was on fire, but he couldn’t take the words back no matter how much he wanted to. It was, after all, the truth. He hoped Tocatzin’s journey through Mictlan right now was painful. Please don’t ask me to elaborate, he prayed.

Too late. Teomitl was stalking closer, and when he took Acatl’s hand in both of his own Acatl couldn’t pull away. Not when the man looked at him like that, as though he was on the edge of everything he’d ever wanted but wasn’t sure it was for him to have. Not when hope was stirring in his own breast.

“You love me,” Teomitl repeated. “As a man?”

Once, Acatl might have contemplated his answer. This could be a political disaster. This could break Mihmatini’s heart. This could destroy the relationship, the friendship, they were building. And if nothing else, in his wildest dreams of confessing he would have wanted a more picturesque location and a decent night’s sleep. But with the curse still on him—the curse, and his heart hammering in his chest, and Teomitl looking so hopeful—all he could say was, “Yes. Yes, gods, so much—”

And then he didn’t need to worry about saying anything else, because Teomitl was kissing him. This, he hadn’t even dared dream about; it was rough and hungry and enthusiastic and tasted like the herbs Teomitl cleaned his teeth with and he kissed back, messy and unpracticed, until he had to break away to breathe. By then Teomitl had let go of his hand in favor of his waist, so it wasn’t like he was going far.

Teomitl was the first one to speak, grinning so brightly it was like the sun had come up already. He sounded like he was barely holding back a laugh. “Thank fuck for Acamapichtli.”

Acatl sucked in a breath. “I could strangle that bastard, I can’t believe he told you—”

The smile faded. “Would you have said anything to me if he didn’t?”

He winced, casting his gaze around the courtyard in lieu of actually meeting Teomitl’s eyes. “...No. I didn’t think you’d react well.”

Teomitl blinked at him. And then he did laugh, a half-choked snort of pure amusement. “And I thought you wouldn’t react well! Mihmatini’s not going to let me live this down.”

“She knows?!” Entirely without his conscious input, his fingers tightened on Teomitl’s waist. By the little shiver that coursed through Teomitl’s body, that wasn’t unappreciated. He sternly told himself to notice it later, after he’d made sure no part of his life was about to burn down around his ears.

It was a hard thing to avoid when coupled with the way Teomitl blushed, though. “I like having my limbs attached to me! And—and apparently I wasn’t. Subtle. In the first place. But neither were you, alright, Acamapichtli said you leapt to my defense—”

“I did,” he blurted out. It was too late to feel embarrassed about it; Teomitl had to know this. And he had to say it now, before he lost his nerve. “You’re going to be incredible when you’re crowned; your name will rise like smoke, nobody will even remember who Tizoc was, and you’ll spread our Empire from one end of the sea-ringed world to the other. I can’t wait. I almost punched Acamapichtli in the fucking teeth for having your name in his mouth—mmph!”

He definitely should have expected Teomitl to cut him off with a ferocious kiss, but it was still a shock. This one was awkward, with teeth in it—he hadn’t gotten his mouth into the right position—and Teomitl was growling like a jaguar and hauling their bodies so close together that he wasn’t sure which heartbeat was currently pulsing under his skin.

“I love you,” Teomitl breathed when they broke away. “Acatl, gods, I swear—I’m going to be worthy of the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown, I’m going to make you so proud—”

Acatl’s heart melted. “You already do,” he murmured, and then they were kissing again and probably would have kept on like that until they shriveled up from dehydration if the conch shells hadn’t blared so loudly that he had to jerk away with a wince.

Teomitl was grinning. “Let’s go inside. I have to thank the gods for you.”

[notapaladin]

harmonic orchestra (the teocatl edition, pt 2)

yeah these mini-fills are STILL GOING. As always, can also be read on AO3, though I’m posting one a day there and they are not all teocatl. (not all of these are EXPLICITLY teocatl either, but know that they are in my heart)

-

(teomitl & acatl – a good influence)

In another world, he loses his temper. Tzutzumatzin tells him the springs of Coyoacan are unpredictable at best and dangerous at worse, and he sees only disrespect. How dare anyone tell him what to do? Is he not Emperor? And so he has the lord strangled and goes ahead with his plan, knowing none will gainsay him save for the gods themselves.

And they do. The aqueducts burst, the city floods, and Ahuitzotl—the man whose name signifies a terrifying, thorny water beast, the man chosen to rule Tenochtitlan, the man who led the Triple Alliance from one end of the sea-ringed world to the other—Ahuitzotl drowns. They say it is the wrath of the gods, but his own prickly nature led the way.

In this world, he stops. Waits. Breathes, the way Acatl is always telling him. And makes himself listen, really listen, to what the other man is saying about the springs that will fuel his aqueducts. Now he sees that no offense is meant, that he is truly trying to help and is merely somewhat less than courteous about it—and since he’s quite often been accused of the same, even by Mihmatini who loves him, he can’t be too angry. He’s sworn that he’ll never follow his brother’s hypocrisy.

He still can’t make himself be happy about it, but he sits back on his mat and meets Tzutzumatzin’s eyes. “What do you suggest instead? We must have that water.”

“...Well, Ahuitzotl-tzin…”

The floods still come. A different source for the city’s water helps, but Jade Skirt and the Storm Lord are still not in a helpful or even pleasant mood and there are always sorcerers who want to see him dead. Half of Tenochtitlan goes under, sparing not even his palace, and many die. But it isn’t as bad as it could be—thank the gods, that it isn’t as bad as it could be—and when he’s pulled from the water, it’s only three days until he opens his eyes. Battered, half-drowned, three-quarters lame, and with holes in his memory that will never close, but alive.

Acatl and Mihmatini don’t question why he keeps thanking them. They’re too busy clasping his hands in utter, wordless relief.

-

(acatl – noir au)

The office was dark. It was almost always dark—he hadn’t been able to afford anything better than this building, and the surrounding skyscrapers blocked all the natural light—but today was worse, because it had been raining for so long he couldn’t even remember how sunlight felt on his skin. Throwing wide the shades and guzzling cup after cup of cheap, terrible black coffee had woken him up earlier, but that had been earlier. The sun had gone down since then, and the flickering gas threw deep shadows. Acatl propped his chin on his hand, stared down at his blotter, and fought to keep his eyes open.

Christ, but he was tired. He thought he’d been born tired. His latest case had angered some very powerful people in the upper echelons of the mayor’s office, and Ceyaxochitl—who’d set him on it in the first place, shamelessly using her power as the unofficial boss of the city’s underworld—had been unwilling to throw him a line as the bigwigs went from simply unhelpful to actively threatening overnight. The viciously angry part of him hoped that Acamapichtli himself would stop by for a chat. Alone. It would give him an excuse to show the bastard why you didn’t threaten his family, no matter who you worked for.

He’d just picked up his notebook—maybe he’d go over the facts of Elueia’s disappearance one more time—when the bell over his door rang.

He set the notebook down.

The young man sidling in was tall and wiry and dark, hair buzzed almost unfashionably short. His eyes were dark too, filled with a nervous energy, and Acatl quickly swept his gaze over him. Brown trenchcoat, the shoulders wet from the rain. Equally brown hat. No visible bulges that could be hidden weapons, but he kept the desk between them anyway as he rose. “What can I do for you?”

The man—more of a boy, really—met his gaze head-on, unafraid. “My name is Teomitl. Ceyaxochitl sent me to help.”

-

(acatl/teomitl – sea of jade)

Teomitl's patron goddess is Chalchiuhtlicue, She Whose Skirt Is Jade, and sometimes that doesn't matter. Sometimes Teomitl's eyes and skin are just brown, his skin gleaming only with his own good health, and when he bleeds it is only an ordinary shade of red. (He is still beautiful, of course, but it's a beauty Acatl's grown accustomed to. Not that it doesn't still take his breath away! But when you've been loving the same man for so long, at some point you stop being completely dumbstruck when you wake up next to him in the morning.)

This is not one of those times. Teomitl's eyes are jade from end to end, his skin rippling with the green reflections of sunlight seen from the bottom of the lake, and the air is filled with the stench of churned mud and blood and algae. The ahuitzotls he commands are coiled savagery by his side, the clawed hands at the ends of their tails clenching rhythmically as they await his command to go for the eyes of their foes.

He's the most beautiful thing Acatl's ever seen, and it frightens him more than he can put into words.

(And then the battle is joined, and he has just enough time to be thankful that the goddess's power is on their side. He has none at all for fear.)

-

(acatl & teomitl – modern au: not answering the phone)

"You left me. On. Read."

Teomitl wondered if it was too late to hang up. Claim he'd wandered somewhere with no service. Throw his phone into the street to get crushed by a semi. Anything would be better than this conversation with the man who'd once been his mentor—this conversation he hadn't even intended to have, except that when he'd seen Acatl's name on the caller ID he'd picked it up without thinking, forgetting all the very good and logical reasons why that was a bad idea. "Look, Acatl—"

"You tried to get your brother removed from office and the department closed down, and you left me on read! You left my sister on read! Do you know what that plot of yours would have done to her degree credits?!"

Right. Mihmatini was going to kill him too. He shuddered, but then he remembered why. Through gritted teeth, he snapped back, "My brother is a paranoid megalomaniac who tried to have you fired! If he's left in charge of the city coroner's office, can you imagine the damage he'll do?"

"Yes." Acatl's voice on the other end was a snarl. "But if you'd told me—"

"You would have disapproved. You would have tried to stop me." Acatl was always cautious, never liked taking risks. Teomitl hadn't seen a single way forward that didn't go through him, so he'd removed him from consideration. No matter how much the thought hurt.

"I would have shown you some better ways to get what you want!" He'd never heard Acatl raise his voice before. It made him feel about an inch tall. "You could have confided in me, and I would have tried to help you."

He swallowed once. Twice. He wouldn't start crying now. "I thought…"

Acatl must have picked up on it—damn him—because his voice softened. "You can't run for his office in a few years if you have a criminal record, Teomitl."

He sucked in a long, slow breath. "...I'm going to hang up now. I'll be at that coffee place on your corner in half an hour."

That was probably enough time for a minor breakdown.

-

(acatl – a nice day where things go well)

The sun is shining, and for once he has time to enjoy it. He’s been up for a long time—there was a vigil the night before, and they’d needed their High Priest—but he’s not tired. Not enough to pass out yet, at any rate. No, now he’s going to make his devotions to the gods, grab a bite to eat, and...well. There’s nowhere in particular he has to be this morning. Maybe he’ll take a walk.

The temple kitchens furnish him with a delicious tamale. The breeze kicks up as he leaves the gates behind, cooling his skin and providing some measure of protection from what promises to be a warm day. He eats as he walks; he’s picking his way through the crowd with no real destination in mind, but somehow it isn’t surprising when he winds up in front of the Duality House.

He pauses. Mihmatini’s always telling him he should visit more often. But he hates to drop in unannounced, in case she’s sleeping or busy or simply doesn’t wish to see him—

“Acatl!”

His sister is beaming at him, bouncing up and down on her toes as though he could possibly miss her. “Come in!” she calls. “Come and eat breakfast with us!”

Even if he was full—he isn’t—he wouldn’t turn her down. Smiling, he walks in for a second breakfast and a wonderful, peaceful morning.

-

(teomitl/acatl – laughter)

Teomitl’s not sure how it happened, how their day went so bad so quickly—they’re both exhausted, both bleeding from a dozen please-gods-please-be-minor wounds, and even the monster that inflicted them laying dead at their feet doesn’t make it better—but he huffs out, “Well, that wasn’t the birthday present I’d had planned for you,” and Acatl—

Acatl stares at him for the space of one heartbeat, two, and then bursts out laughing.

He stares back. He’s sure he’s blushing, knows for a fact that his jaw’s just gone slack with shock, and both of those are reactions he needs to get better at controlling, but he can’t. He’s heard Acatl chuckle before, half-disbelieving little huffs of air that say he’s surprised at himself for finding amusement in something. He’s never heard him laugh. It’s not attractive, not really; it’s breathless and a little wheezy and turns his whole face red, and even when he pauses it’s only to suck in a long gasp of air and choke out, “A birthday present—” in a way that suggests he’s about to be set off again.

Oh no, comes Teomitl’s next conscious thought. Oh no, I love him.

Acatl, still wheezing, has to sit down to catch his breath. There are actual tears in his eyes when he looks up. “Ah...hah, forgive me...it was just...the battle, and the way you said it—“

He’s grinning like a fool and doesn’t care. “It’s more than alright. Come on, let’s—” Go back to my rooms. Have our wounds dressed. Join me in my private baths. Let me show you all the ways I can make your day better.

But then the Jaguar Knights are pounding along the streets towards them because they’ve finally heard the sounds of battle from the men they’re supposed to be guarding—he knows who’s next on his demotion lists—and he never gets a chance to finish the sentence.

-

(ollin – reflecting on his uncles)

The High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli is lighting incense for a funeral. He’s been doing little else for days; the men from across the sea have sent far, far too many of his people to a warrior’s death. But this one is not like the others, because tonight he stands vigil over the men who saved the rest of them. He closes his eyes, exhales, and remembers.

Uncle Acatl had never trusted the pale men in their shiny metal armor from the start. He’d hated their languages, their foul manners, the way they could barely go a sentence without trying to push their god on their listeners even though an interpreter. But he’d also been old and crotchety, and so Aunt Mihmatini and Uncle Teomitl had given the foreigners enough benefit of the doubt (and, as they’d pointed out, respect for the army of Tlaxcalans they’d brought with them) to allow their leaders into the city. Even their strange weapons couldn’t stand against a city blessed by the gods, could they?

Oh, how wrong they’d been. The clash of their cannons and horses against Huitzilopochtli’s righteous fury had nearly levelled the city itself, and then their leader—Cortes—had taken advantage of the chaos to break through Aunt Mihmatini’s guard and hold a blade to her throat to force a surrender.

And that had been his fatal mistake, because it had bought them—his uncles, the other High Priests, the Guardian herself—time to strike back. He’ll never forget the moment they had. That single, terrible moment when he’d dropped to his knees and watched the sky split open, watched his captors screaming and writhing in agony as their bones turned to obsidian and their skin to jade, their blood spilling to earth like juice from an overripe fruit.

Tenochtitlan was safe again, and all it had cost them was their connections to the gods. Oh, he can still feel them; souls are being ushered to their proper places, and Mictlan’s presence coils in his gut like a serpent. But the serpent is sleeping, its fangs tucked away, and none of them know when—or if—it will wake again. The new High Priest of Huitzilopochtli has not yet been able to offer the proper sacrifices, but the sun has risen anyway.

He inhales, feeling his eyes prickle in a way he can’t blame on the smoke. His uncles died as heroes, their names destined to live forever, but he wishes they were here. At least they’ll be burned on the same pyre, together in death as they were in life.

“Ollin-tzin?”

Ollin rises, brushes off his hands, and heads into the sunlight that they purchased for him.

-

acatl/teomitl – soup, pt 2 (“I love you. I want us both to eat well.”)

The temple accounts don't care for mortal frailty or the need for sustenance. They will loom there on the table, unyielding, until they are dealt with properly—and in his temple, he's going to be the one to do them. Of course Ichtaca could handle it for him���of course! the man is endlessly competent—but Duality curse him, this is his temple and his responsibility, and so Acatl sits down with a reed pen, several folded codices' worth of ledgers, and all his considerable stubbornness until he realizes—reluctantly—that he can't focus with his stomach trying to glue itself to his spine.

There are approaching footsteps—slow and measured, but still somehow familiar. He looks up just as Teomitl draws aside the entrance curtain. "Acatl-tzin," he says, and smiles, and Acatl feels himself blush.

"What brings you here?" It's a stupid question—he can smell the hot, spicy soup through the clay jug Teomitl's holding—but he has to say something to cover the rush of warmth at the realization that Teomitl's brought him dinner.

At least he's not the only one blushing. "I made you this," Teomitl mutters, and doesn't look at him as he sets it down. "I thought you'd be hungry—you never remember to eat—Mihmatini said this was your favorite, so..." He trails off in an inarticulate little murmur and adds, "I brought spoons."

It's delicious. It's even better when Acatl asks, "What on earth made you think of this?" and Teomitl—spoon halfway to his mouth—blurts out with absolutely no forethought whatsoever, "I love you, so—"

And then of course he drops the spoon, but neither of them care about that.

-

(acatl/teomitl, ezamahual – no accounting for taste)

"Literally, why?"

Ezamahual and Palli were not exactly best friends, but they were close as only two fellow Priests of the Dead could be—servants of the least popular god of the three supporting Tenochtitlan's throne, and the ones generally responsible for running around after their High Priest and making sure he didn't get himself killed dealing with beasts of the underworld (or worse, politics). Therefore, when Ezamahual leaned on his broom and gestured futilely towards the heavens, Palli knew exactly who and what he was talking about.

Accordingly, he reached over and patted the man's shoulder. "There's no accounting for taste."

Another gesture, this time accompanied by a sad shake of his head. "Acatl-tzin is kind. Patient. Even-tempered. Intelligent. I can see why the boy's interested. Anyone with sense would be. But to walk around looking at him like that in public…"

"I thought you liked Teomitl-tzin."

"Not when he and Acatl-tzin—" Ezamahual clamped his mouth shut, but by the way he was turning red Palli already knew what he was going to say.

He couldn't help but remark—after stepping out of range—"Guess we know our teachers were definitely lying about what happens if you break your vow of chastity, at least!"

-

(acatl/teomitl – a cache of jewels)

Teomitl loves him. He's not shy about showing it.

He also loves giving him gifts. He's not shy about that, either. Acatl sits by the carved stone chest that holds his valuables, sighing at the gold and silver and jade within. There are pieces of carved coral as big as duck eggs, a gleaming emerald heart the size of his two fists, ropes of turquoise and jade to weave through his hair. This latest present—a silver spider-and-owl pectoral, the symbol of his order in a form emperors would envy—might not even fit in the box.

"What's that look for?"

He can't help but smile fondly at his lover's voice, shaking his head. "Love…"

"What?"

"Do you remember when I recommended subtlety?"

"That was before I was Emperor," Teomitl says dryly, and...well, he can't argue with that.

-

(acatl/teomitl – mine, all mine)

Logic said that he couldn't lay claim to Teomitl; that he might be the man's lover, but that meant nothing when he couldn't be acknowledged as such in public, when Teomitl would take wives and concubines that could all wear pieces of his heart on their sleeves. Logic said that to be jealous was utter folly, and he should hate himself for it.

Logic had absolutely nothing on the slow, simmering rage of watching another man (some ambassador from another province, all gold and quetzal feathers and arrogance) flirt with the one he loved. Finally, he couldn't take it any more (there was a hand on Teomitl's arm and he was blushing) and before he knew it, he was at Teomitl's side.

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Teomitl's newly radiant smile was only for him, and as they were introduced he locked eyes with the interloper and thought, dark and vicious, Mine.

-

(teomitl – my dreams are red)

All his dreams of the courtyard are different, but in some ways they're very much the same. He stands in the middle of the dusty, bloodstained space with his warriors, a desiccated corpse at his feet, far too late to help Acatl and Mihmatini with their own battle—but then, helping isn't why he's here. He is selfish and greedy and ambitious, and he wants the crown.

And he asks them to support him, and they say no.

And he tells them to stand aside, and they say no.

And he doesn't ask at all.

And they ask him to stop, to think about what he's doing to the world, to the Empire he wants to rule, and he refuses.

And they tell him to stop, that they'll fight him if he takes one step closer, and he doesn't listen.

And then there is so much blood.

(Sometimes it's Mihmatini who falls first, who meets him when he takes that one step and is cut down by his warriors before she can scream. Sometimes it's Acatl, who steps forward with sad eyes and says I'm sorry, Teomitl, I can't let you do this—and falls with a shocked grunt when Teomitl guts him. Sometimes he can't tell which of them dies first; between one blink and the next he is standing in a field of gore, their pieces unidentifiable, and his sister is smiling and congratulating him on his ascension. Sometimes Acatl doesn't die immediately; when Teomitl kneels to hear his final words, they are a snarl of I thought better of you. Those ones are the worst.)

When Mihmatini asks why he's woken with tears in his eyes, he can't tell her.

-

(teomitl/acatl – ivory and alabaster)

The High Priest for the Dead wears white sandals. The cotton is the color of milk and the leather is smooth and pale as alabaster; the decorations keeping the ends of the straps from unraveling are carved human bone.

He is talking, but Teomitl isn't really listening. He's cursing himself for seven different kinds of a fool, for Acatl is as far beyond his reach as the stars in the sky and he is distracted even by the crossing straps of his sandals. Against all that white, his dark skin gleams like polished wood, and they sit close enough that—if he was bold, if he was not such a coward—he could reach out and trace the arch of his foot under the straps, the delicate curve of the ankle above it.

He clenches his fist and stays his hand. White is for death, for the separation between earthly filth and higher things, and his touch will stain.

-

(acatl & teomitl – unorthodox ways of cutting through the red tape)

Acatl will never complain out loud. Such things are a waste of breath, and besides it's both stupid and pointless to rail against the vagaries of fate when doing so won't change anything. But he's leaving a meeting with the Emperor and the other High Priests with a face like stone, and when he only nods a greeting to Teomitl falling into step besides him, Teomitl knows why.

There are times I really hate my brother. He breaks the silence with a nearly-careless shrug. "You know, I could still kill him."

"No, Teomitl."

"I'm only reminding you that the offer's still open!"

"And the answer is still no."

"...Quenami, then?" The High Priest of Huitzilopochtli tried to have Acatl killed, and if there's an option to remove him that won't require waiting for his brother's death, Teomitl's willing to take it. He's always wanted to know if he can get the bastard to roll all the way down the steps of his own temple.

"No!"

-

(teomitl/acatl – headache)

"You look terrible. Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine," Teomitl huffs, but he doesn't lift his head from where he's had it pressed against the cool stone tiles of the shaded courtyard for the past hour. Maybe if he refrains from sudden movements, his skull will stop feeling like it's coming apart at the seams. (Not that it has so far, but hope springs eternal.)

Acatl is not fooled. Acatl is never fooled. Wordlessly, his lover sits on the ground next to him and arranges things so that Teomitl now lays with his head in his lap; the movement actually makes his head hurt worse, but before he can start cursing there are cold, gentle fingers rubbing his temples and oh, that is much better.

"What happened?" he asks, when Teomitl's started to relax.

"Tizoc." He could say more—part of him wants to say more, wants to rant and rail against the day-long meeting with his brother and the war council and how four men could have not one single brain between them he doesn't know—but Acatl will then try to be reasonable with him, and he doesn't want to hear it.

Acatl's hands go still. "Oh," he says, but in his tone Teomitl hears that bastard and his day is immediately improved.

-

(teomitl/acatl, neutemoc – shovel talk)

When Neutemoc sits down next to him in the courtyard, macuahitl across his knees, Teomitl doesn't think anything of it. He and his brother-in-law have often sparred, and it's a fine day for another round. But then the man stretches and rolls his shoulders and looks at him, eyes serious as the executioner's blade, and he realizes this is not, in fact, going to be a fine day.

"Mihmatini tells me she's happy in her marriage," Neutemoc says. No—growls. That's definitely a growl.

Ice oozes slowly down Teomitl's back, but he's stood in front of gods without blinking. He can handle this. "Good. I do my best to keep her that way."

"And she'd let us all know if she wasn't." Neutemoc turns his attention to his sword, angling it so he can dig a dried bit of something unidentifiable from between the close-packed obsidian blades. "My brother, on the other hand...well. He'll put up with a lot, especially from you. All you have to do is smile, and he comes running—no matter what you've done.”

Teomitl takes a deep breath. It's that or pass out. How did you know is on the tip of his tongue—but that's a stupid question. He and Acatl have been quiet and discreet, but not quiet and discreet enough. How dare you would be even worse—he may be Master of the House of Darts, and Neutemoc only a Jaguar Knight, but that doesn't matter when Acatl's well-being is on the line. "And what do you think I've done?"

Neutemoc does not look rattled by his sharp tone. "He's my little brother. A priest sworn to a life of celibacy.  I've seen how persuasive you can be when you have a goal in mind."

Teomitl turns and looks at him incredulously. "I'm sorry, have you met your brother? He's the most stubborn man in Tenochtitlan, and the most devoted to his vocation. If he didn't want to break his vows, nothing I could say or do would make him. The only goal I have is to make him smile."

"...You had better." The obsidian blades flash in the sunlight. "Or your reign will be over before it begins."

[notapaladin]

Ezamahual: Can we sleep in your room tonight?

Acatl: Why, what happened?

Ezamahual: We played with a ouija board and cursed ours.

Ezamahual: And Palli wasn’t much help. He doesn't know how to banish spirits, so he's just throwing salt at them and yelling, "Does this look like a hotel to you?!"

[notapaladin]

Acatl: You guys are my priests, and I want you to know that- as both a High Priest and a friend--I would do anything for you that doesn't break the vows I've sworn.

Ichtaca: Eat three meals a day.

Palli: Sleep regularly.

Ezamahual: Stop isolating yourself.

Acatl: Never mind, you're on your own.

[notapaladin]

Ezamahual: Are you sure you aren’t dating Teomitl?

Acatl: If I am, I certainly wasn’t informed of it.

Ichtaca: To be fair, if any of us were dating someone without realizing it, it would be you.

[notapaladin]

now everything is easy ‘cause of you

In which a baby is dropped on Acatl’s doorstep, and he becomes Dadcatl. Teomitl helps.

Also on AO3!

-

It was the screaming that woke him.

Acatl was off his mat and on his feet in the next instant, one hand scrabbling for his knives and the other shoving his hair off his face. He didn’t need to waste time wondering what it was; he’d been around crying infants most of his life, and Mihmatini had spent her first five months screaming at everything that moved funny. But small children belonged in the calmecac, or the palace—Teomitl had swarms of small cousins—or in the homes of people with families. Not his courtyard.

He stumbled outside, squinting in what little light there was. It wasn’t even dawn yet, and everything was gray and misty. The screaming hadn’t abated, but he couldn’t see—

There, under the tree. A woven basket, and a wiggling hand. A chubby wiggling hand; the part of his brain that wasn’t numb with shock noted that with some relief.

He dropped to his knees beside it and pulled back the rest of the rough maguey fiber, bleached white by the sun, to reveal a still-squalling and quite naked infant. The part of his brain that noticed things woke up again, taking inventory—female, all limbs and digits accounted for, dark eyes that focused on him and found him distinctly wanting. Magic lay just under her skin, wisping up like smoke in plumes too thin for him to see details.

The rest of him was already in motion, scooping her up in his arms and rocking her back and forth. His mouth moved without him really being aware of his own words, only conscious of the need to get her to calm down so he could think again He needed to focus. Why was she here; where were her parents—? “Shhh, shh, it’s alright, it’s alright...”

The wailing slowly tapered off. She blinked huge eyes at him and said, “Bah?”

He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. There was already a headache building behind them. “Gods,” he muttered, “what do I do with you?”

Well, first things first. He’d have to question his priests and see if anyone knew who might have left a baby in his courtyard. He’d have to find her a wet nurse, and blankets, and toys—she had to be less than a year old, she wouldn’t be up for anything more than a soft cloth doll, maybe—and a bigger basket to sleep in, because the one she’d been left in had a hole in it a kicking foot might widen accidentally. He’d have to figure out what sort of magic was hanging around her, whether it was a curse or something worse—

Conch shells blared. He winced. The girl started fussing again. She needed a name.

And he’d have to make his devotions to the gods, too.

&

By some miracle—maybe the Duality was taking pity on him—the child eventually fretted herself to sleep, and Acatl was left with enough free time to eat something, put his cloak on, and cut down her maguey blanket into something he could wrap into a diaper. He made a silent promise to get her a better, softer one later, only to grimace as the implications of that wish swept through him. I’m already thinking of her as mine. I shouldn’t get attached. The gods only know who put her here, what all the magic around her means...

He eyed her. He’d emptied out the basket that usually held his clothes and lined it with his cheapest cloak before laying her in it. Even swaddled and sleeping fitfully, he could see the twisting scarlet energy coiled over her skin like a lazy snake. It didn’t have any of the same markers as a curse, at least not yet. The gods only knew what it would turn into. Aside from that, she seemed perfectly healthy; if he hadn’t been a priest, he might have said she was no more likely to die than any other baby.

He’d once had two older brothers. Nezahual, born between him and Neutemoc, hadn’t survived his second year. For the first time, he wondered how his parents had felt.

Enough. He shook his head to clear it. He had to get to the temple. Scooping her up in the sling he’d made out of the rest of the maguey blanket, he trudged out into the morning sunlight.

Beyond his courtyard, the Sacred Precinct bustled as it always did. The citizens rushing back and forth, the merchants with their wares, priests devoted to other gods with their sacrifices...it was all the same. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the mingled scents of blood and incense and lake water. Alerted by the movement of his chest, the baby stirred. “Gah?”

He set a hand on her head, stroking the short locks of impossibly soft hair. “Shhh.”

“Bah,” she said sleepily, and nestled against his chest again.

He risked an exhale. She didn’t move. He realized he’d been standing stock-still while she cuddled against him, and made his legs move again. His temple wasn’t far.

Of course, because the gods were not nearly as merciful as he would wish, he ran into Ichtaca nearly the same instant his feet crossed the threshold. “Acatl-tzin, you’re—” He blinked in confusion as he spotted the infant, but instead of the shock and outrage Acatl had expected, he only frowned. “...I was under the impression your family had enough hands to watch all those nieces and nephews without you.”

He fought the urge to curl around her, perhaps tuck his cloak around her to hide her from sight. “They do. We need to discuss this inside.”

He was no leader of men, but nevertheless by the time he made it to the nearest reception room he’d amassed a small audience consisting not only of Ichtaca but also Ezamahual, Palli, and a handful of transfers from Coyoacan whose names he was still getting confused. He had a hard enough time with the idea that they’d wanted to serve in this temple, under him, on purpose. Still, they were quiet and didn’t startle the baby, so he supposed they were alright.

He sat down on the gray-striped mat and explained, as clearly and quietly as possible, what he’d woken up to, giving it a moment to sink in before he started in with what had to be done now. “We have to find who left her here. Alert the rest of the priests as well; I can’t imagine it was a greatly stealthy operation, and anyone might have seen or heard something.”

One of the Coyoacan transfers—Acatl really needed to learn his name—was brave enough to speak up before he departed. “My lord, what will you do with...with the child?” He sounded hesitant even to speak of her, and Acatl couldn’t blame him. She only looked like any other baby until you engaged your priest-senses, and since crossing the threshold to his temple complex the magic within her had seethed.

Acatl blinked at him. “I’m keeping her, of course.” It wasn’t planned. It was, in fact, a terrible idea. He knew it was a terrible idea even as the words left his mouth. A sensible man would have regretted them, would have recanted them immediately and handed the girl over to the priestesses of Xochiquetzal or the elders of his own calpulli, for surely he was in no fit state of life to raise a baby girl.

She stirred, blinking huge brown eyes, and he shifted his weight to rock her back to sleep.

Ichtaca recoiled. “Acatl-tzin, you can’t...”

Unconsciously, his arms tightened around her. “She was left on my doorstep,” he growled.

“...Well,” Ichtaca began, and stopped.

He gestured with the arm not supporting her head. “Besides, the spells around her need to be unraveled. We need a clearer picture of what we’re dealing with.”

“You’re better at that than me,” Ichtaca groused, and then hastily added, “My lord. She appears normal...”

Acatl studied her face for a moment with his priest-senses. Parrot-red energy drifted over her skin, bright and clean and almost familiar. “Only on the outside. Normally I’d suspect a curse, but if it was, I doubt she’d be so...vocal. I’d want to examine her now, but...well, she’s finally asleep.” He definitely hadn’t missed that part of looking after an infant; Ichtaca winced sympathetically as he continued, “She’s sure to be hungry when she wakes, but I don’t know anyone who can nurse her on such short notice.” He spared a moment to wish this had all happened last year, before Ollin had been weaned; Neutemoc had been so relieved he’d freed the wet nurse almost on the spot.

Ezamahual cleared his throat. “I have a sister. She’s recently had her firstborn.”

He blinked. He hadn’t realized, somehow, that his priests surely had sisters or nieces or cousins. Hadn’t given a thought to their families. The knowledge of his own carelessness sat like a bad meal in his stomach. “Thank the Duality. How soon can she get here?” After a moment, remembering his manners, he added, “Congratulations.”

Ezamahual blushed, muttered something approximating a “Thank you,” and eyed the position of the sun. “Within the hour. I’ll fetch her.”

Something in his stomach unknotted. “Please.”

As he left, Acatl turned back to Ichtaca. The still-nameless girl stirred in his arms, but mercifully slumbered on. “After she’s gotten some milk into her, we’ll see about her magic.”

Ichtaca was still frowning. “What color?”

“Red.” That narrowed it down a bit, admittedly, but he was sure it couldn’t be Xochiquetzal’s. She didn’t feel excessively warm, which probably ruled out Huehueteotl or Chantico. Who was left? She wiggled a little in her swaddling cloth, as though she could tell he was thinking about her, and he shook his head. It doesn’t matter just yet. “She seems healthy, at least. For now.”

“For now,” Ichtaca echoed. “Acatl-tzin, are you sure you should be getting attached?”

He looked down at the baby. Her little face scrunched up in sleep, and he had to fight the urge to stroke her downy head. I think it’s too late for that. “Hm.”

Ichtaca’s eyes unfocused briefly, and Acatl knew he was gazing at her with his own priest-senses. “...Odd. Very odd. I’ll check our archives and see what I might find.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

And then Ichtaca left as well, and for the moment, he was alone. He closed his eyes and forced himself to relax, wishing he’d picked a seat closer to the wall so at least he’d have some back support. He’d forgotten what carrying a baby was like; he was sure Mihmatini hadn’t been this heavy when he’d been pressed into watching her. His nieces and nephews might have been—Ohtli in particular had been a large infant—but he’d always been able to hand them back to their parents when his arms grew tired. There would be no such relief for him with this child, if he kept her.

If. He snorted softly to himself. There wasn’t a choice. She’d seen to that the very moment when she’d taken advantage of a moment’s inattention to grab for a loose lock of hair and give it a solid yank. I thought I would never have children, and the gods—or a desperate mother—dropped one practically into my lap.

He hoped it was a desperate mother. When he closed his eyes, he remembered the way Tlaloc had sought to force His way into the Fifth World. He remembered Mazatl—Popoxatl’s—blood spilling like a black cloud in the waters of Tlalocan, how his flesh had parted like paper at the touch of his blade. He remembered, far too well, the faces of those Tlaloc had slain. If this girl-child was another foray into the world from a different god’s loins...if he was forced to slay her as well...

He shuddered, realizing he was squeezing her a bit too tightly only when she whined. Hastily, he started to rock her. It seemed to help; she stared at him in blank curiosity a few moments longer before closing her eyes again and falling back asleep in that utterly boneless way only puppies and small children could ever manage. Maybe the spells around her can be separated. Maybe they won’t affect her, and she can grow up like any other child.

Admittedly, it didn’t seem especially likely. When was luck ever on his side, after all? He gazed down at her with a sinking feeling in his chest. “Child, you are going to be trouble.”

Of course—speaking of trouble—that was when Teomitl arrived.

“Acatl!”

He would have recognized the cadence of those footfalls anywhere, but it was still a surprise when Teomitl turned the corner into the room. At least, he named that feeling surprise. It was as good an excuse as any for the way his heart leapt. “Teomitl—” he began, but then the baby whimpered and he hastily dropped his voice. “Keep it down,” he hissed instead.

Teomitl slowed, eyes widening. “I—I saw the commotion, and—is that a baby?”

He nodded, feeling heat rise in his face and flood across his skin. “She was left in my courtyard this morning. It’s...a long story. What are you doing here? It’s not nearly noon yet.” He’d been looking forward to the lunches they’d started to share more and more, at least as much for the food as for the warmth of Teomitl’s company. It was...well, nice to sit and bask in bright smiles and animated conversation that demanded nothing but his willing ear, to soak up court politics at a safe remove, to vent their true opinions of their colleagues together. But Teomitl was a busy man, especially as the season for war approached; he might be able to carve out an hour or so in the afternoon, but surely there was a meeting or something he should be at.

If there was, Teomitl didn’t seem to care. He crept closer as though he was approaching an injured deer, gaze alighting tenderly on the baby in Acatl’s arms. “...I didn’t know what was going on, but the temple looked like an anthill,” he said quietly. “I thought you might need my help.” And in a quite different tone, he added, “Oh, she’s adorable.”

He didn’t even bother to try hiding his smile. “Isn’t she? But shh, she’s fussy.”

Teomitl settled onto the mat next to him, close enough that their thighs and shoulders pressed together. Acatl shivered, acutely aware of the heat of his skin, but Teomitl didn’t seem to notice. All his attention was on the baby, who blinked sleepy dark eyes at him. He beamed softly as he reached for her, but his hand stayed hovering in the air instead of daring to make contact. “Hello, there.” He wiggled his fingers, occasioning a flood of curious babbling.

“Shhhh,” Acatl murmured. His heart felt so full he could barely get the words out. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d loved anything so much. “This is Teomitl. You’ll like him.”

Teomitl chuckled quietly, shifting his weight so that he nestled more fully into Acatl’s side. Acatl found himself leaning into him, the better to relish the affection evident in his voice. “I hope you do.”

Slowly, he exhaled. Gods, he’ll be a wonderful father. Before he could think better of it, he shifted her weight in his arms. “Would you like to hold her?”

“Can I?” Teomitl blurted, and then flushed. “I’m not sure how...”

Acatl felt something in his chest go soft and warm. No, Teomitl wouldn’t have spent that much time around infants—even Ollin had been older than this girl when they’d met—but it was never too late to learn, and some small corner of his heart lit up with joy at the thought that there was still one thing he could teach his former student. He handed her over with a smile. “Here, like this—support her head more, there you go.”

She waved a chubby fist at Teomitl as he gathered her up, blinking rapidly at this new shape in front of her eyes. Acatl wasn’t surprised; while his temple was all soothing grays and whites and ink-black, Teomitl wore gleaming jade earrings and a lip plug of bright gold. “Baaa...”

“Oh,” Teomitl breathed, eyes shining. “Acatl...”

He swallowed hard. Over the months, he’d gotten used to Teomitl addressing him by name, but that in no way prepared him for the way it sounded now. Awestruck. Tender. Enraptured. “I think she approves of you.”

“She’s smiling.” Probably in response to Teomitl’s delighted grin, for which Acatl couldn’t blame her. It was delightfully infectious.

“Mm,” he hummed, feeling absurdly proud. That’s right, my child. Your future Emperor is holding you like you are made of jade. You had better smile.

Experimentally, Teomitl poked her little fist with a forefinger, beaming when she latched onto it. “What a strong little jaguar cub you are! You’ll be the terror of your enemies someday, I just know it.”

She waved her fist—and Teomitl’s hand—excitedly, chanting nonsense syllables in what Acatl supposed was agreement. “Bababa!”

It was the most adorable thing Acatl had seen in years, but something cold twisted his guts as he took it in. Even without looking for it, he knew that the magic in her was leaping up like a fish to greet the Southern Hummingbird’s heat overlaying Teomitl’s skin. She wasn’t a normal child, and no amount of wishing would make it so. “You shouldn’t—”

Teomitl blinked at him. “Hm?”

Acatl bit his lip, hating what he was about to say. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen to her. I told you it was a long story, but...”

“I have time.” Teomitl settled back on the mat, gazing at him just as attentively as he had when he’d been Acatl’s student—or, actually, moreso. With a baby in his arms, he couldn’t fidget as much.

For the second time, Acatl explained the story. Waking up to screaming with—now that he thought about it—not even footprints in the dirt outside. A basket and a blanket such as any peasant might use, nothing inside to hint at her origins or even give a clue to her name. The magic that hung around her like a too-large shroud. The way her presence had divided his priests. Unspoken but lingering in every pause was the truth: I don’t know what to do.

Teomitl said not a word until he finished, and by then his gaze had dropped back down to the baby. He tapped her nose gently, and she tried to grab his hand again. When he spoke, his voice was soft and sure. “...It sounds like you have a daughter.”

He made a noise that wasn’t a word, throat working uselessly before he could speak again. “I don’t—I shouldn’t—” I can’t do that. I’ll only be tearing my own heart out of my chest later. I shouldn’t even have picked her up in the first place. But even as he thought the words, he knew that there hadn’t been another choice. That he didn’t want another choice.

Teomitl was frowning lightly, but he took his words at face value anyway. “You don’t want her?”

He sucked in a hard breath. It’s not that I don’t want her. The words lay on the tip of his tongue, but they went no further. It’s only...it’s only... Only that he remembered his own parents far too well. Remembered his own father, and how he’d always been the disappointment. What kind of legacy was that to leave a child? And yet...he wanted so badly to try. To be better.

His turmoil must have shown on his face, because Teomitl’s gaze softened and his lips curled in a faint, encouraging smile. “...That’s a no, then. Did you name her? You should, if you’re going to be her father.”

“I...” Such was the father’s prerogative, yes, but with the utter chaos of her arrival into his life, he hadn’t thought of a name. Her birthday? No, that was a mystery. A name after one of his aunts? A possibility, but he hadn’t spoken to any of them in years and to pick one would surely make an enemy of all the rest. His mother? That last sent ice through his heart. No, absolutely not.

“And she’ll need...things. Blankets. Toys to play with. A sleeping basket. Probably food; I don’t know how old babies have to be for solids, but—”

As if he hadn’t thought about any of that. He straightened up, the better to glare at him. “I know how to look after an infant, Teomitl!” Granted, he’d been far from the only caretaker, but he’d spent enough time around his younger siblings not to be completely useless.

Teomitl dropped his gaze, lips thinning. “You said there’s magic on her.”

Another thing he was unlikely to forget. Another complication he didn’t need. He crumpled the hem of his cloak in his fist and hastily smoothed it out again. “There is.”

Jaguar-bright eyes flicked to Acatl’s again. “So, won’t you need me? I can keep you both safe.” He smiled down at the girl, all his old confidence no longer careless but just as strong. “You hear that, little jaguar cub? I’ll protect you and your papa with my life.”

Acatl fixed his gaze on the far wall, knowing that he had to be blushing. Between Teomitl’s nearness and his words, it was just too much. I know you would. I know you would, but I couldn’t live with myself if you were injured on my account. And besides... “You might not be able to. We don’t know what we’re up against.”

“But—” Whatever objection Teomitl was about to raise, Acatl would never find out, because the baby chose that moment to screw up her face and begin wailing.

Loudly.

At any other time, the look of terror on Teomitl’s face probably would have been hilarious; now, with his arms full of a steadily angrier infant, Acatl couldn’t help but feel an acute pang of sympathy. To his credit, he didn’t drop her into his lap. “Oh, gods, what did I do?”

Acatl edged away from him, though regrettably not far enough to spare his own eardrums. Texcoco might have been far enough, but he wouldn’t have bet on it. “She’s hungry.”

With the din she was making, he almost didn’t hear the approaching footsteps, but fortunately Ezamahual was quite good at pitching his voice to carry over any sort of localized cacophony. It was just as useful with crying infants as it was with the rowdier calmecac students. “Acatl-tzin!” rang out from the next courtyard, and he heaved a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank the Duality,” Teomitl muttered.

Ezamahual strode in as though a beast of shadows was on his heels, only belatedly remembering to bow to Teomitl as he gestured to the woman trailing in his wake. “My sister, Mixcatl. I’ve explained the situation to her.”

Looking at her, Acatl could see the family resemblance. Mixcatl was closer to Teomitl’s age than his own, but the shadows under her eyes spoke to many sleepless nights, and her blouse and skirt had the slight sheen that suggested a great deal of aggressive cleaning. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry to have pulled you away from your own family.”

“It’s an honor to assist you, Acatl-tzin.” Mixcatl sat down, smiling wryly as she added, “Your daughter certainly has healthy lungs.”

Teomitl rubbed his ear. “We’ve noticed.”

Her warm look had nothing to do with the young and handsome Master of the House of Darts deigning to speak to her and everything to do with simple camaraderie. “Give her here, I’ll feed her for now.” Teomitl handed her over with an expression of barely-contained relief, and Mixcatl winced as she latched on. “Have you tried her on atole yet?”

Acatl shook his head, half-distracted. My daughter. I have a child to raise. “She seemed interested in my breakfast, but I didn’t think about it. I should have.”

Ezamahual cracked a smile very much like his sister’s. It was oddly heartening. “She was something of a surprise, my lord.”

“...Indeed,” he muttered belatedly. Duality preserve me, I’m a father now.

“An adorable surprise,” Teomitl added, with a degree of frankly unwarranted smugness.

It would have annoyed him more if he didn’t agree.

&

To his considerable relief, the baby—his daughter? His mind seemed stuck on that point—proved to be a voracious eater with no complaints about being fed, burped, and swaddled tightly to encourage her to sleep. Mixcatl thought it likely she was around half a year, a trifle early to be weaned, but that was all to the good; it meant he wouldn’t need to hire a wet nurse. But nor could he take her with him everywhere he went, and so after she was fed he took a boat to Neutemoc’s house. His brother had enough slaves to look after one infant girl for a day or two while he did his job.

And he would have to do his job. As cute as the girl was, her innate magic only surged when she was pleased; on a full belly and drowsing contentedly on Mixcatl’s shoulder, his priest-senses had shown him crimson smoke writhing like a nest of coral snakes across her limbs. Mixcatl—who had no magical training whatsoever—had commented on her pleasant scent. He’d smelled poinsettias and roses, and said nothing. Xochiquetzal Is banished. But if she’s trying to come back, to make another bid for the Fifth World...

He buried his nose in his baby’s downy hair, breathing in. She smelled like milk again, and he took comfort in that.

As long as he held her tight, he could ignore the simmering tension rolling off Teomitl where the man was tucked into the seat behind him. He hadn’t spoken much since Mixcatl had arrived; plainly, he was still sulking over his protection being denied. Palace guards had a less belligerent glare. Acatl almost pitied anyone who disturbed them.

He should probably apologize, he thought. It was hardly Teomitl’s fault that the machinations of gods tended to get average mortals killed. Nor was it his fault that the idea of losing him made Acatl’s throat seize up in sick, vicious terror. He was trailing his fingers in the water, unafraid of the dark shapes below, and he looked remote and untouchable as the sun.

Acatl took a deep breath. “Teomitl, I...”

But before he could finish his sentence, the junior priest polling their boat came to a stop at Neutemoc’s house, and the moment was lost.

The guard on duty took one look at the bundle Acatl held close to his chest and his eyes went almost comically wide; as he opened his mouth, Acatl cut him off. “Is my brother home?”

The guard nodded rapidly, probably more out of fear for Teomitl’s glower than any respect for his master’s little brother. “I’ll take you to him.”

Neutemoc was in the main receiving room, glaring at a ledger as though it owed him money. Acatl briefly felt bad for him; he’d never been good with numbers, and it had been Huei who’d dealt with the household finances. When Acatl entered—alone, since Teomitl had taken up a position in the courtyard that suggested he expected an attack from the heavens any moment—he looked up with a furrowed brow and a question on his lips.

Before he could voice it, Acatl spoke. “I need your help.”

“You—why do you have a baby?” Neutemoc eyed his expression a moment longer before finally shaking his head and gesturing to the nearest mat. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

He’d barely taken a few dozen steps out of the boat, but it was amazing how much of a relief it was simply to sit down when he was carrying a six-month-old. He’d thought being hunched over a codex was bad for his back. This was worse. But he couldn’t bemoan his aches and pains forever, because Neutemoc was waiting for an answer. “It’s...” He sighed. “She was left on my doorstep. I don’t know what to do.”

Neutemoc sat back, raising an eyebrow. “I know you know how to take care of an infant, Acatl.”

“That’s not the problem!” he huffed.

“What is it, then?” Neutemoc leaned in, peering at the girl. Acatl noticed he was careful not to get too close. “Is there something wrong with her?”

Unconsciously, he lifted a hand to shield her. “She’s healthy, physically. But she’s covered in magic, and I need to find the cause, whatever it takes. If it’s a repeat of when Tlaloc made His bid for the Fifth World, I...”

Neutemoc’s gaze slid past him to the open doorway. “Teomitl won’t let that happen.”

He felt his face burn. All of a sudden, he couldn’t look at his brother anymore; it seemed vitally important to trace the weave of the mat below him instead. “He said he’d give his life for us,” he murmured.

There was a faint rustle as Neutemoc sat back on his heels and let out a long, aggrieved sigh. “...And this is a surprise to you? Do your eyes not work?”

He sucked in a too-fast breath, choked on his own spit, and had to clear his throat several times before he could splutter out a response. That wasn’t—Neutemoc couldn’t mean—Finally, he choked out, “I—what—”

“Acatl,” his brother said simply.

He couldn’t find anything to say. He can’t mean that Teomitl—he thinks of me as a brother, surely. As a friend, if I’m lucky. Not as...I know he’s protective of the people he cares for, but it’s not like that. It can’t be like that. His marriage is going so well now, surely he doesn’t think of me in that way. He would never. And a traitorous voice whispered in his head, You wish he would, don’t you?

Finally, he muttered, “It’s...it’s not...”

Neutemoc sighed again, shaking his head. “Give her to me. I’ll watch her while you do what you have to do.”

She was warm and heavy in his arms, and her presence was soothing. But Neutemoc was right; it would be good to have some time without her. Feeling a little reluctant—not very, she smelled like she needed to be changed and a man had to have some limits—he handed her over.

Neutemoc scooped her up with the air of a man who had plenty of practice. He didn’t need to worry about dropping her. “I’ll put her in with Ollin.”

He nodded. He still wasn’t sure he trusted himself to speak. Teomitl’s just...overprotective. That’s it. That has to be it. I’m a fool to think there’s some deeper emotion to it. Surely he’d do the same for any member of his family; it’s not as though Neutemoc is the greatest judge of intent there. But nor was his brother prone to exaggeration or flights of fancy, and if he’d spoken about Teomitl’s feelings as though they were supposed to be obvious...

Voices from the courtyard intruded on his spiralling emotions, and he fought the urge to freeze like a rabbit when he realized one of them was Mihmatini’s. It wouldn’t help.

“...I thought...”

“...probably a good thing...”

And then his favorite sister was coming in with Teomitl on her heels, and it was too late to do anything but nod at them. At least she pulled him out of his own head. “So, what’s this about you having a daughter?”

Then of course, he had to explain the whole thing all over again. At this point, he was starting to wonder if he ought to have written it down to save his voice. By the time he was done, Mihmatini had folded her arms and was frowning thoughtfully. “Hm.”

“He said he didn’t want our help,” Teomitl muttered. Oh, he must still be upset about that.

“I didn’t say that. I just don’t know if this is something you can help with. Not when I might have to...” He shook his head. If she was another vessel for a god’s power, the way Tlaloc had tried to claw his way into the world, then she couldn’t be allowed to live—but every fiber of his being rebelled against that conclusion. No. No. She’s mine.

Teomitl saw what he couldn’t say, and his mouth set in a thin line. “I know. It won’t come to that if I can help it.”

“Teomitl...” He risked setting a hand on Teomitl’s forearm; his skin was warm under Acatl’s palm, and he didn’t pull away.

Mihmatini’s eyes narrowed. “Did you think we would let you do this alone, Acatl?”

He couldn’t look at either of them. His chest felt too tight to possibly allow him to speak. “I...”

The jangling curtain announced Neutemoc’s return to the room, blessedly accompanied by slaves bearing food. “She’s down for a nap now. I thought you’d be hungry—Mihmatini! It’s good to see you!”

He was hungry. They all were. Lunch was grilled frogs and honeyed agave worms, and as he ate he felt his equilibrium being restored. So everything had changed. So he had an infant girl to take care of now, one who babbled and smiled and pulled anything within reach including his hair. So there was the slimmest of slim chances that the feelings he thought he’d buried might be returned. On a full stomach, with his family around him, it all felt bearable again.

Not least because he didn’t have to carry the conversation. It shifted seamlessly around him, from Mihmatini’s training as the Guardian (frustrating) to Necalli’s current tasks at the House of Youth (he seemed to be doing very well there, but with him out of earshot Neutemoc was free to admit to a father’s worry) to the campaign planned for the upcoming dry season (which segued, thanks to his own entirely innocuous comment, into an impressively lengthy rant from Teomitl about his fellow officials’ brainpower, courage, and likely parentage).

When Teomitl paused for breath and another handful of agave worms—he would have singlehandedly demolished the plate if left to his own devices—Mihmatini commented, “They can’t be that useless,” but her heart wasn’t in her words.

Teomitl made a face. “Mazatl would be better at their job, I swear. The baby would be better at their job, and she can’t even talk yet. I should get back to the palace, but I don’t want to leave. Are you sure she’ll be safe?”

“Go,” Mihmatini said, not unkindly. “Our little quetzal feather will be fine for a while.”

He got to his feet, flashing a brief, questioning look at Acatl. When Acatl nodded at him—gods, he hoped it came off as reassuring, the last thing he wanted was to distract the Master of the House of Darts when he was preparing for war and needed all the advantages he could get to counteract having Tizoc for a Revered Speaker—he forced a smile. “I’ll see you later, then.”

With a last look at Acatl, he went.

Lunch got much quieter after that. There was still half a grilled frog on Acatl’s plate, but he found he didn’t want to eat anymore. He picked at it anyway to be polite.

It didn’t fool Mihmatini, who frowned at him. “You need to keep your strength up, Acatl.”

He sighed. “I know, I know, the skin-and-bones look is not compulsory. I’m eating!” He took another bite. It was hot and juicy, but it still tasted like ash in his mouth.

“And taking care of babies demands a lot of energy.”

“Just wait until she’s walking,” Neutemoc added with a wistful smile.

He studied his plate again, carefully pulling away the parts of the frog he’d nibbled on. Someone else could eat the rest. “...I know.” If she lives that long.

Neutemoc patted his shoulder. “You’ll be a wonderful father, Acatl.”

One of his slaves chose that moment to poke her head around the curtain, sparing him from having to respond. “Ah, sir? Mazatl wants to know if she can see the baby.”

Neutemoc set his plate down. “If she’s watched.” Unspoken but clear was that he would be the one doing the watching. He nodded at Acatl as he left; Acatl supposed it was meant to be encouraging. He didn’t feel particularly encouraged.

With their brother gone, Mihmatini didn’t press him to keep eating. She studied her own plate for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, before asking, “I know you don’t like surprises, but...you do like children, don’t you?”

Everything he’d eaten threatened to come back up. Under the table, he dug his nails into his own thigh and let the pain center him. “That’s not it. You remember Tlaloc.”

She was silent for a while. He’d told her about that fight in Tlalocan eventually. He’d told her what he’d had to do. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. “...I do. But that’s not what I’m asking. Do you want this child?”

He inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled again. Finally, he nodded.

“There you go, then.” She flashed him a small smile. “Welcome to fatherhood.”

“I don’t—” he started.

She cut him off ruthlessly. “You deserve to be happy. Your vows don’t preclude that. And it’s not like you’ll be doing it alone; you’ll have us. Teomitl met your daughter for half an hour and he talks about her like she hung the moon.”

That’s part of the problem, he thought with a shudder. “I—I can’t ask him, or any of you—”

Glaring, she slapped his shoulder hard enough to sting. “We’re volunteering. You’ve given your life to the gods, Acatl, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have some joy in it for yourself.”

He couldn’t look at her. “...I know,” he muttered finally. “But I—it feels selfish of me.”

“Acatl,” she said. He still couldn’t lift his gaze from his plate, but he didn’t have to; he could feel the heat of her barely-suppressed frustration. “It’s not selfish to live the life you want.”

All unbidden, a thousand memories of Teomitl’s smile sprang to the forefront of his mind. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. What if the life I want includes your husband? What would you say to me then, Mihmatini? “But,” he began, and stopped.

She reached for him again, but this time it was to take his chin and lift it until he was forced to meet her eyes. They were fierce as eagles, with a light in them that made a sliver of fear lodge itself in his heart. “The will of the Duality granted you one life, Acatl. It’s too short for you not to take advantage of whatever joy you find, do you understand me?”

He swallowed hard. “...I do.”

“Good.” She released him abruptly, sitting back with a thin smile. “Let’s go play with the children while we’re here, alright?”

“...Alright.”

At least his niece and nephew were uncomplicated.

&

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Acatl barely noticed. His noble intentions—he would leave the girl with Neutemoc while he got on with the search for her origins—evaporated immediately, because three hours into his investigation of Xochiquetzal’s last known address he found the thoughts he’d shoved into the back of his mind were all clamoring for the light of day at once. Does she miss me? Is she eating? Is Mihmatini keeping her occupied? I need to check up on her, just to be sure. So of course he had to go back to Neutemoc’s house, and when he left again it was with the girl in a sling on his back, a whole list of suggested names from both his siblings, and half a dozen slaves carrying all the things a baby would need to stay with him at least part-time. They were terrifyingly efficient; there was nothing he could help with there, and nothing stopping him from returning to work.

Except for the fact that his priests wouldn’t let him. They’d united in a rare show of force; Ichtaca arrived mid-afternoon to inform him in no uncertain terms that they could handle anything that came up, they were all hunting for anyone who might have dropped off a suspicious bundle that morning, a team of no less than a dozen of the best were combing the archives and tracing any sign of suspicious activity, and all he had to do was stay close to home so they could alert him of any new developments. At any other time, it would have been infuriating, but now it was oddly touching.

He had a daughter. She could eat atole, and fruit if it was mashed up very small, and he discovered that he hadn’t forgotten how to change a diaper or three. The room next to his bedchambers, which he supposed had been intended as a reception area—it had a particularly grim fresco of the Plain of Knives on one wall—would be made into a place for her to sleep when she got a little older; for now, her basket was in his room, where he could hear her in the night. Ollin was not inclined to share his toys with his new cousin, but Mazatl bravely donated a wobbly deer on wheels. Teomitl was freed from his meetings eventually and all but ran back to Acatl’s house to see her;  Mihmatini joined them for dinner, and together they managed to change the girl again and give her a bath. By the time he found his mat again, he was ready to drop.

The morning after the gods had dropped his daughter into his lap, he found himself eating breakfast with an audience. It was easiest to get himself ready for the day if she was distracted; luckily, Teomitl had shown up at dawn to help wrangle her. To his relief, she’d slept through the night, but she’d still woken him before the conchs for a meal. Now, freshly changed—Teomitl had helped, though not without a grimace when he’d thought Acatl wasn’t looking—she wanted to play.

Fortunately, it seemed that being bounced on someone’s lap while they made silly faces was enough to do the trick. “Bah!” she said, and clapped her hands.

Teomitl beamed and scooped her up to bump noses with her. “Can you say papa? Can you do that for us, little flower?”

“Babah!”

There was the faintly strangled squeak that Teomitl made when he was trying not to giggle, as though it was possible that a laugh could impugn his dignity. “That was close! Acatl, did you hear?”

Acatl grimly chewed another mouthful of day-old flatbread. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten to stock up on his own supplies; he would have to fix that later. “I’m sitting right here,” he reminded him. “I don’t think she’s up to speech yet.”

“It won’t be long,” Teomitl snapped. “She’s a smart girl! Look, can you say uncle?”

Her little face screwed up; Acatl braced himself for a wail, but all that came out was, “Gaaah.”

“Hmm, I suppose not. How about...Mictlantecuhtli?”

“Now, I know she ca—” Words failed him midsentence; Teomitl, still bouncing the baby on his lap, took a moment to realize why. Then he saw what had struck Acatl speechless, and his eyes went wide.

His daughter was laughing, that odd burbling sound all infants made. An utterly normal noise. But no normal infant’s laugh could make wildflowers burst from the dry dust of his courtyard, pink and purple and white blooms covering the ground in a dense, springy carpet. The magic that had lain dormant for most of yesterday surged up again, red as blood where it curled around her little chest and shading to pitaya-fruit pink as it twined down her arms and hands. It didn’t seem to bother her; she chortled, clapping her hands again, and petals drifted down from her fingers onto Teomitl’s arms.

Teomitl was the first to regain use of his tongue. “...Xochiquetzal?”

No. It’s not Her. He shook his head dully. “Your brother banished Her, remember? There’s been no sign of Her since. I checked.”

“Gods, don’t remind me how stupid Tizoc is. But...if not Her, then it must be Her consort.” Teomitl looked distinctly uncomfortable at that prospect, and part of him wondered why.

The rest of him was almost relieved. Dealing with the Flower Prince wasn’t ideal—He was known to be especially capricious, and Acatl had never had the courage to call on Him even for matters of his own heart before—but at least he knew what they were up against. “To the temple of Xochipilli, then. We’ll have a word with His High Priest.”

Teomitl bit his lip as the baby hiccuped, a squeak of a sound that jarred her out of her laughing fit and had her glancing around anxiously for the cause. He gathered her against his chest, holding her with a tenderness that threatened to melt Acatl’s heart. “Oh, little jaguar cub, it’s alright. We’ll be back soon.”

They dropped her off at the Duality House, where Mihmatini was preparing for her own long day. She took the news of the child’s powers with a stormy look that promised retribution even for a god, but all she said was, “You’ll need offerings. Take them from our stores; we have all the flowers you could want, and last week we got in a pair of parrots for the feathers.”

“Thanks,” Acatl replied, with a calmness he didn’t feel. Teomitl said nothing. His fingers rested on the handle of his sword.

&

The temple of Xochipilli didn’t loom nearly as large as the Great Temple in whose shadow it lay, but it was brightly painted with lovely frescoes of birds and flowers. Here and there Acatl caught the gleam of gold. Teomitl had insisted on carrying the parrot cages, leaving Acatl with the flowers. He tried not to dwell on the soft, wistful glance he’d caught out of the corner of his eye while selecting an armload of poinsettias, nor on the way it had made his heart do somersaults in his chest.

He wasn’t a coward, but there were some things he simply wasn’t strong enough to face head-on without time to prepare. The urge to hold Teomitl’s hand as they walked was one of them.

But then they were crossing the threshold of the temple complex, and he had more pressing matters to attend to. Priests in flower-bedecked robes and parrot feathers passed by on their own errands; Teomitl, by his side, went very still.

It didn’t take long for them to be noticed. Before he could even call out, Xochipilli’s Fire Priest was approaching them. Though he was a fairly young man, the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes made him look even more exhausted than Acatl usually felt. Under his elaborate headdress, his gaze was sharp as a hawk’s. “Fire Priest Zolin at your service, Acatl-tzin.”

A spark of recognition lit Zolin’s eyes where they met Teomitl’s, but Acatl didn’t have time to worry about that. “We need to have words with your High Priest.”

Zolin glanced to Teomitl again, so briefly that Acatl wondered if he’d imagined it, but his words were directed at both of them. “He’s at the top of the temple. Come with me.”

They ascended the steps together. There were enough of them that Acatl had time to think, and he sort of wished he hadn’t. Flowers spring up where my daughter laughs. Teomitl made her laugh, made those flowers grow, and I...and I...gods, in that moment I would have died to kiss him. He was achingly aware of how far apart they were; when the wind caught Teomitl’s cape so it billowed against Acatl’s side, his breath caught in his throat.

The inside of the temple sanctuary was dark and cool; High Priest Nemalhuilli was perusing a well-worn codex, his back to them. When they reached him he froze, the codex falling from his hands.

“Nemalhuilli-tzin—oh.” Zolin swallowed roughly, taking a step back.

That was all the warning any of them got before the god’s power slammed into the room, thick and heavy as a steambath in summer. Acatl’s blood pounded with something caught between pain and desire; dimly he registered that he’d fallen to his knees, but his impact with the stone and the jarring screech of the parrots as Teomitl dropped the cage was a distant concern next to the sight of Nemalhuilli turning, eyes bright and ageless and not his own, not mortal at all, to regard them like dogs who had just done a clever trick.

Xochipilli, Flower Prince, god of youth and love and the vilest diseases, grinned maniacally at them through mist that was crimson as fresh-spilled blood. “I see you’ve found My daughter. And you’ve brought such lovely presents to thank Me!” One beckoning gesture, and the flowers Acatl had dropped rose on a petal-scented wind to flutter down over—no, into—His skin. Another, and the parrots’ screams cut off in a gout of blood.

Your daughter. Your daughter? His limbs shook, and it wasn’t from lust. He felt his lips draw back like a dog’s; he still couldn’t meet the god’s eyes, but there was nothing stopping him from glaring savagely at His knees. “What are You going to do...with her?”

“Me?” He sniffed. “Honestly, You do one girl a favor and everyone looks at You like you’re planning a takeover of the Fifth World. Do I look like the Storm Lord to you? Don’t answer that, it was a rhetorical question.”

Acatl tried to take a deep breath, but it only made him more lightheaded. “Then...why...?”

Xochipilli shrugged. “I told you. A favor. A girl wanted a child, I gave her one. It’s not My fault she didn’t think to tell anyone.” He paused. “Well, perhaps I could have met her in the flesh instead of dropping it into her womb. But it’s certainly not My fault she died, or that you have such a reputation for dealing with unwanted magic.”

Teomitl doggedly pushed himself upright, snarling like a jaguar on the hunt. He was too smart to make a grab for his sword, but the way his fists clenched said he was sorely tempted anyway. “Unwanted magic?! That’s your child!”

The Flower Prince appeared gently amused. Acatl wanted to punch Him. “Hmmm. Well, technically...” He tapped his butterfly nose ring, deep in thought. “Oh, why not? She can have three fathers. I only want her to grow up well.”

Acatl was fairly sure he wasn’t breathing. Suddenly, all he could see was Teomitl dropping to his knees again beside him, all the fight gone out of him as his rage transmuted to a bone-deep shame he knew too well. He saw it in his own reflection. From what felt like the very depths of Mictlan, he dredged up his voice again. “...Three?”

“Oh.” The Flower Prince smiled evilly. “You mean, you didn’t know. Shame on you, Ahuitzotl; did your courage fail you?”

Teomitl made a strangled noise. Words seemed to have deserted him. “I. Uh. Ngh.”

Horribly, Xochipilli’s smile turned smug. Acatl had seen exactly that expression on Quenami when he was getting his way, and it wasn’t any better on a god. “It seems that it has. And after such devotion in My temple!”

His heart felt fit to escape its prison of ribs, but he had to say something. Defend Teomitl. Ask questions. Something. But his mind seemed frozen in contemplation of devotion in Xochipilli’s temple and so all that came out was, “What?”

The god leaned forward, as though imparting a great secret, but His whisper was nevertheless pitched to carry. “Your pretty little student has been praying for—oh, for years, that you would look upon him as a man. As someone you might desire. As someone you might even love. Such riches he has given Me in hopes of My aid! I can hardly wait for him to become Revered Speaker, and I’m sure you can’t either.”

Oh, for a moment there he definitely wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t thinking, either; Xochipilli’s words had effectively obliterated every thought he might possibly have had. Teomitl wanted him. Wanted him badly enough to pray for it, as though he wouldn’t—as though he thought Acatl might not love him anyway, as though that was even possible. “Nnh.”

Xochipilli cackled, clapping His hands. “Ohoh, look at that blush! I see I was right.”

Teomitl squeezed his eyes shut. “Acatl,” he whispered. “I...”

Enough. Acatl sucked in a breath that rattled his lungs. “My lord,” he ground out, “I thank You...for the knowledge You have shared with us. The girl, Your daughter, will she...?”

Eyes like a crow’s lighted on him. “Hm?”

He could barely get the words out. “Will she...live a normal life?” Will she be Your pawn? Will I have to fear every day that the gods will use her in their games? Will she marry, have children, grow old?

An expansive shrug. “As normal as she can be with you two for fathers. She’s mostly mortal, after all; I only gave her a sliver of My power. Her birthday is Seven Flower; you may light incense for Me. Good luck, little mortals!”

And then He was gone, His divinity evaporating like smoke, and His high priest was clutching the edge of the altar with white-knuckled fingers. He was barely holding himself up; as he staggered, Zolin ran to his side. “My lord...!”

Nemalhuilli grunted, scrubbing at his eyes with a hand that came away bloody. “Duality, I hate when He does that. I think He thinks it’s funny. No, don’t hover, I’m fine. You two—ah, it’s Acatl-tzin and young Teomitl. Are you well?”

Acatl swallowed. He was once again exquisitely aware of Teomitl by his side; the sound of his breathing was erasing his thoughts. “...As well as can be expected. Forgive us for...for taking up your valuable time.”

There didn’t seem to be much to say after that. Nemalhuilli apologized again, and they turned and left, making their way back down the temple steps in silence. Teomitl kept shooting him nervous glances out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t attempt to speak until they were at the bottom of the stairs.

“Acatl-tzin.”

He drew in a breath, dropping his gaze to his dusty sandals. He prayed to Xochipilli for me. For me. That I would...gods. His chest tied itself in knots, and he couldn’t tell whether it was from joy or terror. Probably both. It simply couldn’t be real that he could have what he wanted. The world wasn’t that kind to him. “I’d.” He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “I’d rather have this conversation in private, if you don’t mind.” The priests of Xochipilli were as inquisitive as his own, and he was horribly aware of their curious whispers and the speculative way they were eyeing him.

“...Right,” Teomitl repeated dully. “In private.”

Silence fell again, but this time it was tinged with anticipation. They would go back to Acatl’s little house, and they would talk about this. He just had to put one foot in front of the other. He barely noticed the bustling precinct around him; Mihmatini’s words had come back to him, and now he thought he understood the determination in her voice.

His house seemed too quiet with the baby still at Mihmatini’s, but it was impossible to forget her presence with the wildflowers still carpeting every inch of his courtyard. He went in first and took a moment just to look at them. The Flower Prince’s daughter, he thought in wonder, and then defiantly, No. Mine. Mine and Teomitl’s, if he’ll be there for her. If I have the stones to ask him.

Teomitl was standing next to him, not touching. They still hadn’t spoken. Heart in his throat, Acatl turned to meet his gaze.

“Right,” he said finally. “We should talk.”

Teomitl’s face was a mask of obsidian, set to shatter at the slightest impact. “We should.”

Now that he’d made up his mind to begin, he couldn’t seem to figure out how to go on. He couldn’t have looked Teomitl in the face just then for all the gold in Tenochtitlan. “About...what Xochipilli said...”

“I love you,” Teomitl blurted out. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that—gods, I’m a fool. But you should know that the Flower Prince was telling the truth, that I—that is—oh, never mind!”

You love me. It didn’t seem possible, whether he’d heard the words from a god’s lips or not. He couldn’t be that lucky. The world simply didn’t work that way. His heart was racing so fast he thought he might faint. “You love me,” he said out loud, and got a miserable little nod in response. Emboldened, he said it again. “You love me!”

It was too much. He started to laugh, and he knew Teomitl was staring at him in injured confusion but he couldn’t make himself stop; for a moment, he was afraid it might tip over into hysteria. Finally, he got his breath back and stepped forward, reaching for Teomitl’s hands where they hung in tightly clenched fists at his sides. “Teomitl,” he said quietly.

Their eyes met again. Slowly—infinitesimally slowly—Teomitl’s fists unclenched, his stance relaxed, and his gaze grew into something soft and hopeful. “...Acatl?”

He wasn’t sure which of them closed the distance first. Their mouths met, and nothing else mattered. Teomitl’s lips were soft and warm; he kept the kiss light at first, as though he was afraid to scare Acatl away, but then Acatl’s hands slid up his arms and pulled him in closer and he threw caution to the winds; his arms went around Acatl’s waist, hauled him in tight with fingers tangling in the ends of his hair, and when he slid his tongue into Acatl’s mouth he couldn’t stop a moan from reverberating through them both. He thought dizzily that he could probably do this forever.

Or until he remembered he needed to breathe, unfortunately. Even when he broke the kiss, he couldn’t stand to go far. He was finally in Teomitl’s arms, and that was where he’d stay. “I love you too,” he whispered.

“Mmm.” Another kiss, slow and sweet, and when Teomitl pulled away he was smiling. “You have a daughter,” he whispered back, as though afraid to raise his voice lest the moment shatter. “And I’m going to help raise her.”

Joy bubbled up in his heart like fresh water from a spring, erasing all lingering doubts. So what if Xochipilli had sired her? It didn’t matter. He and Teomitl would be her fathers, and they’d see to it that she grew up well. She’d never wonder if she was loved, never be a disappointment to her parents. To any of them. He grinned down at Teomitl’s smile. “You will. Duality preserve me, you will.”

Abruptly, Teomitl snickered. “And she still doesn’t have a name!”

Ah. Right. “...I was...” He cleared his throat, knowing he was blushing again. “I was hoping you would name her. I can’t give her my mother’s name—I mean, you’ve heard about her—”

Teomitl grimaced briefly. “I have. In great detail. But...” Oh, no, he was biting his lip and looking shy. It tugged on all Acatl’s heartstrings at once. “Are you sure? I mean, you’re her father...”

“As sure as I am of death,” he said simply.

“Gods,” Teomitl murmured, and then fell silent. After a pause too short to have been considering it for the first time, he continued, “I was thinking...maybe...Atotoztli?”

He pictured that name-glyph, yellow-headed parrots over water. Something bright and clean and lovely. “A beautiful name.”

Now it was Teomitl’s turn to start blushing. “It was my mother’s regnal name. I wanted to pass it on.”

“Oh, Teomitl,” he said breathlessly.

Then Teomitl beamed at him and, of course, Acatl had to kiss him again.

[notapaladin]

when the sun came up (i was looking at you)

acatl: oh no, emperor tizoc is dead and i must now investigate his demise. what a shame. NATURAL CAUSES, WILL OF THE GODS, NOTHING ANYONE NEEDS TO WORRY ABOUT HERE.

the more important thing, after all, is that the man he loves will wear the turquoise-and-gold crown, and when teomitl is crowned they will finally, finally be safe.

quenami has certain (accurate) suspicions.

also on AO3!

-

When Axayacatl died, Acatl had felt the snap of it in his bones. When Tizoc died, it was barely even a breath.

Then again, he was somewhat preoccupied at the moment.

Teomitl was under him, all that strength and power and beauty turned pliant in his hands, and all he could think was how he wanted more. More of those calloused hands, those lean muscles, the way his body held him like he’d been made for it. Teomitl clawed down his back, making him shudder, and he drove in deeper with a groan. Gods, I am a selfish man.

Teomitl didn’t seem to mind. He was urging him on with hard snaps of his hips, voice cracking as each thrust pulled out a gasp or a whine or a breathless, “Acatl-tzin—Duality, Acatl.” Acatl knew he was close, achingly so, and only needed a moment more—

Teomitl muffled a scream with his teeth in Acatl’s shoulder as he came, and Acatl followed him over the edge with a white-sparking spasm.

They lay together afterwards in a warm, contented haze. Acatl’s shoulder was starting to ache, but he ignored it. Holding his temporarily sated lover was more important; Teomitl had cuddled up next to him like a puppy and was nestled against his chest as though he never planned to move again. Acatl carded his fingers gently through his hair, feeling devastatingly tender. “I missed this,” he murmured.

Teomitl was silent. He wasn’t always the most verbal or coherent after sex, especially if he was on the receiving end, but he’d usually at least hum his agreement—or, if he was in a teasing mood, quip something about how it had only been a week, and however did Acatl cope when he was away at war? (The honest answer, which Acatl had given once and which had made Teomitl kiss him breathless, was that he really didn’t; he threw himself into work and tried not to count the days until the army’s return. But it was the rainy season, and war was very far from his mind. If Teomitl asked him that now, his answer would need no words at all.)

Acatl looked down to find him frowning thoughtfully, the lines of his fingers tense where they rested above his heart. “...Hm.”

“...What?” Ice tried to seep through his veins, but he shoved it forcibly back down with a grimace. If Teomitl was dissatisfied, he’d waste no time in making his feelings known, and he certainly wouldn’t still be curled against him the way he was. Acatl stroked his back, hoping it would help.

It didn’t. “...Does something feel strange to you?”

He was warm and naked and sated on his mat, with a soft cloak spread under him and his lover tucked against his side. No, came his first thought, but then he felt it. The boundaries had been left open that little bit for so long, it had started to feel normal. He’d gotten used to the faint vertigo that struck when he looked at the sky, the way the stars had seemed too close and too bright. Tizoc was a ragged bandage on a gaping wound, but the bandage had held.

Until now. He took a deep breath and shuddered, fingers curling into fists against the mat (and also in Teomitl’s hair, which Teomitl didn’t mind if the gasp was any indication). A wave of dizziness struck him; for a too-long moment he felt as though the solid ground under him was tilting. He forced himself not to blink, knowing it would be much worse if he closed his eyes. The boundaries...

“...Tizoc-tzin is dead.”

Teomitl swallowed and nodded. “A quarter-hour ago, maybe. I thought I felt—well.” There was a wry attempt at a smile. “You were being amazingly distracting.”

Acatl wanted to wrap his arms around him, bury his face in his hair, and pretend—just for a moment, gods, give him a moment—that everything would be alright. That the council would crown Teomitl quickly, that the boundaries would hold. But he knew he couldn’t afford to do that, not now. “...You didn’t know.” The words felt like drops of lead on his tongue.

There was a soft rumble in Teomitl’s throat, a jaguar frustrated at lack of prey. “I would’ve warned you!”

“I know you would have.” He pressed a kiss to his temple, wishing he could linger, and reluctantly shook himself out from under Teomitl’s arm. “You should go.”

Teomitl made a low unhappy noise as he reached for his loincloth. “Acatl, I—”

“Someone will be here soon to fetch me so I can reinforce the boundaries.” His hands shook as he dressed himself, and it was only by sheer effort of will that he didn’t look in Teomitl’s direction. “You can’t be here when they do.”

“I know.” Teomitl threw on his loincloth as though it had offended him, only belatedly remembering to make a grab for his cloak; even the plain one he wore when he made the late-night trek to Acatl’s house was too conspicuous as something that didn’t belong in a priest’s house. His hands were shaking too, but Acatl was sure it was from rage. When he started fumbling with the straps on his sandals, Acatl turned away.

Tizoc was dead. After lingering for years in ever-increasing paranoia and instability, his callous cruelty reaching a pitch even his favorite sycophant Quenami took note of, he was finally dead and, the Duality willing, no longer their problem. The hole in the boundaries could finally, finally be properly sealed, and when Teomitl was crowned he would finally be able to lead the Empire to glory. If they held out just a little while longer, they would be safe.

If.

He was lingering, Acatl told himself. It would only have been a matter of time. Perhaps it was his heart, or the fluid in his lungs. Perhaps there’s no other explanation than that, and I am worrying for nothing. But he knew even as he thought it that he’d never be that lucky. If the Revered Speaker had been slain, they would look to him for answers. He knew which one Quenami, at least, would want to hear. He doesn’t know, he reminded himself. He was far away from the city for that, and Teomitl has been careful since then. So careful. There’s no reason to suspect him, none at all.

He dressed quickly, mechanically. Whoever they sent to fetch him would expect to see him roused from sleep, and so a certain degree of disorder would be expected, but there was disorder and there was...well. If he tied his cloak over both shoulders (something it was really too warm to do) it would hide the red marks from Teomitl’s nails down his back, and careful arranging of his hair would do the same for the love bite sure to turn colors on his neck. They would raise far too many questions if someone spotted them.

Teomitl was halfway out the door. Soon he would be gone, and the gods knew when they’d have a chance to talk again. It pulled painfully at his heart.

“...Teomitl?”

“What?” his lover snapped without turning around.

He sucked in a breath that scorched his lungs. “I wish you had known. I wish you’d—yourself—” It should have been your hand on the knife, your mind behind the poisoned cup or the flower garland looped around his neck. You’ve waited long enough, after all these years of staying your hand…

Teomitl drew in a slow breath. “So do I. But things will be better now. I’ll make sure of it.”  

Then he turned, and even the edge of his smile was warm as an early dawn. “I won’t let you worry, love. Promise.”

He slipped into the night, and Acatl was alone. His heart thumped away steadily in his chest; he touched it absently, thinking of Teomitl’s hand resting there. We should have had all night. I should be asleep in his arms right now.

“Acatl-tzin!” Ezamahual, calling his name. Rapidly approaching footsteps. He hoped Teomitl was well away.

But I am High Priest for the Dead, and I have a duty.

&

He’d only done the ritual once before, at Axayacatl’s death, but that didn’t matter; he remembered it perfectly well, and Ichtaca was a steady presence by his side as he made the sacrifices and sang the chants into the warm night air. The dry, stretched emptiness of Mictlan centered him, scouring him clean of his doubts and fears. For the space of time it took him to perform the spell, he only needed to be the High Priest, nothing else—no one’s son, no one’s brother. No one’s lover...no, no, that wasn’t quite true. Teomitl’s smile lingered in his mind like a caress, and he drew strength from it.

And then it was over. He wiped blood from his hands, savoring the first deep breath he took after the power left him. Above him, the boundaries creaked under the strain—but they held. They would continue to hold. For now.

“My lord, shall I accompany you to the palace?”

He shook his head at Ichtaca’s question. “I’ll be fine with Palli. You take over the cleanup here.”

It was a short walk over to the palace, but there was enough time for worry to take hold again. He could feel the thinness of the wards they’d wrought, almost hear the rattle of star-demon bones on the wind. Old scars twinged faintly at the memory, and he knew they’d never been more vulnerable than at this moment. The petitioners he passed must have felt it too, for there was a grim frenzy in their penances. He couldn’t blame them. Tizoc’s coronation was a memory he still reeled from in the night.

He chewed his bottom lip. Teomitl will be better. I know he will. But first...Duality, please let him be crowned without incident. Please.

Though the palace was far from silent, the banquets and gatherings he passed had a subdued, unreal quality to them, as though the people involved were just going through the motions. He passed more than one person anxiously gazing up at the sky, and couldn’t blame them. Hold on, he wanted to tell one sniffling young girl. We’ll have this fixed soon enough. It was nothing like Axayacatl’s death, with Tizoc frothing at the mouth to be Revered Speaker. Teomitl had proved his patience and was willing to wait; the council would vote him in without trouble, and then he would lead them all to glory.

When he stepped into the Revered Speaker’s chambers, he knew it wouldn’t be so simple. Tizoc had remodeled since taking over his brother’s chambers, but he barely noticed the decor besides making a mental note of how bright it all was. (Teomitl would no doubt have it repainted in the soothing blues and greens he favored; he’d gone so far as to ask Acatl’s opinions on themes before.) The other people in the room were more important. There was the She-Snake, of course, looking older and more tired than Acatl had ever seen him, and there were both of his fellow High Priests. Acamapichtli was fighting back a yawn, but Quenami was fixing him with a particularly haughty stare.

“Ah, Acatl. You’re finally here.”

He deliberately did not meet Quenami’s gaze. Instead, he glanced at Mihmatini—who was, tonight, not his sister, but the Guardian of the Sacred Precinct. She’d dressed in her full regalia, face shining with sweat where the blue lines of her paint didn’t cover, and the feathers of her headdress rustled lightly as she met his eyes. She didn’t smile. Neither did Teomitl, who’d thrown on a tunic and a few more pieces of heavy jewelry since leaving Acatl’s arms.

One of those pieces, he realized, was the small jade lip plug he’d given him for his last birthday, with its relief carving of an eagle in flight. The sight had a tiny ember of warmth glowing in his heart as he turned to the She-Snake. “My lords, I have come as custom dictates for the body of our Revered Speaker, Huitzilopochtli’s chosen.”

“We surrender it willingly," the She-Snake said. "We all must leave this world, the jades and the flowers, the marigolds and the cedar trees. Having nourished the Fifth Sun and Grandmother Earth, we all must leave the world of mortals. For those who died without glory, they must go down into the darkness, and find oblivion at the end of their journey. Let the Revered Speaker be no exception to this.”

“Let the Revered Speaker be no exception,” he echoed. Took him long enough, muttered a mental voice that sounded very like Teomitl. He pushed it aside.

With the formalities out of the way, he could finally approach the body. It didn’t look good. Tizoc had looked shrunken and raddled for years, but now he was skin and bones with a waxy, yellowish cast to his skin that went beyond what he would have expected from a corpse. If Acatl opened him up, he knew his liver would be inflamed. No magic clung to him, though, and as he knelt for a closer look he knew that hadn’t been the cause of his demise. Fluid on the heart, he thought, looking at his swollen extremities. Weak as he was, the strain was probably enough to kill him. Probably.

Quenami’s headdress rustled as he turned to follow Acatl’s movements with his eyes. “You see you have your job cut out for you—but then, I’m sure you knew that.”

Ice running down his spine and pooling in his gut, Acatl lifted his head. “What are you saying?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Quenami paused for dramatic effect, sweeping his gaze around the room. “Our Revered Speaker was poisoned.”

Teomitl stiffened, taking a step forward. Faint jade tints swam in the whites of his eyes. “What proof do you bring of this?”

“He was hale and healthy not a day ago,”—someone snorted; Acatl thought it might have been the She-Snake—“and now look at him. Someone has brought him low, and I will have answers.”

“He had a heart condition,” Acamapichtli drawled. “There’s your answer.” He flicked an unreadable glance at Acatl.

“Perhaps.” Quenami’s eyes narrowed. The room was warm already, but it grew measurably warmer; Acatl was aware of Palli and his other priests taking a prudent step back. “Or perhaps there is one among us who carries a grudge.”

“Have a care with your words,” Teomitl snapped.

Quenami held up his hands in a placating gesture that achieved nothing of the sort. “I assure you, my lord, I am choosing my words with the utmost care. We all know Tizoc had many enemies.”

Including almost everyone in this room, Acatl thought viciously. He got to his feet again, the better to meet Quenami’s cold eyes. “There are no signs of poison. It was a weak heart, as Acamapichtli says. And you know full well he has not been strong for a long time.”

Quenami shook his head, dismissing his words—and himself—as irrelevant. Acatl wanted to punch him. “What if it was magical in nature? I know full well there are sorcerers among us...as well as those who can quite easily cover up magical crimes.”

Now he went too far. Acatl’s fists clenched. Behind him, he heard a noise that suggested one of his priests might actually beat him to it—if Teomitl, who looked murderous, didn’t get there first. “I was at my temple keeping the boundaries of our world intact, as you should be well aware.” Don’t ask what I was doing before that. Or with whom.

“Ever the dutiful servant of our empire, I see. And where,” Quenami asked in a tone of silky menace, “was our Master of the House of Darts? Should he not have been with his dying brother?”

“He was with me,” Mihmatini snapped, and gods, Acatl loved his sister.

“Was he?” An immaculately maintained eyebrow went up. “I didn’t see him coming from the Duality House.”

No. Oh, no.

“Enough,” the She-Snake said. “Let our High Priest for the Dead do his work, Quenami.” Eyebrows lifted briefly as he looked at Acatl, but he said nothing else. He didn’t have to.

Acatl’s skin crawled, and he fought the urge to vomit. He knows. They’d been so discreet, they’d been so careful, and just when they could finally be safe together it was all threatening to come down around their ears. He wanted to scream. He wanted to pull Teomitl into his arms and stay there for eternity.

But there was a job to do, and he bent to do it.

Preparing Tizoc’s body would take a while, but he didn’t have to be present for it. There was time enough for a meal and sleep, or at least a brief nap, after the preparations began. He didn’t much feel like doing either one of those things. As the dawn broke over Tenochtitlan, he stepped out into the courtyard and squinted into the sun. His heart felt heavy. I should try to sleep. Teomitl would want me to.

He sighed. Teomitl…

His lover hadn’t met his eyes before he left. That was good, it was the discretion they needed with Quenami so suspicious, but it still pinched at his heart. It had been a long, long time since they’d left each other’s arms without even a kiss goodbye, and the last time had involved a sighting of the Night-Axe wandering a main thoroughfare. He still had the scar from that. Tizoc’s long-overdue demise just didn’t have the same feeling of frantic urgency.

When he turned the corner out of the Revered Speaker’s chambers, Mihmatini was waiting for him. She’d shed most of her regalia and redone her face paint, so the lines were clean and bold in the morning light. “Well?”

He took a deep breath and steeled himself. “I saw no signs of wrongdoing.” It wasn’t a lie. He’d seen nothing. Even with his magical sight, there was no visible sign to indicate that Tizoc’s death had been anything but a magically-propelled body finally reaching the end of its lifespan. But he’d felt the currents of power still lingering around Tizoc’s organs, and if he dug down deeper he knew he’d find more than a hint that something had helped Tizoc along. He and his priests had exchanged long, long glances and had not looked deeper. They all knew they couldn’t have continued any longer, anyway.

“Good. I knew you wouldn’t.” Her fingers toyed restlessly with her carved coral bangles. She didn’t look at him.

“Mihmatini…” He stopped, biting his lip. The magic hadn’t felt like hers. And what good would it do to interrogate her? He could admit to himself that though he would have preferred it be Teomitl’s work, the most important part was that the festering boil on the throne of their city had been lanced, and healing could begin.

Her gaze fixed on the far wall as she started to walk. He followed, drifting behind her like a ghost. “He’s dead, isn’t he? For good this time?”

He nodded before belatedly remembering she couldn’t see him. “Yes.” As dead as he should have been all those years ago.

She heaved a sigh of relief. He couldn’t blame her. “...Finally.”

They crossed into a courtyard, the sunlight dazzling Acatl’s eyes where it reflected off the water. He shielded his face with a hand. Mihmatini, more used to the brightness, didn’t even flinch; he cast a glance her way, briefly reflecting on how she’d grown into her power. Acamapichtli told me once that she was destined for great things. I can see what he meant now. “Do you think we’ll be safe?”

She was silent for a moment, thinking it over. “We should be. When my husband is crowned.” Once, hearing that phrase from Mihmatini would have made him flush guiltily, too aware of how he was technically an intruder in their marriage. Now it brought a brief surge of camaraderie and a swell of understanding at her proud smile. “He’ll be a wonderful Emperor, you know.”

Despite himself, he smiled back. Yes, he’d seen the way Teomitl weighed his decisions now, how he commanded his men unflinchingly, how he was quick to stand up for his opinions and just as quick to apologize—and to do so sincerely—when he caused friction in expressing them. He’d grown from a callow, impetuous youth into a fine young man who would do the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown proud, and Acatl couldn’t wait. (Not all of it was patriotism. His lover had long expressed ideas regarding all the things they could get up to when Tizoc was no longer hovering over their heads, and he was looking forward to trying them out.)

“Acatl…” Mihmatini hesitated, glancing away. “You should stay away from him until then. They’ll all be looking at him.”

His smile faded. She was right, and he hated it. The last thing Teomitl needed before the votes were cast was any hint of impropriety, especially with one of his High Priests. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. Though the morning was warm, she hunched her shoulders as though the breeze chilled her. “I didn’t know—I thought there would be time to prepare.”

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of flowers. “This was always going to happen.” They’d had a little time to stabilize Tizoc’s reign as much as they could, but he’d known since bringing the man back that it was never going to last. That Teomitl would rule eventually, and a few weeks’ worth of separation would be a small price to pay for his lover’s destiny.

Admittedly, when he’d first thought that, Teomitl had been only his student, and it was one thing to keep a respectful distance from the human embodiment of trouble and quite another to find himself barred from holding it in his arms after it proved to be so sweet and lovable, so when Mihmatini muttered, “...It could have happened at a better time,” he found himself agreeing.

“...Yes. It could have.”

Whatever she heard in his voice made her wince, and she turned to squeeze his arm. “We’ll be alright.” Her smile just barely touched her eyes, but her conviction shone through anyway. “I’ll see you later.”

He watched her go. After a while it was too painful to look, and he turned his gaze to the flowers instead. They were blooming beautifully.

Duality, he prayed, let her be right.

&

The worst part was the waiting. The funerary rituals to send on a Revered Speaker weren’t that much more involved than those for an ordinary man, but they were certainly longer. Tizoc’s shade, released from his body, was a pitiful scrap of a thing that only had enough strength to bare its teeth at Acatl before he set it free on its journey to Mictlan, but then there were more chants. More vigils. More careful scrutiny of the journey Tizoc’s soul was making through all nine levels of Mictlan. Acatl was sure he heard one of his older priests muttering something about making sure it was a one-way trip, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to discipline the man. They were all thinking the same thing.

And when he had a moment to breathe, he couldn’t even spend it with Teomitl. The man was practically living at the palace now, only coming home to the Duality House to sleep. They’d been separated for longer, but there was a unique sort of ache to having it be while both of them were in the same city. Every time they saw each other, his lover was in the middle of a knot of noblemen and veteran warriors, all of whom wanted something in exchange for their support. Priests of Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc followed him like shadows. His own priests didn’t dare do the same, not after Quenami’s accusations had trickled through the ranks.

(None of them had said anything to him, but they didn’t have to. Palli and Ezamahual had heard the way Quenami had named him and Teomitl in the same breath, as though they were conspirators—as though they were far, far closer than brothers-in-law ought to be—and with a cohesiveness that would have impressed a company of Shorn Ones, they’d drawn around him like a cloak. When he’d realized it, he’d needed to sit down.)

So he bided his time, and a week after Tizoc’s death he sat down to dinner in his courtyard. It was the first time he’d seen his lover or his sister since taking possession of the Revered Speaker’s corpse, and relief had almost swamped him when they strode in unchanged. Tired, yes—Teomitl’s ill temper was clear, and Mihmatini’s smile had shadows on its edges—but still hale and whole and willing to eat his cooking. Then again, it had improved over the years, so that was no longer the measure of good humor it might have been.

He set down a platter of grilled newts with chilies, the sauce in a bowl on the side in deference to his loved ones’ tastes, and after washing their hands they dug in. He heaved a quiet sigh of relief as the first bite hit his tongue; it had come out well, and his fears of burning something by accident were unfounded. They ate in silence for a while before he shifted his weight, took a gulp of water, and asked, “So, how is it going with the council?”

Teomitl made a face. “Fine. Nobody’s tried to poison anyone else yet, as far as I know.” Mihmatini made a noise indicating this was a low bar, and he added, “Though I’m sure my uncle has a new black eye. I wasn’t going to ask him how he got it.”

He considered that. “...Probably wise.”

Teomitl took a final bite of his grilled newt and followed it up with another, much larger, bite of slightly charred flatbread. Maybe he’d made the sauce a bit too hot. “Nezahual-tzin wanted to put forth the She-Snake as a candidate.”

“Did he.” Nezahual’s arrival two days after Tizoc’s death hadn’t helped any of their moods; the man moved through the Sacred Precinct like a snake, and every time Acatl saw him from a distance with a friendly arm around this or that councilman’s shoulders he had to remind himself that one did not smack rulers of allied cities. Hearing that he’d supported a rival candidate for Tenochtitlan’s throne only made it a more tempting prospect.

“The She-Snake turned it down.”

“Wise of him,” Mihmatini commented.

“And unwise of Nezahual-tzin,” Acatl muttered into his cup.

“I can imagine what he was thinking.” Teomitl flashed a thin blade of a smile. “But I’ll prove him wrong.”

Warmth suffused Acatl’s chest. So many things had changed over the years, but Teomitl’s essential confidence had never wavered. It still shone bright as the sun, bolstering him when few other things could. “I know you will.” You’ve promised, haven’t you? You’ve promised to keep us safe. And because it was only the three of them, and he was allowed, he reached over to cover Teomitl’s hand with his own.

Teomitl flushed, his smile turning shy. “How have you been? How are the boundaries holding? You’ve been getting enough sleep, I trust.”

He cleared his throat, feeling suddenly awkward, and pulled his hand back. “The boundaries are fine.”

“That means no,” Mihmatini informed them with a sigh. “Acatl. Really. The bags under your eyes could haul rocks for the Temple.”

“I’ve been sleeping!” he huffed. “But someone has to be alert for the threat of star demons.”

Mihmatini and Teomitl shared long-suffering looks. Things had been rocky between them for a while; he’d never asked, but sometimes he’d suspected they’d bonded again over their mutual (unnecessary, in his opinion) worry for him. Teomitl sighed, all fond exasperation. “And if they come, and you pass out from exhaustion?” He shook his head. “Love, I know it’s been a while, but I’ll remind you that I have no problem guarding you while you sleep.”

He knew he was blushing, both at Teomitl’s boldness and the traitorous little spark of joy that shot through him at the idea. No matter how bad of an idea it was, it was impossible not to be touched by his lover’s concern. “Teomitl.”

Mihmatini smiled, setting her empty cup down. “Maybe that’s what you need.”

He swallowed. “It’s too risky.” Not with everyone looking at us. Not when he hasn’t been crowned yet. Teomitl was looking crestfallen, chewing the inside of his lip plug, and that made it so much worse. He wanted to take hos hand again, but he didn’t dare.

The meal seemed to be over, with only bones and the burnt edges of flatbread left behind. His sister rose gracefully to her feet. “Pardon me for a moment.”

As soon as she left for the privy, Teomitl met his eyes. His gaze was dark and warm and hopeful, and it made Acatl’s heart skip a beat. “Please,” he whispered. “Can I stay tonight?”

There was a lump in his throat. He had to look away, feeling heat rise in his face. “...You can’t. You know that.” I can’t be seen to influence you. Quenami has connections, and he’ll do anything in his power to ruin you. To ruin both of us.

“...I do.” It was so soft that Acatl almost didn’t hear it. He was silent for a moment, and then continued in a tone so wistful it almost broke Acatl’s heart. “But I wish—”

He drew in a breath. “Me too.” He’d never wanted to take Teomitl into his arms so badly in his life.

Mihmatini’s reappearance stopped him. She approached almost hesitantly, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and he knew she didn’t want to interrupt them. He didn’t deserve such a sister. But the sun had set, and it was time for them to leave. “Teomitl?”

Acatl felt like he’d swallowed a knife. It will pass, he told himself. It will pass. This will be over soon, and when he is Revered Speaker there is no one who will bar me from his side save his will. “You should go home.”

Teomitl rose slowly, turning for one last glance over his shoulder. “...Alright. I’ll see you later, Acatl.”

And then they left, and he was alone again in his darkened courtyard. The torches didn’t seem bright enough anymore; as he gathered his cloak around him and got to his feet to begin clearing away his dishes, he was awash in the cold light of the moon and stars. The stars which shone too brightly and glittered too fiercely, for all that the clouds tried to obscure them. He didn’t look up. He’d started to get used to the vertigo, but if he spent too long studying those pinpricks of light he thought he might float up off his feet and drift endlessly among them. No, it was better to keep his gaze on the ground.

He washed plates and buried the uneaten scraps in silence. The last time he’d hosted dinner at his house, Teomitl had stayed afterwards to help clean up. They’d gotten all the plates put away eventually, but there had been water all over the floor by the time they’d finished. He wondered if there would still be space for that when Teomitl was Revered Speaker; despite himself, he started to smile at the mental image of Teomitl creeping from the palace, still wearing his turquoise and emerald piercings, to run sudsy hands over his skin instead of the big lizard-patterned platter he’d gotten from Neutemoc as a gift last year. He’d do it, he thought. He’s stubborn like that. And I love him for it.

He wished the council would hurry up. Teomitl was Master of the House of Darts, had held the Empire together through all Tizoc’s fumbling; there couldn’t be a better candidate for Emperor. The stars above him were really too bright.

As he finally turned to enter his sleeping chambers, approaching footsteps stalled him. It wasn’t a tread he recognized immediately, but then Quenami strolled into his courtyard like he belonged there and his hackles rose. The High Priest of Huitzilopochtli was fresh-faced and expensively attired in gold and feathers, though the day had been a sweltering one that ought, if the gods were kind, to have wilted every heron feather in his headdress. And he was smirking, which made the whole impression much worse.

“Ah. Acatl. So glad I could catch you before you retired.” He didn’t bow.

Acatl held his gaze, feeling a moment’s bleak despair (thank the gods he’d sent his lover home) before slow fury rose through his veins like smoke to replace it. How dare you. How dare you come here, on top of everything else—! But he didn’t say it, because it wouldn’t help. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Oh, a few trifling questions.” Quenami waved an airy hand, but his eyes were hard where they fixed on Acatl’s own. “The Great Temple is almost complete, you know.”

“Mm.” The expansion of the Great Temple had begun over a year ago, and Tizoc had told anyone who would listen that it would be his mark on the city forever. Acatl had spent the first weeks of construction trying not to have nightmares of the temple’s depths, but when nothing crawled out of the scaffolding or fell screaming from the heavens he’d begun to think that maybe it would be alright. For all Tizoc’s many flaws, he at least knew how to hire good builders. It would probably be finished after Teomitl’s coronation war if the schedule held, and up until now there had been no problems. But if Quenami was bringing it up now, perhaps he’d seen something Acatl had missed.

“She of the Silver Bells will need many, many sacrifices to keep Her sealed. I trust we can count on your magical aptitude until then?”

He forced himself to unclench his jaw. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

Quenami’s gaze slid away from him, wandering around the empty courtyard with its single tree before settling back on him. A faint sniff said he’d been weighed, measured, and found distinctly wanting. “...The boundaries have been too thin for too long.”

“You know whose fault that is.” He sucked in a hard breath. Nothing on earth could have stopped him from adding, almost defiantly, “Soon it won’t be a problem anymore.”

Quenami took a step forward.  “I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Acatl. Our Revered Speaker is dead.”

He held his ground. He wanted to ball his hands into fists, wanted to lash out; with great effort, he forced himself to at least appear relaxed. The meal he’d eaten felt as though it had calcified in his stomach. “He was half-dead since we brought him back. You should know that.”

“And now he is in Mictlan. Where you sent him.” Quenami actually had the nerve to scoff, though there was a thread of real anger in his voice that Acatl hadn’t heard before.

Acatl felt cold all over. Quenami might have been allergic to plain speaking, but he’d been forced to actually pay more attention to politics over the years, and—unlike last time—now he could see the shadows of the accusation taking shape before him. “What are you implying, Quenami?”

Quenami drew in a harsh breath, eyes narrowing. His voice cracked out like a whip. “You’ve always despised him! It’s been plain as day on your face.”

For a few moments he almost couldn’t breathe. His heart pounded away frantically in his chest, fit to escape its prison of ribs; when he blinked, he saw for an instant the flower garland before him, and the executioner dragging him away to face his fate. “Are you accusing me of treason? Again?”

That seemed to give him pause. “Oh, not treason. Merely...mm. You don’t seem to have given his death the attention it deserves.” His words dripped honeyed venom, one eyebrow raising as he continued, “Perhaps because you’ve been spending far too much time with our Master of the House of Darts?”

He sucked in a breath that felt like it was costing him something. Innocent. I have to be innocent. But his face was aflame, and he knew he was fighting a losing battle. “...What are you saying?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Quenami snapped. “He’s wanted to be Revered Speaker since the day Axayacatl-tzin died, and I saw the marks on your skin when you came to clam Tizoc-tzin’s body. We all know how close you are to Teomitl, Acatl.”

You don’t know how close you are to death, he thought savagely. Fear still chilled his veins, but it would avail him naught. He took one deep breath, another, and let anger rise in a crimson tide to replace it. “He is my brother-in-law! How dare you suggest I would dishonor my sister and my vows in such a way?!” If he raised his voice enough, he could utter the lie without choking on it—and besides, it wasn’t technically untrue. It was no dishonor if Mihmatini had given her vocal approval, and he’d sworn many vows.

“Ah. Your sister.” Quenami looked thoughtful, which was never a good sign. “An intelligent woman.”

Acatl didn’t like his tone. “The Guardian of the Sacred Precinct,” he stressed. Your superior in all but name. The woman who will be Imperial Consort when Teomitl is crowned. You may think to strike at my weak points, but all your scheming will never intimidate her. I’d love to see you even try.

Quenami smiled thinly, looking like nothing so much as a hungry caiman. “Indeed. I believe I will pay her a visit. We ought to have much to discuss.”

He swept out, leaving Acatl alone. Only when his footsteps had finally faded into silence did he let his legs buckle, knees hitting the packed earth hard as all the tension that had been holding him upright finally loosened its grip. He knew he would regret that later—his knees twinged when he got up even at the best of times, and during the rainy season they ached near-constantly—but at the moment he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Gods, he missed Teomitl.

&

The council was still deliberating two days later, and Acatl was tired. He could feel the boundaries above them straining at the seams, threatening to burst apart. The ritual had bought them time, but after five years of Tizoc’s utter incompetence he wasn’t sure how much he could take. He knew it had to be worse at the Duality House with Quenami prowling around suspiciously, but he didn’t dare make himself a fresh target. Mihmatini would handle it.

The same way she handled Tizoc…? He shook his head, banishing the thought. He’d set a target on Tizoc’s back that day in the courtyard, and he’d decided long ago that he didn’t care if anyone struck at it so long as they succeeded. His sister was practical, but she wasn’t bloodthirsty—and besides, the day she couldn’t outsmart a bastard like Quenami, they had bigger problems. She’d be fine, and in any case he’d realized that needed to be seen to be doing things at the palace. He wasn’t on the council, but with the Great Temple so close to completion they would all be expecting his magical support.

Still, they didn’t need him right this minute. He could feel anticipation tugging nastily at his spine, but until someone came and fetched him there was no reason why he couldn’t walk through the gardens. They were beautiful this time of year, all the flowers shedding their rich scents into the air. Gravel crunched underfoot as he made his way past stands of pitaya cactus, and he averted his eyes from the fruit before a pang could enter his heart. Teomitl had a terrible sweet tooth, one he’d teased him about before. When he’s back in my arms, I swear I’ll never tease him about his love for sweets again.

Because Teomitl would be back in his arms. There was simply no alternative. No matter what else changed when he was crowned, they would still love each other.

(If he’s crowned, whispered a nasty little voice in his head. They might choose the She-Snake. They might choose one of Teomitl’s uncles, someone older and more experienced. And if he’s not crowned, and Quenami is free to spread his poison...)

(He shook his head, banishing the thought with an angry huff. His lover was Master of the House of Darts. There were no other decent candidates. He would be Revered Speaker, and Acatl would be proud.)

There was a voice ahead of him. Teomitl’s, low and enraged. Oh no.

Stepping more carefully now, he turned the corner into the courtyard and prayed he wasn’t about to come across a diplomatic incident. The way Teomitl had once picked a fight with Acamapichtli over Axayacatl’s corpse was a distant memory now, but a repeat certainly wouldn’t surprise him. What was acceptable in a youth of noble blood wasn’t nearly as acceptable in a strong candidate for Revered Speaker, and Teomitl had to rule. He had to.

He still couldn’t see him through the bushes, but if he tilted his head—ah, there was a familiar flash of red. He drew closer and sucked in a hard breath.

Yes, there was his lover, and across from him was Quenami. For the moment they were silent, and Acatl thought, desperately, Get away from him! Don’t you know he wants you dead?

Teomitl didn’t seem to care. He was meeting Quenami’s gaze head on, fists clenched, and the barely suppressed rage in his voice was making his limbs tremble. “My brother may have appointed you to your position. You may think you served at his will, that you can do whatever you want because he gave you that power. But you’re wrong about that.”

“My lord—”

Teomitl cut him off ruthlessly. “You serve—you live—because Acatl-tzin has willed it should be so, and you should spend every day on your knees thanking him for the gift of your miserable life.”

Acatl gasped, but luckily neither of them seemed to hear it; Quenami had taken a step back, eyes widening in stunned terror, and probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d shouted. There was a carved stone bench behind him, and he sank down onto it slowly. He’d thought Teomitl had forgotten about that conversation; it had been so long ago, near the start of their relationship, and his lover had never brought it up again.

Do you want him dead? Teomitl had asked.

He’d thought about it, and he’d said no. But he’d remembered the bone-rattling helpless fear of being in the man’s power, and what he hadn’t said was not yet.

“It so happens that I disagree with my brother-in-law on this point. I would have sent you to serve Tizoc in Mictlan. But Acatl is a much more forgiving man than I am, did you know that? He says I shouldn’t hold grudges, that I should try to forget the sight of your men holding a blade at his throat. That I should try and put behind me the day you almost killed him.” There was the edge of a feral, vicious smile. “He’s a good and merciful man, and deserves your respect and admiration. You ought to remember that.”

“I.” Quenami swallowed audibly. “I, uh. I will, my lord.”

Teomitl drew back, eyes hooded. “Good.” His voice was cold as ice. “You’re dismissed. And don’t you ever speak such slander about Acatl-tzin again, or I will remember this conversation.”

Quenami, ever mindful of his dignity, did not quite flee down the path, but it was a near thing.

Acatl sat silently on the bench, hearing his own pounding heartbeat and Teomitl’s harsh, still-furious breaths as both of them slowed down to normal. He’d known Teomitl loved him, but to hear him all but threaten Quenami over him was…

He swallowed, feeling heat pool in his gut. Well. Apparently his body had quite clear opinions on that.

There was a long sigh from the other side of the shrubbery, and Teomitl’s footsteps sounded closer. Acting on instinct, he lifted his head and called his name. “Teomitl?”

“Acatl!” Teomitl rounded the corner, the shadow of a smile tugging at his lips, but whatever he saw in his face made it fall. “Ah.”

“...I heard what you said to Quenami just now.”

Teomitl drew himself up, ears red. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I…” He trailed off, knowing he was blushing. How to explain the way he felt knowing he was supported? Knowing that Teomitl was willing to do anything—anything—for him? Knowing that he’d truly meant it that first time they’d lain together, all sweet heat and adoration, and he’d whispered into Acatl’s ear, I’m yours? He couldn’t. There weren’t enough words.

So instead he whispered, “Come here,” and reached out to take his lover’s hand.

Teomitl made a soft noise, biting his lip—then stepped past Acatl’s offered hand and sank onto his lap instead. The gasp that escaped Acatl’s lips was swallowed by Teomitl’s mouth claiming his in a long, sweet kiss, long overdue; when he drew back, his eyes were dark and serious. “I meant every word.”

His lips tingled where Teomitl’s had pressed against them. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingers and fisted his hands in the folds of Teomitl’s cloak until they stopped trembling; in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kiss him forever—but first, curiosity beckoned, and he had to heed its call. He needed his mouth for that. “I know you did. But what...I mean, why…?”

Teomitl lowered his gaze. “...The council is almost finished with their deliberations.” There was a brief flicker of a smile as he continued, “Quenami thought to pledge his devotion to me ahead of time, and cast further aspersions on your suitability as High Priest. He dared to suggest to me that you had some foreknowledge of Tizoc’s death, and you know I couldn’t let that stand. I had to remind him what kind of person you are.”

“...I know.” He found himself smiling, unable to express the joy bubbling up through his chest any other way. He’d laughed, flustered, the first time Teomitl had called him the best man in Tenochtitlan, but then he’d been sure he’d been joking. It made something melt within him to be reminded that his lover wasn’t; that he truly did look at Acatl in all his cynical bitterness and see only light. He smoothed his fingers along Teomitl’s cheek, feeling the heat of the soft skin under his touch. “I...it felt good to hear it.”

“Did it?” Teomitl shifted his weight, grinding down in a way that sent slow pleasure curling through his limbs. His smile was a wicked thing. “Maybe you could show me how good.”

His face burned. “Teomitl.”

His lover sighed. “I know. Not here, and not yet. Not when you’ve got all this to worry about.” He didn’t gesture towards the pinpricks of stars in the sky. He didn’t have to. But instead of sliding off his lap he nestled closer, resting his head on Acatl’s shoulder. His voice softened. “When we’re safe, can I come to your mat again?”

When we’re safe. When we’re safe. It pulsed through him like a heartbeat. They had never been truly safe before; as long as Tizoc had been alive, they’d been teetering on the edge of destruction. But now the man was dead, and he could see light on the horizon. “...Ask me again,” he managed, “when you are Revered Speaker.”

Teomitl’s arms tightened around him. “Give me one more week.”

&

It took three days. Three days of waiting, of knowing his lover was close but being unable to simply go to him, of sinking onto his mat cold and alone. When he woke to rain drumming on his roof, he thought he might cry.

On the morning of the third day, he was at his temple. Boundaries or no boundaries, Revered Speaker or no Revered Speaker, people didn’t stop dying, and so he was taking over a vigil from Ichtaca when Ezamahual stepped in. The man waited until he’d finished his current chant before lifting his voice. “Acatl-tzin.”

There was a note of urgency in his voice. Acatl felt his shoulders go stiff. “Yes?”

“I’ve just come from the palace.” Ezamahual took a breath, seemingly to brace himself for the news. “The council has come to a decision, and Teomitl-tzin has been acclaimed the future Revered Speaker. He will be crowned tomorrow.”

Acatl closed his eyes, tension draining out of him like water from a cracked jar. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Thank the gods. Thank the gods, my love will keep us safe. “Good.”

And then he continued his shift. No matter how much he wanted to throw down his knife, gather his cloak around him, and sprint for the palace and Teomitl’s arms, he would refrain. It had been three days. He could wait until nightfall to celebrate the good news. And besides, no doubt Teomitl wouldn’t have time for him yet anyway.

He remembered the warm weight of him in his lap, the way they’d kissed, and felt his ears go hot. He’d steal time from somewhere. But I...I’m selfish. I want to give him all night.

It couldn’t come soon enough. He went through his day in a haze, barely registering what he was doing past the drumbeats of his heart. They’d done it. They’d done it. After so long, Teomitl would lead them to glory, would keep the boundaries as strong as the Sacred Precinct’s walls. The smoke and mist of his name would flow from one end of the sea-ringed world to the other, and Acatl would be there every step of the way.

Night fell. He ate dinner. He bathed himself. He waited.

As the sun sank below the horizon, he heard the sound of running footsteps.  

“Acatl!”

The entrance-curtain was yanked aside in a discordant jangle of bells, but he barely heard it over the pounding of his heart, because Teomitl was standing in the doorway. His beloved was wearing a richly embroidered tunic trimmed with feathers, with gold at his wrists and jade rings glinting on his fingers; his earrings were of turquoise carved with ahuitzotls. The quetzal ornaments tied into his hair were slightly askew, as though he’d ran over from the palace in great haste.  

He took Acatl’s breath away. Voice shaking, he blurted out, “I heard the news earlier—”

“But you were busy. I know.” Teomitl smiled at him as he stepped into the room, gazing at Acatl as though the sight of him—skinny, scarred, hair still damp from his bath—was all he’d ever wanted.

And he was still too far away. Acatl couldn’t take it anymore. “Come here.”

They fell into each other’s arms. Acatl’s hands found his hair instantly, disordering it until the feathers fluttered down in a heap; at any other time he would have at least paused, but Teomitl was kissing him breathlessly and in the face of that nothing else mattered. His lover’s hands settled at his hips, hauling their bodies together, and as the smooth cotton of Teomitl’s tunic pressed against his bare skin all he could think was Yes. Yes, I’m whole again.

When Teomitl finally pulled away for air, the warmth in his gaze made Acatl’s heart melt. “Mmm. I missed you.”

“So did I,” he breathed. “My Emperor.” Finally. We’ve been so patient. We’ve waited so long. And now—now— It was too much to bear; he had to kiss him again, and this time it had teeth. When he licked into Teomitl’s mouth, he was rewarded with a delicious moan that made his pulse race.

Then fingers were sliding under the sides of his loincloth, pressing into the tender skin of his hips, and his racing pulse had a definite purpose. Teomitl lowered his mouth to his neck, lips moving maddeningly lightly against his skin. “Gods, yes, always yours.” He nipped lightly, a sweet sting that pulled a gasp from Acatl’s throat. “Let me prove it.”

Well. He certainly wasn’t going to complain about that. “Oh?” He slid his hands down Teomitl’s spine to his rear, giving the firm flesh a lingering and appreciative squeeze. “You’re sure you don’t want me performing obeisance to you—”

“No,” Teomitl snapped.

Then he dropped, pulling Acatl down to the mat with him. They landed in a tangle of limbs and Acatl’s hair, with a moment’s confusion as they both fumbled with the loose knot of his loincloth; it didn’t seem to matter that Teomitl could (and had) done it one-handed and in pitch blackness before, because now his hands almost trembled with eagerness. Acatl wriggled, kicking the cloth out of the way, and rolled his hips up so that they ground against each other in a shuddering rush of friction and heat.

He couldn’t decide whether he wanted it fast or slow, but Teomitl made the decision for him by straddling his hips and claiming his mouth in a long, hungry kiss. He moaned into it, back arching. “Mmm…” His hands found Teomitl’s thighs, rucking up the tunic with no care whatsoever for the colorful feathers woven into it. Right now, it was just an impediment.

Teomitl growled low in his throat as he broke the kiss, rearing up only to rip the tunic off over his head and toss it into a corner of the room. His loincloth landed in another corner. “Too many clothes,” he muttered irritably.

When he started to pull off his rings, Acatl sucked in a breath. Teomitl naked was a sight to make any man believe that the gods could be benevolent; Teomitl naked save for the riches of his empire, all that bright gold and jade with imperial turquoise at his ears, was something else entirely. He didn’t think he’d ever been harder in his life. “The—the jewelry can stay on, I think.”

Teomitl paused, slowly lowering his hands. When he turned his gaze back to Acatl, his smile was sly and knowing and wonderfully enticing. “Oh? You like me like this?”

His heart was racing. Teomitl slid his hands up his stomach to his chest in a caress that made every inch of his skin buzz with the shock of his desire. Their separation had been much too long. “...Yes,” he whispered. “Very much.”

“Then that’s how you’ll have me.” Teomitl’s grin was the bright, wild, reckless thing he’d first fallen in love with years ago, back when he’d thought only of his temple and his priests and hadn’t ever dreamed of opening his heart fully. It made something in that same heart crack and overflow, and for the space of an instant all he could do was smile back.

But then Teomitl was reaching for the oil jar they kept by the mat—they’d once kept it out of sight in a chest, but since it saw such frequent use there was really no point in storing it where they’d have to waste precious time rummaging for it—and he thought about all the possibilities of that’s how you’ll have me and could only shiver, hot all over with anticipation. “Oh.”

And then, a little while later: “Oh, fuck, Teomitl…!”

No matter how many time they made love, no matter what position they were in, it was still the same; every time filled him with overflowing emotions. Teomitl sank down on him in one smooth, expert slide, and as he grabbed for his hips he groaned both from the sheer perfection of how well they fit together and the slowly rising tide of rightness settling into place in his chest. This is what I needed. This, forever and always.

After so long they knew each other’s bodies as well as their own; it was long practice that had him rolling his hips up into each downward motion, digging his nails into the precise spots that made Teomitl gasp and buck even harder, surging up and biting at Teomitl’s throat in a way he knew would pull a downright filthy moan out of him. And all it took after that was to wrap a hand around him and stroke until Teomitl came with a scream that might have been his name; his lover’s pleasure drove him effortlessly to his own peak in a rush that turned his world to white fire.

In the split second of clarity afterwards came his first conscious thought. It was worth it. All the strain and struggle had been worth it for this moment of joy—and for all the ones that would follow.

They did not speak for a long time. Teomitl lifted himself off him, making Acatl shudder in response, and caught his breath against Acatl’s chest in a boneless lump of blissed-out pleasure. Acatl stroked his hair in silence, letting his own heartrate return to normal. His mind felt pleasantly fuzzy around the edges, warm and sated as a hound in a patch of sunlight, and yet there was an air of finality whispering through it he couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried.

“This is the last time we’ll be like this,” he murmured.

Teomitl stiffened, shaking himself like an ahuitzotl. “What?”

Gods, there was fear in his voice. Acatl immediately felt terrible. He swallowed around a spike of nerves in his throat as he elaborated on the half-formed thought. “...Tomorrow, when the sun rises, you will be my Revered Speaker.”

Teomitl drew in a breath, pushing himself up on his elbows to meet his eyes. “...No.” His voice carried a weight like a hammer.

“No?” he echoed.

Then Teomitl was kissing him, rough and eager, as though he wanted to imprint it on Acatl’s very heart. “It won’t change anything,” he breathed harshly. “I’ll love you just as well with a crown on my head.”

But you’ll do more than that, he thought. You’ll lead armies. You’ll carry the Southern Hummingbird’s favor. You’ll keep us all safe. “Teo—” he began.

“Shh. Let me prove it.”

He’d thought he was spent, but Teomitl settling himself between his legs very effectively proved him wrong. There was very little room for speech after that; oil spilled extravagantly over Teomitl’s fingers, over his own thighs, and by the time Teomitl finally took him he’d been reduced to keening incoherence. There was no frenzy in it, but a steady and unshakeable determination as his lover snapped his hips forward, gaze locked on his with an emotion Acatl had by now learned to recognize. Love. With a look like that, he didn’t need to repeat his declaration for it to be understood perfectly well. Acatl drew his nails down Teomitl’s back, arching like a drawn bow, and just before his second orgasm of the night struck he thought, I know. You don’t need to say it. I know, my heart.

That didn’t stop Teomitl, of course, though he waited until they’d at least made gestures towards cleaning up before flopping down on top of him again with a sleepy smile that made it clear he wasn’t planning on moving. “I really...really love you,” he mumbled.

Acatl couldn’t respond. Oh, he wanted to; love poured through him like honey, soaking into his bones, but he was too tired to make his mouth form the words. He hummed sleepily, though, and that seemed to get through because Teomitl smiled and nuzzled affectionately at his throat. Perfect, he thought through his exhaustion. My beloved man. Now I can rest.

His eyes closed.

Something blared in the distance, dragging him up through the foggy depths of sleep. He hadn’t even realized he’d dozed off, but he must have; the conch shells were calling for the dawn, and pale light filtered through the window. It would be a clear and sunny day, the gods’ favor upon the start of Teomitl’s coronation. Muscles protesting, he sat up.

His lover stirred awake next to him, rubbing his eyes carefully. They never had gotten his jewelry off, and the jade gleamed in the light. At first there was a faint, sulky frown on his face—he’d never liked mornings—but then he seemed to realize where he was, because as he opened his eyes and saw Acatl he started to smile. “It’s tomorrow,” he said softly.

The conversation they’d had started to make its way back through the misty corridors of Acatl’s memory. That’s right. He won’t be just my lover anymore. “...Mmm.”

Teomitl pushed himself upright, lifting a hand to card through a fallen lock of Acatl’s hair and gently return it to its place behind his ear. His smile held none of his old carelessness; it was steady and warm as the dawn, burning away his doubts. “And I’m still the same man you went to bed with last night. I’m still your Teomitl.” There was a moment’s pause, and his gaze flickered as though he was suddenly unsure. It made Acatl’s heart twinge hard. “Aren’t I?”

He drew in a breath, and the air that filled his lungs was sweet. No matter what else Teomitl was—Revered Speaker, conqueror, conduit for Huitzilopochtli in the Fifth World—he would always be that. He would always be his, kept secret and safe in his heart. “...Yes,” he breathed. “Duality, yes.”

He leaned in, but Teomitl met him halfway. Rings caught in his hair as they kissed, his back protested as Teomitl pressed him against the mat, but it didn’t matter. Only this did—the heat of his beloved’s mouth on his, the steady thumping of his heartbeat in his chest, the brightness of the magical boundaries that would keep them safe for a lifetime.

The sun was rising.

[notapaladin]

Ezamahual: Whose turn is it to give the pep-talk?

Ichtaca, sighing: Acatl-tzin’s...

Acatl: Fuck shit up out there, but don’t die.

Teomitl, wiping away a tear: Inspirational.

[notapaladin]

Acatl: Do you think I enjoy being mother hen to you all?!

Ezamahual:

Palli:

Teomitl:

Mihmatini:

Acatl: Okay fine! It’s like crack to me.

[notapaladin]

Ichtaca: We’re worried about you.

Acatl: You’re worried about me?

Mihmatini: We’re worried that you’re not gonna make it.

Acatl: Make it to what?

Ezamahual: Just in general. ‘Cause you don’t take care of yourself.

Teomitl: Sometimes I’ll crumple up vitamins and I’ll put them in your food.

Ichtaca: We all take turns sneaking money into your pants pockets before we put them in the dryer.

[notapaladin]

Ezamahual: Acatl-tzin, when was the last time you slept?

Acatl, holding his 11th cup of coffee: Yes.

[notapaladin]

Ezamahual: Are you sure you're getting enough sleep, Acatl-tzin?

Acatl: Sometimes I close my eyes when I sneeze.

[notapaladin]

Ezamahual: I trust Acatl-tzin.

Ichtaca: You think he knows what he's doing?

Ezamahual: I'm not sure I'd go that far.

[notapaladin]

such a charming and romantic notion

Acatl and Teomitl are pining. Mihmatini and Acamapichtli? Well...they kinda ship it. At least getting them together will mean they don’t have to watch those two yearning anymore, right?

Also on AO3!

-

Most of the time, Mihmatini loved her husband. True, she often wanted to strangle him for his stubbornness and she would never forget how he’d planned an entire coup and expected her to simply fall in line, but she’d gone most of the way to forgiving him for that when he’d told her the full reason why he’d wanted Tizoc dead. The bastard definitely deserved it for having the nerve to try and execute her brother. (For treason, of all things! As though Acatl would ever!) Now they were friends again, even though she knew damn well that he was hiding something from her.

And this was one of those times where it really grated. “Teomitl.”

He looked up from where he’d been making an extremely half-hearted effort to tighten the wrappings on his sword. It was an improvement from the pacing, leg-bouncing, and nail-picking at least. “...What?”

She laid a hand on his arm, which always helped calm him when he stood still long enough for it. (She’d always suspected he wasn’t hugged nearly enough as a child, but she tried not to think about that. It made her angry.) “You’ve been fidgeting all afternoon. Is something wrong?”

He blinked, and then jerked away. “What? No!” It was almost too loud, which would have given the lie to his next words even if his ears weren’t turning red—he was really a terrible liar. “No, it’s fine.”

She eyed him skeptically. “...Mmm.”

“Really,” he huffed. “It’s just that I’ve been busy. It feels strange to finally relax.”

Well, he had been busy; there would be another campaign starting in a few months, and the army needed its Master of the House of Darts. He’d often come home very late or not at all, and when he did he was either exhausted, grumpy, or both. “If you’re sure.”

He nodded firmly. “I am.”

But he was still looking distinctly preoccupied, even as he washed up in preparation for Acatl’s visit. It wasn’t often that they all had the free time to eat dinner together. Even then they usually ate at Neutemoc’s house, but Ollin was teething and Necalli was losing his baby teeth altogether, so it would be a miserable time for all. She’d extended an invitation for Acatl to come to the Duality House, and he’d accepted gladly.

In fact, he’d accepted blushingly, which was...hmm. But as he entered the courtyard, she could detect no hint of awkwardness or shyness on his features. He looked the same as he ever did—which was to say tired, somewhat dour, and in immediate need of sustenance and cheering up.

And then he and Teomitl made eye contact, and just as quickly looked away. But not before she spotted a faint tremor in his hands. Well, then.

“Acatl,” Teomitl said, and smiled.

Her brother was blushing again. It would have been imperceptible if she hadn’t been looking for it. “How have you two been?”

She piped up, “Busy as we ever are. Come, sit and eat!” Normally she would have tugged him down to sit next to her, putting them across from Teomitl, but this time she held back and watched as Teomitl shifted aside on his own mat to make room for him. They didn’t touch, but Teomitl moved in a way that suggested he was very aware of it. Interesting.

She considered it as servants brought them their meal—flatbread, fish, chilies, grilled frogs and newts, plenty of vegetables. It wasn’t a surprise, not really; she’d known for a long time that Acatl was exceedingly fond of Teomitl, even though of course he’d never actually say anything because emotional vulnerability probably gave him hives, and it had always made her sigh in frustration. Look at him, Acatl. If you told him you cared for him, were proud of him, he’d light up the whole sky for you. But every time she saw them together, she found herself wondering whether being fond was the problem.

Now was definitely one of those times. For one thing, though Teomitl’s appetite was unaffected, he seemed unwilling to cross into Acatl’s personal space. Instead he cleared his throat and asked, “Ah, pass me another newt?”

Acatl hesitated for a moment as he looked at him—he always did, and there was always that same wistful look in his eyes—but then obligingly handed him another skewer. “Here.”

Their fingers brushed, and Teomitl looked away. Mihmatini saw his gaze drop to his hands with a twisted little smile before he started tearing into his meal like his life depended on it, seemingly trying to block out all of his surroundings.

She cleared her throat. “Acatl, how have things been at the temple?”

Teomitl lifted his face from his plate to comment, “Not very interesting, I hope.” It made Mihmatini smile; while he loved new and exciting things, they both knew that Acatl didn’t share his enthusiasm.

“Hah,” Acatl said dryly. “If only I was so lucky! Something was summoned down in the featherworkers’ district…” And then he started telling them all about it—what they were dealing with (not a creature from the underworld, but definitely in possession of entirely too many teeth), who had been killed so far (nobody yet, but it had severely injured a young merchant), and who was personally on the case (Ezamahual, and Acatl had the nerve to say he hoped he didn’t push himself too hard—Mihmatini had to stifle a shriek of outrage at the hypocrisy).

As her brother spoke, she found herself watching Teomitl. Her husband listened in rapt fascination, chin propped on his fist as he soaked up all the twists and turns of the case. He didn’t even interrupt, only venturing a remark when Acatl paused for water. “Is there anything you—your temple might need from me?”

Acatl blinked, and then smiled. It was slow and half-disbelieving, but it was definitely a smile and it was definitely aimed at Teomitl, who looked absolutely gobsmacked. Mihmatini was surprised he didn’t drop his food in his lap. “It’s good of you to offer, but I think the palace would...object.”

Even the allusion to Tizoc cast a pall over the table, but Teomitl rallied immediately. “I’m Master of the House of Darts. I can do what I like with the things that are mine. Let me help you, Acatl.”

Her ridiculous older brother looked hesitant, but he was still smiling. “...Thank you. I appreciate it.” And then he went red, and in a much more awkward tone added, “I...uh. I’m sure Ezamahual will, too.”

“Mm. Yes.” And there was no disguising the tinge of bitterness in Teomitl’s voice.

Mihmatini applied herself to the contents of her own plate. Is he jealous? Of Ezamahual? She tried to bring the priest’s features to mind and came up blank. No, she didn’t really think it was jealousy, but there was something about the way Teomitl kept looking at Acatl—and the way Acatl kept shooting little glances back, as though afraid to risk meeting his eyes again. And those smiles.

She’d certainly never seen Acatl look so happy outside of Teomitl’s presence. Now, her husband’s smiles were infectious, she’d be the first to admit that—but Acatl had done it first. Indeed, his eyes were still softening every time he cut a glance in Teomitl’s direction, and her husband was looking back in a way that...well, if he was being bold instead of furtive, she’d call it flirtatious. (Badly flirtatious, admittedly, but he’d always been terrible at that even when he was courting her. She’d been very hard-pressed not to laugh at it until after the wedding.)

She cleared her throat. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do, too. Even if it’s just making sure you remember to eat real food and sleep more than an hour at a time.”

Acatl huffed, “You do that all on your own.”

“Someone has to!” But Teomitl was smiling at her words as she spoke, and she couldn’t help smiling too. That’s right. We both love my brother.

Now he looked positively irked. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” he snapped, which was a lie if she’d ever heard one. This was a man who forgot to eat.

Teomitl wasn’t convinced either, and let out a rude snort. “That’s like saying Acamapichtli is capable of being a decent person. I’m sure it’s true, but I’ve never seen it happen to any satisfactory degree.”

“You—“

His face was a picture. Mihmatini lost her battle against her rising tide of giggles, which only made Acatl look even more offended. Which, of course, made her laugh harder, which set Teomitl off, and finally even Acatl’s face had to crack into a grin because Teomitl was sagging against his side and unsuccessfully muffling some amazingly undignified chuckles. (Not giggles. He insisted he did not giggle, and any high-pitched squeaky noises emanating from him in the throes of mirth meant nothing, Mihmatini. She’d stopped arguing, even though he was wrong.)

Finally, when they all got their breath back, Acatl—still grinning—muttered, “I can’t believe you compared me to him. I thought we were friends, Teomitl.”

Teomitl went immediately and impressively red. “We are? Hmph. That’s how you know it’s bad, then.”

“Mm.” She wasn’t the only one to have heard the note of surprise in Teomitl’s voice; Acatl’s fingers twitched as though he wanted to touch him, but he visibly thought better of it and reached for his cup instead.

The rest of the meal was quiet. Peaceful. Blessedly free of any sort of conflict, arguments, or tension beyond the way her husband and her brother kept looking at each other. Mihmatini should have been happy. And she was, but...

But she’d been left with something to ponder, and she turned it over in her mind as she and Teomitl finally went to bed. The way my brother was looking at him. The way he was looking back. The way they touched, and blushed, and did it again.

She wasn’t jealous. No, the feeling driving its claws into her chest was irritation. As she washed and dried her hands, she found herself glaring into the basin. I was right about it. About all of it. They’re...no, they’re not together, because Teomitl knows perfectly well that if he kept something like that from me I’d kill him in his sleep. But they want to be. No man looks like that at his friend—my husband was as shy as a maiden in the calmecac every time Acatl turned in his direction! And I’ve never seen Acatl blush like that. Ever. Not even when that courtesan was throwing herself at him. Teomitl’s the only one to ever get a reaction like that—the only one who can reach him when even I can’t.

She sighed and undid her braids, letting them cascade down her back. I can’t bring it up to him. Not unless I know for sure what Teomitl’s feeling—assuming he’ll be honest with me.

Well, there was nothing for it but to ask. She waited until he sat down on the mat next to her and started taking off all his jewelry, buying her some time to formulate a proper question.

“Teomitl. Are you…?” She hesitated. This was a delicate sort of thing to ask at the best of times. And there was always the chance she was wrong, and Teomitl would be offended by her even bringing it up.

It was very hard to remove a lip plug without making a ridiculous face, but somehow Teomitl was managing it. Sort of. “Hm?”

She took a deep breath and let it out. Calm. Careful. Like a frightened deer, and gods, wouldn’t that comparison drive him spare. “I know you’re very fond of Acatl.” He made a quiet strangled noise. She continued, “I saw the way you looked at him at dinner.”

He spluttered, “The way I—” Now he was blushing, eyes wide, and she knew she was right. “Not like that!”

She looked him in the eye with a steadiness she didn’t feel. “...Are you sure?”

“Of course,” he said, but he couldn’t meet her gaze. Duality, he really was the worst liar in the world. “You know I love you.”

And I know you can be a stubborn dog sometimes, she thought, but she couldn’t actually say it because for one, it would just cause an argument. And also because Teomitl was kissing her, and she needed her mouth to talk. At least when she pulled away with a smile, he smiled back. “I do.” But you can go and love other people, too. My brother deserves it. “Good night, Teomitl.”

“...Good night.”

She thought of asking Teomitl if he’d like to have sex. They’d done it a few times since that disaster of a coup attempt, and it had been...alright. Not that it had been bad before, or indeed at any point since then, but lately he’d seemed distracted and hesitant. Guilty, she’d thought, and then reconsidered in light of what she’d noticed over dinner. Being in love with her brother would certainly explain that.

So she stretched out next to him and kept her blouse on. When the conchs blared to herald the dawn, he’d wound himself around her like a monkey and his elbow was jabbing quite painfully into her ribs—but she hadn’t been awoken by him flailing in the night or mumbling incoherently into her ear, so he must have had a peaceful night. Good. He suffered from entirely too many nightmares, none of which he was ever willing to talk about. (That was fine by her; she didn’t need to know the shape of them to hate them, especially the ones that made him wake with tears in his eyes.)

“Work,” she said.

“Grrghmph,” he said, but obligingly sat up, stretched, scratched his head, and went to find his worship-thorns.

The week passed slowly. When she wasn’t busy, she found herself paying more attention to Teomitl—noting how he lit up at every mention of Acatl, how he stared off into space or in the direction of Mictlantecuhtli’s pyramid with yearning writ large across his face. Oh, she thought with fond exasperation, it’s like that.

At the end of it, she had a meeting with Acamapichtli. It wasn’t something she was looking forward to; he had the good sense to respect her power and authority, but she’d never forgive him for what his machinations had done to Neutemoc. They were decidedly not friends. But their cooperation was necessary for the safety of Tenochtitlan and the Fifth World, so she showed him into one of the Duality House’s larger receiving rooms to talk business.

It went surprisingly well for an hour or so, aided by a platter of fruit. Then Acamapichtli picked up a slice of guava and commented, “Your husband has grown surlier of late.”

She glowered at a pineapple which really didn’t deserve her ire. Surly wasn’t how she’d put it, but it had to be annoying if Acamapichtli had noticed it at the imperial court. And it was true that he tended to be particularly snappish in the face of perceived slights to herself or Acatl, which she supposed Quenami and Acamapichtli’s continued existences qualified as. Still, she’d take ill-temper over all the sighing and blushing any day, because anger was an emotion she could actually address with her beloved idiot of a husband. “At least you don’t have to put up with him pining—“

Oh. She’d said that out loud. And Acamapichtli had heard it. Grandmother Earth, open up and swallow me right now. There was a knife on her belt; maybe if she moved fast enough, she could stab herself. Or him. Yes, stabbing him sounded like a much better idea.

Acamapichtli’s eyes gleamed. “Oh?”

She tried not to fidget. The key here was to play it off as calmly as possible, like she’d said nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing he could use against them. “...Never mind.”

“Hmm.” And then a faint smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “I think I will mind, actually. Is this about him and Acatl?”

She stopped. Blinked. Stared. “...You noticed?” By the time she realized what she’d said, the damage was done, and she kicked herself for being a fool.

Acamapichtli snorted, waving a negligent hand. Oh. She supposed she had been getting something of a death grip on the folds of her skirt, creating an audible rustling sound. “They’ve been panting after each other for months. Everyone noticed. I am blind and I can see it.” He shook his head. “Your husband’s not a subtle man with his desires, is he?”

Even the memory of it made her have to bury her face in her free hand. (She kept the other near her knife. She wasn’t stupid.) “He insists it’s not like that. As though I’m an idiot.”

Acamapichtli made a frustrated hand gesture that suggested he was about to do the same thing. It nearly knocked over the fruit. “Duality, he trails after Acatl like a lost dog!”

“I noticed,” she muttered. It really had been amazingly obvious once she realized what she was looking at. She couldn’t believe it had taken her this long to see it. Unless it’s recent. Is it? Hmm...no. It certainly had to have started by the time of Axayacatl’s death, because even Teomitl wouldn’t try and commit fratricide in revenge for a threat to a man he didn’t love.

The High Priest scoffed. “Your brother clearly hasn’t, no matter that he looks at Teomitl like he put the sun in the sky. Are you sure he’s not an idiot?”

The urge to stab him rose again. It wouldn’t have to be anywhere fatal. But she took a moment to consider the truth of his words, and then she had to nod. “...He’s usually very smart. Just...he’s not used to subtlety in matters like this.” Or positive emotions being directed at him. Thank you, Mother and Father, you took a perfectly good man and ruined him.

“You call this subtle?” He waved a hand that managed somehow to encompass every interaction Teomitl and Acatl had ever had in front of him better than a lewd gesture would have.

She made a face. “For Teomitl? Yes. Especially when it’s aimed at Acatl; he came over all flustered when my brother even just said they were friends. He’d not want to jeopardize that, so he’s being...cautious.” Honesty compelled her to add, “At least, what passes for cautious with him.”

“Of all the times for Teomitl to discover it,” he muttered. “They act like newlyweds; I can barely even be in the same room with them. I used to catch him staring at your brother in ways that would make a sacred courtesan blush.”

She sighed, feeling a flutter of camaraderie. “I know, it’s awful.”

Acamapichtli made a face. “I can’t imagine what will happen if we let this state of affairs continue.”

She paused. “...We?”

He couldn’t meet her gaze—his illness had blinded him, and though he seemed to be able to distinguish light and darkness he had some difficulty pinpointing the location of her face—but he made a notable effort anyway. His voice took on a deliberately casual edge. “I would like to humbly offer my assistance in this...matter.”

One eyebrow went up, no matter that he couldn’t see it. “Matchmaking?”

He sat back with an expression that might have been grave if he wasn’t visibly repressing a smirk. “Consider it a removal of a mutual annoyance.”

She puffed out her cheeks, thinking it over. Acatl reminds Teomitl to have patience, and my brother...gods, my brother comes alive when he’s around him. Getting them together would solve all of our problems, and I think it would make them happy. They’d be good for each other; the gods know that Acatl is better at handling Teomitl than I am. “Deal. I’ll talk to my husband if you’ll handle Acatl.”

There was a distinct grimace, badly hidden by the polite incline of his head as he rose to leave. “...I suppose I must. Chicomecoatl’s luck go with you.” Under his breath, he muttered, “You’ll need it.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence, she thought sourly.

She found Teomitl in her chambers. He’d made noises earlier in the day about visiting Acatl and seeing how things were going at the temple of Mictlantecuhtli, and it clearly hadn’t gone that well. Not badly—he was here and uninjured—but he was also clearly worried, thoughts chasing themselves like a dog did its tail. She’d grown well-accustomed to the particular face he was making.

She settled down next to him and cleared her throat gently, smiling when he lifted his head. “You’re doing it again.”

He left off chewing at the back of his lip plug, but he was still frowning. “My apologies,” he muttered.

He looked so disgruntled that she had to pat his shoulder. “Nothing to apologize for; you know I’m only worried about your teeth.”

And now he was huffing at her, perilously close to rolling his eyes. Gods, he was adorable sometimes. “Just because you know one person who broke a tooth that way—“

“It’s a valid concern! Acatl would tell you the same thing.” Not, admittedly, the way she’d planned to segue into the topic of her brother, but it was better than nothing. And it had the added benefit of being true; of all her older siblings, Acatl was the one who worried the most. (Over other people, of course, and never himself—no matter how much it drove her insane.)

“...He would?” Teomitl was eyeing her with distinct skepticism, probably thinking along the same lines she’d been.

She nodded sagely, careful to not quite meet his gaze lest he go on the defensive. “And he stares at you like a deer in torchlight when you smile, so he’d definitely notice.”

“He—what?!” It came out in a squawk.

Victory! “You heard me,” she replied steadily.

He stared fixedly at the far wall as though it had insulted his dignity, which didn’t at all disguise the tremor in his limbs or the way his throat worked when he swallowed. “I did. But I don’t see how that’s relevant!”

“...Teomitl.” She kept her voice even and stayed where she was, no matter how much she wanted to pet him and reassure him it was alright. “I know how much you care about him.”

Teomitl spluttered, turning scarlet. “I—uh. Um. Well.” It was official. This was a thousand times worse than the day he’d told her she was on the short list to be the new Guardian of the Duality. At least then he hadn’t looked like he was seriously considering bolting from the room. “I’d like to think we’re friends…”

She caught his gaze and held it. “You don’t look at your friends like that.”

It took a moment for that to sink in, and then he recoiled with his teeth bared. “And what of it?” he snapped, and she knew he was trying to pick a fight. He always did that when his emotions grew too heavy, and after growing up with the likes of Neutemoc and Acatl she’d learned how to deal with it. Shouting back only made it worse.

“Nothing,” she said. And then, taking a risk, she reached out and covered his clenched fists with both of her hands, rubbing the backs of them until they relaxed. When he looked a little less like a terrified rabbit, she added, “But you could tell him.”

“I could what?!” He hadn’t pulled away (another victory) but he was gaping like a fish. It was sort of adorable. “Mihmatini—he’s your brother, I won’t—I wouldn’t do that to you even if I did—which—which I don’t, not like that—“

Worst. Liar. In the Fifth World. His ears were crimson, and he was doing his best to avoid her eyes. She didn’t give him the opportunity, leaning in until he was forced to meet her gaze. “...You could tell him,” she repeated. “I really, really wouldn’t mind. Not if you love him, which I think you do.”

He took a long, deep, shuddering breath and shut his eyes tightly. “...You’re right. Duality curse me for a fool, you’re right.”

The last time she’d seen him so emotional had been that day in the courtyard, when he’d dropped his sword in the dust between them and told her exactly how he’d come to the conclusion that Tizoc needed to die. He was less remorseful now, but no less devastated, and it struck at her heart. “So you have my blessing. Tell him about your feelings. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Teomitl swallowed and dropped his gaze to his lap. For a long moment she didn’t think he’d answer, and then he muttered—grudgingly— “He could hear me.”

“And if he did?”

“...He’d reject me,” he said matter-of-factly. His voice was cold and flat in the way she’d learned meant he was trying very hard to keep it steady. “And then I’d never have even his friendship again, because every time he looked at me he’d know I want more and—and he doesn’t, so…”

Duality preserve me, she sighed internally. My husband is blind. She squeezed his hands, and he looked up. “Teomitl. I know my brother, and I know that even if he didn’t feel the same way, he’d never discard you for it. He respects and cares for you so, so much. You make him smile like no one else can. And I’ve never—ever—seen him look at another person the way he looks at you.”

The first sparks of hope started to shine in his eyes, but his voice still held that horrible bitter edge. “...That doesn’t mean he…”

“He wants to touch you,” she said simply. That on its own meant something; Acatl had always been reserved with all but their family, pulling back with a frown from even friendly contact. “I’ve watched him with you. I’ve seen the way he reaches and then pulls back. Tlaloc’s Lightning strike me, he blushes when he looks at you—and he looks at you all the time.”

Teomitl’s eyes went wide, and he almost jerked his hands out of her hold in his shock. “He does?!”

“He does. Even during dinner.” Her words made him jolt the way she knew they would; Acatl was known to approach his food with the singleminded intensity of a hunting jaguar. There had been times at the table where she hadn’t been sure he’d been pausing to breathe. And yet, when it came to Teomitl, her brother would let food cool on his plate while listening to him speak. “It was like he couldn’t tear his eyes away. So...think about it, alright?”

Slowly, he nodded. “...I will.”

&

This is for my own sake, Acamapichtli repeated to himself, but he knew it was partly a lie. True, he was doing it for himself—it was infuriating watching Acatl and Teomitl dance around their feelings like warriors at the gladiator stone—but also because...well. While he and Acatl certainly weren’t friends, he’d tried to save his clergy and Acamapichtli was aware he sort of owed the man for making the effort. There was something oddly endearing about his determination to do the right thing and damn the consequences, even if it was sure to stab him in the back someday.

And so he set out for the temple of Mictlantecuhtli, aware that no pretty speech would make Acatl happy to see him. He’d have to rely on honesty and—ugh—being polite. As polite as he could manage, anyway, no matter how much fun it was to nettle the man to the breaking point. If he did that, Acatl would probably write his every word off as a lie meant to antagonize him, and this on the one day when he really didn’t have (much of) an ulterior motive for seeking his company.

Luck was on his side, because Acatl was in his temple dealing with the accounts (and doing it all himself, no matter that High Priests had people for that. People they didn’t like.) He counted his way up the steps carefully, glad he’d brought his cane for once; he thought Acatl would probably help him if he fell down the side of the pyramid, but he didn’t really feel like staking his life on that chance.

In his priest-senses, the High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli was a man-shaped void of black and gray smoke, tinged with a nasty sort of gangrenous green. Nothing like his own priests’ pleasant blue-white clouds and lightning. He let the entrance curtain jangle obnoxiously behind him as he strode in, waving cheerfully in the man’s direction. “Ah, Acatl! Good thing I caught you.”

Acatl got to his feet. They were much the same height, but his fellow priest had two working eyes, some very protective family members, and what Acamapichtli suspected would be an incredibly vicious temper if properly roused. And he didn’t sound happy. “...What do you want?”

Smile. He smiled. Nicely. He arranged it into something less likely to get him punched in the face. “I can’t simply stop by and say hello?”

He had the sense Acatl was folding his arms across his chest. “No.”

He sighed heavily. “Fine. If you must know, I just came from a meeting with your sister.” And we bonded over how stupid you and your student are, he didn’t add. (No matter how tempting it was.)

Well, that got Acatl’s full attention. He took a step forward, not incidentally bringing himself into stabbing range. Acamapichtli held his ground. “Is she alright?”

He sounds worried. How sickeningly brotherly of him. He had seven younger sisters, and nobody could ever accuse him of fretting over them. He held up a placating hand. “She’s fine. We had a quite pleasant conversation, and I learned something very interesting about Teomitl.”

Acatl visibly stiffened, and the fog of his body swirled under his skin like a coiling snake. “...What?”

Ah, he couldn’t resist. He let his grin widen, even as he took a prudent step backwards. “He has terrible taste.”

“Excuse me?!” The green sparked, and the shadows where his eyes should be deepened. Though he wasn’t drawing on Lord Death’s power—he was annoyingly humble like that—Acamapichtli had the fleeting thought that he ought to be feeling the chill of the grave pouring off him.

Accordingly, he sighed and waved a hand to diffuse the tension before Acatl decided to really take offense to the perceived slight to his beloved sister. “I’m not talking about Mihmatini. Mihmatini is a wonderful girl who deserves better.” Much, much better. Gods, I can’t think what she sees in that reckless young fool.

“Then who is it?” Acatl huffed, outline rippling. There was a definite tinge of hurt in his voice as he muttered, “I’d like to think he’d say something to me if he was planning on taking a concubine so soon—“

He raised an eyebrow. “Would you be jealous?”

And watched as his words went straight through the ballcourt’s hoop. Acatl actually jerked backwards, gray turning to black and black turning to the void between stars. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then a half-hissed snap of, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Yes, you do. With real effort, he bit back a smirk. “You love him.”

Acatl swallowed audibly. “I don’t—“

He made a stabbing motion with his hand. “Don’t bother lying to me.” Or at all. You’re complete shit at it; I have no idea how Ceyaxochitl thought you’d make a decent High Priest. “Why do you think I’m always trying to give you two privacy?”

At least he was spared the sight of Acatl blushing. “It’s not—like that,” he started, but the way his voice wavered was as good as a confession. It might not be like that, but he obviously had no justification planned for what else it could be like.

Acamapichtli sighed, shook his head, and decided to throw him a bone. “You fool, haven’t you seen the way he looks at you?”

Acatl made the most offended sound he’d ever heard. For a moment he braced himself for a physical blow, but the man only took a step closer and snarled, “He’s my sister’s husband.”

“And?” He shrugged. Really, he’d heard of much more unusual arrangements; while it was true that adultery was illegal, Teomitl would one day (probably quite soon) be Revered Speaker, and then nobody would dare speak out against any interesting sexual habits he might have if they wanted to speak about anything else ever again.

“And? And?!” Acatl gestured furiously, the green and black of his magic positively roiling in his outrage. “It would break her heart! I can’t believe—that you would even suggest—“

He sighed and shrugged. Really, Acatl was much too easy to wind up. “And if she gave her blessing? Imagine it.”

To give him credit, Acatl did seem to be imagining it. At least he took a step back out of Acamapichtli’s personal space, anyway. And he hesitated for a long, long moment before muttering sourly, “Does it matter? He doesn’t think of me like that.”

He hardly ever prayed to any other gods besides his patron, and never to the gods whose domain was love, but he rubbed his forehead and sent a fervent mental prayer to Xochipilli anyway. Flower Prince, You who make hearts to rise up like maguey sap, please come smack some sense into this self-denying devotee of Yours, because I’ve eaten things with more brains than him. The sigh felt like it was coming up from the depths of his soul. “...Really, Acatl? Really?”

Acatl tilted his head. “What?”

“You’re an idiot,” he said bluntly. “For reasons which surpass all understanding of mortal or divine logic, that man is infatuated with you.”

Acatl seemed to have lost the power of speech. Even his magical protections were still as the grave. His mouth opened and shut again with an audible click, but no sound came out.

He pressed his advantage. “Acatl, he seeks you out. He leaps to your defense. He looks at you—by the Duality, he looks at you like you set the sun in the sky personally.” It didn’t matter that he’d lost the ability to personally witness the expression in question; it had been plainly and embarrassingly in evidence long before his illness. And when I insulted you, I swear he was about to stab me over his own brother’s corpse. He decided not to mention that part.

Acatl spluttered, “So he admires me—“

“I have seen him, a grown man and a seasoned warrior, blush like a maiden when you smile at him. He pants after you like a dog in heat.” It was seared into his mind. While Acatl choked, he continued ruthlessly, “You put a hand on his arm once and walked away and I swear by the Storm Lord’s face that he was actually frozen to the spot. And when he stood in that courtyard and wanted to overthrow his brother, it was your words that broke through to him.”

There was a long, shaky-sounding breath. “...I don’t—I didn’t even think…”

“Of course you didn’t. And I’m sick of seeing the results of your not thinking.” He clapped a hand to the general vicinity of Acatl’s shoulder, ignoring the way his magic buzzed like a thousand angry bees. “If you’ve ever trusted me for anything—“

“I haven’t,” Acatl snapped, and pulled away.

“—if you’ve ever trusted your sister for anything, then. She’ll tell you the same thing. Talk to Teomitl. Tell him how you feel.” He allowed himself a smirk. “Or I’ll tell him for you.”

Now he was all prickly dignity again, but Acamapichtli could tell by the shape of his magic and the tone of his voice that it was hiding some very real—and appropriate—fear. “...You wouldn’t.”

“You know I would. You have one week.”

And then he turned and walked away, whistling as he descended the steps. That had gone wonderfully well. Hmm. Should I sacrifice to the Flower Prince on his behalf?...No. Let him muddle through it on his own. There’s no reason for me to exert myself. (Then, too, Xochipilli was known for a tendency to purposefully misconstrue all prayers on behalf of a “friend” to be obliquely referring to the petitioner instead, and romance made him nauseous.)

Truthfully, he wasn’t expecting results. Acatl had always been cautious to a fault, and it stood to reason that his love life would be no different. He let one day go by, then two, then three. Then four. By the evening of the fourth day, he was sure that the fifth day would pass with no word from the Duality House on how their little scheme was progressing, and he would be forced to seek Teomitl out and have a conversation he really didn’t want to have.

They managed to surprise him. And worse (better?) he witnessed the results personally. Or, well, his priests did; they’d been cleaning up after the day’s sacrifices at the Great Temple when he’d heard their low chatter break into a knot of excitement, and he’d hastily cornered the one with the keenest eyesight to describe what they were all looking at. It had taken a great deal of awkward hemming and hawing, but finally he’d gotten an answer.

“Teomitl-tzin and Acatl-tzin—I think they’re holding hands at his temple…!”

A great deal of quills and cacao beans were changing hands around him, and all he could do was sigh and hope he didn’t regret it.

It took another week for him to arrange a second meeting with Mihmatini at the Duality House, and by then he’d made a decision. Yes, he definitely regretted it.

He sat down heavily on the mat provided for him and glowered at the clear-edged ultramarine blue that was Mihmatini. “...Well, it worked.”

She had the nerve to hum cheerfully as she poured him a cup of something that smelled like maguey sap and pushed a plate of frogs at him. “Mm-hmm.”

He took one and ate it just to have something to do. It was actually delicious, which helped, though he thought someone should probably tell the cooks that it was possible to use too much chili. But thinking of chili made him remember the frankly terrifying amounts of the stuff he’d witnessed Acatl eat at royal banquets, and he grimaced as he remembered what the man had been up to lately. And with whom. “And I thought the pining was annoying.”

“I think they’re sweet together.” She sounded like she was holding back a giggle, probably at his expense.

“Mihmatini. I heard Acatl laugh yesterday.” It had been awful. Not the sound of the laugh itself, but the sheer incongruity of hearing it in a courtyard in the imperial palace, where Acatl’s black-and-gray had been tucked too closely next to Teomitl’s gold-veined jade for him to want to come any closer.

“He does that.”

Acamapichtli shuddered.

And then Mihmatini patted his hand and said something even worse. “At least you haven’t walked in on them kissing.”

“...Thank the gods I’m blind.” He squeezed his eyes shut anyway, as though that would help erase the idea from his mind. No, that didn’t work—he could still picture it all too clearly. Is there magic that can remove unwanted images from a person’s brain? If not, can we petition the gods for some?

Worse, Mihmatini didn’t leave it at that. “Tell me about it. I never want to see my brother in a position like that ever again.” She made a sound like a verbal wince. “There was tongue.”

“Eurgh, why are you telling me?!”

She sighed. “Sharing the pain, o my co-conspirator. Sharing the pain.”

“...To think I once thought you were a nice young woman,” he muttered. He was officially rescinding that particular compliment; clearly, the new Guardian of the Duality was a horrible creature who...well, actually, that would probably serve her in good stead when she had to deal with the likes of Quenami, but that didn’t mean he had to approve of it. Especially when it was directed against him.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

Then she giggled, and he was left with the unfamiliar and horrible sensation that he might have just made a friend.