confess with your lips

[notapaladin]

During their stay at Nezahual’s summer palace, Teomitl thinks about murder and the things he would do for Acatl. He also discovers he is loved.

“If I’d been too late,” he whispers, “I don’t know who I would have killed first.”

Also on AO3.

-

In retrospect, Teomitl can pinpoint the exact moment he decided to kill his brother.

It has nothing to do with Mihmatini. No, Mihmatini is surely glorious—a sunrise, he thinks, all rosy-fingered with the promise of brilliance and scorching heat—but he wants the moonlight, shadows, a cool dry breeze on his face. He wants the blood, the light, the man who taught him to wield it. Tizoc’s dismissal of her angers him, surely, and fires his heart such that he cannot think he’ll ever stand beside his brother again, but.

But.

But it is that sentence, whispered in his ear by a sympathetic warrior—Acatl-tzin will be executed for treason on the morrow—that makes him forget even that bare minimum of support. Forget standing under him, supporting him with no complaints. Forget even standing by him, a grudging ally in the service of the Emperor. From this day his face is set in opposition; Teomitl knows as surely as he knows his own name, as surely as he feels the Jade Skirt’s power pulse with the beat of his rage, he will one day cut Tizoc down for this, for daring to want Acatl-tzin slain.

(Should Acatl die—should Tizoc succeed—no—that day will come much sooner.)

So he breaks out. It is...harder than he expects. The fleeing, too, is harder. By the time they make it to Nezahual’s palace—and oh, how that grates, to be so dependent on the man!—he feels like he’s been thrown alive down the temple steps. But he lives, and more importantly...

...Most importantly, so does Acatl. He is just as tired, just as drained, but alive.

And when he wakes, Acatl is there. Some small part of him melts at that, at the rightness of Acatl’s face being the first to greet him. The rest...the rest of him is angry. Southern Hummingbird blast Tizoc in all his limbs, none of this should be happening. They are supposed to be greeting the dawn in Tenochtitlan, safe and sound, and the stars are not supposed to shine by day. Tizoc—Tizoc, who was going to have Acatl-tzin killed—Tizoc is supposed to be his brother. (To be the Master of the House of Darts, to be the Revered Speaker, to be the one bringing glory to the Empire—but to be his brother, first.)

Acatl doesn’t understand, but he tries. It doesn’t help.

They’re both too tired to argue. Maybe they will fight later, maybe not. He hopes not, but—well. He’s never been good with words, not really. Besides, Acatl looks like he can barely stay on his feet.

When Acatl finally sits down—something with about as much grace as a lung-shot deer finally collapsing—he moves to lean on his shoulder like he did the night before, when he was wrung out like a bloody rag from the strain of keeping the ahuizotls moving while their constant, sickening chatter assailed his mind. Now he’s awake enough to enjoy it—warm skin against his, soft hair brushing his cheek, the steady thump of Acatl’s heartbeat. They may be in a serpent’s lair, but they are together.

Anger drains slowly as they sit there. He keeps his eyes closed; each lid feels like it weighs half a ton, and he isn’t lifting them for anything less than the end of the world. Acatl is still next to him—drowsing, or thinking—but when he shifts closer, Acatl moves as well.

It’s a natural gesture. An innocent gesture. Comfort, nothing more. Still—still, feeling the arm that had been trapped between them slowly pull free and slide around his waist, holding him that little bit closer, makes his heart thunder. Acatl’s hand rests on his hip; is it wishful thinking that has it brushing a bit too low for propriety's sake? Gods, he hopes not. (He knows he’s hoping in vain. Acatl is a High Priest. There are exceptions to every vow, but surely the exceptions don’t include him.) He wants to sigh. He wants to roll over, lift himself onto Acatl’s lap, and kiss him breathless. He wants—so much.

He breathes in and out, slowly. Let his mind be blank, let his heart be calm. He can’t have any of what he wants, not even Tizoc’s death—not now, with the star demons so close. And who knows? Maybe Tizoc won’t be an embarrassment to the Empire after all. Maybe they’ll hold together long enough for the Fifth World to steady on its foundations, for the stars to retreat to the night sky, so there won’t be any confusion in his brother’s heart as to why he’s being gutted like a fish and left to scream his life out on the palace floors.

(Tizoc might yet make a decent leader but he will always be the man who tried to kill Acatl, and Teomitl doesn’t intend to let that go.)

When soft lips brush his temple, he gasps. Aside from that, he’s not sure he’s breathing. He’s not sure, in this moment, he remembers how. The arm Acatl has around him goes very still.

Oh no. Oh no, he’s pulling away. “Ah...”

He lifts his head, takes a moment to look—to really commit this sight to memory, Acatl flushed and hazy-eyed and so, so beautiful—and closes his eyes again, letting his head drop back on Acatl’s shoulder with his lips parted. It’s all he can do to tilt his face up, a better angle to offer a kiss. (If Acatl wants. Gods—all of them, he’s not picky—gods, please let him want.)

Acatl still doesn’t move. Then there’s a barely audible sigh and breath wafts across his face, gentle and warm. He can feel the heat of his lips just barely brushing his own.

He’s never been a patient man. He closes the distance.

Acatl’s lips turn out to be soft, a little dry, and hesitant even when he deepens the kiss, as though he’s not sure he’s really allowed to do this. It’s sweet and chaste but sends heat through him anyway, heartbeat frantic in his ribcage; he feels disjointed, barely aware of where his limbs are. When he manages somehow to pick up a hand and slide it into the fall of Acatl’s glorious hair, the moan that reverberates through them both makes him feel like he’s been struck by lightning. The gods must love me, he thinks, and then I’m going to skin Tizoc alive. The thought makes him growl; under him Acatl trembles at it.

They part for barely a breath, and he hears his own name as he’s never heard it before—hushed and awestruck, syllables like precious jade in Acatl’s mouth. “Teomitl...” Long fingers trace his jaw tenderly, and he’s struck dumb.

So he kisses him again. It’s much less sweet this time; Acatl’s hand cradles the back of his head and there’s a soft, surprised sound when Teomitl coaxes that deliciously hot mouth open. He wants to hear it forever. But then the arm around his waist shifts, hauls him in, and while his body twists and folds and arches to facilitate it his mind still takes several seconds to register that he’s been pulled onto Acatl’s lap. Oh, he thinks incoherently, this is better. Like this, he can more easily run his free hand down the flat plane of Acatl’s chest, feel his hammering heartbeat and the vibrations of the noise that escapes him when Teomitl catches his lower lip between his teeth, just hard enough to sting a little. (He wants more. He wants to leave marks. But they are still in Nezahual’s power, and he can’t dare to give him anything to use against them.)

They’re both panting when they part for air. He opens his eyes again, suddenly needing to see Acatl’s face. The man’s always been cautious, never cared for change. If this change is too much, if he can’t bear it, wants him to be only his student...Teomitl’s not sure what he’ll do.

Acatl’s dark eyes are heated, his kiss-swollen lips red. The hand still on his neck doesn’t move as he breathes, “What about my sister?”

It’s not a no. It’s not a get off me, you disgusting boy, and keep your hands to yourself. Still, he averts his gaze and feels his face catch fire as he mutters, “She knows.” It had been the single most embarrassing conversation of his life, helped not at all by the fact that she’d thought it was hilarious—but she’d approved, and he probably would have married her based on that alone.

“She knows?” Acatl swallows visibly, meeting his eyes again. “She knows that you...”

He nods. Or tries to, at any rate, because as soon as he realizes he won’t be breaking Mihmatini’s heart Acatl is kissing him again. Acatl is kissing him. Hungrily, nails raking down his spine and that will leave marks but that’s what he’s got a cloak for and besides he can’t bring himself to care when there are more important things to worry about—things like the way Acatl arches when he pulls his hair, hips surging under him in a way that tears a breathless, too-loud moan from his throat. He could do this forever.

...Or until someone finds them. The thought runs through him like ice, and he breaks away from Acatl’s tempting mouth to nuzzle at his hair instead. “If I’d been too late,” he whispers, “I don’t know who I would have killed first.” Probably Quenami. He would have saved Tizoc for last.

Acatl breathes out slowly. “I’m glad you came.” His voice is a little rough, shaky, and it fills Teomitl with awe.

I did that. More words are on the tip of his tongue—something soft, something tender, something about how Acatl-tzin is worth burning the world for—but then a bird calls, and he remembers where they are. Namely, huddled up against a pillar in Nezahual’s summer palace, out in the open, where anyone could come in and see them. He shudders at the thought. The gods only know what that bastard would do with a secret like this.

He’s not sure where he drags the words from. He’s amazed he can still arrange a coherent question, honestly, and if he wasn’t literally in Acatl’s lap and feeling how interested he is in the proceedings he would never risk it. “Do you want...?” More. Everything. He trails his fingers down over Acatl’s stomach and hopes it’s enough of a hint.

It must be, because Acatl trembles, eyes widening—and then fluttering shut as he grits out, “My room. Now.” It has the timbre of an order, which raises some very interesting possibilities.

Possibilities he can contemplate after they get back to Acatl’s room. It’s the least dignified trip of his life, but he doesn’t have a chance to dwell on it because as soon as they draw the curtain behind them Acatl is pulling him down onto the mat and kissing him as though those few minutes were an eternity of separation. He wants me. The thought spins him around until he’s dizzy with it, until he has to breathe “Acatl,” into the air between them, lips against his shoulder, because the emotions running through him right now are just too much for him to express any other way.

When he lets himself fantasize about this at all, he’s always imagined Acatl to be hesitant, maybe a little prickly. The fact that Acatl’s hands are on his thighs, sliding up to his hips—the fact that Acatl’s mouth is on his neck, that he can feel the faint scrape of teeth against his pulse—it’s so much better than anything he’s ever dreamed about. When he buries his hands in his hair again, Acatl actually growls and he really does think he could come just from this.

And then Acatl lifts his head and whispers, “You told me not to thank you.”

Anyone would have done the same. It’s true. It remains true. The fact that Teomitl—that he cares for him shouldn’t even enter into it. Still, he feels a shard of icy fury lodge itself in his heart. “If this—if this is out of gratitude, Acatl-tzin—“

“No.”

Their mouths meet in a biting kiss. It’s about all Teomitl can manage to roll them both over, Acatl on top, mind hazy with desire and the need to be closer, closer. Acatl’s hair has come unbound at some point, tumbling over his shoulders, and it’s the most glorious thing he has ever seen right up until he manages to grind against Acatl’s half-hard cock; the expression on Acatl’s face blows it entirely out of the water. He’s only a man, after all. He can’t possibly resist.

He’s pretty sure he tries to say something. Ask for permission, maybe. But then Acatl’s hands are on his loincloth and he thinks oh and all possibility of forming coherent words flies out the window. There’s only room in his head for this—for the way Acatl’s hand feels around his cock, the way he gasps, ragged, when Teomitl pulls him close and guides him to grip them together, hot and slick and gods, so perfect—

He feels feral. Nothing else exists—in the world, in his mind, in his heart—except Acatl’s length sliding against his, Acatl’s head flung back in ecstasy, the steadily building heat between them. He nips sharply at his collarbone, twisting his wrist on a rough upstroke to hear Acatl’s breath stutter out of him. A minute late. If I’d been a minute late—I would have had to watch you die. He must make a sound when that thought hits him, because Acatl says his name like a desperate prayer.

“Oh, Teomitl.”

It’s enough. He comes all over their hands and only manages not to scream by muffling himself with his teeth in Acatl’s shoulder, feeling every tremor of his body like it’s his own as Acatl follows him silently over that edge. For what feels like an eternity, the only sounds that exist in the world are their ragged breaths and racing hearts. Acatl’s free hand is stroking his back, and he drinks it in.

I almost lost you, he thinks, and then I almost lost this. If Tizoc were in front of him right now, he could quite cheerfully rip his heart out.

“We should...clean up.” Duality, Acatl’s voice sounds wrecked in his ear. His cock twitches with renewed interest but his words reassert the reality of their situation, and he has to pull away.

It’s a good thing. It gives him room to breathe, to calm his racing heart. Most importantly, it also gives him a chance to make it look like he hasn’t just been completely debauched. They adjust their clothing in silence, not touching even though Teomitl’s fingers itch to fix Acatl’s hair for him. (If they had the time—if they weren’t in a serpent’s lair with the end of the world bearing down on him—if they were home, and he could convince Acatl to lay his head in his lap and let him—if, if, if.) His heart feels like it will overflow at the slightest provocation, too full of things he wants to say now that voicing them might not ruin everything forever. Things he never would have had the chance to say, if his brother had succeeded.

Hmm. Maybe, on second thought, he’ll kill Tizoc first, and let the ahuizotls have Quenami.

He closes his eyes on a slow surge of familiar rage. Really, the fact that Acatl-tzin desires him changes nothing. The Fifth World still teeters on the edge of destruction, the Mexica Empire is still bleeding out on star-demons’ claws, and they are still dancing to Nezahual’s tune in search of answers. Next to that, his heart should be stone.

He manages to hold onto that thought until Nezahual and his soldiers come to find them, and then the way his Acatl straightens and becomes Acatl-tzin, High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli cracks his stone heart like an egg.

There is the Empire, the Fifth World, and you.

He’ll tell him later.