notapaladin

They were curled together lazily in the shade of Acatl’s courtyard like two lizards, arms around each other despite the heat, when Teomitl had what was in retrospect one of his better ideas.

It started out as a half-drowsy murmur as he nestled further against Acatl’s chest. It was really too hot for a position like that to be comfortable, but he was perfectly willing to bear discomfort if it meant feeling as well as hearing Acatl’s heartbeat in his ear. I might never have had this, he thought, but what actually came out of his mouth before he could sink too deep into introspection was, “You were the best teacher I could ever have had, you know.”

Acatl made a small noise; belatedly, Teomitl wondered if he might have been falling asleep. “Oh?” Then his words must have penetrated the haze, because the arm around Teomitl’s waist tightened as he nuzzled at his hair. “Mm. You give me undue credit.”

( Read more... )

They’ve been tangled together on Acatl’s mat for hours, trading long slow kisses, when Teomitl finds his courage and wakes it up.

“I love you,” he whispers into the space between their mouths, and his heart hammers fit to escape his ribs entirely. Because it’s true, of course it’s true, and he’s said it before—but he’s never said it like this, with Acatl half on top of him and the long lines of his body like a brand, with hands in each other’s hair and a leg nudging his thighs apart. The sun has long since set, but he knows that he won’t be going home to his own mat tonight if he can avoid it. I love you. I want more.

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.( Read more... )

The army was home, and they were celebrating a rare victory. Acatl almost didn’t care. Yes, they would maintain their hold on whichever province they’d been sent to, and yes, this was no doubt a fine deed by Tizoc’s standards, but he stared across the plaza in the bright sunshine and he only saw Teomitl.

Teomitl, whose feather suit was ruffled and torn in places, who’d walked miles that day and the day before on aching feet in a mass of his equally tired and worn-down comrades. Teomitl, who stood straight as an arrow despite all that. Teomitl, who had locked eyes with him and was smiling brighter than the sun above, as though none of it mattered except the sight of Acatl’s face.

The air is filled with flowers, and Acatl is in love.

If the Revered Speaker wishes a section of his garden set aside for his private use, where he can go and not be disturbed unless the world is ending, it will be done. And if he then wishes to take his High Priest for the Dead by the hand and tug him along the paths, laughing, to this spot...well, his High Priest isn’t going to tell him no. Teomitl is sprawled next to him on a cloak spread out over the still-damp grass, wearing only his loincloth and a slow, sweet smile. He plucks another cut chunk of cactus pear from its golden bowl, pops it into his mouth, chews, and swallows. As he licks his fingers clean, he asks, “Mm. More fruit?”

“I still have to get your permission to court you, after all.”

Acatl was absolutely sure he could not have heard right. Maybe he’d hit his head in the fighting and was just now realizing it. Maybe he’d fallen asleep and this was a dream. Maybe he was dead. But the city spread out below him was still lit by torches for the funeral vigils, and there was none of the acrid smell of Mictlan in his nose. He stared out at the light reflecting on the canals, felt a breeze ruffle his cloak, and tried to form words. “You want to what,” he managed, through numb lips that didn’t seem to be attached to the rest of him.

Teomitl was still looking at him, and still smiling like the dawn. “You heard me.”

He opened his mouth. He closed his mouth.

Now, it wasn’t unheard of for priests to marry; they were not allowed children, and were still prohibited from unions that could result in them, but for two men or two women to marry was an acknowledged...well, not precisely a loophole in the vows, but certainly a long-established and permissible bending. His own mentor’s husband had died before Acatl had met him, but the man had worn the single red-wrapped braid of a married priest until his own death. Still, it was one thing to know in theory that it could happen, and another for it to be happening to him. He was High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli. He dealt with rituals, and his temple, and the bodies of the dead. He did not—had never even thought he might, no matter his most secret desires—deal with the bodies of the living. And now Teomitl, the bright and beautiful youngest brother of the Revered Speaker, was casually bringing up the idea of courting him as though it didn’t turn his world upside down.

He took a breath. Good, he could still do that and not feel like he might faint. “...Why?!”

Tizoc is—regrettably—still Emperor today. Acatl’s trying very hard not to let it bother him, but it’s hard not to when the man is coming up with plans for a grand new renovation of the Great Temple and he doesn’t dare bring up all the excellent magical reasons why it may not be a wonderful idea. (Aside from the risk of exposing Coyolxauhqui’s prison to moonlight if the support scaffolding is driven too deep, all the wards will have to be remade and thousands of sacrifices procured, and there’s always the chance of the boundaries weakening with their largest anchor disrupted. Instead of bringing any of this up, Quenami—whose actual job this is—is smugly thinking only of his own prestige, which doesn’t help either the Fifth World or Acatl’s mood. Acamapichtli, of course, remains just this side of useless.)

It’s late by the time they get out of that meeting, and all he can think is that he does not want to spend one more second within the palace walls. He wants his own house, and his own mat, and his—

Well. He wants Teomitl.( Read more... )

Family game night had been Mihmatini’s idea.

Or...well, originally, in much better times, it had been Neutemoc’s idea, but the reinstitution of the event had been all Mihmatini’s. “It’s been nearly three years,” she’d said. “Shouldn’t we try to get together as a family again?”

And Neutemoc had agreed.

Acatl was officially invited on a night when, for once, he had something resembling free time. He’d combed his hair and set out earlier than necessary, hoping to catch Teomitl and Mihmatini on their way. Acatl had thought he should probably warn the man—they could be both boisterous and vicious when all of them played patolli together, and he was sure Teomitl was accustomed to a good deal less graphic language and a great many more serious threats over the game board—but when he actually met him alone on the street near Neutemoc’s house, he found he had bigger problems.

Lord Death sat over the bones of the dead, and He thought. The bones were His responsibility, and He would not shirk them, but He was a busy god—a very busy god, now that mankind had been wiped out and the others would have to start anew. Perhaps...yes, perhaps for a time, He could have another watch the bones. (And perhaps, he thought with the ghost of a smile, I will see my Lady.)

He cleared what passed for His throat, and summoned His most loyal servant.

The shade of a priest stepped out of the dust. His feet were bare, but once he had worn bone-white sandals. His hair was unbound, but once it had been tied back with white cords. His cloak, now trimmed in shadows and owl feathers, had once been gray. He knelt in front of his lord’s throne, eyes downcast, and waited for instructions.