#neutemoc's brood

[notapaladin]

we are all walking each other home

Did anyone order plotless summer family fluff by the pool with snow cones? No? Too bad, that’s all I got. In which Acatl and Teomitl and their family have a good day.

Also on AO3!

-

If the young and devastatingly attractive Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan wanted to invite his Imperial Consort’s close family to the palace to stave off the heat of the rainy season in his gardens and pools, none of them were going to gainsay him—especially not Acatl. Though his obligations nagged at him, he could set them down for a few hours to spend time with his brother and sisters. It would be nice to simply rest for once; Teomitl insisted it was the least he deserved.

Though I’m not sure how restful this is going to be, he thought. The gardens Teomitl had inherited from his predecessors were certainly lovely enough, all lush greenery and tiled fountains, even if they couldn’t measure up to his lover’s dreams for his own under-construction palace across the Sacred Precinct from Acatl’s temple. If they’d been left alone to walk the paths and stretch out under the trees, Acatl imagined he’d find it comfortable enough. But they weren’t alone, and that made all the difference. He was glad to have mended his relationship with his other sisters, he loved his nieces and nephews to distraction, but all of them together in the same space was...

“Ollin, stop running by the water! You’ll fall!”

“So then I said to Citlalli, I said...”

“And nobody’s offered for you yet, Coaxoch? Why, when I was your age—”

“Auntie!”

...Well. It was a lot.

He’d claimed a seat at the farthest end of one of the intricately dyed reed mats Teomitl had had spread out, watching the chaos unfold from under the shade of a sprawling tree. Ollin had not stopped running; he and a few of his similarly aged cousins had all gotten into what appeared to be an impromptu game of tag with Acatl’s dog Miton, who was yipping up a delighted storm and wagging his tail so fast it was an orange-tipped blur. His sisters Nelli and Icnoyotl had shown up gossiping about something someone’s brother had done and hadn’t so much as paused for breath since, with their husbands providing increasingly colorful—and increasingly loud—commentary. Mihmatini, enormously pregnant, had lowered herself into the waist-deep pool nearby and kept dropping down to dunk her entire body underwater in a way that suggested she was trying to either muffle her nephews’ shrieking or grow gills, whichever happened first. And Teomitl?

Teomitl was in his element. He’d shed all his finery save for the emerald piercing his septum—still too new to be removed so soon in the healing process—but he didn’t need any, not with the way he was crouched down and beaming at Nelli’s fourth daughter showing him a bug she’d caught. It could have melted a stone; Acatl’s heart didn’t stand a chance. He knew he was smiling helplessly, knew his adoration would be clear to anyone so much as sparing him a passing glance, but just then he didn’t care. I love you. I love you. You’re going to be a wonderful father.

“My lords!”

A few of his family members twitched. Nobody except Teomitl seemed to think that the servants carrying trays loaded with bowls of compacted mountain snow and pitchers of fruit juice were talking to them; he, meanwhile, sprang up and announced, “Ices for everyone! Excellent, set them down just there.”

“We get ice?!” That was Nelli’s daughter, her voice rising in a delighted shriek.

“You get ice,” Mihmatini informed her, accepting Teomitl’s arm to heave herself out of the pool with a grunt. “Eat it before it melts.”

Nobody quite swarmed the trays—they were all too polite or too overawed by the match their Mihmatini had made—but there was a general purposeful drift in that direction. Even Teomitl’s gray-and-white hound Ehecatzin slunk over hopefully to try to steal some; when one of Acatl’s brothers-in-law nudged him away, he settled for being scratched behind the ears. Miton, more singleminded, had to be ordered to sit. Acatl watched, finding himself disinclined to move. It was true that snow carried down from the mountains was a treat reserved for those of imperial blood or imperial alliances, especially on such a hot day, but he didn’t really feel like inserting himself into the crowd when everyone was debating fruit toppings.

Eventually, Teomitl padded over with a bowl in each hand, stretching out his long legs as he sat down. It was closer than he ought to be with so many eyes around them, but once again Acatl found he couldn’t really mind. Not when Teomitl was quirking up a smile as he set down a bowl of pineapple-drenched ice for him.

“Brought you some,” he said quietly. Not that he needed to keep his voice down; there was no way to put two dogs and over a dozen people in one space and not have it be loud enough to drown out any conversation they might have. Still, Acatl appreciated the discretion.

He picked up the bowl, noting that Teomitl’s own was the violently pink shade only pitaya fruit juice could give. The runners were fast and the ice had been stored well; it was still cold enough to chill his fingers through the clay. “I would have gotten up.”

“You looked comfortable.” There was another of those soft, sunny smiles, and he couldn’t help smiling in return.

“Mm. So did you.” His lover was always at his best in a friendly crowd, laughing and joking until his family saw past the jade and turquoise to the man beneath. All that energy needed a purpose. Rather like our dogs, he mused, but he knew better than to ever say that out loud even if they did all share a tendency to snore.

Teomitl shifted a little closer, so that they almost touched. The fingers of his free hand twitched as though he wanted to twine them with Acatl’s own. “I’m more comfortable here.”

Then he licked at his half-melted cup of snow, erasing all chances of Acatl managing to reply. The fruit juice was staining his lips and tongue; though he was graceful as he usually was when eating, a drop clung to the corner of his mouth and Acatl itched to brush it away. He didn’t. He wasn’t sure he could move. Teomitl made a soft noise of pure pleasure that sent a lightning surge of want through his veins, and he couldn’t look away. “Ngh.”

Teomitl cast a glance at him from under lowered lashes, lips curving in a wicked smile. “Hm?”

They couldn’t possibly be any more in public. Taking a deep breath, he wrenched his mind away from memories of what that tongue could do. “Nothing.”

Teomitl hummed, smugly pleased with himself, and motioned to their bowls. “Have some. It’s good.”

He studied his bowl for a moment before trying it; there were chunks of fruit as well as juice, cold and sweet enough to make his teeth hurt. The pain was well worth it, because it was delicious. He let his eyes slide closed as he ate, focusing on the sensations around him—the warmth of the sun through dappled shade, the chill of the ice on his tongue, the tingling awareness of Teomitl’s body next to his, the happy chatter of his nieces and nephews and siblings. He caught slivers of conversation too, Necalli’s first campaign and Nelli’s recipe for washing blood from dyed cotton mingling in his ears. His heart felt like a tiny sun.

This is what makes life living. He inhaled, breathing in the scents of fruit and crushed grass and warm water. The flowers, the jade. Mihmatini was right.

Eventually, all the ice was gone. He was aware of his siblings’ conversations around him; two of his brothers-in-law were discussing the weather with the grave importance it deserved, while his sisters were discussing Mihmatini’s pregnancy with a frankness that was turning Icnoyotl’s always-squeamish husband Chimalli slightly green. The children, unsurprisingly, were the first to throw themselves back into the water; Neutemoc and Chimalli were next, theoretically to keep an eye on them but actually to tow the smallest ones around in the water while they screeched with joy. Teomitl, still eyeing the remains of his ice as though there might possibly be some fruit left, actually set the bowl down and perked up at the sight.

Acatl nudged him. “Go on, help them corral the flock. It’ll be good practice for you.”

Teomitl’s smile was a little crooked, a little helpless, and terribly endearing. “I hope the baby gets along with its cousins.”

“They’ll certainly have plenty of options,” he replied dryly. Between Neutemoc’s five and all his sisters’ spawn, Teomitl’s child would have over a dozen cousins to play with by the time it was born. As always when he thought of it, he sent a brief mental prayer to the gods for Mihmatini’s continued health. She’s the Guardian of the Sacred Precinct. The Imperial Consort of the Revered Speaker. And she’d have my head for fretting over her.

“...They will.” Now the smile was wistful. “Your family is wonderful.”

He nudged him a little harder. “Our family. Or did you forget you chose this?”

Mihmatini was sliding back into the pool, and Teomitl’s eyes followed her for a moment. His fingers just barely grazed the back of Acatl’s hand. “Hmm. I did choose this, didn’t I?”

Then Teomitl left his side and plunged into the water, and he realized that he had perhaps miscalculated.

His lover was always beautiful, whether he was in a warrior’s armor or all the gold and feathers of his office. Even in the plainest clothing, the curve of his cheekbones and the brightness of his smile could take Acatl’s breath away. He’d thought, with the years they’d been together, that nothing could surprise him anymore.

Duality preserve him, he was wrong. He’d never seen Teomitl like this—all rippling water and rippling muscle, laughing and shaking water from his hair as Mihmatini splashed him playfully and Ollin clung whooping to his arm. Droplets hung sparkling in the sunlight like stars, running in rivulets down the well-sculpted lines of his chest and stomach. Surrounded by water—surrounded by family, head flung back in brilliant careless joy—he was more magnificent than he’d been at his coronation. Acatl had just eaten, but he felt as hungry as Toci. I love you. The words beat in tune with his heart. I want you.

Every line of his body felt like a taut bowstring, but he couldn’t move. If he moved, he was going to do something stupid.

Neutemoc’s voice snapped him out of his trance. His brother leaned on his elbows at the edge of the pool, water dripping off him onto the tiles, and flashed him a tired grin. “I’m sweating just looking at you, Acatl. Join us!”

“Nhm,” he managed.

Teomitl lowered Ollin back into the water and gave Acatl a grin of his own. “Please?”

Well, it was hot. But he was still strangely reluctant to move, and it took a long moment before he could stand up, stretch well enough that something in his back stopped complaining, and amble over to the water. The sun hadn’t warmed it as much as he thought; when he slid down into it, he had to clench his teeth at the chill. For a while he simply stood next to his brother, watching their family play.

Neutemoc elbowed him. “See? Told you it was better in the water.”

He nodded. True, they were surrounded by bright flowers and screaming life, but it was...peaceful, here. It reminded him of his childhood, before their father had died and everything had started to go so wrong. No. He shook his head, banishing that line of thought. Today had been wonderful so far, and that was how it would stay. He was standing in cool, clear water with a belly full of delicious food and his family around him. His nieces had roped Teomitl into some sort of splash-based war that involved a great deal of high-pitched giggling on all sides, whereas his older nephews were skipping the splashing in favor of an impromptu and very messy wrestling match. He was on the sidelines, content to observe.

And then someone’s errant flailing limb sprayed him with a fine mist, and he jolted out of his reverie.

“Sorry!” Teomitl called. It would have sounded much more sincere if he wasn’t grinning.

“Hrmph,” he grumbled, closing his eyes. He knew he was failing at suppressing his own smile, and Teomitl must be able to see it.

The peace of his immediate surroundings didn’t last long. The sounds of splashing water grew louder and closer, and his nieces’ shrieks took on the sort of gleeful pitch he associated with trouble. Oh no.

That was all the warning he got before a gout of water arced down and drenched him completely. He yelped, inhaling water, and as he coughed and spluttered and caught his breath he decided that someone was about to be in deep trouble. Grimacing, he scraped his hair back from his face, blinked water out of his eyes, and looked around for the perpetrator.

The unrepentant perpetrator. “You looked hot?”

He took a deep breath and leveled a glare at his lover. “Teomitl.”

“Ah,” Teomitl began.

And then Acatl taught him one of the benefits of growing up with a brother close in age. Namely, when you had someone who was willing and able to throw you into the nearest body of water at any opportunity, you got very good at fighting back in kind. He pushed off from the wall, wading rapidly towards him; before Teomitl could scramble out of range, Acatl’s arm came up to splash him in the face. “You asked for this!”

Teomitl danced out of the way, a grin splitting his face, and wasted no time splashing Acatl back. “Is it war, then?!”

It was war. Their nieces and nephews joined in, splashing both of them indiscriminately; Acatl reeled under the onslaught, but managed to stay on his feet no matter the weight of his wet hair. Teomitl was stronger than he was, but unused to fighting such a battle. It was easy to back him against the edge of the pool. And then the dogs, wanting to be a part of the fun, plunged into the water in a cacophony of howls and a storm of wagging tails, and he had to stagger back as Miton all but flopped on top of him.

“Bad dog—ack!” Opening his mouth was a mistake, for Teomitl took advantage of his distraction to splash his face again. He glared at his lover through the curtain of his dripping hair.

Teomitl took one look at his face and his eyes went wide; Acatl had a moment of satisfaction before his lover ducked sideways, dodging behind a very surprised Necalli. “Protect me!”

Just as quickly, Necalli darted out of the way. “My lord uncle, you are on your own.”

Teomitl was the furthest thing from a coward, but evidently he had learned when discretion was to be the better part of valor. He turned and waded rapidly for the far edge of the pool.

“Get back here--!”

Teomitl laughed brightly. “You’ll have to catch me first, Acatl!”

Oh, so that’s how it is. Feeling his face split into an unaccustomed grin, Acatl ran after him. Teomitl was younger, faster, and in better shape; but when he heaved himself out of the water and took off down the path, Acatl wasn’t too far behind. As he ran, he realized he didn’t have a plan, but he didn’t need one; it was a beautiful summer day, his blood was pumping, and he was alive. That was all that mattered. Teomitl swerved around a densely-flowered shrub, and he followed.

Whoever had planned the layout of the palace gardens had desired privacy; it was darker and quieter here, the chaos of the pool muffled by the greenery. Anything beyond that Acatl didn’t have a chance to absorb, however, because Teomitl was grabbing him and pulling him into a hot, hungry kiss.

Oh.

That was the last coherent thought he had for a while. His mind was full of Teomitl—of the heat of his wet skin, the strength of the arms around him, the way he still tasted of pitaya juice and mountain snow. One hand settled at his waist; the other slid up into his hair, burying into the thick strands until a soft growl of pleasure reverberated through them both. His body knew just what to do, arching to press himself even closer, and when he dug his nails into Teomitl’s back he was rewarded with a whine. If he didn’t need to breathe, he could have kissed him for hours.

When Teomitl pulled away, mouth red and eyes glittering with desire, he whispered, “I missed you. I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

He wasn’t the only one. But before he could say that, a calloused hand slid down his spine, and Acatl sucked in a hard breath at the way Teomitl’s hips pressed against his own. His blood was still up, but now all that simmering energy was alert to a new purpose. “It’s only been a few hours.”

Teomitl’s expression turned wicked as that hand reached his ass, giving it a lingering squeeze. “And? You’re irresistable.”

Perhaps there was the occasional downside to having such a young and enthusiastic lover, he thought. Out loud, he huffed, “The children will hear us.”

“They’re playing with the dogs.”

The barking, splashing, and cheering ringing through the gardens were loud enough to muffle them—if they were careful. Still, Acatl bit his lip and shook his head. Children were one thing; his nosy sisters were another thing entirely. “My siblings will hear us.”

Teomitl scowled lightly at that. “Am I Revered Speaker or not?”

“Teomitl!” he hissed.

The scowl vanished as though it had never been. Teomitl lowered his head to nuzzle at Acatl’s throat, voice so soft it was almost inaudible. Any sweetness was tempered by the way he drew his nails lightly up the column of Acatl’s spine, hard enough to sting pleasantly but not enough to leave a mark. As his lover’s lips moved against his skin, Acatl shivered. “We’ll be quiet.”

It was tempting. Gods, it was tempting. Teomitl kissed him again, long and slow, and he felt his resolve weakening. His family could entertain themselves for a few minutes, surely. Half an hour. He would prefer more time—would prefer to give Teomitl his full attention all night—but he wasn’t a fool to turn down what was so freely offered. The breeze was cold in the shade, but that didn’t matter when his lover was so warm in his arms,  the slide of skin on skin setting his blood on fire. “Mmm...”

“Come on,” Teomitl breathed, and shifted to press a thigh between his legs. Acatl found himself wishing briefly and desperately that they’d have the forethought to hide against something solid, but then Teomitl was mouthing at his throat and he wasn’t thinking anything at all.

“Nngh...” At any other time, he might have been embarrassed at the whine that escaped him, but shame was very far away at the moment. His self-control was hanging only be a few very thin threads, and only the din of his family gathering not nearly far enough away was keeping it in place. We could. They’re having fun without us; they won’t be looking for us yet. But...

But they could. Of course Mihmatini knew, and he was almost sure that Neutemoc did as well, though of course they’d never discussed it beyond the most vague assurances that yes, he was perfectly happy—but his other sisters were clueless, and the thought of their reactions if they discovered him in Teomitl’s arms was enough to turn his bones to ice. Reluctantly, he panted, “No. We shouldn’t.”

Teomitl sighed and pulled back, but he kept Acatl within the circle of his arms as though he couldn’t bear to let him go. “I hate when you’re reasonable.”

“No, you don’t,” he murmured fondly.

When Acatl lifted a hand to cup his cheek, Teomitl tilted his head into it with a faint stirring of a smile. “...No, I don’t.”

There was a particularly loud splash from the direction of the pool, and Acatl winced. “Let’s get back before they wonder where we’ve gone.”

“Mm.” With one final caress, Teomitl let him go. “Alright.”

Later, there would be dinner; later, there would be dancers and musicians to entertain them. Later, he and Teomitl would be properly alone. But for now, they would bask in the warmth of their family and the bonds they’d made.

[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]

Mazatl: I really wish I had the ability to make boys really nervous.

Mihmatini: Holding a knife against their neck usually does the trick.

[notapaladin]

Mazatl: Don’t worry, Teomitl likes your butt and fancy hair. I know. I read his diary.

Acatl: He thinks it’s fancy?

[notapaladin]

Mazatl: [gets into a fight]

Acatl: Mazatl, you stop beating up that boy!

Acatl: [nudges Teomitl] don't just stand there, do something!

Teomitl: hang on, she's winning.

Teomitl: GO MAZATL! KICK HIS ASS!

Acatl:

[notapaladin]

Mazatl: Fuck!

Teomitl: Hey! Watch your fucking language.

[notapaladin]

pride is not the word i’m looking for

Gen fic? In MY Aztec gays fandom? It’s More Likely Than You Think.

Five people Acatl never taught, and one person he did.

Also on AO3

-

1) Xochipantli

He’s not expecting to ever see the child from the girls’ calmecac of Xochiquetzal again, honestly. With Elueia’s funeral far behind him and the entire sordid case with Tlaloc concluded, their paths have no reason to cross. He wishes her well, when he thinks of her, but those moments are few and far between.

So of course, he’s summoned to the girls’ calmecac again—this time on a haunting case, which are more and more frequent the longer Tizoc reigns—and almost literally collides with her in the courtyard.

“Oof,” he says. It’s been a few years, and she’s much taller and sturdier than she was on their first meeting. How old is she now? Eight? Ten?

“Oh—Acatl-tzin! I’m sorry.” Still young enough to deliver an apology layered with the dripping tones that say an adult is an idiot for not watching where he’s going, at any rate. He hopes his nieces don’t pick up that bad habit. But her big brown eyes are rather cute, so he only says, “It’s alright. I hope you’ve been well, but I must be going—”

“Is this about the ghost?”

Her question stops him in his tracks. “You’ve seen it?”

She nods solemnly. “They wouldn’t believe me. They said I’d been dreaming. But you know, I don’t sleep much.”

He does know. And he makes up his mind on the spot. “Come with me. I’ll make sure they believe you.”

The girl, it turns out, is named Xochipantli—“flower banner,” an extravagant name for an eight-year-old who, like him, is the child of peasants. Unlike him, the skills that put her in the calmecac aren’t math, but divination and the study of the stars, and she’s terrifyingly good at memorization. Between that, her insomnia, and the fact that he fully expects she could win a staring contest with a snake, he can see why she makes most adults uncomfortable. He’s not one of them.

Besides, she’s smart. She asks questions. And despite knowing she’s talking to the High Priest for the Dead, she isn’t cowed in the least. Before he knows it, they’re meeting again, and he’s offering tips on calendar math. Another time, hard-won advice on how to survive the pit of vipers that is the social scene in the calmecac. A few more meetings, and he’s getting sucked into impromptu lectures on medicinal plants and interesting rocks and what to do if someone picks a physical fight with her. (He knows he should tell her to run and tell a teacher, but what actually comes out of his mouth is, “Aim for the soft bits.” In his defense, he hadn’t ever been bullied by the same people twice.)

Also, her tutors are demanding to know if he’s trying to poach their student and set up a new priesthood of Mictecacihuatl. Oops.

He tries to back off after that, but she will keep seeking him out, and well...it would be rude to ignore a curious child, wouldn’t it? She hungers for knowledge, like he did, and she’s strong to have a fully-formed nahual this young. If she becomes a priestess, it will be no bad thing to have an ally in Xochiquetzal’s clergy. He tells himself this, and tries not to think about how she’s younger than some of his nieces. If he’d married—if he wasn’t a priest, sworn to the service of his gods—he could have so easily had children her age, ready to sit at his feet and listen to his stories and fall asleep on his shoulder. (It shocks him speechless the first time it happens, leaving him unable to move a muscle until she wakes up, but by the third time he’s learned to simply wrap her in his cloak and let her rest.) He would have liked a daughter or two.

When she finally does graduate the calmecac ten years later, crediting him with getting her through it, he doesn’t think even her actual father could feel as proud.

2) Chimalli

The boy is obviously, blatantly cursed, the underworld hanging around him like a second cloak. That’s the first thing Acatl notices. The second thing is that he’s familiar somehow, and once he realizes that he knows who this boy must be. Chimalli. The boy whose poisoned mother had died in childbirth, leaving her son to be raised by the woman who killed her. No wonder he’s here now, ten years old and being shipped off to the calmecac of Mictlantecuhtli like an unwanted dog.

He meets Acatl’s gaze from across the courtyard, eyes dark and serious and too old for his little face, and smiles politely. Acatl arranges his face into a similar expression, not sure what he should say. Or if he should say anything in the first place. They met once when the boy was four and dying, it’s unlikely that he’d remember him. Still, it’s something of a relief to see him in good health. He’s sure to be taken care of well in the calmecac, so Acatl doesn’t need to worry.

Of course, he worries anyway. And of course he has no choice but to worry when Chimalpopoca, the man in charge of all the calmecac students, brings Chimalli before him with an aggrieved sigh and the explanation of, “His magic is too...strange, my lord. We had hoped you would understand it. He told us you’ve helped him before.”

Acatl blinks at him—and at the boy, who’s watching him with very calm eyes. “I did.” I just didn’t think he’d remember. “Leave us for a bit, would you? I’d like to talk to him.”

Children tend to be more honest away from their teachers, after all, and he...well, he doesn’t distrust Chimalpopoca, but the man has an intimidating air. When it’s just him and Chimalli, though, the boy seems to relax—especially once Acatl sits down, the better to look him in the eye. “So,” he says, and smiles. “You’ve gotten much bigger since the last time I saw you.”

“Mother said you saved my life,” the boy says quietly. Almost lifelessly. He doesn’t blink much.

Acatl blinks slowly. “...It’s true.”

“Then she told me she wasn’t my real mother.”

He bites his lip. “...Also true.”

“And...what she did...is the reason I’m like this.”

There’s a note of pain in Chimalli’s voice, one Acatl knows well. One that says, The reason I’m strange. Weird. Creepy. The reason I’m set apart from my peers. His heart breaks a little. “The woman who gave birth to you loved you very, very much. But the woman who raised you loved you, too.”

Chimalli looks extremely skeptical, but after a moment he nods. “Alright. But...this magic...it’s still a problem, isn’t it?”

Acatl looks at him for a moment with his priest-senses and sees the underworld draped around him like a shroud, his eyes voids in the midst of black smoke. It should be terrifying, and he won’t lie and say it doesn’t make him uneasy. But still, this is a child. A child in need of help.

“It’s not a problem,” he says finally. “It’s just something we can work with. I’ll tutor you myself.”

In retrospect, that’s a foolish thing to offer, but words once said cannot be unsaid. Besides which, Chimalli is a fine student. He never fidgets or flinches from new information, and it seems that barely has Acatl shown him a new spell than the boy has mastered it; in fact, he soon realizes he has to slow down his instruction and ensure Chimalli gives smaller amounts of living blood, for even a few drops are incredibly potent. And the gods of the underworld—even the Wind of Knives, who knows only justice—seem to look upon him with favor. He’d never intended to have another apprentice—not after what happened to Payaxin—but it soon becomes apparent that the heavens have decreed otherwise.

Besides, the boy’s actual father is barely involved with his education, even though he took custody after what seems to be a messy divorce. And Chimalli is ten. It won’t be too long until he hits puberty and needs proper, fatherly advice. It seems the least Acatl can do, even if that advice winds up involving skinned knees and broken hearts and what to do if a girl likes you. (Which is absolutely terrifying as a question, and makes him not envy Neutemoc with all his children in the least.)

Still, he’s not expecting the rush of pride and joy that nearly knocks him off his feet when Chimalli announces he’s going to be a priest of Mictlantecuhtli, “just like you, Acatl-tzin.”

He wonders if this is how fathers feel.

3) Mazatl

Matters in the girls’ calmecac don’t concern him, so when Neutemoc announces that Mazatl will be studying with her older siblings Ohtli and Olinatl he only offers his congratulations and thinks nothing more of it. He has enough to worry about with his own duties, and his niece is a smart girl. She won’t need his help.

But he’s forgotten the important thing about the calmecac. Namely, that pupils actually go home on occasion, and when Mazatl sees him on one of his visits to his brother’s house—with gifts, he’s not a churlish guest and Ollin deserves toys that aren’t passed down from his siblings—her face lights up like the sun. “Uncle Acatl!”

“Maza—oof!” She’s already running towards him, and he has to kneel down and hug her before she decides to jump into his arms and make him drop his bag. “You’ve gotten so big,” he informs the top of her head. Which is a ridiculous platitude—children grow fast, he knows this—but it’s still a shock when he distinctly remembers the day she was born and she was so tiny then.

She beams at him. “Father says so too! And I’m learning so much at the calmecac!”

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” With a crack of cartilage, he straightens up and waves at Neutemoc’s approach. “Over lunch.”

She tells him. In exhaustive detail. With hand gestures.

And despite knowing that affairs of the girls’ calmecac aren’t his concern, he finds himself responding with more than the vague I’m-listening noises he’d intended. Children her age are so curious, after all, and if she wants to learn more from her priestly uncle than from her teachers at the calmecac, he can’t find it in himself to turn her down. Most of what she’s learning is beyond his scope—dancing, weaving, temple upkeep—but some tips do transfer over.

“When you are in pain, focus on another part of your body,” he tells her.

“At least try to stay still during lessons,” he warns her. It’s not something he ever had a problem with, but she has just as active of an imagination as he did at her age so it’s no hardship for her to daydream instead of fidget.

“Listen to your teachers.” That turns out to be a little harder, but...well. He can’t be mad.

She’s his precious niece, after all. And she’ll always be that, no matter what happens.

:”Don’t let anyone else decide what you want to do with your life,” he says, and whether it’s the look in his eyes or the fact that he, who stuck to his convictions, is now High Priest for the Dead instead of a peasant farmer, she takes his words to heart.

“This is your fault somehow,” Neutemoc tells him ten years later, when Mazatl’s turning down suitors left and right and telling them all she wants to focus on learning. (One of them asks what a girl could possibly have to learn. She punches him. Nobody stops her.)

He can’t help but grin.

4) Ayotl

Acatl makes it a point to inspect the grounds of his own order’s calmecac every so often in his simplest cloak and loincloth, just to see what they’re getting up to when not facing down their High Priest. He doesn’t think any of his students are desperately unhappy, but...it’s better to be safe than sorry. He remembers his own school days far too well, and he can’t bear the idea of this place ending up the same way.

All that’s to say, then, that when he hears a quiet sniffling sound as he passes by one out-of-the-way courtyard, it freezes the marrow of his bones. Yelling would be alright, he knows where he is with yelling, but sniffling? A child crying, in his calmecac, and trying to be stoic and dignified despite that?

He doesn’t quite sidle into the courtyard, but it’s a near thing. Sure enough, there’s a teenage boy huddled in a corner, face buried in his cloak and a stick clutched tightly in one hand. He clears his throat, hoping he won’t startle him. “Are you alright?”

The boy jolts, proving Acatl either walks much more quietly than he thinks or he was really lost in thought. Up close, he’s somewhere in his mid-teens, with the unfortunately spotty face of someone going through a growth spurt. “I-I’m fine,” he starts to say, but his eyes are tellingly red. And, now that Acatl looks at their surroundings, the packed dirt of the courtyard is covered in messy numbers and glyphs.

He sighs. “You’re clearly not. Difficulties with your lessons? Or is someone bullying you?”

There’s an aborted sniff as the boy turns his gaze to the rows of numbers scratched in the dirt. “...I’m no good at this,” he mutters. “And they’ll—they’ll beat me if I keep messing up.”

Privately, Acatl thinks this is a stupid way to teach children. Pain has its uses, but when pupils struggle, it’s not pain that will magically put the right theories into their brains. Suffering is no fit teacher. There are many different ways to learn.

And many different ways to teach, too. He sits down in the dirt next to the boy, gently taking the stick from his hand. “Maybe I can help,” he suggests. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re having trouble with?”

So the boy tells him. Acatl learns that he entered the calmecac seven years ago, that his tutors don’t think much of his intelligence but that he loves astronomy, that he struggles the most with long division and keeping track of which order long problems are meant to be solved in. He also learns that his name is Ayotl and that he has three older sisters and an older brother, all at the calmecac of Xochiquetzal. That he was sent to Mictlantecuhtli out of fears for his fate, after the unlucky day sign he was born under.

“You’re not fated to die early,” Acatl tells him firmly. “Auspicious and inauspicious days may incline one way or the other, but they do not bind you. If you keep to good company, you’ll be fine. Now, you try solving this problem on your own.”

Ayotl looks like he doubts this highly, but he dutifully bends his head.

Progress is slow—he didn’t think he was going to be offering remedial math lessons today—but not impossible. He finds that gentle encouragement works wonders, and diagrams are always helpful. So of course, just when he’s getting into the flow of a lesson, he hears approaching footsteps.

“Acatl-tzin, there you are!” Ichtaca, looking aggrieved.

“You’re the High Priest?!” Ayotl yelps.

Acatl grimaces. “Unfortunately. But now you know where to find me if you want more help with your numbers.”

He is, of course, not expecting Ayotl to actually take him up on the offer, so when he stops at home for lunch a week later he’s very surprised to see the boy hovering nervously in front of his courtyard. “Um, Acatl-tzin...” he mumbles at the tops of his sandals.

“Come inside,” Acatl says. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

5) Quetzalli

When he arrives early one day, there’s a small girl sitting in the corner of Teomitl’s courtyard.

Acatl stares at her.

She stares back.

“...Who are you?” she accuses.

She’s in the palace, richly dressed, and speaking to him with the frankness of one who’s never been told no in her life. If she isn’t a near relation of Teomitl, Acatl will eat his sandals. “My name is Acatl. I’m here for Teomitl’s magic lessons; do you know where he is?”

Her eyes go wide. “You’re Teomitl’s magic tutor?!” she gasps. “The one he’s always talking about? Can you teach me?”

He opens his mouth only to close it again, face warm. Teomitl talks about me to other people? But no, the more important thing here is her last question. “I don’t think...”

But she’s already on her feet, practically vibrating in place with the most pleading expression he’s ever seen. Definitely related to Teomitl. “Please? Please please please, Acatl-tzin?”

He takes a long breath. Well, he can’t fault her enthusiasm. And she did say please, unlike certain of her relatives he could name. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been learning, first?”

She does. Midway through her explanation, he finds he should probably sit down, but having a strange priest sitting on the bench next to her doesn’t even slow down the flow of words tumbling from her mouth. She’s not in the calmecac—imperial princesses almost never are—but in Acatl’s rapidly-forming opinion she should be. All children her age want to know the why behind the rituals and little spells they see their elders perform, but she’s not satisfied with simple answers. It evidently drives her tutors to distraction, but Acatl finds himself charmed.

He’s midway through showing her the memorization trick he learned as a boy in order to remember complicated phrase associations when he hears impatient footsteps rushing towards the courtyard. It’s all the warning he gets before Teomitl bursts in.

“Acatl-tzin, I’m sorry—oh!” Teomitl’s eyes narrow as he zeroes in on the girl. “Quetzalli! What do you think you’re doing here? Acatl-tzin is a busy man, he doesn’t have time to deal with you! And besides,” he adds with a huff, “he’s already teaching me.”

Somehow, Acatl’s not surprised that Teomitl’s jealous of a nine-year-old. Quetzalli turns big soulful eyes on him, but her voice is unrepentant. “I thought I could learn some more magic!”

Teomitl visibly wavers. Also unsurprising, because the face she’s making is painfully adorable. “...Be that as it may, you shouldn’t bother Acatl-tzin—”

Acatl clears his throat, cutting across Teomitl’s attempted lecture. “It wasn’t a bother. She’s a better pupil than you.”

Teomitl gapes at him. “Acatl-tzin!”

He can’t help but smile. Sometimes the boy just deserves a jibe here and there. That arrogance cries out to be punctured. “More respectful, at any rate.”

“Hmph,” Teomitl mutters, seeming to find the nearby pool fascinating. There’s a tinge of pink in his face.

He turns his attention back to Quetzalli. “Anyway,  there’s no reason I can’t teach you both.” Well, there are plenty of reasons—he’s busy with other work, he doesn’t want to get attached, the gods know what it might do to him if he’s seen too much at court—but he hates to see such keen potential wasted. “Just...not right now, hm? Teomitl needs special instruction.”

Quetzalli’s face falls. “...Okay...”

Teomitl kneels down, ruffling her hair. “I’ll see about tutors for you,” he promises. “If you really want to learn. But right now Acatl-tzin and I both need to focus on other things, alright?”

She’s starting to smile again. “Thank you, uncle!”

Chuckling, Teomitl stands up and gives her a little push. “Now, run along and play! It’s too nice of a day to sit around studying, anyway.”

Taking that as the dismissal it is, she trudges out of the courtyard—though not without one final look at Acatl, who gives her a little wave before turning his attention to Teomitl. “You’re good with her.”

Teomitl flushes at the praise, but Acatl knows it hits home; he’s good with Neutemoc’s children too, and Acatl knows how much he wants to be a father someday. “She’s a cute kid.” He pauses. “Not as cute as Mazatl, but...”

“Right answer,” Acatl says dryly, and can’t help but add, “You know, I could probably teach you both at the same time.”

“Please do not.”

And yet, when she shows up just after his next lesson with Teomitl, neither of them shoo her away.

+ 1) Teomitl

If you’d asked Acatl, he would have admitted he’d gone into the post of High Priest with certain...expectations. That he’d hate it, that he’d face trials and tribulations, that his fellow High Priests would snap at his heels like coyotes at deer, seeking to drag him down. That he’d be a miserable failure, unfit for the position. That his subordinates would disrespect and despise him.

He never would have expected a second apprentice. Not after Payaxin. And yet...

And yet...

“I still need you.” Bold, unafraid, unashamed, yet near to cracking with desperation.

“Isn’t that proper respect? Tending to your master’s needs?” Teasing, light-hearted, with a smile in his voice that tugged unlooked-for warmth out of the dark cold crevices of his shuttered heart.

“You said things as as one man to another.” Warm, affectionate, relief laden heavy in every syllable. As though he thought Acatl would turn away, now that they were no longer master and student. As though Acatl ever could.

And so when Teomitl smiles at him, he smiles back.

“You’re the greatest student I ever could have had,” he says, and doesn’t miss the way Teomitl’s cheeks flush with pleasure at such praise. But it’s true, and Acatl’s always been honest. It has nothing to do with Teomitl’s destiny or his readiness to rule or even the fact that he’s married to Mihmatini; but everything to do with who he is. This stubborn, angry, sensitive boy, who’s looking at him in the sunlight with the sort of pride that says he’ll only get better, that all Acatl has to do is watch him rise.

But that’s not all Acatl wants to do.

He doesn’t want to just watch, doesn’t want to fade gracefully into the shadows. He certainly doesn’t want to leave Teomitl feeling alone, not after this young man—this strong, dazzling, radiant Master of the House of Darts, who smiles at him and calls him only Acatl—has put his trust in him.

“You flatter me,” Teomitl murmurs, but he’s smiling. “I was awful. But I’ll do better, I promise.”

Acatl lifts a hand; he means to pat Teomitl’s shoulder, a soothing gesture, but somehow he winds up cupping his cheek instead. Teomitl’s finally taken his helm off, and his black hair gleams in the setting sun. “I know you will,” he says quietly. “I’m looking forward to standing by your side when you do.”

Teomitl’s eyes go soft. “You mean that?”

“I mean that.”

“...Even though I’m not your student anymore?”

He can’t help but shake his head a little. “You’re not my student. But I hope...we can be friends.”

Teomitl’s smiling again, and this time it’s beyond soft and into tender. “Friends,” he echoes. “I’d like that. Very much.”

Part of him knows he should be thinking about the ramifications of all this, of being not just brothers by marriage or master-and-student but actual friends with the man who will one day—possibly quite soon, if Tizoc keeps being so incompetent—be Revered Speaker. It will catapult him even further into a political sphere he’s never wanted, give him power he knows he doesn’t deserve. But the only thing he can think, looking at Teomitl smiling in the sunlight and feeling the warmth of his skin under his palm, is that this is just what he wanted. This, at least, is something he can cling to even though the rest of the future is a terrifying blank. No matter what else happens, he’ll have Teomitl in his life.

Belatedly, he realizes he should probably drop his hand. But Teomitl is tilting his face into it, ever so slightly, and so what he does instead is smooth his thumb along his cheekbone, feeling the skin heat at his touch. “Even when you’re Revered Speaker?”

Teomitl grins at him, eyes sparkling. “Especially then. Who else will keep me on the right path? Who’ll call me by name and tell me when I’m being a fool?”

Emotions he can’t name swell up within him, so to cover it he lifts his hand and ruffles Teomitl’s hair. Teomitl jerks back with a noise like a startled turkey, but he’s still grinning. And most importantly, the distance gives Acatl his tongue back. “Hrmph! I hope you know what you’re signing up for.”

“I knew what I was doing when I asked you to be my teacher!”

Some things really will never change.

[notapaladin]

Necalli: How do I deal with my enemies?

Teomitl: Stab them.

Necalli: That's a bit extreme, I was hoping for a more passive solution.

Teomitl: Stab them only a little?

[notapaladin]

Mazatl: Uncle Acatl, what's a metaphor?

Acatl: My life is a train wreck.

Mazatl: I know but what's a metaphor?

[notapaladin]

Mazatl: Uncle, Necalli isn't talking to me!

Acatl: Enjoy it while it lasts.

[notapaladin]

Mihmatini: It’s hard being in charge sometimes, but I love this family and that’s all that matters.

Mazatl: Aunt Mihmatini! Necalli and I tried to make ramen in the coffee pot and we broke everything!

Mihmatini: *inhales*