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The Prince of the Abyss sat on the throne with his legs crossed. No one in the room dared to speak, without really knowing why — they understood, however, that it was forbidden: no one gave them permission.
Albedo meekly sat lower, on his knees at the Prince’s feet, not daring to look into his face. Although, probably, he wanted to. What did the Prince think about him? What was his gaze like, directed at him?
If anything, he was certainly looking down on him.
Torchlights flickered on the walls.
Albedo made up his mind and glanced up.
The way His Highness... the way Aether glared at him made his insides burn. Albedo swallowed, involuntarily squeezing his own thighs.
Aether moved his foot expectantly, while Albedo — quite understandingly so — raised from his knees a little. He brought the other's ankle to his face, and then pressed his lips to it — gently, tremulously, as if it were not the cold leather of the boots, but something much more sacred.
The Prince never took his eyes off of him. As they narrowed, something that resembled approval flashed through.
Albedo gave himself up, and Aether gladly accepted this gift, silently swearing to cherish it.
A quiet, but rather audible, unexpectedly warm "good boy" rang through the hall.