don't fish eat other fish???

Before the High Lords’ meeting could even come to its conclusion, Eris decided that he was certain that Azriel did not actually want to kill him.

He hadn't noticed it right away, too caught up in the force of a war-weathered Illyrian slamming into him, trapping him against the hard floor with strong thighs and unforgiving hands. But when he wasn't keeping an eye out for the volatile once-human parading as a High Lady, and her equally uncontrolled mate, and fending off literal attacks from the insufferable pair, Eris was thinking about that moment. He played it out in his mind like a stage show, imagining the fleeting experience from an outsider’s perspective. Over and over, a thought churning like a storm-whipped river underneath all the while: why didn't he kill me?

“Next time, you won't find so much fortune on your side.”

Eris could practically hear the words and feel the warm breath that came with him, skating over the ridge of his ear as precious air filled his lungs.

Fortune was a funny thing for Azriel to cite as Eris’ savior. Because in that moment, the Shadowsinger was the one who'd had all possible control. Eris had tried to fight, to call on his fire or drive a knee up to buck the Illyrian off of him, but the blue sphere of isolation Azriel had created for them hadn't been enough to separate Eris from the peace wards. Whatever magic Azriel used to tear through them did not transfer over to his victim, and the Prince had found himself entirely at the Shadowsinger’s mercy.

Literal mercy. Azriel hadn't killed him.

No, more than that. Azriel had taken express care not to kill him.

It had been a small detail that slipped away in the chaos of being attacked, but as Eris replayed the moment in his head over and over, the gesture became glaringly obvious.

The back of Eris' head needed no healing after the fact. It held its usual shape, no new divots or lumps, no blood staining his hair even redder, no spot flaring with tender pain when Eris ran his fingers harshly over his scalp.

And if Eris really concentrated, he could remember the feeling of a large warm hand gripping the back of his head, a few fingers curled around his neck to help stabilize it as he was tackled to the ground.

Azriel had slammed Eris into a marble floor, and hadn't even drawn blood.

Fortune. Was it fortune that forced Azriel's hand to protect Eris that way? The Prince thought not.

The next time Azriel showed up in Eris' rooms, some days after he had first been caught out, he was chagrined to find that his shadows still didn't seem to work on the High Prince. 

He knew because the first thing that happened when he arrived, wrapped in twice the amount of obscuring darkness he'd normally call on, was Eris' gentle utterance of, "Oh, you're back." 

It was so plain and unaffected that Azriel almost forgot how wrong it was that Eris could see him. 

It was late, too. Azriel had hoped to catch the male once he'd already gone to bed, having taken most of the day to gear up his confidence to return to his assigned post. But Eris was still in his day clothes, waistcoat unbuttoned, the upper section of his hair still mostly tied back despite the many wisps that had broken free. It was the most undone that Azriel had ever seen the Vanserra since he'd begun his assignment. 

It occurred to him distantly that perhaps, this time, he actually had taken Eris by surprise. 

Other than his unbuttoned state of dress, however, the Prince made no indication of such. He offered an unstrained half-smile that sent hot embarrassment straight to Azriel's cheeks. 

"Thought I'd scared you off," Eris commented blithely, taking his coat from the back of his chair, where he'd apparently hung it instead of in his closet or on a coat rack. 

Azriel had never seen Eris use the back of his chair to hang his coat before. 

He wondered just how much the Prince had changed about his routines, knowing that he was being watched. And, in wondering such, Azriel arrived at the disquieting realization that Eris had likely known about his presence the entire time. 

"You caught me just before I was to retire to bed," Eris told him, his timbre colored with that same familiarity, infuriatingly warm. His voice had always matched his elegance, smooth and easily manipulated. It could fold into any tone with such subtlety that often, he seemed to remain almost entirely impassive, even if he was speaking pure vitriol. 

Azriel felt that he would prefer pure vitriol to whatever this was. 

Eris went to his closet to hang up his coat in its proper place, turning his back to the Shadowsinger, who remained submerged in his pointless darkness. 

"I would say you're welcome to stay," the Autumn Prince called from his closet, "but I don't think I have much choice in the matter, if you're able to get through both my and my Father's wards." After a moment of rustling in there, he emerged, his hair no longer half-bound, sleep pants slung low on his hips. 

No top. 

For the past few weeks Azriel had been watching him, Eris had always worn a matching nightshirt to bed. The heat clinging to Azriel's face increased, and he kept his eyes steadfastly focused on Eris' mischievously unaffected face. 

"Frankly, I should be offended that your High Lord finds me so untrustworthy," he opined, eyes glimmering like he'd told a marvelously smart joke. Azriel did not reply. Eris shrugged. "Though I suppose trust does, indeed, have to be earned," he reasoned, and executed the following steps with the same lack of tension he had the last time Azriel saw him: he went to his liquor cabinet, procured the same whisky decanter along with one of his matching glasses from the previous night, and left it on his little high table. He looked at Azriel meaningfully, nodded towards the unpoured liquor, and then retreated to his bathroom. 

Azriel stared at the closed door, the strangeness of it all sending his stomach into knots.

It hadn't loosened by the time Eris emerged all washed and brushed, some water still clinging to his hairline from when he'd cleaned his face. Without so much as a glance in Azriel's direction, he stretched his arms up over his head, forcing the Shadowsinger’s attention down towards his half-nude body. The stretch elongated his already slim, muscular torso almost to the point of grotesqueness. His ribs stuck out, his chest rose, his hips tipped back, and right when Azriel thought Eris couldn't stretch any further, a faint pop sounded from the Prince’s back. The High Prince relaxed. When he opened his eyes, he threw Azriel a look that had him averting his own. The stretch had been as much a theatrical performance as it had been a structural realignment, that look told him. And he had watched in rapt attention, fallen right into Eris' little game. 

Before Azriel could process it, Eris went over to his desk and blew out his candle, plunging them both into the darkness that the Shadowsinger was so familiar with. He could hear Eris getting into bed, settling in without any further protest to Azriel's presence. 

And while he didn't go near the bottle and glass Eris had set out for him, Azriel stayed until the Prince fell asleep, as he had every time before. 

Alas, that still wasn't how it really began. 

Azriel wished that it was. He wished that had been the beginning and the end, that he had recognized the shift, the transformation of his dynamic with Eris, and let it die young. But he hadn't. 

He kept going back.