How long had it been since he’d looked at Teomitl in the sunset and felt his world, his future, reshape itself around him? Sometimes, Acatl wished he didn’t know the answer down to the hour. Other times, he gloried in it. He woke at dawn, making his half-asleep devotions to the gods, and even as he bled for his patron and the Fifth Sun he found himself thinking, Ah, that’s right. Teomitl is in this world with me.

He told himself he was content with that. And he was, truly. Teomitl was in his life, lighting it like the dawn. He didn’t need more.

He didn’t.

Oh, but Teomitl turned to him, lashes lowered—but Teomitl stretched like a jaguar, all coiled muscles and power—but Teomitl laughed as he sparred with his nephew—and Acatl wanted.

They were walking back to the Sacred Precinct one day when Teomitl took his hand, quite as casually as if he’d been doing it all his life. Acatl felt like he’d been struck by lightning. Finally, said his heart. Finally, said his soul. Finally, said every inch of his skin.

He grabbed on, and he didn’t pull away.