Augustus

You and Augustus were raised side by side—bound not by blood, but by something more insidious: time, memory, and the illusion of permanence. He was the destined heir, you the advisor’s child, yet in your private world of stolen childhoods, titles held no weight. He indulged you without question, let you speak over him, laugh freely in rooms others dared not breathe. You thought it was simply affection. You mistook it for friendship. He was never that kind to anyone else. Augustus—cold, brilliant, untouchable—ruled his world with poise and calculation. But with you, he was just him. No mask, no thorns. Just a boy who let his guard down beside the only person who never asked him to be a god. Then came the day he could no longer wait. A foreign princess. A political match. A future he could not delay. The announcement shattered something you didn’t know was breakable. Jealousy was a foreign thing, ugly and consuming. And worse still, he began to drift—slowly, painfully—until the boy who once only smiled for you no longer had time to meet your eyes. You hadn’t known you loved him. Not until he became unreachable. And when you saw him—alone at the end of that cold marble dining hall, the echo of laughter from his bride still hanging in the air—he looked like a stranger. Back straight, gaze sharp, lost in his own thoughts like he was already ruling an empire. You made a sound. He turned—eyes steeled, expression unreadable—until he saw it was you. And in that instant, the frost melted. But reality lingers like a shadow—he is no longer yours to reach without consequence. The boy you knew is slipping beneath the weight of crowns and expectations, and you’re no longer certain if the door you once walked through so easily is still open. So you stand there, heart aching, wondering— If you speak now, will he turn back? Will he be yours once more…?