AHAHA GUYS I'M BACK AND I THINK I'M ON TIME!!! HERE WE ARE, WITH THE FINAL ROUND OF @Griffin0123 'S ONESHOT CONTEST, ELYSIAN, AND I AM LITERALLY HYPER BECAUSE I HAVEN'T EATEN IN LIKE FIVE HOURS, BUT I'M FINE, IT'S OKAY, I'M OKAY-

Okay, so Azle is one of my OC's from my fanfic, Sweet Secrets We Hide, and Jensi is . . . well, Jensi, and we love him. And, of course, I had to make Keefe, my beloved, a prince. Enjoy! Don't forget to vote and comment! Lots of comments pls <3

In which Character A [Azle]; the son of maleficent and Character B [Jensi]; the son of evil queen are best friends since they were young. Things took a turn and feelings started to change when Character A started dating the crown prince; Character C [Keefe].

Am I in love?

I'm not sure.

I met Keefe a few months ago when I was trying to poison the king for the sake of some entertainment (it was getting a little boring around here, alright? Besides, I had the cure. Either they paid me for it, and I got rich, or they went frantic to find the cure some other way, and the king quickly died. Either way; entertainment.)

He'd just . . . been there. In the dead of the night, watching me from the shadows of the royal kitchen as I mixed a bit of poison in the whipped cream that was cooling in the fridge, waiting to be spread over the next morning's cake.

I hadn't yet poured in the poison; I was still dipping a finger in to taste it, and double-dipping to silently spite with the royals when I heard a soft crunch behind me.

There he was, a boy in the shadows, but from his tall, lean figure, and the way his hair gleamed silver in the faint moonlight pouring through the open window I'd snuck in through, he looked kind of mysterious.

No, wait. That's not it.

Hot. He looked hot.

With half-eaten pastry in his hand, and a calm, but drowsy voice, he wondered, "You know that's meant for the king, right?"

I remember grinning deviously at him as I dipped my finger in once again and licked off the whipped cream.

"Is that poison?" he asked curiously. No judgement or disgust in his voice. Just interest. "Are you poisoning my dad?"

I almost choked on the whipped cream. "Your da — You're the prince!"

The prince had stepped into the moonlight, and I froze.

Hold on. Let's go back six paragraphs and edit that: he didn't just look hot. He looked incredible. I mean, imagine the sun, right? It was sweating the day he was born, I can guarantee you that. Sweating that this kid would take its job, and sweating by the insane amount of sheer charm he held in those blue eyes turned shining in the faint light.

His blond hair was bathed in moonlight, too, like silky locks of silver; it was messy-ish. Not like my friend Jensi,  with the mop of curls on top of his head, but tousled like every lock was painstakingly put into place — and yet, somehow, he managed to make it look effortless.

"I mean, I have a crown, if that's what prince means," said the boy, taking another bite of his pastry.

Fool. Did he not know who I was? The son of Maleficent, the infamous villain, and I could very well have beaten him up and left him tied up and covered in poisonous whipped cream. But I guess, as the crown prince of an entire kingdom, nobody else was nearly important enough.

The boy didn't seem to notice. "It's dumb, though. I'll admit, the gold is cool, but not on The Hair."

"The Hair?" I repeated.

"Trademarked." He smiled, and his eyes lit up with it. I'll admit, it made my heart spark into action, and it took a minute to calm it down.

"Ah. Vain and stupid." I paused, opening a few drawers before finally finding a drawer filled with spoons — pure gold spoons, no less, heavy in my fumbling fingers. I scooped out a whole bit of whipped cream and popped it in my mouth before pulling out the little vial. "Yeah, I'm poisoning your father."

"And what shall I tell them? Fake a faint here, and in the morning, I'll say 'Oh, yes, the culprit's name was Azle Kalos, and he went . . . that way.'" The boy pointed to the open window letting in the night's fresh breeze of the ocean mingling with starlight. But my gaze didn't follow. I only stared at him, shocked in place by the sparkle of intelligence, the glint of cleverness in his sharp eyes.

He knew who I was, even then.

Which was bad. That was bad, heart, so why were you racing? Why does it matter? He's going to send you to prison, I remember thinking. He only knew my name because I was the son of Maleficent, not because he even remotely cared, or because I mattered to him. So stop racing, heart, dang it!

Okay, so maybe — maybe I liked it. Maybe I read every newspaper I found about him, and listened to every story out there that mentioned Prince Keefe Sencen. He's interesting, I remember telling myself. That's all.

Which was kind of funny, considering the end of this flashback.

"You do that," I told him, popping open the vial. One drop of this poison would be enough. I didn't need to waste a perfect weapon. "I'll poison this."

"Nah, you do that." His teasing voice sounded sweet and smooth like honey. "And maybe I won't say anything."

I stopped in my place. "Maybe?"

"Maybe," said the boy, popping the rest of his pastry in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He chewed with his mouth shut, polite the way he was raised to be, and he brushed his hands off before tucking them in his pocket, but . . . there were crumbs next to his lips.

Why was I looking at his lips? Now that I think about it, I don't remember.

"Of course," he added slowly, "I would need something in return."

"You have everything in the world," I spat. "And if you don't have it, you could easily buy it. What would you need?"

Keefe smirked, and maybe it was his first attempt and he was naturally handsome, or maybe he'd done it a thousand times before, but I couldn't breathe.

It was something behind his eyes, I think, something that promised years of laughter behind the glint in his eyes. Something that whispered of holding hands during sunset, of racing through fields, of sipping mugs of hot cocoa, of everything I've never had, and maybe it wasn't mine to have, but I wanted it. I wanted it all.

His voice was teasing but strangely shy when he let his fingers linger over his own lips, and murmured, "Oh . . . I'm not sure, Azle. What do you think?"

A kiss. He wanted a kiss. From . . . me.

What, so he could go tell all his noble friends from noble families that he got a kiss from a villain? So he could boost his already skyrocketing popularity? No way I was letting him get anything from me.

Do things only out of spite, Mother had told me once, and I respect my mother. Except she'd also said, I don't care if you want him to die, will it make him suffer? Will it make you happy?

(Perhaps it's for the best you don't know when she said this)

I didn't want him to use me, but . . . I don't mind the occasional sign of affection from hot boys, even if they are princes. I guess that thought hadn't quite occurred to me then, for I'd merely turned, dumped in the poison, mixed it around, and shoved it back in the fridge.

"Hey — hey, wait," Keefe called after me as I started for the open window I'd entered through, and maybe I was imagining it, but his voice had sounded so genuine, so — kind, and I . . . I'd never heard that before. Not towards me.

I did exactly what I shouldn't have; I turned.

I was sitting on the windowsill, ready to jump out of the second story window (I'd done it before. It wasn't that bad, you just had to know how to land), and I could've been spared of the next five months to come, but . . .

Some part of me is glad, and shamefully so, but could you blame me?

"Wait, Azle, I . . ." Keefe said. He made his way towards me slowly, holding his hands out like he didn't want to scare me away.

I should go, I remember thinking, but something had me frozen in place; I'd been terrified. And I didn't know why.

Terrified of whatever this feeling was, I think.

There I was, sitting on the windowsill and leaning against the side, and there he was, standing in front of me. He'd taken my hand, slipped his other under my jaw, and kissed me. Light and sweet, and I don't think he'd known what exactly he was doing; I didn't know what I was doing.

In the instant his lips were there, they weren't.

But the taste of the pastry he ate was left behind on my lips that day.

There were flecks like drifting snow in his eyes, which were veiled in shadows, I remember noticing.

"Come here tomorrow night," Keefe whispered. "Meet me at the same time."

I stared at him, bewildered. "It's four in the morning."

A flicker of a smile lingered over his lips. "Yeah."

Fool. I could've pushed him out the window, didn't he know? Besides, why would I listen to a word he said? He couldn't have known. Or maybe he did.

"You're kind of stupid, you know that?" I murmured before I could stop myself, my eyes falling to his lips.

"So I've been told."

I did come the next night, peering in from a different window, but I didn't enter the kitchen. It could've been a trap. Mother always warns me about royals and their cruel, traitorous thinking. They say they're doing it for the right reason. They get rewarded for gaining our trust and shattering it, but when we do the same, we're called thugs, villains, and terrible people.

So maybe we are. At least we don't lie to ourselves about it.

He'd been there that night, looking at the window I'd come through the previous night, a single candle lit on the table. He and I watched, captivated, as the flame climbed slowly down the dripping wax, until it was at the candle's end; captivated by the way it consumed its own life source only to survive a little longer.

A raging fire bears no thought for such trivial things.

Nor does Mother's fury.

And when the flame finally dwindled out, Keefe had merely sighed, gaze dim, and stood to leave.

That was when I entered.

Two months passed, as did its worth of midnight trysts.

And then Keefe told his father. The king didn't seem very happy about it, but, Keefe told me, he was never happy with his own son. That was why he liked me; I made him feel at home, for the first time in his life. He said he never knew what home felt like until he met me.

The only home I've ever known is Jensi, my best friend, and son of the Evil Queen herself. 

Look, our parents definitely raised us right. It's just, the Evil Queen and Maleficent have never really been known to be the most . . . loving of people.

It's been five months now, and I only just told Jensi about Keefe.

Without a word, without support or warning, he stopped talking to me.

I haven't talked to my best friend in days.

It feels like I haven't eaten in days, starved of the feeling of home he once gave me.

I miss him, but I can't tell that to Keefe, can I? Jensi and I have a different kind of relationship, and nobody can really figure us out except each other. We never leave each other. Messing with him means messing with me, and messing with me means messing with him.

Or so I thought.

So I do what any good son of a villain would do: I sneak into his room, rummage through his things, and hope I find something of his that would either lead to information, or be useful to blackmail him into talking to me.

(Before I'm scolded, take note of this: On an island full of villains and thugs, if you don't hide something or burn it to ashes, it must not be important to you. It's your fault you lost it and only yours.)

I think Mother will be proud of me.

His room is neater than mine. His rickety small bed of rotting wood was made, and the crooked shelf beside me is lined with books in order.

Jensi can read. The Evil Queen taught him (she was a queen before she turned evil, of course, she'd have to know how to read) after he begged and begged. He and I used to go out to the edge of the island, on a part of the beach nobody knows about. I'd lean back in the sand, inky black waves lapping at my hair, and he'd sit next to me and read me any story he'd recently found, or finished reading and thought I'd like.

He'd read under the light of the moon, or, when that was gone, the light of the stars. And when those were gone, he'd bring a flashlight that can barely hold its glow, but he'd read to me. No matter what, he'd always read to me.

He'd get furious when I splashed him, telling me books are delicate! and that water can ruin these pages, Azle, stop it! I splashed him until he was on the brink of hating me forever because I honestly thought it was hilarious; when I stopped, he would continue reading to me, albeit a bit further from the water.

My favorite story was of a guy who fell madly in love with a girl he met, except the girl thought he was annoying. Jensi told me she ended up with his sister.

He taught me how to read after that, and while I'm not very good at it, I'm still better than most of the unfortunate souls stuck on this prison of an island. He says I'm a fast learner, but I think it's 'cause he's an amazing teacher, though I'd never tell him that straight to his face.

I shake myself out of my thoughts. Funny, how easy it is to get distracted, thinking about Jensi, his mess of brown curls, his true blue eyes, his crooked but bright smile. He's hot for the son of a villain. Actually, he's hot, and being the son of a villain just makes him hotter.

But I have a boyfriend, I remind myself sternly. And I'm here because I need to figure out what Jensi has against said boyfriend.

The only mess in his otherwise tidy room currently decorates the top of his wooden desk, which is covered in doodles that he and I once drew upon those sanded planks.

I frown curiously, and make my way to the desk.

Crumpled papers and pencil marks litter the floor around the desk and its top. A few broken pencils lie limp here and there, and —

And that's my favorite book. The one he read to me all those years ago. Sitting on top of ripped-up papers, dusty, like he hasn't opened it in ages. But it's still there.

The only paper on his desk that hasn't been brutally torn to shreds was front and center, and a dull pencil the size of my finger sat on top of it, the only pencil with working graphite.

I push it aside, and pick up the paper; there's writing on it. It's hard to read because the words are long, and definitely not because I'm a little slow, but I think it's a letter. It has to be; the first word on the paper is my name. That was the first thing Jensi ever taught me to write, the only thing I can read without trouble besides his name.

He wrote my name.

Why does it make me feel like woven starlight is dancing inside me? I'm not sure. I don't quite know if I like that feeling; I've never felt it before. But . . . it's kind of nice. A little disarming, really.

Azle.

And . . . again. Is that all it says? The whole page is filled in, as is half the back side, but is it really all my name?

Focus, I tell myself, and begin the slow, painful process of reading the letter.

Azle.

Azle.

Azle.

I . . . I can't stop writing your name, Az.

I've never been called Az. Even reading the name sends shivers skittering down my spine.

I can't stop thinking of you. I can't help it; the image of you shows up in my head, and how do I describe to you all that it makes me feel? All that you make me feel? I want to show you the world, and I want you next to me while I show you my world because you're my world, and it's a beautiful place. I've never really written a letter before, but . . . Azle, have you ever seen yourself the way I see you? I'm not sure if I can put it in words; let me try.

You've got gray-blue eyes, like the sky on a rainy day, but it doesn't invite cold. It doesn't pelt me with freezing droplets of water, sleet, and hail. It doesn't ruin my pages and run my ink. Your eyes make me shiver, but not from the chill. It reminds me of what I imagine all the time: sitting inside next to the fire with a mug of hot cocoa like we're princes and we can afford that kind of luxury. Outside, it's raining, but inside, we're with each other, and I'm reading you a story, and we're wrapped in a cozy blanket. Your head is in my lap. We're both laughing. And it . . . feels like home.

I don't know what home feels like, but I think it's you.

One time you looked at me with the stupidest lopsided grin on your face when we were about to dive off a cliff on a frayed rope and see if we'd survive to swing to the other side. We were nine years old. It was fifteen days after your birthday. And I was terrified, but I didn't tell you that, because you looked so excited, and your gaze was lit up like the stars. Some stories say fate is written in the stars, but I don't think the stars can compare to your eyes.

I think that's when I fell in love with you.

'I think,' I notice, is crossed out.

Jensi . . . loves me?

Oh, how fortunate he must be to know what love feels like.

Your brown curls are always in a mess, but they're way more handsome than mine. I've always tried to style mine the way you style yours, but one time you told me you hated your hair. I was bewildered (I think that means confused). When I asked why, you told me you've never had a comb before. You've never been able to untangle it. That's why it's all messy and grimy, and I realized you're right. It was messy, and grimy, and matted, and dirty, and I think your hair isn't dark brown.

It never has been.

If you'd ever been able to wash it and comb it, it would be a honey-brown, highlighted with a thousand shades of gold and brown. It would be soft, and silky, and curly in a way where each lock is their own, not a mop of a mess. When the sun filters through it, it would look like strands of gold. When the moonlight gleams on it, it would look like melted silver.

And I was baffled to realize I . . . I didn't care, Az. I still thought you were the most handsome boy I've ever met. I still do.

I don't know what love feels like, but I think that's what it means. I think I love you because you'd look handsome to me in any light. In the presence of the sun, the absence of the moon, the shine of your smile, the faint glow of hatred, the darkness of sorrow, I would still love you. I would still love you.

I would still love you.

I would still think of you the way a pen thinks of its ink, the way a melody thinks of its notes. I'm merely an instrument to convey your love.

(I don't know what that means, but it sounds pretty deep and romantic, so I stole it from your favorite story)

I think . . . I think it means the world is ours. I think it means that he and I can rule a million galaxies. I think it means possibility, and memories, what once was, and what could be.

I-I think it means love.

I think I'm beginning to understand.

I would still love you because I don't care if you're the handsomest boy I've ever met, or the ugliest hag I've ever shoved across the street. I'd still love you if I hated you, and I'd still love you if you loved someone else.

Tell me, are you dating that prince of yours because that's the way you feel about him? Or do you just want his dumb comb?

Wow. Being passive-aggressive is one of Jensi's strengths, it looks like. I'll have to compliment him on that later, if he didn't hate me for invading his personal letter that he probably never meant to send to me. If he even starts talking to me again.

Do you just want his delectable (it means tasty, I think) hot cocoa, and his clean-water bathtubs, and his expensive shampoo? Do you just want him for his fireplace and his pretty lights, and his gold-encrusted books? Do you want him because you'd give the world and everything you ever wanted to make him happy, or because you think he'd give the world for you?

Something raw slices through my heart when I read those words. I'm not sure why it is; is it the sheer truth in his letter? Or the pure heart-break that spills out over the page? Is it because I realize, even with Prince Keefe, I've never understood what love meant until I read Jensi's letter? Is it because I finally realize Jensi would give his world and everything he wants for me?

Or is it because I realize I would give my world and everything I want for him? I'd sacrifice everything I ever wished for just to see him happy.

And the thought terrifies me, like I'm swinging from a frayed rope over a cliff, praying to the stars and back that I wouldn't fall, but even if I do, it feels like I'm flying.

Azle, the next paragraph of the letter reads, have you ever seen yourself the way I see you?

(Um. He already wrote that, didn't he? I shrug to myself. Probably something about poetic beauty, like he always talks about.)

I don't think you have.

Because you've only ever looked in that dusty, rusted mirror in your room. And the things I see can't be seen in a piece of glass.

I want you, Azle. I want everything you are, the good and the bad, even if there's more bad than there is good. I want your flaws, and your perfections. I want to bottle your laughter and catch your tears. I want every one of your broken promises to hurt me, and chip at me, and shatter me. I want you to take my heart in your palms, and tear it apart, to shreds if you wish.

Strip my being to the wire and I'll learn to carry through.

If that is what your love will give, then that is what I want.

I mean, I hope that's not what your love gives, because that's kind of toxic, you know, but if it is, then, yeah, you get it.

It's . . . hard to talk to you. I want to. I want to tell you everything on my mind because I know you'll listen. You always do. But . . . how can I tell you this? You have Prince Keefe, now. You have a prince now. 

I haven't talked to my best friend in days. It feels like I haven't eaten in days, starved of the feeling of home you give me.

I just want you to know that, even if I can't give you what that prince can, even if I'm not as hot or as funny, or have nearly as many things as he does, I know this: nobody can love you the way I do.

I love you, Azle Kalos.

I love you, Azle.

Azle.

Azle.

Az.

I can't stop writing your name, Az.

My eyes are raining. I don't know if eyes can rain, but I think mine might be broken, because they're raining, pouring, pelting hot water down my face, and I don't know how to stop storm clouds. Sniffles take me over, racking my whole body, but I can't stop. I don't know what's happening to me. I don't know what to do. All I want is to be wrapped in a blanket, next to a crackling fireplace, my head in Jensi's lap as he reads me a story, and we both sip hot cocoa.

All I want is him, to bottle his laughter and catch his tears.

Am I in love?

I think I am.

And it hurts. It hurts so bad, but I don't want it to stop. My eyebrows are scrunching together, and tears are streaming down my cheeks, and my shoulders are shaking, trembling, quaking, but I want Jensi. I just want him, I want to hold him, I want to love him the way he deserves, even if I don't deserve him. Even if I can't express it the way he can.

"Azle?"

Which was kind of convenient, because apparently he's standing right behind me.

"Hey, that's private!" Jensi shouts, lunging forward to snatch the paper out of my hands, but it slips out easily, and as it does, I feel myself crumple like it was my only life support, and now I have nothing.

Reading that letter, listening to Jensi's voice in my head, I was at home.

It was only a few seconds of home, but now that it's gone, I'm breaking, and all my little pieces are scattering across the floor, but I don't have the strength to pick them up.

Would Jensi? Or would he leave me there, despite his love for me?

"Azle?" he whispers my name again.

I don't answer. I can't. I can barely stifle my sobs as is.

"Hey," Jensi says, sitting beside me as he patted my shoulder awkwardly. "Are you crying? Stop it, dude, you know your mom's going to kill you."

I cry harder.

"Oops," he mumbles. "Um. How do I . . . help?"

His warmth feels like that crackling fire beside me. The fact that I'd hurt him was enough rain to storm outside. All I need is a blanket, a book, and to rest my head on his lap and let him read to me. I clamp my hand over my mouth and force myself to quiet. It takes a minute, but I finally manage to shut up.

I can't seem to talk though. It's taking everything out of me not to cry.

Maybe I can write. I'm not very good at spelling, but surely Jensi will understand. Besides, I read enough of his letter to know how to spell what I want.

I glance around to find a broken pencil with a dull tip. Jensi must have snapped several when he was writing that letter. I grab a crumpled paper on the floor and that pencil, and smooth out the parchment to scrawl in hasty, messy letters what I want to say.

I love you.

Three simple words.

I've never heard them before, but they seem to hold so much in them. They seem sacred, almost. Like Jensi.

I stare at the words for a long moment until the tears blur my view and the graphite looks like faint blobs. Then I hand the paper to Jensi.

"What's th — ?" Jensi stops.

I rub the tears out of my eyes frantically to catch his reaction, but all he's doing is reading it. Over and over. And over again. Blankly, like he can't understand.

Can't he? Had he been slowly losing faith in the meaning of love, losing his grasp in what he thought it meant, and now it meant nothing to him?

Am I too late?

No. No, I can't be. No, no, no, not when I finally understand! Not when I finally know what it feels like, when I finally realize how much I love him! It's not fair. It's never fair, not for villains, but this can't be the end. This can't be!

It doesn't matter, I think furiously, I'll love him until he gets it again. I love him so hard, he'll have no choice but to know what it feels like. I'll show him. I will. I'll show him again and again and again until —

"You . . . do?" Jensi whispers.

I gaze at him. And nod slowly.

Jensi releases a shaky laugh that tears a dagger down my heart. Why does he sound so shocked, so relieved?

It's my fault. I never knew . . . and he deserves better. He deserves so much better . . .

"I love you, too," he says, a breathless half-laugh pushing his words past his lips. "I love you, too, Az, I love you so much. Even 'I love you' seems too small, but I don't know how to say anything more, so I'll just say it a thousand times, Azle, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you —"

I laugh through my tears, and it's a strange, watery sound, but I don't care. Only Jensi would say such poetic things. And I love it. I love him, I love him, I love you.

I clear my throat and wipe my nose on my sleeve because I don't care if I cry, I have to say it out loud, and he has to hear it. He has to. "I love you, Jensi."

He smiles, and the way his eyes sparkle, the way his grin looks so goofy, so stupid, I want to kiss it right off his face.

My eyes catch his, and my heart stops.

That's not good, right? Because I'm pretty sure that means death. But does love triumph over death? I think it's still there — my heart, I mean. He's right next to me — and I mean right next to me. He's pressed up against me, and I can see faint freckles spattered across his nose like stars across the galaxy.

And . . . his lips are an inch from mine. Less, actually.

I don't think my heart stopped; I think it's racing so fast, I can't feel it. I think it's skipping a million beats per second, and that woven light comes back to spin in the pit of my stomach.

It's something behind his perfectly blue eyes, I think, something that promises of still waterfalls, frozen stars, golden moons, everything impossible, everything beautiful in this world, and maybe it's selfish, but I want it. I want it all.

I cup my hand against his jaw, and let my gaze fall to his lips.

"What are you doing?" Jensi says. His words barely make it out.

But I don't answer, leaning forward slowly as my heart and mind and the blood running in my veins explode like a supernova, like the sun itself is erupting.

And I . . . I kiss him.

It's beautiful. No, it's more than that. I can't write the way Jensi can, string words together like beads on a bracelet, and have them make sense, but whatever I'm feeling, it's incredible. I don't think of anything else — I can't; every thought in my mind that isn't him dissipates, and my senses are shutting down.

The whole world could be crumbling to ash.

But he's in my arms, and I'm kissing him, and that's all that matters. We're all we need. He's all I need, and he's everything I need.

I think my favorite part, though, is when he kisses me back. His fingers are cold against the nape of my neck and against my skin as his hand runs through my hair, and his other arm is strong around me.

I'm falling in love. Every moment I'm with him, I'm falling in love.

For the first time ever, I'm falling.

But I think . . .

I think it'll be okay.

I think Jensi is going to catch me.

(And, for those of you worried about Keefe, he's okay. He was kind of sad, but he understood. I set him up with one of my friends — Dex — and I think they'll be perfect for each other)

AHHHHHHH! I think I'm proud, sorta, hehe. Surprisingly enough, it's only a little over five thousand words. (istg, watch me catch my typos/present tense to past tense mistakes AFTER this is judged smh) Hope you liked it! Don't forget to vote :) 

~ Aria Ashtri, 8/11/21, 11:51 p.m.