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In the days after the bells, everything became an indistinct blur to Damen.
He slept a lot. The newness of kingship was forced to wait – despite Laurent’s best efforts, he had lost a lot of blood on the floor of the marble baths. On top of that, it was as if now he’d slowed down, everything that had happened in the last few months took the chance to piledrive on top of him.
The Akielon summer sun was almost as good as any salve, though; when he woke each morning, to the sunlight streaming through the windows of the palace, he couldn’t help but smile. Of course, it was not just the sun that brought this newfound good humour to him – so noticeable that an irritable Nikandros had remarked, ‘If you were not my King I would have you in a headlock by now’ when he had zoned out of one of his first meetings with the kyroi.
“Good morning,” Laurent said, not turning from where he sat with his back to Damen at a long desk opposite their bed. “Do you know that you snore quite loudly when you’re relaxed?”
Damen sat up gingerly, still conscious of his healing wound, and laughed softly.
“Yes. You would not be the first to tell me that.”
“Paschal left you something,” Laurent said, still not turning but waving a hand in the direction of the low end table by the bed. “It appears you may add ‘healing faster than should be humanly possible’ to your endless list of talents.”
Damen just grinned, pulling the sheets away from where they had tangled with his legs so he could examine Paschal’s delivery. It was a small unmarked bottle with a short handwritten note. For the scar. Please try not to collect any more, I only have a limited supply.
He shook his head, unable to wipe the grin from his face, and replaced the package on the table. The sun fell in warm, buttery slabs against his back, and he took a moment to savour the feeling of a fresh morning: stretching his arms out so his shoulders popped pleasingly, feet splayed on the cool marble.
This was what he enjoyed most of all about this extended easing into being King – slow, quiet mornings, where he could sit on his grand bed and watch Laurent as he went about writing letters, his back straight and hair like spun gold. Simply being allowed to share Laurent’s practical, private moments was another pleasure Damen had never thought he would savour; but, truth be told, he savoured every moment where he could be near him. He was completely intoxicated. It drove Nikandros absolutely mad.
Laurent had still not turned to acknowledge him, and this would certainly not do.
He stood up, padding quietly over to where Laurent sat and carefully smoothing his hands over his shoulders. He was all trussed up in his Veretian clothing; Charls had already visited the palace to provide him with cloth for outfits befitting a king. Damen had tried to convince him to adopt the Akielon style, but to no avail; some things, he supposed, Laurent would still enjoy making him work for.
“Good morning,” Damen murmured, gently nosing at the swoop of warm hair that was loosely tucked behind Laurent’s ear. He was naked, and Laurent was far too dressed, and this really would not do. “You are, as usual, working too hard.”
“Vere is very demanding. The lords and nobility have become rather concerned with assuring their new King that they were always on my side, despite all appearances to the opposite.”
Damen’s thumbs rubbed soft circles on the muscles of Laurent’s shoulders – he was tense. Not unusual, of course, but Damen would work on that.
“Perhaps you should return,” he said, although every part of him ached at the thought. “To ease their uncertainty. I can see that it would be easy for events to be misreported.”
He watched as Laurent paused in his writing, ink beading on the end of his pen. “Perhaps. Not quite yet, though. We have plenty to work on here. And there is still the matter of-” He cut off abruptly, and Damen felt his entire body seize up briefly underneath him.
Yes. The Regent.
He had not been put to death yet, because Laurent had decided there were still matters that should be properly handed over, though he refused to see him directly. Justice in Vere, Damen was beginning to realize, was a lot more bureaucratic that in Akielos. If it was up to him – and he had argued the case at length to Laurent and the kyroi separately – he would have run him through with a sword and had his head on a spike in under an hour.
Carefully, like a butterfly landing on an open flower, Damen kissed the shell of Laurent’s ear.
“Soon,” was all he murmured. Soon you’ll be free. The spectre of his evil will be lifted. And you’ll be the greatest king Vere has seen in centuries.
He could feel that spectre, sometimes, particularly when Laurent thought Damen wasn’t looking at him – the way his face drew together, the tense line of his back as he worked full, long days, the way he went to bed later than Damen and always rose before him. He had only once had the delight of waking up, half-confused with sleep in the middle of the night, to find Laurent asleep beside him, one hand curled gently around Damen’s bicep and his nose pressed to his shoulder.
“Yes, well. Until then, Vere awaits. You should rest.” He reached a hand up to cover one of Damen’s where it rested on his shoulder, thumb gently brushing his skin. “We have an empire to arrange.”
As it turned out, there was a lot of paperwork.
It was all taxes. Taxes! Damen tried valiantly to pay attention to council meetings, but Laurent had much more of a gift for numbers than he did, and taxes were just not very thrilling to him, a man brought up with swordplay and war. Sensing Damen’s lack of interest – most likely soon after he couldn’t contain a yawn deep into one of the meetings – Laurent then sent him away with a new project: the freeing of the Akielon slaves. This, at least, made him feel useful.
They were both busy, and often apart, and Damen found that whenever he was alone while Laurent was still caught up with the council, he craved distraction. He spent most of it riding out with Nikandros and enjoying the clear sunny days, the view from the cliffs across the sparkling sea, and reminiscing. Kastor was gone, but Damen still had the memories of when they were brothers. He chose to treasure them, rather than resent them.
One of these days he and Nikandros were walking in the orange groves when Jord appeared, flushed from running all the way from his horse although trying desperately not so show it.
“Exalted,” he said, giving a stiff bow and completely ignoring Nikandros, “The Prince is asking for you.”
Damen’s body pricked with unease. “Now? I thought he was with the Council all morning.”
“He said it was a matter of utmost importance.”
Damen did not need to be told twice.
He followed Jord back to the palace, but instead of being taken back to his bedchambers as he had presumed, Jord motioned for him to go down to the practice arena. Confused, Damen left him at the top of the stairs before descending to the sandy sparring pit, where he found Laurent with his back to him.
“What-”
“Fight me.”
When he turned there was a familiar coldness in his eyes, and Damen’s heart sank. Something had happened. He stood his ground, watching as Laurent picked up a heavy practice sword and weighed it in his grip.
“This is ludicrous, Laurent, we’ve only just agreed to stop Akielos and Vere fighting-”
“I know. Pick up your sword.” Laurent’s voice was soft, the hiss of poison gas from a sealed jar. “Or have you forgotten how to fight, so soon after calling yourself King?”
This was enough. Damen knew something had to have happened with the Council this morning, and it was looking more and more likely that the only reason he was going to find out would be to indulge Laurent in this game of snapping snakes. He picked up a sword, grip loose.
Laurent’s first blow knocked it right out of his hand.
“Don’t insult me,” was all Laurent said, fury in his eyes.
So Damen picked his sword up again, and they fought like they had before: hard, fast, punishing. Laurent swung like a madman, hair flying around his face, and Damen parried him with slight rustiness – all the rest had made him soften a little from the previous months’ endless toil. (Laurent, of course, did not allow himself such luxuries as to relax.) Damen was careful not to make it obvious, but he let Laurent play him around the arena, and had been holding him quite well until Laurent slipped from in front of him and lay a punishing blow to his midsection. Right where the scar from Kastor’s knife was healing so well.
Damen grimaced and paused for a second, which was enough to stop Laurent in his tracks. He was breathing heavily, eyes holding Damen’s for a long second, before he dropped his sword and swiftly crossed the two paces that separated them.
“I-” Tenderly, he reached out and placed his hand on the wound. Specks of blood stained the white of the soft cotton. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“It’s no matter,” Damen wheezed, more annoyed at being winded so effectively than anything. His breath was taken a second time as Laurent carefully folded himself into his arms, forehead tucked into the nape of his neck, the flutter of his breath warm on his collarbone.
Laurent’s hand stayed on Damen’s abdomen, and Damen wrapped his arms around him in turn.
“I did a foolish thing,” Laurent said eventually. Damen felt the gentle press of his teeth against his collarbone, and a sudden, violent surge of thought brought him the image of Laurent biting down, nearly sending his mind irretrievably off-track. “I went to see my uncle.”
“Laurent.”
“I know. Please trust me that I am admonishing myself more severely than you ever would.” He felt Laurent’s fingers press gently to his side, and felt him turn his face into his shoulder, away from Damen’s prying eyes. “I find – it is so frustrating, how I can’t – I cannot just give the order to have him killed, no matter how much I want to. I want him gone but I also – I want to see him rot there forever, and I cannot tell which is the greater punishment, and the longer I deliberate the more he knows I will never – never make the call, and that makes me – so angry-”
Damen tightened his arms around him, as if to ward off everything unsaid between them. They hadn’t talked about it, not since Damen had realized with horrifying clarity what power the Regent had given himself over his nephew. Damen had run over the conversation a hundred times in his head, but had got no further than a single thought, a pure shining gem of rage that outshone everything else. He could not be the subtle gossamer of soothing that he knew Laurent needed.
“You know I would kill him a thousand times over for you,” Damen said steadily, “but this is your justice to exact. Yours and yours alone.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Laurent lifted his head so they were face to face, his hand reaching up to brush Damen’s cheek.
“I know. Thank you.” Damen closed his eyes as Laurent kissed him, brief as the Veretian summer. “You are a good man, Damianos. I hope you know.”
“And I hope you know that what he did to you will never stop you being one,” Damen replied, hoping Laurent could hear everything he couldn’t say; hoping that he believed him.
He did not feel much like spending time alone with his thoughts for the rest of the day, so retired with Nikandros to one of the smaller rooms of the palace to talk terms of the slave liberation. Nikandros had much more unease over this than Damen, and stated his opinion that he was being too easily influenced by Laurent enough times that Damen eventually sent him away. He ate his supper alone, mind exhausted by all that was still to do, and retired when the lamps burned low and the crickets sounded noisily from the palace gardens.
He was not surprised to find the royal bedchambers empty when he arrived, as they so often were despite the late hour. With long hours of solitude stretching ahead of him, he took the liberty of bathing slowly, moonlight mingling with the water on his skin. As he dried himself off with one of the soft towels laid on the marbled counter, he decided to examine the package Paschal had left behind in the flickering light from the scented oil lamps.
The small stab would on his abdomen was pink, scabbed and still tender from earlier in the day where the scab had burst; when Damen touched it gently to rub the oil in, he hissed in discomfort.
“Please,” Laurent said, making Damen jump: he had not heard him come in. “Let me. It is the least I can do.”
Wordlessly, Damen stretched out on the bed and watched as Laurent came towards him. He sat with his thigh brushing Damen’s flank and unstoppered the bottle with his long fingers, a fine crease furrowing his brow as he methodically applied the ointment. Damen let his muscles relax into the mattress, carefully stretching his palm over Laurent’s knee. He was once again naked, and Laurent fully clothed; he ached for him, and caught Laurent’s smile when it became obvious.
“You,” Laurent said, stoppering the bottle and finally meeting Damen’s gaze, “are insatiable.”
Damen rubbed his thumb along the seam of Laurent’s pants, where it curved from thigh to knee. “I have missed you. Kingship pries you from my bed.”
“You had a grave injury,” he said, replacing the bottle on the side table, before sitting back and resting a hand on Damen’s lower stomach, just below the oiled scar. Damen groaned at the closeness to intimacy.
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“You were bleeding hours ago. Whoever is tending to your sickbed is lacking.”
“He is always too busy for me,” Damen said, but almost immediately regretted it. Laurent’s head dropped, their gaze broken.
“I’m sorry.”
“You work harder than you need to, I know that much.”
“You’re right.” Laurent let the pause between sentences drag, like a child’s feet during an unwilling journey. “I – suppose, the truth is, I have been making work for myself.”
“To avoid me?” Damen could not keep the hurt from showing in his voice. Laurent looked up at him again, and the realisation came slowly, like the first drops of ice melting in spring. “You think I would think differently of you, now I know what he did to you? You think – that would make me think you less of a man?”
Laurent’s face was perfectly controlled, only the smallest of tremors in his voice as he said, “How could you not? You have already forgiven me too much. I have been the cause of too many of these.” His index finger trailed the fresh scar. Damen sat up, pushing his hand away and instead curling his own around the back of Laurent’s neck.
“No. Stop. This is not your fault. Everything else aside, this is his evil. I remember you said to me once, about Auguste being free of the taint in your family.” Laurent tried to look away, but Damen held him in place. “You were wrong. There is no taint to your family. Just your uncle’s abuse. And if you have him executed it does not make you weak for choosing to end your own suffering over ensuring his.”
Laurent drew his lips together, a thin line of emotion. Damen waited for the humming tension in him to secede.
“I did not stop him,” he whispered finally. “How can I say it was abuse, when I did nothing to stop him?”
Damen could not reply for a second. He found himself haunted by spectres; nightmares of young Laurent, not saying a word, not even knowing the words for what was happening to him. Of Laurent growing up, tightening his own self-control as the laces of his clothing; because he was punishing himself, because he had not made a decision that should not have ever been his to make.
“Laurent, listen to me. This is not about you. This is all him. Would you have said to Nicaise, or to Aimeric, that they could have stopped it, if only they had said no?”
A pause welled between them, then overflowed, dripping unsaid words over the two of them. Damen had his palm on Laurent’s pulse, which was as tremulous as a pebble on the forefront of a rockslide.
“As ever,” Laurent said shakily, after an age, “your particular brand of truthtelling – drives home like a thrown sword.”
Damen let his fingers trail from the corner of his jaw to the underside of his chin, before his hand fell to his lap. The night was silent apart from the hum of the crickets, and the distant crashing of waves against the cliffs.
“You are no less of a man in my eyes,” Damen said, “for any of this. I love you endlessly, and it has nothing to do with your uncle’s actions. Not a thing.”
Laurent’s long-lashed eyes fell on him again. “You love me?”
“It is not a question, Laurent.”
He would never tire of Laurent’s smiles – ones like this, soft and shy, that broke free against all the incalculable odds of his iron-hard self-control. He enjoyed it only briefly, though, as Laurent’s long fingers cupped his jaw, pulling him close for a kiss. This was what he had been waiting for: the sweet luxury of Laurent’s mouth, the velvet of his tongue curling around his own. Damen slid his hands from Laurent’s elbows to wrists, feeling the warm gold cuff on his arm, the physical reminder of the words he didn’t need Laurent to say back to him.
“Do you ever wear clothes?” Laurent said, on a huff of a laugh, as Damen started to work at unlacing him. This was different to their few previous encounters; a little clumsy, full of smiles, and unhurried. Damen was not desperate for it, but he could not hide the thrum of desire that Laurent’s smooth skin inspired in him.
What he enjoyed most of all, though, was the continued easing in Laurent’s bedside manner, the way he no longer froze when Damen touched him, desperate to control himself. Damen had become adept at untying the dastardly laces by now and peeled off Laurent’s jacket and undershirt with ease, laying him down on the bed as he made quick work of his boots and pants. Laurent was such a delectable sight, like one of the marble statues in the palace gardens come to life, and the best part was that he was happy. Damen thought he could make it his life’s mission to never see that smile lifted from his face.
He kept hold of one of Laurent’s ankles after pulling off the last pant leg, gently hoisting it up over his shoulder and kissing up his calf to the inside of his knee. Laurent made a keening noise of pleasure, fingers digging into the mattress, and Damen smiled into this skin, endlessly pleased with himself. Giving pleasure had always been his favourite thing, and Laurent reacted so exquisitely that his own desire always shifted from the forefront of his mind.
“I have missed you,” Damen murmured into his skin, as his lips trailed down from the crease of his knee, nosing through the fine hair and over the taut muscles of his inner thigh. “Every-” he parted his lips, let his tongue brush smooth skin, “-part-” this kiss a graze of teeth and tongue, “-of you.”
“Show me,” Laurent said softly, and Damen delighted at the opportunity. Laurent’s leg rested easily on his shoulder as he continued to map his way across the alabaster plains of Laurent’s upper thigh; he wished to know every contour, every track of finely marbled vein.
He felt Laurent’s fingers brush his temple, as if hesitant to grasp, and he breathed a hot yes on his skin to assuage him. Long fingers drew through his hair, gripping tight, and Damen felt a throb of unexpected arousal at this – Laurent holding him down, strong fingers against his scalp. Damen licked his lips, reaching his index finger out to gently brush the underside of Laurent’s cock, thick and curved against his stomach.
“I hope you’re not just going to sit there and watch it. It doesn’t do circus tricks, you know.”
Damen ignored him, instead curling a loose fist around the head, thumb moving in slow circles. He allowed himself a small smile at the way it jerked in his hand, Laurent’s knuckles white where they gripped the sheets. Doesn’t do circus tricks. Damen made a note to test this bold statement at some point in the future.
“And I am not made of glass,” Laurent reminded him gently. Damen leaned down to press his lips to his skin again, hand still working evenly over Laurent’s cock.
“I know that,” he said, sucking a rose-red mark the the uppermost, softest skin of his thigh, “but I want to take my time with you. I want you to feel everything I feel when I look at you, I want to hold you shuddering in my arms as you come apart-”
Damen cut himself off, trading the tender skin of inner thigh under his lips for the hot velvet of the head of Laurent’s cock.
Laurent groaned, nails scratching at Damen’s scalp as his grip tightened even more. “For once – would you live up to your supposed reputation, and just fuck me? This – making love – is so-” Damen, eyes open and tongue furling at the tip of Laurent’s cock, was afforded the delightful view of Laurent biting down on his lower lip, eyes screwed shut. He didn’t make a single noise.
“So?” he prompted.
“Uncontrollable,” Laurent finished, on a shaky breath, and that was enough for Damen.
He kissed his way up Laurent’s body, moving with purpose now; lacing his fingers with Laurent’s, he pushed them up on the pillows beside his head as he took his mouth again, devouring the heat of Laurent’s open-mouthed kisses.
Laurent was the one to press the oil into his hands, and it was Laurent’s slippery fingers that guided his own down and between his legs; together, mouths barely touching as they breathed heavily against one another, they worked at easing him open. Damen buried his face in Laurent’s hair, teeth grazing his earlobe, the sharp line of his jaw, and then Laurent pulled his hand back and caught his mouth in a bruising kiss.
“Fuck me,” he said, and Damen did not need to be asked twice.
Damen brought Laurent’s legs up high around his hips, but before he could do anything else Laurent turned them over. For a heart-stopping moment Damen thought this would be it – his First Night, the thing he’d been aching for ever since he had realised what he wanted from Laurent – but instead Laurent moved to straddle him, thigh muscles hard and defined as he reached down to take Damen in his hand, fingers still slick from the oil.
“I once heard Lazar say the most accomplished horse riders make the best fucks,” he said conversationally, hand moving slowly solely over the head of Damen’s cock. “Shall we see if he was right?”
“Laurent,” was all Damen could say, hoarse and heavy-lidded as he smoothed his hands up Laurent’s thighs, watching as he lined his cock up and carefully lowered himself down.
It was almost as exquisite a sight as it was a feeling, to feel Laurent slowly open for him, the indescribable tightness of his body, the flush that flared from hipbones to the tips of his ears. Damen held his hips – he had to, had to stop him going any further or he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from fucking up and hurting him – and breathed in deeply through his nose. “Laurent. You are. Unbelievable.”
“I haven’t even started yet,” he heard Laurent say, from some far away place, and then he sank down fully, and Damen’s reality altered.
Laurent moved like the expert rider he was, muscles rippled in his thighs and abdomen as they rocked together. He reached for Damen’s hands, sliding their fingers together and holding tight as his hips rocked down, faster, smoother, until Damen – who had always prided himself on his stamina, once upon a time, in a distant, pre-Laurent world – had to gasp and say, “Stop, oh fuck, you have to – stop – or I’m going to-”
Abruptly, and unexpectedly, Laurent did as he was bade. Damen gazed up at him, hair askew and sweat beading his forehead, the heavy rise and fall of his chest the only indication that this was anything other than a routine exercise for him. Laurent let go of Damen’s hands, disaffectedly pushing his hair back from his face. Damen could not help but stare at the sigh, Laurent’s cock hard and leaking against his stomach, his pink nipples taut and stark against the flush of his chest.
“I didn’t mean – actually-” Damen said helplessly, once he was capable of words again. The grin on Laurent’s face was somewhere between pure happiness and pure evil.
“Slow, you said earlier,” Laurent said, starting to move his hips in the smallest, most frustrating of increments. Damen’s grip on his upper thighs would leave bruises on his pale skin; he let go when he realised what he was doing, and Laurent noticed it too. “You can touch me, you know. Hard – like that. I won’t break.”
Damen didn’t say anything, just rolled his shoulders into the mattress, moving his hips to meet Laurent’s. They found their rhythm again; slower, hotter, breathless. Damen couldn’t speak, only moan wordlessly. His grip found purchase in the sheets, torn between screwing his eyes shut and forcing them open to watch the sight in front of him.
“I’m so – I’m so close,” he gasped, as Laurent ran a hand up his chest, fingers catching on his sensitive nipples and making his hips spasm up. “I can’t – it’s too much-”
“Then come,” Laurent said simply, and it was as easy as that, his body shuddering as he spilled inside of him.
“I love you,” Damen said breathlessly, in Akielon this time, which made it feel all the more real. “I love you, so much, you make me feel – you make me feel like nobody ever has before, I just want to make you feel like this – always-”
He watched as his words took Laurent over the edge, spilling messily all up his stomach. Damen kept his hips moving, working him through it slowly, until the fluttering muscles in Laurent’s abdomen had calmed, and he carefully climbed off of him.
“No, wait – stay,” Damen murmured, as he made to leave and tidy up. To his surprise, Laurent did not pull against the grip Damen had on his wrist, and instead settled down next to him on the bed. He shifted closer for a wet, open-mouthed kiss; Damen moved with it, rolling like the tide as Laurent looped his arms around his neck and on top of him again. He pulled back, moaning as Laurent took his bottom lip between his teeth and pulled. He was constantly thrilling, and sometimes Damen had to just – duck his head into his shoulder, breathe in deeply to remember that this was real. This was his life now.
“Exhausted already?” Laurent said, because of course he did, fingers trailing gently over his upper back. Damen lifted his head to nuzzle at the soft spot behind Laurent’s ear.
“Not even close.”
“I was counting on that,” Laurent said, and Damen grinned as he pressed him into the mattress, teeth sinking into the muscles of his shoulder.
Afterwards, they lay quiet in the stillness of the warm summer night. Damen’s heart rate had not yet slowed, although he would presume that was partly due to the way Laurent was leaning over him, trailing his fingertips over his skin, mapping its contours and scars.
“You’re very sensitive,” Laurent remarked, when a fingertip brushed lightly over one of Damen’s nipples and made him suck a sharp breath in through his teeth. He couldn’t help but moan when Laurent repeated the action in reverse, lightly brushing the small bud of his nipple until it was peaked and stiff.
“You know it’s not fair to tease.”
“Who said,” Laurent murmured – Damen was confused for a moment as Laurent dipped his head towards his chest, breath fluttering against his skin, “anything about being fair?”
Damen couldn’t control the gasp that tore through him as Laurent leaned forward and took the tip of his nipple between his teeth, tongue flicking out for a feather-light touch.
“Please – ah – Laurent-”
It only lasted a second, but it was enough to nearly make him white out. He whimpered as Laurent blew a cold breath over the spit-damp nipple, before finally leaning his head back.
“One day,” Laurent said, leaning close so his lips were pressed to the corner of Damen’s mouth, “I will make you come, just from that.”
“You’re halfway there now,” Damen said, voice rough and dick already fattening up, though a little uncomfortably so soon after the last time. He leaned into the touch as Laurent curved a hand against his cheek; in the darkness he was just a jumble of faint silhouettes, a warm presence and a steady pulse.
“I love you too,” Laurent said eventually, the words smooth and firm as a weathered stone. “I think you already know that, but you also need to hear it. I don’t want you to spend a second longer trying to apologise for what was done to me. That isn’t your job.”
“I didn’t-”
“Not with words. But this – whatever this was. Tonight. You hold me like a shattered vase.” Damen’s heart hurt to hear it, Laurent’s grip firm when he reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. “You don’t have to fix me, Damianos. You don’t have to hold Auguste between us. I know who I am, and I know how I feel. I choose you. Not my brother, or my uncle. It should just be us. I don’t want to share my bed with ghosts.”
“No. Of course not,” Damen replied, feeling the feather-light brush of Laurent’s hair on his chest as he settled next to him. “I don’t think you’re broken.”
“But you don’t need to look after me either. I have no scars from you. More than you can say about me, in any case.”
“Enough,” Damen murmured gently. He felt Laurent’s arm stretch across his waist, hand smoothing over his side, towards his back. Towards the scars. He left his arm there, fingers touching the raised welts, and neither of them said anything for a long time. Damen closed his eyes, content in the warmth of his palace and his prince, and was half-asleep when the smooth rumble of Laurent’s voice passed through his chest.
“I always thought that I would never go mad if I always remained convinced that every decision I made was the right one,” Laurent said. “I think about that a lot. About – you. about if I had let them flay your life from you, not that – not that, of course, I dwell often on the thought, except for when you wake me with your unceasing snoring-”
Damen smiled in the darkness, brushing a thumb over the skin it rested on. Laurent babbling after he’d been fucked was also something he had begun to notice. It was as if he had opened more than his legs; that each time he let Damen inside him, he felt the need to give him something else, some other part of him that had been kept behind walls for so long. Damen was not complaining, but it only served to endear him further. And he would never miss a chance to gently riff with Laurent – he would only do the same in turn, of course.
“I wish someone had warned me what a talker you are. I would have had some ear plugs commissioned.”
“Damianos,” Laurent huffed; Damen delighted in these small things, like irking the usually unflappable ice prince. “I am trying to confide in you, but your post-coital conversation does not hold up to its in flagrante counterpart.”
“Hush,” Damen murmured, turning his head so he could press a messy kiss to the top of Laurent’s head. “Shall we limit ourselves to one apology per day? An apology amnesty, if you will? Unless your plan is to keep me talking so I can’t interrupt you with my snoring?”
There was a short pause, and Damen worried that he might have offended Laurent before he felt him start to shake with silent laughter against him.
“Will you let me say one more thing?” Laurent said, once he had recovered. Damen closed his eyes again, pulling Laurent closer, their legs tangling together under the sheets.
“Will you eviscerate me if I say no?”
Laurent kicked him under the covers for that comment, but settled when Damen squeezed him tight in his arms until he complained and he loosened his grip.
“You make me think that so many things I never imagined doing are possible. Like a kingship, and a future, and – a life without my uncle’s shadow hanging over me. And that is all I will say, and we shall never speak of these conversations again,” Laurent finished, sounding deeply serious, and making Damen deeply amused. “I worked hard to cultivate this particular image, you know. I can’t have you telling Nikandros and Jord I am all peaches and honey in private.”
“You have my word, my peach.”
“That is not going to stick.”
“That’s not up to you, my love.”
“You are insufferable.”
“I’ll ask Paschal about the snoring.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know.” Damen remembered then something Jokaste had once told him: stop smiling at me like that, it will give you premature lines. You won’t wear your age well, so take care of your youth while you have it. He’d been a young fool in love with her, but it was nothing compared to how he felt now, his face half-splitting with happiness. He thought that Laurent would never tell him not to smile in case it aged him. He would just let it happen, then trace a finger over the wrinkles when they appeared and laugh about it with him. “Goodnight, Laurent,” he said finally. “I believe in you.”
“You would be the first,” Laurent replied, before pressing his lips to Damen’s chest and rolling away from his embrace; it was a warm night, and he was starting to sweat pressed to close to Damen. Damen kept a loose grip on his wrist, just under the gold cuff Laurent still wore. It was warm from the heat of his body. “Goodnight, Damen.”
He dreamed of peaches and honey, and a crown of laurel leaves on fine golden hair.
Damen did not wake until late, disturbed by the motion of Laurent climbing back to bed with him. He stretched out, missing his warmth, and was surprised when he curled fully into his arms.
“It is done,” Laurent murmured into his neck, hand once again covering his fresh scar, as if to protect it. “My uncle was hanged at sunrise. I watched him die. He will play games with me no more.”
“How do you feel?” he said in rough Akielon, not awake enough for the complex and formal intricacies of Veretian.
“Empty,” Laurent replied honestly. “But also, free.”
And Damen knew he would never allow himself to be caged again.