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This was the part Damen liked the least.
Laurent had, for the most part, learned to enjoy lying beside him after their lovemaking, without leaping up at once to cleanse and regather himself. After a coupling such as this, however, with the marks of his nails left stinging across Damen’s chest and stomach, he would need time alone. Damen had witnessed his ablutions before, when they had passed the night in edifices less grand than the fort of Marlas, where even royalty might be forced to tolerate a washbasin in the same room as the bed. He would wipe Damen’s spit from his cock and bend carefully to wash the remnants of Damen’s pleasure from inside his body; he would roll his shoulders and stretch his spine, and splash water on his face; and then he would come back to bed.
Damen’s arms, left over his head where Laurent had ordered them, were starting to ache. He kept his eyes closed (another order) and started counting, carefully, the better not to think.
Laurent would come back to bed, and towel him down gently, often magicking warm water from nowhere. He’d stroke Damen’s hair, tell him to roll over and rest his head on his stomach; he’d rub gently at the muscles of his shoulders, which might ache a little, from holding himself where Laurent had wanted him.
Damen’s count had reached a hundred. His breath was starting to come faster. Maybe he should call for Laurent? No, that would be– that would be foolish.
Damen did not resent that Laurent needed his time. Damen, of course, would take a knife to the gut before he left Laurent alone after any sort of bedplay where he was giving the orders, but that was Laurent. Damen had done this sort of thing before, and was accustomed to it, and did not need coddling, in any case, until or unless Laurent wanted to give it. So Damen was going to stay still, and count, and not be foolish.
Damen did not often think about the reasons Laurent might be shy, or nervous sometimes, or overly-solicitous (or angry about being overly-solicitous) in their bed. Laurent preferred that he did not dwell on them; Laurent would have preferred, in truth, that he did not know about them at all. Because Damen could not forget, they did not discuss it, and because they did not discuss it Laurent sometimes told him things, in the dead of night, fragments of sentences when he woke sweating from a nightmare.
Had Damen done something, to remind him of those nightmares? He swallowed hard at the thought. Or was it simpler? He’d moved his arms a little more than instructed, moved his hips considerably more. Laurent had twisted his nipple in punishment and Damen had come, groaning, perhaps too early for Laurent’s tastes. But Laurent had finished, too; Damen bore the evidence on his stomach–
Damen would ask, he decided. When Laurent came back, Damen would ask– what? He imagined forming the words, a lump growing in his throat at the thought of forcing them out– did I do something wrong– and then realized, to his horror, that he was– he was crying, his face was covered in wet. He let go of the headboard to wipe the tears off at once, and realized, with another stroke of horror, that he had been lying there like an indolent catamite for almost ten minutes, and anything, anything could have been happening to Laurent–
Damen’s feet did not seem to want to work, but he forced himself upright anyway and half-stumbled, half-ran to the door to their bedchamber. He could not help but recall Lykaios, sprawled on the floor in a puddle of blood with her blonde hair wet and red; but there was nothing and no one in sight.
Marlas was built in a mix of the Akielon and Veretian styles, so their chambers were long and open. Heart pounding, limbs tense with stifled energy, Damen ducked into the little closet that held washbasin and chamber pot; when that proved empty he prowled through their apartments, looking in Laurent’s favorite places: the long, low Akielon-style couch; the overstuffed Veretian armchair by the bookshelf; the thick rug in front of the banked fire in their sitting room. Nothing. The faintly-glowing coals threw odd shadows on the walls. He returned to the main entrance to their chambers, recalled just in time that he was covered in spend and tears, and scrubbed himself perfunctorily in the washbasin before jerking on a chiton and throwing the door open.
The guards outside– one Akielon and one Veretian– came immediately to attention, eyes respectfully downcast. He knew them– knew everyone in his slowly-reforming King’s Guard, as well as each of Laurent’s guardsmen– but for some reason could bring neither of their names to mind.
“Did Prince Laurent come through here?” he asked, wincing internally as his voice cracked a little. He cleared his throat.
“Yes, Exalted,” said the Veretian. (Damen realized belatedly he had spoken in that language.) “Not ten minutes ago. Huet and Menelaus went with him.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Damen thought he did a good job of not sounding bereaved.
A brief hesitation. “His office, Exalted.”
His office? Damen nodded to the soldiers. “Carry on, then.” He shut the door carefully.
It was not beyond the bounds of plausibility that Laurent should be struck by some sudden genius, and go at once to write it down. But why would he not simply sit at the small desk in their bedchamber? Or, if he did not wish to keep Damen awake with his candle, why would he not take parchment and pen out to the dining table?
Because he had not wanted to be near Damen.
He should wash; the scratches on his chest were still stinging. Instead he lay down, not even bothering to remove his chiton.
It was cold. Even the mild winters of Delpha might prove a source of distress to one born and raised in the orange groves of Ios, but Damen was not often cold; his complaints about the chill, when he made them, were most often calculated to call forth fussiness from Laurent, and had to be offered sparingly so that his lover would not tire of caressing him and tucking blankets around him and tell him to sleep in front of the fire like a dog. Nevertheless, he was cold now, and shivering with it. He ought to pull the thick Veretian furs up from the foot of the bed.
An apology would be imperative, he thought, and perhaps some sort of gift. As soon as he determined what he had done wrong. Damen often thought, proudly, that he and he alone was immune to the sharp side of Laurent’s tongue; but now, the thought of his error being coldly explained in Laurent’s precise tones made him bite his tongue hard to prevent another set of hot tears from leaking under his closed lids.
What if that was it? Damen had no idea how long he had been weeping, before he’d opened his eyes; what if Laurent had come back into their bedchamber, cloth in hand, and found the king of Akielos bawling like a misused trollop over nothing–
Damen threw the covers off and forced himself to his feet.
The air in the room felt like ice, even though their bedchamber had a fireplace as well. Damen ignored it; he went back to the washbasin and scrubbed himself more thoroughly, ignoring also how the soap stung in the scratches. He pulled on Veretian-style trousers and shirt (more appropriate for the weather) and dug in the desk for the report he’d been reading before Laurent had distracted him earlier. He could do something useful, at least, while he waited for sleep to come.
It really was freezing in here.
Morning came, and a cold rain with it. The sky outside was streaked with grey and white. Damen, who on campaign could go days without rest, found himself exhausted despite having spent the latter half of the night in fitful slumber on Laurent’s favorite couch. He rubbed at his gritty eyes, stood still while his servants dressed him, and sent the morning meal away mostly untouched.
There was no sign of Laurent.
Drills that morning were a miserable affair. The blunted training blade seemed heavier than usual; the familiar movements of the forms seemed cumbersome, strange, grotesque. He fumbled his sword fighting Pallas and had to shuffle awkwardly to regain his footing, drawing looks of concern from across the courtyard. Bathing was a chore; he dismissed the servants and submerged himself in hot water to drive the chill from his bones, but found himself shivering again by the time he climbed out. His morning meetings were tedious in the extreme, when he could force himself to pay attention; he snapped at his finance minister and was so rude to one of his legal scholars that Nikandros took him aside afterwards.
“What by all the gods is the matter with you?”
Damen just shrugged helplessly, and tried not to lean into the hand on his shoulder, and didn’t meet his eyes.
Laurent and Damen generally took the midday meal together, when they were in the same place. When he sat down before a light spread of olives and flatbread and spiced lentils, and a bowl of the dried apricots that were a particular favorite of his, and found the table was only laid for one, Damen decided that he had had quite enough.
The room Laurent had claimed for his office was empty. The library and the stables proved equally so, although Laurent’s horse had been ridden, and then curried until its coat shone. A stableboy might have exercised her, but a stableboy would not have bothered with such painstaking brushing, not with the rain.
“Where is Prince Laurent?” he enquired of a passing servant in blue livery.
The girl blanched. “Exalted, he gave orders he was not to be disturbed– “
“I have not asked you to disturb him, only to tell me where he is.”
Laurent was in the south tower. Lazar and Jord were at the base of the stairs. Lazar gave him a lazy salute, and winked at Pallas behind him. Jord gamely said “Exalted, the prince has ordered–“ and got no further, because Damen had brushed past him.
Damen climbed the spiraling staircase with a fevered energy that depleted as he walked, leaving him colder and shakier with each step. Perhaps he should not disturb Laurent? No, they had a meeting together this afternoon, with the Veretian council and a few kyroi. Damen would not be able to control his face when he saw Laurent, so he ought to see him alone, the first time since– since what, exactly?
Laurent had never objected when he cried before; had stroked his hair gently when he permitted a few tears to escape after Kastor had been laid in to rest in the crypt, had climbed into his lap and held him when he had wept at Karthas. He had never said anything to indicate contempt. Except– I liked it most near the end, when you broke down.
Damen stopped, swaying, hand on the wall. He bit his lip, hard, until he got himself under control, and then kept climbing.
It was true, of course, that one might consider a dead father or brother to be a good excuse for weeping, and taking a lashing, or a lover briefly excusing himself, to be considerably less so. It was not as though Laurent had never wept in their bed himself, Damen thought resentfully, and then was ashamed to have thought it. Laurent had no call to be ashamed of his tears. But perhaps he had expected better from Damen, who was five years older and a soldier and a king. Damen could freely imagine what Kastor might have said, if informed his little brother permitted himself to weep like a child in bed with the Veretian prince. Of course, perhaps that had been Kastor’s ultimate design when he’d sent him to Vere in the first place–
This time Damen made a fist and struck the wall; hard, but not hard enough to break his knuckles. He took several deep breaths, forced his mind blank, and kept climbing.
Laurent was in the little room atop the tower, a drafty stone cage with only a wooden table and a pair of rickety chairs. There would be guards on the balcony outside, keeping watch; they might be afraid to come in and warm themselves, if the room was occupied by royalty. Damen made a mental note to see that a brazier of hot coals was brought up.
Laurent’s quill was scratching busily across the parchment in front of him. Like Damen, he had sought solace in industry.
“Laurent,” Damen said.
The quill snapped in half. Laurent did not move otherwise. “I believe I gave orders not to be disturbed.”
Damen might have said that he did not take orders from Laurent, but that was not, of course, true. “I have not seen you all day,” he said instead.
“I have been occupied all day.” Laurent gestured at the parchment in front of him, still not looking up.
“And all night?”
“And all night. Some of us do not have the luxury of lounging about in bed like a–“ He stopped.
“Look at me,” Damen said, with uncharacteristic temper.
Laurent did not.
Damen moved without intending it; he had Laurent’s chin in his hand, jerking his unresisting gaze up, before he realized what he was doing. It did him no good; Laurent only gave him a long look, scrolling over him head to toe, face set in an expression of polite boredom. His hand, though, had clenched into a fist around the remnants of the quill.
“Apologies,” Damen said, letting go of his chin as if burned. He stepped back, as not to loom. There was something hot and ugly squirming around in Damen’s belly. “I apologize,” he said again. “For that and for… last night as well.”
“Last night?” Insouciant.
Damen looked away this time. When he could manage the words– “I thought I had offended you.”
“…Offended me.” Laurent’s voice was simultaneously flat and incredulous.
There was a bruise rising on Damen’s knuckles. “You left,” he told it.
“You… did not offend me.”
Of course Laurent was going to make him ask. “Then why– “
“You are aware that I occasionally need time to myself?” Laurent’s voice had gone shrill. “You are aware that I cannot dedicate the entirety of each night to being fondled by you like an oversized child’s favorite doll?”
Damen dug the fingers of his other hand into his bruised knuckles.
“Well?” demanded Laurent, when the silence had gone on too long. His breathing was coming quick and shallow.
“I did not offend you?” Damen said.
“You did nothing wrong.” Laurent spat it, like an insult.
Damen did not always know when Laurent was lying, but in this case he thought it might be difficult to miss. Not trusting his voice, he jerked his head in a nod and left the room.
The difficulty was that Laurent of course had to return to their apartments. Their relationship was the foundation of the new alliance. One night away was one thing, but news of the Veretian prince asking for a room separate from the Akielon king would spread through the castle like plague. Damen handled this, he thought sensibly, by taking an armful of furs and blankets to the same couch where he had passed the night before. It was to the left of the entrance to their chambers, so Laurent could in theory enter, have a servant undress him (Damen punched his pillow, hard), and lay down in their bed without having to walk past him (or indeed, see him at all). Laurent being Laurent, of course–
“Damianos.”
Damen did not open his eyes. “What?”
A brief hesitation. “You’ll never get to sleep on this couch.”
“Not with you talking to me, no,” Damen agreed.
“It’s too small.”
Most furniture was too small for Damen; their bed here in Marlas was specially made, as was his father’s bed in Ios. The couch had benefited from no such intervention and Damen’s feet hung off it almost to the floor. “It’s fine.”
Laurent said nothing. Lulled by his presence and the crackling fire, Damen had almost drifted off before he heard– “I’m sorry.”
“Hmm?” Damen shook himself awake. “What– “
“You should come to bed,” Laurent said.
Damen looked at him in the shifting firelight. He couldn’t determine his expression.
“I could sleep here,” Laurent said, “if you do not want me in the same bed.”
“Why would I not want you?”
Laurent didn’t answer.
Damen heaved a sigh, gathered up the bedclothes, and came to bed.
The next few days were less painful than the first had been, but almost as frustrating. Laurent performed a total about-face from his previous actions, and refused to let Damen out of his sight: he trained with him and the rest of the guard every morning, rather than every second day as was his usual wont; he hovered at mealtimes, and waited for Damen outside his private meetings with his mouth pinched in a thin line. He fussed over him, too, but oddly; Damen found that their table was always laid with his own Akielon favorites, that the fire in their bedchamber was banked the way he usually preferred it, that the former slaves in the banquet hall sang his favorite songs.
Had this been accompanied by Laurent’s private sweetness, or their usual good-natured bickering, or even the comfortable quiet that fell between them when neither had much to say, Damen might even have enjoyed the new clinginess. Instead, Laurent spitefully rejected any attempt at conversation from Damen, but at the same time refused to let him alone; moments of silence at mealtimes or between meetings were interrupted by a steady stream of catty remarks, sometimes about others, more often about Damen’s table manners, sexual proclivities, or ancestry. If Damen rebuked him, he stopped talking, looking almost relieved; but then Damen would try and diffuse the tension, or ask about his day, and Laurent’s face would twist up and the entire cycle would begin again.
“Enough,” Damen said finally, on the third night. He still felt ill and cold, his ears were ringing slightly, and Laurent had been talking for a while, comments degenerating in wit and coherency the longer he went without being snapped at. “I don’t even know why you’re angry. Tell me what’s wrong or don’t talk to me at all.”
Laurent went white, and then scarlet. He stomped out of the room.
Damen buried his face in his hands. It couldn’t be the crying, he thought. If Laurent had needed to avoid him for a few days to let his contempt dissolve, that would be one thing, but this was… Damen didn’t know what this was.
Damen needed to move.
He walked the battlements, exchanging a nod or a quick word with Veretian and Akielon guards. He went to the courtyard, found a weighted training sword a little heavier than his usual, and worked the forms until his muscles complained at him. When Lazar and Pallas stumbled in, kissing, and then broke apart to bow, Damen threw them a salute and left.
He came tentatively into their bedchamber and found Laurent on his side of the bed in a frilly Veretian nightshirt, ostensibly buried in a book. He ducked into the water closet, and scrubbed perfunctorily at his face and armpits, and when he emerged it was to find Laurent, pale and gleaming and naked, sprawled over the bed with his wrists tied to the headboard.
Damen looked, because of course he did; at the long legs, at the pink nipples, at the stretched-out muscle in his arms and torso. At the way he was bound, unable to get away. The rope was blue silk– presumably some Veretian invention specifically for this purpose– and quite tight, around Laurent’s wrists. The skin under the knots would be pink, chafed, especially if Laurent struggled. “What are you doing,” he said, when he was done looking.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Laurent tugged against the rope. If you didn’t see the tension in his shoulders, you might have assumed he was doing it for show.
“This isn’t going to work,” Damen said.
Laurent looked him up and down, lingering at his groin. Damen realized belatedly that he was shirtless, and the tight Veretian trousers did little to hide how he was affected by the sight before him. “Oh?” Laurent said.
Damen dragged his eyes away and sat at the desk to remove his boots. Laurent’s belt and the attached knife were slung over the chair back. “Do you need me to cut you loose?” he asked tightly.
“I think you should come over here and– “
“I think,” Damen said, “you should stop being a petulant child and tell me why you’ve been horrible for the past three days.”
Quiet. Damen had his eyes on his boot, tugging at the laces, but he heard the rustling from the bed. When he looked up Laurent was in front of him, having dragged on his nightshirt. The cut ends of the rope dangled from both wrists. His hair was in disarray.
“I’m not sure why you’re pretending you don’t want to fuck me– “
“I’m not sure why you think I’d want anything to do with you right now,” Damen said. “Given that you seem to want absolutely nothing to do with me– “
“What is wrong with you?” Laurent exploded. “What sort of– of person– you won’t even shout at me, you– “
There was a sharp pain in Damen’s chest, like someone was twisting a knife. “If you could stop expecting me to guess,” he said, “and just tell me what I did– “
“What do you mean, ‘what you did’?” Laurent’s voice rose several octaves. Damen, embarrassingly, felt himself flinch.
Laurent stopped. His mouth performed the almost invisible motion that meant he was biting his tongue until it bled.
“You’re… upset with me,” Damen said. “I don’t know why.”
“I told you I was not upset with you.”
“And then you behaved like you were upset with me,” Damen snapped. He felt sick, nauseous. Laurent was watching him warily.
“You cried,” Laurent said finally.
So it had been that after all. Damen felt a hot rush of shame that, infuriatingly, manifested in a pricking sensation behind his eyes. “I won’t do it again,” he said anyway, like a child.
“It’s not– what– Damen,” Laurent said. “Damen, look at me.”
Damen couldn’t. He felt a soft touch on his shoulder and jerked away from it. “I should,” he said, “I should go– “
He tried to get up but Laurent grabbed his shoulder; and then Laurent was climbing into his lap, cupping the back of his head, holding it to his own chest. “I’ll ruin your shirt,” Damen said, or thought he said, and then said nothing at all for a few minutes.
When he was done embarrassing himself, Laurent was stroking gently over his hair. “I thought you liked it,” Laurent was saying, his own voice not exactly steady, “when we were in bed. I did not mean to– I thought you liked it.”
“I liked it,” Damen said. He coughed to clear his throat, and shifted his head to Laurent’s other shoulder, away from the wet patch. Forcing himself to speak neutrally– “It was only that you left.”
“But– I was still there. You were– when you finished, you– it was only a little, but–"
Damen wondered if it was possibly to die from humiliation. “I apologize,” he said. “I did not–“
“Stop apologizing. I only– I thought you liked it.”
“I did,” said Damen, a spark of annoyance poking through the shame. “I must have– surely you’ve heard the saying “so good I could weep?””
“Yes, but you don’t usually–“
“I won’t do it again.”
“I don’t give a donkey’s ass if you do it again,” Laurent snapped. “I just thought I’d… hurt you.”
“No,” Damen said. “Never, Laurent.”
There was a pause, where Laurent did not say that he had hurt Damen, or that he was cold and cruel, or that Damen should never have taken up with him at all. He never said that aloud, although Damen sometimes wished he would, so that he could argue with it. Presumably that was why Laurent did not say it.
“What did you mean,” Laurent said instead, “when you said I left?”
Damen didn’t say anything. It was starting to occur to him that Laurent had not come back into the room at all, had not seen him–
“Please?” Laurent’s voice cracked a little. “Please just tell me– “
“You left,” Damen said. “I don’t– I don’t begrudge you leaving afterwards. But sometimes–“ he felt like his throat was closing up again. “I know you prefer to be left alone, but I–“
"I didn't think you'd want to see me."
Damen had to swallow a few times. His voice still broke when he said "you're the one who needs to be left alone–"
“I’ll stay,” Laurent said at once. “Damen, I’ll stay next time.” And he pressed his wet face to Damen’s hair, and Damen tucked himself more firmly into Laurent’s shoulder, and they both took quiet, hitching breaths.
“I don’t know why you let me touch you,” Laurent said at one point.
“I like it when you touch me,” Damen told him, raw, and then they both had to hide their faces again.
Eventually, they drew apart. Damen coughed again, like a consumptive, clearing the wet out of his throat. Laurent reached over Damen’s head to pull a handkerchief from the desk drawer, and blew his nose loudly, creating a sound not unlike the geese that had flown overhead a few months earlier.
Damen found himself laughing, a little hysterically, and heard Laurent join in. “Hush,” Laurent said, and then “we are going to break this chair,” and Damen, feeling like a great weight had been taken off his chest, took hold of Laurent’s thighs and stood up. Laurent yelped and clutched at his shoulders, but Damen could have carried him straight to Bazal at that moment. He settled for walking the few feet to the bed, and sending them both tumbling down onto the mattress.
“You’re so strong,” Laurent said softly. “I forget sometimes–“ He trailed off, but Damen understood, and kissed his shoulder, and they laid there together until Laurent cleared his throat and pushed himself up on his elbow.
“So,” Laurent said, wiping his nose again. “I think we’ve both learned an important lesson– “
“Vere makes special rope for use in bed?” Damen tugged at one of the frayed ends around Laurent’s wrists.
“No, we’ve learned– “
“You want me to bind you to the headboard?”
“Hush,” Laurent scolded. “I was trying to make it up to you!”
“That’s not what it’s for,” Damen said.
Dryly– “I think that’s exactly what it’s for.”
“Not the rope. Sex.” Damen carefully untied one of the knots. “It’s not to make things up to one other.” He kissed the chafed pink skin the rope revealed, then started on the other one. “Now, if you wanted to bring this up again later– “
“I just might,” Laurent said softly. He blushed when Damen kissed the other wrist, over the golden cuff. “Hold on,” he said, and slid off the bed and knelt unselfconsciously to pull Damen’s boots off. Then the pants, undoing the laces without too much in the way of sensuality; then he said “just a moment, I swear,” and almost sprinted into the other room. Damen rather thought he stubbed a toe, because there was a bang and a loud curse, but he came rushing back almost immediately with a pitcher of water and a glass.
“What’s it for, then?” he asked, as Damen drank deeply.
“Hmm?”
“Sex. What’s it for?” He wet another handkerchief and wiped carefully at Damen’s cheek.
“Pleasure,” Damen said, watching him. “Love, of course. And to keep warm in the winter.”
“This is your first real winter,” Laurent noted. He stroked gently over a mostly-healed scratch, and then touched a faded lashmark that curled around Damen’s shoulder. “Are you warm enough?”
“Oh no, I’m freezing,” Damen lied, with a theatrical shiver, and Laurent rolled his eyes, and swatted him with the handkerchief, and then leaned in, a little tentative, and rested his golden head on Damen’s chest. And Damen was very warm indeed.