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When nine-year old Laurent had stared up at him, mouth pulled into a firm line and brows crossly drawn, and declared “you can make heirs and I’ll have books,” Auguste had laughed. And when a few years passed and Laurent gave no sign of changing, Auguste still did not think much of it; Laurent had always been precocious in other, far more important areas: intellect, politics, reading. He could find inventive solutions to the most baffling of trade issues, and supplied Auguste with information on how to manipulate people he had not even met. Auguste did not often utilise such information, and when Laurent did, his ploys were usually harmless — bringing an end to a protracted meeting so that Auguste could go riding with him as promised, or wheedling a platter of sweets from a servant in lieu of a proper breakfast.
Their father, King Aleron, did not share Auguste’s blasé attitudes toward Laurent’s sexual awareness (or the decided lack thereof). In fact, as even more years passed, Auguste’s supposed coddling of Laurent became a recurrent point of contention for them. Auguste knew his affection for Laurent softened him towards his brother, but he worked hard to maintain a distance between them in front of others, and he personally saw to Laurent’s training with a blade.
But this was one area in which Auguste was unable to train his brother.
It was a Council meeting where the possibility was brought up: betrothing a son to one of King Torgeir’s daughters. It was unclear which son he meant (though, given the daughters’ ages, likely Laurent). It was even more unclear whether Laurent’s responding outburst was because he thought it was himself or Auguste.
Auguste was shocked by the voracity of Laurent’s outrage, which ended with a guard pulling him out of the meeting and dragging him to his rooms. Uncharacteristically childish, and Auguste would have scolded Laurent himself if he wasn’t so sure Aleron would employ a more corporal punishment first.
In a second surprise that day, Aleron instead took Auguste aside after the meeting and ordered him to take Laurent on his upcoming visit to Vask. Vere was the only country that had managed to penetrate Vask’s largely isolationist practices, after discovering precisely what the Vaskians desired. Auguste had since spent many years assisting the Vaskians with the procreation of strong daughters. It was the least unpleasurable political exchange Auguste had ever headed, to say the least.
“Father,” Auguste had responded to the demand, tone carefully neutral. “Surely that’s not necessary.”
“If he goes and observes, maybe he’ll understand,” Aleron had insisted. “And I will not have my son sneaking into a brothel like some animal.”
Admittedly, Aleron’s logic was sound; there were not opportunities in Vere, of course, to encourage an interest in women. For all that Laurent’s sharp mind grasped the complex and the abstract with ease, there could be startling gaps in his understanding. He could not engage in social situations without playing at some role; and while he could effortlessly affect a princely charm to entertain dignitaries more than twice his age, he had never formed a single friendship — or even seen the point.
That was how Auguste found himself riding to Acquitart with a small retinue of men, and Laurent. For his part, Laurent was overjoyed: it meant days of riding with his big brother to talk to all day and night. Laurent retained a childish rapture about this place — possibly in no small part because it was associated with a lack of court and an abundance of Auguste. But Auguste thought it might also be what Acquitart represented: a tangible sign of their royalty. Of course Laurent had grown up knowing he was prince of Vere, but an entire country could be too vast to comprehend. Here, a destitute fort surrounded by a paltry village, Laurent could settle his eyes on Acquitart’s entirety from the back of his horse and understand that he was the prince of this. A lack of strategic resources and the absence of luxuries to which they were accustomed had never mattered to Laurent, and sometimes Auguste ached with the need it stirred in him to preserve that guileless reverence in his little brother.
Upon their arrival, Acquitart’s caretaker, Arnoul, greeted them with his usual cheer before directing their guards with the horses and gear and provisions.
After dismounting, Laurent declared, imperiously, “You’re the prince.” And then, without a trace of irony, he strutted into the keep with a regal command and left Auguste no choice but to follow.
“I am,” Auguste said simply. In jest, he quipped, “And what does that make you? My consort?”
Pausing in the tight stairwell up to their rooms, Laurent turned to his brother. Narrowed blue eyes were levelled at Auguste; their uneven progress up the steps temporarily erased their difference in height. He took a moment to consider, decided, “I should be your Queen,” and turned to continue up the stairs.
“You’re a prince,” Auguste corrected him, giving his little brother a sharp poke in the back that had Laurent squirming. “But I suppose you could be my princess.”
This statement received the reaction Auguste had looked for all along: when Laurent spun around, it was with stomping feet and a fierce scowl. “You don’t need a princess,” he said. “You have me.”
His tone was cool and assertive and, despite the nonsensical nature of this entire exchange, Auguste understood. No princesses, then. For either of us, he longed to say. But he knew better than to give false hope to Laurent, even in comfort; ever since he was a boy, he seemed to have a palace in his memory devoted to every promise Auguste ever made to him.
What he Auguste say, with complete honesty, was this: “I’ll always have you, Laurent.”
The next day, the brothers made a private journey to the nearby crumbling fortress, a dismal relic from a bygone empire.
“Queen Helene vanquished that beastly Tarasque right here,” Laurent had declared, at six, when Auguste brought him here for the first time. At the time, Auguste had recently finished reading to Laurent about a fabled battle between King Nerluc and the monster, a terrible amalgam of dragon, lion, bear and ox, sheathed by the shell of a giant turtle. Their mother had been ill, which was a great source of distress for Laurent, and so Auguste had replaced the noble king with a fearless and invulnerable queen, who may have closely resembled maman .
Laurent had named the ruins Tarascon. Fond memories between the two were engraved into the very stone here, of Laurent scaling trembling stone and leaping onto Auguste’s back in a dramatic rendition of the crusade. It was utterly untainted from the demands of their birth in a way that even Acquitart could not fully escape, and Auguste hoped today would not change that.
Laurent had already swung off his horse and was trying to climb a collection of vines that appeared far too thin when Auguste said, “We’re not here to play today, Laurent.”
Having somehow managed to wrap himself up in a tangle of greenery, Laurent’s head whipped around. “But we always play here.” His tone was hostile.
“Mon petit soleil, we can play when we return. But we’re on a special mission, remember?”
Blinking somewhat owlishly, Laurent let himself drop. His right arm dangled in the air, still trapped in vines. “This is not the mission,” he said slowly.
Auguste sighed, internally berating himself. He should have realised, when he ushered Laurent to the stables this morning and said, We have a special mission today, just the two of us, that Laurent would assume it was some kind of game.
“Forgive me, Laurent.” He stepped forward to help disentangle his little brother. Laurent deflated instantly, though he stubbornly refused to help free himself. “We’re going to meet some very important people today. From Vask.”
He tried to ignore the dejected silence this met with; Laurent did not even bother complaining.
“Laurent, can you trust me?”
At that, Laurent looked up. “Of course, brother,” he swore, all wide eyes and earnest expression, pushing onto his tiptoes as if he worried Auguste might not believe him.
“When they arrive, they’re going to blindfold us, alright?” Auguste said.
Laurent lowered back to his heels, chewing his lip nervously.
Auguste glanced all around them before bending forward, as if in great confidence. “It’s because they’re going to take us along a secret path,” he whispered. “Remember Queen Helene’s quest into woods so deep, even the sun did not know of them? It will be just like that.” When Laurent continued to chew his lip, on the edge of reluctant acquiescence, Auguste added, “I’ll hold your hand the whole way.”
Finally, Laurent nodded. And seized Auguste’s hand.
Laurent stayed quiet for the negotiations, though Auguste did not doubt his keen ear. His Vaskian was second only to Akielon in weakness, but he would be scrutinising the clan leader’s intonation, the harsh sounds of her dialect. These he would commit to memory, and the next time he practised his Vaskian, he would consider how to shape his mouth and manipulate his tongue until he could mimic it.
He did not protest when Auguste left the dais where the three had settled, though that may have been thanks to Halvik’s strong apathy toward him in general; he could content himself well enough so long as no one tried to engage with him. Beyond that, Auguste did not give much consideration to his little brother. Halvik’s women were many in number and all pleasing in shape, and he found himself rather occupied. These negotiations presented the rare opportunity for Auguste to enjoy women, whom he had always preferred. In fact, it was not so much an opportunity as a politically-binding obligation that Auguste never failed to fulfil.
The last woman was beneath him now. Auguste was grateful for this; with Laurent on his mind, he had consumed less of that aphrodisiac the Vaskians always plied him with, and was uncertain he could have spilled inside another. Even with the pleasing, long-coveted body beneath him, his ardour was embarrassingly flagging.
A thump, off to his right, and Auguste twisted his head. It was Laurent, sprawled out on the grass a few yards away. Indistinct, but as the flickering light from the coupling fire illuminated his slender face, Auguste’s throat dried up seeing Laurent’s darkly flushed appearance. This was good, he told himself; it was exactly what his father had intended. Well, in actuality, Auguste was supposed to have ordered Laurent to watch all of this from the very start. But when he had stood to follow the first woman and turned back toward his brother, to Laurent’s open and trusting and wholly innocent face, he had been unable.
And yet here Laurent was, like some unstoppable force, drawn to his brother always. By his rosy features, Auguste thought he was enjoying the performance after all. Perhaps Auguste could invite him back, next time; show him properly, from the very start, how to enjoy a woman.
Auguste had not looked away from his brother. The Vaskian beneath him made small noises with almost every thrust, and it was easy to tune her out.
Laurent was spellbinding, even in the obscurity of darkness. Light was unnecessary; Auguste knew what Laurent looked like when his cheeks rushed with blood. It was not embarrassment this time, nor was it excitement or gratification or the nip of cold air. Watching his big brother fuck a woman had painted his skin a delightful scarlet, and Auguste found it was not so hard to finish after all.
The woman left the moment he spilled, satisfied with her gains. He stood, too, barely bothering to tug the laces on his trousers. Enough for them to stay up, but nothing was really concealed. His legs had a familiar weakness to them, all his might drained from hours of copulating.
“Enjoy the view?” he called. He had to clear his throat, voice scratchy from producing nothing but moans and grunts for so long. Laurent did not respond, and Auguste wondered if he had caused his brother embarrassment. Perhaps he should not have mentioned anything.
Then Laurent repeated, carefully neutral, “The view.”
Auguste huffed at his brother’s obfuscation. “The woman, Laurent.”
Much to Auguste’s amusement, Laurent’s face adopted the particular grimace saved for any topic vaguely concerning sexual relations. But it was also perplexing: the closer he got, the more vivid Laurent’s red skin became.
And then Laurent teetered a bit, as if the elbow he used to prop himself up might buckle. Once he stood right before Laurent, Auguste took in his half-open mouth, the eyes that were wide but unfocused as he struggled to make direct eye contact even though he stared up at Auguste’s face.
Auguste cursed under his breath. “I told you not to drink anything,” he scolded. Although — he could not recall for sure.
“You left your drink right there,” was all Laurent said.
Laurent told the truth: Halvik had been to Auguste’s left, Laurent to his right, which meant Auguste would have abandoned his last cup, mostly full, beside Laurent.
Laurent was indeed flustered, but not for the expected reason.
“My poor, darling brother,” Auguste cooed as he settled down and stretched out on his side. “How do you feel?”
As if only now permitted, Laurent fully flopped onto the ground. “Peculiar.”
Auguste laughed. “Be more specific, Laurent.”
Laurent licked his lips. The movement was languorous, and invited admiration. An adorable little furrow appeared before his brows, and his glazed eyes flickered back and forth. Despite the obvious effort, all he managed was, “Hot. Quite hot. Everything — burns.”
Stretching forward, Auguste hovered over Laurent’s frame. Cupped his brother’s face in both hands and watched, enraptured, at the effect of such a simple touch. Laurent’s eyes fluttered shut, and his breaths adopted a whiny quality that gave way to small, tremulous noises. He was shockingly hot to the touch — hotter than any fever Auguste had felt before.
One hand dropped, slung across Laurent’s waist and pulled him up onto his side. The prohibitively tight dress of their culture made it difficult, but he was able to worm a hand underneath Laurent’s jacket and shirt. The bare skin at the small of Laurent’s back was as heated as his face.
“What do you need from me?” he asked.
Laurent had started whimpering at Auguste’s touch on his back. It took some time for this to subside enough for Laurent to say, “Jacket.”
“Alright,” agreed Auguste. “You know how to do that.”
Slender hands quivered under his as Auguste guided Laurent to the laces at his throat. His own hand returned to Laurent’s face, stroking and petting. Laurent became temperamental when impatient; he had yet to master emotional control, and by now, he would normally be jerking at the laces in irritation. But the draught likely inhibited the required coordination and acuity, and his current movements were fumbling and slow.
“I want it off.” Barely loosened, Laurent was already trying to struggle out of the garment. “Attend me!”
As amusing as his helpless floundering was, Auguste tutted. “Don’t forget your sleeves,” he said, ignoring the command. Whatever he may need, or want, Laurent had to lead this.
Once again, Auguste had to move one of Laurent’s hands toward the laces of the opposite arm. This process was even more agonisingly slow, and by the end, Laurent panted as if he had raced around the fire a dozen times.
When it came time to take it off, Auguste did take pity; Laurent was more likely to find his respite in suffocation than the jacket’s actual removal. Neck now bared, it was clear the reddening of Laurent’s skin spread beyond his face. The skin of his throat hollowed delicately with each inhale, and glistened with sweat.
“What now?” Auguste asked.
“It feels better,” Laurent murmured, sweetly shy. “When you touch me.”
Nodding, Auguste returned his hands to Laurent’s face, cradling his jaw in one hand and stroking his cheek with the other. “You were watching, weren’t you? What I did to that woman?”
The grimace returned.
Softening his tone to a gentle coax, Auguste said, “I want to help you, my darling, but you need to tell me.”
“Kisses,” decided Laurent after a prolonged pause. Voice achingly vulnerable, as if fearing a denial, he said, “I want kisses.”
Auguste obliged. One hand slipped through Laurent’s silken tresses to hold the back of his head, tugging him upward. At the last second, Auguste tilted Laurent’s head down and kissed his forehead. He expected a biting remark, for Laurent to insist, “Not like that, Auguste!” Instead, Laurent melted against him, as if his every bone and muscle had liquefied. Yet he cleaved to Auguste’s front, hands clenching in his brother’s linen shirt.
When Auguste pulled his hand back from Laurent’s neck, to gauge his silence, Laurent’s head dropped back; utterly lifeless, Auguste’s strength the only thing keeping him up.
Auguste continued his sweet torture, kissing along Laurent’s brow and temple, the apple and hollow of his cheek. There was not even a complaint when Auguste lips neared his open mouth, only to divert to his chin. Of course, Laurent’s nose warranted its own attention, and Auguste mouthed and nibbled lightly at the slight upturn, lovely, at its end.
Following Laurent’s jaw, Auguste arrived at his ear and when he pressed a kiss to it, Laurent shivered. Auguste intended to merely kiss his lobe, perhaps suck at it a little. But then his tongue was out, tracing a wet path from the join of Laurent’s ear to his jaw then back up along the shell, curving over the top. Pressing his tongue into the centre of Laurent’s ea produced strangled noises and a fierce shudder.
Auguste pulled back to admire his work. “You’re so easily flustered.” Resuming his caresses along Laurent’s face, he added, “So warm.”
It was easy to praise Laurent, and he did so now, remarking on his beauty and intelligence and that sweet, devoted nature he reserved only for his big brother. Even though it meant Auguste’s mouth was not put to arguably better use, Laurent endured it.
Until: “And pretty.”
Then Laurent’s eyes snapped open, pinning Auguste with his hazy gaze.
“So pretty,” Auguste crooned, smiling as Laurent squirmed, his mouth fell even more open. “My sweet darling.”
“Prettier…” Laurent mumbled. He licked his lips, taking the span of a few slow blinks to gather himself. “Prettier than that — stupid Patran princess?”
Auguste’s head fell back with the force of his laugh. “You know I never saw her,” he pointed out. “Neither of us did.”
Even a powerful aphrodisiac did not distract Laurent from petty jealousy over his brother’s attention. His attempted pout was just as endearingly beseeching as the real thing.
“But I don’t need to,” Auguste assured. His thumb rubbed along one of Laurent’s closed eyes, smearing a hint of wetness that threatened his lash line. “I know you are prettier than any princess I could ever see.
“I’ve loved you ever since I first laid eyes upon you, pink and wrinkly and crying in maman’s arms,” Auguste found himself reminiscing. It was hard to reconcile that image with the one before him, Laurent pink, eyes watery, but now for very different reasons. “I always knew I would give you everything.”
With a concerted effort, Laurent managed to press his face into Auguste’s neck. Auguste’s arms were immediately around him, cradling him close as he shivered.
“Everything you could possibly want,” Auguste repeated.
“I want,” he said. “Everything.”
Auguste kissed him. That’s all it was, really — Auguste kissing Laurent, because Laurent didn’t respond, save for a small, pleased sound at the back of his throat. His mouth had been parted and remained parted, neither pursing nor opening further at Auguste’s ministrations.
How would it have been, he wondered, if he had stolen his brother’s first kiss before they arrived here? All tangled up in vines, he could have easily pushed Laurent’s slender form against the crumbling stone. His mouth would have been firm and unyielding at first, Auguste decided. He would have had to work at it, soft and insistent with a promise of untold pleasures to come, if only Laurent would cede to him.
But he enjoyed this, too — how he could simply take his pleasure. Could take and take, without Laurent giving or taking in return. Laurent didn’t react to the slide of Auguste’s mouth. Didn’t react when Auguste slipped his tongue past his lips, silently testing: Laurent’s jaw was not as slack as Auguste would have thought, his teeth held too tightly together. He redirected, tonguing at the front of Laurent’s teeth, just beyond his lips.
“Sweetheart,” Auguste murmured when he pulled away. Laurent made a disagreeable noise at the sudden distance. “I need to teach you how to kiss.” Darting forward, he couldn’t stop himself from one more peck before he said, “Move your lips like I do, little brother.”
At the next kiss, Laurent indeed tried to follow Auguste’s example. The movements lagged, made lazy by inebriation. “Open your mouth,” Auguste instructed between kisses. “When you feel my tongue.”
Again, Laurent was slow to respond. The moment the barest of give between Laurent’s teeth appeared, Auguste forced his tongue inside. Groaning, he clutched at Laurent’s shirt and he plundered his brother’s small mouth. Every sensation, every taste was savoured: rubbing along Laurent’s little tongue, swiping at the roof of his mouth, tracing each ridge of his teeth. Spices from the draught flavoured Laurent’s mouth and Auguste pushed even closer, crowding Laurent’s body into the ground, as he wondered at Laurent’s natural taste.
Laurent mewled desperately, tugging at Auguste’s tunic and absolutely writhing, as if he could not decide whether he wanted to be plastered against his brother or needed to pull away to regain his breath.
Retreating was a torture only made bearable by the knowledge of what could be gained. “Give me your sweet tongue, brother,” he murmured.
Adorably, Laurent did that exactly: stuck out his tongue, like some belligerent child. Auguste took what was offered, wrapped his lips around the gift and sucked.
Laurent’s moan was reedy and broken, as if forced from his chest without awareness. Auguste abandoned Laurent’s tongue, momentarily, so he could latch onto his brother’s whole mouth. Swallowed every sound Laurent gave him, sighed at the desperate keening when he continued sucking on Laurent’s tongue.
One of his hands travelled down to Laurent’s back, under his shirt, fingers digging into his bare skin once more. He bent down until Laurent was flat on the ground, and then pressed further still. His hand travelled to Laurent’s hip, alternatively squeezing the jutting joint and pushing it into the soil.
Managing to twist his head to the side, Laurent pleaded, “Auguste, Auguste.” His lips quivered, mouth all wet and red. A few tears streamed down his cheeks and Auguste seized the opportunity to lick them all up. “Auguste, Auguste, Auguste…”
The fists in Auguste’s shirt trembled, and Auguste grinned, pressing into the side of Laurent’s face.
“Yes, my darling,” he reassured. “That’s it.”
Perhaps a bit cruel, but he slung a leg across both of Laurent’s. All it took, to pin his brother’s legs together and cease the squirming, was his shin.
“You can come like this, can’t you, little brother?” Auguste taunted.
Laurent’s simpering receded as he asked, “I can -- what?” He stared up at his brother, painfully earnest in his confusion.
Auguste took a deep breath.
“Does it feel like you need to release?” Letting go of Laurent’s hip, his hand crept to Laurent’s belly where he pressed in and downward, indicating toward Laurent’s groin.
Laurent jolted. “I’m not going to — piss!” he sputtered.
Auguste was torn between a laugh and a groan. “I know, mon chéri. Not that kind of release.” He couldn’t help but ask, “Have you ever come before?”
Any lingering indignity gave way to puzzlement.
“Have you ever been hard? Erect,” he clarified, in case sexual slang was the cause of Laurent’s confusion.
Hesitation, then a small shake of his head.
“Have you ever awoken to a damp bed, or sleep pants?” Anticipating another outburst, Auguste warned, “I know you don’t wet the bed anymore, Laurent.” But nothing productive would come of this, he decided, so Auguste leaned forward and bumped their noses together. “Trust me, little brother?”
Laurent’s nod was eager as ever. Despite how close Laurent had been to the edge, Auguste took his time peppering kisses all over his brother’s face. “So sweet, so pretty,” he murmured. “Mon petit soleil . You are just perfect for me, aren’t you?”
Between the tonic flooding his veins and Auguste’s soft praises, Laurent was shaking and crying in no time. Each tear was hungrily lapped up. And just before he could bear it no longer, Auguste’s mouth was over his, sucking at his tongue with even more vigour than before, as if seeking a luscious nectar trapped inside. Auguste almost wished he hadn’t, for it smothered the little wail as Laurent climaxed. He could not even pull back — track every minute shift in Laurent’s expression as pleasure overtook him — because kissing his brother was an addiction, and he did not find the strength to pull away until Laurent had already quieted.
He asked, “What do you feel?”
Laurent huffed and shifted, gaze torn between Auguste’s eyes and mouth. He let his head tip back to glare at the starry sky. “It’s too much.”
“What, brother?” When the glare turned on him, Auguste chided, “You have to use your words, Laurent.”
Only his upper body could really move, what with Auguste’s shin still pinning his legs. But Laurent did his damnedest to wriggle around, putting off answering just for the sake of recalcitrance.
“I need you,” he rasped. “It — it feels better when you touch me.”
It was not quite the answer Auguste sought, and he did not respond.
Laurent’s face crumpled, then quickly morphed into a glower. Once again, he directed his aggravation toward the stars. “My heart is beating. Really hard. In my chest,” he finally managed.
His voice was strangled and piteous. Still, Auguste chuckled. “Of course it is.” He let a hand settle over Laurent’s chest to feel the thrumming patter.
Laurent shook his head. “I feel it everywhere. My throat, my face. Even my fingers and toes.” When his hips tried to roll, Auguste’s hold tightened. “My… stomach.”
“Your stomach?” Auguste drawled dubiously. When Laurent was silent so long even Auguste grew frustrated, he relented. “It feels better when I touch and kiss you, yes?”
The kisses resumed, open-mouthed. He finally allowed himself to taste that sweat pooled at the hollow of Laurent’s throat. Laurent gasped and shook immediately, shoulder instinctively tensing before giving way to the tenderly sensual touch.
Auguste’s teeth grazed the base of Laurent’s throat, and he had to ask, “How high is the collar on your jacket?”
He could hear the wet parting of Laurent’s lips as he strained to remember. Instead of answering, he gestured at some vague point on his neck. Auguste was not sure it was correct — it probably wasn’t — but he readily accepted it as fact, and started sucking at the flesh just below that point. Let his teeth sink in.
Laurent’s tender skin bruised easily and it was intoxicating, imagining the glistening red marks evolve into shades of mottled purples. How he would have to constantly wear high-collared jackets and shirts for a week, perhaps two. And only Auguste would know; every time he would see Laurent pull at his throat, he would be reminded of this moment, of his little brother below him, gasping and begging for more. Auguste’s spent cock twitched at the thought. He imagined Laurent stripping off his clothes at the end of the day, delicately running his fingers over the bruises with a privately fond smile.
Servants, Auguste realised with a displeased groan. The servants blessed with the opportunity to dress and undress his little brother would see, and Veretians were not known for their tight lips.
“These marks are from Halvik’s women,” he ordered. “Understand?”
When Laurent did not immediately agree, he was given an admonishing bite. He groaned, “W-what marks?”
Auguste released Laurent’s flesh. He took a moment, panting against the sensitive skin of Laurent’s throat, to calm himself. In lieu of explaining, he once again said, “Tell me what you need.”
Laurent’s answer carried an uncertain lilt. “My shirt.”
Auguste let him fuss with the laces as he wrestled the shirt from where it remained tucked into Laurent’s trousers. A lithe form with inches of creamy, unblemished skin revealed itself to Auguste’s eyes and with great effort, he forced his eyes up. Batting away Laurent’s hands, he ripped at the laces himself and as soon as was possible, he jerked the fabric down Laurent’s narrow shoulders. The lacing ran down his sternum, which was as frustrating as it was convenient, for Auguste could reveal almost Laurent’s entire chest without bothering to unlace his wrists and remove the garment entirely.
Despite his frenzy, he went slow, simply rubbing up and down Laurent’s breastbrone, the exposed sides of his chest. Gradually with each slide, his hand drifted toward the centre and Laurent spasmed when the edge of Auguste’s palm glanced against his nipple. Auguste was surprised to see, from what peeked out of the fabric’s edge, that Laurent’s nipple had hardened from that slight, incidental touch. His brother was so unbelievably sensitive to anything Auguste gave him, though Auguste begrudged that he had not witnessed it: seen his brother’s nipple, soft and delicate pink, turn hard and dark.
Gripping Laurent’s sleeve, he yanked the shirt further down to get a proper view. There was a distant tearing sound, but Auguste paid no mind. With a singular focus, he curled his hand around Laurent’s ribcage and rubbed at the little nub with his thumb. Laurent twisted, releasing little pitched mewls, as if confused by his own pleasure at the sensation.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Auguste soothed. Blindly, he reached up until his free hand butted against Laurent’s face. Laurent clung to Auguste’s hand, smushed his nose and slack mouth against it. “It feels good, doesn’t it, darling.”
Another finger, less callused, would have been more sensitive to sensation than his thumb. But Auguste liked the way this allowed the rest of his hand to wrap around the curve of Laurent’s ribs. How he could feel Laurent’s chest rattle with each stuttered breath and, if he were to clench his fist, struggle to expand against his grasp.
When he finally moved to the other side of Laurent’s chest, he was more careful. Laurent’s left nipple was still shielded by shirt and heated skin, and so as Auguste carefully peeled back the fabric, it remained soft. He didn’t touch it, at first; just admired it. Swirled a finger around it. Pinched Laurent’s skin very, very gently, but kept his fingers away from that soft peak. When he gave a very, very slight flick with his thumbnail, it hardened instantly. Laurent’s mouth widened in a beautiful cry. Every shake of his head dragged his open, panting mouth against Auguste’s palm and by the time Auguste pulled it away, Laurent had drooled all over him.
Switching, Auguste palmed Laurent’s chest with that hand, felt the slickness rub all over Laurent’s skin, his nipple a sharp point against Auguste’s palm. Pulled back to admire the glistening wetness before lurching forward for a taste.
“Auguste?”
With his name on his brother’s lips, Auguste pulled Laurent’s nipple into his mouth and sucked, gently at first then nibbling with his teeth. Laurent invoked his name again and again, a cycle that left him torn between arching into Auguste’s mouth, twisting away, or clutching at Auguste’s hair and shoulders.
Generous as he was, Auguste did not neglect Laurent’s right nipple. Without any further need for gentleness, he pinched and tugged with abandon. When he swapped sides and wrapped his lips around it, he was pleased to find it was puffy and swollen and, ever dutiful, he ensured Laurent’s other nipple received the same treatment until they matched.
Despite his current focus, he did not miss when Laurent’s hands suddenly released their twin grips on his hair and shoulder. Tipping his forehead down, he followed the lines of Laurent’s arms and saw Laurent had fisted the sides of his own trousers, perhaps to give some pressure against his cock.
“Hands on the ground,” Auguste ordered roughly.
There was a small, disagreeable noise and he anticipated a tongue-lashing, but Laurent released his trousers. Instead of reaching for the ground, though, he fingered at Auguste’s own trousers. “Can I hold you?” he asked, so sweetly that no mortal could bear to refuse.
Busying his mouth with Laurent’s chest once more, he covered Laurent’s hand with one of his own; Laurent had gripped near his knee, and he dragged his brother’s little hand up to his thigh instead. At Laurent’s second climax, he could feel more clearly the way Laurent’s slender frame clenched all over, muscles locking and freezing before releasing in a series of tiny convulses.
As soon as Laurent could find his words, it was Auguste’s name that he croaked. Humming, Auguste unlatched mouth and hand from Laurent’s nipple and pushed up, bestowing Laurent’s still-trembling lips with gentle kisses.
“You don’t feel better, do you?” he suggested.
If the hakesh did not already ruin Laurent’s vision, it would be the watery blanket now blurring the lovely blue of his irises. He shook his head and tears freely ran down his cheeks. Hiccoughing, he wrapped his arms around Auguste’s neck, though there was no strength to his hold. Auguste let him come down from that precipice, let him smother his near-sobs against Auguste’s cheek.
This time, he did not ask what Laurent wanted. He murmured soothingly, promised to take care of it, and then shifted downward to settle over Laurent’s abdomen. The crumpled fabric below Laurent’s ribs was shoved up and out of the way.
The skin of his belly was quivering, and Auguste admired the few hairs, golden and wispy, that would one day trail toward his groin. He thrusted his tongue into Laurent’s navel and felt Laurent wrench back. It was unlike a flinch against a new, bewildering touch.
“Did that feel bad?”
“Yes,” Laurent whispered. “Auguste, don’t —”
Shushing him, Auguste changed to mouthing at Laurent’s navel, gliding his tongue over it but not inside. It mollified his brother and his coiled muscles let go, softening his stomach once more to Auguste’s pawing hands.
Laurent had a svelte, almost girlish figure. Auguste knew all too well that his exquisite shape and fair beauty drew every eye in court. Although Laurent was more than capable of staving them off with his tongue alone, Auguste loathed the suitors that tried to cloy their way into his brother’s bed.
In a surge of jealousy, his fingers and teeth sunk into Laurent’s stomach. Laurent squeaked.
He could not bear it, suddenly, the thought of even servants seeing Laurent’s skin. Not like this. And if Aleron received word that Laurent, in some way, enjoyed the Vaskian women… it might suggest he was ready for a betrothal.
Unfolding from within Auguste’s mind was the knowledge he would do anything in his power to make sure that did not happen.
“No one will see you like this,” he decided. “I’ll dress you every day.”
Laurent’s stomach fell inward on a sharp inhale, but his voice was small as he complained, “But you never have time for me.”
“Little dove,” soothed Auguste. “I make time for you every day.”
“But you make me wait for you.” The complaints approached a snivel. “Sometimes for a really long time.”
“Laurent,” Auguste admonished, perhaps a little sharply. “Don’t I take care of you?”
Resting his chin on the edge of Laurent’s ribcage, he watched Laurent’s vigorous nodding. “Yes, Auguste, of course. I —” His little mouth twisted, and his little voice shook. “I love you, brother. I just miss you.”
Allayed by this earnestness, Auguste pressed a kiss to Laurent’s stomach. “I always miss you, Laurent,” he promised. “I’ll make extra time for you. For this.”
He propped up on an elbow, staring at the modest bulge that pressed against the front of Laurent’s trousers. Before he could reach down and touch, though, Laurent spoke.
“Auguste?”
“Yes, little brother?”
Laurent resumed his flustered squirming, though Auguste’s shin still inhibited his range of movement. “I thought you only like women,” he admitted. “I’m... not a woman.”
The warmth of amusement pulled at Auguste’s chest. He had bathed Laurent as a baby and toddler; was practically Laurent’s second wetnurse, at least in what ways he could be. Once Laurent could take solid foods, Auguste had always wanted to be the one to feed him. To soothe him when he cried. It had angered Aleron: “This is no way for a king to behave,” Father would say.
Auguste could have said all of that but instead he cupped Laurent’s crotch and said, “I think I learned that a long time ago.”
There was barely the suggestion of fabric against his skin, his touch was so light. No doubt unbearably so, and Laurent whined and tried to rock into it. Auguste tutted and withdrew his hand.
“But…” Laurent tried again. “You never even take pets!”
That was not true — though it happened very rarely, Auguste would take a pet when the desire to release inside someone superseded his general disinterest in men. It surprised him that Laurent, shrewd and sharp-eyed, had not noticed.
“You’re no pet,” Auguste objected instead. “You’re my brother. Do you not wish to share every part of yourself with me, and I you?”
Laurent’s agreement was whole-hearted but his voice still tight, nervous, and Auguste revised his strategy. “Touch yourself for me, then.” When Laurent didn’t obey, he specified, “Your cock, Laurent.”
Laurent’s hand settled over the front of his trousers, pitifully light. Green as he was, Laurent didn’t even rub or press down or thrust into his own touch. That plan, too, was quickly abandoned. Brushing his hand aside, Auguste palmed him the way he knew Laurent needed: firm and sure.
“You’re so wet for your big brother,” he rasped. It was impossible to tell with the dark material Laurent favoured against the black of night, but he was soaking.
Laurent squirmed, whining in protest. “I didn’t —”
“I know.” Auguste did not relish more of Laurent’s protests about pissing. “Fuck, but you’re wet like a woman.”
This time, it was Auguste’s hands that fumbled as he unlaced Laurent’s trousers. He practically shook with anticipation, and there was no ceremony in the way he shoved the material down.
Laurent’s cock was a thing of perfection. It was pretty and pink, and silky smooth. Wrapping a hand around it, both brothers moaned; Laurent from the sensation and Auguste from the sight of his fingertips easily overlapping with his thumb. Just a tiny, gorgeous thing, perfectly engulfed by Auguste’s hand. As if everything about his little brother was made for him.
“Auguste!” Laurent cried at the first ever experience of a stroke on his cock. It was barely a flicker of Auguste’s wrist, and yet Laurent was scrambling up, only now finding the strength to push himself from the ground. Auguste readjusted his own position, half sitting up so he could wrap Laurent in his arms.
“Oh, oh, please, oh,” Laurent begged nonsensically. He had never sounded so frantic with desperation, and Auguste’s own hips jerked in response.
Slender legs kicked against Auguste’s restraining shin and he relented, releasing one of Laurent’s legs from under his. Laurent took immediate advantage of his new freedom: heel digging into the ground, toes squirming in the air, knee jerking.
It was a heady juxtaposition of disappointment and exhilaration that his brother needed only a few weak tugs. This time it was a slow, languid orgasm. Auguste watched, enraptured, as beads of pre-come gradually flowed into a stream of liquid that dotted Laurent’s belly and cock and Auguste’s hand. Laurent did not clench, even when he hit his peak; rather, it was like he loosened more and more, somehow finding more length in his limbs, more earth to sink down into. His noises stretched out, too: a faltering cry heightening to a wail and tapering off to a keen.
His brother’s innocence was amplified by his obscene shamelessness. He had no shame, did not even know to have any shame. At the few pet performances he had attended, Auguste never had to tell him to close his eyes — Laurent always looked down well before any penetration. (Just another thing that aggravated Aleron about his second son, who found this childish and unseemly.)
He might not have even seen intercourse before. All he knew were the sounds of pets’ orgasms: their dramatized moans and cries, made to fill a large, crowded room. Laurent might moan as wantonly as a pet, but it was untouchably sweeter for there was nothing false or hyperbolic in it.
He was babbling about something. Auguste was slow to focus his attention on his brother, who clutched at his tunic. “Auguste, I can’t see,” he was saying. His voice trembled. “I - I can’t feel my fingers. Or toes.”
Laurent would be glad to have missed Auguste’s amused grin, had he been aware of it. “That is why we call it la petite mort,” Auguste said, burying his face in his brother’s hair, damp and fragrant with sweat. “It’ll pass, little dove, don’t worry.” He grabbed Laurent’s hands in his, rubbing sensation back into them.
Eventually, Auguste asked, “How do you feel now, brother?”
“It keeps spreading.“ There was a burst of panic in his chest, thinking Laurent meant the numbness — that seemed excessive, even for a drug-fuelled, all-consuming orgasm. Then Laurent added, “That throbbing.”.
“Spreading,” Auguste repeated. “Where?”
“Down my stomach, and…” Laurent wriggled. “Lower.”
“In your cock?” Auguste guessed.
It took Laurent a few breaths to agree, mainly because Auguste had coupled his question with the return of his hand.
Auguste released him — and it must have been torturous, three orgasms and yet he never softened. “Anywhere else?” Auguste continued further, pressing into the soft skin of his perineum (a gasp), then let his finger slide down, almost between Laurent’s ass cheeks.
For the first time, Laurent sounded almost ashamed as he admitted, “Yes, Auguste.”
“Little brother,” Auguste breathed. Just where his finger rested felt impossibly hot already, and he wanted so desperately to push upward. “Will you let me take you?”
“Yes,” Laurent agreed without hesitation. Then, “Where?”
Huffing, Auguste said, “I mean take you to bed, Laurent.” Because he could not risk being misunderstood here: "To bed you."
Laurent did not respond, but Auguste was occupied by the realisation that they did not have any oil; the women did not need it, after all. “Fuck!”
Laurent tensed at the cuss. Auguste stroked his back absent-mindedly.
“Would you —” He was filled with an urgency. “Laurent, you must tell me: if I find oil, you’ll let me take you to bed.”
“Yes,” Laurent agreed. “Everything,” he reminded him.
A march toward certain death would be less agonising than their slow walk to the tent. It was difficult for Laurent to coordinate his movements: lift one feet, step forward, plant his weight.
With arms full of his brother’s warm flesh and racing heart, Auguste’s mind drifted to chalice. Laurent would not be disoriented like this, not with a correct dose. He would be languid; he would spread out across his bed, or Auguste’s, pink-fleshed and coherent in his desires.
At last they arrived, and Auguste helped lower Laurent onto the pallet in his tent. His brother’s limbs were a sloppy sprawl, an offering Auguste could not yet feast on.
He left.
Despite having spent the evening outside, the air was a jarring chill against him. Retrieving some oil was no hardship. Though he was grateful negotiations had already ended, for he feared what he might have offered Halvik in thanks for the phial.
When he stood in front of the tent once more, Auguste wrapped his hand around the edge of the heavy fur covering the entrance. Bristles poked through his fingers, prickling at his skin. The phial was slippery against his grip, and he swallowed.
His heart was a steady thrum against his chest; a reminder. A compulsion. His muscles clenched as he drew back the fur in a slow, solemn movement. From that first step inside, the air shifted to hot weight pressing down on him. His gaze was pulled to a slender form: mussed waves of yellow hair, shirt still rucked down mid-back, one leg bent upward and another thrown askew.
The air grew heavier with each step. Falling to his knees felt like a relief, and then Auguste was lying on his side, facing Laurent’s back.
His fingers shook as he reached out: fatigue from the night’s exertions and impending sobriety as the hakesh left his body, yes, but also that near-frightful exhilaration knowing one’s desire was soon to be fulfilled.
“Fuck, Laurent.” It was crude and misplaced against the gentle glide of fingers against silk-smooth skin. He did not stop. “I’m going to fuck you.”
Laurent’s shoulder twitched under his palm. “Like… the women? Fast?”
Huffing, Auguste wondered at his brother’s ability to be insulting, even now. One of Laurent’s lifted from the mattress, barely, and flapped in vague meaning. And Auguste realised his meaning: “Rough? Hard?”
“... Yes,” Laurent said.
“No, my dove.” It was sighed against Laurent’s nape. “They want something from me.” Each syllable dragged against skin. “As quickly as I can give it to them.”
“What do you give them?”
“My seed, Laurent.” Behind the curve of his ear, now. “Children.”
Laurent’s noise came not from the tongue laving at the corner of his jaw. “Children?”
Adopting a soothing tone, Auguste said, “You’re not a woman, remember?” His hand crept over the peak of Laurent’s ribs, settled low on his belly. “You’ve nothing to fear.”
“Brother,” Laurent said. “That’s not what I —”
He fell silent, still almost to stiffness, as Auguste’s hand trailed lower.
“Tell me you want this.” Auguste’s hand was between two warm, soft thighs.
The words were repeated back in a voice soft and cracked as old, worn paper.
Yet Auguste bid him, with rising urgency, “Tell me the truth.”
“Mon frère.”
From Laurent, it was an unmistakable plea. And Auguste could never be so cruel as to leave his little brother wanting for anything.
He arranged himself: left arm looping under Laurent’s waist, hand settling on his chest, pinning his back to Auguste’s front. His other —
It was soft, there, and hot. The pressure of his finger made Laurent’s thigh twitch.
“It doesn’t hurt.” Auguste amended, “It shouldn’t hurt. You must tell me if it does, even a little.”
Laurent snapped, “I’m not a child.” It made Auguste smile. Even in childhood, Laurent had been perpetually marked by a maturity beyond his years.
Tonight was one of many firsts, but none more sacred than this. As a prince and warrior, Auguste was trained to wield swords, boar spears, bows. He had been to wars under his father’s banner. He feared neither death nor pain, and his hands did not shake to deliver either. He almost dropped the phial as he slicked his fingers now. There was one fear that plagued Auguste’s every moment, waking or otherwise. It had for many years: Laurent in pain.
When he dared that first press inside, he was surprised to find Laurent relaxed, there in his centre, despite the tension strumming through his frame.
It must be the drink, Auguste realised as he slipped already to the second joint. Here, Laurent made a noise: not pain nor protest, but a confused acknowledgment.
Laurent was achingly slow to explain the noise. In this vulnerable position, Auguste could pull out, perhaps to a taunting tip of his finger, or else curl inward until Laurent gushed. Instead, he waited. The heartbeat beneath his palm was steady, if quick.
Finally, Laurent only said: “More.”
Laurent might be drugged to relaxation, but later, as a second finger tried to join, Auguste found his brother tight. He worked meticulously against the resistance.
“Brother, brother,” Laurent breathed. Both of his hands gripped Auguste's hand over his chest, as if it were all he would allow himself. Three fingers, now. His hips jolted, his thighs clenched or knees rubbed together, his back arched or curved inward.
His body was seeking the most pleasure, Auguste realised, even if it did not know how.
When Auguste’s fingers withdrew, Laurent released a curse that belonged in a brothel. Auguste would question him about that later.
“I’m getting ready for you,” he explained against his brother’s continued protests. He slicked up his cock blindly, one-handed, and the phial tipped over. Oil gushed over his cock and hand and wrists, over Laurent’s ass and down the back of his left thigh.
It was the noise Laurent made — shocked and pleased and needy, when slippery skin allowed Auguste’s tip to breach — that would haunt him. The sensation was beyond conception, but it was that noise Auguste wanted to consume.
Auguste became unaware, for the first time, of how he intended to survive this night.
Laurent took to being fucked as he took to all tasks in life: determined, methodical, and exacting. Even through the haze of hakesh, he puzzled together, from Auguste’s noises and changing grip and thrusts, what positions brought the most pleasure to them both.
“Forward,” he would say, tilting his pelvis down toward the mattress and urging Auguste to follow. Or he would arch his lower spine just so, then seem surprised by his own keen. His left leg became entwined with Auguste’s, while his right experimented with bending, foot braced against the floor, or curling over Auguste’s thigh with toes hooked behind Auguste’s knee.
His hands, though, remained clutching Auguste’s.
Their hearts synchronised with the joining of their bodies; Auguste could feel it in the beat against his palm and the thrum of heat encircling his cock.
He realised, after some time, that Laurent had not yet come. It was in sharp contrast to before; it should surprise him.
“Laurent,” he said. “Are you in pain?” His hips slowed, but did not stop.
“No, brother,” came Laurent’s immediate response. His head tossed back, crown barely avoiding Auguste’s nose. Cascades of yellow locks obscured Auguste’s vision. “Brother, kiss me.”
It was poorly aimed, and thick with strands of Laurent’s hair trapped between them. Laurent’s hair and mouth, Auguste’s lips, were soon wet with their fervour.
Laurent’s pleasure poured directly into Auguste; almost no sound escaped the seal of their lips when he clamped up and loosened just as quickly, a whole-body surrender.
“That’s it,” Auguste murmured, or thought he did. It was indistinct between the slide of his tongue. “My sweet dove.”
“Auguste, Auguste,” Laurent said as Auguste continued to drive into him. “Please — don’t leave me.”
He shuddered with the effort to hold still. “Why would I —?” He did not bother pursuing the convoluted train of his brother’s thoughts, simply pulled Laurent closer. The curve of Laurent’s spine and the slope of his shoulders were perfectly encompassed by Auguste’s chest and arms. “Where could I go, brother?” he asked.
There was no answer. The only answer came from Auguste’s body, spilling into his little brother, filling Laurent with the most intimate part of himself.
He did not pull out; in fact, he grasped Laurent’s hips and pulled him even tighter. Laurent let out a small gasp, likely still oversensitive. He shifted them around — carefully, to keep their joining — and slipped an arm under Laurent’s neck. Laurent was half-twisted around, face tucked into Auguste's shoulder.
This was an act he had not enjoyed for some years now: Laurent had been a near-child the last time he had slipped into Auguste’s bed in search of comfort or company. Auguste fell into a familiar routine of braiding Laurent’s hair as he hummed an old Kemptian hymn. It was awkward, Laurent’s hair sticky and uncombed.
“No princess will ever come between us, mon frère,” Auguste said.
He had waited too long; Laurent must have already drifted off, for his only response was a soft, barely-there noise. But Auguste would have the morning, and every morning thereafter, to assure his brother of that.