Chapter Text
From his perched position on his bedroom window’s sill, Laurent had a clear view of Damen’s custom Cadillac—burnt orange, red stripes along the edge—drive along the end of the street, then into the driveway, yellowed lights briefly and brightly illuminating the pathway and the darkened corners of Laurent’s room.
When the car parked, Damen didn’t get out. He spent a while in there—give or take a minute, not that Laurent was counting. He was probably on his phone, Laurent thought, connected to the Internet for the first time in days. Laurent knew how obsessive Damen got about these things: detoxing every poor, unproductive habit, stretching the limits of his discipline, like five minutes on Instagram was going to undo years of hard work.
The night was quiet. The streets were even more so. That was why Laurent was still up, why he was up here specifically, reading East of Eden, one of the novels Coach had put on his summer reading list. He wasn’t reading it quickly enough, which was why he needed to read it at night, when it was silent, and his brain was filled with flat, unfiltered noise and he could concentrate.
Now the book lay on Laurent’s lap, abandoned, his sole interest on the man climbing out of his car, stretching his long limbs. The drive from Mellos was about twelve hours. Laurent knew Damen had driven the whole way down himself, with breaks every four hours. Maybe three, depending how extensive Makedon’s training had been. One of Damen’s favourite things in the whole world was driving. He didn’t get to do it enough, so when he had the chance to drive for twelve hours uninterrupted, he’d do it, happily.
Laurent continued watching him, palms sweaty, heart slowly coming alive under his t-shirt, which was becoming damp at the armpits. It was strange to feel his body kickstart itself like this, like it was getting out of a rut. But it was also as unsurprising as the sky being blue; Damen had made him feel this way since he was thirteen.
Damen’s silhouette was the same as it always was: tall, exceedingly so, broad shoulders, long legs, thick biceps, head covered with a cap. The cap covered his eyes, but didn’t obscure the direction his head turned—which was right up, towards Laurent’s bedroom window.
Damen held his gaze for a few beats—and despite Laurent knowing all he could see from here was his shadow, his body still jerked in anticipation—before he turned back to his house, opening and closing the door behind him.
Laurent was up on his feet in an instant, heart racing. He hadn’t known Damen was going to be back tonight; he was conscious of how dishevelled he looked, his hair unwashed, and his clothes covered in splatters of cooking oil.
But Damen was back, and he wanted Laurent—why else would he look up like that, when he could have easily walked back into his house without even thinking of him?
Laurent changed his shirt, put on the cologne Damen liked on him, and brushed his hair, all as fast as he could. Damen locked the door when he didn’t come down quickly enough.
He grabbed his phone—of course he did—and sprinted down the stairs as quietly as he could, jumping two steps down at a time. The house was quiet, dark, and Laurent unlocked the alfresco sliding door, jogging out into the backyard, and swinging open the shared gate that took him through to Damen’s backyard. Damen’s backyard was dark too, and Laurent could feel the overgrown grass tickling his ankles, unkempt over the weeks Damen was away.
He mentally sighed in relief when Damen’s alfresco door opened—unlocked, like he knew (and hoped) it would be.
Unlike their house, Damen’s house was lit. The joined living and kitchen area, decked in neutral sofas, oak tables, and shiny, marble tiles, gleamed under the spotlights. Upstairs, Laurent heard footsteps: loud, stomping ones, pacing up and down.
Laurent bit his lip and went up, his bare feet, slow, unhurried, steady—completely polar to how he felt internally.
Damen’s bedroom door—the last one in the hallway—was wide open. It seemed like it should have been impossible, but Laurent’s heartbeat was still climbing, so fast he felt like he was losing his breath.
Damen stood tall in his room, travel bag open by his closet, the stupid cap still on his head.
Damen looked him up and down, and then scoffed. “Jesus. You’re really desperate, aren’t you?”
Laurent ignored the dig. He looked Damen up and down too: he was tanner than he was before he left, after hours and hours in the sun, and he seemed more muscled as well, his shirt stretched so tightly across his chest, Laurent could make out his nipples, pebbled and tight.
“I thought you weren’t coming back for another three days.”
Damen shrugged. “Didn’t feel like staying any longer.”
“Why? Did Makedon give you a hard time?”
“Fucking hell, lay off, will you Laurent? I’ve been back for literally five minutes.”
Laurent flushed. “Sorry.”
Damen gave him another flinty-eyed, sweeping gaze. Then he sighed and took off his cap.
Laurent couldn’t stop his surprised laugh in time. “You shaved all your hair off at camp?”
Damen glared. “A: don’t say camp like that, Laurent, Jesus, you make it sound like we’re all fucking twelve-year-olds running through the fucking woods. And B: it’s a buzz cut, I’m not fucking bald. All the guys did it at training, like a hazing thing.”
“Hmm,” Laurent said, eyeing the bristle on Damen’s scalp. The cut made him seem more severe, and pronounced the cut of his eyebrows, his jaw. It made his eyes so cold, and Laurent shivered unintentionally at all the ice in them. “I bet Nikandros looks terrible.”
Damen’s mouth quirked. It was the closest thing to a smile he had produced.
But then he was all back to business, face becoming stoic and unmovable. “Anyway, it’s late. I’m tired. And I’m definitely not in the mood for your shit, so you can fuck off now.”
Laurent didn’t say anything, and after a few seconds, Damen threw himself on his bed, still in his clothes, a thick, muscled forearm flung across his eyes.
Laurent bit his upper lip. “Do you really want me to go?”
Damen grunted a non-answer, and Laurent smiled. He made his way over to the bed, carefully settling himself on top of Damen’s thighs, which twitched under him.
Damen removed his arm to glare at him, a proper one this time, full of fire and fury, “What the fuck?”
Laurent pressed his palms flat across Damen’s chest. His heart was racing, as fast as Laurent’s, and that made Laurent smile wider. It was always nice to remember Damen was human, underneath all his angry macho.
“You don’t want to tell me about how training was?”
“At three in the morning? After spending all day driving? Hard pass.”
Laurent’s palms slid across Damen’s chest again, settling against the curve of Damen’s neck, thumbs passing over his jaw.
“You seem stressed.”
Damen’s eyebrows furrowed. “You spent a few sessions with a quack and now you think you’re qualified to psychoanalyse me?”
Laurent pulled back, hurt for the first time. “What’s your deal? Was cam—training really that bad?”
Maybe he had misjudged Damen’s earlier look. Maybe he’d heard a squirrel up on Laurent’s roof, and that’s why he had looked over. And maybe he had left his door unlocked because he was simply forgetful.
He had spent the last two weeks waiting for Damen to come back, yearning for his company, but now, all that excitement, build-up, fizzled out, and there was only a cold, hard lump forming in his stomach.
Damen sighed, a long, deep sound; Laurent could see his ribcage expand and contract with it.
And then there were large, familiar hands settling on his hips, thumbs digging into his waist. “Hey,” Damen said quietly, all—well, most—of the animosity dripping off his face. “I’m sorry. That was a shit thing to say. I didn’t mean it.”
“I know.” Laurent sighed. “It’s okay.”
Damen sighed again. He didn’t quite meet Laurent’s eyes as he said, “You were right. Training was a complete waste of time and it was shit from start to finish. The fact that Makedon was the best part of it should tell you everything.”
Laurent snorted at the quip. “That sucks. I’m sorry.” He pressed close again, hands cupping the back of Damen’s neck. “But I’m also glad you’re here.”
Damen didn’t say anything to that, except he shifted to accommodate Laurent’s weight on his lap, until he was almost horizontal.
“You’re not going to say it back?” Laurent said. “I missed you, you know.”
“Shut the fuck up, Jesus.”
Laurent laughed, though his heart twisted a little, even as he leant forward and kissed Damen, finally, after so long.
Damen’s lips were slightly chapped, but his mouth tasted clean, like mint, and Laurent’s heart twisted further, thinking of Damen in that car, chewing gum so he would be fresh for Laurent in this exact moment.
Damen opened his mouth wider, and Laurent moaned, shifting closer. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands; he wanted to touch Damen everywhere, and his brain was buzzing, overwhelmed with Damen’s scent, the lingering pockets of his leather-scented cologne, the detergent on his clothes.
Damen, however, didn’t seem to have any problem about where to touch Laurent; he pushed his hands into Laurent’s shorts, inside his underwear, nails digging into the bare meat of Laurent’s ass.
“Yes.” Laurent gasped into Damen’s mouth. "I missed this. Didn’t you?”
“God, will you just shut up?”
“Mmm, yes, okay. Sorry.”
“Don’t—” Damen grunted. “Here.”
Damen squeezed him again, and the spike of pain-pleasure surged through Laurent’s veins. Damen’s kisses were painful, too: hard and biting, until Laurent could feel his bottom lip swelling.
Laurent only wished he could grip Damen’s hair; the buzz was ticklish under his palms. Instead, he dug his own nails into Damen’s nape, and Damen moaned, turning them over, until Laurent was under him, legs wrapped around his waist—a move he knew Damen loved, because it slotted their groins together perfectly.
And he was right, because the noise Damen made was euphoric: a low, long-drawn moan that set Laurent’s chest ablaze.
Damen broke the kiss with a wet suck—a noise which should have been exceptionally gross, but wasn’t, not when Laurent was being crushed under all that magnificent weight and muscle.
Damen cupped his face, thumbs running over Laurent’s cheekbone. Everything stilled in the room, their previous frenzy mellowing out, growing comfortable and quiet.
Laurent flushed under Damen’s gaze. He would never admit it, but this was what he missed most when Damen was away: these rare, soft moments, where Damen looked at him like he was the only person in the world. Nobody ever looked at Laurent, not properly, and not like this. With Damen, he always felt seen. Damen knew him, more than anyone else, knew his soul and heart, and everything in between.
Laurent relaxed into the bedsheets, kissing Damen’s palm. Damen’s eyes darkened; he kissed Laurent’s neck, right over his pulse, and then lower, over his collarbone, the dip of his chest.
“Should I—”
“Shhh.” Damen pushed up his shirt, bunching it up under his armpits. His mouth latched onto Laurent’s nipples, and Laurent gasped, hands twisting into Damen’s shoulders, writhing uncontrollably.
“I’ve barely touched you.” Damen was amused, his lips curving into Laurent’s skin.
“Two weeks,” Laurent muttered.
“Yeah? Don’t pretend like you haven’t been touching yourself every moment.” When Laurent turned red, Damen grinned ferally. “See, I know you. Were you thinking of me while you did it? Hmm?”
Laurent squirmed. “Damen, please.”
Damen’s chuckle was dark. The kissing continued, down Laurent’s sternum, his stomach, and then right over his waistband.
“Please,” Laurent said again.
Mercifully, Damen listened, and pulled down his shorts and underwear down, all at once. It got stuck around one of Laurent’s ankles, but neither of them cared.
“You get so wet,” Damen murmured, like he was awed by the fact.
Laurent was positive he was turning an ugly, lobster-red, and he bucked when Damen gripped his cock. But he completely lost it when Damen wrapped his mouth around the head without any preamble.
It was embarrassing how quickly Laurent was losing control. His leg spasmed against Damen’s hip, until Damen proved how good he was at multitasking by throwing it over his shoulder, which forced Laurent’s cock deeper into his mouth. He brushed his thumb over Laurent’s hole.
God, Laurent really, really loved this man.
Damen sucked leisurely, like they had all the time in the world, his thumb breaching Laurent. It was dry, but they both knew how much Laurent loved the painful stretch, the initial press.
Laurent’s head was vibrating in pleasure. His stomach was clenching and unclenching; he was going to come soon, and then Damen would really lose it, because he liked fucking into Laurent when he was loose and pliant. The buzzing around his head was growing, and Laurent was shaking, completely—
“Shit.”
Damen pulled away, just at the crest of Laurent’s orgasm.
“Nooo,” Laurent groaned. “Damen, please, I’m—”
“Wait. Shut up. Shit.”
“What?” Laurent propped himself up on his elbows, because he was just starting to realise Damen sounded panicked, not turned on. And there was a buzzing still in his head—wait, no, next to it; Laurent turned, to where Damen’s phone was on the nightstand, and saw Jokaste’s name flash across the screen.
He frowned. “Why is she calling you?”
Damen snatched the phone, silencing it. “Shit.”
“Why is she calling you, Damen?”
Damen exhaled sharply. He ran his hands through his hair, and then seemed to remember there wasn’t much of it left, and his hand fell awkwardly in his lap, where his jeans were stretched and tented.
“Look,” he said. “I completely forgot… but, uh, Jokaste and I… We got back together last week.”
Laurent shot up. “What?”
“Look—”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Damen?” Laurent snapped. He didn’t know what to focus on: the infuriating expression on Damen’s face, his almost-orgasm, his half-naked state, the fact that Damen was back with his fucking— “What the fuck is wrong with you? How could you forget that? How could you not tell me—and, and, and, you called me over to—”
“Jesus, calm down, all right?” Damen shifted on his knees, looking both morose and furious. “If anything, you should take it as a compliment I forgot about her the moment I saw you—”
“What is wrong with you? Who the fuck in their right mind would take that as a compliment?” Laurent hands were shaking with—anger, distraught, frustration—as he pulled up his underwear and shorts. The worst part was that his treacherous heart was taking it as a compliment. “Why did you even get back together with her? I thought her sleeping with Kastor—your brother, by the way, in case you fucking forgot—was the last straw.”
Damen rolled his eyes, and now he was really starting to look annoyed, eyebrows furrowed, jaw clenched. “That was months ago. And they didn’t sleep together; he just went down on her.” He paused. “Actually, you know what, this works in my favour, since I just went down on you… so it’s kind of like tit for tat. Guilt absolved.”
Laurent’s mouth dropped. He stood, whirling on Damen. “Oh my fucking god, Damen. What is wrong with you?”
“How many fucking times are you going to ask me that?”
“How can you sit there and fucking act like you’ve done nothing wrong?” Laurent cried. “I’ve been fucking twiddling my thumbs, waiting for you, and, and, and last week. You got back with her last week—you couldn’t have told me?”
“I deleted your number after she called and—”
“Oh my god!” Laurent pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Oh my god. Oh my god. That’s why you’re back early, isn’t it? To see her, before she goes on her retreat?”
And here it was: at three-thirty on a Wednesday morning, Damen destroying his entire world and heart with a few simple sentences, in a span of five minutes. This was record-breaking, actually, even for them.
“Look, Laurent.” The sound of rustling sheets, and then Damen’s hand on his elbow, coaxing his hands down. Laurent didn’t budge. “She’s my girlfriend, all right? No matter how many times we break up, she’s still mine. You’re fun, but we’re not. You know, together.”
Scratch that—Laurent’s world was crumbling down now, in this exact moment.
He knew all of this, of course, what Damen was saying. They’d had this conversation, many, many times. Damen didn’t want him like that—something he had repeated several times. And for good reasons, unfortunately. Laurent knew they were good reasons, but…
“You’re such a jerk,” Laurent choked out. He wasn’t crying. He wouldn’t dare, not in front of Damen, who told him to shut the fuck up whenever he mentioned any kind of emotion—or worse—actually showed said emotions.
He put his hands away, glaring up at Damen so he could see how angry Laurent was. It had the added bonus of showing his dry eyes, too. “Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? How can you be like this?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I’m the fucking worst. You’ve only told me a million times.”
“Well, look around you, you fucking asshole.”
Damen’s hand went to his head again, before he dropped it in frustration when he couldn’t grip anything. “It’s late, Laurent. I need to get to bed.” He hesitated. “And call back Jokaste.”
Laurent shoved his chest. It was infuriating that Damen didn’t even move. “God, I fucking hate you.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’ve said that a million times.”
“Oh, fuck you.” Laurent sneered. “Do me a favour and ask her how Kastor’s dick was. I might give it a try, too.”
Damen’s expression shuttered in anger, his mouth puckering into a hard line. Laurent walked away, heartbroken, but at least satisfied with the fact that he’d gotten in the last word.
*
Coach was a creature of habit and discipline. You had to be, to have his level of success: orphan kid to teen dad to beloved, renowned football superstar to now—a coach with three trophies under his belt (this was, of course, excluding the four he’d won as captain, something Coach reminded everyone, frequently).
Everyone wanted to be on Coach’s team. Everyone wanted Coach’s attention. Everyone loved Coach. Everyone wanted to be Coach. And Coach knew it, but he wasn’t big-headed, or arrogant at all. In fact, Laurent felt the more success Coach had, the more mellow the man became, like all the happiness ballooning inside him was keeping him airy and light.
Anyway, all this meant was that Marlas was Coach’s city, and since Marlas was the football capital of Delpha, Delpha was also his country. In short: Coach ruled this part of the continent, and everyone knew it.
Which also meant, despite a hellish night of barely any sleep, catching up on reading, Laurent had to wake up on Friday morning incredibly early to make Coach’s breakfast.
Coach woke up everyday at five, sharp, even in the dead of winter, when frost took over the yards, for his hour-long workout in the morning (which was different to his hour-long workout in the afternoon). Luckily, it wasn’t winter now, but it was still unbearable to wake up exactly fifteen minutes before Coach’s workout finished to make sure he could eat on time. As much as Coach (and Damen) tried to train him, Laurent was not a morning person, in any shape or form.
Coach always ate the same thing in the morning: five egg whites, with two cups of spinach, a half-cup of sliced tomatoes and a dash—the dash was always emphasised—of low-fat cheese. For lunch, it was roast chicken breast and vegetables. Dinner was always a bit more lenient: Coach encouraged Laurent to be more “adventurous” with his cooking at night, so Laurent tried his best to keep meals interesting.
As Coach put it, cooking for someone was one of the greatest signs of love. It was how Hennike had shown her love for Coach, when they’d first met, and now Laurent was taking care of him the same way in her absence.
Coach came out of the shower, white fluffy towel around his neck, as Laurent was plating up—exactly on time, as always.
He beamed when he saw Laurent. Coach had turned fifty this summer, and the only notable difference in his appearance were the creases by his eyes—the same shade of blue as Laurent’s; the only physicality they shared. They used to be the same height, until a few months ago, but now Laurent stood an inch-and-a-half taller. (And yes—that half counted, no matter how much Damen laughed whenever Laurent brought it up).
“Good morning!” Coach said.
“Is it?” Laurent muttered, and then instantly regretted it, because he knew what was coming now.
“What? Of course it is!” Coach frowned, and then peered at him with ground-shaking intensity. “Why wouldn’t it be? What’s wrong? I told you not to have anything sweet after seven, all it does is keep you up at night and increases your—”
“Breathe, Coach,” Laurent said. “I just had a shit night’s sleep. You know, ‘cause I was up all night doing your reading.”
“Why were you reading so late?”
“Because… I love it?”
Coach grinned and clapped him on the back. “Good man. Remember what I say—an enriched mind is…”
“The only kind worth having,” Laurent finished dutifully, handing Coach his plate.
Coach was too exuberant for six in the morning, but then again, he was mostly always like this. Before The Auguste Incident, he had been even more chipper; this was Coach dialled down.
“This is excellent, thank you,” Coach said, at the dining table.
“Welcome,” Laurent said, amused, because he hadn’t even taken a bite. He slid onto the seat opposite, nursing a cup of black coffee—the only kind of breakfast he could stomach so early.
“Listen,” Coach said, halfway through his meal, “I was thinking for tonight, we could invite Damen over as well. I know that kid’s not been eating right since he got back—I saw him bring in a box of beef jerky in the other day and nothing else.”
“Coach, no!” Laurent groaned, ignoring the involuntary lurch his heart gave. “It’s family only tonight.”
Coach seemed amused. “Makedon’s coming tonight.”
“Yeah, well, Makedon is family.”
“Really?” Coach’s eyebrows rose. “You think of him as family?”
“I guess? He’s like the big, weird uncle you invite to all your family events because he’s sort of funny and really rich.”
“Big, weird uncle,” Coach repeated, like he had never heard the words before. “Sort of funny? Really rich?”
“I don’t want Damen here. He’s weird—and not in the endearing way Makedon is. And, and, I don’t have enough prep for four people, and you know how much he eats. I’d have to make a whole other—”
“Oh, Laurent, it’ll be fine. I’ll help out, you know I will. Besides, I already invited him, and he said yes.”
Laurent cupped his forehead. “Oh, Coach.”
Coach sipped his coffee. “Seven sharp.”
*
Coach loved hosting. He loved people, and he loved celebrating, literally anything he could. They’d invited the whole neighbourhood over when Laurent lost his first tooth. Laurent still remembered shovelling cake in his mouth in the corner of the kitchen as Coach proudly showed off his tooth to everyone to a chorus of oohs and ahhs.
If anyone needed commemorating, or somebody’s achievement needed spotlighting, then Coach was all over it—and even more so when it had something to do with Laurent.
Case in point: tonight’s dinner was about Laurent starting the second semester of his final year at the MBA—the Marlas Ballet Academy, something nobody but Coach cared about. For Laurent, it was an embarrassing blip: at nineteen, he should have been starting his second year, not semester, at a different ballet school, one better equipped to train him as he transitioned into more adult roles. It didn't help that ballet was something no one appreciated down here, in the heart of one of the most fanatic football towns. No one really gave a shit when Laurent nailed his fouettés, but when Damen scored four touchdowns in one game, the entire city got a public holiday.
Besides, with Damen, Makedon and Coach in the room, the conversation would definitely not be on ballet for more than four seconds, if that. If Laurent were a betting man, he’d say Makedon would bring up the Ios Lion’s new running back within twelve minutes, and that would dictate the topic of conversation for the rest of the night.
At least Coach was keeping to his promise and actually helping out. He’d come back from his second workout, cheerful and sweaty, and had, for once, sat back and listened attentively to all of Laurent’s instructions.
“Looks good, kid,” Coach said, ruffling his hair, before pulling back with a face. “You should get into the shower, pronto.”
Laurent swatted him away. “I will, obviously. I just need to set the—”
“Seven sharp,” Coach said, and Laurent sighed, trying not to glance out the window, to his and Damen’s shared fence. He really didn’t want to see him—tonight, or ever—but how could he explain that to Coach?
Coach didn’t believe in secrets. He was open about everything with Laurent (maybe too open; Laurent still shuddered every time he remembered Coach’s “experimenting” phase with Hennike. A son had no business knowing his parents had had threesomes regularly at one point in their marriage).
Anyway, Coach was always truthful to him, so Laurent offered the same courtesy. He told Coach everything—except for, well, Damen. That was a big secret. That was the secret.
Coach was protective over Damen. He was even more so with Laurent. If he knew that his son and his protégée were… whatever they were, he’d blow up. He’d probably kill Damen, or worse, ship him off to a D-grade team, like the Patran Pigeons. And as for Laurent… well, he’d probably never see sunlight again.
And besides, that was also one of the major conditions of their… whatever they were. Damen and he had agreed from the very beginning that under no circumstances could Coach know about them. And then Damen had changed that rule so absolutely no one could know about them. In fact, most people didn’t even know Damen and he talked. Once, at Tuesday Lunch, Damen had asked him if the burgers had lamb or beef in them, and the whole table had stopped.
So… yeah, Laurent didn’t want Damen here tonight. He especially didn’t want Damen here after last week’s humiliation.
And so, the original dilemma: what could he tell Coach? Coach knew Laurent and Damen got along okay, that sometimes Laurent hung out at Damen’s house, but they had never given anyone any indication that there were more than that. Sometimes, they went weeks without talking to each other. Other times, Damen barely acknowledged him, in Coach’s presence or otherwise.
Laurent had just finished setting the table when the doorbell rang. He sighed, before calling out: “Coach, Makedon’s early!”
Laurent heard Coach hurtling down the stairs—he was a big guy who never could keep himself completely quiet—and then the sound of the door opening, and Makedon’s loud booming voice: “Ha ha! Aleron, always good to see you!”
Aleron muttered something in response, which earned another boisterous “Ha ha!” and then they were both clambering into the living and dining area.
“Ah, there he is.” Makedon beamed. “My favourite Revere.”
Laurent smiled. “Hey Mak. How’s Ios been?”
“Amazing. Mark my words: I’m going to take you down there one of these summers.”
Coach and Laurent both averted their eyes at that. Laurent’s smile dropped, and he quickly began refolding the cloth napkins.
Makedon meant well. He always did. He was Coach’s oldest, best friend. They’d lived in Ios together, playing for the Lions, and had won the Super Bowl back in the day. It was one of their most favourite topics to discuss: once Makedon had brought it up right before his appendicitis operation, in case it was the last thing he ever said.
Coach and Makedon were cut from the same cloth, brothers-in-arms, platonic soulmates, all that jazz. They even sort of looked the same: tall, dark hair, wide-set shoulders, and intimidating scowls, despite their jubilant natures.
Makedon had been a fixture in Laurent and Auguste’s childhood. Some of Laurent’s earliest memories were with Makedon, including one of his happiest: when he, Makedon, Coach and Auguste had gone to the beach and spent the whole day trialling different flavours of ice-cream. Makedon had declared peanut butter and butterscotch as the winner.
Makedon was already pouring himself a drink, bumping his shoulders with Laurent. “Ah, leave that, kid. You’re not dining with the President here.”
Laurent put down the napkins. “Sorry.”
“Smells great in here, by the way. I’ve been looking forward to this since I got Al’s call.”
“Don’t call me Al,” Coach called.
Laurent sat himself down on the dining table, casting nervous glances to the yard. Coach had turned on all the lights, so Damen didn’t need to walk in the dark for a whole thirty seconds. He was still kind of wishing Damen would call up and say he had plans or that he was sick or dying. Really, any of those scenarios were preferable. Laurent was partial to the dying one.
Unfortunately, Laurent’s luck was non-existent. Coach was extremely strict with schedules and timing—something he had drilled into each and every Football Guy since he had started coaching. It was why Damen was so obsessive over his own routine, down to the last millisecond.
So, it was an incredible disappointment to see Damen hop over the fence—because he was a douche and couldn’t just open the latch on the gate—and stroll his way over to the patio, sliding open the alfresco door. Again, because he was a douche who thought he was above using front doors.
“Hey Coach, Makedon!” Damen said to a chorus of cheers.
Laurent checked his watch—6:58 pm—and rolled his eyes.
Damen didn’t say anything to him; all he got was a douchey up-nod. God, Laurent really, really hated this man.
Damen started pouring himself a drink—straight whiskey, like he was a proper fucking adult, and not a twenty-five-year-old cosplaying as one—and sat himself across Laurent, at the head of the table.
He was all dressed up tonight, too, like they were going to be dining with the President. He was wearing a proper white button down, and tan chinos—both of which were actually ironed. The only thing that really showed off what an asshole he was was his horrible, uneven buzz cut, his tattoos, and the silver chain on his neck, which was prominently on display because he hadn’t buttoned his shirt up all the way.
Coach placed a hand on Damen’s shoulder. “Nice haircut, son.”
And that really annoyed Laurent. It was infuriating that he was kid, and Damen got to be son. In fact, all the Football Guys were “son”—which only insulted Laurent further.
Damen grinned. “Thanks, man. Me and the guys did this kind of hazing—”
“I thought you didn’t drink on weekdays,” Laurent said, eyeing the amber drink meaningfully.
Damen rolled his eyes. “Yeah, unless I’m celebrating a worthwhile cause.” He lifted his drink in a toast, winking. “And trust me, pretty boy, you are a hundred percent worth celebrating.”
“Ugh, I’m going to be sick,” Laurent muttered.
“Ha ha!” Makedon said, coming up and placing his hand on Damen’s other shoulder. “You should have seen this one at training. Smooth-talked everyone and managed to get voted in as captain, even with Green there, can you believe it?”
“Excellent, that’s amazing.” Coach grinned. “Bet you showed all those fancy jackasses how we get it done in Marlas, right?”
“Yeah, he managed to show everyone we flake on important commitments,” Laurent said. “He left early, you know that, right?”
Damen glared at him as Coach frowned. Makedon cleared his throat. “Well, Damen had a good reason.”
“Oh, yeah,” Laurent muttered. “I believe his exact words were “Not feeling it”. Great reason, Damen.”
“Well,” Makedon hedged, casting a furtive glance between them. "Actually, he said he had a—”
“Don’t you have dinner to serve, Revere?” Damen cut in.
“Oh, fuck off, I’m not your fucking maid, Vallis.”
“Boys, boys!” Coach clapped his hands together. “Alright, okay. Obviously, there’s some tension here, so why don’t we just hash it out before we fill up on Laurent's amazing lasagne?”
“No thanks,” Laurent muttered, at the same time Damen perked up and said, “You made lasagne?”
“Yes, yes, Hennike’s famous four-cheese one,” Coach said. “So come on boys, let’s not taint our lasagne-eating experience with all this negative energy.”
Damen raised his eyebrows and swept his hands. “After you, Revere.”
“Oh, fuck—”
“Laurent!” Coach snapped. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, clearly, you’re the more hostile one—”
“I am not—”
“—So why don’t you spell out for us exactly what your problem with Damen is and why you didn’t want him to come tonight?”
“You didn’t want me to come tonight?” Damen actually looked hurt, which must have been some kind of optical illusion, because Damen didn’t have feelings. Unless it was anger. He got angry a lot. It couldn’t be good for his blood pressure.
“No, I didn’t,” Laurent said. “Damen, that can’t be surprising given what happened last week—” He stopped himself, suddenly aware of who, exactly, he was saying this in front of.
And, good, okay, now Damen was angry. His chest was getting red, and his jaw was so tight, his teeth were grinding together, the clink of them unnerving.
Shit, shit, shit, Laurent thought. The Rule. The one simple bloody Rule.
“Okay, great,” Coach said, oblivious. “What happened last week?”
“Er,” Laurent said, eyes wide. “I…”
“I told Laurent I thought Aldéric was overrated,” Damen said, mouth still furrowed.
Silence.
“Oh. I see…” Coach said, after a few second, when Damen didn’t elaborate. “That’s it?”
Laurent sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead. He was honestly grateful for Damen’s lie; it was easy enough to go with. “He’s my favourite dancer, Coach. I mean, he perfected the—”
“Yes, yes, Laurent, I know. Perfected the penché, you’ve only said it a million times.” Before Laurent could respond, Coach turned to Damen again. “So, Damen, why don’t you apologise to Laurent, and Laurent, why don’t you put that big, wonderful heart of yours to use and forgive Damen?”
There was a beat, and Laurent had a visceral vision of Damen beating him to death because he was absolutely livid.
“I’m sorry, Laurent.” Damen said it so tightly, the syllables came out all jagged.
“Okay.” Laurent said, mostly because he knew it would annoy the hell out of Damen.
And he was right: Damen’s face crumpled in frustration, so Laurent smiled sweetly at him. Batted his eyelashes for good measure.
The red was now creeping up to Damen’s forehead.
“Excellent work, boys,” Coach said.
Makedon nodded sagely. “Yes, yes, well done to both of you.”
Laurent sighed. “I’ll get dinner.”
Which actually turned out fine once Laurent calmed down in the kitchen by smashing a whole packet of spaghetti against the wall.
The first few minutes were silent. The good kind, though, as everyone dug in enthusiastically. Laurent had made two and a half trays of lasagne. One for Damen, one for Makedon and Coach, and the half tray for Laurent, without cheese or meat.
And despite himself, Laurent could only watch Damen, his easy smile as he spoke with Coach and Makedon (about the Lion’s running back, as Laurent had predicted), and the way he unreservedly shovelled lasagne in his mouth. Unlike his idiotic comment last week, this was a real compliment, because everyone (well, Coach and Makedon) knew how strict Damen was with his diet, which flew out of the window whenever Laurent cooked something. Sometimes, he’d pop his head over the fence and ask Laurent if he was cooking anything tonight. Well—he’d ask Coach, but whatever.
Ugh. Watching Damen was making Laurent feel soft, so he kept his head down and listened half-heartedly to what everyone was saying.
Then Makedon said, “So, Laurent, how’s your summer been?”
“Fine,” Laurent said. “Uneventful.”
“Really? Nothing exciting to report?”
Laurent cast Coach a quick glance, but his father was pretending to be interested in the tabletop. “Well. Um. I’ve mostly just been relaxing. And Coach has me reading a bunch so that’s been… great.”
“Really?” Makedon turned to Coach. “You’re making him read during his time off?”
“Well, making me implies force but it’s really—”
“It’s important Laurent receives a well-rounded education. It was one of Hennike’s last wishes he attend a great university. And well, that didn’t happen, as you can see.”
Laurent flushed and kept his eyes down.
“Aleron!” Makedon hissed.
“What? I didn’t mean anything by that, Laurent knows that, don’t you, kid?”
“Yep, I—”
“But let’s face it, you don’t need an education to be a ballet dancer, and even if you did, Vannes would do a terrible job at that. She barely advocated for Laurent when he was trying out for that scholarship. Right, kid?”
“Well, she—”
“And on top of all that—Laurent didn’t even finish high school.”
An incredibly awkward pause as everyone mulled over the why, but Coach, obviously tipsy, continued on: “Can you believe the kid hadn’t even picked up a Hemingway until a week ago? And he’s slugging through it, so clearly I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
Laurent hoped an earthquake would strike. Not a big one. Just one that could occur in this room, maybe shake up the table enough so everyone would shut up.
Although it was only Coach talking now. “And, kid, I don’t mean this as an insult, you know I don’t, but you have been slacking a little, lately, haven’t you? I mean you’ve stopped going to the gym with me.”
“Well, that’s because—”
“And yes, I know you’re a dancer and vegan, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re completely healthy, you know. So if I can provide a few opportunities for Laurent to really practice discipline and self-control, then I’ve done my job as a father. Correct?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“And besides, Laurent, you shouldn’t—”
Gripping Coach’s wrist in a deathly hold, Makedon cut him off. “Laurent, thank you for such an excellent meal. Honestly, every time I eat here, the food just gets better and better.”
Laurent smiled weakly. “Thanks, Makedon.”
“Oh, yes, Laurent, excellent, excellent. Then again, all of Hennike’s recipes are,” Coach said. He nodded to her cookbook, which was propped on display on the kitchen island: Recipes For (and From) a Warm Heart. “All her recipes are practically idiot-proof.”
Makedon ignored the last statement and smiled encouragingly at Laurent. “Seriously, Laurent, I tell all my friends about your cooking. Remember those hazelnut cookies you baked me? Malvin still talks about them to this day and—”
“Oh ho!” Coach said, eyes wide. “You never told me this! That’s fantastic, Laurent. Honestly, I think we need to capitalise on this. Let’s be more productive, hmm? Maybe we can get you to start catering for a few guys down at the—”
“Jesus, Coach,” Damen said, staring him down in astonishment. “He only has the same twenty-four hours as the rest of us.”
“Damen!” Laurent hissed.
“No, seriously, what?” Damen shot him a glare, and then fixed those steely eyes on Coach. “He’s training to be a full-time professional dancer—you left that part out, by the way—he works part-time at the store, he works out like crazy because he has to for his career, he cooks all your meals, and ours, and now he’s reading during what little free time he has. What more do you want him to do?”
Coach was looking at Damen like he was seeing him for the first time. Makedon, too—although he recovered quicker. He cleared his throat. “Look, Aleron, what I think Damen is trying to say is maybe, just maybe, you push Laurent a little too hard.”
“Exactly.”
“No!” Laurent snapped. “Excuse me, can I have a say in this? Coach—” He turned imploringly to his father. “You push me exactly as you should. You’re right, I need to learn to be more disciplined, and I’m grateful for everything you do for me. And you two—” He turned to Makedon and Damen, glaring. “Let me be very clear: this house isn’t under some kind of dictatorship. Coach listens to me. And if there’s something I don’t want to do—or something I do want to do—he lets me, no questions asked. Because he trusts me, the same way I trust him.”
“Oh, really?” Damen suddenly seemed incredibly interested. He crossed his arms on the table and gave Laurent a deceptively sweet smile—the same kind Laurent had given him earlier. “So you're telling me there's nothing you want to do that Coach is keeping you from doing?”
Everyone turned to Laurent now, who could feel himself stilling and blushing.
“Laurent?” Coach said, when the pause grew too long and stilted. “Is there something?”
“No!” Laurent said. “What would I want? There's nothing.”
“Really? Because—”
"I said there’s nothing!” Laurent stood. “I’m going to go get dessert.”
“I’ll come help,” Damen said.
“No, that’s…” Laurent didn’t bother finishing his sentence; he just sighed when Damen followed, that disgusting smirk plastered on his face.
Alone in the kitchen with Damen, Laurent felt even more on edge. He went to the fridge to bring out the tiramisu.
“Nice,” Damen said, leaning against the counter and grabbing one of the cups.
“They’re not—whatever,” Laurent muttered as Damen began digging in, half-crazed, like he hadn’t just cleaned an entire tray of lasagne thirty seconds ago.
“Shit, these are good,” Damen said, before he looked up, amused. “So… did you happen to make all my favourites tonight or…”
“Dream on, idiot.” Laurent scoffed. “I didn’t even want you here tonight.”
“Uh huh.”
Laurent whirled on him. “Also, what the fuck is your problem? Why do you always have to needle Coach? It’s not funny.”
“Hey,” Damen said, pointing his spoon at him. “I wasn’t trying to be fucking funny. I was standing up for you, but I can see that was fucking pointless since it went right over your head.”
“Oh, please, Damen. Don’t act like anything you’ve done has ever been for my benefit. You just like picking fights with Coach because you know it bothers me.”
“Oh my god.” Damen threw his hands up. “Are you still seriously that mad over last week? Is that why you’re being such a little bitch? Jesus, get over it, it was a bajillion years ago.”
“Okay, first of all, if anyone’s being a little bitch, it’s you. Secondly, it wasn’t a bajillion years ago, it was literally last week. And thirdly, this isn’t about that, it’s about how you always have to… to…” Laurent exhaled, hands flat on the countertop. “Ugh, whatever. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Coach might hear.”
That, at least, seemed to snap Damen out of his hostility. Well, some of it.
“And for god’s sake,” Laurent snapped. “Stop eating! I only have so many cups left.”
He grabbed the rest from Damen’s hands—he’d already polished off two—and marched off into dining room.
He was pretty sure Damen muttered something unsavoury under his breath as he followed, but luckily for him, Laurent was above such pettiness.
Also, he had his hands full.
*
When the evening died down, Laurent was back in his bedroom, reading For Whom The Bells Toll. Coach was right; he really was slugging through it. But he liked Hemingway more than Steinbeck at least.
Finally, Coach came up, leaning against his doorframe. Laurent could already tell where the conversation was going to go based on his face.
Coach’s eyes flicked to the book and then to his face. “You know, if you don’t want to read, Laurent…”
“Ugh, Coach, no.” Laurent shook his head. “I don’t mind. And it’s not like this is bad for me. I mean, reading more is a good thing.”
Coach smiled softly, looking relieved. “Yes, it is. And you know everything I do… everything I encourage you to do or not do… It’s all for your own good, right?”
Laurent swallowed. For a moment, something lurched in him—a desire, an urge to… to…
But it fizzled when he faced his father, a man who had been through heaven and hell to give him this life, where he was comfortable and taken care of.
“Yeah, of course. I know that, Coach.”
Coach’s smile relaxed further. “Thanks, kid. You’re one of the good ones, you know that, right?” His knuckles rapped the doorframe. “Love of my life, you are.”
“Thanks, Coach. Good night.”
“Good night, kid. Do you want me to close the door?”
“No, it’s fine.”
Coach gave him a salute that was so dorky it almost made him laugh. When he turned back, Laurent watched him go down the hallway and stop in front of Auguste’s room.
There was a moment where they looked at each other—a charged, melancholic moment—and then Coach touched Auguste’s doorknob, gave it three little taps, before he went down to his own bedroom.
And that—that little moment—was why Laurent tamped down the urge whenever it came up.
*
Without a doubt, the worst day of the week was Tuesday in the Revere household.
Laurent dreaded it every week. However, for Coach, it was his favourite time of the week, and he spent the entire week counting down to Tuesdays, like one day, they’d stop existing.
Tuesdays meant Tuesday Lunches. More specifically, they were a block of time in the afternoon where Laurent was forced to feed eleven rude, unbearable football players. Coach had started the tradition in his first year of coaching high school football. Apparently, the Captain at the time, Sebastian Orion, had been having serious issues at home, and was consistently missing meals, though he didn’t tell anyone that. Coach had figured that out on his own, because he’d had a similar childhood, where meals were scarce and grocery shopping trips were a rarity. So, Coach had started organising weekly meals for everyone on the team so Orion wouldn’t feel singled out or embarrassed.
Tuesday Lunches had been a hit from the very first time. For the Football Guys, it provided a chance to kick back and relax, josh around each other, and just chill. For Coach, it gave him the opportunity to talk to the guys in more intimate, relaxed environment. For Laurent, it was a nightmare.
It had become slightly bearable over the last year, because now Laurent had ballet on Tuesdays, so he could slip back home as the guys were finishing up their meals, which Laurent had to spend the night before making.
Outside the front door, Laurent pressed his forehead to the wood, exhaling sharply when he heard the boisterous, raucous laughter on the other side. He was hot and sweaty, still in his leotard, and the sun was beating down on the black, tight material. He had been thinking all day how he could avoid this—he was still mad at Damen, and he knew this season, there were new members in the Marlas Bears, which meant Coach would want to introduce him to them today.
He unlocked the door as quietly as he could, wincing as the laughter grew more obnoxious.
They were all in the kitchen, the smell of meat and sauce making Laurent feel queasy. All he had to do was hurry down the hallway, turn left onto the staircase, and escape into his room.
But luck was never on Laurent’s side, and his stomach dropped when he heard Coach call out: “Laurent? Is that you? Can you come over for a sec?”
“Oh my god,” Laurent mumbled under his breath, wiping his sweaty palms on his tights.
The kitchen was dead silent when Laurent entered. Coach was at the head of the table, Damen at the end. Laurent recognised Jord, Huet, Alexon, Lazar and Ajax.
Laurent thought he recognised some others, and some of the faces completely went over his head, but he didn’t really care. He’d never known a full lineup of the Marlas Bears since he was thirteen, and that wasn’t changing anytime soon.
Coach was the only one smiling. “Ah, yes, there he is. Come over here, Laurent.”
Laurent shuffled over, wholly aware of the unnerving quiet that had washed into the room. The table was filled with silver trays of marinated chicken, steak, potatoes, and corn. Laurent had spent hours last night preparing everything, not that these idiots would ever appreciate that.
Coach, still seated, wrapped an arm around his hips, which jostled Laurent into the side of the table. He winced, and then continued to do so as Coach said, “For those of you new to the Marlas Bears, this is my son Laurent.”
Laurent smiled awkwardly as everyone turned to him. There were some new faces, interested ones, as they gazed him up and down. Laurent was regretting not taking off his leotard at the studio.
“Laurent, why don’t you tell us something about yourself? Something fun, something interesting, something that’ll get everyone riled up.”
Laurent threw Coach an incredulous look. “What the fuck could I say that will do all that?”
A few of them sniggered. Damen, as usual, was deadpan. Everyone definitely noticed that. The reason the Football Guys all hated him was solely because of Damen. Whatever Damen liked, they liked. And whatever Damen hated, they hated. And since Damen—very openly—hated Laurent, the Football Guys all hated on him.
Anyway, the new guys—the only ones who had laughed—noticed Damen’s hard stare and all quickly quieted.
Coach was, as usual, oblivious to all this. He patted Laurent again and said, “Well, you know, Laurent is actually a dancer up at the MBA—the ballet academy. He’s very good, he’s almost—”
“Can I go upstairs now please?” Laurent said, tugging himself out of Coach’s grasp. “I have a lot to do.”
Coach’s eyebrows furrowed, probably because he was trying to discern what exactly Laurent had to do. “Well, okay, yeah. But one more thing—” He drew Laurent closer again and fixed everyone at the table a hard, cutting glare. “Laurent is also underage, so unless you guys want to get kicked off this team and every single team you every apply for, with an offence against a minor, then please remember to keep your eyes and hands to yourself.”
Everyone stilled. An awkward silence enveloped the room. The new guys all gave each other an uneasy glance, like they weren’t sure whether Coach was joking or not. Jord and Huet firmly kept their eyes down.
Meanwhile, Laurent bit his lip and stared at the ceiling, hoping for a tsunami this time. Just one large enough to flood this room.
When no one said anything in response, Coach clapped his back again. “Okay, great! Now that that’s settled, why don’t you…”
“Yep,” Laurent said, and without any preamble, he rushed up the stairs, two at a time.
He knew why Coach said what he did, every year, whenever there were new rookies. It wasn’t to embarrass him—never that—it was to look after him, like everything else Coach did. When Laurent had been thirteen, one of the creeps on the team had made an inappropriate comment towards him, and Coach had absolutely lost it. Honestly, Cameron had been lucky all he got was a suspension, because the pure fury on Coach’s face still haunted Laurent to this day.
So, yeah, although the initial underage talk-slash-lie was uncomfortable, it was necessary in protecting Laurent, which was all Coach ever wanted—which meant, at the end of the day, Laurent was actually kind of grateful for it.
That’s what he kept telling himself as he scrubbed his red cheeks in the bathroom, his stomach still twisting as the smell of barbecue travelled upstairs, into his room.
But he calmed down after his shower, as lavender floated all around him instead.
When he stepped out though, all that calmness instantly evaporated. Damen was lying on his bed, one leg crossed over his knee, hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling, humming tunelessly.
“Hi?” Laurent said, hating how much his palms instantly started sweating.
“Coach made me bring you up a plate,” Damen said, not taking his eyes off the ceiling as he pointed to his study desk.
“Oh. Thanks.” Laurent said, sitting in his chair, and eyeing the lump of mash potato, gravy and five corncobs.
He awkwardly poked at the mash, smearing it under his knife—the only cutlery Damen had brought—until he couldn’t bear it any longer.
“So? Uh, did you need anything else? Or are you going to camp out here?”
Damen yawned. He didn’t even cover his mouth. Laurent grimaced and gave up on eating for now.
Then Damen turned his head to him. “So?”
“So?”
“What do you mean so?”
“What do you mean so?”
“What do you mean—”
“Damen! Do you have anything to say or not?”
Damen’s mouth pursed, like he was annoyed at Laurent—the fucking nerve. Laurent wanted to smash the plate into Damen’s face.
After much deliberation, Damen said, “How are you holding up?” Like he actually fucking cared about the answer or something.
“I—” Laurent floundered. “Yes. I’m. Fine.”
“Really? ‘Cause I’d be shitting myself in embarrassment if my father pulled that shit downstairs. Probably would never show up to another team meeting.”
Laurent sighed, aggravated. “Is this why you’re here? You know why Coach has to say all that shit. It doesn’t embarrass me.”
“Really? Is that why you were chanting I’m not embarrassed about a hundred times in the shower?”
Laurent blushed, averting his eyes. “Damen…”
Damen waved him off, before he sat up, swinging his legs around to hit the ground, his hands pressed flat on the mattress, behind him. “How’s your summer been so far, Laurent? Really.”
Laurent looked up at him in surprise. “What do you mean really?”
“I mean I want a straight answer. Not that ‘I’ve been reading and it’s great’ bullshit from the other night.”
“Why?” Laurent frowned. “Why do you care?”
Damen shot him a disgusted look. “I don’t fucking care, Jesus. This isn’t some Nora Ephron bullshit. It’s just my conscious, you know. That shit keeps me up all night, ‘cause ever since I came back I’ve noticed…”
“What?”
“Dunno.” Damen shrugged, now suddenly interested in eyeing the pile of laundry in the corner of his room. “That you’ve been sad and shit. Like, depressed sad. And—scratch that—I feel like you were like this before I left, too. So don’t just blame it on that night.”
Laurent paused in surprise, mulling it over. “I seem… depressed?”
“Yeah, like some montage of a depressed heroine in a Nora Ephron movie.”
“I’m confused, do you like or hate Nora Ephron? Because you’ve mentioned her a lot.”
“Laurent.”
Laurent bit his lip, concerned. “Do you think Coach has noticed my… mood?”
Damen laughed, but stopped under Laurent’s stare. He rolled his eyes. “No, Laurent, I’m positive Coach didn’t notice.” He muttered something under his breath Laurent couldn’t quite catch, but Laurent didn’t have the energy to argue.
Instead, Laurent sighed. “Coach and I got into a huge fight about driving a few days before you left.”
“Ah.” Damen’s face pinched.
“Yeah.” Laurent sighed. “I thought… now that I’m nineteen, he’d be a bit more lenient. I didn’t even… I just wanted a few driving lessons, so I could take myself to the store or ballet. That’s it. I genuinely didn’t think it’d be a big deal. I mean, you know, he tracks me on that…”
“Yes, I know,” Damen said through clenched teeth.
“Right, so even if I did leave or whatever, he’d know. And he could…” Laurent shook his head. “But he was so difficult about it, Damen. He just completely lost it, wouldn’t even listen to me, or, or cooperate. That’s why he’s making me do the whole reading thing. Said I clearly wasn’t utilising all my time productively so…”
Laurent finished everything on a sharp exhale.
“Jesus.” Damen shook his head. “What the fuck is his—”
“Stop, Damen. You know I don’t like that.”
Damen had a lot of rules when it came to defining and maintaining their… whatever they were. Laurent had only one: no bad-mouthing Coach.
Whenever Laurent occasionally complained, it wasn’t ever to discredit Coach or defame his character. It was just an opportunity to vent. Laurent didn’t appreciate it when Damen used these moments to degrade Coach, just because he had his own issues with him.
“Anyway,” Laurent said, quickly, feeling like he’d revealed too much to someone who didn’t really care about him or his thoughts. “That’s it. It was ages ago, and I’m mostly over it. Coach is right—it’s easier to catch buses in the city, and if there’s anywhere specific I need to go, he can just drive me there. So.”
“Laurent.”
“And I’m liking the reading. Coach was right about that, too. I haven’t read a book in years.”
“Jesus, Laurent, come on.”
“What? I mean it.”
“Yeah.” Damen scoffed. “That’s the part that worries me.”
Laurent shrugged. “I’ll get over it in a few more days. Just… I don’t know.”
Outside, there was a sudden wave of laughter. Laurent was surprised to see the sun already setting.
“You should get back downstairs,” Laurent said. “Everyone’s going to notice how long you’ve been gone.”
“Nah, it’s fine. I told Coach I was going home.”
Laurent shot him an amused look. “I thought Coach asked you to bring me a plate?”
“Yeah, and then I mentioned I was going home. You want the movie rights to this amazing story?”
Laurent hated the fact that made him laugh.
Damen yawned again. And then, in a deliberately casual move, reached into his jeans pocket and produced a shiny key chain. He threw it at Laurent. “Here, I got this for you.”
Laurent bit his lip over a smile as he caught it. A hard, shiny piece of plastic moulded into the shape of Ios. “Very glittery,” Laurent smiled, stroking his thumb over the sharp tail.
Damen liked gifting him souvenirs—well, key chains—from every city he visited. The irony of key chains, when Laurent didn’t know how to drive, wasn’t lost on them. Laurent was pretty sure that was why Damen had settled on key chain souvenirs in the first place.
Laurent’s insides warmed when he realised what this specific souvenir was: a peace offering.
“I think now the only city I don’t have is Arles.”
“Yeah, it is,” Damen said. “I figured you could get that by yourself. And speaking of Arles—have you told Coach about it yet?”
This was what happened when you couldn’t shut up after sex, Laurent thought. This was his own fault. He would need to work on it, make a mid-year’s resolution or something.
“I was. I am. I just told you how he reacted to the whole driving thing. I need to be more strategic when I bring Arles up.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll help.”
“Okay,” Laurent snapped. “What’s your solution then?”
“Just fucking go, Laurent. He’ll live.”
“Oh, yeah, A-plus solution, Damen. Thank you so much, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”
Damen glared at him. “You’re the one that’s gonna miss out, not me.”
“Can we change the subject, please?”
Damen watched him for a moment. “Nah,” he said, clapping his hands together and standing up. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore anyway.”
“Great,” Laurent said. “Nice.”
Damen grinned, and Laurent hated how attractive he found that smug, arrogant expression.
He walked over and flicked Laurent’s forehead, hard.
“Ow!”
Damen laughed. “See ya later, pretty boy.”
Laurent rubbed his forehead, watching Damen leave. When he got to Auguste’s closed bedroom door, Damen stopped in front of it and tapped it three times, the same way Laurent had taught him to do all that time ago.
Laurent watched him until he couldn’t bear to any longer, heart twisting violently.