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It started when the Patran ambassador arrived at the Palace of Artes for a month of negotiations. Damen had drafted a scrupulous plan for the starting discussions—and Laurent, who was growing into his throne with prodigious confidence, tied them up nicely with his flair for persuasion, securing a fruitful series of trade agreements. Damen would have been content with the pleasantry of their talks if not for the Patran ambassador’s second-in-command—the Lord Aster.
He was, according to the court, a man of aesthetic pleasure. The courtiers turned heads to observe his bewitching countenance, hoping his hand could be won by flattery alone. To their misfortune, he seemed meticulously reserved with his attention; from his high status, he deigned not to proffer more than an insouciant glance towards his admirers. One could mistake him for being uninterested in dalliance—except, two weeks ago, he began to lay his eyes on Laurent.
That Laurent garnered the admiration of many was no accident. He held in himself the sort of beauty to gather deference by breathing. Lord Aster was no novelty—he smiled souciantly when addressing him; continuously flitted protracted gazes in his direction; stole chances to tug at Laurent’s sleeve and make coquettish remarks. He even wore a flush in his cheeks that, despite its faintness, annoyed Damen irrationally. But as Lord Aster was no fool, he could easily dismiss his actions as friendliness, claiming a difference in culture or upbringing. It wasn’t impossible to reprimand him—but that carried the risk of inviting strain between their kingdoms.
Damen resolved to gather his patience as much as he could. Nonetheless, when Lord Aster suggested a walk around the gardens with Laurent, claiming it an opening to political discussion, he could not stifle the irritation crawling up his skin. Laurent accepted the invitation with eloquence, though out of the corner of his eye he threw a glance towards Damen, as if soliciting his presence. For the sake of courtesy, Damen followed along with tight-knuckles, only interjecting with passing remarks where necessary.
It was an excruciating hour before Lord Aster finally announced his leave. Laurent threw him an oblique stare as his figure disappeared into the shadows.
Damen led him out of the gardens, pressing a hand to the small of his back. That night, he allowed himself to turn the issue over like a letter knife in his mind. It was impossible to be covetous towards a man for something he didn’t possess; besides, not once had Laurent given Damen reasons to doubt his loyalty over four seasons of rule. Laurent was a king of ruthless grace, neither unfastening his guard nor condescending to bow. For Damen, however, he had sheathed his bundle of quills, fluffed his shy feathers, and undressed his fragile senses for viewing.
No—the heavy sensation in Damen’s chest was not envy. It was that—despite his usual munificence and his desperate attempts at grace—he wanted to keep that private side of Laurent for himself.
*
The next day was worse.
It was not unusual for their dignitaries, whether Akielon or Veretian, to doubt the stability of a court ruled by two kings. Often, they tried to surmise whether one of Damen or Laurent was keeping the other on a leash. Laurent had struggled to cultivate veneration under his uncle’s machinations for years—now that he was king, he still clung fiercely onto his newfound control. He despised it whenever the court made fiction of his competency, and it didn’t aid his case that the Akielon court saw physical strength as a traditional facet of power. On the other hand, the older Veretian courtiers were fondly aware of Damen’s former status as a pleasure slave to their prince. As a result—at least publicly—Damen and Laurent were often locked in a stalemate where neither could relent without risking the loss of authority.
In a court-wide discussion about replanning crop production in the borders of Delfeur, one of the minor Akielon lords had let slip an imprudent remark about how Laurent had only earned his power by snaking his way into Damen’s bed. How he could parade around with a crown as much as he liked, but he would always be beneath the enemy he was spreading his legs for.
In retaliation, after punishing the lord with a barrage of verbal lashings, Laurent also switched meeting tactics. He contradicted Damen’s every proposal, spinning new webs of arguments as quickly as he’d demolished Damen’s with his ruthless logic, even though Damen’s assertions were the ones they had discussed together in earnest.
They had wanted to switch to a program to grow different crops in sequence as the seasons rotated. But while they’d originally agreed, in private, to set that into motion after a year—to allow the farmers in Delfeur more time to acquiesce with the empire’s rule, as well as to allow the existing land to regain its fertility after previous overuse—Laurent now insisted on moving the scheme forwards to maximize efficiency and production. This cleaved the room apart into two: the Kyroi, within expectation, backed Damen’s initial direction, but the Veretian Council were more amenable towards Laurent’s.
All this culminated into a bristling point when Laurent said, craning his neck towards Damen with all his manufactured pomposity, “Fetch me some water.”
If they’d been in their own chambers, Damen would have obeyed without question—but he was still recovering from Laurent’s previous insult, and he couldn’t allow Laurent to jest him before his people. “Fetch it yourself.”
The room fell silent. Many reminisced a time Laurent had leveraged the same injury to undermine Damen’s command, on their journey to Ios, to which Damen had risen on instinct to obey. At present, he only felt the furious tremble of his fist, clenching around the fabric of his chiton beneath the table.
He adjourned the meeting promptly, postponing resolution for a later day. After the court had emptied the hall, he faced Laurent.
“The original idea was yours,” he said. “We both know it was wiser, given the land surveys we have conducted.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” said Laurent. His pellucid stare was sharp, flaying Damen’s composure, removed of honesty. “Why don’t you learn to be adaptable?”
Damen took a deep breath. “I know our subject spoke out of line,” he said, as gently as he could. “And I know you were trying to protect your image—”
“That is putting it lightly. We both know our subject had explicitly used you to turn me into a figure of hilarity. Forgive me if I think it was necessary for me to reverse the damage by eliminating its source.”
That stung. “Undermining my esteem doesn’t automatically elevate yours.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“It’s what you should know. How has humiliating me ever benefited your case?”
Laurent bridled at this. “At least it has never cost me anything.”
That rang like a slap between them. Damen frowned. “I sincerely doubt that.”
Laurent bristled. “Regardless,” he said, “What you are saying now is that I’m making a mistake. But I’m not so sure I had asked for a reminder.”
“All I am saying is that I’ve seen you settle similar disputes with more grace than this in the past,” Damen said.
“So you think today was an exception?” he said. “Or that I have lost my mastery in ‘grace’?”
“I didn’t say—”
“You don’t—”
Damen sighed. It was unproductive to argue with Laurent when he was in a vicious mood. “Let us continue this conversation in the evening,” he said curtly. Laurent only scoffed and turned on his heel before striding out of the room.
When small conflicts among his men arose, Damen usually preferred to reach a conclusion with them as soon as possible—but when Laurent was too incensed to speak in frankness, he would sharpen himself on instinct. He was adept at weaponizing his deft understanding of Damen—which, while normally endearing, would be a prod at Damen’s most tender bruises. This proved unconducive to either of them. Laurent required time alone to simmer down, for his sensibilities to sink, and Damen was more than content to provide that.
It was only a misfortune Laurent had also been invited to join Lord Aster at a tea gathering with his fellow Patran acquaintances, leaving Damen to his own vices for the rest of the day. Damen spent an hour reprimanding the Akielon lord, almost stripping him of his lands, but that did little to quell the tremor under his skin. By the time the moon had risen to fill the bottleneck in the sky, his anger, which would have diluted under the passing of time on a normal occasion, had frothed up to a broil; every step felt like wading through oil.
Laurent stalked into their chambers, where Damen had only just begun to wind down from the day. “Are you ready to talk to me now?”
Damen exhaled slowly. “That depends on you,” he said, as patiently as possible. “Are you calm enough to speak without insulting me?”
“You demand much from me,” said Laurent, “I was not aware that your attention was contingent on my behaviour.”
Damen’s throat tightened. “That is not what I meant,” he said. “If you wish to speak about today, then we will.” He patted the space beside him on the bed, where he sat. Laurent had the clemency to relent, crossing the room to sink down onto the covers. Damen began, “Listen, I know one of our men has upset you. I have since admonished him. But there was no need to jeopardize an integral objective we’ve devised for the empire—”
“Imagine if one of my Councillors had insinuated that I was the one who fucked you from behind,” Laurent cut in, with cool precision. “And announced it in front of your kyroi. You would have made the same choice as I had.”
Damen blinked, breath knocking out of his lungs. “No,” he said hoarsely. “I wouldn’t have.”
“Please. I know you Akielons have strange views on masculinity.” Laurent lifted a hand to toy with Damen’s shoulder pin in a derisive fashion. “Wouldn’t it be damaging for you if your subjects had accused you of disgracefully opening your hole up for me?”
Damen pulled Laurent’s wrist away and held it in a tight grip. “What are you saying?”
Slanted lips. “Did I hit the nail?”
“Has it ever occurred to you that what we do in private has no connection to our status in court?” Damen said, more harshly than he’d intended.
“Oh, I know,” said Laurent, “It is not indicative of my power that I let you do whatever you please in our bedroom, it is not undignified for me to spread for you every night, and it is not humiliating for me to know that the court is speculating on our positions on a daily basis, I’m sure.”
“You don’t mean that,” Damen said, though he wasn’t entirely sure he was convinced by himself. Between them, he was the one who had the courage to unabashedly answer doors even when they were caught in states of undress. It was only in Laurent’s nature to say anything he could to claim the last word when he registered a threat—wasn’t it? “You shouldn’t listen to the court, and what they have to say about us. They do not know—”
He thought of their halcyon nights spent together, how Laurent always seemed amenable towards the opportunity to stop thinking. How he would smile sweetly at Damen and cradle his curls in the afterglow. Laurent seemed to believe he had to scrape his teeth and burnish his nails just to protect his dignity, like a cat straining its energy to retrieve a ball of yarn, at times chasing after it so fiercely he’d sprint off a cliff’s precipice if he had to. But Damen would do anything to soften the fall with the ocean of his affections—which, at times, felt too great to be contained. But now it seemed possible that Laurent truly saw Damen’s selfish devotion as a weapon, and Laurent’s pride a casualty—
“Then who should I listen to?” Laurent snapped. “You?”
Damen rubbed his eyes. “At least,” he tried, feeling lost, “that appears more rational.”
“Do you think it is nice?” Laurent said. “Being told my title is merely a byproduct of becoming your whore?”
“You are aware that you are my equal,” said Damen, “You are an intelligent man, and I have never seen anyone else command a room as effectively and as precisely as you do. Nobody can take that away from you.”
This seemed to anger Laurent further. “Respectfully, I didn’t ask,” he said. “I know perfectly well who I am, and what I am capable of. It is only such a shame that the people of your court do not seem to understand what I know, and now I am suffering the consequences of their imbecility.” His lips curled into a snarl. “Your clumsy reassurances and overt declarations of sentiment are entirely unsolicited.”
Now that was clearly a statement designed to hurt. Indignation curled up in Damen’s throat; he jerked back away from Laurent. “Are you finished?”
“I—” Laurent looked up, suddenly wide-eyed. “No. Wait—”
“No,” Damen said, feeling his face slam shut. “You clearly don’t want to—Unless you are going to suggest methods to reinstate our original plans to the court, I don’t want to hear another word from you.”
“Wait, I—” Laurent tugged at Damen’s chiton once. Damen immediately regretted the words that had escaped his mouth; he wanted to reach out and soothe the ache that must be on Laurent’s cheek with his hands—but by the time he could register the guilt clutching his chest, Laurent had already let go. He stood up, a blank expression stealing over his face once more. “Fine. You think I do not have the strength to fix this?
“For someone who is adamant on paraphrasing what I say all the time, you sure enjoy doing it incorrectly—”
Laurent ignored him. “If you think I’m incapable, then you underestimate me, Damianos,” he said icily. “I will amend this. I will amend this far more efficiently than you ever could. The crop production plans will be ready in a week’s time. Just watch me.”
That was the extent of his mercy before he stalked back to the door and strode out of the threshold, cold air whipping at the adjacent curtains from the force of the slam. Presumably, Laurent had left to retire to their side chambers, where he stayed whenever he needed the solitude to gather himself, leaving Damen to slump back on the bed with a stunned ache in his chest. And though Damen was sure they would converge back to each other as they always did, the night did not slip by quietly.
*
The third day, Laurent was not in their main chambers when Damen woke up, nor was he found in their side quarters. When asked, the servants told Damen that His Majesty had gone riding in the countryside for an indefinite time. Knowing this was one of Laurent’s most common methods of clearing his head, Damen resolved not to think much of it—though mildly hurt Laurent had not left him a message, nor an order for his subjects to warn Damen of his departure. He buried himself in paperwork and meetings instead, wondering if he had pushed too far the night before.
Frost wreathed around his gut when he discovered that Lord Aster was not in the palace either. He was still confident that Laurent would not readily receive his attentions: Laurent was so reserved with touch that even Damen, at times, had to tread with caution, like tending to a frightened cat balancing one of its paws on diamond-point, ready to tip at the most diminutive of disturbances. It was greatly implausible that he would allow a stranger to lay a claim on him in the matter of days. This, however, did not help to soothe Damen’s unease.
A day later, Damen rose early and rode out to a ring of nearby villages to study changes in public sentiment regarding their new empire. At sundown—because Laurent seemed determined to make himself as elusive as possible—Damen visited the palace’s training halls and wrestled with his soldiers. The physical challenge was a rejuvenating rush, blood soaring through his veins to imbue him with vigour. Momentarily it freed his mind from rumination; only after the sparring did he feel the splinters of spooked anxiety fall back into him.
When he returned to their chambers that evening, he was yet again greeted by Laurent’s absence. He was beginning to worry when he caught sight of the apparent change on his desk: perching on his pile of missives was a platter of crushed nuts and chopped nectarines. Next to it lay a bundle of hyacinths, and a note.
I told you to watch me, Laurent had written, in perfect penmanship, smugly, Unfortunately, you have missed the spectacle. I spoke to the Akielon lord today, but it appears you have already humbled me by being first to deduct his allowances. Nonetheless, I have reached an agreement with him not to bring disgrace to each other’s dignities further. Furthermore, I have since held a meeting with the court regarding the production of grains in Delfeur and expressed my favour for our original proposal. You may be well assured that it will go ahead as designed. The official paperwork will be underway by next week.
I am aware you may be exhausted after your day of exertion. My presence may be found in our side chambers. If you like.
Damen went. Some of his anger had dissipated—and he could not help the flutter of relief he felt, staring at the fresh-plated fruit. He knew Laurent did not prefer to atone with words, deeming them vacant. More often than not, Damen would find Laurent with languageless gifts or unprompted servitude, as he did now; or else, Laurent would be trailing behind Damen with doe eyes and low lashes, like a docile rabbit waiting to be pet. If the altercation were more severe, he might provoke Damen further until Damen talked sense into him with necessary caution. On one terrifying occasion, Damen had returned to their chambers to discover Laurent had tied his hands to the bedpost, donning an open bed-shirt. As if expecting punishment, as if he thought Damen would be the sort to crush him into obeisance. Damen had to coax that fallacy out of his hands and rub ointment into his chafed wrists.
Damen extricated himself from his thoughts as he pushed the door to their side chambers open, the hinge swooping around with a loud creak. Laurent was sitting at his desk, back facing the door.
“I found your note,” Damen said, still at the doorway.
“You didn’t find it,” said Laurent, without turning or standing up. His tone had mellowed from two days ago, though still fancifully cool, like a wintry breeze. “I left it in a very conspicuous position.”
“Thank you,” said Damen. “You are still in your riding attire,” he appended, recognizing the design of Laurent’s shirt where it peeked out from the top of his chair’s wooden back. The curves of his shoulders, swan-elegant on either side, caught ladles of fading twilight from the window.
“I was bidding goodbye to the Patran envoys at our gates,” said Laurent, still with his back towards Damen, “They decided to depart a day early.”
“Oh,” Damen said.
Laurent paused. He finally levered off his chair; swiveled around, posture open, leaning back against the edge of his desk. He carried the youthful air of a relaxed scholar lounging after a long day—except for the momentary tension in his cheeks, the barely-tangible pink tips of his ears—which Damen had learned, over time, to read as inchoate nervousness. Damen’s eyes caught on his open collar, the top laces undone.
“Come,” said Laurent. Even now, he sounded like he had an agenda, as he frequently did, hand beckoning with poetic elegance. He flicked his eyes over Damen’s form, appraising. “Are you tired?”
Damen did, strode up to him. Laurent raised a tentative hand and went for his hair, brushed a curl from Damen’s forehead when Damen didn’t protest, delicate and birdlike, head craned up.
After a moment, Damen said, “The ambassador did not inform me.”
“There was an emergency at Bazal,” said Laurent, “that demanded the ambassador’s immediate attention. The retinue tried to request an audience from you, but could not locate your whereabouts this morning. A lord happened to find me in the halls later on, and informed me instead.”
“Did the envoys ask where I had been?”
“I told them you had more important meetings to contend with. Lord Hansen instructed me to pass on his farewell to you.”
“I see.” Damen frowned. The words slipped out before he could stop them, “And Lord Aster?”
Laurent hesitated. His voice was careful, blue eyes piercing, as if studying a specimen. “He offered his apologies for the short notice regarding their departure. He seemed rather terrified of you, but left us both a parting gift.” He pondered, as if wondering if he should complete his trail of thought. “You dislike him.”
Damen felt his jaw tense. He heard himself say, “Not so much that I would dismiss her generosity.”
“Don’t downplay your sentiment,” said Laurent. He adjusted Damen’s laurel, frowned, then readjusted it again, almost diffidently. “I was not born without a mind.”
When Damen did not reply, he continued, “I am well aware he harboured a small amount of interest in me.” Laurent’s hand had gone to smooth the fabric of Damen’s chiton, with deliberate care, before coming to trace the lion pin at his shoulder. “Is that why you could not bear to look at his face directly?”
It should have been charming, knowing Laurent saw through Damen as if he were stained glass, and could dissect his tendencies with such graceful ease. But stiffness came curdling in Damen’s spine instead—and he cradled Laurent’s chin in his hand, on instinct. “You are very perceptive.”
“I am,” said Laurent, though without his usual pretension. His voice quietened. “But you have no cause for concern.” He rested a hand on Damen’s arm, “You cannot truly believe I would be unfaithful to you.”
“I don’t.” Damen felt his brow furrow. “I know you wouldn’t. I’m sorry. That was not—”
Laurent drew his hands back to himself. “Are you still angry at me?”
Damen blinked. It was difficult to harbour fury against Laurent for longer than a day. Laurent was a riddle of his own invention, at times repainting his contours into cruelty—but loving him meant loving his sharpness for every moment spent adoring his grace, hugging his hurt the way one embraced all his whims. It meant cradling the most honest splinters of him that, when touched, burned down to ash to kindle his survival.
But then—the crushing sensation under Damen’s skin, an underground wound trickling over his flesh when he remembered the sight of Lord Aster’s hand ghosting Laurent’s arm. This tension in his body, as if someone had reached in for his tendons and pulled them taut—
Laurent swallowed Damen’s momentary silence, twisting it into the bite of his lip. “I know,” he screwed his eyes shut for one moment, “my reaction towards the council was disproportionate.” He dug the heels of his palms into the back of his eyes. “In scale to the plight that had provoked it—”
Before he could finish his statement, Damen relaxed his jaw, reached out for Laurent’s wrists to coax them back down to his sides. “I could never stay angry, Laurent.” He caressed a pale cheek. “Not at you.”
Laurent’s expression went still. “Then I was correct. It was the Patran delegates.”
“It was.” Damen felt his own brow pinch. “It is not you I doubt.” His grip, still around Laurent’s wrists, tightened involuntarily once more. “I have never doubted you. My sentiments were not bound by logic. I know I am—”
“Damianos,” Laurent cut him off, “Everyone knows my attention has room for one only.” He spoke with imperturbable conviction, as if reciting a law. He wrung his hands free and pushed himself from the edge of the desk, taking a step forward; Damen took a step back. “Nobody would dare to remove me from you.”
Damen paused, finding a thread of clandestine glory. “And if they tried?”
“I’d stop them.”
Damen flushed. He hadn’t meant to make himself so obvious. “Would you?”
“Yes, I’d burn their belongings as reprisal for touching yours,” said Laurent. “I can swear it, if you like.”
Damen held his breath. Laurent’s boldness shook him. He didn’t have time to reply before Laurent, with his palm resting stone-steady on Damen’s shoulder, pressed him onto the mattress behind. Damen sank into a sitting position at the edge of the bed.
“Wait.” Damen interjected. “You do not need to—”
“No,” said Laurent. He bit his lip. “You were right. What we do in private has no immediate connection to our status in court, if that is your concern. I have since pondered on it.”
He’d recited what Damen had said, almost word-for-word. “It’s not. But I thought you said you did not prefer to—”
“I…” Laurent frowned. “I was angry. What I said to you was not—I don’t think—” He reached forward again, this time taking Damen’s hand into his own, giving a light squeeze. “I cannot fault you for the words of an insolent courtier. I want… Are you tired?”
Silence swelled between them like a seastorm. Damen’s eyes fell to Laurent’s exposed collarbones, thin-skinned and marmoreal; the sharp lines of his jaw tapering into a smooth point; the acquiescent angle of his neck, stripped bare to the fading light; his cleverly-parted lips, swallow-soft.
“You asked that already,” Damen replied. Then, remembering he’d never given a clear answer the first time, he added, “No. I am not.”
Laurent nodded. “Wait here.”
Damen studied Laurent’s retreating figure as he strode away towards the side cupboards. His motions were almost mechanical, spine straight, shoulders taut as instrument strings. The room was silent but for the sound of his boots hitting the floor, strict as clockwork.
Laurent returned with a slippery stream of gold spilling from his hands—a chain of links, measuring the length of an arm and a half. It was nothing like the gaudy, heavy restraints Damen remembered from Arles. Instead it appeared feathery in weight, each loop small as a pigeon’s heart and intricately crafted. Damen’s breath caught when Laurent guided one of the ends towards the tiny ring on the cuff on his left wrist, fastening it in place. He tugged on the links once, testing its strength.
“They have hooks on either end.” Laurent settled to stand between Damen’s knees. He gathered up the other end of the chain, with feigned nonchalance—but the minute tremble of his lips said otherwise—and lowered it into Damen’s open palms. “Detachable. Where do you want the other?”
Damen went very still, heart pounding. They’d been accustomed to making love simply, amid their liminal hours of midnight: stars flung like diamonds over the leisurely tapestry of sky; languid breaths tracing smoke-trails on skin; candlelight wavering and fingers intertwined without ostentation. It had been Damen’s preference, as much as it had been Laurent’s—he did not expect Laurent to express a different proposal with such transparency, especially not after their altercation.
Neither did he expect himself to react with the ardent froth of thirst writhing in his chest. Damen couldn’t identify where Laurent had obtained such a specifically-designed artifact from, but the thought that Laurent wanted this—that Laurent, with his exquisitely architectured independence, wanted to be restrained by Damen alone—ignited a lawless greed inside him.
Laurent’s pellucid gaze flickered. He sat down to the right of Damen and shuffled close, so that their knees were brushing. “Do you not want—”
It occured to Damen, then, that Laurent must have deliberated this for hours, and hunted his desires into agony. Laurent did not like to expose himself to channels of rejection. He did not like to bare the aches of his wanting before others, fearing his sincerity would be misused—or worse, discarded. And yet.
“I do,” Damen said, tilting his head up. The abrupt crush of need in his spine was bruising. “It’s only that—”
“What?”
“If you—” Damen started. “I wouldn’t be able to,” He swallowed his heated breath, the urge to pull Laurent into his arms and touch him everywhere, “contain myself.”
He watched realization settle into Laurent’s eyes. “What if,” Laurent said tightly, “I don’t want you to.”
Laurent swept a hand over the remaining end of the chain again, as if admiring artwork, then yanked casually at the end secured to his wrist. Damen could see the pleading layer of shyness beneath the velvet ease of his movements.
And suddenly, all Damen wanted was to take. He knew that for years he had not ascertained what he’d desired except for the prosperity of his kingdom, a dutiful mark engraved on his body since childhood. As a boy he had trailed behind the heel of Kastor and yearned for the cradle of fatherly hands in his hair; as a young warrior, he’d trodden all the reckless soil he could find, and exerted his body to chase the fleeting glory of battle.
Only after Laurent had Damen become so fiercely aware of himself. Ravenel was a skylight that had wormed open in Damen’s mouth and slammed the sun into him, made his belly learn the incandescent knowledge of hunger. He could also recall his first days as a king as if yesterday—how he had been drunk on fascination when his cuff had closed around Laurent’s fragile wrist; drunk on the illicit warmth of power swelled like an abscess in his chest; drunk on the heady realization that something untouchable had become breakable for him. That night, he had searched his own body for hooks of honour to latch on—and discovered selfishness.
It cost all of Damen’s focus to anchor his breathing.
“You don’t even know what I am—capable of, in stupor, if you gave me the freedom to—” Damen inhaled, slowly. “What if I couldn’t prevent myself from having you thrice in succession?”
An unquestionable gasp escaped Laurent’s throat. “If I couldn’t take it, you would know it.”
Damen lifted an eyebrow. “You’d tell me.”
“Yes.”
Damen clenched his fist. “Did you only plan this because you thought I was upset with you—or because you knew I had been watching Lord Aster?”
“I,” Laurent started. “No. I only… I needed an opening. I have always—” He gathered himself, lifted an eyebrow. “Well?”
Damen pondered. He scooped up the other end of the chain with his right hand. “Where should I put this?”
“Wherever you prefer.”
Damen almost swore. Laurent was staring at Damen with an interested craze in his eyes, like Damen was the only mirror before which Laurent would unlace the corset of his control. Breathless, Damen found the hook where the links terminated—lifted his right wrist, where he wore his own matching cuff—and threaded the hook over the loop, as Laurent had done. Their hands were now tethered by the chain.
“Here,” Damen said, lifting his wrist so that the metal made a tinkling sound. It was long enough to allow for freedom of movement; only when Damen tugged his arm back the whole way did Laurent’s hand go with it. He observed the widening of Laurent’s eyes.
“You—”
It was difficult for Damen to uphold his usual gravitas. “What is it?”
Color leaked into Laurent’s cheeks. “I didn’t think that would be your first choice. Given—” He snapped his mouth shut, looked away.
He was endearing. Damen’s mind conjured a picture of Laurent, splayed beneath him as Damen took him apart slowly. Would Laurent have preferred it if Damen had attached the end of the chain to the bedpost instead, so that the sound of metal clinking on wood would ring through the room every time their hips connected together? The doorknob, where he’d be left to stand in silence as he waited until Damen was ready to bestow him attention? Perhaps Damen should command Laurent to wait by his throne, hand leashed to the golden arm of the seat. He’d—
He was excessively ahead of himself. He didn’t even know if Laurent would appreciate half the rashness of those imaginings. He turned back to Laurent.
“There were,” Damen said, “other choices. This one seemed the most promising.”
“And the most obvious metaphor you could have chosen.”
“Indeed,” Damen said, unabashed. “You said you would swear a promise to me. How?”
Laurent flicked his gaze between his hands, neatly poised at his lap, and Damen’s eyes. “What do you want?”
He must have thought Damen would offer him the confinement of thorough instructions—which, for Laurent, was likely a mercy, holding the easy appeal of not having to think. “I thought you had a plan,” Damen said instead. “Show me.”
Laurent hesitated. He was always sweet in private, tonight even more so. “I did. I wasn’t sure you would like it.”
“I liked this, didn’t I.” Damen gave the chain a loose tug. “I don’t think there’s anything you could do to displease me.”
Laurent visibly relaxed. “Then you must undervalue my talents for stewing displeasure,” he said blithely, then appended, “that was a jest,” as if it was necessary to explain himself, and finally, “I will not play games with you now.”
“Go on.”
Laurent nodded. He levered off the bed and—for one irrational moment—Damen feared Laurent would eat his words—stalk to the side, unhook the chain from his wrist, and announce this had all been a farce. That this was another theater for him to perform his personal opera of power, as he had done, a few days ago.
Laurent didn’t do that. Instead, he slowly sank to his knees on the carpet.
Damen’s breath left his lungs in an abrupt exhale. “Are you sure?” he asked, mildly alarmed. The chain sang as it dangled between them, sharp against the otherwise trickle of silence in the room. He knew how little Laurent liked to lower himself for another. “You don’t have to—”
They had only done this one other time—before the Kingsmeet, when Laurent had been certain he was not made to endure his uncle’s war, clinging onto what would have been their final fragments of safety before he sacrificed himself for Damen’s survival. Desperation reformed every man into a gambler. Laurent had relinquished his knees as the stakes. With shivering hands and open-mouthed longing, they had scooped the fear from their bodies and canned it into jars—knowing the inevitable would be preserved for later—but found in its place a hunger so insurmountable it turned every hand into a fork. When they had finally fed to the brim with each other, they had found their shadows, thickened by satiety, immortalized in the narrow walls of their inn.
Since then Laurent had never initiated the same act. Damen would never push him for it, and so they’d tucked the memory behind. It seemed surreal that Laurent would offer this again.
“Shut up,” said Laurent. “Do not let my tender instincts, which I have unveiled to reap your attention, go to atrophy.”
He went to undo the straps on Damen’s sandals, fingers on leather with painstaking care. He did not make a show of himself, as a courtesan might—but he was looking up with an unambiguous attention and a calculatedly artful resolve that, if not for Damen’s thorough cartography of Laurent’s wanting, could be classified as danger.
“You do not need to exert anything,” Damen said, “to own my admiration.” His hand had drifted towards Laurent’s shoulder—he stopped it, cautioning himself not to touch. “I need you to understand you are yours as much as you are mine.”
“Don’t stall.” Laurent tilted his head. “Just relax and watch me.”
Damen went for a more direct cut. “Is this what you like, or what you thought I would like?”
“You must be mistaken. I am not a child, straining my neck just to elate another.” Laurent shifted on his knees with thinly-varnished impatience. His hands found purchase on the hem of Damen’s chiton, gathering the cotton in his fists and hiking it up Damen’s legs. “I can assess the gravity of my own sentiments just fine.”
“Yes,” Damen agreed. He yanked at the fabric so some of it fell out of Laurent’s hands. “So it is not difficult for you to tell me what exactly it is that you want.”
He watched Laurent struggle with the words. Laurent was so used to acting before he could proffer his candour. Even before he had mellowed, he was the sort to execute a man without question—only after the fact would he confess to the crime, even if it meant he’d invite more consequences to his wounds. Now his pattern was heading straight for the iron that smoked and branded his flesh before saying he wanted the brand.
He fumbled with Damen’s chiton again, raked his fingers up Damen’s thighs, sending flickers of heat into Damen’s skin. When it was clear Damen wouldn’t dignify him with a response, Laurent relented, “I want—” He stumbled. “Let me suck your cock.”
Damen fought to keep himself still. “Why?”
“I.” Laurent threw him a look of irritation. “I like the way it feels.” He collected himself, licked his glistening lips, as if preparing for a hunt. But Damen could feel Laurent’s nervous fingers shift on his skin even as he composed an answer. “You are as generous in size as you are in patience. And I like to watch you close your eyes in pleasure when I take you in my mouth, defenceless against all your fantasies. I know how often you dream of claiming me before your men.”
“Watch your assumptions.” Damen’s hands gripped the sheets beneath him. “You must enjoy your dramatics—”
“—I want to,” Laurent finished quietly. “Let me.”
Damen’s breath fizzled out in his mouth. His skin was hot, sweat beading at the back of his nape. “Go ahead.”
Laurent didn’t protract the wait further. His hand curled diligently around the base of Damen’s shaft, stroked his length once; it was hard, curving upward. “You may touch my hair. Nowhere else.”
Damen did. His hand found a shrine in Laurent’s scalp, threading his fingers through the gold strands. Under the ascending moonlight, it was meringue-soft, auric locks wreathed in milk silver.
“Don’t pull,” Laurent warned.
“I wasn’t going to.” Damen glanced down at their interlinked hands. “How about this?”
“Oh,” said Laurent, voice soft. “You may… tug at the chain.”
He didn’t grace Damen with the chance to reply before he was pressing his lips to Damen’s cock, making Damen’s breath catch.
The world poured its distilled entirety into this grasping moment between them; it cost all of Damen’s concentration not to buck into Laurent’s mouth. He restrained himself, nails clawing into the blankets beneath him to keep him upright. Biting his inner cheek, he tried to focus on the silken texture of the cloth, as pinion-soft thumbs pressed into the muscles of his thighs; the hazy contours of the daybed in the distance, as the taunt of a kiss graced the head of his erection; the cornflower portraits rattling on the walls, as a feverish tongue flirted with the sensitivity of his skin; the ripening exhale of evening mistily caught on the window, as Laurent took Damen’s length into his mouth and swallowed.
It was futile. Damen’s focus kept rearing its way back to the stark display before him, the heated sensation stealing through his body. Laurent’s movements were, at times, still seasoned and practiced in a way that made Damen’s chest ache—but he was so eager with it, and it pleased Damen to hear the small whimpers spilling out of his lips, tantalizingly soft when it met Damen’s ears in a greeting. He saw the scuffle of Laurent’s knees against the carpets and his attempts at being inconspicuous when he, occasionally, pressed his legs together or canted his hips in the direction of the floor in shy simulated grind.
Damen groaned. His hand remained gentle even as he gathered Laurent’s hair in proprietary touches, but he could feel his throat constrict with wild breathless sounds. It was not long before Damen’s vision lurched violently at its seams and he came inside Laurent’s mouth.
After Laurent had swallowed, he pulled back and wiped his lips with a hand, eyes dim. Damen welcomed the chance to seize the chain between them—and pulled.
Laurent looked up, suddenly and with his eyes glazed over, wide and frantic. He propped his hands on Damen’s knees like sparrows perched on a branch, as if he didn’t know where to set down their trembling. Desire tipped its head back in Damen’s throat to sluice it with liquid, frothing with gold as he felt a boiling rush lance through his veins—the image of Laurent, pliantly seeking command, was overwhelming.
“I didn’t think you were the sort to enjoy this,” Damen said.
“I’m not,” said Laurent. “I mean, I wasn’t. But, you—”
“So it is a result of me.” The words poured out of his mouth before he could stop them.
“Wasn’t that clear?” Laurent had aimed for brazen. He was still on the ground, the tent in his breeches plainly ostensible.
Damen pulled the chain again, with greater force. Tilted Laurent’s chin up between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand. “And you couldn’t think of offering yourself to another man in this way.”
Laurent smiled wryly. “The thought bothers you, doesn’t it.”
“Yes.” Damen could hardly recognize the voice of the man speaking within him—but he was growing into it. “Very much.”
He heard Laurent’s breath hitch. “Proprietorial, aren’t you?” Laurent traced the metal of his own cuff. “I imagine it is like how I’d feel if a subject were to take one of my books without permission.”
“No, I’m hardly enraged when I share material objects with others,” Damen said. “Laurent, if you were only property to me,” he ran his thumb across Laurent’s bottom lip, “then I wouldn’t feel the need to kill anyone who laid their attention on you.”
He wondered if his honesty had frightened Laurent. But Laurent only viewed up through his pale lashes, and said, “I see you are forthright in every context.”
“Nobody is worthy of you, Laurent.”
“Except you?”
“I’m working my whole life to be the exception.”
Laurent flushed furiously. “Dedicated.” He shifted on his knees, rested a hand on Damen’s thigh. “What do you want?”
Damen traced the edge of the gold chain. “For how long have you been thinking of this?”
“A season, maybe. Watching a well-proportioned man wrestle daily does not soothe my troubles.”
Damen had never been one for labyrinthine wordplay. It seemed Laurent had infected him with the appeal. “Plenty of Akielon men wrestle in our court. Most of them have been earning their proportions through training since childhood.”
“No, I meant you.” Laurent seemed to have caught onto Damen's need for clarification. He scrambled to add, “It’s just you.”
Laurent of Vere—a man above thousands, perturbed only by one. Damen liked the idea. “A recent development?”
“Since I started practicing with you instead of Nikandros. Or, the time you tended to a wound at my wrist and tied a bandage around it—” Laurent turned away, as if he found shame in that tumbling admission. “That was not—But you know I am—”
“Look at me.”
Laurent did. “I told you I am yours to hold exclusively.”
The words sparked alive in the wet air. Damen wanted to haul Laurent up by his arms and throw him onto the bed, fuck him senselessly until he was gasping for breath, until the intolerable heat in Damen’s belly dwindled into a simmer. But he also wanted to kiss every inch of Laurent’s body until every asking sliver of skin was bathing in want, watch Laurent choose his deference in the end. Damen curled his nails into his palms, slowed his thunderous heart.
“Stand up,” he said. “Take off your jacket. And your shirt.”
Laurent did, without protest, lithe body rising. He started with the high neck of his collar, the ostentatious ribbons Damen had grown to adore untying. The chain between their wrists provided a shred of artificial difficulty, but Laurent managed until he reached his undershirt, whose complicated laces caused him to struggle, impeded by the frenetic shake of his hands. A frown encroached Laurent’s face to draw a pinch at his brow as he looked down and drew his lips into a thin line.
Laurent said, “I need help.”
Damen’s chest bloomed with a flutter of warmth. “Whose?”
“Is there anyone else in this room?” Laurent tossed him an annoyed glare. “Damianos, attend me.”
Damen couldn’t help the soft laugh sprouting from his throat. He stood and went, fingers hovering over the final ties. “Ask.”
“Damen.” Laurent bit his lip. “Will you please help me unlace my shirt.”
Damen did. “You are hopeless.”
“My mind was preoccupied.”
“By more of your devious ideas?”
Laurent’s shirt fell from his shoulders. “You like them.”
Damen stared at his flushed skin, the pulsing artery in his throat. “Trousers next. And your boots.”
Laurent obeyed him. He bent down on one knee to unlace his boots.
“Good,” said Damen. He felt his focus rattle. “Go lie on the bed.”
Laurent went on shuffling feet, arraying his limbs elegantly on the covers as he reclined his head back into the pillows. Damen followed after retrieving a vial of oil from the nightstand. He climbed onto the bed to cage Laurent in between his knees, passed a stare over his form to anatomize his tousled hair, the tense lines of his stomach, his red swollen mouth, so threatening with its softness it made Damen wanted to lean down and bite, wondering if he could simply sink his teeth meanly onto that sweet vicious curve—and taste the thrill nestled inside it.
He did as his mind commanded, and found glory; Laurent melted beneath him, hot as candle-wax, lips falling open in pliant invitation. Damen licked into his mouth, cupped his head like claiming a treasure in his hands, relishing in the lips that were a vanishing horizon Damen would spend seasons chasing—now, they were his trophy to keep.
“You are still too good at containing yourself,” Laurent said, an impish smile weaving across his face when they parted. “But I can tell it is costing you some amount of difficulty. I only spoke a few words, earlier, and you are—”
Laurent’s audacious statements came crashing back down on Damen like a crested wave. He pinned both of Laurent’s wrists into the mattress, their weights jostling with a harsh thud, the chain at their wrists screeching from the momentum of the shove. Laurent made a pantomime of writhing before promptly going limp, a gasp dissolving salt-like in the air.
“Don’t taunt,” Damen advised. “You don’t know what you’ve just earned yourself.” He leaned down and planted kisses down Laurent’s throat, teeth grazing the porcelain patchwork of skin and sinking into the flesh, leaving behind vicious ripples of blue.
“No, I’m aware how many bruises you are leaving,” said Laurent, between shallow breaths, arching into Damen’s firm grasp, “Because I see the way you watch me when we’re in the company of others. And I see why you always cast a strange look at me when I forgo my high collars and invite your own men to pay me attention—”
Damen took Laurent’s nipple into his mouth, pulled it between his teeth harshly and bit. Laurent whined.
“Stop talking,” Damen said, “You are using my propensities against me. You know what you are scheming with that clever head of yours.”
“And so I was. Its effect is reasonably adequate, isn’t it? You—”
“Stop it.” Damen circled his tongue around the hardened nub under his teeth, bit it again. “When a king accuses you of collusion, you don’t just go and admit it.”
“Yes, Exalted,” said Laurent. “I suppose you are expecting me to repent and say my intentions were innocent.”
“Fuck.” Damen hadn’t meant for Laurent to spin his unfiltered words into a game. “I should’ve known—”
“What?”
“Known you’d turn this into an act.” He shoved a finger of his chained hand past Laurent’s lips before he could say any more. “Be quiet.”
Laurent nodded, subsiding. Damen retracted his finger and touched Laurent everywhere—ran his hands down Laurent’s sides and decanted warmth into the sinewy canvas of his body; left marks on the milky skin of his thighs and lured them into a violent tremble; used his mouth, in quick succession, to tease both nipples on his chest until they were scarlet and yielding; mapped every curve and juncture of his skin except for his aching arousal. Somewhere between swallowing Laurent’s sweet noises into his mouth and suppressing his own surging need to sheathe himself inside Laurent, Damen finally turned his attention to the waiting bottle of oil on the sheets, lathered his hand with it and pushed a finger into Laurent’s entrance.
Laurent threw a hand over his mouth. Damen wrenched it away roughly. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I—” Laurent began. “I already—You secretly delight in my words of flattery.”
“No,” said Damen. He crooked his finger, added a second. “I delight in your honesty.”
“Oh,” said Laurent, twisting his face to the side and pressing his cheek into the pillows. “Yes, I’m—”
“You’re enjoying yourself.” Damen slid his fingers out, pushed them back in, and set a swift rhythm with burnished ease. Through the thrumming buzz in his ears, he heard himself say, “Do you think another man could make you feel the same way?”
“No, I don’t, I wouldn’t allow anyone else to—” Laurent’s voice broke. Damen watched the decision to give in flicker behind his eyes, certainty reclining back to trade dominion with the soft tissue of vulnerability. “I wouldn’t—Damen, kiss me. Of course I—”
Damen obliged, planted a chaste kiss on Laurent's waiting lips. He felt like he had been touched without Laurent lifting a hand. When he pushed a third finger in, Laurent shook violently beneath him.
“Control yourself.”
“Isn’t that—” Laurent tried to say, still floundering, “I can’t—”
“You can,” Damen told him, even as he pulled out his fingers and shoved them back in at a ruthless speed. Sometimes, he had to search his own body for reservoirs of lustre to fill the aching emptiness in Laurent, but he wanted to feel himself snaking through every crevice of Laurent just as lawlessly, wanted Laurent to replenish his hunger with Damen’s greed, and remember it in death. “You’re supposed to be—”
“Well, you’re not making it easy, are you? You demand so much from me—”
“Do you want me to touch you or not?”
Laurent choked out a sob. “Exalted,” he pleaded. “I can’t—You know you’re the only man who can threaten my control.”
“Crafty,” Damen chided, before a low groan ripped through his throat. Laurent finally complied as Damen continued to coax him open, a melodic string of high whimpers brimming out of his lips as he tried to stymie the shiver of his limbs. Damen halted only when he could recognize the frisson that was threatening to rack through Laurent’s body—and removed his fingers in a wet glide.
Laurent shifted, plastered a betrayed expression on his face. “Come on.”
“Be specific.”
“You should fuck me.” Laurent must be trying for confidence, but his voice was coming out strained. “Properly. Unless you can think of something better?”
“Yes,” Damen said, before thinking. “I think you should beg me for it.”
He wondered if that was too much. Laurent’s eyes grew wide. “You have an issue,” he said. “Is it not sufficient that I have proven my everlong allegiance to you?”
“I simply like it when you’re sweet.”
Laurent pursed his lips. “I imagine you simply enjoy watching me fumble.”
Damen’s voice softened. “Is that a no?” The urge to gather Laurent up into his arms and envelope him in a blanket-warmth—kiss the crown of his head—for a moment, overcame him. “We don’t have to—”
Laurent grit his teeth. “It’s not. I want—I only—Give me a moment.”
Oh. Damen’s blood hammered in his ears. He fought the flush rising in his cheeks, the urge to capitulate and give Laurent what he wanted already. But Laurent was choosing—
“You said I was the only man you would be willing to give up control for.”
“I already do,” Laurent snapped, then deflated. “I said, just wait. I need to process.”
Damen fell silent. Laurent screwed his eyes shut. Damen could watch him grapple with his mind, twisting his brow into a soft frown, tongue bitten down even when his cheeks were bright enough to ignite the moonlight itself. He was contrary; making unabashed claims of being fucked when it were an impersonal device he could use to provoke Damen’s wishes, yet acting as if the honest expression of his own wanting cost him a currency he didn’t have the authority to relent. It would have been humorous if that weren’t also a habit Damen would rather Laurent dispose of.
“All right,” said Laurent, voice wobbly. And tapered into silence.
“Do you still want—” Damen started. When Laurent glared at him, he said instead, “It isn’t difficult.”
“And you’d know.”
Damen pulled the chain in reminder. “You’ve made it this far already.”
“And I had days to think of a plan. Now I have to improvise for something that seems, to me, inconceivable.”
“Don’t overcomplicate,” Damen said. He rested both hands on Laurent’s hips and pressed the pads of his thumbs into the skin.
“Fine,” Laurent muttered, squirming. “Fine. You asked for it.” He massaged his eyes with his hands once before opening his mouth, slowly, to speak. “Will you please—”
He cut himself off. Damen shifted to tease the rim of his hole lightly. “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”
Laurent threw him a fiery stare. “I haven’t finished. I thought—” He pondered for a moment, as if unsure of what he wanted to say. He took a deep inhale. “I think of it often. I like how powerful you are.” He prodded at Damen’s arm, as if proving a point. “I think of sparring with you. I think of you holding me down. I think of… the baths, and—Half of me expected—wanted—you to hook the other end of the chain to the leg of your throne, but you…”
Even now, Laurent was grasping onto strings to make himself sound impressive. Damen pressed a finger back into him. “I told you not to overcomplicate.”
“I’m not.” Laurent yelped. “Please. I’d let you, and only you, do anything you wanted to me, because it feels like,” He tried to fuck himself down onto Damen’s finger, but Damen fastened his hips in place, “it feels like I’d enjoy the relief, so—”
Damen let out a muttered breath, unbidden. His hands left Laurent’s body and went to undo the pin at his own shoulder, letting the fabric of his garments fall around him haphazardly. He unraveled the remaining tie at the waist. Laurent’s face was awash with relief, eyes wide with wonder, as if he hadn’t expected surrender to feel as comforting as it did.
Damen slicked himself up with the oil. “Tell me what you need.”
“Damianos,” Damen felt Laurent give in under him, all the air sizzling out of his body alongside the heart in his mouth. He was aflame, sweat-drunk hair sticking to his skin and hands rising to claw at Damen’s shoulders, all red lips trembling and doll-soft limbs. Damen wanted to turn him inside out like a museum and roam over every bright edge. He said finally, in Akielon, “I want—Please fuck me, please—”
“And this—” Damen’s voice cracked around a groan. “This is you improvising. You said you didn’t have a plan, and you—” He felt his own face twist up, the last thread of restraint snapping asunder. He kissed Laurent deeply, all teeth, and said into his mouth, “I need to be inside you.”
Laurent nodded frantically, allowed Damen to maneuver his ankles over Damen’s shoulders, grasping and clutching at his arms as if searching for glimpses of security to latch on. Damen caressed Laurent’s jaw and painted his thumbs over the splash of freckles on his cheeks, whispering words of reassurance into his ear. Laurent was usually so composed. But this sliver of him—soft and receptive and wanting—felt like a dream that would shatter into history if Damen didn’t devour the present to remember it.
Laurent cried when Damen pushed gracelessly into him. Damen didn’t wait for Laurent to adjust, pulling out and plunging back inside with heedless abandon, the world crunching down into this careless point of hunger between them. The air tore ferociously inside Damen’s chest, fierce rabbit heart hammering a path out of his throat as he leaned in for another kiss, biting down on the plush lips before him so deeply the blood seared his teeth.
Laurent’s cheeks were wet. Damen wondered if Laurent was even aware of how much power he truly possessed. Not when he clutched rigidly onto his control, but when he let it go wild and ungoverned in the space between their skins, as he did now. Surely he knew exactly how much influence he held over Damen simply by entrusting his breath in Damen’s hands. By allowing Damen to shoulder a responsibility so great it could imitate fright, and trusting Damen to put a leash on all his destruction and resculpt it into reprieve. Surely Laurent knew this was his most demanding surrender—his sweetest revenge.
Their gazes were locked when Laurent climaxed for the first time, throwing his head back with a loud cry. Damen fucked him through it and swallowed the broken bits of language flowing out of his mouth like shattered water, once again struck aquiver by the frenzied acknowledgement that all this was his: the empire beyond them and the rolling tapestry of days and the forbearing moonlight that caught the windowpane in a slow ballet. Laurent, falling sweetly apart inside Damen’s arms, plummeting into blissful oblivion.
Damen made Laurent come twice more before spilling into him, the untempered heat culminating into a crest in Damen’s body. It was one long moment before he pulled out and flopped down on the blankets, wrung-out. When he finally descended back into himself, he saw that Laurent was sitting beside him, holding two pieces of wet cloth in his hand. Their chain lay in a soft crumple between them—Laurent must have unhooked it.
“Wait, it should be—I—” Damen pushed up into sitting and took the cloth into his hand. “Thank you.”
Laurent blinked back owlishly. “What?”
Damen kissed him gently. “I wanted to take care of you.”
Laurent prodded at his arm. “You have enough glory in your hands.” He gathered the cloth back to himself and began to wipe Damen’s skin. “Spare some of it for others to shoulder sometimes.”
“But you just—”
Laurent flicked Damen’s forehead. “Shut up.”
“At least let me get water.”
“Later,” said Laurent, in an imperious voice. “Lie down. On the bed.” He pressed a finger to Damen’s sternum. “This is how you sounded earlier, if you are unaware.”
Damen didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry. “Stop.”
“No.” Laurent smiled softly. “You know, I disliked Lord Aster. He irritated me. Whenever he pulled me aside, it was painfully obvious that he was imitating your manner of speech, but was falling miserably short.”
Damen stared at him. “But you entertained him.”
“For the sake of—” Laurent flushed furiously. “He was an idiot. In the end, he asked me if any of the palace physicians could provide him with a method to develop his own dimple.”
“What?”
“He wanted to be like you.” Laurent poked at the side of Damen’s lips to prove the point. “I would have been even more angry for you, if every part of you had not also… affected me so dearly.” He brushed his knuckles over the colour on Damen’s cheeks. “In a way, I sympathize with his desperation. There was a time when I—too—thought that I needed to match your brilliance by a fraction one day. That if I could, then—” He dipped his chin shyly. “—enduring the world would be worth it.”
“You have no reason to covet me.” Damen took Laurent’s hand into his own, and kissed it once. Warmth fluttered in his chest. “You are just as—”
“I know who I am,” said Laurent. “And so, if there are moments when even I think measuring up to you is an impossibility, then you can rest assured that any other competition is entirely beneath you.”
Damen paused, took in the words. Then he said, “I have a question.”
Laurent lifted an eyebrow. “Say it.”
“How did you manage to make amends with the Akielon lord? He wasn’t very—”
“I asked.”
“You—”
“I asked,” Laurent repeated. “Diplomatically. I asked him to stop. And made a deal. Perhaps a threat. It cost me great injury not to thoroughly eviscerate him again, but I am amenable to making small sacrifices as a ruler.”
Damen tucked a strand of Laurent’s hair behind his ear. “Lovely, aren’t you.”
Laurent smiled. They drank, bathed, and ate fresh grapes until the liminal hours past midnight. Afterward, they fell asleep together with quiet ease, with their limbs intertwined.