Work Text:
2018
Shaky hands ball into fists; this never gets easier–the thrill, the cold swirl in his stomach, the fluttering of his heart. He inhales sharply and breaks into a sprint, his heavy arms swinging at his sides, feet pushing against concrete.
The faster he runs, the slower the world around him gets.
Time seems to come to a halt as he steps onto the iron railing, with a short, terrified glance thrown over his shoulder. It’s mechanical, with no reason or thought involved anymore. His knees bend, muscles flex, and legs extend to propel him into the air. The momentary lack of gravity makes him feel more alive than anything else, body light and free; Damen is lightning: fast, golden, slashing the sky amidst the clouds.
And then, far too quickly, just like any electric current, he is sent down to the earth.
Tears slide from the corners of his eyes, brushing his temples as the wind slaps his face. He keeps his gaze open, alert towards the fast-approaching ground, and just a second before it is too late, he curls his neck until his chin touches his chest, his arms crossing in front of him. The back of his head touches the crash mat, and Damen uses the impact to land a somersault, finishing the stunt on his feet.
“CUT!” The director doesn’t look at Damen, his eyes flashing over the tiny monitor at his side, ensuring they got a good shot. Once satisfied, he nods curtly. “Someone bring Auguste down–”
Knowing a dismissal when he hears one, Damen moves past the crew towards the catering table, one hand reaching for the water bottle as the other yanks the blond wig off. Behind him, he hears fussing, but the adrenaline of stunts always leaves him parched, so he focuses on how nice the water feels against his dry throat.
“–don’t care, I want to do it,” the movie star is complaining again.
A year working as a stunt double has provided Damen a wide range of experiences with actors. Some act respectfully, even friendly (sometimes too friendly). Others can be entitled, difficult, or outright rude.
Despite his immaculate fame, Auguste DeVere seemed to belong in the latter category; always having creative arguments with the director and huffing or pouting whenever he saw Damen had been cast for the day’s shooting.
At first, Damen thought Auguste had a problem with him, but he soon realised that Auguste was just deeply involved and concerned with his acting.
“It makes no sense,” Auguste replies to something the director said, “for the producers to hire me and then not let me do my job.”
“You are doing your job, Auguste.”
“Parts of it, perhaps,” he says. “I’m good enough for the sex scenes, the crying ones… but not the action? In an action movie?”
“It’s not that–”
“One would think I was sedentary,” he continues, “for you to believe I’m not able to run and jump a few feet!”
Damen snorts into his bottle, eyes roaming the blonde. Auguste is clearly fit, as tall as Damen and nearly as muscular. Their similarity is exactly what allows a new stunt double like him to be cast alongside a star like Auguste DeVere. Skin colour might differ a little, but they have Auguste more sun-kissed for this character, so Damen fits the profile. Yet the gym and his personal trainer wouldn’t prepare Auguste for the hard stunts the movie requires, and, most importantly, he is not as dispensable as Damen is.
“I don’t doubt you could do it, Auguste. I’m just saying you shouldn’t–you won’t,” the director says with finality. “You’re too expensive for us to risk. What if something happens, and we need to postpone filming?”
“Nothing will happen,” Auguste says. “I can do this.”
“What you can do,” the director says, “is follow your contract.”
Damen averts his gaze, trying to give the actor some dignity. Damen doesn’t see Auguste’s expression, but it is with a tight voice that Auguste says, “He jumped on the wrong foot. Can we go one more time? And let me coach him so he actually moves like me?”
Something in his tone should have raised Damen’s suspicion, or anyone else’s. But the director nods, then instructs the crew on another shot. Lights, cameras, mics, and the wind blower are positioned, while the director’s assistant, Linda, comes to fetch Damen.
“We’re doing another shot. Can you go back over?”
Damen raises his eyebrows but says nothing, placing his water bottle on the table. He gives her a wink, noticing how her gaze sweeps over his form, and then strolls back inside the structure that mimics a building, while putting the blonde wig back on. Once there, he is met by Auguste, a frantic electricity in his blue eyes.
“I’m going to do the shot.”
Damen is taken aback. “What?”
“Listen,” he says, tugging on Damen’s jacket sleeve to pull him up the stairs, “I need to do this. It’s my job. I’m an actor. I act–”
“Yeah, and I’m a stunt double. I do the stunts.”
“But I don’t need you,” he says, “I can do it on my own. I’m very dedicated to my job; I lost 40 lbs for that AIDS movie and gained it back in pure muscle for this spy one–”
“It’s not about your size, though,” Damen argues. “It’s about knowing how to land–”
“You can teach me that.”
“I can, but–”
“No buts,” Auguste says sharply. “Listen, Daniel, right?”
“Damen.”
“Damen,” he says, “can you imagine the publicity for this movie and my career if I’m able to say I did every stunt without a double?”
Perhaps Damen should have said that all professionals are important in a movie's production, and that it would be lovely for a celebrity like Auguste to say so in his interviews, drawing more praise for smaller jobs. But he is only 19, straight out of high school, after his wrestling career didn’t get him a scholarship to university; he doesn’t know how to properly put into words what, exactly, he feels. Instead, he just stares at the actor, watching the way his golden locks reflect the set lights.
“You’ll take your spot,” Auguste continues, “and when the director says ‘action’, you’ll stay put while I run and do the jump.”
“But what if–?”
“I can pay you,” Auguste cuts in. “Is 10k enough?”
Damen’s jaw drops; this is three times the amount he is getting for the entire movie. After his mother died giving birth to Damen, his father fell into a precipice of drugs and alcohol. The only one who saved Damen from a terrifying childhood was his older brother, Kastor, who took him into his home and raised him as his own. The problem is, to provide for them, Kastor joined a gang. Damen has vowed to release his brother from this. This money might allow him to pay the rent for the rest of the year, more than enough time for Kastor to leave crime and find a job.
Seeing the opening, Auguste grins. “Sweet,” he says. “Just tell me what to do.”
“You need to tuck your chin,” Damen says. “It’s the most important thing, to make sure you don’t break your neck. And then you use your hands, not to brace the fall, just to push lightly into a somersault.”
Auguste nods, eyes intent. “Okay. Let’s do this. Everyone is going to love my dedication.”
The following morning, Auguste DeVere’s name is in headlines across the world, none of them praising his acting skills and commitment like he would have wanted.
Instead, they all read the tragedy of his premature passing—dead in a set accident.
2026
“I got you a job,” Jo says, placing the coffee mug over the counter. Her waitress uniform barely fits her round, six-month-pregnant belly.
Damen takes the mug, tosses three spoonfuls of sugar, and stirs. “What kind of job?”
“Security.”
Damen sips. “I'm not gonna do anything for Kastor’s club. I told you two already that I want nothing to do with his nasty businesses.”
After Auguste’s death, everything changed for Damen.
Despite being found innocent by the courts — Auguste had jumped on his own, after all — Damen’s career as a stunt double was effectively over. No major motion picture company would hire him.
Kastor had risen ranks and made a name for himself in the underground world. He kept asking Damen to join him, to bask in the luxuries his way of life provided.
Damen always refused. Even when Kastor offered to buy him a “respectable business” such as Jo’s diner, he didn’t accept, because he knew that would just be for money laundering.
“It’s not that,” she says, irritation flaring in her otherwise velvety voice. “Though I wish you’d be more understanding with him. He’s all the family you have since your dad died–”
“I know that, Jo,” Damen says, placing his mug back on the counter with more force than necessary. “More reason for me not to work with him. With my record, who knows how it would go.”
She stares at him, lips pressed tight. He concedes.
“So, what’s this new job?”
“Oh, yes,” she says, handing a menu to a customer who sits next to Damen. “One of my regulars actually tipped me off about it. You’ll love it. Good money and light work.”
“Security where?”
“Bunch of places,” she says. “You’ll work as a security guard to a singer while he tours the country. Not much to do, since he already has a team in place, but you’re supposed to follow him everywhere–personal bodyguard. I assume you’ll be partying a lot–”
“Which singer?”
“I don’t remember his name,” she says, but Damen doesn’t believe her. “You’ll have to find out on your first day.”
“That’s messed up, Jo…”
“It’s two grand a week, Damen.” She places her hands on her hips. “You know you need the money. Who could possibly be that bad to work with that you’d refuse the job?”
“Laurent DeVere.”
The words seem to come from across a tunnel, muffled and distant, but their meaning is sharp against his temples; slivers of ice pour over him, raising every fine hair on his body. Dread curdles around in his stomach, black spots prickling his vision. Dizzy… he feels dizzy, tongue fuzzy where it lies heavy in his mouth.
He knows he should say something, but all he can get out is: “What?”
“Your job will be to protect Laurent DeVere,” the manager, Reg something, says. His blue eyes narrow at Damen’s reaction. “You’re a fan?”
Damen’s mouth is suddenly so dry that his lips seem glued. He peels them apart to mutter, after a ragged breath, “N-no, I’m not.”
“But you know who he is, don’t you?” Reg asks. “I mean, you’d have to be living under a rock not to–”
“I—I, uh, do,” Damen says.
“Live under a rock?”
“Know who he is.” He is the younger brother of the man I killed eight years ago.
“That’s good,” Reg says, still eying him. “I’d—well, to be honest, I’d actually prefer you not be his fan. Laurent is a difficult kid, and it’s easier to deal with him when it isn’t… personal.”
“Why—why is that?”
Reg’s lip curls slightly, a sign of displeasure. Maybe the memory alone is unsettling, or maybe he isn’t used to being questioned. “He is spoiled, extravagant, and stubborn. Nothing is sacred to him, and you best believe he will find your weakness to exploit. As you’re not his fan, it’s gonna be harder for him to convince you–”
“Listen, man, I’m sorry, but I can’t do this job,” Damen says abruptly. “You’ll have to find someone else–”
“What do you mean? You have barely started–”
“I–” Damen struggles to find an excuse. “I don’t like his music.”
“I just said that’s a good thing,” Reg says slowly, as if thinking Damen is simple-minded. “The less you like him, the better.”
“Why?”
Again, there’s that same displeasure as Reg sighs and says, “He doesn’t want to be protected.”
Damen’s brows furrow slightly. It shouldn’t make sense, but knowing who Auguste was, he thinks it does.
"He doesn't?" Damen says carefully. "I mean, he thinks he doesn't need it? Protection?"
“Not exactly,” he says, huffing. “Laurent doesn’t like following rules–well, at least not if other people make them. Hates being told what to do, when to do it.” Damen bets it doesn't happen often. “He will fight you all the way as you try to do your job.”
“Yep,” Damen says, pushing himself up. “Well, this is a problem for someone else. I can’t take this job.”
“Sit down.” The manager’s hand cards violently through his brown curls, pale face turning reddish in anger as he growls. But then, calmness washes over him. It’s almost scary how fast he can switch expressions. “I can pay you more. Is two-grand a week alright?”
“That’s already what was promised to me.”
“Five, then? Six?”
Damen shifts his feet; that is a ridiculous amount of money, and the easiness with which Reg is willing to toss it to solve a problem reminds him too much of Auguste. “It’s not about the money–”
“What could it possibly be about?” Reg asks, reaching for a cigarette inside his tuxedo. He takes a long drag and pauses, squinting his eyes at Damen. “Wait–do I know you?”
Damen coughs, glancing away. “No. I don’t–think so.”
Reg hums and lets out curls of smoke in a sigh. When he speaks again, his tone is softer, so much more intimate that it forces Damen to meet his gaze. “Please, he has already gotten three bodyguards fired. I–we need you. My nephew, he is…” He paused, tipping his chin up toward the ceiling, holding back tears. “Laurent has been receiving death threats, and I’m—I’m worried for his safety. I tried to get him to cancel this tour, but as soon as he realised that’s what I wanted, he decided he would do the complete opposite—stubborn kid. So, if I can’t get him to cancel, we need a bodyguard. And you come highly recommended. I mean, you’re enormous–I know you’ll be able to protect Laurent. So just…name your price. Name it. I’ll give you anything. The little brat is a pain in my ass, but he’s—he’s all the family I have left.”
Damen’s mind is trying to piece together how both brothers could be so stubborn, always so eager to jump into trouble. Worst of all, he wonders what kind of dark, twisted humour fate must have to put him twice in a position of being dragged down to damnation with the DeVere brothers.
But it isn’t fate’s fault, is it? Fate isn’t the one that relents, dropping its weight back on the sofa and agreeing to talk about salary, work hours, and travelling schedule. It isn’t fate that signs its name on the hundred-page-long contract. It isn’t fate that leaves that office with the mission to protect Laurent DeVere with his own life.
It’s Damen.
Because deep inside, in a raw, hurt part of him that he avoids as much as possible, Damen feels like he owes this much. Owes it to Auguste to protect Laurent's life, since Damen is the reason he couldn't do so himself.
And if there is one rule Damen has lived by ever since the incident, it is never taking the easy way out.
So when he arrives the next morning for his first day as bodyguard, Damen has no one but himself to blame for the terrified guilt thrashing inside him.
Below, the sea is violent, waves crashing against rock, foam bubbling in the creases of the cliffside. Above, the DeVere Mansion rises in tall, white stone against the orange sky, dotted with pink and purple clouds reflected in a thousand secretive windows, their curtains drawn closed.
Damen’s fingers clutch tighter around the backpack he has thrown over one shoulder. He doesn’t understand how such a big place, surrounded by nothing but nature and silence, can feel so claustrophobic. His apartment is smaller than the doorman’s cabin, he notices as he gives the man his ID.
“You’re joining the security team?” Slimy, round fingers turning the document this way and that.
“Yep.”
“You’re big,” the man says. “You plan on jumping on the assaulters?”
A laugh that comes from deep in his belly.
“If it comes to it,” Damen says.
“But you do carry a gun with you, right?”
“Naturally.”
“I’ll have to keep that while inside the mansion.”
“You’re welcome to try to take it from me.”
The man tosses him a I’m not joking stare, to which Damen replies with a Me neither raise of his eyebrows. The doorman says he guarantees the security inside the mansion and no guns are allowed. Damen counters that if Reg trusted said security, Damen wouldn’t be there, and that the gun stays with him.
One phone call to the manager later, and Damen is allowed inside with his gun. The bike isn’t allowed inside, though, and although Damen knows it is out of pettiness, he doesn’t argue, wanting to stretch time and avoid what he knows to be unavoidable.
The walk towards the house is long; the sun has gotten higher, and its heat licks the nape of Damen’s neck, dampening the fabric of his Henley around his lower back and under his armpits. His curly brown hair is sticking to his temples by the time he reaches the front porch.
A stern-looking woman opens the tall oak door before he reaches the end of the staircase. Her hands are folded before her. She is barely of age, but the severity of her voice makes her seem older. “Damiano?”
“Damen,” he says robotically.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry, I–” Damen glances back, seeing the gardens for the first time now that the beating of his heart isn’t distracting him anymore. He can’t quite place why, but the landscape reminds him of a labyrinth: scrolls of pebbled pathways that lead nowhere, neatly-trimmed grass peppered with statues and fountains, water gushing from its cherubim's trumpets and vases, patterns upon patterns of sprawling rose bushes; its thorns gleaming under the sun, blue and golden petals opening to the light. “I’m sorry.”
“So you said,” she replies, stepping aside to let him in. “Do you always say things in pairs?”
Damen frowns. “No, no–”
She raises her eyebrows. “I’m Radelle, the governess. We’ll have to tour the house later. Laurent wishes to see you now.”
And then she is ushering Damen inside, stopping short of pushing him with her small, firm hands. Instead, she signals the second floor with her head and follows him, shoes clacking against the marbled floor.
If the mansion took his breath away from the outside, then the inside has him nearly choking. The windows are all closed, protecting privacy even if only birds and bugs roam the gardens. Yet natural brightness pours through the skylight, reflecting on white stone and the metallic trinkets that line every surface.
The walls are covered with colourful paintings that illustrate ballerinas, gardens, houses, and parties in the distance, but seem like a messy array of rushed strokes when Damen walks closer.
He moves faster now, desperate to just face whatever awaits him, afraid of finding Auguste hidden behind the bronze sculptures, flower vases, and carved mahogany furniture that occupy his path.
Nothing could have prepared him for how strongly Auguste’s presence would haunt him there. The articles about the DeVere family that Damen masochistically consumed in recent years showcased portraits of the family members, but the backgrounds were either carefully curated to reveal little or overshadowed by their beauty. Still, everything here screams Auguste. His acting prizes, his movie covers, his family portraits…
Damen feels sick.
The actor had been more like his father, Aleron, a billionaire businessman, with strong eyebrows, a muscular build, and a square jaw. The same determined gaze flashed in both of their faces. But in every picture, the youngest son reminded Damen more of their mother, Hennike, a supermodel who passed two decades before in a car accident. Locks of golden hair falling elegantly over slender shoulders, their fair skin reflecting pinker when in contrast to the electric blue of their eyes—eyes like the tide that drags you under.
Damen thinks that must be why Aleron died soon after his wife, unable to bear this world without those guiding lights. Or maybe tormented by the memory of them in his son’s face. A bullet into his head, and the misery was over.
Conversation and laughter assault Damen back into his senses even before they reach the end of the corridor. Damen checks with Radelle, who nods, and then he gives the door three knocks. Silence blooms.
“Yes?”
“It’s Damen,” he says, stupidly, hand still hovering close to the brass handle.
Radelle groans next to him, pushing the door open and revealing the wide room, bathed in golden sunlight. Bookshelves line every wall, thousands and thousands of leather-bound tomes. There are more books than one could possibly read in a single lifetime, which should be daunting, but with hanging vines and bulbous succulent plants here and there, the shelves look alive, breathing into the room.
In the centre, a sunken sitting area is stuffed to the brim with plush sofas and pillows, and crowded with the weirdest assembly of people Damen has ever seen–and that is saying something, since he has worked in the movie industry and nightclubs. Colourful hairstyles, spiked and braided in different directions, bodies of all sizes covered in artsy tattoos and edgy piercings.
They are planets, orbiting around the sun. His bright yellow hair seems to have a light of its own, falling in a careless, perfect fringe over his sparkly blue eyes.
For a moment, he freezes at the sight of Damen, seeming very pale like the moon.
It doesn't surprise Damen; boys that look like Laurent always startle when they see him—see his tall, broad frame, his dark, brown skin. But then, as he slides his eyes back up to Damen's face, Laurent blushes slightly and a cruel smile dances its way onto his lips.
"So, this is the new brute my uncle thinks will save my life?" Laurent drawls. "How… tasteless."
All around, Laurent’s friends and groupies do a poor job of hiding their laughter behind ring-covered claws. Damen's face heats, but he does nothing but stare. Laurent's smile hardens, and he gets up, sauntering close with languid steps.
Unlike the rest of his crowd, who seem to display as much skin as possible, he is fully dressed. Trousers cover his legs in a dark purple velvet that tightly hugs the swell of his thighs before flaring at the knees. He wears leather shoes with golden embellishments that match the buttons on his vest and the jewellery on his ears, nose, fingers and neck. Delicate layers of lace circle his wrists and neck.
It seems absolutely too much for the informal gathering inside his home, repressive even.
"Do you speak English, sweetheart?" he taunts, head dropping to the side. Then, in Akielan, he asks, "Or should I speak your language?"
So offensive. Damen stays silent, lips parted.
"Answer me."
"Better than you speak Akielan, that's for sure, sweetheart," Damen mocks back.
Silence spreads through the room, and for a moment, with his pale fist shaking at his side, it seems Laurent is ready to slap Damen's cheeks. Instead, he merely exhales a chuckle.
"Brute and insolent," Laurent says. "That's promising."
"With all due respect, sir," Damen says. "I don't think being brute will compromise my job of protecting you."
Laurent scowls. "I don't need protection."
"Is that so?" Damen crosses his arms. "I hear you have been receiving death threats."
Around them, the small crowd erupts in gasps, eyes wide and lips parted. One or two ask Laurent if that's true; one girl needs to take a seat while she fans herself out of a panic attack.
"That's nonsense," Laurent says, waving off Damen’s words like flies. "The public loves me. I'm perfectly safe."
"Well, then I will gladly keep you company for this most safe life you lead."
"I don't want your company."
"You have it anyway, sweetheart."
"You're fired," Laurent says simply, no heat at all. Then, as if already tired of Damen, he flips on his heels and announces to his guests that he shall move the party to the pool. Shrieks of excitement, cushions being thrown away, and the ensemble getting up and fussing over the singer.
This is it. It's exactly the way out that Damen was so desperate for a few hours ago. He can go home, find himself another job, perhaps in a different city, and never again have his path cross with a DeVere. His feet should move at any moment now, light without the weight of guilt.
He did his part; he showed up. If Laurent decided to send him away after less than a dozen words exchanged, he couldn't be faulted.
Right?
And yet, Damen's feet stay rooted to the ground, and his voice is firm when he crosses his arms and says, "You can't fire me."
Laurent tosses him a bored glance over his shoulder. "Of course, I can. I just did. Don't worry, pretty boy, we'll pay you the entire day—"
"You can't fire me," Damen repeats, unsure of what moves his speech, "because you didn't hire me."
Laurent rolls his eyes. "Of course not, that was my uncle, who also works for me."
"He didn't sign the contracts as your power of attorney," Damen says. "He signed them as himself, which means he employed me. So, unless he fires me, I'm staying and doing my job."
A muscle twitches on Laurent's cheeks; he forces it aside with a smile, teeth flashing. "Well, if you want to do this the hard way, be my guest. I'm going to speak to my uncle and have you tossed before lunchtime."
Deep down, Damen doesn't believe him.
With nothing but the sheer power of his intuition, he has convinced himself that the only reason no security guard stays in this position is that Laurent is mean enough to get them to quit. He knows Laurent doesn't have the power to go against his manager's decisions—at least not regarding this.
By the look in Laurent’s face, an almost imperceptible shift of his features tightening at the edges, Damen feels his assumptions are correct. Or maybe he just hopes they are, because, even deeper down, Damen doesn't believe he can stay quiet, stand back and allow another DeVere to jump towards his death, just because he thinks he can fly on his own.
His intuitions are proven right a couple of hours later. Damen is in the kitchen, feeling too rough for the sophisticated surroundings as he sips the freshly brewed coffee. Ornate golden handles glint brightly against the dark walnut cupboards and black marbled counters. His long legs stretch awkwardly under the table, his shoulders hunch slightly as he holds the mug.
Before him, the cooks move deftly like a swarm of bees: cutting vegetables, flaming expensive meat, and cleaning up after themselves so the space remains looking like it's straight out of an Architectural Digest video.
One of them, a pretty woman with slick brown hair braided into a thick cord that reaches her hips, fills Damen's cup again and asks, "Are you sure you don't want anything with your coffee, darling?"
Damen looks up, giving her a warm smile. "No, ma'am. Thank you, though, Miss…"
"America, darling."
"Nice to meet you," he says. "Damen."
"You are a big boy, Damen," America says. "And I bet you're hungry."
"No… no. Stomach’s funny," he says. "I don't think I can eat much right now."
"Just black coffee ain't gonna help much with your stomach, boy," she says. "Maybe a chamomile tea? Calm the nerves…?"
"I'd need maybe five gallons of it to be enough," he says, wrinkling the corners of his eyes in a broader smile. “You can make that for me?”
It comes naturally for him, the flirting. It’s the way he is.
"What is bothering you so much?" she asks. "Rough first day?"
"You could say so."
She sighs, taking his mug for a sip of her own as she eyes the door that leads to the rest of the house. Damen sees indecision swimming between her eyes before she finally exhales and says, "Boss can be a little rough sometimes, can't he?"
Damen stiffens, suddenly feeling stupid for revealing so much to this woman. It is common knowledge in big households like this, full of help, that the most dangerous thing one can do is to let themselves be caught by the webs of lies and gossip. "No, it's not… that."
"I've worked for this family ever since Laurent was a baby," she says with a chuckle. "There's nothing you can say that would surprise me.”
“You’re lying,” Damen says, smiling. “You can’t be that old.”
“Aren’t you a flirt?” She shakes her head. “Laurent might be a little… extreme in the way he carries himself. But that's just because he has high standards. For him, for his work, for his house, for the company he keeps—"
Against his better judgment, Damen snorts, because the company he saw wouldn't pass the lowest standards he could think of. And that comes from someone who has frequented nightclubs ever since he learned to walk.
"You disagree?"
"No," Damen says quickly, fixing his face. "The house is great. Very well-kept—"
"We are all part of a well-oiled and synchronised machine," she says. "And Laurent is the most disciplined of us all. You'll come to see so eventually. That is, should you choose to stay."
"Oh, I'm not quitting," Damen says. "I'm just waiting to see if Laurent will have me sacked."
America lowers her eyebrows at him. "And you're sure he will?"
"I'm sure he wants to, but no, I don't think he will."
The confirmation of Damen's assumption comes in the form of a short, broad-shouldered man. He has dark curls and a thick beard, but his skin is as pale as milk. He gives America a long, heavy look, and then turns to Damen. "You Damianos?"
"Damen," Damen corrects, standing up and extending a hand. "You are?"
"Jordan," he says curtly. "Head of security."
"Ah, nice to meet you."
Jordan doesn't extend the same courtesy; instead, he lets his gaze sweep the entirety of Damen's form. "You're big."
"I get that a lot. Moreso here."
"Almost as big as Auguste used to be."
"Taller, actually."
Jordan's eyebrow jumps up. "You knew him?"
Damen swallows his heart down his throat, mind scrambling for an answer. "Didn't we all? He was the biggest actor of our generation. I loved him in that vampire movie."
"How do you know his height?"
"Searched it online," Damen says. "I wanted to know if I was taller, and—er… I was."
Jordan hums, eyes narrowed sceptically at Damen. "Well, fine, tall-guy. Come along. Don’t have much time for chit-chatting, so I'll instruct you on the go."
True to his word, he is already heading towards the dining room, pace brisk.
Damen tries to take his mug to the sink to wash it, but America takes it from his hands and shoos him away. Not without whispering something to Jordan first. His long legs easily fall into step with Jordan as he crosses the mansion.
"Listen, I don't think you'll still be here by the end of the day, so I'll be brief," Jordan says. "I've been head of security for the DeVere family for over two decades, used to be Aleron's bodyguard before his passing. Now, I oversee all the employees at the mansion, the most frequent venues where Laurent sings, and manage communication between local security teams at stadiums, nightclubs, and television broadcasters. It's a very complex job, which means I don't have time to babysit you." He pushes the French doors open and starts strolling down the courtyard. "I don't know what shit hole you dug yourself out of, but we don't talk back to our employers here. When Laurent lashes out at you, you suck it up and stand quiet if you want to keep your place. Understood?"
Inexplicably, Damen wants to keep his job, so he nods. "Yes, sir."
"Your job is as easy as it gets," he says. "You have to become his shadow. Wherever he goes, you follow and make sure he doesn't get hurt. If he wants to go to the bathroom, you enter before him, clear the area, and then let him in. You'll sleep in his suite in hotels, follow him on outings, and wait backstage during his concerts. The only place he is allowed to be alone is in his bedroom inside the house, because we have a security system and more than ten guards here. You met Jean at the entrance, didn't you?"
"I did."
"Good." Jordan strides through the garden, circling the house and coming towards the garage. "Even here, you'll stay in the house. You sleep when he sleeps, but keep one eye open to protect him if needed. You have no free days until we neutralise this threat. Is that understood?"
Damen hums in confirmation. "It said so in my contract."
"You got a family back at home?"
"Nah, my parents are dead," he replies. "Got a brother, but he and his girl live somewhere else. They got a baby coming."
"Don't care," Jordan says. "Bathroom and eating breaks are free when we are here, but if out, you need to make sure there's another guard from the on-site team watching him. You get it?"
"Yeah." Damen waits as the garage door opens, revealing dozens of sports cars. "How big is his on-site team?"
"Depends on the venue," Jordan says. "At bigger, more dangerous locations we can outsource a team of local day-workers. But our private team can be up to five people, including you. The others are Orlant, Govart, Maurice, and me. That's for bigger events; on smaller, less public outings, it'll most likely be just you and one other. For example, you're now accompanying Laurent to a local radio station, and Orlant will be driving."
"Alright—urgh!"
Damen grunts as Jordan, who had been opening the door to one of the big, silver cars for him to get inside, pins him against the bodywork. Jordan might be much smaller, but with the swift, surprise attack, Damen can't reach for his gun, squirming instead under the knife pointed at his groin.
"Listen here," he hisses, "everyone on my team has been working for this family for at least five years. Now you come, and take the most prestigious and riskiest position of all, with nothing but a short conversation with Reg. I don't fucking trust you. So you bet your big ass I'll be keeping an eye on you. And if you risk Laurent's life, or disrespect him again—you'll answer to me. Do. You. Understand?"
"Yes," Damen breathes.
Stepping back, Jordan gestures for the door, and Damen enters, rubbing the spot on his jeans where the knife punctured the fabric, leaving a small hole. The driver, Orlant, is already seated, dark sunglasses hiding his gaze, and a set jaw hiding any greeting. Damen doesn't extend his hand either, instead shifting in his seat and thinking hard about everything that happened today.
Nothing in the Laurent he met explains the weird protectiveness he gets from his employees.
People like him—haughty and entitled, who enjoy mistreating those beneath them just because they can—usually have higher turnover among those who work for them. Yet, except for his personal bodyguards, it seems everyone in this place stays for years, decades even.
What draws them to that? It can't be only money; there are hundreds of other celebrities to serve in this town.
The car leaves the garage, gliding smoothly over the pebbled path towards the main entrance of the mansion. Orlant parks for less than a minute, and then Laurent leaves his place, skipping steps towards the car. He wears tight jeans that expose the muscles of his thighs, and a puffed jacket with white fur that contrasts with his light blonde hair. His diamonds catch the sunlight, making him seem like an angel, with those blue eyes partially hidden by bright pink sunglasses matching the glossy lipstick on his mouth.
Laurent enters the car, and Damen doesn't know what he had been expecting as a greeting, but it surely hadn't been to be completely ignored.
Patrician nose held high, Laurent pulls out his phone and talks to his fans on social media. All bright smiles, warm words, and that hypnotic energy that lights up the room—Damen wonders what it would feel like to be granted that attention, but he is thankful to be ignored instead of insulted.
The rest of his first day goes as cold and free of bumps as the ride to the radio. After Laurent's interview, they take him to eat dinner with his friends at a fancy spot in midtown. Damen checks the bathroom when Laurent signals he wants to use it, and that’s it.
Flashes of cameras and jabs of questions attack him on his way into the restaurant, but Damen doesn't have to do much to hold people back—easy, since they all seem to be afraid of his stature. He shares a table with Orlant, and between them, they eat considerably more than the near-dozen people at Laurent's table.
As dinner stretches into clubbing, Damen wonders whether, despite not sparing him a single glance, Laurent isn't more put out than he shows. The man holds himself distant from the rest of his crew. He is still the centre of it all, of course, with his funny stories and clever remarks, but he doesn't join anyone in laughter, let alone in dancing or drinking. He stays sober the entire time, austere even, with his cool eyes roaming the room as if playing chess.
He comes home alone and shuts his bedroom door in Damen's face without a single word.
The next day starts early. Rising before dawn, they head out to the desert heat for a video shoot.
Damen watches Laurent's skin glinting with sweat under the sun, watches the way Laurent's throat works as he drinks water, watches how he shakes his head to brush the golden waves off his face. He observes it all, but the pain of being back on a film set with Auguste's brother is like a knife driven into his chest. Twisting and twisting and twisting until everything inside turns to jelly.
Only, here there aren’t fighting scenes or dangerous stunts; instead, Damen is presented with the view of Laurent, deep blue gauze billowing in the wind behind him, singing to a camera close-up. His face is serene, nothing of the hateful scowls Damen knows. They bring a long-limbed girl, probably Laurent’s age, have him holding her hand against the orange sunset, have him kissing her lips under the starry sky.
After the shoot wraps, Damen discards the water bottle he’d crushed in his fists as he follows Laurent toward his trailer. There, a package of fan-sent gifts waits for him at the end of the stairs.
“You can leave now,” Laurent says swiftly, picking up the box. Damen is not looking at the motion of his hips as he walks up the flight. “The trailer is far too small for me to endure Akielan’s smell.”
“Don’t care,” Damen says. “You’re not to be left alone, so I’m coming in.”
Laurent groans dramatically, plopping onto the couch. He uses the tip of a pen to open the box and smiles delightedly upon seeing a collection of his favourite chocolates inside.
Damen wrinkles his nose. “You surely don’t mean to eat those.”
“What do you mean?” Laurent frowns in disgust. “Of course, I will.”
“It could be poisoned.”
“Look, you brute,” Laurent says, showing him the seal. “These are imported from Patras, so unless my stalker invaded their factory in Bazal, then—”
“Tough shit. I won’t let you eat unless proven safe.”
“Fine then,” Laurent grunts, breaking the seal and plucking out one of the chocolates. “Why don’t you try one, and if you don’t drop dead, I’ll eat the rest?”
Concluding that dropping dead might be better than enduring the rest of the day with this person, Damen extends his hand to receive the sweet.
“Uh-uh,” Laurent says, malice glinting in his cool eyes. “Drop to your knees and let me feed you like the good dog you are.”
Damen scowls, but he knows what game Laurent is playing. Arrogant prat that he is, he probably thinks Damen would never stoop so low as to follow those instructions. Laurent wants Damen to give up their tug-of-war.
But he won’t.
He refuses.
Instead, he sinks slowly but heavily to the floor and opens his mouth. Laurent’s lips part infinitesimally, but he quickly schools his surprise into a smirk.
Time comes to a halt, suspended like snowflakes between the tips of Laurent’s fingers and the smooth surface of Damen’s lips. Space seems like nothing but a social construct–Laurent is close enough for his scent to bathe Damen, but so far away it seems his hand will never arrive at its destiny.
There’s something unfamiliar, wrong even, about this exchange between them. Something that shouldn’t be happening in broad daylight, on a set packed with workers.
Damen knows he would hate for anyone to enter and somehow stop this stupid thing he has started. What is he doing playing pet with this snake?
Still, he keeps his lips parted, and for all his bravado, Laurent doesn’t tease with the act: he places the chocolate in Damen’s mouth and retrieves his hand immediately, even as his blue eyes keep stuck on it–clear and foggy at the same time.
“It’s safe,” Damen says, rising from the floor. “Have all the chocolate you want.”
The trailer has been proven empty, and yet Damen’s head is full, so he leaves Laurent alone and goes for a walk to cool off under the blazing sun.
A few days later, they are soaring over the countryside in one of Laurent’s private jets. Cream-coloured walls are adorned with purple velvet, and plush seats are upholstered in leather. Damen finds himself gazing into the clouds, contemplating angels, with their golden locks and sky-blue eyes, just as the devil himself claims the seat next to him.
“Why are you here?” Laurent asks.
“I thought you had a gig at–”
“No, I mean, why are you working here?”
The truth revolves around Auguste, but Damen won’t mention his name. The words your uncle also hover between them, but Damen can’t bring himself to taint this moment with them. Not when he knows it will piss Laurent off and make him leave. Something stupid inside Damen wants to hold his attention, so he sighs and goes with the easiest thing. “The money’s good.”
Laurent grunts. “I could pay you double to leave me alone.”
“Your uncle wouldn’t agree with the expense,” Damen argues. “Why would you use your allowance on me when–?”
“I don’t have a fucking allowance. I spend what I want of my fortune.” He sounds disgusted. “And even if I did have one, I bet it would still be more than you make a year–”
“Ever since I arrived, you have done nothing but lie and manipulate things. I think–” Damen bites back a smile. “I think it wouldn’t be wise for me to bet against you. You’re too smart.”
“And you’re smart enough to realise that,” Laurent says, turning his face away. Damen imagines he is also hiding a smile.
“It might be a ridiculous amount for you,” Damen says, “but it makes a huge difference for me. I’ve never earned so much in my life.”
“Is that what prompted you to become a security guard? Money?”
“Enough money prompts me to work with anything.”
“So you’re a whore.”
Damen wants to be angry, but he can’t find it in himself. “More like—like desperate.”
“What else have you done for money?”
Killed your brother. He shrugs instead. “Attended tables, cleaned bathrooms… only things you never have to concern yourself with.”
“I have worked ever since I was a baby,” Laurent says. “Diaper modelling with my mom.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure it must have been exhausting for someone like you.”
Laurent looks at him. “You think I’m a spoiled brat.”
“Correct.”
Humming, Laurent says, “Well, it is easy for you to judge me so much; you know everything about me. I’m public knowledge. My house, my family–”
Damen winces slightly, and his mind scrambles for a change of subject. “What do you want to know about me?”
“Nothing. I want to forget you even exist.”
The words land like blows to his face, leaving his face hot. Damen wishes more than anything that he could tell Laurent the truth–could fix this muddied thing between them and be honest. Wishes he could tell him…
His lips part, but before he can say any of that, Laurent puts on his headphones and pretends to sleep.
Days bleed into weeks–Film shoots, interviews, outings, fittings, shows, red-carpet appearances, clubbing, training, and so much more. Wherever Laurent goes, Damen follows. Waits for him from across the hall at charity galas, sleeps on a mattress on the floor in his hotel rooms, and accompanies him to secret meetings in odd locations.
He is still summarily ignored by his boss, the shining star he was hired to protect, but the others surrounding him, the moths circling the bright light that is Laurent DeVere, they grow warmer to Damen.
Now, it no longer surprises him to see how admired and respected Laurent is by everyone around him. It might be intriguing, the easy answer being that they favour him for his looks rather than his personality. But it is such a consensus among anyone who encounters the singer that Damen can't blame it on special treatment or a one-off.
In fact, it seems like he is the one getting special treatment. Laurent almost never meets his gaze, but when he does, it is with eyes hard as steel and lips curled in distaste.
Spoiled—like fruit left too long on a vine.
Sour, but only for him.
Damen has kept his mouth shut, being as professional as he can. Yet he isn't used to licking boots or kissing ass, so he holds his chin high and even arches a brow now and then, daring Laurent to attack him, to come at him, hands on his neck, punches on his chest and… anything.
Then he remembers what he did to Auguste and feels shame crawling up his spine; he shouldn't even look at Laurent—should keep his eyes downcast and do his job as penance for his sins.
Other episodes of discrimination or rudeness haven't followed the first; Laurent treats everyone—from famous billionaires and celebrities, to the cleaners backstage at his shows—with the same deference and politeness.
He seems like an angel, and Damen feels like he is about to corrupt him somehow.
Corrupting Laurent DeVere has been the subject not only of his thoughts, but also of all the media fuss. They try to pin people Laurent meets in bars, clubs, or public events as possible affairs. They draw theories about his sexuality. Is he gay? Is he straight? Does he have many lovers? Is he saving himself for marriage?
He dodges the question gracefully whenever confronted with it in interviews, of course, but Damen hears the gossip between Laurent's own friends and employees. They all have their own bets as to who is bedding the superstar, the country's sweetheart, elected the most handsome man by Woman's Weekly for three years in a row. None of them is with him all of the time, so they all think he must be hiding something or someone.
They are all wrong, of course. Damen knows this because he is always at Laurent's side, and knows that none of his dalliances with rich, gorgeous supermodels or athletes (male and female) have ever resulted in anything—not even a kiss.
"Such a waste," says Orlant one night, as they share a beer under the fairy lights outside the kitchen door to the gardens. "He has it all: fame, money… looks. Women throw themselves at his feet all the time."
"Men, too," Maurice says, smirking over his bottle.
"Blargh, don't say that shit, bro," Orlant says.
"What? You're the one saying it's a waste."
"I mean of his resources, not of him."
"Well, I think it is a waste of him," Jordan says from the kitchen. "He is so pretty."
Damen, who stood with his back resting against the door frame, looks at him. The other men sit up from where they were slouching.
"Relax," he tells them. Then, at Damen, he says, "What are you looking at? I can appreciate a pretty man. Can't you?"
"I've never," Damen says, feeling his face hot. "I like women."
"Oh, they're the best," Jordan says, snatching America by the waist and planting a kiss on her forehead. "But a way around a man is easier, wouldn't you say?"
"Are you flirting with me?" Damen asks, half-joking. America tinkles with laughter. They haven't all exactly become friends with Damen, but it is impossible to remain strangers with someone you spend every day with. Unless, that is, if said person is Laurent DeVere. "Should I be flattered?"
The two men burst into cackles while Jordan scowls at him. "You're not my type of man. I like mounting. I think you'd be the same."
Damen shrugs, shaking his head. "I like women."
"So you said," Jordan says.
"We actually thought–" Orlant starts but then stops himself.
"You thought what?" Damen asks. Silence yawns between them, charging the air with the dangerous electricity of a thunderstorm. "Huh? What did you think?"
"We thought you and the boss…" Maurice trails off.
"You know," Orlant adds.
"No, I don't know," Damen says, frowning. "What do you mean? He hates me. Hell, even tried to get me fired."
"Yet you're still here," Jordan says.
"We don't talk, like ever."
Maurice pushes himself up to get another beer. "Last I checked, fucking doesn't require much talking."
"We're not fucking."
"Yeah, we know…” Jordan tries. “They're just messing with you."
And mess they did because up until this point, Damen hasn't really allowed himself to contemplate such thoughts. The contradiction of seeing Laurent's arctic eyes flashing with the heat of desire. Only… it isn't possible, or rather, plausible.
"Laurent is frigid," says Orlant. "Better for Reg so he doesn't have to share his part with possible little brats."
Such a comment prompts Jordan to call it a night and send them all to their respective quarters. Damen takes the stairs to get the room adjacent to his little star, thinking a lot about what they said.
Like the layers of expensive fabric that cover his skin, or the metres of luxurious construction that wraps his existence inside the manor, Laurent's body and heart are tightly covered and protected. He is not only frigid, but also extremely repressed, pulled taut like a bow and kept that way.
Always on edge; always defensive.
2 vThat is, perhaps, what startles Damen when, after two months working for Laurent, the singer asks him to enter the changing room at a haute-couture modiste atelier they find themselves in.
"Help me with my zipper," Laurent says.
"W-what?"
"Come in and help me, you brute," Laurent whines. "Are you deaf?"
Damen pushes the velvet curtains, exposing the small changing room. Unlike stores at the shopping mall, the walls aren't covered with mirrors, but instead, with a deep forest-green painting that makes Laurent's skin, already so fair, practically glow in his nudeness.
Unbothered by the lack of clothing, Laurent stands tall—only his front is covered by the silk that spills out of his hands, which he holds close to his chest. His back ripples with muscle, and though he's leaner than Damen, he's no small man. Damen's gaze lowers, watching the place where Laurent’s back flares in curves, and sees the taunting start of his globes being annoyingly covered by the zipper’s tail-end.
"Will you take the entire afternoon, sweetheart?" Laurent asks over his shoulders, the dip of his yellow lashes brushing his high cheekbones.
Damen's gaze snaps back to the zipper, and his feet drag him forward until his breathing strokes Laurent's bare skin, erupting goosebumps along his spine.
His shaky hands reach for the zipper, but he is too much of a brute; a miscalculation causes his thumb to press directly against Laurent's sacrum, which prompts the blond to shiver.
Damen's other fingers instinctively stretch along his lower back to support Laurent. He is conscious of how close they are, of how hot the air feels inside this changing room, of how naked Laurent is and how heavy his own breaths are. He lets the zipper down, moving his hands to the sides of Laurent's hips. He curls his fingers, digging them into muscles.
"Don't be presumptuous," Laurent sneers.
"Too late, sweetheart."
He doesn't know what prompted him to say so; it is almost like he is drunk with the proximity—with the raw, primal desire that hardens between his legs. Laurent flips to face him, letting the fabric drop to the floor between them as he narrows his electric blue eyes at Damen.
Laurent's hand moves to slap Damen across the cheek, but Damen stops the movement, catching him by the wrist. They stand there for a few seconds, breaths suspended, eyes stuck on each other.
"This doesn't end here," Laurent vows, stepping past Damen to leave the room.
When Laurent gave him that promise, Damen wasn't exactly expecting to be invited into his bed that same night—and to be honest, he didn't know what he would do if Laurent did.
Damen had never had a man before. The only things he was any good at involved wrestling and inflicting pain. But with Laurent, everything felt upside down.
But he surely didn't think things would remain the same.
Except they did; for the rest of the week, Laurent continued ignoring him, acting as if Damen was nothing but something easily squashed under his designer shoes. Nothing. Nobody. A slug, perhaps.
Friday night, however, things change.
After the second gig, Laurent, still in his turquoise silk shirt and his sapphire jewellery, announces that they will go to a club. When Damen starts for the VIP box, where Laurent's friends usually watch the gigs, the singer shakes his head.
"Just you and me this time, sweetheart."
Time in the smooth car ride is measured by the heartbeats Damen feels in his ears, his nerves gnawing at his insides, threatening to swallow him whole. A line with hundreds of well-dressed people, faces heavy with makeup and eyes light with drugs, meanders around the block, signalling their path to the club’s entrance door. Orlant goes to park while they go ahead.
With barely a second glance, they are immediately admitted by the bouncer. Inside the packed club, music pounds in their eardrums, vibrating through their chests. Sweaty bodies press against each other, hips swaying to the rhythm of the music. Overhead, clouds of smoke envelop the ambience in a foggy haze—an enamoured trance.
Laurent's yellow hair drags Damen's attention like a siren's song; he follows the singer deeper into the dense crowd, madness threatening to overspill. His eyes dart sideways, scanning, attempting to maintain a semblance of a patrolling façade. In this moment, however, he feels more like a sheep than a shepherd. He watches the sway of Laurent's hips, tracing the muscles in his back and neck visible through the flimsy fabric of his shirt as he pushes through the crushing crowd.
Eventually, Laurent stops, turning to face Damen. His eyes are almost transparent, reflecting green, purple, pink, and blue as the club lights shift to the beat of the music. He lets his head fall to the side, indulgent eyes roaming over Damen's form. Then, he starts dancing, hands in the air and spine undulating in a hypnotising motion.
Damen steps forward, wanting to feel the movement in the confinement of his hands, wanting to pull Laurent close, memorise Laurent's heat against his front, watch those eyes as closely as humanly possible, their lips pressed together. He doesn't do this, assaulted by the violence of his own desire—by the sheer volume of it.
Before he can either fight or flee the tug Laurent has on him, Damen is distracted by something else. Fiery hair spilling from a high ponytail, an elegant, slender neck and exposed, pale-skinned back in her sequin dress. It shimmered with the movement of her hips, barely covering the curve of her arse.
The woman wraps her arms around Laurent’s neck, drinks the laughter from the singer’s mouth with words brushed against his lips. He caresses her back, respectfully keeping his touch away from the most daring places. The woman’s emerald eyes glance over her shoulders at Damen, and she grins, turning to confirm something with Laurent, who nods.
She saunters closer to Damen, grabs him by the hand and pulls him towards Laurent. Damen feels the heat of Laurent’s body, pressed tightly against his side. Laurent moves with the music, fabric dragging over fabric, skin ablaze. Shifting sideways, Laurent positions himself behind Damen.
It is an odd arrangement for Damen, not used to having people on his back. His body stiffens, his neck pulls taut from where Laurent’s chin rests up to his crown. Around his sides, Laurent extends his hands to grab the woman’s wrists and pull her closer.
She giggles, landing on Damen’s chest with both hands stretched, feeling his muscles. Her fingers curl, bunching the fabric and pulling him down to meet her in a kiss. Damen darts, avoiding the collision, but ends up getting a glimpse of Laurent’s profile, sniffing his cologne from this proximity.
“What is it?” the woman asks over the music, pouting slightly. “Won’t you kiss me?”
“I–I’m not interested,” Damen replies.
Her face darkens in annoyance. “Am I not to your liking?”
“No–it’s just… well, I’m working.”
Next to him, Laurent chuckles. “You came on to him too strongly, Nicaise,” he says. “Go slower… tease him more. Yeah, that’s it. Now, why don’t you turn around for me.”
Nicaise grins mischievously at Laurent, then flips on her back. Laurent grabs her hips and tugs her, so that her backside is pressed against Damen’s front. Guiding her movements through the beat of the music, Laurent has her caressing Damen’s clothed cock in a soft, maddening circular motion.
“That’s it,” Laurent coos, his breath hot against Damen’s neck, his arms burning Damen’s middle. “He likes it like this. Touch his face.”
Obeying, Nicaise caresses Damen’s cheek, his jaw, his neck… all of it while rubbing her ass against a growing erection between Damen’s legs. Emboldened by his reaction, she moves more cruelly, almost roughly. Once or twice, Laurent signals her to go slower. Her fingers card through Damen’s curls on one side; Laurent’s do the same on the other side.
“That’s it,” Laurent whispers. “Now, turn around, let him see how pretty you are… Slowly, that’s it. Good girl.”
Nicaise turns, beaming at the purred praise, her breasts squeezed against Damen’s stomach.
“Touch him lightly,” Laurent says, and Nicaise runs a pathway of goosebumps up Damen’s body with the tips of her fingers. “Sniff him. He has the scent of a man, doesn’t he?”
She trails her nose on Damen’s neck, causing him to gasp slightly. Then she meets his jaw, pressing soft pecks at Laurent’s command. By the time she reaches his lips, Damen is too lost to the moment. It’s not Nicaise, though; it is all Laurent.
His hands grab her by the waist, yanking her flush against him. He smashes his lips onto hers, kissing her with all the roughness he has been saving for… for…
The ghost of Laurent’s presence is still behind him—haunting him, torturing him. Nicaise’s kiss is sour, prickling Damen’s tongue and running through his veins like opioids. This should be good. He should like this. But he feels dizzy, almost drunk with the woman in his hands.
He feels… feels…
What does he feel?
Parts of him scream that he should be more aware—more cautious. What is he doing? He is supposed to be Laurent’s bodyguard and not… not… the kiss deepens, and the heat of Laurent presses harder into his back as the woman moves them to the music.
Instead of leaving, however, he crushes her tighter, relishing the way her spine undulates to the fevered music.
Time moves with the beat of the songs; faster and faster and faster. It increases the more they dance and kiss and dance and kiss. Somewhere along the way, Laurent’s warmth goes missing from behind him, but Damen is too distracted by the effervescent sensation in his face, the lightness of his limbs and the pressure of Nicaise against him to care.
Suddenly, like a plunge into freezing waters, everything changes.
Large hands dig painfully into Damen’s shoulders. His brain mocks him, claiming it is Laurent, but even through the haze, Damen knows better. He is hauled back, and has the forethought of ducking, knowing he's about to be punched.
Iron explodes within his mouth as a fist crashes against his jaw with a sickening crunch. On instinct, Damen raises his hands to block his face, moving towards his assailant: a tall man, shoulders broad, and biceps bulging through the short sleeves of his shirt.
Damen throws a jab that doesn't land, and at that moment, he understands his body is not responding to his mind, movements almost heavy... sluggish.
Something is wrong.
This is wrong.
It’s strange, Damen thinks. His upbringing in his neighbourhood, coupled with his family’s involvement in various illegal matters, has given him considerable experience in street brawls. It’s not usually this hard.
It’s not…
It’s…
It dawns on him with sickening clarity: he has been drugged. More than that, he has been making out with Poison Ivy herself for hours.
In his brief career as a stuntman, Damen learned that sometimes you just have to dive, not caring much about the conditions. So he lunges at the man, unthinking, fist colliding with a hard jaw.
There's a disturbing, crushing sound, but Damen doesn't stop when the man hits the floor. He straddles his waist and continues landing punch after punch on the guy's face. He doesn’t care. He can’t care. His fist continues to land its mark even as the crowd breaks into a circle around them. He’s vaguely aware of people screaming.
The world around him is swaddled in softness, a puffy, colourful cloud in which he punches, punches and punches, gets hit in return–but feels nothing.
The only thing Damen pays attention to is the slowly disfiguring face in front of him and the pair of ankles on the periphery of his vision, signalling that Laurent is still there. Good. He doesn’t know why this certainty matters so much to him, but it does–a comforting weight chaining him to reality.
His attention on Laurent earns him an overturn. The man below him is strong as well, flipping positions a few times and hitting one or two blows against Damen. Pain explodes across his face like shattering glass. His shirt dampens with sweat and blood, the club’s dirty floor staining both their clothing. Crimson marks Damen's vision, and he thinks he might just be capable of killing if things continue escalating like this.
Then, there are hands on his shoulders, and Orlant is yanking him up.
"Damen!” Orland grunts. “What the fuck are you doing? This is Govart—Govart! Reg's bodyguard."
Sweat dripping from his curls, lips slack on a panting frown, Damen glances at Laurent, who smirks at him. Malice is bright in his blue eyes.
He got Damen to do exactly what he wanted.
They are inside a VIP area in the club, bathed by the dawning sun. Laurent's uncle holds a cigarette in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. Govart is across the room, a bag of ice pressed against his swollen eye.
Now that the heated hate and most of the drugged haze have cooled, Damen thinks himself stupid for not recognising the man earlier. They had never exchanged words, but they'd frequented the same events several times in the previous weeks.
“I hire you to take care of my nephew,” Reg begins, “and you pick up a fight with my bodyguard in a bar?”
Damen stares at him. He thinks about the way the night started, all the expectation he had. He remembers the feel of sequins in his hands, the feel of Govart’s jaw in his hands. He sees the yellow of Laurent’s hair, the red of Govart’s blood. He knows he should be more mature than this, but he is sore and still blinking away the remnants of confusion. “I was only defending myself–I didn’t know–”
“Didn’t know what?” Reg asks. “What? That he works for me? You think I buy that, Damen? You’ve met… what? A thousand times?”
“He punched me first.”
“You were kissing my girlfriend,” Govart barks. “I should fucking kill you, you piece of–”
“What were you thinking?” Reg inquires over Govart.
“I had no idea she was his girlfriend,” Damen grunts. “And she was the one who kissed me–”
“For Christ’s sake, boy,” Reg snaps. “She kissed you. He attacked you. You’re 6’5”. Want me to believe you’re just a helpless puppy–”
The men chuckle around him, but Damen doesn’t take the bait. Well, he almost doesn’t take it. “A helpless puppy that got his face” –he jabs a finger in Govart’s direction– “fucked up.”
“I think,” Reg starts, “that the only explanation for this reckless behaviour is illegal substances. Now, in your contract, you agreed to unannounced drug testing due to Laurent’s history with substance abuse. I think if I were to test you now–”
“They drugged me,” Damen says. “So you’d definitely find something.”
Reg leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. His lips slowly spread into a cruel smirk. “Who’s they?”
"This time you have gone too far," Reg says sternly, ten minutes later.
Damen starts, “Well, sir, I–”
"I'm not talking to you," Reg replies, turning to Laurent, who has been summoned from his own lounge to participate in the conversation. "I'm talking to my nephew."
Laurent, who had one elbow propped up the backrest of his chair and one leg leisurely extended before him, frowns innocently. "Me?"
"Considering you’re my only nephew, I believe I’m talking to you." A drag from his cigarette. "And I know you very well, Laurent. I know you want to get your bodyguard fired, but having him beat Govart is just unsportsmanlike." His gaze slides to Govart. "He could have caused a concussion."
Govart grunts. "I'd like to see him try."
"Not with that eye, though," Damen mumbles. "I don't think it will allow you to see much."
Govart pushes the wall, lunging in his direction. Orlant and Jord hold back his advance, but he spits out curses against Damen, who holds back a chuckle.
"You hear that?" Laurent says exasperatedly. "He is completely insubordinate and inconvenient."
"Sounds like a perfect match to you—"
"This brute is not cut out for working for me; he doesn't even recognise people's faces. What if it were a fan?"
"But it wasn't," Reg argues.
"If a fan threatens me or you," Damen says, trying to remain calm, "you can be sure they'll get the same treatment."
Laurent glares at him, lips parted slightly. "Hypocrisy looks good on you." The words pierce through Damen's chest, guilt assaulting him like a thief in the night. Then Laurent turns back to his uncle and says, "He nearly killed Govart—"
"And who's to blame?" Reg asks, head falling to one side. "Whose are the drugs?”
"Not mine,” Laurent says, still looking pointedly at his uncle. “Test me if you’d like.”
“You know I can’t,” Reg says. “If you have a relapse, I’m obliged to admit you to rehab, and we have already sold tickets for the remainder of the year.”
Laurent snorts. “Of course, wouldn’t want to risk the shows.”
“You talking like that,” Reg says, “is precisely the reason you are still under tutelage; you don’t take your career seriously, you have no responsibility, acting like a spoiled brat. You need a security guard, and you need to stop trying to manipulate your way into freeing yourself from him–”
"What about the bad press he will bring me?"
"I've paid tonight off," Reg says. "No one will know."
"I didn't approve this expense," Laurent says.
“But I have.”
Silence falls around them; it would be possible to hear a needle drop to the ground. Laurent’s shame and humiliation are two felines circling him, making him desperate, meaner. He sneers, "It's my money—"
“Since you seem close to a relapse, I’m going to call the board of investors,” Reg says. “I don’t think you are in the right mindset to access and manage your finances anymore. I believe only an allowance will be more than enough. Who knows? It might teach you a thing or two.”
Damen watches Laurent's face burn red, the room suddenly seeming too crowded for that kind of exposure.
"You wouldn't dare."
"For your own good? I most definitely will."
"Oh, don't pretend you're doing this for anyone other than yourself," Laurent sneers.
"You're grounded," Reg says. "If you somehow manage to convince me you've matured, I can revoke this decision. Until then, I think it's safer for you to stay home. No more outings like this; from now on you'll only leave the mansion for work."
"Of course, filling your pockets while you empty my vaults," Laurent sneers, flipping on his heels and storming out of the room.
Damen is following him when the manager calls him back. "Don't fall for traps like this again. I won't excuse you the next time you harm something within my property."
"Why would you do something like this?" Damen asks as they enter the car; the drugged trance is dissolving into a searing headache.
Laurent's gaze slides to Damen; he has his fingers curled in a loose fist against his lips. His eyelids flutter, and he glances away.
Damen reaches for his hand. "Laurent, I'm speaking to you!"
"Yeah, well, you shouldn't be!" Laurent hisses. "Certainly not in that tone. Respect your superiors—"
“My superior?” Damen frowns "What's your problem?"
Laurent's angelic face twists into a scowl, his lips curling downward and his eyes glaring at Damen. "My problem is that I hate you. You have been forced on me as a sort of humiliation; you have attacked my employees and me because you clearly lack any level of civility that I would expect from someone working for me."
"I don't work for you," Damen says defensively.
He doesn't like the version of him he sees reflected in Laurent's face—in Laurent's words. The man already hates him, and that's even without knowing that Damen is the reason his brother is dead.
Already damned, Damen adds, "I work for your uncle."
"Yeah. I know,” Laurent sneers. “I can see that clear as the day." His lips curl in distaste. “I work for him, too, didn’t you see?”
Any resemblance of support or familiarity that Damen had built with Laurent’s household vanishes in a puff of smoke. No more coffees are waiting for him in the morning or warm conversations around beer bottles at night. Everyone seems to think Damen is to blame for the trick Laurent pulled on him.
“You must have done something,” says Radelle. “Something offensive enough to–”
Damen remembers his hands on Laurent’s hips, remembers his breath caressing the back of Laurent’s neck. His face burns, and he says, “Offensive enough for him to drug me and set me up for a beating?” Radelle closes her mouth. “You know what he wanted, right? He wanted Govart to kill me. He planned it all along. Having me fired was only the backup plan.”
Radelle clicks her tongue angrily but is kept from saying anything as Laurent summons Damen to his room. Once he arrives there, Laurent makes sure to pointedly ignore him, going on with whatever it was he was doing, drumming fingers on piano keys and humming quietly, while Damen stood awkwardly in attention next to him.
The ceiling inside the hotel room has seventy-three uneven spots, high patches where the constructors who did the plastering probably could have sanded better before painting. Damen knows this because, clutching tightly to the blankets that cover him, he can’t bring himself to so much as close his eyes.
He is “sleeping” in a sofa bed, only a few feet away from Laurent’s lean body, which, by the soft breathing sounds of it, is deep in slumber. The reasonable part of Damen’s brain wants to lie, to convince him that the uneasiness comes from anticipating a possible attack on Laurent’s life and that it has nothing to do with the beast in emerald silk pyjamas.
The truth, however, is that sleeping in the same room as Laurent is like being caged with a serpent: the serpent can rest, but you can’t. Heart threatening to break through his throat, and he tosses from side to side and still can’t bring himself to calm down.
Damen gives a long look at the bottle of tequila that Orlant gifted him earlier, considering. He shouldn’t drink on the job, but technically the room had been cleared, and Laurent was asleep, so he could relax. Just a sip, to take the edge off, let him doze off…
The third shot is burning down his throat when he hears it. The clicking at the door lock sends him to his feet; he reaches for his gun as he walks toward the anteroom. Four men, dressed all in black and hidden by balaclavas, barge inside, guns pointed. They clear the area as they advance.
Concealed by a column, Damen thinks fast. He might be able to take them all down, but the first shot will alert them to his position and make them fire back. He needs to take advantage of the element of surprise and wake Laurent.
Stepping back in silence, his gun still pointed, he reaches Laurent’s bed and taps him with two fingers. The singer’s eyes snap open, and he obeys Damen’s signal, asking for silence. Damen signals for Laurent to enter the bathroom, and once he hears the door shut, he goes back to face the invaders.
Two of the men have shoved their guns into the holsters as they go through Laurent’s jewellery, stuffing their pockets. Deciding these two will have slower reaction times, Damen aims for the third, furthest ahead, and fires a clean shot to his head. The silencer does its job, so Damen is able to take down the fourth before the other two have registered what is happening.
They spring into action, grabbing their guns and firing aimlessly in Damen’s general direction. Dodging the bullets, Damen throws himself on the ground and rolls for cover behind a couch.
“It’s only the big guy,” one of the bandits says. “Go find the slut, then we can–urgh!”
Damen misses slightly, shooting the man’s shoulder instead of his big, stupid mouth. It gives his location, so that the other man can send a bullet into his chest. Damen moves just in time to protect his lungs, but still gets a graze wound and ends up dropping his gun.
While the shooter moves deeper into the room after Laurent, the man with the injured shoulder jumps on top of Damen. He has a knife. And maybe, if his shoulder wasn’t injured, or if Damen wasn’t a former wrestling athlete, or if rage wasn’t boiling in Damen’s blood… Maybe, he could’ve won.
Instead, Damen easily puts him into a headlock, counting the seconds until the man passes out. Tequila slurs Damen’s senses, making his counting slower and more difficult, and he only stops clutching when he hears a shot in the other room. Damen’s heart stops, and he finally lets the limp body fall on the floor, with no pulse anymore.
Damen pushes himself up, left hand pressing tightly to slow the bleeding on his side, and limps towards Laurent’s room. He is terrified of what might be waiting on the other side. He can’t see another DeVere, beautiful and bloodied on the floor; he just can’t.
“I k-killed him,” Laurent gasps, covered with blood, his beautiful silken pyjamas ruined. On the floor, under him, lies a still-groaning man, blood gushing out of his stomach. “I tried to take the gun from him, b-but I–”
“No, no, no,” Damen says softly, walking towards him. He takes the gun out of Laurent’s shaky hands. “You didn’t kill him, you just shot him.”
“I–”
Damen aims the gun at the man’s head and pulls the trigger. “There. You didn’t kill him. I did.”
He reaches for Laurent, as if to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, but the singer jerks back. “Don’t touch me.”
“Okay.” Damen sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll call security, get the police here and everything. You–”
“Wait,” Laurent says. “You should say it was me.” He glances around. “The four of them.”
“Laurent,” Damen says, “you didn’t kill them.”
“I know, but–” Laurent groans. “It will be easier for me to protect you from any–”
“I’m here to protect you,” Damen says, pulling him into a hug. Laurent doesn’t hug him back; he stands there rigid as ice. “Not the other way around.”
Even so, Laurent does protect Damen. Instead of the police, the first person he calls is Jordan. The head of security is there in a couple of minutes, taking in the crime scene with a muscle jumping in his cheek.
He and Laurent exchange a few quiet words, and Jordan tells Damen to take a shower and get changed. It’s weird for Damen to use Laurent’s bathroom, to stand there naked where the singer was once naked himself.
Once the police arrive, Jordan says, and Laurent confirms, that he was the one on duty during the break-in. He gives Damen’s gun for inspection as his and provides his contact information as the investigation proceeds.
“You should be alright,” the police officer says. “With a clear record and no ill connections as you are, acting like this, in self-defence, I doubt any charges will be pressed.”
When said like that, Damen realises what Laurent has saved him from, without even knowing. Damen has a police record, with Auguste’s investigation, so it wouldn’t be his first offence. Besides, he has a brother who is wanted dead or alive by the police. If he had been the one with four bodies on his back, he doubts he would be left to wait charges at home. When they leave, Damen asks Jordan why he did it.
“Boss doesn’t want to feel in debt with you,” Jordan says. “He told you to take the favour, and leave him–and I quote– the fuck alone.”
He didn’t even have the courtesy of talking to Damen himself.
A couple of questions from the police. A couple of hours at the hospital. A couple of shows and appointments cancelled. And just like that, everything goes back to normal. Laurent’s walls of ice and deception grow back around his beautiful face, and he doesn’t speak to Damen again.
A new routine has taken root in their lives since the incident at the hotel, which everyone seems to have forgotten. The media and Laurent dismiss it as a burglary gone wrong. Damen and Jordan keep their hackles up as if expecting the next murder attempt.
However, time passes, and it brushes even their alertness away.
Days drift by with nothing but hours standing next to Laurent inside the house as he hosts lavish parties or accompanying him to shows around the country.
Several members of the investment boards in his father’s companies come to visit; they say how worried and sorry they were to learn of the attack on his life, but mostly they pledge their alliance to Laurent’s cause, respectfully saying, without saying much at all, that the manager’s actions might have been misguided. Surely they expect Laurent to remember their solidarity in ten months, when he assumes control of everything his family owned.
Damen is amazed by how well Laurent navigates these proceedings. Despite having the habit of feeding nothing but lies and insults whenever Damen is involved, Laurent is a good talker; that is sure. A magnetic charisma that seems to pull everyone to his feet, scavenging for any scraps of attention and sympathy he might give.
Without an opening to talk with anyone else, Damen feels his resolve cracking, words tumbling out many more times than it would be advisable. He asks Laurent about the songs he is writing, about the people he has over and about the fans.
In the beginning, Laurent ignores him, but begrudgingly shares a few or two words in response whenever the stars align or whatever prompts him into being in a better mood on random days.
Those are rare, though. Laurent’s foul mood, his cruel attitude, was enough to get Damen much lenience, being excused for nearly anything as long as he said it had been Laurent’s order.
That’s how he manages to get a full gym set installed in the mansion, requesting it firstly from Radelle and later from Reg himself, who wanted to ensure that he hadn’t understood it wrongly.
“Laurent wants to start training?”
“He does,” Damen lies, shrugging. “With the prohibition of going out, I think he hasn’t been able to keep up with his usual–”
“His usual?” The manager shakes his head. “Laurent doesn’t pull weight.” A cruel chuckle. “Isn’t it obvious in his scrawny form?”
Damen has been an athlete for as long as he can remember, sport being what pulled him away from following a similar path to his older brother, Kastor, or his father. He can see that, despite not being ripped with muscles, Laurent has followed a steady, efficient practice for years: it’s visible in his posture, the shape of his limbs, and his stamina to put up with all the performances.
He doesn’t say so, though. “Maybe he wants to start now. Wants to build a healthy lifestyle when forced to be at home.”
Reg eyes him for a long time. “You two have gotten close.”
“I’m not sure what you mean–”
“Have you been fucking my nephew?”
“No, sir,” Damen splutters. “No, no, no. Of course, not–”
The manager doesn’t seem to believe him, thick browns lowering over his blue eyes. “It would be a first. Laurent, despite loving the bohemian lifestyle, seems to be a bit too uptight to share a bed with a fan or a whore… I suppose it makes sense he would go for something different, more manly.”
Damen’s lips feel dry, grazing against each other as he tries to think of something, anything to reply to that. He doesn’t.
“I wouldn’t be mad about it,” Reg says finally, signing a piece of paper and handing it to Radelle. “It would do good for Laurent to let someone close. Someone I could… trust. Could you be that person?”
Here in this mansion, entangled in a web of lies, power, and control, Damen misses his old neighbourhood. At least there, you could trust the honesty of a blade or a gun; people argued, fought and killed while looking you in the eyes. In here, everything has layers, deception veiling true intentions.
Damen understands Reg’s request, but he doesn’t feel comfortable meddling with the family affairs. Standing between Reg, after all he saw him do, and Laurent feels like standing between a scorpion and a viper–regardless of who wins, Damen can’t leave unscathed.
“I don’t think, so, sir.”
“I’d ask you to reconsider,” Reg says with surprising softness. “I know I might seem too severe, but I’m merely concerned with my nephew’s well-being. You see, Laurent–after his brother’s death, Laurent struggled a lot. He fell into an extreme substance addiction that almost took his life.”
“What?’
“He was admitted to a rehab clinic for months,” Reg says. “I would hate for it to happen again. I wish you’d help me keep him healthy. If a gym will do it, then it is approved.”
Once everything is done, Laurent enters the gym cautiously, his feet light and hands balled into fists at his sides, as if he expects the entire room to explode on his face. His fingers caress the leather seats of the machines, and he glances back at Damen.
“You did this?”
Damen shakes his head. “Your uncle.”
Laurent scowls. “I had forgotten you two work together. How foolish of me.” He turns, crossing his arms. “You two were fools as well building this. I do not exercise. This is a useless expense.”
“I know you train,” Damen says. “If you’re uncomfortable doing it in front of me–”
“You don’t have the power to make me feel anything,” Laurent snaps. Then, realising himself, he inhales sharply and gives Damen his back. “What makes you think I–”
“You know what.”
Silence drips between them; Damen seems to feel every inch that keeps him apart from Laurent, and his arms prickle at his sides, wanting to move forward, to stretch and pull, to… He steps back. “I’ll wait outside.”
It only takes a couple of days for Damen to find Laurent’s room empty in the mornings. Skipping steps towards the gym, he would always find the golden locks there, big headphones preventing him from noticing Damen’s arrival.
Laurent sang while he trained, sweat dripping down the curves of his back, his shaking muscles exposed in the white tank top he wore. Damen felt his feet stuck to the ground, lips parted as if his tongue was too big inside his mouth, fingers flickering at his sides.
He could have watched Laurent at the gym forever. Nowhere else is he as free, as mindful. Well, that is not true; when he is doing music, Laurent reaches a flow state and surrenders to the present, letting go of all restraint and deceit. But even that is a performance, while this is something Laurent does solely for himself.
The first time Damen tries to assist him, Laurent snaps and leaves the gym for the day. But around the fourth time, Damen approaches tentatively, hands stretched in surrender and light steps as if Laurent was a skittish doe who could run at any moment. He shakes the thought off; Laurent was closer to a dangerous wildcat than a helpless doe. This time, Laurent lets him be there, holding the weight bars whenever Laurent reaches his limit.
Two weeks in, Damen invites Laurent for a run outside instead of the treadmill. They push their feet against the soft sand of the beach next to the mansion, streams of sunlight reflecting golden against Laurent’s hair, his scent being carried with the sea salt into Damen’s system. Laurent is faster, his light body easily building distance from Damen’s heavier form. Or maybe, Damen just likes to linger behind and make sure Laurent’s in his line of sight.
For Laurent’s security, of course.
And it’s for the same reason that they spend hours basking under the sun afterwards, resting on the rocks by the shore, their shoeless feet dangling just out of reach of the waves, sprays of salt tickling their calves. It’s for Laurent’s sake that conversation twirls easily between them.
Wearing white and armed with latex gloves and swab sticks, a team of doctors arrives at the mansion one day. Govart guides them, assuring the security team that the manager himself vouched for the procedure.
They collect samples of Laurent’s hair, his nails, pee and saliva. The entire ordeal is extremely humiliating, seeing as the medical team needs to be present for the entire collection to guarantee Laurent isn’t cheating.
And if there are others near Laurent, Damen is there too, making sure, between the limits of what’s possible, that his star is protected.
“The results will come in two weeks,” says one of the doctors, closing her briefcase.
“I’d like for you to quit.”
Damen gives him a long, tired look. “Laurent, I thought we were over this now. I’m not going anywhere–and I–I figured you’d grown accustomed to me by now.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to grow accustomed to you,” Laurent says. “But if you won’t leave of your own free will, not even after the incident at the hotel,”–Damen’s jaw drops, for that is the first time Laurent brings that night up.–“Then I suppose I must take matters into my own hands.”
“What for?”
“It bothers me to risk you,” Laurent says simply. “I think you’d be of better use alive, and elsewhere.”
“I want to be here,” Damen says, his heart beating exposed in Laurent’s cruel hands. “I want to work for you.”
The crowd booms so loudly that it numbs out in Damen’s ears. His eyes roam the sea of heads, the cellphone lights dancing in the darkness. Wearing lace, velvet and gold, Laurent plays the piano intently, soft, deep notes twirling in the air above them.
Eventually, he gets up, as he has done so many times before–the show routine has become familiar to Damen. He grabs the microphone and sings, his sweet voice travelling through the madness of the night straight into Damen’s soul.
Damen understands the shrieking fangirls around him and feels himself carried by the collective hysteria that fills the stadium, because even from this distance, it seems Laurent is singing to him. The electric blue eyes find him, the lyrics dissolve into unimportance while the melody glides through Damen’s ears.
When he finishes, Laurent silences the crowd. “I want to thank you all for coming tonight. This is a very special gig to me.” His gaze lands on Damen, hot and intense; it makes Damen’s stomach tumble. Then, he looks back at the crowd and says, “As you must know, I come from a family that lived under the spotlight almost since forever. You saw me grow up, accompanied me going through the hardest moments of my life.”
The ground escapes under Damen’s feet. He knows. Laurent knows. The certainty of it is a stone tied to Damen’s neck, sinking him low, low, low…
“Now, I live a very comfortable life,” Laurent continues. “I have no need for financial resources. I could stop working at any moment.”
Cries of protest explode around them.
“But I won’t,” Laurent says. “Because I love this too much. Music is who I am, is my way of communicating the feelings trapped inside my chest.” He bunches the fabric of his shirt, hand disappearing under lace. “So I plan to continue singing as long as you’ll have me.”
Shrieks of forever and Laurent, we love you!
“But I don’t feel well putting this money in my pocket anymore,” Laurent says. “From now on, I want to donate 100% of the profits from my gigs. I have selected a few organisations, most of them located in Akielos, our neighbour country that has been battling poverty and hunger for so long at the outskirts of our blessed nature.” Behind him, the screens start showing pictures and short clips of Akielos, the golden sand, the colourful houses, the bronze-skinned people, the children, the animals, the towns and the slums. Damen feels his face wet, tears gliding down his cheeks. “Most of the money will go to fund schools, hospitals, food banks and also to support charities for Akielan immigrants here in our country. For transparency, you can follow all the accounting for this project at www.vereforakielos.com!”
“Why did you do it?”
The question is asked in the privacy of Laurent’s changing room, Orlant and Jordan guarding the door to keep anyone out. The television is on, breaking the silence that stretches between Laurent and Damen, a reminder of the flames that Laurent’s little stunt has ignited in the outside world.
Outside, Reg is probably furious; the declaration is not only impacting revenue but also affecting every business in the DeVere conglomerate. No one wants to invest in something that doesn’t generate profit. Still, the announcement was made public and has already gone viral across the internet, with the general public praising Laurent’s generosity.
Part of Damen, the cynical one, knows it was an easy move for Laurent to make, since he already had no access to his profits. More than hurt him, his jab affected his uncle. And this was probably the main reason for Laurent’s donation: a public humiliation to match the one Reg had exposed Laurent to.
Even so, Damen can’t help the bubbly, grateful joy inside his stomach.
“Laurent,” Damen says again. “Why did you do it?”
“I did it to get back at my uncle,” Laurent says dismissively, removing his makeup. “Don’t go thinking it had anything to do with you, sweetheart.”
“But it has,” Damen says. “It’s my country, my people, my–”
“Exactly,” Laurent replies. “Who do you think my uncle will blame for this change of heart in me?”
Damen’s fluttering heart shrinks into a rotten twig and drops inside his chest. It is always like this with Laurent; nothing is what it seems, and every mood is carefully calculated to ensure maximum result. He angered his uncle and got Damen fired, all with one move that made his popularity skyrocket.
“I’m still thankful,” Damen says. “Despite you having done this to hurt me, you’re helping people in need. Thank you–”
“Don’t bother.” Laurent waves him off. “You may leave now. Your job here is done.”
Damen’s feet carry him to the door, and his hand rests on the doorknob when he looks over his shoulder and decides that fuck it, he is going to say something. “Do you want to get out?”
Laurent’s gaze meets his in the mirror. “What?”
“When your uncle gets you, he’ll probably not allow you out of the house again,” Damen says. “Do you want to go out with me… Tonight?”
Laurent’s eyes are cold shock, staring at Damen like he has grown a second hand. Then, slowly, a smirk blooms on his lips, cruel and beautiful. “Is that a date? Are we lovers now?”
“I’m your bodyguard,” Damen says, ignoring the heartbeat thundering in his ears. “I’m just offering you one night of breathing before–”
“I’m locked away in a tower far, far away…” Laurent says softly, looking at his makeup palette. “And you want to be a knight in shining armour. Well, then… Let’s go. I’d like to see what a brute like you does to have fun.”
Knowing they wouldn’t be able to leave through the front door, Damen and Laurent escape through the fire escape. The iron gate is locked; Laurent starts going back up the stairs, ready to give up or search another way, but Damen kicks it until the chains burst. Laurent is looking at him when he ends.
City lights stretch into lines as they speed by. Below them, the motorcycle engine hums steadily; above them, the night air rushes in an exhilarating motion. Damen leans forward in the steering wheel, using his shoulders to twist it in the direction he wants to go. Behind him, Laurent sits stiffly, not wanting to grip too tightly, to show weakness or intimacy.
Damen takes him to a hidden spot, a cliff secured by thick woods, where they sit on a wooden bench, with the sea of skyscrapers below and the blanket of stars above. Laurent keeps a distance of nine inches between him and Damen, but the warmth of his proximity is enough to leave Damen’s hands tickling.
“You brought me here to kill me?” Laurent asks.
Damen laughs awkwardly; the truth is he comes to this place to think and occasionally to mess around with girls. “No.”
“Kiss me then?”
Face hot, Damen looks at him, at his lips, pink and swollen and slightly puckered as if ready for a peck. He sighs, clasping his hands together behind his neck, and glances away. “My brother used to bring me here.”
Laurent sits taller, his neck tense. “Brother?”
“Yeah, Kastor,” Damen says.
“You never mentioned a brother. Are you close?”
Damen regrets bringing the subject up; perhaps he should have said yes when Laurent suggested a kiss. “We used to be. Now, we’ve taken different paths.”
“You should reach out…” Laurent says coolly. “You’ll miss him when he’s not around anymore.”
Damen looks at him, feeling barbed wire around his throat. “You miss Auguste.”
It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t get an answer. Eventually, Laurent’s hand finds his. His fingers are hard on Damen’s, as if he didn’t want to be touching him. Damen doesn’t move, barely breathes, afraid of scaring him away.
He turns his head, and when he is about to say something, he is cut off.
“Tomorrow,” Laurent says, “you’ll be fired. You’ll be sent back home, perhaps even back to Akielos… My uncle is a powerful man, and while he can’t dispose of me, he can dispose of you.”
“Laurent…”
“Tomorrow,” Laurent repeats, “You’ll be gone. But tonight, you’re still mine.”
Laurent skates a hand through Damen’s neck, causing the surface to explode in goosebumps. His fingers thread Damen’s curls, tugging at the roots to bring him closer. Lips hovering a minty breath of distance, Laurent whispers, “I wish you could be my protector for longer.”
Longer. Damen wishes this night would stretch into forever.
“Laurent, I’ll be your bodyguard for as long as you’ll have me,” Damen breathes, eyes jumping between pink lips and blue irises. “You must know that.”
“I do,” Laurent says. “But maybe now is my time to protect you.”
When he finally closes the distance between them, velvet lips caressing Damen’s rougher ones, Laurent sighs prettily into the kiss. He blooms like a flower, petals open to welcome Damen in. Damen’s hands clasp around his waist, pulling him until Laurent almost straddles him. A deep, guttural hunger he didn’t know he was hosting roars into life, devouring Laurent in its wake.
“The only thing I fear,” Damen whispers against his mouth, his forehead resting on Laurent’s as he pants, “is you.”
Laurent chuckles, a tickling sound. “As you should,” he whispers. “I would break your heart if you gave it to me.”
“I think so, too,” Damen groans, pushing another kiss into Laurent’s lips.
Their tongues stroke each other lazily, searching for each other’s taste deep within. Laurent’s hands slide, so that he is crossing his arms at the back of Damen’s neck, kissing him desperately. When he finally breaks, he whispers, “But I think, if I gave you my heart, you would treat it kindly.”
Instead of answering with words, overwhelmed by the assault of emotion and desire, Damen grabs Laurent’s hips and yanks him onto his lap. He kisses him, kneading Laurent’s backside with strong hands, urging him closer.
Eventually, Damen’s finger meanders too close to Laurent’s centre, and Laurent stiffens.
“What’s wrong?” Damen asks.
“Nothing, I just–” Laurent trails off, glancing away. His face turns pink, lips rolling in uneasiness.
“Hey, it’s alright,” Damen says, rubbing his arms up and down. “We don’t have to do this. Shit, I’ve never done this either–not with a man at least.”
Laurent flips to glare at him. “I’m not a virgin.”
“Oh…”
“I just–didn’t have a good experience before.”
Damen nods slowly. “How can I make this experience good for you?”
Laurent shakes his head.
“If you don’t want to…”
“I do,” Laurent says quickly. He seems annoyed, as if Damen is being difficult on purpose. “I just–Don’t worry about me. Just get on with it.”
Not worry about Laurent? Damen doesn’t think there is a universe in which that is possible. Laurent is the sun; there is no surviving without it. He showers light and warmth into Damen’s body, alighting him with desire, not only for sex but for life itself.
“I want to take pleasure in your body,” Damen says slowly, “but only as long as it pleases you, too.”
Laurent doesn’t seem inclined to believe in him, so Damen decides to prove it. He gently extricates Laurent from his lap and sits him at his side on the bench. Then, Damen drops to his knees and stands between Laurent’s legs.
“Look, I’ve never–only received.” Damen reaches for Laurent’s belt. “So you gotta tell me if it feels good.”
“I’m not gonna reciprocate,” Laurent says quickly.
“You don’t have to,” Damen frowns. “I just want to do this.”
“Okay.”
“Can I?”
“Yeah.”
Damen caresses Laurent’s thighs then, slowly. He reaches for the zipper and tugs it down, revealing the erection inside, already dampening a small splotch in his briefs. Damen strokes him over the fabric, feeling every ridge and vein, relishing the way he twitches in his grip.
Laurent’s head falls back, a soft keen leaving his parted lips. Damen grins and takes off Laurent’s underwear, so that his cock jumps out. Damen pumps it slowly, twisting his wrist at the head like he personally likes it. It doesn’t immediately get the reaction he wanted, so he tries something different and presses a thumb to the underside. Laurent groans, hips buckling.
“That’s it,” Damen says. “Sing for me, little star.”
And then, he closes his mouth around Laurent’s head, twirling his tongue to coat it with his saliva before he starts bobbing his head up and down. Laurent’s slender fingers find his hair, and it’s the tightness of the grip there that guides Damen into increasing or slowing the rhythm of his ministrations. His own cock is rock hard inside his trousers, painfully requesting attention. But this is not about Damen.
Laurent’s orgasm comes as a shock to the two of them, hitting the back of Damen’s throat and shaking the entirety of Laurent’s muscles.
“I’m sorry,” Laurent gasps. “I didn’t–”
“Don’t apologise,” Damen says, licking the salty tip after he swallowed everything. “I like it. Liked getting the great Laurent DeVere out of control.”
Damen leans forward and kisses him with reverence; slow and decadent. Laurent grabs his face and pushes his tongue into his mouth, completely undone. He pulls Damen up and closer, wrapping his legs around Damen's middle.
“Wait,” Laurent says.
He sucks on three fingers, letting drool slide down his knuckles until they are soaked. Sliding them past his abdomen and cock, Laurent reaches down and circles his ring of muscles with his fingers, working his way inside slowly.
Damen looks at it mesmerised. “C-can I do it?”
Without waiting for a response, he pushes Laurent’s hand with his head and starts licking at Laurent’s entrance, making sure it is full of saliva before he starts slowly fingering it, coaxing it into relaxation. He doesn’t know where to look–if down at where he enters Laurent or up at the mess he has reduced the singer to.
It’s all too perfect.
“I need you–” Laurent whines. “I need you inside, please.”
Damen didn’t need to be told twice. Getting taller to his knees, he pushes his trousers down and lets his cock slam rock hard against his stomach. He closes his fingers around the base, smiling at the way Laurent stares at it.
“I guess you’re proportional,” he says.
“Let me know if it hurts.”
Damen pushes inside slowly, just the head first. Stars burst in his vision, the tightness of it making him lose his breath. He looks down and sees Laurent’s eyes pinching shut, so he leans in for a kiss, wanting to relax his little star, make sure he feels nice and safe.
Their kiss distracts them both, until they are, with simultaneous rocking of their hips, rutting each other, Laurent desperate to have him all the way in, Damen craving to reach deeper inside Laurent.
And then, flesh meets flesh, Damen's entire body pressed against Laurent, his cock buried balls-deep. He feels like his chest cracked in two; the cold night air bites into his heart. Damen rolls his hips, and the moan that escapes Laurent makes him thrust harder, gaining speed.
Damen grabs one of Laurent’s legs and pushes it up, crooking his elbow under Laurent’s knee. The new angle allows him to hit a spot that spurs another orgasm out of Laurent. Instead of an explosion, however, this one is long, drawn out and sustained, Laurent’s muscles clenching almost painfully around Damen’s cock.
He gasps, pistoning inside, and making a fool of himself, letting all his secrets spill out of his mouth as he fucks Laurent. How beautiful Laurent is, how Damen wishes he could be inside forever, how Damen wants to keep him forever, how he needs him, how he loves him. Damen's orgasm washes over him like a tidal wave, and he drops his weight over Laurent’s sweaty body, kissing him reverently.
All the stars shine bright above them, a canopy of light sprinkling into the infinite darkness, but Damen only has eyes for the star breathing heavily on his chest.
Their bodies wake up entangled under the dawning sun's warmth, dew sprinkled over their skin like snowflakes. Damen moves his arms, enjoying the feeling of Laurent’s muscles against his. A bird is chirping in the distance, and he presses a kiss on the spot right under Laurent’s ear. He chuckles when he feels the singer’s protests, waving him off with a frown.
It doesn’t take long for Laurent to push himself up, his face once again as hard as marble, layers carefully built around him once more. He dresses himself, not meeting Damen’s gaze, and Damen allows him to, only because in that moment he too is confronted with what they had done, the lines they crossed.
Damen had never wanted a man the way he wanted a woman, but he had never wanted a woman the way he wants Laurent. Laurent is the brightest star; he is the sun, and like Icarus, Damen wants to fly closer, despite knowing that he will fall to his death.
After this realisation, guilt crawls under his skin, leaving behind an unsettling prickling that has Damen pacing back and forth between the bench and his bike.
“Regretting your decision?” Laurent asks calmly, as if the answer doesn’t matter at all to him.
Damen is, but not for the reason Laurent thinks. Yes, it was the first time he made love to a man; coming to think of it, it was the first time he made love, period. He had shared beds with a considerable number of women, but nothing like this. Being inside Laurent finally made the expression ‘sink home’ make sense. Still, Damen was disgusted with himself.
For so long he had told himself that Laurent was a lying, manipulative man, but now he sees that he is the true monster. Isn’t he the one who accepted a job inside Laurent’s home despite knowing that he had taken his brother from him? Isn’t he the one who kept this fact a secret and deceived Laurent into lying with him?
“Laurent…”
“Spare me,” Laurent says. “I do not care. I just want to go home.”
“I can take you.”
“I’ve called Jordan,” Laurent says. “You should get lost. Disappearing with me was not a reasonable thing to do.”
Damen waits in silence for the black sedan to arrive, his eyes travelling all through Laurent’s fair skin, his muscled body, his delicate features. His heart swells inside his chest, so large and full that it constricts his breathing. Damen feels dizzy. Several times, he opens his mouth, ready to say something. Ready to confess what he did, to apologise, to beg…
But the black sedan arrives at the end of the dirt trail before he can do anything. Soon, golden hair swishes in the wind as Laurent walks down toward the car, and Damen is left alone. The sun breaks over the horizon, spreading a blanket of red light that bleeds into orange before fading into bright blue. The morning air is crisp against his tears.
Laurent is gone, but of course he is.
“Did you see the news?” Jo asks him, pouring coffee into his mug.
Damen shakes his head, eyes too focused on the bundle of blankets in his hands. It’s hard for him to see his brother’s little girl, knowing the kind of danger this innocent soul was born into. He wants to take her away and protect her; Damen wants to protect the entire world. He catches himself thinking of Laurent.
“Apparently, your former boss posted a video on YouTube last night.” Jokaste wipes the counter; there is a light rattling sound as Damen’s mug clinks against it–he is shaking. “Said his manager, his uncle, had abused him for years, that he introduced him to heavy drugs and such—“
“What?” Damen places the baby in the stroller with all the gentleness he can muster before running to get his phone. This is hard for him; he’s too much of a brute to deal with delicate things.
His eyes scurry the news as Jo goes on, “Yeah, apparently the guy not happy with only destroying the kid’s life also wanted his money. Had been stealing for years; now apparently he is about to force Laurent into rehab, even though Laurent swears he is clean.”
Everything he reads corroborates what she says. Trending topics on every social media platform; Laurent and his uncle star in one of the biggest scandals of the decade—billions of dollars worth.
He needs to see Laurent.
It’s easier said than done.
Paparazzi crowd the entire perimeter of the DeVere Mansion; a kettle of vultures circling the tragedy to get their fill. Damen finds himself punching his way through, only to be denied entrance by the new doorman.
“Laurent knows me,” Damen says, exasperated. “I need to speak to him.”
It’s useless; Laurent doesn’t want to see him.
Weeks roll into months, and the only news Damen gets from Laurent comes through his phone. He is used to searching for DeVere, eyes sweeping quickly over the screen to gauge any new information; he has spent the previous eight years like this. But even with Auguste’s death, it had never been so painful–his heart is the old newspaper, crumpled carelessly to be tossed in the fires.
Damen finds another job, this time on a construction site–he doesn’t want to be around people, especially pretty and famous ones. He wants to tire his body enough so his mind is silent when he goes to sleep. Damen can’t stand listening to Laurent’s voice anymore; it haunts his dreams, his every thought, his every breath.
That’s why he doesn’t immediately believe it when he hears: “Hello, lover.”
Dropping his hammer to the ground with a loud thud, Damen looks up and sees him. Standing before Damen, his lean, muscular torso resting on a beam, his long legs crossed at the ankles.
“Laurent…” Damen has a hard time talking to him without touching. As if he is now entitled to the feel of Laurent’s skin after tasting it once. Laurent is dressed simply: jeans and a black turtleneck. The silver chains match the diadem and earrings he uses. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” Laurent says, blushing slightly.
The construction site sits atop a hill, stripped of walls for now. The wind is cold against Damen’s face; this, or maybe Damen is feeling too hot. “Why would you do it?”
“I enjoy being annoyed,” Laurent says. “And with the issue with my uncle resolved–I suppose it’s time the job is passed to you.”
“I annoy you?” Damen asks. He knows he is being stupid, worrying about the wrong things. But the truth is so heavy and spiked he is afraid to approach it.
“Tremendously.” Laurent speaks it in Akielan, pushing himself off the beam.
Something about his native tongue has Damen’s lips parting asininely, like Laurent stands naked before him or the other way around. He hadn’t realised how much he feels clothed when speaking someone else’s language. “You denounced your uncle.”
“I did.” Laurent stands closer to him now, craning his neck to meet Damen’s gaze.
“Why?”
“I figured sometimes we need to destroy the chains that lock us.”
“I’m proud of you.”
Laurent’s blush deepens, spreading to his ears. He bites back a smile, raising a hand to reach for Damen. “I missed you.”
“You left me,” Damen breathes out, voice breaking slightly with emotion. “Y-you got me fired and…”
“I needed to protect you,” Laurent says. “I’d known my uncle had been trying to kill me for a while now, but I thought—well, when I realised that his actions could result in your death as well, I had to do something.”
Damien’s fists curl in anger. “I’m supposed to protect you,” he grinds out. “Not the other way around.”
Laurent smiles. “Forgive me, sweetheart.”
Damen lets a reluctant tear roll down his cheek. “I can’t believe he did that to you. I want to kill him—“
“I doubt he’ll have an enjoyable time in prison,” Laurent says with a Cheshire grin. “They tend not to like child molesters.”
“Well, in any case, I should’ve been the one—“ Damen gasps, sobs burbling up his throat. “I owed you to protect you, and I failed—“
“You owed me?”
“Yes.” His voice breaks, and his head falls.
“Because of Auguste?” Laurent asks, and Damen’s eyes snap up.
“You…?”
“Of course I knew,” Laurent says. His palm lands softly on Damen’s cheek, wiping his tear with a thumb. “As soon as you walked in. I suppose my uncle thought it would be a cool mind game to put you near me–or maybe he thought you’d distract me enough for him to kill me.”
“Now, why would he think that?” Damen inclines his head, pressing harder against Laurent’s touch. It’s warm and soft and precious.
“He was right,” Laurent says. His other hand comes up to cradle Damen’s face. “You are awfully distracting.”
Damen knows the meaning hidden between those words, and even if he had any doubts, there is no denying the intent flashing in Laurent’s clear eyes. Clear as the sky after the clouds scatter. Laurent is a bright day all of Damen’s enjoyment. But he shouldn’t be. “You’re supposed to hate me.”
“How could I?” Laurent chuckles. “I swear I’ve tried, but you made it impossible–”
Damen is crying; it’s ugly and embarrassing. “Why not?”
“My entire life,” Laurent starts, “I believed my brother died because of his arrogance and the stupidity of a money-driven brute. I thought you knew the risks Auguste was taking but didn’t care. All my life, I was surrounded by the lack of care. People respected us, envied us; they wanted our favour–but seldom did anyone care. But when I got to know you—“ Laurent stops. He looks up his blond lashes at Damen. “I met the most gentle, honourable, and strong man of all. I can’t believe you didn’t care for Auguste. I don’t think you have it in you not to care…”
“But I should’ve known better.”
“And so should he,” Laurent says.
“Laurent, you need to know how sorry I am,” Damen blurts out, reaching for him. He desperately wraps his arms around Laurent, tugging him closer, letting himself be consoled by the man inside his embrace. “Laurent…”
“My love,” Laurent says. “I know. I know. You shouldn’t get my forgiveness, since I don’t hold you responsible for anything but–I know you needed, Damen. So I forgive you. I forgive you.”
