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Kydippe of Thrace was– at least to the eyes of Laurent, who was both uninterested in women and unfamiliar with Akielon standards of beauty– quite pretty. She had black hair that fell naturally in loose ringlets, not unlike Damen, and she had a lush mouth, not unlike Damen, and roundly-muscled shoulders and well-proportioned curves (not entirely unlike Damen). She had a soldierly sense of humor and a smart mouth, which she mostly used to drive Nikandros into rants and exclamations that she and Damen snickered at together and Laurent fought the urge to smile at. She’d been useful in handling last summer’s flooding; she’d lent her name to their abolition efforts without a qualm. She had good table manners.
Laurent hated her.
“You know,” Vannes drawled, “you can’t actually set people’s hair on fire by looking. I have tried.”
“I fear I do not take your meaning, my lady,” Laurent said. Since Vannes had already seen, he didn’t bother to take his eyes off Kydippe, currently making Damen boom with laughter across the hall. Nikandros looked sour beside them; the joke must have been at his expense.
“I think he might even ask her to dance,” Vannes said. It was true– as the musicians struck up the next tune, Damen was looking around for someone to take his cup.
Laurent took a sip from his glass of water. “My brother of Akielos can dance with whomever he likes.”
“Oh, of course,” she agreed. “I understand he has historically been quite the sought-after dance partner, if, ah, somewhat difficult to keep pace with–”
Here they went. Laurent knew, from experience, that he was not blushing. “Is he,” he said, neutrally.
“Is there a reason you have not joined the dance, Your Majesty?” Vannes asked.
Laurent was not inclined to stand or walk, much less dance– he was, embarrassingly, quite sore, from Damen’s enthusiastic attentions this morning (and last night, and the night before that). “No reason,” he told Vannes.
On the dance floor, Kydippe laughed. Damen’s hands went all the way around her waist as he lifted her into the air. She was older than Laurent, Laurent thought spitefully– but women reached their bloom later, of course. He could, if he wished, stand up and clink his glass for silence and announce– what, that Damen had taken him twice this morning? That he groaned Laurent’s name when he came?
“She is quite lovely,” Vannes observed. “Do you know if it’s only men she favors? I know she does favor them, of course. She has such a pretty shape to her– I don’t know how I’d describe it–”
On the other side of Vannes, Talik said “Big tits.”
Laurent put his glass down. He already had a headache– he’d been kept awake for much of last night by his amorous barbarian, and was not going to sleep much tonight, given said barbarian and the stack of correspondence he had been neglecting. His ass hurt even on the cushioned chair. He was tired of loud feasts and diplomacy; he was tired of people talking at him; he was tired of watching Damen whirl around the floor with well-bred Akielon ladies with horselike laughs and big tits–
Damen happened to look at him over Kydippe’s shoulder. He smiled. It looked like his other smiles– a flash of white teeth, a round dimple– but the soft set of his eyes revealed it to be the one he reserved for Laurent.
Laurent thought hard about ice water.
“You look flushed, Your Majesty,” Vannes said wickedly.
He left the feast before Damen did, sat at his desk and grimly dedicated himself to the task of answering letters from his Kemptian relatives, all of whom would be thrilled to open relations with Vere now that it would cost them nothing. They did not say they wished to open relations with the Empire; they were not an empire yet, though they would be.
The door swung open just as he was telling his least pleasant cousin to enjoy the gift he’d sent along (his very able secretary, Mathieu, would arrange for something suitable). Laurent ignored it, concentrated on making his signature appropriately large and loopy. He was sitting very upright already; this chair had no cushion.
“You should be a calligrapher,” Damen said.
Laurent made a sound of annoyance, setting the paper aside to dry, and pulled out the next letter, reading the first line several times by accident. Damen was five feet or so behind him, setting his laurel crown aside; he would be unpinning his ceremonial cloak in his casual way, big fingers nimble on the pin, tossing it over the rack. Laurent’s lower back was in goose-prickles, right where Damen was going to put his hand–
Damen did. Laurent’s head tilted without consulting the rest of him, letting Damen’s lips find the place behind his ear, only a few finger-widths away from the sensitive spot on his neck. When he didn’t react, Damen kissed him again in the same place, this time letting the blunt edge of his teeth press into the soft flesh.
Laurent shuddered, this time, and felt the lips against him spread in what was undoubtedly a smug barbarian grin. “Are you going to paw at me all night,” Laurent managed crossly. “I’ve work to do.”
“Hm,” Damen said. He kissed Laurent again, a little lower.
Laurent shifted in his seat, and had to bite back a hiss.
Last night had been– energetic. “Go hump the couch like a dog if you want to get off,” he said, but there wasn’t enough venom in it; he sounded dazed.
Damen kissed lower.
Laurent’s hips twitched on their own, which– hurt.
Damen might notice, if Laurent winced as he pushed inside him. But– what was he supposed to say? You can suck me? Let’s stroke each other off, like lust-ridden adolescents? Go away and fuck Kydippe?
But Damen had already gone still. His lips came away from Laurent’s neck. “Oh, is that from Kempt?” he asked, in a rather different tone than his previous statements.
The spot where Damen’s mouth had been was cold. “Yes,” Laurent said.
“I need to answer them, too,” Damen sighed. “I’ve been putting it off.” He kissed the top of Laurent’s head, an absent peck, like you’d give a child or a lapdog. “I’ll use the table in the other room,” he said, and, slipping a spare sheet of paper off the desk, he left their bedchamber, and took his warmth with him.
Laurent sat there, alone.
He considered and discarded the idea that Damen had noticed his hesitation; he would have noticed Damen noticing, or deliberately not noticing. There could have been no premeditation involving a letter from Kempt– Laurent had a stack of correspondence, from all over the peninsula, and it was only happenstance that that particular paper had been on his desk when Damen had looked. So–
So Damen had seen the letter, and recalled that he had received his own, and decided he preferred to answer it rather than tempt Laurent to bed.
Laurent left his desk. Why had they put a desk in their bedchamber, anyway? Damen hadn’t wanted one. At least one room where we needn’t be constantly thinking of politics, he’d said in a letter, and Laurent had answered So long as you are content seeing less of me than when we lived at opposite sides of the continent, and Damen had answered back, I’ve changed my mind, I want you to be close enough that I don’t strain my back carrying you off to bed–
Laurent had, without quite intending it, stopped in front of the mirror. His skin was– fine. Unpleasantly pale, now, with flushed spots high on his cheekbones. His figure– also fine. He’d gained a little weight since their days on campaign, but it had been gradual, and it had stopped, and Damen had not seemed to mind–
Voices murmured in the sitting room; Damen, telling Antoine that they would have no further need of him tonight. Panicked, Laurent unlaced his pants, shoving them unceremoniously in the wardrobe, and climbed into bed in his shirt, blowing out the lamp as he went.
He lay there in the darkness for a long time.
When Damen came in he forced himself to stay limp. He had been silly. Any moment now Damen’s hand would find his chest, his stomach, his thigh. Any moment now he’d press himself closer, roll Laurent onto his front, trying not to wake him, slowly and carefully slide–
Damen settled the covers over them both and kissed Laurent’s cheek, in the same place one might kiss one’s maiden aunt. He wrapped a hand over Laurent’s wrist and lay still, and continued to lay still, until his breaths took on a distinct rhythm, until Laurent was gaping at the ceiling in disbelief.
Damen snored softly.
Laurent kicked him in the ankle.
“Wha–” Damen sat straight up. It was very dark; there was no moon. “Laurent?” he whispered, into the blackness.
Laurent kept his breathing regular. Damen’s hand slipped under the covers, and he felt relief in his gut, waiting– but it only rested on his chest, tracking the steady rise and fall. After another moment, Damen sighed and lay back down, leaning in again to peck the top of Laurent’s head.
Laurent kicked him again.
“Wha– Laurent!”
Laurent located his mouth by the sound of his complaints, and muffled them.
“Laurent,” Damen said, in a very different tone. Laurent’s hands had a tremble to them; he found his ribcage, his stomach. Lower. “Did you want something?” Damen asked sleepily, lips curling up against Laurent’s.
He was going to make him say it. “Fuck me,” Laurent said. “I want it.”
Damen groaned, tired but ready. “Sweetheart,” he said. His hand cupped Laurent’s hip, warm as a brand; his leg was sliding between Laurent’s legs.
Laurent reminded his body that it needed to get hard. Damen preferred that. Damen was helping, leaning down to kiss his neck. Stupidly, Laurent touched the back of his head, the soft hair. It was so dark in the room. A thin line of light on the ceiling, a torch shining up from the wall outside and slipping through the curtains.
Damen’s head had descended under the blankets; his mouth had found his nipples. Damen liked his nipples. Damen liked his whole body; he said so, all the time. He’d told Laurent he had lovely elbows once. Twenty-two wasn’t old.
“Fuck me,” Laurent said again. Damen didn’t usually make him beg. He groped for the oil on the night table. Damen preferred oil.
“Mhm,” Damen said, half a yawn. He was kissing Laurent’s stomach, now, which wasn’t any larger than it had been yesterday. He hadn’t overindulged at the feast. Damen was on his way to his cock, dumb, slavering animal that he was, like he didn’t understand Veretian.
“Fuck me,” Laurent enunciated, for the third time. He shoved the vial of oil down under the blankets.
Damen rested his head on Laurent’s hip. From the flutter of his lashes, his eyes were closed. Laurent’s were wide open into the darkness of the room.
Fingers came slick at Laurent’s hole. Stinging pain. It was making him harder. He thought about Damen forcing his way inside, pinning him down, having him raw.
“Laurent,” Damen was sighing. His cock was pressing at the entrance now, well-slick, and his hips were moving in, slow, gentle. It still hurt. His thumb made soft circles on the inside of Laurent’s knee. His mouth came over Laurent’s neck and–
–and paused, over the traitorous, hammering pulse. “Laurent?” he asked, still drowsy but less so.
Laurent wanted to dig his nails into flesh– he didn’t care whose– and rip downwards until he had red ribbons at the tips of his fingers. “I want it,” he said, childish– and then, hating himself, “Please?”
Newly hesitant, Damen’s cock nudged forwards. Laurent wrapped his legs around him and pulled him in, breathing out noiselessly at the stretch.
“All right?” Damen murmured. He wasn’t moving.
“Fuck me,” Laurent said. “Damen,” he added, because Damen was weak for him saying his name, and tightened around him, a ripple of flesh, he could imagine, soft, slick– tight, still–
“Laurent,” Damen mumbled. Back to tired. He started to move.
He needed to come. Damen liked to see it. Sometimes Laurent wanted to scream at him to leave it alone– but the pain was helping. He could get there.
Damen’s hips were rocking as he took him– gently, like you’d take a virgin. If he’d been the one to have Laurent, that first time, he would have been gentle like this. Laurent imagined it– some treaty, after Marlas. Himself, young and untouched. Damen reluctant, because of his age, but they’d need to consummate, wouldn’t they, and Laurent would be– entirely innocent, pure, at the bloom of his youth, frightened at the size of him, shocked at the stretch, the pleasure, the pain–
Damen had wrapped a clumsy hand around him. Laurent arched up into it, fighting the noises his body wanted to make– but Damen pressed his mouth down, and muffled them, and Laurent came, gratefully, into his palm.
Damen pulled out. He was– Laurent clenched– he hadn’t come– and he was– was–
Warm, wet stripes, over Laurent’s thigh. Damen hadn’t come inside him, he’d–
“Here,” Damen yawned. He was fumbling in the nightstand– a cloth swiped over Laurent’s unresisting stomach, and then he flopped back onto his side of the bed. Slick noises suggested he was cleaning his hand off with his tongue. His other arm reached for Laurent in the dark.
Laurent rolled off the bed.
“D’you wan’ the cloth?” Damen asked, around another yawn.
Laurent knew the shape of their bedchamber, would have said an hour ago that he could navigate it well enough in the dark, but he felt strange, off-balance. His arms stretched out like a blind man’s, which he was; he hit the back of the desk chair with his wrist and stubbed his toe on the wardrobe before he found as if by luck the pedestal where the pitcher and basin rested, folded cloths stacked alongside.
“Are you all right?” Damen asked, sounding a little more awake.
“Fine,” Laurent said. His voice came out even. One of the cloths was in his hand, fingers clenched tight like those of a corpse; he put his whole fist into the cold water, and pulled it out dripping. “Go back to sleep.”
Damen didn’t; he waited, the faintest shadow propped on an elbow, his frown invisible in the black, until Laurent climbed back into bed. Laurent pulled the covers up, half-expecting to be bodily shoved from the bed, dreading being asked another question– but Damen only waited for him, and lay back down. They fell asleep without touching each other.
In the morning, there was blood.
Not a lot; only a red-brown stain on the cloth he had used after his morning ablutions. Laurent threw it in the basket with a grimace. It was early morning; Damen would be training, Laurent would be training or riding, depending on the day. It was a riding day.
Damen might notice if he didn’t go.
Down to the stables. Eloise lipped gently at his hair as he saddled her; he climbed on with a face he’d practiced in the mirror, pleasantly blank. It didn’t hurt that much. He trotted out the gates as usual, guards tailing him discreetly, smiled and nodded and waved his way through the city, and slowed to a walk once he’d reached the woods.
Laurent had never needed to exert effort to be fucked, not– not with Damen. In Arles even Damen’s hatred had been well-tempered with lust; on campaign Damen’s eyes and hands had found Laurent’s body despite obvious attempts at neutrality on his part; in Ios after Kastor’s death, Laurent had practically needed to fend him off with a chair, along with dire hissing about his stitches. Every time they had met since then had been the same. Certainly if they were bickering, they might go to bed in silence, or if they were exhausted, and Damen never attempted anything while either of them were drunk. But Laurent had never wanted it and not gotten it.
Their courts had been joined a month– scarcely a month, Laurent might have said, except it was the longest stretch of time they had spent together since they’d become lovers. Maybe it was– dull, now? Boring? He’d heard Nikandros mutter once, I’d hoped you’d have gotten it out of your system by now–
He was being ridiculous. Damen had taken him, after all, even if he’d come on Laurent’s stomach like a victorious pet in the ring. They didn’t need to do it every night– they hadn’t done it every night. It was just that Laurent had never–
He was being ridiculous.
He kicked his horse back into a trot.
They had a meeting of their joint Council at midmorning, and meetings with individuals among them– Laurent with both ministers of finance, Damen with the new kyros of Kesus and the lords of Arran and Alier– directly afterwards, so that the two sides could not sort themselves by country and gossip as soon as their counterparts left the room. Laurent had timed his walk from the baths so that he arrived at the council chamber immediately before the meeting began; Damen’s soft brown eyes had a question in them, but instead of asking it he looked away at the chatting councilmen and waited, the air taking on a particular heaviness, for them to silence themselves.
He looked back at Laurent.
“Let’s begin,” Laurent said.
The meetings went well enough. There was some quibbling over the exchange rate from the Akielon finance minister– Akielon silver coins were smaller, and the gold larger, than their Veretian counterparts– that Laurent and Berenger resolved without undue fuss. By Damen’s posture when he emerged from the room next door the lords and the kyros had been equally biddable; but by then it was time for the midday meal, taken in one of the more intimate rooms with Nikandros, and the kyros of Thrace, and his wife and his two young daughters. And his older daughter.
“H’lo, Exalted,” Kydippe said, waving. “H’lo, Your Majesty.” She’d stood up as they entered, but in a lackadaisical fashion, brushing crumbs off her generous bosom, that had Nikandros looking sour beside her. The other chairs are empty.
“Hello, you two,” Damen said. “Not driving him mad yet, are you, my lady?” He clasped Nikandros by the shoulder; Kydippe he kissed on the cheek. Laurent thought about knives.
“Me?” Kydippe, putting a hand to her chest, pouting exaggeratedly. “I am a delight, Exalted. Your Majesty, I hope you’re well.” She curtsied to Laurent, a flowing Veretian movement that looked obnoxious in straight Akielon skirts. Laurent tried to meet Nikandros’s eye and found him glaring down at her with his mouth in a stubborn line.
The meal was Akielon– lamb in mint yogurt sauce, and fish in preserved lemon, served with pillowy flatbreads and soft Akielon cheese. Damen and Laurent were at opposite ends of the table; Damen called down to tell him to avoid the spiced lentils, and Kydippe grinned at Laurent and made a joke about the Veretian palate that had Damen fighting a laugh. Laurent fought and achieved victory over a sour look; Nikandros, who normally had very little objection to the slandering of any part of the Veretian body, looked sour enough for the both of them. He also probably disliked it when other people made Damen laugh.
The kyros and his lady and their younger daughters arrived soon after, full of apologies. It was, Laurent was forced to admit, not a bad time; the middle daughter was a reader, and Kydippe’s stepmother a charming woman with logical opinions on trade relations. She pulled her husband into the conversation to support her point, and even he wasn’t half as irritating as the usual Akielon lord. At the other end of the table Kydippe was regaling Damen and Nikandros with the apparently-thrilling tale of a battle with some pirates in the Strait of Chiangzhou.
“Well, I don’t agree that the tariffs caused the price reduction,” the kyros was saying. “I’d say the opposite, in fact.” He paused to sip from his glass.
In the silence Kydippe could be heard saying, quite clearly, “–threatened to take me over his knee and spank me, which I had rather less objection to than I ought–”
The kyros sputtered on his wine; his lady cried “Kydippe!”
Damen was muffling laughter into his napkin. Nikandros’s ears were faintly red; Kydippe gave him a roguish wink and they went redder still.
“Damianos-Exalted was asking about the disciplinary practices of our great navy, Mother-dear,” Kydippe said blithely, to a fresh snort of laughter from Damen. “In any case, I escaped with my virtue intact–”
“As I was saying,” Kydippe’s stepmother continued heroically, “the tariff on gold imports–”
Laurent listened to her, and responded in a manner he thought logical. It was difficult; even Nikandros was chuckling reluctantly at the other end of the table. Damen wasn’t given to fits of mirth, but he was wiping his eyes.
At long last, the meal ended. The girls– clever things, he had to admit, once they’d gotten over their shyness– led the way out the door, followed by the kyros and his lady, and then Kydippe and Nikandros, Nikandros offering her his arm with a wooden expression. Laurent realized too late that they would be left alone.
They sat in silence.
“I like him,” Damen said. “The kyros. He was a friend of my father’s.”
“He’s intelligent,” Laurent said. “For a barbarian,” he added belatedly, when a small dent appeared between Damen’s brows. Don’t ask , Laurent thought at him, wishing he could fling the thoughts at Damen’s forehead like a child flicking peas at the table.
Damen’s gaze still held traces of concern. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Laurent’s hand tightened on the edge of the table. “Talk about what,” he said.
Damen’s face settled, minutely, like he’d come to a conclusion. “Come here, then,” he said, angling his thigh out meaningfully.
“Not everyone wants to sit in your lap,” Laurent said.
A frown. “Everyone?”
Jealousy was unattractive, and Laurent did, unfortunately, want to sit in Damen’s lap. He stood, and walked over, and sat, jerkily, on Damen’s extended knee. There was an ache through the core of him, mild enough that it didn’t show on his face. He thought.
Damen was frowning at him once more. Laurent willed him not to ask– he was good about not asking– and he didn’t. “Come here,” he said again instead, coaxing, and Laurent leaned in and rested his ear on Damen’s warm chest, and let him cup the back of his head in his big palm.
He was being silly. Damen would fuck him tonight, and Laurent would make sure it was dark, and it would all be fine.
Damen didn’t fuck him that night.
Laurent had arranged himself in bed with a book; there was oil on the nightstand, and a single lantern right beside him, easy to blow out. Damen came in, laid down beside him, interlaced his fingers with Laurent’s hand where it laid on the bedspread, and went straight into untroubled sleep.
He didn’t have wrinkles. Was his hair receding? His father’s hairline had been somewhat triangular, though Uncle’s hair had been thick and soft, healthy as ever even as gray flecked it. No, his hair– Laurent turned his head this way and that– was fine, and the same color as usual. It might be the weight. Laurent had skipped breakfast, and then gone down to train. He didn’t have any spots.
He was being ridiculous. He hadn’t changed that much, physically, in the past year. It was more likely an issue of variety. Men liked variety, and– creativity, and–
Someone cleared their throat. It was Antoine, there to help Laurent dress for the day; he had a pile of clothing in his arms and a slightly uncomfortable look in his eyes at having found Laurent an inch from the mirror prodding at a too-large pore on his nose. “Lord Berenger and his pet are here to see you,” he announced.
Berenger was there to discuss matters of state; Ancel was there to provide gossip, in his role as semi-official spymaster. If the latter could be separated from the former, he might have advice on the variety aspect, if Laurent could compel himself to take it without, immediately thereafter, riding his horse off the nearest cliff.
He couldn’t, and he liked his horse. “Send them in,” he said, when he was dressed.
Two days passed. Laurent needed a plan, and was unlikely to produce one if he was fretting about bleeding on Damen’s cock. Damen didn’t attempt anything; he looked at Laurent occasionally, a faint frown lingering at his brow, but was otherwise his usual self, working and training. It was Laurent who wasn’t the same. He made Damen laugh, usually. They went to a performance of some Akielon epic and found himself unable to even mutter complaints in his ear. At night, they curled together, chaste as children. He continued to skip breakfast.
There was, of course, a particular act, that Damen particularly enjoyed, that Laurent could achieve with little to no preparation and that would certainly qualify as variety , given that Laurent had only done it four times in a year and a half. Damen never asked for it, but his gaze went wide in a way it didn’t otherwise, when Laurent got on his knees.
Of course it did; Damen was a man, as other men, and Laurent a spiteful, acrimonious bitch. Every man he’d ever commanded had probably fantasized about shutting him up with a cock in his mouth– even Uncle, losing interest towards the end, had still–
No. Laurent would have to think of something else.
It was shameful to one raised in the court of Arles, but it was not a Veretian that drew the thought into Laurent’s mind; it was Nikandros, eyeing Kydippe across the room like she’d stolen the last dessert. Vannes was flirting with her outrageously, driving her into giggling fits. Her dress was particularly low-cut. (Laurent stabbed his fork into a piece of roast pigeon.) “No wonder her captain threatened to spank her,” Nikandros muttered to no one in particular.
“She’s fun, Nik,” Damen said patiently. “And a good soldier.”
Nikandros muttered something uncomplimentary.
“Just because she likes teasing you,” Damen said, but Laurent wasn’t listening.
“Kyros, does your sympathy for her captain extend to taking her in hand yourself?” he enquired.
“I–” Nikandros’s brows drew together– “what?”
“Well surely you ought to do it, if she irritates you that much,” Laurent pointed out. “A few swats to the rump ought to sharpen her right up–”
“Laurent,” Damen said.
“–her father would probably thank you, her stepmother certainly would–”
“Laurent,” Damen said.
“–and if she’s over your knee at least she won’t be laughing like a horse or shaking her tits at anyone who walks by–”
“Laurent!” Damen snapped.
Laurent stopped.
He felt good– like he had released some poison, lanced the built-up pus from behind a boil. He said, innocently, “What?”
Damen said, quieter than Laurent had been talking– “She is a soldier under my command.”
“She is a lady of Akielos,” Nikandros said coldly. Damen was looking down at his plate, shoulders a displeased line– Nikandros, though, leaned around him to glare at Laurent directly.
Laurent took a sip of his kykeon– an Akielon drink, only slightly alcoholic, Damen had been finding him things to sip on that weren’t water– and said “And that renders her virtue unimpeachable? I must say, the most prominent Akielon lady I was ever acquainted with was hardly–”
Damen put down his fork, slightly too loudly. The three of them were alone at the high table, those who had sat on either side having gotten up to dance. Laurent waited, an acrobat balanced on a high wire–
“We’re retiring,” Damen said flatly.
Nikandros looked at Damen’s face and must have been satisfied by what he found there; he stood and left the table, not bothering to speak to Laurent.
Laurent did not generally enjoy being treated as though he was Damen’s recalcitrant child or disobedient slave. “Are we?” he enquired. He wondered idly what he’d have to do for Damen to physically drag him from the hall.
Damen still wasn’t looking at him. “Unless you’d rather do this here,” he said.
He meant have an argument, but Laurent had an abrupt vision of himself, thrown over Damen’s lap, everyone in the hall watching as–
“We might as well go to bed,” he heard himself agree idly.
Damen rose. He lifted a hand, made some deep-voiced announcement, bid the courtiers to continue their merriment. Laurent took another sip, waved meaningfully at his own court, and followed him out. Undoubtedly everyone thought they were leaving early to fuck. Well, they were right about that, he thought, resisting the urge to toss his hair.
They walked the halls and the two sets of stairs in silence, attended only by their guards. Laurent watched Damen’s shoulders; they were set in the way that meant he was angry, which was how Laurent wanted them to be set. It made them look even broader than normal. He walked with tight, martial steps.
Their sitting room had a long, low Akielon couch; before that was a long, low Akielon table of polished wood. The couch faced the fireplace. The rug was Veretian, with a pattern that didn’t hurt Damen’s eyes. Damen stopped at one side of it, just before the fringe, turned smartly on his heel, took his crown off and set it on the table. Laurent didn’t remove his, but he did stop at the other end of the rug.
“What do you want?” Damen said.
It was not what Laurent had expected him to say. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What do you want?” Damen repeated. “Have you some quarrel with Kydippe?”
Kydippe. “Who?” Laurent said.
He’d meant it to be quelling, but it was a mistake; Damen visibly relaxed, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Laurent,” he said, and he had the nerve to sound fond, “it’s not me she’s–”
“I don’t care about your whores,” Laurent snapped. “If you want to take her to bed, feel free–” Damen scoffed loudly– “and if you want to spank her, feel free to do that, too, perhaps she’ll be less inclined to disrupt court functions–
“You’re one to talk about–” Damen stopped. “Oh,” he said. He sounded pleased.
Laurent wanted to throw something at his head. “Don’t,” he warned.
“Is that what you–”
“Shut up!”
Damen grinned. “Of course,” he said, and then didn’t say anything. He waited.
This was– this had been a terrible idea. Damen was still grinning. Laurent could feel himself blushing, knew he was red from crown to chin. Damen could fuck whoever he liked; Laurent, frankly, didn’t care if his cock fell off. Damen could assemble his court and ride back to Ios and leave Laurent alone.
“Don’t make me say it,” Laurent said through numb lips.
His voice must have changed; Damen frowned a little, came close, then closer, then gathered him to his chest. He smelled nice. Laurent tried not to clutch at him and then gave up, huddling closer, stupid, clinging. Punish me, he thought, an ache in his throat.
Damen kissed the top of his head. “Are you all right?” he asked, soft.
Laurent jerked his shoulders in a shrug.
A sigh that stirred his hair. “Do you want to?”
“Don’t make me,” Laurent mumbled.
Damen cupped the back of his head, pulled back enough to look down at him. Laurent stared determinedly at his chest.
“All right,” Damen said.
They didn’t go into the bedroom. Damen took Laurent’s crown carefully off his head and set it on the table; then he lifted Laurent’s wrists, one by one, and carefully undid the lacings there, his big hands nimble on the silk. Laurent kept his head bowed. He didn’t want to look at him.
Damen came around behind him to unhook the eyelets at the back of his neck. Laurent deliberately didn’t bite his lip, or curl his nails into his palms. Damen undid his laces to his mid-back, then carefully pulled the jacket over his head, tossing it on the couch.
Laurent’s nipples were hard, because of course they were. When Damen came around he touched the left one through his shirt, the first amorous touch he’d given him in days; knuckles pressed gently into the soft flesh of Laurent’s chest, thumb swiping lightly at the hard point, which hardened further under his attention, which continued.
Laurent took a breath. Damen was watching his hand, thumb playing idly at the very tip, dragging the silk of his shirt back and forth over the sensitive skin. His expression was almost dazed. After a moment he shook himself and got down on his knees. Laurent started a little, but Damen merely began unlacing one of his boots. .
It was too quiet. Laurent said– “So you want to spank me.”
Damen said “Yes, of course,” as though he were admitting to something no stranger than a fondness for goat cheese.
Laurent hated it when he did that. “What’s the appeal?” he enquired. “You imagine it will render me well-behaved? Docile as a slave?”
One boot came off, warm hands cupping his ankle and calf. “If you were well-behaved,” Damen said, “I’d worry you’d taken a blow to the head.”
Laurent resisted the urge to kick him. “Have you beaten your other lovers?” he asked.
“Once.” Damen started on the other boot. “A minor lady, from Kesus.”
“And?”
Damen shrugged. “I spanked her. Lightly.” He pulled Laurent’s other boot off. “We were giggling the whole time. She liked it, though.”
“Did she,” Laurent said. He wanted to ask more about this minor lady from Kesus, like her name and where she lived, but Damen was lifting up his shirt to start on his pant lacings. Looking straight ahead at the window, Laurent said– “You never answered my question.”
“Didn’t I?”
Damen finished with his pants; he pulled them straight down, and Laurent braced himself on a wide shoulder and he stepped out of him. A cool breeze ran under his shirt. Damen stood, letting his hands run up Laurents legs, past his ass, to wrap around his waist. The shirt was barely hiding anything.
Laurent looked at him. “What’s the appeal?”
Damen leaned in towards his ear. As if telling him a secret, he said– “I think it will make you come.”
Laurent pushed away, scoffing; Damen stepped with him, not letting go of his waist. “What?” he said. “I’ve told you you Veretians overcomplicate things. Come lay down over my lap.”
Laurent wanted to slap him. Instead he let himself be tugged over to the couch, then down onto the cushions, then over Damen’s lap.
Damen had sat in the center; Laurent’s head almost touched one arm and his feet stuck out absurdly over the other. Laurent’s heart was thumping in his chest; his cock was thickening already, which Damen could probably feel, humped as he was over his broad thighs. A big warm hand settled at the small of Laurent’s back; its partner softly traced the inside of Laurent’s thigh, then the back of his ass, and then, promptly but not abruptly, hitched his shirt up past his waist.
This had gone far enough. Laurent shoved himself up on his forearms; Damen wrapped an arm over his waist and held him down. A silent, furious struggle ensued; Damen gripped Laurent by the back of the neck, Laurent tried and failed to bite him. Laurent kicked his legs up behind him but the angle was so poor he couldn’t land anything but a glancing blow on the outside of Damen’s arm. Damen’s grip was like iron; eventually it became clear that Laurent wasn’t going anywhere. The breath he let out was ragged.
“Shh,” Damen murmured. “It’s all right.”
It wasn’t all right. Laurent flopped his head forward into the cushions.
“Shh,” Damen said again. His grip gentled; he let go of Laurent’s neck to run a hand over his back, slow, even strokes, from where the shirt bunched up at the tailbone back up to his nape. His fingers skimmed the soft sensitive skin at the back of his neck, doubtless over a red handprint.
Laurent wasn’t going anywhere; neither, he thought, was Damen. He was fully hard, might have been since Damen had pulled up his shirt, unceremoniously, as though he had every right to do it, himself the king and Laurent his pet, his slave, his stripling boy begging for attention. His hips shifted forward without permission, rubbing into the thick muscle of Damen’s thigh. “Damen,” he said helplessly.
“Good boy,” Damen said, and slapped his ass.
He didn’t do it lightly. Laurent jerked but bit back his noise.
“Is that all right, sweetheart?” Damen asked. He rubbed soothingly at the flesh he’d struck.
When he was sure he could speak calmly, Laurent said “Go fuck yourself.”
Damen let out a breath of amusement and hit him again.
Laurent didn’t react to that blow, or the next, or the one after that. It hurt, though, the shock of a slap turning briefly into bright stinging pain and the next one landing before the first could even fully fade to a throb. Each strike pushed his cock into Damen’s leg. On the tenth Laurent couldn’t prevent himself from making a sound. His feet twitched wildly.
Damen’s next exhale was a groan. Laurent realized a little dizzily that he wasn’t the only one hard, that Damen’s cock was pressing just beneath his hip. He shifted a leg over to push against it harder and Damen slapped the newly-revealed inside of his thigh so hard that Laurent heard himself make a horrible piteous noise, slamming his legs back together despite the new burn between them.
“Shush,” Damen said. “The guards will come looking.”
There were another two doors between them and the guards at the entrance to their chambers, but Laurent’s mind followed the path, imagined Jord and Rochert bursting in to see their king slung over Damianos of Akielos’s lap being spanked like a naughty child, his ass bare and flushed pink. Damen would– would tell them to leave, casually, like– or he would permit them to stay, so long as they were silent, and they could watch–
“Are you going to come?” Damen asked.
Laurent’s hips stilled; from the tension in his back he had been rutting forward mindlessly into Damen’s leg for at least the last several minutes. The last spank tingled like punctuation. “No,” he said, but it came out high, desperate.
“Why not?” Damen asked. “You like getting spanked. That’s not a surprise.” His hand came down again and Laurent bit back a sound that was not a sob.
“Love,” Damen said, sounding unbearably fond. He rubbed soothingly at the back of Laurent’s neck again; bent to place a kiss, soft, at the small of his back.
Laurent’s eyes ached; there was a tight ball at the back of his throat. He said– “Barbarian,” only it came out wet.
“I’ll stop when you come,” Damen said.
“C-can’t,” Laurent tried.
A soothing hum. Damen’s hand ran from the nape of Laurent’s neck down to the surely-red flesh he’d tormented, and pressed down, slow, gradual, agonizing; Laurent heard himself make a horrendous high-pitched sound. His hips were moving without his permission, a slow sinuous motion that felt unbearably good, sliding over the smooth skin already wet with his own desire, pleasure twisting through his guts, and the next time Damen spanked him it was with his left hand, because the right was sliding between the halves of his ass to press gentle at his hole and then in– inside, spreading him, marking him, like a brand–
Laurent came into Damen’s lap in thick wet pulses.
After, he was useless. Damen carried him to the bed without apparent effort; (Laurent’s spent cock twitched) and laid him down gently. Small domestic sounds, as he poured water into the basin, fetched a cloth, brought a candle over. Lips pressed to Laurent’s forehead; he drank cool water when the cup touched his mouth, and was asleep between one breath and the next.
I left you to sleep in, the note said. Be angry with me about it once we’ve had breakfast .
Laurent’s limbs felt indolent, pliant; his ass was luxuriously sore. It was a training day, and he was never sad to miss those. He stretched idly, putting the note back on the bedside table. At some point, he thought, closing his eyes against the sun, he should get up and–
Damen hadn’t come.
Laurent sat bolt upright, frantically clutching at the empty covers beside him. That couldn’t be right, that– Damen had been hard underneath him, surely he must have– but–
Footsteps outside. Laurent got his face back under control just as Damen poked his head through the door to their bedchamber.
“Hello,” Damen said. He carried a tray and an air of cheerfulness that dissipated slightly when he saw Laurent. “Hello,” he said, in a different tone. “I brought you breakfast.”
Breakfast. Laurent wanted to climb him like an apple tree and shake him until his brain fell out; how dare you how dare you I asked for it I made myself ask for it–
“Thank you,” he said instead. “You can leave it, I’ll eat after I bathe.”
“That’s fine,” Damen said. There was a kicked-puppy look in his eyes. “Laurent, are you well?”
“Perfectly well.” His ass was sore in a new way, which he didn’t react to as he rolled from one hip to another, climbing out of bed. “Are you going to–”
“Laurent.” Damen reached out– when Laurent merely stopped and looked at his hand he let it drop. “Are you– did I–”
“I’m fine,” Laurent said. It sounded like someone else was talking, his own voice a drone in his ears. He pulled a shirt from the drawer. “Last night was enjoyable.”
“Laurent,” Damen said, and nothing else.
“I’ll see you at lunch,” Laurent said.
Instead of the baths, he went to the stables. Leaning against Eloise’s warm flank, he talked himself down. Damen had certainly enjoyed what they’d done. Laurent had, inconsiderately, fallen asleep before he could sate himself physically, but there had been variety, and creativity, and he’d gotten to hit Laurent, which must surely be the favored dream of every man who knew him. It hadn’t gone badly, it just hadn’t gone far enough. It might even be beneficial. You’re more likely to win a game if you don’t play your whole hand at once, Uncle always said.
They were having lunch in private; when he got back to their chambers Damen looked up from the table with a defeated expression on his face. Laurent walked over and sat in his lap without ceremony, and Damen made a noise of relief that made something ache in Laurent’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” Damen said.
“I’m sorry,” Laurent said.
“I thought you liked it–”
“I did like it,” Laurent promised. It didn’t even hurt to say. Uncle had liked to hear him say it, too, and Damen would actually believe it; would want to believe it, even.
“I didn’t hurt you?” Damen asked, muffled into Laurent’s shoulder.
“Of course you did, my ass feels like it’s on fire,” Laurent said.
Damen laughed shakily.
Laurent kissed the top of his head, the soft curls. Uncle’s hair had been straight.
He’d been unfair. Damen wouldn’t lie down with some woman, some younger boy; when he tired of Laurent, he’d say so. He’d be kind about it. He’d suggest they remain friends.
“We don’t have to do that again,” Damen murmured.
Laurent kissed his head again. “Oh, we certainly do,” he murmured back.
Before that could be facilitated, Laurent got sick. The Akielon harvest festival took place slightly before the Veretian one; they were celebrating both, this year, to coincide with visits from Patras and Vask, respectively. (“We’ll have a harvest twice as good,” Damen noted.) Laurent welcomed the Patran delegation in the morning (led by Torgeir’s daughter and her husband, Torveld sent his regrets) had a faint tickle in his throat by the afternoon, coughed once or twice in the night, and woke in the morning with a headache and a fever.
A low fever, Paschal assured them. His Majesty was healthy and strong, though he had lost a little weight recently. He needed to rest a few days, and drink plenty of fluids, and eat something hearty.
“You’re a physician,” Damen said, looming. “Why would you not give him medicine?”
“I can’t stay in bed,” Laurent croaked. Paschal had been summoned by Pallas, who had obeyed Damen and, with terrified glances between them, disobeyed Laurent. “The feast is tonight.”
“You must stay in bed and rest, Your Majesty,” Paschal said, ignoring Damen’s stare with admirable aplomb. “I cannot recommend you attend a feast.”
“I am the king of Vere,” Laurent said. He hoped he didn’t sound as nasally to them as he did to himself. “I will be attending whatever I choose to–”
“No you will not,” Damen said, at the same time Paschal said “Your Majesty, I cannot recommend–”
“Inform our guests,” Laurent interrupted, “that I will rest today, and see them tonight.”
Damen’s mouth was set, but after a moment he gave a grudging nod.
Laurent stayed in bed as he’d promised, with Antoine to fetch and carry. If what he fetched and carried were mostly papers, that was Laurent’s business. When Damen came to see him before the feast he shoved a copy of a proposed trade agreement under his pillow.
“I wish you’d stay in bed,” Damen said unhappily.
“When I was a boy I wished I had a unicorn,” Laurent informed him, and then had a coughing fit.
The cough was controlled, after a while, with copious amounts of tea and honey. They went down to the feast, stood on the dais in front of the entrance hall. It was the Akielon festival, so at least Laurent didn’t have to speak. He felt the fever in a thin layer of sweat, even as goose-pimples prickled through his skin. Colors were too bright, more real than usual.
Torgeir’s daughter was insipid, her husband dull. Under different circumstances Laurent would have been far more interested in an Akielon harvest festival, given the tales he’d heard. Damen had assured him that the king did not generally deflower a virgin over the altar, but the truth was not far off; a selection of women from the local farms, all drunk and rather giggly and a few bare-breasted, had come to the court bearing a cask of this year’s wine (grape juice, rather). Damen dipped fingers in it and painted a line across each of their brows. The women of the court had theoretically spent the day in prayer (though that prayer seemed to have included a great deal of wine significantly older than a year). They seized the local girls and pulled them out onto the dance floor. The men stomped and clapped to keep time while the women whirled around, hand in hand, their skin glistening with sweat and their hair flying out behind them.
“I love Akielos,” Vannes said fervently. Kydippe was bare-breasted too.
Laurent blew his nose.
He left the feast as early as Damen could persuade him to and toppled into bed, closing his eyes for only a moment and waking to Paschal clucking over him, saying things like “made it worse” and “no better than you, Exalted.” Thereafter there were unpleasant teas, salves and unguents to rub on his chest. Damen nobly refrained from saying “I told you so.”
Laurent was distantly aware they weren’t fucking, that they hadn’t done so in more than a week. It was hard, though, to worry, when he felt so ill and Damen was so attentive, always hovering, always nagging him to drink broth. He woke in the early dawn on the third day feeling clearer, though still limp, too warm. His joints ached unpleasantly.
“R’ you ‘wake,” Damen slurred.
“No,” Laurent mumbled. He wriggled closer in the darkness. Damen wrapped an arm around him, breathing sour breath in his face. He’d drooled on the pillow. Laurent loved him. He hitched a leg around his waist and closed his eyes.
“Are you tired?” Damen asked, after a moment.
“Hm?” Laurent didn’t open his eyes.
Damen made a wordless noise, inquisitive. His hands were drifting downwards.
Ah.
It was fine, really. He wished this had happened a few days ago, but Damen was kissing him, his lips, his forehead, the tip of his nose. He hoped drowsily that he could get away with not being hard, but–
A pause. Damen’s hand had found his cock.
“‘Ts fine,” Laurent yawned. “The oil’s in the table.”
“You’re still sick,” Damen whispered back. His hand came back up, arm draping chastely over Laurent’s ribs. After a moment, he was asleep again.
Laurent didn’t follow.
“Are you coming to bed?” Laurent asked, from the door.
“In a moment,” Damen said absently. He had a stack of papers in front of him, imperiled by a pair of candles he’d placed inches away on the table.
“In a moment I will be asleep and unable to take your cock,” Laurent said. He tried to make it sound alluring, thought he mostly succeeded.
He must have, because Damen put down his quill and leapt smartly to his feet. “Why didn’t you say that sooner?”
Laurent smiled at him. The corners of his mouth felt stiff.
Damen stopped abruptly in his journey around the couch. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Laurent said.
Damen touched him, a warm hand against his left cheek. “You still feel clammy,” he said, as if nothing had happened. “Let’s lie down for a bit.”
They did. Laurent put his face in Damen’s chest and tried to remember how to breathe.
The Veretian harvest celebration was less involved than the Akielon. At the last few celebrations there actually had been the ritual “deflowering” of a “virgin” (actually Lord Renaud’s pet Michelet, who had done an excellent imitation) but now they just gathered for food, drink. A selection of farmers (men, this time) brought Laurent a bouquet of the first sheaf of grain of the new season (a few strands from everyone’s field, so no one was shorted) and Laurent thanked them, and then, trying not to sound like a green boy around these men, made conversation about the weather and the winter and the various ways to shear sheep until Damen came over with wine.
Next year they’d combine the two festivals, Laurent thought, escaping to use the chamber pot. The rituals were complimentary. And they’d do it down in the city, where the people could see their kings–
“Your Majesty?”
“Yes, that will be all,” Laurent said automatically.
The servant bowed low and scurried away. Laurent leaned against the wall, not quite outside the shelter of the corridor that led to the privy, and scanned the hall. Damen was still in a knot of farmers– the topic looked serious now. The Vaskians had cornered an alarmed-looking Nikandros; there were half a dozen tall women leaning into him, touching his bicep, playing with his hair. Kydippe had squashed herself onto the couch beside him, looking a bit less cheerful than usual. Vannes held court amidst a gaggle of blushing Akielon ladies. Berenger was talking seriously with Herode, and Ancel was across the hall juggling a pair of knives, to the delight of the younger set at court.
Laurent had never been inclined to seek the company of others; he’d had Mother and Father and Auguste and Uncle, and never felt any lack. After– after, he had felt it. But there had been no one he could trust, and he’d never practiced making friends. He’d gotten into the habit of lingering at the edges of gathering, unnoticed by all.
“Dance with me?” Damen had come from the side; Laurent jumped a little.
“I shouldn’t,” Laurent said automatically. “My lover is a jealous man.”
Damen made a show of looking through the hall. “I don’t see him here,” he announced.
“He could return at any moment.”
“Surely he would not object to only a dance?” Damen bent to whisper it in his ear.
Laurent fought a shiver at the feel of his breath, hot against his cheek. He was shamefully aware of how much Damen had to bend to reach his ear. “You do not seem,” he said, managing to keep his voice cool. “Like a man that contents himself with a dance.”
“And what is it,” Damen said softly, “that you think I content myself with?”
His gaze was being drawn inexorably to the bright eyes, the lush mouth. The dimple. Laurent said– “I think you would not not be satisfied until you had me in your bed.”
Damen leaned closer. “Every night,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Until I had you in my bed every night,” he whispered.
Laurent kept his face from moving. He couldn’t keep it from flushing, a humiliating bright red. He said– “You are confident.”
“I am a king,” Damen said. “Come dance, and if your lover returns I shall battle him for your honor.”
Laurent made a dubious noise but took his hand anyway. The musicians struck up a new song as their kings came to the floor, a statelier melody that Laurent had seen his parents dance to when Mother’s health allowed. The taller partner led, in Veretian dance; Damen offered him a hand, and a smile that felt like staring into the sun. Laurent took it, and felt the other at his waist.
A step back, and a step forward. Two steps to the side. It was easy to dance with Damen, like stepping out with his own reflection; Damen was leading, but it was impossible to tell who moved first, his leg sliding forward and Laurent’s sliding back like strings connected them. The air was heavy between them. They were gazing at each other.
He really was so handsome. The curls, the boyish face, the soft mouth. The dimples. He had a little birthmark just below his right eye, and a faint pink scar on his chin from a childhood fall. The eyes, soft brown. Laurent’s heart felt too big for his ribcage.
The music came to a halt with a final flourish. Loud applause brought him back to the present; Laurent realized with a blink that there were other people in the room. He looked around, smiled, nodded. Damen didn’t; he was watching Laurent like he could touch him with eyes alone. Maybe he could; Laurent felt his gaze like hands.
He let his eyes drift back to Damen. “A lovely dance,” he said. “My lover will be jealous beyond belief.”
“Laurent,” Damen said.
“Let’s make our goodbyes to the Vaskian delegation,” Laurent said. “Oh, and maybe–”
“Laurent,” Damen said, half-begging.
“Just the Vaskians,” Laurent said. Or he could push Damen down on the marble floor and ride him in front of everyone.
“Just them,” Damen agreed.
They needn’t have bothered; the Vaskians were cackling as they approached, Nikandros having made a daring escape. “Have a care, Your Majesty,” one of them said. “You might want to walk tomorrow–”
“Or you could just lie down all day,” said a one-eyed iron-jawed lady with a giggling pet in her lap.
“Sleep well,” Damen said hastily, and pulled Laurent from the hall.
They almost ran up the stairs, giddy as children. Laurent felt his heartbeat in his fingertips; felt his breath as it traveled down his lungs, filling him up. They got through the door and Damen was kissing him, seizing him by the waist, and it was simple, so simple, to jump a little and be in his arms, swept off the ground, walking on air–
Back on the ground. Damen fumbling with his laces and Laurent didn’t care, needed him naked, wrestled a wrist out of his hands to get at the pin in his cloak. It dropped; his chiton followed. Akielons didn’t wear undergarments unless they were riding. Laurent had a hand on his cock before Damen could finish his first wrist.
“Fuck,” Damen said. Laurent loved it when he swore like that, wanting him and out of his mind with it. “I can’t–” his hips bobbed forward. He was mostly hard already. Laurent’s hole clenched around nothing. “Come here,” he said, half a groan, and took three steps back and sat down hard on the couch, pulling Laurent with him.
Laurent was straddling him; the inside of his legs ached, spread over the width of his lap. Damen was wrestling with the laces at the back of his neck and kissing him at the same time, achieving success with the latter but not the former. Laurent tilted his head back and Damen’s mouth found his pulse point, hot, just a scrape of teeth–
They needed to be naked. Laurent pushed himself away from Damen, tried to stand, ended up falling half-gracefully to his knees; went to scramble up–
–and stopped, at Damen’s intake of breath.
Oh.
Damen had a specific expression for when Laurent got on his knees: hopeful, and trying not to look it. Laurent fixed his posture automatically, letting his head tilt back, hair falling at its best angle. Damen got a tiny crease between his brows and reached out to touch his face; Laurent pulled away a little and looked at his outstretched hand with disdain.
Damen jerked his hand back and sat on it, and the other. His expression looked so like a little boy who’d been chided by his nurse that Laurent felt the corners of his mouth turn up involuntarily. He said– “You know the rules.”
Damen’s breath was coming faster. He rasped– “Yes.”
You know the rules? He sounded like a pet. Or was that just– what he sounded like? Laurent leaned in and kissed the inside of Damen’s knee, closing his eyes into it. It smelled nice. Damen was nice. Laurent liked making him come. He wouldn’t make Laurent wait until the next night for a kiss. Laurent wrapped a hand around what he could of his softly-furred calf.
Damen liked it slower than–
Damen liked it slow. He had patience for Laurent’s teasing, for Laurent’s hesitation. Perhaps he, like–
Perhaps he knew he could end it with an order.
Laurent kissed a little higher on his leg.
His mouth was dry.
Damen had faint stretch marks on the inside of his thigh. Laurent liked them. He rubbed his cheek against the softness there. He didn’t know if Damen liked his balls licked because the thought of doing it made him want to die. Uncle had liked it. He’d told Laurent once, a bit tipsy, in bed with a glass of wine and happy in the firelight and laughing a little at his own vulgarity, that he’d had a pet once who could get all the way down on his cock and stick his tongue out and lick them. Laurent had never–
“Laurent,” someone was saying, and then someone was touching him, a hand gentle on his face. Knuckle under his chin– no rings on the hand–
“Laurent,” Damen said again. His face swam into focus with an expression that made the organs in Laurent’s lower body cringe like a beaten dog. His cock, when Laurent let his gaze fall, was completely soft.
“Sweetheart?” Damen said. He was reaching down with his other hand, like he was going to pull Laurent up into his lap, where he could sit on it like a–
Laurent jerked away from him so hard his back hit the table; he pinwheeled with his elbow, hooked it over the wood, got himself sitting on it, then standing. He was still in his shoes. It was freezing in here, cold especially where his wrists were unlaced. He was too close to the couch, still, but he’d have to turn and go around the table, and–
“Can I do anything?” Someone was asking.
Laurent looked; Damen was sitting, as far back as he could get. His hands were folded on his lap, not quite covering his cock. Laurent shivered once, involuntary.
Damen said, carefully– “Would you like me to leave you alone for a bit?”
Laurent didn’t know what his face did, but it made Damen’s face blanch; he stood up to reach for him and that freed him to step sideways twice and backwards three four five times.
Silence.
Someone said “Yes, by all means, take your leave.”
Damen ignored that. He was coming towards him again, reaching out– but paused, bent to pick up his chiton.
“You’ll have better luck finding a bedmate if you don’t put it on.”
“Why don’t we go to bed?” Damen asked. He pulled the chiton around himself. “We can order a hot drink–”
“Is this why?” Laurent asked.
Damen had the chiton gathered at the shoulder, was holding the pin in his other hand. “What?”
“Is this why you’re fucking her?”
A beat. “What?”
“It’s understandable,” Laurent said. He felt less shaky the more he spoke. “You’re accustomed to a variety of available holes, and your lover won’t even allow you use of the two he possesses–”
“Stop,” Damen said flatly. “You’re upset. Let’s sit down. I’ll leave, if you’re going to do this.”
Laurent’s heart clenched like a fist. “Will you?” he said. “Am I too difficult for you?”
“That’s–” Damen shook his head. “Let me get you a glass of water,” he said, back to coaxing. “Let’s not fight–”
“Who’s fighting?” Laurent said. “You can fuck her if you like, I’m happy for the assistance. I was concerned, of course, when you stopped groaning in my ear every night like a prize bull–”
Damen went still.
Laurent saw it; his heart gave a painful thump like it had thrown itself against the inside of his ribs.
Damen saw him seeing it. “Laurent,” he said, and there was, just faintly, guilt in his voice–
“I’ve no real objection,” Laurent said. His lips felt numb. “And of course she’s entertaining enough–”
“You didn’t think to ask me about this?” Guilt was turning to anger.
“I don’t feel the need to hear details–”
“I am not,” Damen said, “Lying with Kydippe!”
“Who?” Laurent said.
Damen actually grabbed a handful of his own hair. “You–” he had to stop, clearly at a loss for words.
“In fact, I’m grateful not to have you constantly shoving your cock at me like a–”
“Well which is it!” Damen finally shouted back. “Am I some oversexed– slut– who wants you only for fucking, or do I not fuck you enough?”
“You–” It was not an avenue of attack he had expected. Laurent’s face went hot enough to melt copper. “That’s not–”
“Gods forbid you feel rejected, as though you don’t call me a filthy barbarian every time I lay hands on you–”
“That’s not true!”
“I know exactly the night you’re talking about, and you told me to go mount the couch like a dog!”
“That’s not– that isn’t–”
“It might be pleasant if you were to tell me you wanted me beyond kicking me in the leg–”
Something snapped in Laurent’s chest. “You wouldn’t even come inside me!” he shrieked.
“It was the middle of the night!” Damen roared back. “I thought it would make it easier to clean up!”
“That’s what you think about when you’re fucking me? Cleaning up?”
“It was for your benefit, you–” he stopped.
“What? ‘You’ what?”
Damen took a long, slow breath through his nose, nostrils flaring.
“You what?” Laurent repeated.
“Nothing,” Damen said. “You are upset. Let’s discuss this in the morning.”
“What’s to discuss?” Laurent said. “Is it so surprising that one of us is not such a fool as to be taken aback by a lack of fidelity–”
“You fucking child,” Damen snapped.
Laurent felt his head jerked back as though he’d been punched.
Damen’s anger was already fading. “Laurent,” he said, reaching out again, coming closer, his voice gone gentle and kind, and Laurent flinched away. “Laurent,” Damen said again, biting his lip, and Laurent– fled.
Fumbling through the door, past the startled guards. His undone cuffs flapped against his wrists. Jord called for him; Laurent darted through the servants door, ran up a flight on the narrow set of stairs, and waited while Jord and Rochert ran down them, calling for him. He was silent even after the echo of their steps faded. His breath was doing something strange, like the air was just drifting in and out of his lungs whenever it felt like it.
The fourth floor of the castle wasn’t a floor as such, more of an attic where the roof slanted in and the servants stored extra furniture. Laurent pulled a torch off the wall and walked into the narrow space.
He knew his way around Marlas; they’d come here often enough, when he was a boy, and been here for weeks, towards– towards the end. He’d played in the library, and found kittens in the stables; ridden with Auguste to the nearby ruins, and watched him die from the parapet. And there was a particular place, where he’d hidden from his nurse with a book–
Laurent found the window first, a little round hole in the roof. He sat down next to it, sending up a puff of dust, and watched the torch burn low, and then out. A cold breeze was pouring through the hole, scented with the sea. He could see stars.
Fucking child. And here he was, in his childhood retreat, having run from the room rather than–
Laurent buried his face in his hands.
Uncle had lost interest gradually, and then all at once. At the very beginning, they had fucked every day; then, steadily decreasing, every other day, then every two, but they’d still been– close. He’d still kept his hand steady on Laurent’s shoulder, and played chess with him, though they’d been starting to argue sometimes, at that point: about politics, about Uncle’s decisions. Then his voice had cracked, just one time , and then– a week. And then more. Laurent wasn’t welcome in his bed when they weren’t fucking, and he’d tried– he’d offered– Uncle had liked–
And then there had been a new boy. Because of course there was.
Laurent leaned his head back against the stone wall. The wind was cold on his wet face.
He sat there for a long time.
Eventually, light flickered up in the distance. Damen was taller than the ceiling; Laurent heard him curse under his breath, more than once. He had a lantern, not a torch. It lit up his face, which showed no surprise at Laurent’s current, undoubtedly wretched state. He sat down next to Laurent, his chiton spreading over the dusty floor, and pulled from his shoulder a bundle which proved to contain a wineskin and a cloth napkin. The lantern he stretched to put at their feet, against the base of an old table draped in white cloth. Laurent watched in his peripheral vision as he held out the wineskin.
Might as well get drunk. He took it and was ashamed to find it contained only cold clear water. There were almond pastries in the napkin. His favorite.
“I wanted to apologize,” Damen said. “You’re right that we haven’t been making love so often lately, and that’s my fault. I don’t know if you remember but you– woke me up? That night?” His shoulders were rising in the way they did when he was ashamed. “It was– flattering. I suppose I want it more than you do, in general, and I liked that you– wanted it. So I thought I would leave it to you more often, to make a start.”
Laurent closed his eyes.
“And then– when you– after the harvest festival, I worried that– that you felt obligated. So I thought that was all the more reason to leave it to you. I’m sorry,” Damen added. “I should have said something. And I shouldn’t play games in our bed.”
Laurent couldn’t speak. He’d overheard a joke, once, from a drunk courtier, that he’d become Damen’s lover not as part of some plot but as an act of revenge in itself.
“And I’m sorry about Kydippe, I shouldn’t have laughed at you about it. I won’t speak to her again.”
Laurent fisted his hands in his hair. “Stop,” he rasped.
“I’m sorry,” Damen said again.
The words were frozen in his lungs. He had to chip them out. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Laurent said finally.
“But–”
“It was me. I’m not,” he said carefully, “normal. About– sex.”
A pause. They didn’t talk about it, not really. “I know,” Damen said, after a moment.
“My,” he made himself say. The air is coming into his lungs too fast. “I– when I got too old, I–”
“Laurent–”
“I can,” Laurent said, and his voice was horrible, helpless, begging– “do better–”
Damen’s arm came around him– he pulled him hard into his side. “I don’t need you to do better,” he said, quiet, fierce. “And I don’t need you to be different, in bed or out of it. Do you understand? I want you just as you are.”
“For now,” Laurent heard himself say, thick.
“For the rest of our lives,” Damen said flatly. “Call it fifty years, Laurent. I’ll want you then.”
Laurent blew his nose on the napkin. “I’ll be ugly,” he said helplessly. “I’ll be bald.”
“I’ll want you bald as an egg,” Damen swore. “We can shave your head tomorrow if you want.”
The laugh broke through the ice in his lungs, ragged but real. He tilted his head, just slightly, and ended up leaning against Damen’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, after a bit. It wasn’t as hard to say as he might have thought. The flame of the lantern bobbed cheerfully at their feet. “I was– stupid.”
A pause. “We are– both, getting older,” Damen said, a little tentative. “And we’ve two countries to run. If we don’t make love every night, that doesn’t mean–”
“I know,” Laurent said.
“I am happy to make love every night,” Damen said hastily. “Twice a night, actually–”
“Six hours a day,” Laurent said. “Like that gladiator–
“Seven hours.”
“I did like the spanking,” Laurent felt compelled to say. “We should do that again.”
“Agreed,” Damen said at once.
Laurent hummed. It was quite late, almost early; he burrowed into Damen’s chest a little, and closed his eyes.
They woke in the space before dawn, when the eastern sky was rose-pink. Damen chivvied him to his feet, ignoring his groans. The lantern had burned itself out, and the sun was not yet peeking over the horizon; they had to pick their way back to the stairwell. Damen offered his hand and Laurent took it, and they walked down the stairs together.
There were four guards at the foot of the stairs. They came to attention as their kings descended and Laurent wondered with tired amusement what they thought had happened, all night in the attic. The pair of guardsmen outside Nikandros’s door also came to attention as they walked past– as, at the same time, Nikandros’s door swung open.
It was Kydippe of Thrace. Everyone froze.
She was barefoot with her sandals in one hand; her hair looked like a bird had nested in it and her dress was torn down the side and held, barely, together by pins. Her neck had faint, mouth-shaped bruises. Holding the door for her was Nikandros, completely naked; he had red fingernail scratches on his chest and the look of a forest traveler who had turned a corner and unexpectedly encountered a very large bear.
Laurent felt deeply stupid.
“Good– morning,” Nikandros said.
“Isn’t it,” Damen agreed. Laurent glanced to the side and– yes, he was in fact wiggling his eyebrows.
“My lady,” Laurent said.
“Your Majesty,” Kydippe said. She was blushing. Her curtsey resulted in the faint sound of tearing cloth.
“Call me Laurent, please,” Laurent said. “I hope you didn’t keep the kyros up too late–”
“Farewell, Your Majesty,” Nikandros said loudly, and Laurent allowed Damen (still chuckling) to pull him past the door towards their rooms.
Damen helped him with the back of his collar; they toppled into bed together, limp and yawning, Damen naked and Laurent in just his shirt.
“I’m not doing anything until at least noon,” Damen sighed. “Good night.”
A thought drifted up from the depths. “We should put the desk in the other room,” Laurent said, or thought he said. And then he was asleep.