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The first time it happened, in the midst of battle preparations at Karthas, Damen had dismissed it as a momentary lapse. Laurent’s voice, issuing curt orders, and his own involuntary reaction: nothing more than force of habit, the instincts he had trained into himself, deliberately, in order to survive.
Nikandros had noticed then, and had let it go with the circumspect silence of a kyroi to his king. That was as it should be, Damen thought. It was not worth discussing. It was not even worth thinking about.
In the weeks after Ios, as Damen lay in bed recovering from the wound Kastor had bestowed on him, Laurent issued frequent orders: not to move, to obey the doctors, to swallow yet another toxic-tasting potion. Sickbed orders, given with long-suffering glares from Laurent, easy for Damen to roll his eyes at even as something in his chest expanded, painful and bright, at the gentle tease of Laurent’s tone, the warm worry in his voice.
It wasn’t until he was well again, and thrust headlong into the endlessly, impossibly complicated details of combining two nations, that it became a problem.
Long hours of tedious negotiations—to give in on one small issue would mortally offend this landholder, but to hold out would alienate another, ad nauseum, unbearably finicky and boring even to someone with a mind like Laurent’s—wore on both of them. Damen, his mind clouding with exhaustion, pushed on only because he could not let Laurent appear to be doing this alone; no Akielon would validate the legitimacy of a nation planned by Laurent of Vere while King Damianos took a long-needed nap. Laurent, for his part, appeared unchanged. Perhaps only Damen noticed the way he rolled his shoulder once, then twice, a telltale sign of tension singing painfully through his lithe body.
“Yves of Theriault will never concede to lessen the tax on the importation of waterfowl, your Highness,” said one very old and unbearable councilor. Damen tried to think. Was it because Theriault was known for its duck farming? Or was it because Theriault had had some ancestor who first imposed that tax as a member of the Council? Or was it—
Laurent began to roll his shoulder once more, and then stopped himself.
“The tax codex,” he said, curtly. “Fetch it.”
He indicated the heavy book on the far side of the table, and Damen stood, unthinking, and brought it to him.
Laurent accepted it from his hands, a strange look on his face. The councilors were not looking at them at all. Very carefully.
“Thank you,” said Laurent. Scrupulously polite, the way one never was with a slave, nor a servant.
“You’re welcome,” said Damen. The words felt strange. He sat down. Laurent opened the codex, found the section regarding waterfowl. Proceeded, cooly and deliberately, to pick apart the objections of Yves of Theriault until they no longer presented an obstacle.
Silent, useless, Damen stared at nothing and felt only the echo of the impulse that had forced him to stand: the knowledge that Laurent had desired something, had needed it, and that he had needed—equally—to give it to him.
When it happened again, during a long banquet, Laurent gripped his thigh under the table. He had not said anything at all, this time, had only raised a hand in a silent request for water. A servant had begun to bring him wine instead, and Damen had reached for the water jug before he knew what he was doing.
Laurent’s grip held him in place.
“Don’t,” he said, only, and Damen knew that he was right. To be seen to serve the King of Vere now, at this delicate moment in their negotiations, as they tried to convince two countries that they would be combined fairly, as equals--not Akielos subsumed into a more resplendent Vere--would be unfortunate. To serve him a drink at a banquet, as a slave would serve a master--disastrous. Unforgivable.
It was only, Damen thought again, that he was used to it. When it had been longer, when this new sweet thing between them was easier, less new, this instinct would fade. At night, Damen lost himself in the hesitant, prickly yielding of Laurent, his soft limbs and bitten-off sighs, and everything was easy--as easy as it could be when your partner was Laurent; all need and touch and rush of feeling. He fell asleep, sated, and woke early. Laurent slept still, tangled in the covers, and Damen slipped from the bed without waking him and went to the training grounds.
There was a restlessness in him that could only be cured by exhaustive exercise, and he had had far too little of that, lately: all his hours filled with documents and the white and trembling beards of ancient advisors, with state dinners and delicacy. He felt better already with the heavy length of a sword in his hand, and the growing burn of his muscles. He called a soldier to spar with him, and then another when that man dropped, exhausted, until seven men leaned, chests heaving, against the wall, and still something inside him itched and trembled, and there was no one left to fight.
“Leave us,” said a voice, cool and presumptuous, and the men scattered at Laurent’s approach. He was clad in Veretian training clothes, leather breeches and shirt laced from elbow to delicate wrists, and he quirked a smile at Damen as he settled into his stance.
Damen smiled back, heart singing, and then it began, and it was as he remembered, as it always was--the glad surprise of Laurent’s ability, his quickness and vision, and the resounding joy of fighting a worthy partner. Damen let the bout play itself out slowly, to better admire the un-flashy brilliance of Laurent’s swordplay, the look of concentration on his face, and then Laurent redoubled his attack and Damen lost himself in the wonder of a fair fight. He blocked and parried, whirling, and finally saw his opening, and thrust home, and--
“Wait,” said Laurent, breathing hard, and Damen pulled up as though at a wall, sword inches from Laurent’s leather-clad clavicle. Laurent stepped in past Damen’s frozen guard, gently, and tapped his own weapon to Damen’s side.
“Yield,” said Laurent, a curious catch in his voice, and--ears ringing--Damen dropped his sword with a clatter and sank down beside it, catching his breath.
“Do you usually,” asked Laurent, from somewhere above him, “simply stop fighting when asked to?”
Damen shook his head.
“I thought not,” said Laurent. Damen looked up at him, then, and Laurent looked back, inscrutable. He was sweating gently, a bead of it running down his fine forehead, and he reached out a hand as though toward Damen’s head and then let it fall, instead, on the pommel of his sword, and turned away. Damen could hear his footsteps getting softer. He got up, finally, and put the sword away, and went to the corner where a leather bag swung from the rafters by a chain. When he was done with it sawdust was spilling out from three different places along the seam, and the rafter itself was creaking ominously.
He bathed, mindlessly, and went to dress and to steel himself for another interminable day at the council table. As all the mummified councilors rose noisily to salute him, Laurent leaned over, feline, to whisper in his ear.
“Control yourself,” he said, calm and quiet and matter-of-fact, the way he might have spoken to Damen months ago. Damen flashed hot at the sound of it, with--resentment; with memory. He looked resolutely ahead, at where the councilors were waiting for them to begin.
When, an hour later, the laces of Laurent’s sleeve became untied and he held his arm out, languidly, in Damen’s direction, Damen met his eyes and stilled the echoing impulse of his hands. He knew those laces, and the intensity of Laurent’s pulse in the vein at his wrist, and he remembered those things as the footman by the door came forward unobtrusively and tied them, his fingers fumbling once, inadequate.
Above the footman’s bowed head, Laurent caught Damen’s eye.
An inkpot spilled, later, and threatened to drip from the edge of the table onto Laurent’s thigh, and Laurent looked at Damen again as he moved not towards the spill to catch it but away, to make room for another footman to sweep in with a rag. This time, Laurent nodded, a minute movement of his head, and Damen ached with--uselessness, with the long and tedious hours of negotiation.
At dinner, a servant appeared with a tray of sweetmeats, held out between Damen and Laurent, and Damen gripped the arms of his chair and watched as Laurent reached out for one himself, long and delicate fingers like a pincer around it, and tilted it into the soft red bow of his mouth; the way his throat moved, like a column of living marble, as he swallowed it. Laurent saw Damen looking, and looked back; he licked his fingers, and gestured for a basin in which to wash them. There was one on Damen’s other side, sitting abandoned; Laurent saw it too, and Damen sat there, pinned by his gaze, and couldn’t escape the knowledge of his longing. To bring it to Laurent. To ease his long day with the simple gift of something that he needed, and that Damen could provide. To not move was torture, but the humiliation was in wanting to, and in knowing that Laurent knew it.
Laurent spoke to him normally throughout the evening, barbed jokes and penetrating questions, and Damen did his best to echo him. To be a king, sitting with his king. But it was impossible to ignore his own relief when the meal ended and he could escape back to his chambers, to sit, heart pounding, hands flexing uselessly.
The door opened, quietly, and Laurent slipped inside. He stood before the open windows, bathed in evening light, and Damen thought, I want to worship you. It was a terrifying thought, if familiar: half of a kingdom cannot worship the other half.
“How can I do my duty to my people,” he said out loud, not looking at Laurent, “when I am still your slave?”
Laurent walked towards him, and cupped his face with elegant fingers, and Damen looked up at him. A part of him had expected to see triumph on Laurent’s face, or wickedness, or at least mischief--but there was only an ache and a wide-eyed fear that echoed his, and something else.
“Who we are together has nothing to do with Akielos, or Vere,” said Laurent, quietly. “Let our countries have our days, and our fealty, and even our blood--but this is for us, and we decide what it will be.”
He sat beside Damen on the low couch.
“You have fought for Akielos at every turn,” Laurent said. “In those awful meetings, when you’re dying of boredom, not a single concession escapes you without pushback; not a single meter of land is not haggled over. You may barely be able to stop yourself from challenging the footman to a duel over my laces, but that has nothing to do with the prospects of the Akielon border farmers.”
“Was it that obvious?” asked Damen, and Laurent leaned in, so close that Damen could almost feel the brush of his lips--and then stopped.
“You might as well have gotten down on your knees for me in the council chamber,” said Laurent. Damen could feel the whisper of his breath against his burning cheeks. Laurent held him there, not letting him look away.
And then he asked, with a sudden shift into something that might have been called shyness, “What do you want?”
Answers crowded Damen’s head, an impossible clamor, and he knew them all--the constant echoes of his heart--and chose the most mundane.
“Your laces,” he said, and Laurent stood, wordlessly, and offered Damen his wrist. Damen stood too, at first--the familiar stance, removed, the bend of his neck, the tiny complexity of the ribbons and the way they opened, finally, springing apart. The gift of Laurent’s wrist, the unexpected softness of it, its translucense, the hard thin cords of his muscles.
As it had so many times before, Laurent’s jacket unfolded at last, its seams picked gently apart, and beneath it was the once-crisp linen of his shirt, now moist with a day’s sweat, the humid confines of the conference room. Laurent rolled his shoulder again, and Damen’s heart rolled with it--helpless, like a dog, belly-up.
“Let me,” he said, and then, “Laurent, can I--”
“Yes,” said Laurent, and Damen eased his thumbs into the hard knot of muscle, taking it apart, feeling Laurent unlock beneath him, shuddering. He dug in again and Laurent gasped with the feeling of it and Damen pushed up the white cloth of his shirt so that he could see Laurent’s lithe back, and kiss the place his hands had been.
“Oh no, don’t stop,” said Laurent, breathlessly, “I should have been asking for this for months, now--get the oil, don’t stop until I tell you to.”
Damen got the oil, his whole self ringing with the surprised pleasure in Laurent’s voice, and when he turned back Laurent had shed the shirt entirely and his pants as well, and was lying face-down on the bed, a sheet pulled up to cover his thighs and buttocks.
“Well?” he said, imperious, and Damen answered his call. He stood beside the bed and watched as the oil dripped down the long, elegant column of Laurent’s spine, pooling in the hewn dip at his hips, and then he swiped his hands through it and let himself think of nothing but the planes of Laurent’s muscles, the places of tightness and knotting and unfolding ease.
Throughout it, Laurent spoke to him: “higher,” “gentler,” “just there; yes.” He was more vocal than during sex, Damen thought--he sighed at the slide of Damen’s palms, and groaned when Damen dug in with real pressure.
When, finally, Laurent’s entire upper body was one lax and flowing muscle, Damen swept his hands across the broad expanse of it--just once more, just to feel--and went to put away the oil.
From the bed, there was a noise.
“I believe I told you not to stop until I told you to,” said Laurent. “Have I been wrong about the past few weeks? I’m so rarely wrong.”
“You’re not--” said Damen, “I’ll--.”
He went back to the bed. Laurent’s back and arms were gleaming and relaxed, wrung out like a sponge. Beneath the sheet were his thighs and calves and glutes, and he’d sparred with Damen that morning in addition to his regular daily training regime, which any soldier would have found grueling. Damen could feel an ache in his own legs; he pulled down the sheet covering Laurent, and began at his calves, with their tendons, the fine form of them, their length like a deer with high white socks.
“Stop thinking poetic thoughts about my legs and get on with it,” snarled Laurent lazily, and Damen grinned into the meat of Laurent’s thigh, and let his hands follow. They were slick with oil, which ran in rivulets into the sheets and mattress, and Damen had to work to find purchase in the slippery steel of his muscles. He was rewarded by another one of Laurent’s low groans, and the way he slid his legs apart, as though asking for more.
Damen eased his hands up, past Laurent’s thighs, to the swelling rise of his glutes, and let more oil leak from the jar, trembling. It slid down into the crease between them, and Damen watched its path, frozen. Beneath his hands, Laurent shifted--a reminder. Damen moved again, mindlessly, swamped with want and love.
When his thumb slipped over Laurent’s hole Laurent shifted again, deliberately, and Damen answered. Everything was a mess of heat and oil; he let his thumb linger there, and then sink in, another stretch. He went slowly, because he knew that that was how Laurent liked it: so slowly it seemed that time was barely passing, except that Laurent’s shifts became small moans, and then cries, muffled by his pillow. Damen had both thumbs in Laurent, now, spreading him, unable to look away from the dents his fingers made in Laurent’s ass, the way his thumbs sank, gleaming.
He could feel himself, hard against Laurent’s thigh, but it was as though it was happening to a different body: he knew that all he had been asked to do was give this to Laurent until he no longer wanted to take it, so slowly it felt like torture, and too much pleasure to be borne.
Carefully, as carefully as he had picked apart the laces of Laurent’s sleeve a lifetime earlier, Damen eased his thumbs out; he watched the pink muscle try to close, and he let more oil drip there, until it ran inside of Laurent. Below him, Laurent made a wordless noise, a cry. Damen chased the oil with two fingers, and then another one; Laurent cried out again. Damen could feel the tension singing through him that signalled Laurent on the very edge of coming, the place where he would try to stop himself, helpless, until Damen welcomed him across. He slipped his other thumb in beside the three fingers, an impossible stretch, and tugged softly, inexorably, until Laurent was making one long, continuous noise, low and ragged. Damen loved him like this--he loved him always, at every second, at his coldest and cruellest, and to be allowed to love Laurent like this, obscenely soft, exposed and open in his and Damen’s bed, was too much.
Damen wanted to kiss him, and did not; he wanted to lean forward and let his tongue press where his fingers were, and did not. He tugged again, rhythmically, and let his fingers push in further and slide out, in small endless bursts; giving Laurent only this, because he loved it, until Laurent cried out a third time, almost silently, shuddering, and was still.
Long seconds went by. Laurent’s rough breathing was the only noise in the room, and then the slick noise of oil joined it, as Damen eased his fingers out. Laurent made a small, discontented noise, and Damen froze, just the tip of his thumb still inside of Laurent.
“Do I have to order you to fuck me, too?” Laurent asked, muffled, face still buried in the mattress.
“I--whatever you want,” said Damen, helplessly, and Laurent rolled over, not without effort.
“I believe I just told you,” he said, but he was flushed and bright-eyed and young, edging towards sleep in the aftermath of so much pleasure. Damen leaned down, finally, to kiss him, tangling his hands in Laurent’s hair and getting oil there.
“Damen,” said Laurent, laughing, and Damen pushed his knee back and eased into him, absurdly slick, nearly blushing at the lack of resistance.
“Oh,” said Laurent, “that’s--stay there, don’t move,” and Damen froze, half inside of him, swamped with heat. Laurent shifted, easing, and Damen’s fingers clenched in the warm, now-loose muscles of his thigh.
“You can,” Laurent said at last, “but easy, go--slowly,” and Damen let himself push forward. There were noises from the oil, and Laurent was half-holding in low, small noises of his own. Damen, fully inside him now, rocked forward, barely moving, the same gentle, inexorable pressure as before. Laurent’s eyes eased closed, and Damen kissed his neck, and held himself to only this small motion, so little he thought that it would never be enough--he would wait until Laurent came again, and then--but then Laurent said, in a low voice, like it had been drawn out of him unthinking, “oh--that’s good, Damen--” and Damen came without warning, like a fist to the chin, rocked by it; floored.
He rode it out, holding himself to the same small movements, letting it spill through him without help or urging, and then he lay there trembling as Laurent brought his own hand down to touch himself and came, tightening around where Damen was still half-hard inside of him, leaking and slick.
Some minutes later, Damen rose from the bed, and found water and cloth. Seeing him, Laurent raised sleepy eyebrows, then smiled and let Damen clean him.
“Why do you like it?” Laurent asked, quietly. “I always--hated it.”
Damen remembered this scenario, reversed; the automation of Laurent’s actions, the unusual precedence of instinct over thought.
There were so many reasons, he thought, and none of them really adequate. A chance to do what he had been forced to, through his own choice this time; a re-writing of what had gone before; a repayment to Laurent for something that could never be fixed. A simple, wordless longing that had finally been heard. A love too big to be contained, that spilled over into every place it could.
“Because you are my king,” said Damen, and there was only Laurent there to hear it, and to know what he meant.
~*~
In the course of the next day’s meeting, Laurent sweat, beads rolling gently down the back of his neck, because someone had forgotten to close the drapes against the afternoon sun; he ran out of ink, and nearly shattered the pot in his icy frustration; he snapped at Lord Auremont when he couldn’t find a copy of the Vaskian trade agreements quickly enough. But he did not roll his shoulder; instead he sat relaxed and precisely balanced, a sword in perfect trim. And Damen did not jump, helpless, at the sound of his voice, or the knowledge of his discomfort.
He thought, instead, of that morning: Laurent awake, and half-dressed, his arm held out to Damen in silent question, the laces trailing from his undone sleeve.
Damen had come forward, and slipped the delicate ribbons through each embroidered hole, and pulled them secure. He fastened them. When he looked up, he saw in Laurent’s eyes an awed love so familiar he knew it at once.
He kissed Laurent’s temple, and smiled into the golden hair there; and they left their rooms together.