#and damen yells SOMETIMES

[goldencuffs]

damen has a vigorous multi-step skin and hair routine that he takes very seriously and he’s sure laurent has one too so he’s very excited when laurent sleeps over for the first time because it means they can be cute and do it together 🥰 but all laurent does is splash water on his face and then dive under the bed covers and damen has to clutch the bathroom sink to keep from fainting. his eye twitches for the rest of the night.

[hoodlessmads]

Dark Heir spoiler thoughts:

Okay some of these are criticisms but please understand I really liked it! I liked it even more than Dark Rise. I’m just an overdramatic person and need to yell sometimes.

These don’t have any particular order, I’m just freestyling -

Reading Captive Prince years ago (and rereading since) before reading Dark Rise made me have an unfair resentment towards James for being basically the same character as Laurent but not as good and that continued here

Will is the second best character Pacat has ever made after Laurent and book 3 might push him ahead

I loved seeing Will use more and more of his evil powers

The best one being where he possesses anyone with a brand and his eyes turn black and he turns into Legion (maybe shoulda turned that off before trying to appeal to Violet…)

Finding out his mom actually was tying him to bedposts and beating him this whole time somehow shocked me because for some silly reason I believed one of the most unreliable third person subjective narrators ever, Will, that she was a nice lady just doing her best. Anyway I love this revelation because it makes such perfect sense, it’s just, “Oh. Of course.”

Violet and Cyprian are both himbos yet Violet is somehow the only character with a single brain cell left at the end of the book

Cyprian drinking from the cup makes no sense after they had a whole discussion in the first book about how drinking from the cup put the Stewards into the Dark King’s plans and made them his thralls and was the entire reason they died, a massacre which Cyprian experienced viscerally, and then he goes and drinks from the cup anyway and oops surprise Will can in fact enthrall him. Cyprian is able to fight it off but that doesn’t change the complete recklessness and out-of-character-ness of it to me.

Violet/Cyrprian is a good ship

Phillip/Visander is hilarious (in a good way)

Will/James is fine but I wish I was more compelled by them than I actually am. For being the main couple, I don’t feel like their relationship has been given the room it needed to develop organically and instead it feels like we’re falling back on physical attraction and a vague shadow of a past relationship in the old world that we didn’t get to see. It’s hard not to compare to Damen/Laurent which by contrast was developed so painstakingly.

Elizabeth is incredible

Visander sucks, actually

The whole Light kind of sucks. The Stewards, the Sun Kingdom, they were all assholes

People with black-and-white morality are truly terrible, aren’t they? And pretty much everyone is like that except for Will, James, and Violet

Sometimes I felt like that fact was really being hammered in on purpose almost as though to make James murdering like 300 people seem less bad (but it didn’t….)

But I don’t dislike James because he murdered 300 people, I actually love villains and I especially am attached to the idea of everyone being redeemable. But what I don’t like is the book telling me I should like James without giving me a good reason or the book downplaying his actions to make him seem more sympathetic. He can have murdered all the Stewards and still be compelling, we don’t need to diminish what he’s done in order for him to be likable

Also everyone in this book except like, Will and maybe Violet and James is an idiot (and I’ll excuse Elizabeth for only being ten). Someone send these characters to Psych 101, they don’t seem to understand the concept of a self-fulfilling prophecy…

Like obviously if you tell someone they’re evil over and over again for their whole lifetime they will become evil

Theory - I don’t think Violet will turn on Will. I think she’s just shell-shocked. She wasn’t really given a chance to take a stance before James Peter Panned him away. Violet knows exactly what it feels like to be told you are evil because of some past thing, and she knows Will better than any of the other characters. And she knows that morality is not black and white (Tom is her brother). She’ll definitely end up in Will’s corner by the end.

Theory - The line of the Lady and the line of the Dark King are the same bloodline and they split off later. Sarcean’s “cataclysmic night together” with the Lady was mentioned not once but twice. Pacat doesn’t waste lines. The child that the Lady had was Sarcean’s, or at least one of them.

Will better figure out how to destroy that collar quick…before they both get even more traumatized. I think that will be one of his main goals in book 3. Or I hope…otherwise it will be hard to develop the genuine romance

I sure hope Will can also figure out how to expel that shadow from Cyprian before he like… dies. Don’t do that to Violet D:

So, I’m not a huge fan of YA in general (outside of YA anime and manga which for some reason hits different). I used to like it a lot, it used to be most of what I read. I grew up reading series like Redwall, Darren Shan, Demonata, Pendragon, and so on. But I’ve grown out of the genre (I’m 27). Not every adult does - one of my best friends who is a year older than me still really enjoys YA. But because I don’t like YA, I think my enjoyment of Dark Rise/Dark Heir is influenced and my criticisms may be unfair.

But I find that with fantasy series like this, I the books really need to be longer. Or there needs to be more of them. I feel like Dark Rise has so many moving pieces, enough characters that there could be a trading card game (and there are literally collectible cards), so many different magical artifacts and magical powers, an entire magical old world beneath the semi-magical 1820s Europe world to develop, and also by the way a whole story that took place 10,000 years ago that has to be told at some point. I find myself feeling like all these different elements are being introduced and moved on from too fast and I wish they were all given more time to breathe. I think that’s part of why the relationship between Will and James feels a bit rushed to me. I don’t know if the short length of the series was Pacat’s choice or an editor’s, though. I don’t feel like Captive Prince had this issue because there were no supernatural elements, the cast was much smaller, and the plot was comparably simple so a lot of it got to be characters just talking to each other, which was great, and the world building was accomplished mainly through these interactions. The plot and world of Dark Rise is much larger in scope but the page count is the same (a little longer maybe).

So wait who is Mrs. Duval

Why did Ettore leave the Stewards anyway? Other than the obvious, which is that they suck

Where was Grace during the whole ending scene? Wasn’t she there but just not saying anything. As this total calamity befalls her only remaining friend group she finally has seen too much and just nopes out and is busy making tea in the corner or maybe popcorn

I do really like Cyprian btw in spite of thinking his moral code is shitty. Gave Violet a chance but sold Will for one corn chip… I see how it is (okay that’s not fair but you know what I mean, he has flaws)

It sounds like I’m in the majority when I say that I still don’t like Devon - I saw that theory about him being the final big bad and I’m so on that train. I think he’d make a good enough final villain. I agree there is something predatory about him and Tom. I don’t necessarily think Pacat wants us to root for them as a couple, though. There were better ways to pull that off if that was the intent.

Not to repeat myself but Phillip was such a pleasant surprise. Like who is this fruit and how did he get here

So next book, I hope (assume) we get to see the rest of the old world story filled in so we can understand where it all went wrong for Sarcean and also the exact nature of his relationship with Anharion because so far it’s been quite vague (intentionally I assume). Like….. you know….. did he agree to put on the collar?

The tricky thing about this series is that once the reader learns that Will is the Dark King, it’s hard to maintain any sort of external tension. Right? It’s hard to feel afraid of the forces of the Dark when the protagonist has total effortless control over them just by virtue of who he is. Will can literally just be like, “No, don’t” and everything’s fine. He did just this at the end of Dark Rise. I find the way Dark Heir seems to end with their “only hope of stopping the Dark army” destroyed to be pretty unconvincing. Why on earth would Sarcean create a destructible object that is the only way of controlling his own army? Of course Will should be able to control them with his will alone. If he can control Shadow Kings and make them die with his words alone, why didn’t he try yelling at the shadow army to stop trying to possess people? This doesn’t make sense to me. And if people become Returners through his magic, shouldn’t he be able to exert some control over their existence the way he does with the branded? Pacat has done a good enough job at getting us to know Sarcean (an extremely good job btw) so as to make the destroyed brand plot point unbelievable. Anyway…

Instead, the tension in Dark Heir is almost entirely internal or realized in character relationships rather than physical threats. The tension is between Will and himself, and between Will and his friends. (There are tensions between other characters but focusing on the main plot here.) The possibility that they might find out and abandon him, and the possibility that he might actually be as nasty of a guy as Sarcean was, the slim chance that he might learn something that makes him go, “You know what, I agree with my past self after all.”

Now that everyone has found out who he is, that particular source of tension has sort of evaporated, so now in book 3 Pacat has to find a way to make Will’s conflict with himself and his friends compelling enough to carry us through 450 pages (I don’t expect this will be difficult). What I see as the problems now are 1) what was Sarcean actually planning and how did he plan on getting Will (himself) to fall in line with them (this was a question in Dark Heir as well but now it’s bigger), 2) how is Will going to destroy his own (Sarcean’s) Dark artifacts so he can free James, and 3) Can he convince anyone to ever love him (oh no ouch).

If I had to rank these books at this stage I’d probably give Rise a 3.7 ish…. and Heir a 4.2. I’m holding out for Dark King to be a 5 or close. (I don’t know what the actual title will be, I’m just guessing lol.) I definitely think Dark Heir is an improvement over Dark Rise since I always thought the most interesting part of the latter by far was everything that happened once Will learns he is the Dark King at the very end.

“Are we going to talk about the magic pseudo-sex scene—“ No and I hope we never will

[winmance]

Lies and Memories

“Do you trust him?”

The question is directed to Jord, Laurent’s personal guard. Not for long, though. In only a few days, Jord will be leaving his current position and leading a small army of men to the South. It is a great reward to be named captain, yet when he had been told the news, Jord had turned white and nodded. Rumor is that he and the Prince are intimate, though Damen doesn’t believe it himself. There are a lot of rumors surrounding the Prince’s bed partners.

“He was appointed by your Uncle,” Jord says, which isn’t an answer. Then, “I fought by his side. He’s one of the best.”

Damen should feel honored by such a statement, yet there’s something unreadable in Jord’s voice. He seems angry. Perhaps the rumor is true, then.

“Stand up.”

Damen stands with as much elegance as he can, knowing that all of this is a test and that he shouldn’t show the Prince that his knees are hurting. As his personal guard, it will be Damen’s job to protect him, and to do so, he needs to be strong. Hard marble shouldn’t be enough to make him wince.

If there’s one rumor that is true about the Prince of Vere, it is the one surrounding his beauty. Damen envies all the men who had the chance to share a bed with him.

“You look like an Akielon.”

“I’m a bastard, your Highness. My mother was from here, my father from Akielo, or so I was told.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“In your beautiful kingdom. Thanks to your father’s generosity, I was raised in an orphanage and was then able to swear my life to you.”

“I am not the king. My brother is.”

That statement takes Damen by surprise, but he supposes it shouldn’t have. Even though no one even dares mention King Auguste’s name anymore, the man is still the King and would be until his death. But he isn’t the one ruling the Kingdom, nor is Laurent.

“I meant the crown, your Highness. Your family.”

“My family,” The Prince repeats. Then, he gets up and turns around, ready to leave. He’s even more stunning standing up, Damen notices. “Jord, show him his new room.”

------

All of Damen’s life fit into one trunk. There wasn’t much to take: a few clothes, his weapons, his books, and then he was ready to go. Starting today, his life would be much different. As an orphan, he had been allowed to enroll into the army at only fifteen, his muscular body certainly coming into play, and since then, he had been traveling the world, fighting under the Regent’s orders. He had been almost everywhere, save for Akielos, and had seen atrocity all around. His days had been rythmed by the pouring of blood, screams of agony, and the smell of death. There was also a lot of waiting, something that people outside of the army may not be aware of. It took days, weeks, even months sometimes, to reach the different cities. Death is quick, but the agony is long.

Damen has been good at war. He has been so good that it owes him his new position: as the best knight, it was only natural that his next duty would be to take care of the Prince. It’s something else entirely, Damen is aware of that. Looking after a Prince is one thing, but looking after Prince Laurent is another. The man is known for his vicious mind, his coldness, and, most of all, his relationship with his brother. It has never been confirmed, of course, though the lack of defense from the crown may be an indication, but the rumor is well-known in all kingdoms. How many times had Damen heard it when fighting on the field? Soldiers would throw the words at them, laughing through their teeth as they talked about their Prince spreading his legs for his brother. Not all of them laughed, though. Some yelled, anger filling their voices as they call Prince Laurent an abomination, a monster. Those are the ones that justified Damen’s new position. Prince Laurent is hated, in all kingdoms, even his own, and his safety is in danger every time he steps out of his room.

He’s getting older, too. He’ll be twenty-one soon, which means that he will be the ruler in the absence of King Auguste, forcing their uncle to step down from his position. Vere won’t allow it. Akielos even less. Prince Laurent may be entitled to the crown, but his loyalty and disgusting relationship with his brother make it impossible for him to rule. If anyone was hated more than the Prince, it would be the King himself.

King Auguste, the prince's killer.

------

Jord hadn’t given him a lot of information before he left. In fact, Damen has been told only one thing regarding his new position: Prince Laurent was the one in charge and therefore, Damen was to listen to his every order. He was, after all, his future King. Damen had stayed quiet to that, his real mission a secret to all.

So far, taking care of the Prince has been boring. There isn’t another word to describe it. Prince Laurent barely leaves his room and when he does, it’s either to go to the library, attend the council's meetings, or to go riding. His uncle insists that he eats dinner with him every night but the rest of his meal is spent in his own chambers, which Damen is not allowed to enter unless there’s an emergency. Prince Laurent barely talks to him and when he does, it’s only to give him orders such as “be quiet”, “wait here”, and “bring me my horse”. It seems like such a waste of Damen’s experience. He’s a knight, he has killed more men than he can even remember, his dreams fill with their screams and their cries, he can’t just stand there and be quiet until the moment comes. It gives him too much time to think and to remember things he doesn’t want to remember.

It’s two weeks into the job that something finally happens. From eleven to six, Damen is allowed to sleep in his room and has been placed next to the Prince’s own. He’s expected to still be aware of every move, of course, and so it’s not surprising that one night, his not-so-peaceful sleep is disturbed by noises coming from the Prince’s chamber.

Damen doesn’t wait. Sword in hand, he runs to the Prince’s room and enters without announcing himself. He half expected the Prince to be with a man, yet Prince Laurent is alone, looking at him with big, round eyes, and most importantly, he’s all dressed. A quick look outside the window indicates to Damen that it’s past midnight already. When he looks back at the prince, the young man is staring at his sword and Damen cannot understand the expression on his face. It’s not fear, nor anger, and that alone makes something drop into Damen’s stomach. He puts his sword down.

“Your Highness, are you going somewhere?”

“I am, yes.”

“Then you should have told me. I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I think I do.”

“Jord never came.”

“I am not Jord, your Highness. Your uncle asked me to take care of you.”

At this, the Prince stares at him, a challenge written in his eyes.

“Did he, Damen?”

“Yes, of course.”

The Prince is still looking at him with the same stare, but he doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he finishes getting ready, putting on some shoes and then a cloak that covers his head. He’s dressed in all black, making it impossible for him to be seen or recognized, although given the hour it is, Damen is not sure from whom he is hiding. He doesn’t give him any explanation and when he walks past Damen and into the hallway, Damen follows.

They move like Moses inside the castle, hiding each time they hear noises coming their way. At some point, a servant comes to the other end of the corridor and the Prince takes Damen by the arm and pushes him behind a wall. They have to press one against the other to make sure not to be seen, but Damen forces his body not to react. The Prince is hot against him, his strong body fitting nicely against Damen’s. He smells like jasmine and it reminds him of something, but he can’t put his finger on it.

He doesn’t have time to think more about it before they’re walking again. After a while, they finally leave the castle, and if Damen is smiling from the excitement of the night, it’s no one’s business but his.

They enter the stable and the Prince starts to prepare his horse. Damen had heard a lot of rumors before meeting him and most present him like a spoiled rotten child, unable to take care of himself and prone to tantrums. So far, he hasn’t witnessed any of that, and looking at the Prince now, who’s capable of preparing his horse, he somehow doubts the Prince is as incompetent as he’s pictured.

“Where are we going?” Damen finally asks once the Prince has already mounted the horse.

“Didn’t Jord tell you to listen to me and keep quiet?”

“He only said the first part.”

The Prince’s mouth twists and for what seems to be the first time, he looks directly at Damen. He hadn’t noticed how beautiful his eyes were before but now they’re staring at each other and Damen cannot look away.

“I’m going to see my brother. I’m allowed to stay with him for one hour every month. You can check with my Uncle if that’s your concern.”

The mention of the prince-killer is enough to send a shiver down Damen’s spine. He did remember the Regent mentioning it when they met a few months ago.

“Your uncle is generous.”

There’s a flash of anger on Laurent’s face, one that Damen doesn’t understand. The King has been imprisoned for almost fifteen years now, yet the Regent, despite the awful crime that the King committed, still allowed his nephews to see each other. It’s unfair, Damen thinks, that King Auguste can benefit from such kindness when King Theomedes will never be able to see his little boy. Yet, he cannot blame the Regent’s kindness and it only proves how good of a King he would make.

They only take one horse to be more discreet, though the Prince agrees that it only draws more attention to them. Damen refuses to take the chance of the Prince running away and he suddenly realizes how stupid it is. The Prince isn’t captive, he’s free to go wherever he wants, isn’t he? Yet… Yet he knows the Regent wouldn’t be pleased with the news of his nephew's disappearance and that’s how they end up like this; on a horse, in the middle of the night, with the Prince’s back pressing against his chest.

King Auguste has been locked in a place unknown to anyone except a few chosen members of the council. Damen doesn’t have any memories from that time, having been too young himself, but the story is such a historical event that there is no soul who doesn’t know it. The royal family of Vere had been invited to celebrate the young Prince of Akielos's birthday, an offer of peace considering the difficult relationship between the two kingdoms. There were words of war, but nothing serious, nothing written. Damen often wonders how the story would have gone if the Prince hadn’t done what he did. In a way, the Prince’s action did avoid war, but it was thanks to the Regent's quick thinking.

They say that no one saw the exact moment the Little Prince went away. There are rumors, as always, that it was Prince Laurent who lured him away, as ordered by his brother.

The body of the Little prince was found by his wet nurse, cold and long gone. He was covered in blood and had been so badly beaten that his face was unrecognizable, yet there was no doubt about who it was. Nor was there doubt of who did it when one of the servants saw Prince Auguste covered in blood and his hands damaged. He had been trying to clean himself, frantically rubbing his skin but to no use, the blood having dried out on his skin. He tried to defend himself but no one heard his plea. War would start, vengeance for the Little Prince they had lost, their favorite child, the King had said. King Aleron had refused to believe that his son was guilty and he was ready to fight for him.

But Auguste's uncle had seen him. He had witnessed his nephew taking the life of the Little Prince and he said so to King Theomedes. Their Uncle made a deal, then: King Aleron’s head, for a father, is responsible for his son’s actions, and Prince Auguste is in prison for life. To prove that he wasn’t doing it for the throne, he then offered to have Prince Auguste crowned King, even though he wasn’t even close to being of age at that time, while he reigned until Prince Laurent was twenty-one. Once Vere had a King again, it would be up to King Theomedes and his remaining son to decide on Vere's fate.

The horse comes to a halt and the Prince jumps before they are fully stopped.

“Wait outside,” Prince Laurent says to him.

Damen nods, even though the prince was already gone. They are on a high hill, with nothing around them but this tall tower that seems to be abandoned. It isn’t, now Damen knows that: inside, is King Auguste and now Prince Laurent, doing…

It always bothered Damen, this one rumor. He couldn’t see where it was coming from, given that no one had seen King Auguste for years now. Yes, it was a known fact that Prince Laurent was still in contact with his brother, but how would anyone know if the King was bedding his brother? It seems absurd. Damen was never adopted and though he grew up with other children, he never had siblings of his own but sometimes, when he was younger, he would pretend to have a brother. He was older than him and would teach him how to fight. Sometimes, it felt real, and it left Damen with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. They said he was born an orphan, never loved or cared for, but Damen… Damen wasn’t sure it was true. He couldn’t prove it, of course, but he knew deep down that he had been loved, once. The few times he mentioned it, he had gotten beaten for spreading lies.

Prince Laurent emerges back from the tower before the sun comes out again. His face is closed off, but his eyes are red and swollen. He cried, Damen thought to himself.

“Are you alright?”

This takes Prince Laurent by surprise. He’s pale, paler than usual, and Damen needs to take him into his arms and reassure him. They’re almost the same age, the Prince and he. In another life, where Prince Laurent hadn't been born in Royalty and where Damen had a family, they could have been friends. But that’s not the reality. Here, they’re only a prince and an orphan.

“Do you care?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

Prince Laurent looks like he wants to say something but he doesn’t and simply mounts back on the horse.

“I’m alright. Let’s go home.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the ride and when Damen smells the Prince's hair, there’s another scent he doesn’t recognize on them.

----

The Regent keeps a child close to him.

He’s barely thirteen, pretty and smart. He’s also a monster who likes to stick a fork into other’s thighs, something that Damen experiences firsthand. He’s also friends with Prince Laurent.

It’s funny, their relationship. They throw insults at one another, yet Prince Laurent lets him drink from his glace when no one is looking and they have private jokes that Damen doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know who the boy is, only that his name is Nicaise and that Damen has a sweet spot for him, even if he won’t say it out loud. The child is wild but unlike all the other men and women in Vere, he’s true and smart. He thinks he may be an orphan but from someone of high rank. The Regent seems to love him, but there’s something about the way he touches him that makes Damen’s skin crawl.

Then one day, when they’re coming back from a visit with the King, Nicaise is in front of Laurent’s room. His eyes are swollen, his lips black and there’s blood down his legs. He’s wearing a nightgown that doesn’t belong to him.

The Prince is on him before Damen can react. He’s holding him close to his chest, his eyes shut, and Nicaise starts to cry.

“Should I call for the physician?”

“No,” the Prince quickly says. “I’ll deal with it. It’s nothing. Can you… I need water and tissues. Get them, but don’t let anyone see you.”

The Prince knows what he’s doing. When Damen comes back, Nicaise is lying on the bed and the Prince doesn’t wait one second before he starts to clean him. Damen turns around but stays in the room, guarding the door. They’re having a private conversation and though he cannot understand what they’re saying, he hears bits of it. The Prince is reassuring him, telling him sweet nothings and words of praise.

When he’s done cleaning him, Nicaise has already fallen asleep. The water is a dark shade of red but Damen doesn’t comment.

“I know you rapport to my uncle,” the Prince says. “But this one…this one thing, can you keep it to yourself?”

“Does he have something to do with what happened to him?”

There’s anger in his voice and he knows the Prince can hear him. Behind them, Nicaise moves, settling deeper under the cover.

“I won’t say anything,” Damen promises. “And tell Nicaise that I’ll protect him if he needs me to.”

----

Dinner with the Regent and Prince Laurent is particularly awkward. This doesn’t surprise Damen, given the lack of affection between the two, yet it never fails to make him uncomfortable. They’re sitting on each side of the table, so far away that they have to almost yell to talk to each other. It’s a good thing they do not talk, Damen thinks to himself.

Prince Laurent barely eats. He plays with his food, tears it apart and when the servant comes, he orders them to take his food away.

“And don’t eat it,” he says.

It makes Damen’s blood boil to hear him say those kinds of things, but he stays quiet. He’s standing against the wall, his hand on his sword, ready for action. There’s no action. Everything is quiet and boring, as usual.

“I heard Jord has been hurt,” The Regent says. “It’s such a pity, he was a good knight.”

The words barely register in Damen’s mind and when he looks at the Prince, he’s as stoic as ever. He briefly wonders if he even heard what his uncle said.

“That’s a shame, yes.”

“Do you want to know more?”

“I don’t see why I would want to. You do know I’m too weak to hear about bloody stories, Uncle.”

The Regent laughs, loud and deep, and then he turns to Damen. It takes him by surprise. They’ve talked in private, once, but since then, they had been careful not to be seen speaking to one another again.

“Damen, you must think this is silly, don’t you? What man on his right would be afraid of a little bloody story?”

Unable to find an answer, Damen stays quiet. The Regent continues.

“You know, my nephew wanted to join the group, not long ago. I told him no, of course. With such a delicate mind, he would have never lasted. Not to mention what those men would have done to him. Tell me, Damen, have you bed my nephew yet?”

The Prince is not looking at him. He’s staring at his plate as if waiting to be swallowed by it.

“No, I have not, and do not plan on changing that.”

If it was the right answer or not, Damen will never know for the dinner continues without another word. He still thinks about Jord and briefly wonders if he could ask the Regent, but this conversation left a bad taste in his mouth.

When he walks the Prince back to his chamber, they stay quiet, as often, yet he can tell the Prince wants to tell him something. It’s dangerous how he’s starting to recognize his behavior. Once they’re in front of their respective chambers, they wait, silently, until he’s comfortable enough to talk. There’s this thing the Prince always does when he’s stressed, which Damen has noticed happens a lot, though he knows how to hide it until they’re alone. He seems to be bitten the inside of his cheeks, his mouth doing weird movements as he does so. Sometimes, when he hits a big piece, Damen hears it crack under his teeth.

“Jord wasn’t my lover,” the Prince finally says. “He was my friend, but not… I don’t take lovers. If you see a man going in or out of my room, assume I’m dead.”

Damen smiles, he can’t help himself, and nods. This seems to put the Prince at ease. His chewing has stopped.

“Good night, Damen.”

“Good night, your Highness.”

----

Since he moved into the castle, Damen hasn’t been sleeping well. He's thinking about the Prince, more often than not. There’s something about him that bothers him, but not in a wrong way. He had such a clear picture of who he was before he started his mission, yet he seems so different from the way he is portrayed that Damen doesn’t know what to believe anymore. It shouldn’t be an issue if his job was only to protect him, but it’s not. He has been granted a mission that he has willingly agreed to, but now…now he doesn’t know what to do.

They took the horses today and went for a ride, only stopping once the Prince had found a spot he judged adequate for his reading. It’s another one of the funny things he does: several times a week, he will make them go on a ride and once they get there, he will just lie down on the bare ground, a book between his hands. He’s taking notes, more often than not, but Damen never prys. He just sits there, looking at the Prince, imagining a world where they’re not who they are. A world where he can lie down next to him and push the stray hair that is falling into his eyes. A world where he can talk to him, freely, and ask him all the things he wants to ask.

“Do you have memories of your parents?”

The Prince’s voice takes him out of his imaginary world. His mind ventured to his recurrent nightmares, where he can’t see anything but he feels scared and alone. Cold and hurt. But also to the ghosts of arms cuddling him, to the lips on his forehead, and a man’s voice, telling him that he loved him. He thinks of a child, around his age, with yellow hair and blue eyes. It’s not a child from the orphanage, it’s a child from before. But what before? Damen was a baby when he was abandoned.

“No.”

“Consider yourself lucky, then. Memories are the downfall of every man.”

“Do you think so? Many would say that memories are what keep us human.”

“Memories are not reliable. One will remember something, another one something else, yet they lived the same thing. Memories… If I didn’t have memories, I wouldn’t miss my brother.”

It’s the first time he mentions his brother. Once per month, Damen takes him to see him, but none of them talk about him after. The Prince is always in the same state after, and if Damen sometimes slides closer to him, holding him to his chest, they don’t talk about it.

“He didn’t do it,” he says. “You won’t believe me, but I’m telling you: he didn’t do it.”

“How can you be so sure? You were just a child, then.”

“Because I know my brother. See, memories, it all comes down to them. My brother wouldn’t have hurt a child, no matter if they were from royalty or not.”

Damen takes a flower from the ground and starts playing with it, keeping himself busy.

“Your uncle said he saw him.”

“Do you trust my uncle, Damen?”

Damen frowns. A few months ago, he would have said yes. The longer he’s with the Prince, the more he doubts himself.

“He’s the Regent.”

Laurent is still lying on the ground but he put his book back. The sun is hitting him on the face, forcing him to close one of his eyes to look at Damen. He’s so beautiful, like this. The moment he’s away from the castle, he becomes a different man. There seem to be invisible forces holding him hostage, but when he’s here, he’s just Laurent. No more royalty titles.

“If I tell you not to eat or drink anything that he offers you, will you do it?”

This time, the answer comes without him having to think about it, but he’s not sure of the reason behind it. Is it because he doesn’t trust the Regent, or is it because Laurent is the one asking him?

“Anyway,” Prince Laurent says. “I learned a magic trick, do you want to see it?”

Damen is smiling before he even realizes it.

---

Damen is deep asleep when he hears the Prince screaming. He’s out of bed before it even registers in his mind and he doesn’t even take his sword before bursting into the room.

The Prince is in his bed, wide awake, covered in sweat, and eyes going crazy. Damen’s body moves on his own and he’s kneeling in front of him, holding one of his hands while pushing his hair away from his face with the other.

“Your Highness, Laurent, what is it? What happened?”

Laurent is holding his hand tight.

“I had a nightmare. I- I’m ok. It’s ok. Go back to sleep.”

There’s a moment where Damen thinks about following the order and regaining his room, but it doesn’t last for long. Laurent doesn’t want him to, it’s clear by the way he’s holding onto him, afraid that he will disappear. And so Damen gets up and walks towards the door, closes it, and, under Laurent’s comprehensive stares, he sits on the bed next to Laurent. It’s a bold move, he knows that, but Laurent breathes out and it’s all the reassurance he needs.

“I’ll keep you safe, Laurent. Come, lay down.”

Instinctively, he opens his arms and Laurent slides into them. His head is on Damen’s chest, his hand once again in his, and Damen strokes his wet hair to calm him down.

“I know my Uncle asked you to kill me,” Laurent says after a while. Damen’s heart drops in his stomach and he stays silent. “I thought… I thought I could defeat him, but I cannot.”

“Laurent, I don’t-”

“Ush. No more lies. I can’t deal with lies. I’ve been dealing with them for far too long. I do… I do have a request. Before you kill me, can you let me see my brother one last time?”

“I won’t kill you.”

“Yes, you will, because if you don’t, he’ll still have me killed and you’ll die too. But I want to see Auguste one last time. Maybe… Maybe you could set us both free. August, it’s not - it’s not a life, living the way he does, captive in his own kingdom. He stays alive because of me. If you kill us both…”

“I won’t,” Damen says again, more to himself than to Laurent. “You’ll see your brother and Auguste will be free.”

He feels Laurent’s laugh against his skin, both of their bodies shaking with it.

“It’s a nice dream. Are you part of it, too?”

“If you want me, yes.”

Silence, and then, a whisper, barely audible.

“I think I would love to, yes.”

---

The Regent calls him in his personal chamber. Damen has never been there. When he asked him to kill Laurent, they met in a tavern, where no one could identify them. Then, he had made him the offer in front of the council, but that had been in another room, too. Being there should feel like an honor. It doesn’t.

He saw Nicaise leaving the room before he came in, his head down and his cheeks red. He knows what is going on behind those doors, now, and the disgust he’s feeling cannot be described. He doesn’t know if he believes Auguste’s innocence yet, but here’s sure of two things: he believes Laurent and he doesn’t trust the Regent.

“Damen, you do know why I called you, don’t you?”

“No.”

“You don’t? Well, I noticed my nephew is still alive. Would you care to tell me why?”

Damen had signed up for it. He had agreed to kill Laurent, but that was before he knew him. Before he knew the Regent, too. He was supposed to kill him his first month into the job but it has been six months already. In less than three, Laurent will be twenty-one. His time is counted.

“Didn’t find the right timing.”

The Regent stares at him with disbelief written all over his face. He’s an ugly man. A pig that Damen should beat to death right there and then. He doesn’t. Laurent has asked him to wait.

“Tonight is a good time, then. Make sure it’s done before morning.”

---

Four guards are protecting the prison Auguste lives in. They’re well trained, quiet, and most of all, loyal to the Regent. Damen doesn’t know them. They haven’t fought side by side and so he knows he won’t be able to gain their trust. There’s no point in trying: their time is limited and they need to act fast.

They have taken two horses tonight: one for Auguste, once he’ll be out, and one for them. They will ride north, where Jord has settled down after his injuries made it impossible for him to work anymore. He lost a leg, Laurent had told him. He almost seemed relieved by it. Laurent and he had been talking, using messengers and secret language to keep them both safe. Laurent had thought he wouldn’t be coming out of this, but he had taken the time to prepare a plan for Nicaise. After he left the Regent’s room earlier that day, provoking a fight on purpose, Laurent sneaked him out and sent him Jord’s way, accompanied by a redhead Damen hadn’t seen before, but that Laurent trusted enough to put his boy in his care.

They don’t have time to come up with a good plan for themselves. Laurent hadn’t thought of it, or more precisely, Damen suspects he failed to come up with a good plan, thinking he was alone, and so they go without more thought. Damen is ok with it. The plan, to him, is clear: get both Laurent and Auguste out of there. Protect Laurent, no matter what.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Laurent says once they’ve arrived. “We need to be quick. I… Auguste may not be willing to follow. If he resists, you’ll need to knock him out.”

“You’re asking me to kidnap your brother?”

Laurent rolls his eyes at him but doesn’t answer. They’re about to go in when Laurent stops. He turns towards him and, before Damen even comprehends what he’s doing, his lips are pressing against his. The kiss is chaste and quick, barely more than a smack, and yet, Damen can feel his face burning from it, the heat radiating through his whole body.

“Focus, now,” Laurent orders. His face is red, too.

Taking care of the guards is incredibly easy, both because Damen is strong and also because Laurent is, to his surprise, incredible with a sword in his hands. It’s like an out-of-body experience. Laurent is moving his sword as if it weighs nothing, his movements easy and fluid. When one of the men gets too close to him, Damen throws his sword at him, hitting him right in the chest. The man falls to the ground, his eyes wide open. Damen doesn’t spare him a second look and takes his sword back.

“You’re good?”

“Yes.”

Laurent is out of breath, but he’s looking at him with lust in his eyes and Damen has to hold himself back from kissing him again. Later, he thinks.

They quickly get rid of the men and Laurent runs into the stars. Auguste lives in a room, not in a cell, and the knowledge reassures Damen greatly. Still, he doesn’t let himself spy more inside the room, leaving the two brothers to have their moment as Laurent tries to convince Auguste to leave.

“Leave? To go where?”

Auguste’s voice makes Damen go still. He heard it before. He doesn’t know where, but he’s sure of it.

“Anywhere, Auguste! Not here, that’s all that matters. Please, come, we don’t have much time.”

“He’ll find us back. He’ll kill us. He’ll kill you.”

“But I’m already dead. If I stay, he’ll have me killed. Don’t you want us to try?”

“I want - Who are you?”

Two pairs of blue eyes are staring at him. Damen has entered the room, unable to settle his mind, but there’s no doubt, now. He knows Auguste. He had seen him before. He looks different: older, and malnourished, but his eyes are the ones Damen sees when he closes his eyes at night.

“I know you,” Damen says. “Why do I know you?”

“Damen, what are you talking about?”

“It's the Little Prince,” Auguste says. He looks scared, panicked even. “Laurent, can you see him? You can see him too, right?”

“Auguste, it’s not- he’s my guard, he’s from Vere. He’s not Damianos from Akielos. Please, come, we don’t have time!”

“You’re alive. I knew you were alive! I told him, I didn’t kill you! I saw them taking you and I tried to - I tried to save you, but I couldn’t, I was too young. You need to believe me, I tried!”

Auguste’s words don’t make sense and yet, Damen cannot move. Something is happening in his mind. It’s like there’s a wall, starting to fracture, and memories are trying to come out.

“It’s too late,” Laurent says. His voice snaps Damen back to reality. “He’s here. He followed us.”

By the windows, Damen can see them, too. Far away, the Regent and his men are coming to get them. It was a trap, of course. He knew exactly what Damen and Laurent were going to do.

“It’s over when I say it is,” Damen says. “Auguste, your Majesty, I believe you. We will talk about it more, but we both want Laurent to be safe and so we need to move.”

This is all it takes for Auguste to agree and then they’re running down the stairs. Despite the initial plan, Damen decides to get on the horse with Auguste, not trusting the King enough to leave him alone. If he’s anything like Laurent, he would be capable of giving himself up to protect his brother.

“We can’t ride fast enough,” Laurent says, panic in his voice.

“We’re not riding away from them, love. We’re riding towards them. There are six men, including your Uncle. We can take them together.”

Laurent registers what Damen just said, the words sinking in slowly. They don’t have any other choice; they’re too close to run away from them and if Damen has to die, he’ll die fighting for the man he loves.

“Don’t kill him. We need him alive,” Laurent says.

“Can’t promise anything.”

The men didn’t expect Laurent and Damen to move towards them, that was very obvious, and yet the men held their ground, ready to fight. It was a bolt move, six against three, two if he was being sincere, Auguste not being too much use, but Damen believes in them. He has to.

They work in synchronism, Laurent and him. They don’t even need to exchange any words, their bodies work together as if they were meant to be. Damen had fought with a lot of men in his life, but never one like Laurent.

Three men are down and the Regent is running away. He has not lifted his sword once and Damen isn’t even sure he knows how to use it.

“Go get him,” he tells Laurent. “You deserve it. I can take care of them.”

Laurent nodes and gallops after his uncle. Behind him, Damen feels Auguste holding his waist tighter.

“He can’t get hurt,” Auguste begs. “Hurry up, we need to help him.”

Damen does as he is told, swinging his swords around. It’s not easy. He had done that plenty of times, but never with such a big goal in mind and never in these conditions. The last man falls from his horse and Damen doesn’t even let the victory sink in before he orders his horse in Laurent’s direction. They have not yet reached them and he can see what happened: the Regent is on the ground, Laurent’s sword in his leg, holding him to the ground.

The weight behind him disappears and Damen watches as Auguste runs to his brother. They fall into each other's arms while Damen hurries to ensure that their uncle cannot move.

“You’re free, Auguste,” Laurent whispers, holding his brother as if his life depended on it. “You’re free.”

--

When the news that King Auguste has escaped his prison and is inside the castle breaks in, the people are not happy.

Damen had been expecting it, of course, but it doesn’t make it easier. Already, the words of King Theomedes and his son traveling to Vere have made their way over there. Once they get there with their army, Damen knows there’s nothing they will be able to do.

“Is Nicaise safe?” He asks, sitting in front of the Regent’s cell. They gagged, blindfolded, and restrained him, making it impossible for him to do anything, and yet, Damen doesn’t trust him to be left alone.

“Yes,” Laurent says. “Jord and Ancel are taking care of him.”

“Good.”

Damen extends his hand to hold Laurent’s. He’s making small movements with his thumb, offering him much-needed reassurance. There’s a lot of noise outside but they pretend not to hear it. They ask all the servants to leave. It’s only them, here.

“You didn’t tell me you had a husband.”

The voice takes him by surprise, yet Auguste has been there the whole time, like a ghost standing between them. Damen tries to react to his hand but Laurent holds him.

“He’s not my husband.”

“Yet,” Damen corrects him. Then, he turns toward Auguste and the same feeling hits him. He can see that it is the same for Auguste.

“You always got along fine when you were children. There was a discussion of a union between you two, back then. You were only eight, but it would have been a promise of peace.”

Laurent seems sad and Damen understands that he thinks his brother’s mind is slipping away. It is not the case, though. Damen thinks that Auguste may be the only one having all of his mind, actually.

“I-”

There’s a noise coming from outside. A siren, loud and shrill and although Damen never heard it himself, he knows who it is. The Akielons are here.

“Come,” Auguste says. “We need to explain all of it in front of the King.”

---

To their credit, the Akielons don’t come into the castle with their swords ready to strike. They are at least one hundred men, all dressed with the Akielon’s banner, and at the front, unmistakably, standing the King and Prince of Akielos.

Auguste asks Damen to wear a helmet covering his face before stepping outside, which he reluctantly agrees to. It helps that Laurent puts the thing on his face and, before Damen’s face is completely covered, kisses his lips again.

Auguste and Laurent stand outside side to side, unprotected, and Damen has to restrain himself from pushing them back inside. King Theomedes and his son are coming closer, ordering their soldiers to stay behind.

“King Theomedes, Prince Kastor. How was the journey?”

Even Laurent seems to be taken aback by his brother’s nonchalance but he stays still.

“Good. It’s easy to travel when you have a purpose, isn’t it?”

King Theomedes is tall, old, and grumpy, yet Damen feels his chest tightening when he sees him. When he looks at Prince Kastor, though, his mind orders him to run.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve been a prisoner for the last fifteen years, for a crime I have not committed.”

“It’s still the same story, then, King Auguste? You killed my brother and yet you still cannot take the blame for it!”

Neither of the Kings seem happy to hear Kastor speak and for a moment, Damen even thinks his father is going to ask him to step out of the conversation. It is a well-known fact that the King is not too fond of his son. Kastor had been the one in charge of keeping the Little Prince safe that night, and his father never forgave him for his mistake.

“Have I, though?” Auguste says. “What if I told you that I have the Little Prince with me? That I can prove to you that I didn’t kill your son.”

All colors seem to leave the King’s face and when he regains his mind, he turns red and takes his sword out. Damen is quick to act and takes his own out, pointing it towards him. Auguste seems unfazed but Damen is starting to wonder if the King is truly right in his head. They should have talked about it more before going out. What if he’s wrong? What if Laurent dies because of them?

“Damianos, take your helmet off, please.”

He doesn’t register that Auguste is talking to him at first. It’s only when all eyes are turned to him that he understands.

“His name is Damen,” Laurent says, innocently. “Why… Auguste, I don’t understand what is happening.”

“Be still, my love. It’s alright.”

“So you do are fucking, then?” Kastor says with a laugh.

Unlike his father, Prince Kastor doesn’t seem to be waiting for any big reveal. His hand keeps flicking to his sword, as if ready to take it out, and Damen chooses not to take his sword away, even if it makes taking his helmet off more complicated.

He still manages to and when his face is free, available for all to see, the King puts his hand on his heart and Kastor’s smile disappears.

“It can’t be. Damianos is dead,” Kastor says.

“Your majesty, you once told me that your wife had a particular birthmark that she gave to your son. First, I’ll need you to confirm that you never told me what the mark was.”

“I confirm.”

“Then, Damianos, I would imagine that you do have a birthmark, don’t you?”

Damen nods. He has one, yes, on his forearm. A mark in the shape of a heart, something that gave him much trouble when he was younger. He shows it to the King whose eyes are becoming teary.

“You’re lying,” Kastor says again. His voice is weak now, trembling with fear.

“Damianos, you have a scar on your ribs, don’t you? Kastor, do you remember when you struck your six-year-old brother? I was there that day. I was the one who reassured your brother after you almost killed him.”

Damen lets his sword fall on the ground and lifts his shirt. He has a lot of scars now, but this one - this one he doesn’t remember getting, and yet it has always been there.

“My boy,” King Theomedes says.

Damen lifts his head and then he’s being held close to the King’s chest. Tears are running down both of their faces, but Damen cannot even feel himself crying. His mind is blurry but this, he remembers. Those are the arms of his father.

But then something happens behind them. Damen doesn’t see it, but someone is moving and suddenly Laurent is closer to them and he’s dropping on the ground. He gets up clicky and the next sound is the one of swords crashing one against the other. Prince Kastor has tried to attack them. Immediately, the King lets go of Damen.

“Kastor!” The King yells. “What is this?”

Laurent is holding the sword against Kastor’s throat, ready to take his life. It occurs to Damen, then, that the Regent’s words and the rumors against Laurent were nothing but lies. Laurent knows how to fight. Laurent has killed men, in just shy of two days, and hasn’t shown even a bit of remorse. He has killed before, Damen concludes. He feels nothing but pride.

“Kastor and my uncle worked together to frame me,” Auguste says. “I tried to protect the Little Prince, Your Majesty, and I thought I failed, but it turns out I was wrong. Damianos escaped and those two must have had another child killed, not even caring about what happened to the real one.”

“I had memories,” Damen says. “I… I remembered, but they kept… they thought I was lying and so I was punished for speaking about them. I eventually thought they were just lies I fed myself with.”

“Kastor. Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you didn’t do that.”

Kastor’s stare is fixed on Laurent. He refuses to look at Damen or their father and when the words come out of his mouth, they’re full of hate.

“I’m the firstborn, father. You never see it this way, but I am! Damianos was all you thought about, but this was my crown. My title.”

“I spent my life in prison,’ Ausute says. “My father died because of this. My brother… You’ll pay for what you’ve done, Kastor.”

It happens quickly: one moment they’re standing, and the next Kastor is trying to run away, but Laurent is faster than him. With one smooth movement, he slides his sword into Kastor’s leg, sending him to the floor with a scream of pure agony.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Auguste says. “Let’s step inside, shall we?”

---

They’re lying down in the sand, Laurent’s head next to his, their fingers interlocked. They’re in Akielos, Damen’s home, even if the memories still have trouble coming back. They will, eventually, he’s sure of that. For now, it doesn’t matter. He remembers enough to know who to love and Laurent assures him that it’s all he needs to know.

“It’s too hot in your kingdom, your Highness,” Laurent says. His eyes are closed and Damen traces the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Laurent smiles.

“It will be your kingdom too, soon.”

Laurent laughs and it’s a sound so new yet so familiar, something that Damen wants to hear until his last moment on earth.

“Auguste needs me for the moment, Damen. He’s… he needs time.”

Auguste’s mental health hasn’t been an easy thing, Damen is well aware of that. If he has been strong and clear when standing face to face with his father, he knows that not everything is as it seems and that Auguste suffers greatly. He still needs to regain his people’s trust, too, something that Damen knows will take some time. Their wedding will help, though.

“Nicaise is coming, though,” Laurent says. “He’s tired of the cold. I think he just needs an excuse to be closer to you. He likes you a lot.”

“I like him too,” he admits. “He’s welcome here. You are all welcome here. We’re a big family now.”

He turns his head and kisses Laurent on the forehead before holding him closer to him. He can hear the waves of the sea, can feel the sun on his skin and most of all, the happiness growing in his chest. He wishes he could stop time and stay like this forever.

“Did you know?” Laurent asks after a while. “In the back of your mind, have you ever thought about it?”

“No,” Damen admits. “I… I remembered things, from time to time, but never… never enough. Never this.”

He remembers Auguste telling him to run that night. Blood was pouring from the prince’s face while he was fighting against Kastor and his men, and yet Auguste hadn’t cared for anything else but Damen’s safety. Not anything else, though. Damen remembers, now, the words that Auguste told him that night, right before he fell to the ground, unconscious.

“Run, Damianos! Run! Take care of Laurent when you’re back, I’m begging you, take care of my brother.”

[pijulle]

Tipping Point

@seasonsofcapri

The last few prompt didn’t fit the story well, but this one do! For context: I’m trying to do a canon rewrite with a mythology and all the royals being demigod.

 In this extract, that I don’t know where it’ll fit in the story yet, Damen, son of one of the godesses of creation and himslef god of the sun, remembers the Battle of Marlas and how he has get rid of Prince Auguste.

Side note: The concept of ‘being a demigod’ is materialised and the characters names it their ‘divinity’.

This day at Marlas the sun had been playing hide and seek with the clouds, limiting Damen’s power. He hadn’t thought it would matter, for the day was supposed to be dedicated to the negotiations. But as Father had gone speaking with the King of Vere, a distant glimmer had been seen from across the field. Near the fort, Veretian forces  gathered, at their head the most beautiful man Damen had ever seen. From afar, Damen could only notice his golden hair glittering when the sun was out, but he would see him from close soon enough. 

Damen’s Father had come back quickly.

“They’re attacking,” he had said, furious. “During negotiation! I wasn’t expecting much from those sneaky assholes, but this is beyond trickery. This is treason!”

Kastor had been the one leading the troops to the battle. Damen’s brother had expected a bloodbath from both sides, a battle of iron against iron, but once again, the Veretian surprised them. Kastor was arraying the battalions, as fast as he could  to defend their positions. But it happened too suddenly. Before Kastor could even order the charge.

The Prince Auguste, on the top of his white horse, had pulled out his alto. Kastor, seeing that,  had yelled the retreat but it was too late. The Veretian Crown Prince had played a low and melancholic note and gigantic branches and roots had shot out of the ground. They had pierced the unprepared lines, speared through the flesh, strangled the men, destroyed the equipment. A bloodbath there had been, but one-sided. Damen remembered with an ounce of bewilderment that the horses had been spared. Even the most disciplined men could not hold the line. It was a debacle. And Kastor was not coming back.

“Father, I can kill him,” Damen had said, noticing the sky was temporarily clear.

“No,” Father had said, eyes widened. “Do not kill him. He is a Volva, a kind of northern minor god of death. If you kill him, he will exalt, and with his new powers, he’ll definitely annihilate us.”

Damen couldn’t stay there and watch his men being mercilessly killed, while Kastor was nowhere to be seen. He had glanced up, praying for the sky to remain clear, praying his mother to tell him what to do. 

And she had answered. Damen recalled the relief when he had seen an owl landing on his shield. Inside her beak, a golden harpoon. The same expression of gratefulness as Damen’s had drawn on his Father’s features. The owl had flown away, and Father had approved of Damen going to fight. With one hand, Damen had shaped a sword with the sunlight, while the other he squeezed the harpoon. 

Damen didn’t remember how long it had taken him to get close to Auguste, only that he had spent his time cutting his way through thick pine branches, with needles jabbing his skin and smelling strongly enough to dizzy him. At some point he had jumped from a particularly big root, inside a little clearing where the Prince was standing with his guards. Damen recalled their shocked faces as he cut the storm of pine Auguste was throwing at him. Damen still heard the raging melody  in his dreams sometimes. When the Veretians had realized it wouldn’t be enough to stop him, the guards had soared into the battle, only to be killed one after the other by Damen’s relentless assault.

Only Auguste was left, glowing like the demigod he was and proudly sitting on his horse. He had eyed at the harpoon, before putting down the alto. Swiftly he had dismounted, and bared his sword. Damen remembered he had thought the Prince was so arrogant, he didn’t even wear an armor. Only a long coat  embroidered with strings as golden as his long hair over his shirt and pants. Damen and him had fought for what had seemed hours. Around them, nothing but circles of roots and needles. It muffled the sounds around, but not enough for Damen to not hear that the battle had started again. This time at least his men had a chance. 

Auguste fought skillfully with strength and speed, and Damen had difficulty keeping up. Damen recalled the grace of Auguste’s gestures, the fall of his long hair and his coat accompanying his fluid movements, his eyes bluer than the sky, and very human. They circled around each other as if caught in a lethal dance, in a ballroom made of tangled woods and bloody mud. Damen’s brutal strength had no chance against the Prince’s poise, and soon enough, his sword was on the dirt. Auguste had impaled Damen in the shoulder, and the sudden pain had loosened the grip Damen had on his sword. Damen expected to be killed then. Or at least taken prisoner. It was the consequences of his own hubris, thinking he could slay a magnificent creature like Auguste. Maybe the gods were on Damen’s side. Maybe Auguste was more honorable than his peers. Damen still wondered to this day why the Prince had  looked at him and said “Take it back,” gesturing at Damen’s sword. 

Damen had taken it back. He did not climb back the nestle of pine, fearing Auguste would use his absence to attack his people with magic again. Instead, Damen captured a ray of sunlight just before it disappeared behind a cloud, bandaged his wound with it, and resumed fighting. 

The fight went on for a long time. Damen’s shoulder throbbed with pain. Auguste began to show signs of exhaustion. Damen still held the harpoon, and when Auguste made a mistake, cutting too far on the left, Damen sank it into the Prince’s flesh. Damen remembered Auguste’s shocked expression when the harpoon had caught something inside. With his wide eyes and open mouth, the Prince had looked like a fish just captured. Damen had pulled off the harpoon, and a shining ball of light had come with it. Auguste had watched with horror Damen throw the harpoon away as his golden hair had become a mere yellow, and his godly glow had fainted.

“No,” the Prince had whispered, but Damen didn’t let him time to beg. Using Auguste’s shock, he dove his sword inside Auguste’s now mortal torso, aiming for his heart. The Veretian Prince had died quickly. 

After pulling his sword out, Damen had collected the discarded harpoon. Caught at its end, a polished river rock, with a golden starburst carved in it. Damen took it delicately and squeezed it in his palm. It was hot and  furiously buzzing. 

The Prince’s death had been a tipping point in the battle and when Damen had climbed back the nestle of roots, which had shriveled and  died, he had witnessed the Veretian troops surrender, the soldiers dropping their sword, some falling on their knees, some crying. Damen thought their Prince and them had some magical connection and they had felt him dying. It was true for some of them, but he learned later that the despair of the Veretian came from the death of the King, struck by an arrow a few minutes after he understood the fate of his son.

 For some reason, Damen had also felt incredibly sad. He told himself it was Auguste's feeling of being stripped out of his divinity, that Damen should rejoice to have killed his enemy. 

Yet when the night had fallen and the victory celebrated, Damen could not help but feel melancholic.

[nikanndros]

I just want you to know that I think about From Eden at least once a week and I've lost count of how many times I've reread it. If you ever wanna share what comes next amd what other ideas you had for that universe i'm here to listen op 👀

Thank you, I love you! When I first wrote that fic, I had two other parts (at least) that I wanted to go with it, and since they’re partially written I’m happy to share those bits with you:

From Eden Part 2

“It’s just unfair, you know,” the girl said. Her words were slightly slurred. To be fair, they were in a nightclub after midnight. Everyone was slurring. “I was there for him, and I paid his bills while he went through college and now! He has a real job and he dumped me for his secretary.” She started sobbing.

Damen, who was six foot three, strongly built, and also carrying a loaded weapon, took her hands and made a sympathetic noise. “Lykaios,” he said, because he --unlike Laurent-- had actually listened when she’d introduced herself. “I think the best thing for you now is to forget about him. He didn’t deserve you.”

Lykaios sniffled. “You think so?”

“Of course I do,” Damen said. “I’ve only known you for a few minutes and I already can see that you’re incredible. Right, babe?”

“Right,” Laurent deadpanned. He glanced at his watch. “It’s quarter to.”

Damen nodded. Still holding Lykaios’ hands, he turned to Laurent. “Security?”

“Just the two.”

“Great.” He looked back to Lykaois. “Listen, doll, we’ve got to get down to business, but I want you to remember what I said, okay? You’re worth a lot more than that guy gave you.  And your mascara is running a little. Maybe you should go fix it up in the bathroom and wipe your tears?”

“Okay,” Lykaois sniffed. “Thank you.” She left.

Damen gave Laurent a grin, the crooked, teeth-baring one that appeared whenever they were about to do a job. “Ready?”

“You never call me doll.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Try it sometime and see.”

Damen yanked him in by the jacket and kissed him, slowly and bordering on indecent. “Alright,” he said, after he pulled back. “Show time.”

As Damen disappeared into the crowd, Laurent grasped his --still full-- drink, turned, and threw its contents at the roughest looking guy in the place.

“Hey, what the hell?” The guy squared his shoulders; he was intimidating even covered in lemonade.

“Fuck you,” Laurent replied. 

At this point, three months of travelling and stealing and, most importantly, Damen, Laurent had become pretty efficient at inciting fights. He didn’t need to see the punch coming to know that it was, he just sidestepped and let the man stumble into the back of another patron. It took less than thirty seconds before half the clientele were involved in an all out brawl.

The two security guards rushed in, and were immediately overwhelmed enough that the only bartender -- a youngish lad with a crooked nose -- had to join in to get everything under control. Laurent punched him.

Eventually, the fight got calmed down enough for fingers to point to Laurent and the lemonade clad man as the inciters, and guards hauled them both out into the parking lot.

“Let me go!” Lemonade guy yelled. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“You can try,” Laurent said, a lot more willing to be subdued by the guard that had him by the arms.

“Don’t make us call the police, man,” his guard complained. “The both of you can go your separate ways, come on.”

The door behind them opened. 

“Sweetheart,” Damen said, chidingly. “I step away for two minutes and you get yourself into trouble.”

---

They go back to a motel after this and Damen reveals the money he stole from the tills while Laurent was being a distraction. Sexy times ensue. Damen eventually falls asleep and Laurent stays awake with the tv on. The news comes on and an interview is shown with Lykaios being interviewed about the robbery at the bar -- she gives a completely inaccurate description of what Damen looked like, and Laurent reflects on how easy it is for Damen to charm people to taking his side.

From Eden Part 3

Their most recent car was a much older model. The aircon was busted and they had to wind down the windows themselves, but at least the radio worked. It was hot, despite it being a couple of hours past sunset. 

Damen was singing with the radio. He wasn’t going to win any awards, but his voice was deep and he had a nice enough sense of the music. He grinned at Laurent. He was always happy. It was part of what made him so magnetic. 

Laurent smiled back. After two years with Damen, the expression felt natural.

Except for them, the road was empty. Damen reached over and took Laurent’s hand in his. 

“Watch the road,” Laurent said.

Damen laughed. “But you’re my favourite view.”

“I won’t be happy if you kill us in a car wreck.”

Obediently, Damen looked back to the road. And then, because it was Damen, the car sped up.

Laurent’s hair flew about chaotically, longer than it had ever been when his uncle had been keeping a hand of Laurent’s appearance. It needed a trim, but as much as Laurent trusted Damen, he didn’t trust him to do that. Damen had offered to take him to a salon, somewhere quiet where there was no chance he’d be recognised, but Laurent wasn’t fond of the idea of being trapped in a chair like that. He was too used to freedom by now.

-

“Left here,” Laurent instructed.

They’d had to slow down once the got near the town. It was best to avoid anyone’s attention for as long as possible. (An admittedly difficult feat when traveling with someone like Damen).

They drove a little way past the house, until they found an obscure little dirt road to park down. It wouldn’t do for someone to see the car. They grabbed their things, and looped back to the house on foot.

Quietly, Damen was still singing. 

“Stop it,” Laurent said.

“You love it,” he replied. “This is your birthday present, baby, at least look like you’re having fun.”

“This is literally the worst place we could get caught.”

“No it isn’t,” Damen replied. “I checked out the police station last time I was here. Breaking out of the cells would be too easy.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“There were no lights on when we drove by. No one is home.”

That was true. And they’d timed it perfectly, assuming schedules hadn’t changed in the last two years. The house was silent when they got to it, not a light in sight as promised.

Laurent took a deep breath.

“Chin up,” Damen said. “Let’s go rob your uncle.”

-

The spare key wasn’t where uncle used to keep it, so they went around the back and Damen fucked with the lock until it opened. It was almost hard to walk into the house, full of so many bad memories, except it had never truly been Laurent’s home and he could just tell himself this was another job. 

“The study,” Laurent said, leading the way.

They crept up the stairs together, torches on their lowest settings.

The study was a formidable room with the big, mahogany desk, and the shelves of books that existed solely to make visitors feel stupid. “Look at this,” Laurent said, pulling out one of the books. “War and Peace in Russian. He doesn’t even know Russian.”

Damen reached past him, and nonchalantly, tipped a stack of books off the shelf. They clattered noisily onto the floor. “Oops,” Damen said. He turned away. “Where’s the safe?”

“Under the desk,” Laurent replied. He was busy searching through the books, finding any early editions to pilfer. They’d probably be able to sell them to an antique store for a bit of quick cash. 

Damen worked away at the safe for a bit, guessing potential codes Laurent had told him about. “None of these are working, sweetheart.” The safe made a beeping noise. “Oh, wait. Got it. Wow, he really deserves to be robbed.”

“I’m sure he thought I’d never come back here.”

Damen made a vaguely angry noise. He didn’t like reminders of what had happened to Laurent in this house. He’d even tried to convince Laurent that they could just murder his uncle while they were here. Laurent wasn’t sure he wanted to add cold-blooded murder to their repertoire just yet though. However tempting.

Damen stood up, suddenly. Hands full of Laurent’s uncle’s emergency cash. He grinned.

“Happy birthday - to - you,” he crooned.

Laurent couldn’t help it. He laughed. “I love you, you beautiful fucking bastard.” 

Abandoning the books, Laurent moved in and kissed him. Carefully, Damen put the money down on the desk so that he could cup Laurent’s face in his hands. It was always intoxicating to kiss Damen. There was something about him that made Laurent forget himself until there was only the press of their lips.

“I love you too,” Damen whispered, pulling back a little. He’d stopped smiling; it was a moment of complete genuine emotion. He did that sometimes, always out of the blue, and it always made Laurent want to clutch him tighter and maybe cry. 

“Let’s finish up here,” Laurent said, “and then we can go find somewhere nice and fuck under the stars.”

“You always know just what to say to seduce me,” Damen said.

They bagged the money, and the books Laurent had picked, and then they made their way down the stairs again.

“Wait,” Damen said.

“What?”

“I’m hungry.” He turned into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Oh hey, chocolate.”

Actually, that was an idea. Laurent followed him into the kitchen and went straight for the pretentious temperature controlled wine fridge. “Pinot noir or Shiraz?”

“Whatever is more expensive,” Damen replied. He was adding strawberries and oranges to the bag as well. Cream?”

“It’ll go warm too fast.”

“I feel like we should unplug the fridge before we go, at least,” Damen added. “If you’re still against me putting bleach in the milk.”

“Wouldn’t that make it curdle?”

Damen shrugged. “I don’t know. I had a cement mixer in a bar once but that was lime juice.”

“You can unplug the fridge. If he dies from food poisoning, that’s on him.”

Damen started to look for the cord to the fridge.

“Wait,” Laurent whispered. “Did you hear that?”

They froze, listening.

There it was. The soft sound of the stairs creaking. Fuck. Silently, Laurent gestured towards the back door. Damen nodded. He was carefully reaching over to the knife stand.

“Renaud?” came a small voice.

A young boy, no more than thirteen, stepped into the kitchen. He was wiping at one eye sleepily in a childlike gesture. Less childlike were the bruises on his arms. Laurent knew he and Damen had matching expressions of horror.

The boy’s eyes widened as he took them in. “Who are you?” he said.

Damen’s expression was one of barely concealed fury. He looked at Laurent. “I’m not leaving until that man is in a shallow grave.”

“Don’t scare the boy,” Laurent admonished. He turned to the child and tried to look as non-intimidating as a late-night home invader could possibly look. “What’s your name?”

“Are you Renaud’s friends?” The boy asked.

“No,” Laurent said. “Definitely not. I’m Laurent.”

The boy was frowning. “You used to live here.” 

“Yes.”

“Well,” he straightened up, suddenly hostile. “You’re not allowed to come back. He doesn’t want you anymore; I’m better.”

“Where are your parents?” Damen asked.

“We’re not giving him back to parents who-”

“They’re dead,” the boy said. He didn’t sound upset.

--

The boy is obviously Nicaise. They hear a car in the driveway and Laurent locks Nicaise in the pantry. Laurent’s protective instinct rears up and he insists they kill the uncle now. Damen is fully down for it. Murder ensues. They let Nicaise out and keep him away from finding out that the uncle is dead in the next room. They tell Nicaise to pack a back and discuss what to do with him. Damen suggests dropping him off at a hospital or somewhere like that where someone can get help for him (since they can’t exactly go to the cops). 

Nicaise overhears and says that he doesn’t want to have a new foster parent; at least his current one has a big house. Laurent hearing that feels too wary to risk Nicaise getting another bad household. Damen is like, well I guess we can keep him if you want??? Laurent agrees. They go get in the car and drive away. 

-

Anyway this AU was directly inspired by the film clip for Hozier’s ‘From Eden’, you should watch it bc that’s the story I intended to write 

[mrs-amber]

speaking.

So, I found this prompt by @writing-prompt-s​ and couldn’t help myself. This was not exactly what this prompt was about, but here we go... A short fic in which Laurent doesn’t like talking and still get’s Damen’s attention.

[Read it in Ao3]

---------------------------------------------------

“But Auguste, I almost don’t see you around anymore.” He could feel he was pouting as he trailed after his brother, who took a moment looking at his outfit in the mirror before answering.

“I know, Lau… I’m sorry, I didn’t expect you’d be comfortable going out, so I never bothered.” He came closer to his younger brother, sitting beside him on the bed and shuffling his hair.

“Yes, I know…” He began and stopped, thinking of the best way he could say what he wanted. “I just didn’t expect that you’d go to college and forget we ever hang out together.” And that’s not how he wanted to sound at all.

“Oh, come on, Laurent. Would you like to go out with us, then?” His eyes were bright at the prospect. Laurent wasn’t super excited.

“God, why do I love you anyway?” He exhaled and dropped himself on the bed in a dramatic gesture. “I feel like I won’t have a better chance than this…” He stared at his brother, who had a smirk on his face.

“What if I tell you we can keep pretending you’re deaf?” And the wicked smile Laurent gave him was answer enough.

He couldn’t exactly tell when it began, but he never bothered to correct anyone, so it didn’t matter anymore. He had always been a quiet kid, prefering to read books and stay away from other kids whenever he could. It didn’t change much as he grew up. His mother was deaf and that’s why he learned at such a young age to communicate through the language of signals. At some point in his life, someone must have seen him communicating with her and his family, since they always talked through signals when she was around, and must have supposed that it was him the deaf one. 

It became an inside joke when he went out with his closest friends or his brother, they never expected him to interact outside their group and inside it he was almost as quiet. When they wanted him to pay attention or answer anything, they would communicate through signals. 

Laurent and his brother had almost the same age, barely a year of difference, they were in different years at school and took different classes, but they had the same friends and hung out with the same people. When his brother graduated, the only one who knew he wasn’t deaf was Ancel, a red haired boy that he was friends with since he was 9 years old and moved to this school. 

When they heard a honk outside, Auguste pushed Laurent out of the door of his room and downstairs to the exit. There was a friend of his who had come to pick them up, Damianos or something. Auguste introduced them, telling Damen who was him and then turning and telling Laurent the same, but through signals. 

Damianos’ eyes were already glued to him from where he was seated in the driver's seat and they went large when he realised what Auguste was doing and what it meant. He didn’t know how to react, considering he had no clue on how to speak through signals, his only reaction being a bright smile and an apologetic expression as he turned to yell at Auguste.

“How could you not have told anyone your brother couldn’t hear? How am I supposed to communicate now that I can’t even say ‘hi’?” There was another man seated in the front seat, and he was muffling a laugh as the brother’s got in the backseat of the car. Nikandros, he would later on learn his name. He looked a lot like Damianos, only a bit smaller. If only you could call it small.

“Oh, he can read lips, you know?” This made Damen blush, and wasn’t that dimple in his left cheek adorable? “But if you want we can teach you some words.” He said the last part lifting one eyebrow to his brother, making Laurent himself feel his face warming up when he turned to offer Damen a shy smile.

The following weeks Laurent was glad to say he saw more and more of his brother, even if it was almost always with his other friends. And not that he was complaining about that, since they always treated him very well. Some of them were actually making an effort to learn how to communicate with him through signals. Especially Damen who still didn’t seem to be over the fact he couldn’t properly talk to him and trailed after him whenever they went to help and always looked really disturbed when he couldn’t understand and had to call for Auguste to translate what Laurent said. Laurent found it really adoring and almost felt guilty for not telling him he could actually hear what he said and spare him the effort of trying. Almost, because he was really interested to know the lengths Damen would go just to understand him and make him feel comfortable. There must be a point where it would all come down and he would understand why he did it, someone couldn’t be interested in him that much just for the sake of it.

They would come to their place and watch movies, with subtitles of course, drink and play games, or they would go out to the beach, mall, movies, clubs or anything else they had in mind. Laurent was beginning to feel like he once more belonged somewhere, and it made him dizzy.

There was this one time they had gone out really late, it was a tuesday and all bars and clubs were closed. Nikandros and Auguste were really desperate for alcohol and said they couldn’t waste such a beautiful starry night without getting drunk and going somewhere they could really appreciate it. Laurent knew it was only because it was their last week at College that semester and they just wanted to celebrate. He offered to drive them, but Damen was already with keys in hand and said he would enjoy it more if he could properly see the stars once they arrived, and Laurent couldn’t contradict him.

Damen took them to a small beach he knew almost outside town, where the stars could be seen with little interference and where they could lay down in a pier that went deep into the calm waters. Nikandros and Auguste were already drunk from the cheap wine they had bought in the way and they were loud. Laurent could understand why Auguste would like to drink with Nik, since they had complementing personalities while sober but you couldn’t really tell who’s mind was thinking when they were drunk. They had horrible ideas and the other would just get along with it in a heartbeat and not even question their choices. And that’s why now they could see both of them running through the beach, already without shoes, racing toward the rocks at the end of it.

“God, I just hope they don’t get each other killed.” Laurent thought and had to remind himself that he wasn’t supposed to talk in Damen’s presence. It was a task that was getting harder everyday, the more comfortable he got and the more he wanted them to have a proper interaction with each other. He just couldn’t bring himself to cross that point, thinking Damen would lose his interest in him as soon as he realised Laurent wasn’t that big of a deal and didn’t have the ‘deaf situation’ to help.

They walked together to the end of the pier, where Laurent took off his shoes and sat at the edge to put his feet in the water, propping himself in his hand behind his back. Damen sat by his side, feet in the water. He took a long breath and then laid on his back to stare at the sky. The breeze was fresh and wet and played with Laurents hair, as he pulled some lost strands from his eyes. There were some sea birds fishing and sometimes you could hear a fish jumping and then falling again in the water. 

Damen moved his legs a bit and now he could feel his warmth spread through the layers of cloth and send shivers through his skin.

“You know, this would be a lot easier if you could at least hear me…” Damen started talking and Laurent felt himself freeze at the spot, before scolding himself to a relaxed position again. He wasn’t supposed to be hearing this, so he pretended he wasn’t.

“But I also think I wouldn’t be able to do this if you could…” He continued and his voice was barely beyond a whisper. “Since the first time I saw you, I knew it wouldn’t be easy and I would be doomed if I didn’t try. And here we are now, and I feel so stupid for not being able to tell you this in a proper way. I don’t even know how you feel about most things but I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking that you’d be comfortable if I asked anyone to translate any of this.” He exhaled and moved a bit. Laurent wouldn't turn around to know what it was, too shocked to do anything but stare at the sky ahead. 

“I know it’s too soon, but I think I’m in love with you. I think I have been since I laid eyes on you that first day, but I only realized how fucked I was the first time I heard you laugh…” He laughed and Laurent felt his heart flipping in his chest. He couldn’t help when he turned to look at him, his expression so tender and his eyes so soft and Laurent finally realized what all those looks he saw in the past weeks meant.

“What did you just say?” He gasped and brought a hand to cover his mouth. Damianos eyes went wide and he could swear he saw him pale.

[lamen-trash]

Sweetheart - Modern Lamen AU

When Laurent opened the door to his apartment after a long day at work, he breathed in deeply. The soft scent of home was overwhelming in its familiarity, and he couldn’t help but smile. There was a certain quality to the scent of the apartment he owned with Damen that spoke to something at Laurent’s core. Maybe it was the hints of jasmine and linen in the air, or maybe the smell of Damen cooking dinner in the kitchen, or maybe just the assurance that Laurent was safe surrounded by the familiar cream walls of their home. Whatever it was, Laurent knew he belonged there. A smile bloomed on his face.

“I’m home,” Laurent called out, hanging up his coat on one of the hooks Damen had installed by the door. He ventured farther into the entryway until he came upon the kitchen where Damen was just turning away from a pot on the stove. 

“Sweetheart,” Damen responded, and his smile was filled with warmth. He immediately walked over to Laurent and took him into his arms, burying his nose in Laurent’s hair and breathing in deeply, something he did every night when the two men were reunited. 

“Hi, honey,” Laurent responded, laughing a little. It had taken him a while to work up to pet names; Laurent had been shy about it, not used to open affection and uncomfortable with putting his feelings out into the open. Damen, on the other hand, had no such qualms. A week into the relationship he’d been calling Laurent “sweetheart” and “baby” and sometimes things like “sugar plum” just to annoy the hell out of Laurent, who was never able to hide his blush fully. It took Laurent about a year before he mumbled his first pet name while they were cuddling in bed one Sunday morning. He’d felt awkward as the word had left his lips, but it was made up for by Damen’s over-the-top reaction. Damen’s eyes had gone comically wide, with a blinding smile adorning his awestruck face, and he’d peppered Laurent’s face with countless kisses while Laurent yelled that it wasn’t a big deal.

Of course it’d been a big deal, though Laurent would never admit it. Damen brought out the softest part of Laurent when they were together – a part of himself he hadn’t even realized existed before meeting Damen, and one that Damen treated so gently it sometimes made Laurent want to cry. 

“How was your day at work?” Damen asked, refusing to let go of Laurent and contenting himself with running his hands up and down Laurent’s back. Laurent’s grip around Damen tightened, and he breathed in deeply. 

“It was good,” Laurent said into Damen’s chest with his eyes closed. “Torveld officially signed his contract with us – the one we’ve been working on for awhile, so everyone’s relieved. I think I even saw Jord shed a tear.” 

Laurent felt Damen’s laugh rumble through his body from where they were pressed together. Damen pulled back with his hands on Laurent’s shoulders so that they could look each other in the eye, and he reached up to brush a thumb across the apple of Laurent’s cheek. 

“I knew you could do it, love. If anyone can get an author to sign, it’s you,” Damen said. 

Laurent rolled his eyes. “As if you have any professional experience in publishing to say that.” 

“I don’t need to have any experience to know you’re damn good at what you do,” Damen replied with a furrow in his eyebrows. 

“Yeah, yeah, enough with the flattery,” Laurent somehow always found himself blushing in Damen’s presence, even after seven years together. He shoved lightly at Damen’s chest. “How was your day?”

“I’m exhausted, but I enjoyed myself today. I got to make that new dish we added to the menu, so a change of pace was nice. People seem to love it.”

Damen worked as a head chef at a four-star restaurant nearby, which had been his dream job since he and Laurent met in high school. Back then, Laurent had been as prickly and lovely as a flowering desert cactus, and Damen could look nowhere else (even now, he still struggled to tear his eyes away from his lover for more than a second). 

“You mean the dish with the –”

“The one with the balsamic glaze, yes,” Damen finished for Laurent with a cheeky smile, proud that his suggestion for the dish had been approved by their management. Laurent made a mental note to go in and surprise Damen one day at work so that he could try the new meal and tell Damen of his thoughts. 

“What’s for dinner?” Laurent asked, eager to eat after a strenuous workday. 

Damen walked over to the stove and lifted the top of one of the pots there to show Laurent. “Lemon salmon with orzo and sauteed veggies.” 

“Mmm, perfect,” Laurent looked up to smile at Damen when he caught Damen already staring at him. The light in the kitchen caught Damen’s eyes, transforming their usual hickory brown to a soft caramel that emerged whenever the light hit Damen’s face just right. Some of Laurent’s fondest memories of Damen involved that sweet shade of brown – Damen smiling at Laurent from over his shoulder as he ran into the ocean, pulling back from a kiss in the park and drowning in Damen’s gaze, tears falling from those eyes as Damen knelt on one knee in the same library section where they met. 

 “What?” Laurent asked after a moment, not unfamiliar with Damen’s stares but curious nonetheless.

“I just… you’re so beautiful. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,” Damen said, leaning his forehead against Laurent’s and running his hands through Laurent’s hair. 

Instead of replying with words, Laurent stood up on his toes, looped his arms around Damen’s neck, and pulled him down for a kiss. Damen responded immediately and settled a hand around Laurent’s waist, pulling the blonde’s body firmly into his own while his other hand stayed tangled in golden hair. Damen loved to touch Laurent’s locks, and in response his lover would turn into the touches like a flower angling toward the light of the sun. 

They kissed in a slow-building rhythm, as if time did not exist for them. It didn’t, really – Laurent looked at Damen now and felt just as stupidly enamored with the man as he had from day one.  It was the same for Damen, too, Laurent knew. 

Damen coaxed Laurent to open to him so that he could deepen the kiss, and Laurent responded dizzily, lost in the heady thought that this all-consuming feeling was his and always would be. Damen swept his tongue across Laurent’s one more time, and then pulled back, grinning like an idiot. 

“I think you’re due for a post-work massage, Mr. DeVere-Akielos,” Damen teased, tugging on Laurent’s hand to lead him back to their bedroom, where they shared every secret together. “I’ve been told I have very capable hands.”

Laurent laughed as he let himself be pulled along. He could do nothing else in that moment but follow the one person who made it all worth it in the end – his best friend, his love, his future. 

Read it on AO3.

[vaskianmountains]

Your Breath in My Lungs

Lamen ficlet set directly post-Kings Rising. Damen has a nightmare while he is still recovering from his wound, and wakes up with a panic attack. Laurent helps him through it. ETA: you can also read this on ao3 now, where you can find it [here]

-

Damen tried to breathe, but no matter how much air he tried to suck in, there still wasn’t enough of it.

He knew his eyes were open, but all he was able to see was the image of Kastor from his dream. They had been sparring, and then Kastor had stabbed him. As Damen had tried to register what had happened, Kastor had grown older right in front of him. When Damen had been thirteen, Kastor had immediately let go of his sword and yelled for help. But in his dream, this older Kastor had strengthened his grip on the sword and pressed it even further into Damen’s stomach.

“Damianos,” a voice said beside him.

He tried to turn, but a pain shot through him, making it even more difficult to breath. He brought his hand to the wound that Kastor had dealt him a week ago. The last thing Kastor had ever done before Laurent had fought him and struck him down.

“Damianos,” Laurent said again.

The covers were pulled off him, and a hand turned his face to the side. “It’s alright,” Laurent said. “You’re awake now.”

Laurent’s voice helped to pull him further out of his dream. He was able to recognize now that he wasn’t lying on the ground of the training arena, but in bed with Laurent right at his side.

“Damianos, you need to breath.”

“—can’t,” Damen bit out. He wondered whether maybe this was it, that despite Paschal’s best efforts his wound had become infected, and that these were his last moments.

“You’re panicking,” Laurent said. He sat up on the bed and started rearranging several of the pillows. Then he helped Damen up to sit against them. Laurent took both of Damen’s hands in his own and said, “Try to match my breathing. Inhale through your nose and out through your mouth.”

Damen watched Laurent, and as his chest rose, Damen inhaled as well. He sucked in the air too quickly and forced himself to hold his breath until Laurent exhaled as well. However, after some more breaths he was able to match Laurent’s relatively well.

“Are you alright?” Laurent asked.

“Yes,” Damen said. “I just—” There has been a lot of blood in his dream when Kastor had driven his sword into Damen. A week ago there also had been a lot of blood when Kastor had stabbed him. And not far from where Damen had been lying on the ground there had been a lot of blood pooling beneath Kastor’s body too.

“Damianos.” Laurent squeezed his hands. “Keep matching my breath.”

Damen forced himself to slow his breathing again, and he focused on the rhythm of Laurent’s rising and falling chest.

“Do you remember the story you told me yesterday?” Laurent asked. “About how you and Nikandros hid away in these chambers when they were still your father’s?”

Damen nodded.

”Will you tell me again?”

“Why?”

Laurent smiled. “Because I liked hearing it.”

“Okay,” Damen said and he began telling Laurent again of how he and Nikandros had stolen from the kitchens when they had been children. “It was the day before the festival of the first harvest. Every year, the cooks prepare a special pastry made from the first new grain and fresh summer fruits. They always used to be my favorite as a child, but they only make them once a year and are only to be eaten on the day of the festival.

“One year I managed to convince Nikandros to help me steal some from the kitchens the day before the festival. He didn’t think it was a good idea, but I also think he knew that if he didn’t help me, I was going to try and get them on my own anyway. I was lucky he did decide to help, because when I tried to get them off the shelf, I wasn’t able to reach them. I always used to be taller than Nik, but he had hit his growth spurt earlier than me, so at that time he was a few inches taller, just enough that he was able to reach the pastries. After we had as many as we thought we would be able to eat, we took them with us to my father’s chambers. I expected that to be the last place where they would look for us.”

“And how many of them did you eat, again?” Laurent asked.

Damen laughed. “We ate all of the ones we had taken except for one. We still tried to eat it, but by then our stomachs were so full they hurt, and we couldn’t bear to swallow any more.”

Laurent was smiling too. “Were you able to still eat them the next day during the actual festival, or did just the sight of them make you nauseous by then?”

“We made ourselves eat from them,” Damen told Laurent again, “because we knew that if we didn’t, they’d immediately figure out that we had been the ones who had stolen some of them the day before. Still, looking back, I think our lack of excitement for them was enough to clue everyone in.”

“Were you at least able to enjoy them during later years again?”

“Yes,” Damen said. “Every year, I look still forward to them. I’m just never going to get Nik to steal them from the kitchens with me again.” He rubbed his thumbs over Laurent’s hands. “I think you would like them too. They’re very sweet.”

“I would love to try them.” Laurent’s smile curled up into a grin. “Maybe you could feed them to me like you did in Nesson.”

Damen was reminded of the warm breath against his fingertips, followed by the softness of his lips. It had been the first time Damen had thought there might be a sensual side to Laurent. The memories stirred a warmth to life inside Damen.

Laurent kissed him, but pulled away far too quickly. “Paschal was very adamant that you should not be doing any strenuous activity yet, remember?”

Sometimes, Damen doubted whether Paschal actually knew enough to be a qualified physician.

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep again?” Laurent asked.

Damen could still clearly recall his nightmare, but the panic had receded now. As he looked at Laurent, he also knew that there were other dreams waiting for him that were far more pleasant. “Yes,” Damen said. “If you hold me.”

[thelioncourts]

title: the mannequin gallery fandom: captive prince pairing: damen/laurent rating: mature words: 9758 for chapter eight (8/?); 51050 all together

Damen was good at keeping himself busy, and that was a great thing because he liked being busy.

It turned out, however, that it was a little more difficult to accomplish a nonstop business, especially for almost an entire week, without Nik. It wasn’t impossible by any means, but it was more difficult. After all, Nik was a constant presence, had been since they were school children playing kings and knights on the sand while Damen’s stepmother watched on. Him not being around felt different.

Still, Damen had plenty to do while Nik was off attending photography sessions, lunches that were more planning than eating, and dealing with the multitude of models that would be walking the runway tomorrow. There were photos to be edited and posted from their time in Cortina and their brief week in Berlin, there were longtime sponsors to be called, such as Damen’s favorite supplement company over in New York that truly had the best tasting protein powders, EAAs, and pre-workout on the planet (rumor was they were coming out with collagen peptides soon too and Damen couldn’t wait to get his hands on those), or the company they got their luggage from; and there were potential sponsors to email to see if a partnership could be worked out on terms preferable to both parties. It was a full-time thing, truth be told, especially navigating the time zone differences Damen did his best to be cognizant of.

So yeah, Nik wasn’t around, but Damen was good at keeping himself busy.

It wasn’t going to be necessary after tonight though. Today at three on the dot was the dress rehearsal for the show, scheduled so they had plenty of time to fix anything gone wrong with enough time for the models and crew to get home and rest before the big day tomorrow. Damen, of course, was going to both the rehearsal tonight and the show tomorrow. He had been told that Charls had yet one more suit for him to wear that the man was ecstatic about getting around Damen’s shoulders. It all meant that Damen’s next two days were packed and, after those days were said and done, Nik would be back on his side and they could leave Paris.

And as much as Damen was enjoying Paris and all its sights, he was ready for new scenery. After the show tomorrow it would be time to start planning their next place. Damen was already thinking about Spain and then maybe a trip across the ocean to Canada. It’d been a while since they’d had a chance to really go on an adventure.

With a click, he sent out one last email to a wireless headphone company that had contacted them last week and then he leaned back in the chair he was sitting on and took in the view.

He had decided to do work out on the balcony of their hotel room. Part of him had wanted to go out, settle in at a cafe somewhere, and pretend to be Parisian for a few hours, and the other part of him knew that, had he done that, he would have been too distracted by everything around him. But here on the balcony wasn’t such a bad deal. He had the sounds of car horns, engines, murmurs—  and sometimes yells — in a variety of languages, and the gentle rustling of the air to be a sort of white noise that kept him grounded and focused.

But now his work was done and he could look, could take in the sky that was a blank slate of gray, could take in the people cautiously walking around with umbrellas already out in case it rained, could take in the insane increase in traffic on the road leading into Paris Fashion Week.

Damen was in the middle of keeping a mental tally of every person he saw pulling luggage out of a car to stay in the very hotel they were staying at when the door opened.

The first thing Damen was hit with was a sense of déjà vu. Over his shoulders, Nik had two black garment bags that Damen could only assume had each of their names written in gold upon. The second thing Damen was hit with was one of the said garment bags as Nik threw it and it landed on his face.

“What’s this?” Damen asked, holding the bag at an arm’s length. It was heavy, the fabric inside a kind with a weight to it that Damen immediately was worried of getting hot while wearing.

“Your outfit for tomorrow. Beware, it’s just as gaudy as the one last week,” Nik said. He hung his own bag on a hanging attachment between the two closets in the room.

Damen snorted. “At least it should be our last gaudy outfit while we’re here.”

“Oh, mine isn’t gaudy, just yours,” Nik said. “I have to be inconspicuous as I’ll be up around the stage. My outfit is just a black suit with a black undershirt.”

“What? And I’m getting stuck with some atrocity that’ll make me wish I couldn’t see in color at all?”

[Continue on AO3]

There hardly was time to dwell on his new Charls’ creation, however. Now that Nik was back, Damen’s busy two days finally began. They had early lunch plans at Massale and it was going to be a sprint to get from there to the space where the show was being held for rehearsal at three. Only the gods knew how long the rehearsal would be, but at a minimum it was going to take near three hours.

“Does the rehearsal have a dress-code?” Damen asked as they exited the hotel. He looked down pointedly at his outfit which consisted of the black joggers he’d been lounging in all morning, a crisp white tee, and a zip-up black jacket with white stripes down the arms and circling his shoulders. Nik looked him up and down and then made a face.

“They didn’t say anything. I’m wearing this,” he said, motioning to his own outfit of light wash jeans and a dark blue tee. “Besides, I don’t think they’re going to care at the rehearsal. You’re not exactly who they’re focused on today.”

Unsurprisingly, lunch was delicious, but some of the enjoyment of its deliciousness was lost as they truly did have to sprint from the restaurant to a cab that got stuck in actual lunchtime traffic for so long that they put a handful of bills on the center console and, once more, sprinted. This time they sprinted all the way to the Grand Palais, the stage for the show tomorrow. They made it on time though, walking in with Nik’s photography pass and its fine print stating that he would have a manager with him, and they even appeared to beat Charls who wasn’t flitting around in an anxious tizzy quite yet.

The Grand Palais des Champs-Élysées, commonly known as the Grand Palais, was an immaculate building located in the 8th arrondissement of Paris and could be seen from the Eiffel Tower. Built at the end of the 19th century, the building was a masterpiece of classicism and art nouveau. Its classicism could be seen in its stone facades, columns, and friezes, and it was the intricate metalwork that structured the famous glass ceiling that showcased its art nouveau touches. It was a stunning building, its attraction as a tourist sight obvious, and Damen smiled at how fitting it was for Etoile to have their show here.

But the Grand Palais’ artistry was almost a second thought when the set for the show came into view. Neither Damen or Nik had known that fashion shows created entire sets, like a stage production, for their shows. It made sense, Damen thought later. Oftentimes, these fashion lines had tangible themes to them. The set designer for Etoile had told Nik and the other photographers about several of their past shows, some of which included fashion lines centered around clothes inspired by Itay’s romantic rues, clothes inspired by Riviera cruises, and clothes inspired by the alpine winters. The set for the alpine winters had been covered in something to give the appearance of snow, that’s how much work was put into an Etoile show. But even knowing that, Damen and Nik were taken aback by the extravagance of the scene underneath the glass ceiling.

They recognized what it was an imitation of right away. After all, it was one of the few places they had traveled to here in Paris in those earliest days of getting to the city. In front of them was the Palace of Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors.

Chandeliers had been assembled to hang, each one an endless shimmering of crystal and gold and light, and their light glinted off of all the gilded gold statues and reliefs adorning the walls. Marble columns lined the Grand Palais, making it appear like a hall, and between each column was a golden arch. In the true Hall of Mirrors, there were seventeen of these arches. On one side of the hall were arched windows that overlooked the gardens below. Across from these windows were mirrors, the very mirrors this hall received its name from. For Etoile’s show, every archway held only a mirror.

It was beautiful and something worthy of royalty to be seen within. And it wasn’t done. There were men hanging paintings from the ceiling, hanging them in the way the chandeliers were, but they were not centered; the paintings were being hung over the archways as though they were lining the walls, and Damen recognized they were paintings like what decorated the ceiling in the Hall of Mirrors. Paintings of Louis XIV’s greatest early triumphs.

“They don’t play around do they?” Nik asked rhetorically, his eyes scanning the hall in disbelief.

“Haven’t you been practicing with this all week?” Damen asked back, his voice holding the same kind of disbelief Nik’s eyes held.

“In separate pieces. I mean, they’ve had us practicing shooting in front of mirrors, in front of reflective surfaces, in front of light backgrounds, and then all of that combined. But I didn’t expect it to be this,” he paused, “extra.”

Damen laughed and put a hand on Nik’s shoulder. “Really? After two weeks of being around Etoile and you weren’t expecting something this extra?”

“Nicolas, there you are,” said an older man suddenly -- an older man who was definitely flitting around in a tizzy while Charls was absent to do so — with a thick French accent. “The photographers are meeting in the dressing rooms alongside the models. You will need to be practicing how you will move from there to the stage as unobtrusively as possible.”

“His name’s Nik,” Damen said even though it wasn’t him who had been addressed. He was smiling, but anyone that knew him, Nik as a prime example, would be able to see the way his shoulders had tensed, would be able to see the way the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Nik reciprocated Damen from moment’s ago and put a hand on Damen’s shoulder instead.

“I’m sorry?” the man — Audin, one of the other designers, though Damen couldn’t remember if he designed set or clothing — asked, sounding anything but sorry.

“His name’s Nik. It’s not short for Nicolas, but Nikandros. It’s a Greek name.”

“Of course,” Audin continued. Damen didn’t miss the way the man looked at Damen’s clothes with distaste. Then he was gone, walking as though knowing with utter certainty Nik would follow. Damen made a sound.

“It’s fine, Damen,” Nik said, his hand still on Damen’s shoulder. “You settle in to watch, I’ll go do what I need to do, and then we’ll be done for the day.”

“I can’t wait to get back on the road,” Damen said. His shoulders were still raised.

“Me too. It’ll be nice for some normalcy.” Nik paused for a moment, and then said quieter, “I’m sorry for throwing this on us.”

“Hey, no,” Damen started, pulling back. “This is incredible for you. I just wish it wasn’t like —” Damen used both hands to motion at the everything around them.

“It really hasn’t been that bad. Sure, some of the older guys aren’t the nicest, but no one has been outright cruel. Yet.”

“Not even Laurent?” Damen asked, eyebrows raised.

“Laurent has been completely professional. The biggest issue with the models has been Ancel. And he’s just inappropriate,” Nik said, mouth twisting. Damen’s shoulders fell back to their normal hold after a second.

“I think a redhead might be good for you,” Damen said.

“Hell no,” Nik laughed, and he was walking too, following the direction Audin had just left. “I’ll catch up with you after.”

Damen spent a few minutes walking around and taking in the art that transformed the Grand Palais into the Hall of Mirrors, but after some walking he found a seat and sat down in it to wait for the show to begin. He waited, and he waited, and he waited, and nearly drained his phone battery in the process. There weren’t many people out near the front where the show would be, mostly a few assistants given tasks of perfecting every minute detail. Damen was beginning to fear that something had gone horribly wrong and they wouldn’t be able to get out of here for some time, but just as that worry was festering, the lighting changed and a voice rang out over the Grand Palais.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice started, its pitch low and breathy, its French accented heavily. “The French Revolution began in 1789. We, the people of France, had grown tired of the disparages between our King and ourselves. There was struggle, and pain, but we emerged victorious from the battles and slowly began to make our country what it is today through hard work and dedicated leadership that focused on bettering each citizen. Now, the great places, like Versailles, are for the people, just as they were always by the people. Though we relish each day in our freedom, we keep the beauty of the past alive by embracing it through every step we take in our great country. Today, we bring the beauty and elegance of that timet to you. Please welcome Etoile and its spring line entitled The Regency.”

There was a lot Damen could have said about the show. In the grandeur of this mock Hall of Mirrors, the clothing on the models truly appeared to be something made for the kings and queens of the days of a monarchy, where royalty was more than a symbol of the past, a romanticized view of history, but true rulers that relished in their greatness. Like the hall, many of the models were wearing golds and whites that were both glamorous and yet a camouflage, making them appear as glittering decorations that walked center until filing back against the mirrored ‘walls.’ Damen was struck by the interesting lines of the shoulders on many of the outfits, half of which were straight and wide, almost reminiscent of the 1980s shoulder-pad fad, and the other half of which were puffed and large, like a woman’s dress may have boasted in popular fashion in the past centuries. But then, at the end, were the stars of Etoile’s show.

Draped in blood reds, these models were clearly meant to be the kings, the queens, the princes and princesses of King Louis XIV’s rule. They stood out amongst the hall, amongst the other models, each dressed in the same color of the very throne that sat in the very same palace miles away. The first person that came out was Aimeric in a chunky red sweater that made him appear daintier than he was. Deep red velvet pants complimented it, especially as they ended just below his knees in a loose fit, bringing it together as a modest outfit worthy of all its attention. Then came Ancel, who stood out with his hair to match, in a red dress littered with cutouts that showcased freckled skin in all different places. Most prominent was the bearing of his sternum that begged for all eyes to look center. And lastly, Etoile’s face, was Laurent DeVere dressed in an outfit for a prince. Covered neck to toe, it was tame and utterly sensual all at once, no doubt due to the golden corset that cinched in his waist to almost nothing, that gave him such an untouchable look, that matched the crown upon his head dripping in rubies that brushed his forehead.

His crown was the only crown in the show. Etoile knew what they were doing. His beauty was unmatched.

Laurent walked like he’d been born on the runway. His footsteps fell to the barely-there beat of the music playing over the Grand Palais, his strides were long and they accentuated the length of his legs. His back was straight, his core tight, and it made him look taller. His shoulders were back and down in a way that took the attention away from any breadth and instead put the attention on the elegance of his neck and all the way to his face that was beautiful and the ultimate eye-catcher of the entire show. The jewels embedded into his crown were nothing in comparison to his eyes.

But beyond that actual magic of the show, of how beautifully it all came together, Damen was struck by how short it was. For some reason, he had assumed this show would be a long event, something to take up the entire day. Only fifteen minutes after the voice first rang out to introduce The Regency did the show come to a close, each model strutting to the front of the set, smiling instead of holding their faces in that high fashion seriousness as they brought up Laurent’s uncle for his own recognition. He was, after all, their boss, creator, and the genius behind the line.

The music died off and the lights came back on, blinding after the subtle lighting, to bring attention to the final product that was the show. Laurent’s uncle clapped his hands together once, the sound reverberating off of all the surfaces in the room to provide a near echo, and then he began to speak.

“Charls,” he started, voice loud and face relaxed. He looked ginormous on stage next to all these models, many of whom were so young they hadn’t grown into who they would be. “How were things on your end? Any complications?”

For the first time since Damen got to the Grand Palais nearing two hours ago, he finally got to set eyes on Charls who had apparently been peering at the show from one of the marble pillars nearest to the front of the mock Hall of Mirrors. He was physically flabbergasted, his hand at his heart as though begging it to stay in place, his eyes brimming underneath all the lights.

“Oh,” he said, and then he stopped to compose himself. “Oh, everything was perfect! You’re all perfect, your outfits were perfect, this set — !” He stopped again, taking in a deep breath. “This is, by far, the best show Etoile has ever done, and our past shows have been tremendous feats of beauty. Sir, you have truly outdone yourself. Your vision remains unparalleled.”

Charls was bowing at the man that was center stage. It was quite a sight, the man surrounded by models he had honed, all wearing clothes he had brought to life. Everyone began clapping, and Laurent’s uncle took the praise humbly, his smile small and his acknowledgment gracious.

“I believe that, since we have plenty of time given the perfection of everyone here today, we should celebrate. Dinner tonight at Restaurant Le Meurice Alain Ducasse. On me, of course. We’ll begin soon, say no later than seven, so our lovely models can be well-rested and beautiful come tomorrow’s show.”

As the man went to leave, clearly still having much work to do for tomorrow’s event, he was followed by more applause. Some of the models even cried out lilting thank yous at his exiting frame. Charls took his place center stage, his eyes still adoringly fixed on where Laurent’s uncle had disappeared, and then he began giving out a list of times that needed to be remembered by all parties involved for tonight and tomorrow morning.

“As we have just been told, dinner will be an early event tonight. Models, if you are not out of the restaurant come after nine, I will delicately throw you all out myself as I need you all in your rooms and resting! Regarding tomorrow, our show will begin at 10:30. Yes, we did, in fact, get Chanel’s envied time slot given their grievances of last year. As we are the first show of tomorrow, we need to make a lasting impression to last attendees through the other eight shows they will be viewing throughout the day. That means I need everyone, and I do mean everyone, here no later than 7:30. Does everyone understand?”

There were murmurs of agreement, a few excited squeaks from gods-know-who, and then the crowd of models, photographers, makeup artists, hairstylists, set designers, clothing designers, assemblers, assistants, and all others involved in creating such an elaborate show dispersed. The only two left on stage were Charls and Laurent, Charls’ hands unable to stop touching the crown on Laurent’s head, the fabric at his wrists, the stitching at the hem.

Damen was just getting ready to find where Nik and the other photographers had disappeared off to, assumingly back to the dressing rooms, when he felt a hand tug at the arm of his jacket, not kindly whatsoever. He turned, unsure of what to expect, but what he found was definitely not anything that would have come to mind.

“For reasons that don’t make any sense to me,” began the child from Etoile’s office — Nicaise, Damen remembered Laurent saying — without preamble, “you are wanted.”

“What?” Damen asked with an aborted and incredulous sort of laugh. “What for?”

“I’m not your fucking errand boy,” Nicaise said, spat, “Go find out or don’t, I don’t care.”

Damen was so taken aback by the language from someone, something, so delicate and small that it took him a moment to get his feet underneath him to follow Nicaise’s already moving feet. He gave one last sparing look to the set with its mirrors and marble pillars as though he could will Nik’s presence from where he was still meeting with the photographers, but Nik didn’t appear and Damen was off following where Nicaise had disappeared to, out a set of double-doors with large, flat golden handles.

The Grand Palais consisted of three separate areas: the Galeries Nationales, the Palais de la Découverte, and the Nave. The Nave was where the famous glass ceiling was, was where Damen had been since he had arrived earlier in the afternoon, and Nicaise had disappeared into the Galeries Nationales, located in the east wing of the building. The Galeries Nationales was often the sight of major art exhibitions and even when there was no exhibition it was brimming with all kinds of artistry. Today was no exception. The art was similar to the art that made up the entirety of the building, a display of classicism and art nouvea. But Damen didn’t have time to focus on that, not when Nicaise’s curled head was twenty yards ahead and showing no signs of slowing down.

Eventually, however, Damen’s long legs and his full grown height put him at the advantage to catch up, and he was right at Nicaise’s heels just as the boy began to slow his pace. It was right in front of a painting that Damen couldn’t see due to it being blocked by Laurent’s uncle.

“Damen,” he began as a greeting, not bothering to turn and face Damen as he came to a stop just a few steps behind him. “Or do you prefer Damianos?”

“Damen is fine, sir,” Damen said. His thumb hooked into the soft fabric of his joggers’ pocket in an attempt to stand casually.

“Damen it is. How did you enjoy the show?”

“I enjoyed it very much,” Damen said, mind whirring. “I was floored by the set design. It truly brought a line titled The Regency to a different level.”

“And the clothes?”

“Stunning as well.” Damen hesitated for only a brief moment. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about fashion, sir, so I hope you can forgive me for being at a loss as to what I could say. It’s not my area of expertise at all.”

The man finally looked away from the painting on the wall, a classicist painting that looked almost like a Poussin, and he smiled at Damen as though utterly amused and appreciative of Damen’s honesty. Then he said just that.

“It is refreshing having a person admit such a thing. Too often do I have men attempt to talk in circles in order to appear as though they know what they’re talking about.” He was making intent eye contact when he changed the topic and it was as though the change twisted his face into something different. Damen didn’t know what to make of it. “But there are several areas you do have expertise in.”

Damen cocked his head. The man smiled again.

“I must confess,” he started, “that I was curious about you and your friend, Nikandros. Of course, we as a company had done basic research on him during his application process, but given the influx of applications we receive there simply isn’t time to do an in-depth look at each candidate. But, as I said, I was curious after meeting you both that first day. You were both quite unlike anyone that has been involved with us here at Etoile.”

At a loss, Damen didn’t say anything in response. He didn’t know what to say. Luckily the only person who seemed to be making a big deal out of it was Nicaise who rolled his big blue eyes with the force of his entire little body.

“Your father owns a business in Greece. Akielon Tech. It’s a billion dollar company, Damianos. And not just any company, but an arms-producing company. According to several articles dug up in our search, you were the preferred heir to take over the company one day. Yet,” the man trailed, still looking at Damen with an intensity, “you’re here in Paris as your friend photographs a fashion show. How is that?”

To say that this was an unexpected conversation would be an understatement. Damen knew that a basic search of his name would bring up, nowadays, his Instagram and Youtube accounts, and no doubt the other social media accounts he held, all alongside some articles he and Nik had been featured in regarding their travels. He also knew, however, that searching his name would lead to Akielon Tech and all that it was — which was more complicated than just an arms-producing company as its focus could be found in the specific area of cybersecurity and other technological aspects of military weaponry. It wasn’t a secret, but it also wasn’t something he brought up in casual conversation and, when one was only in places for a week at most, almost all conversations were casual.

“I wasn’t ready to settle into an office for eight hour days the rest of my life,” Damen said slowly. “Not then. Not yet. I took a gap year, as expected, and things got away from me. From us. I thrilled in discovering new places, in revisiting places and finding beauty in the familiarity, in meeting new people and experiencing things I would have never experienced in a boardroom. And I still thrill in those things. Until that thrill begins to fade, I don’t see why I should change what’s working.”

“I assume your father is displeased by this,” Laurent’s uncle said, turning to face the painting once more.

“He’s not ecstatic with the decision, no,” Damen admitted, “but he’s gotten better with it. Or he’s completely resigned to it. I’m not actually sure on which of the two it is and I’d rather not know if I’m being honest.”

“Does he fund your adventures across the globe?”

“No. He helped pay for my gap year as a sort of graduation gift, but it was made quite clear if I wished to continue traveling it would be up to me. Nik and I have made it work. Those earliest years were a little rough, but we really have lucked out with sponsorships turned partnerships.”

Just as Nicaise had tugged on Damen’s sleeve without preamble did the man begin walking, motioning with his heavily ringed hand for Nicaise to follow. The boy plastered himself at the man’s side, his own glittering rings shimmering as his arms swung at his sides. Damen looked around once, twice, as if waiting for a sign as to if he was to follow or now.

“I have a proposition for you, Damianos.”

Damen followed. Nicaise turned around to watch him as he caught up with the two of them, and when Damen was back in step, Nicaise faced forward once more, his tiny jaw clenching.

“Etoile is quite a successful company. Globally, we’re renowned for our clothing, and our models are some of the most sought after in the business. But, like all successful companies, we’re looking to expand. In today’s day and age, the best way to enhance one’s self is to expand social media presence. That won’t always be the case, but it is right now.” He was still walking, the exit from the Galeries Nationales and back outside just ahead, but he was walking slowly. Damen was grateful for it as it allowed him to try and process the meaning of the conversation. “Though we have a wondrous team, we do not have the social media expertise that we should. Yes, we have all the accounts that are expected, and yes, there are posts on plenty of those accounts, but we lack the experience to make it what it needs to be. I would like for you to join Etoile as a social media manager.”

They had just reached the doors and were pushing them open when the man said that last sentence and Damen almost tripped at the threshold at the unexpectedness of it all.

“What?”

Nicaise audibly scoffed.

“I would like for you to join Etoile as a social media manager,” the man repeated. “You would be in charge of running what is and isn’t posted on our social media accounts, you would analyze daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly statistics, you would assist in navigating partnerships with other brands, you would help us script videos for any and all occasions, whether it be photoshoots with magazines, interviews during fashion week,” he motioned around them, “and, eventually, as Etoile grows, you would be one of the many needed voices as we begin our own magazine. But keep that last part under wraps for now.”

“Sir, I —”

“You would be based here in Paris, of course, but traveling is part of what makes this industry so desired. There are the Big Four cities that host two fashion weeks every year, those cities being Paris, New York, London, and Milan, but there is also a growing fashion scene in a dozen other cities. Those cities, ones like Shanghai, São Paulo, Sydney, Dubai, Tokyo, and many others, are hosting their own fashion weeks now, and Etoile is itching at the chance to attend those as well. And if any of our models are to be in a magazine, you could be needed anywhere in the world. Last year, my nephew was in Vogue’s September issue and the press surrounding that was enormous. He was in six different cities in just one month.”

As he had talked, he had kept moving towards a sleek black Rolls-Royce whose back passenger door was being held open by a stoic man that definitely wasn’t Jord. Damen had followed until his toes were at the curb of the street.

“You’ll have to forgive me again, sir, for not knowing what to say,” Damen started after it became evident the man was done speaking. “I didn’t expect this. My mind is still trying to process it all.”

The man smiled.

“I don’t need an answer today. We haven’t even begun to talk compensation, though I can assure you the number will be higher than whatever you’re currently thinking of. But I want you to think about it. You would still be able to do what you do in any spare time, you would have the means to travel on your own when nothing was scheduled, and you would be a wonderful asset to Etoile while doing so.” The man nodded once at the stoic driver holding his door open before sliding into the seat. Nicaise boosted himself into the car and slid in as well. His feet were a foot above the car floor.

“I will think about it.” Damen paused again. “I’ll have to tell Nik we’ll both be employed. He won’t know what to think about that.”

“Oh,” the man said, his voice almost sad. “I’m afraid this deal is only for you, Damianos.”

And just like that, all mind whirring and processing came to a sudden halt. Like he’d been for most of this conversation, Damen was speechless, entirely unsure of what to say besides ‘What?’ or ‘Excuse me?’ or —

“Nikandros is a talented photographer, I don’t want you to mistake my intentions there,” he said. “But Etoile has plenty of photographers ready for work who are specialized in high fashion photography. I don’t think that’s any reason to fret, however. You’ll make plenty of money working for us that neither of you will know what to think, and he will have opportunity to expand his work with the constant events occurring here in Paris. Think of how that will grow his own resume into something even more impressive.”

It was clear the conversation was over as the driver was slowly beginning to shut the door. Damen got one last view of Nicaise’s dangling feet and glittering rings as the boy waved in the rudest way Damen had ever seen anyone wave. Then the man said six words just as the door was closing, his voice prompting.

“We’ll talk after the show tomorrow.”

Damen watched the car drive away, its windows darkened so it was impossible to see the figures inside, and he took in a deep breath that had his chest rising so high that his sweatshirt pulled tightly, if only for a moment. Then he retraced his walk from the Galeries Nationales back to the Nave, all in a near daze, and he found Nik waiting for him with a questioning expression on his face and his camera hanging at his hip.

“Where’d you disappear off to?” Nik asked.

“It’s a long story,” Damen said, shaking his head slightly in disbelief at what the last twenty minutes or so had brought on. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I don’t even know how I’d begin talking about it right now. Let’s talk about this instead.”

“This is starting to feel overwhelming again,” Nik said. He wasn’t pressing Damen’s disappearance and Damen was grateful. He had a lot more processing to do, a different kind of processing than what he had thought he would be doing, and he didn’t want to ruin Nik’s mood before the show tomorrow. This wasn’t the time for that.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’ve been watching the floods of people coming here all for fashion week and it’s as though it’s finally becoming obvious to me just how big this all is. These events are immortalized through their pictures, Damen,” Nik said and he pushed his hair back.

“Nik,” Damen smiled, easing back into something he did know the answers to, “I don’t know what else I could say to tell you how great you are and how great this is all going to be, so I’m just going to ask you to focus on enjoying dinner tonight and trying to remember everything about tomorrow. This really is a once in a lifetime kind of thing and no one is going to be there to immortalize it for you except you.”

Nik didn’t say anything else, just let out a whistle of air that lessened the tension of his body, even just a little bit.

“Are we going to have to dress up again tonight? I’m so tired of suits.”

They did, in fact, have to dress up again tonight. A quick search of Restaurant Le Meurice Alain Ducasse showed them two things; the first thing was that the restaurant was, quite literally, just three buildings down from their hotel, and the second thing was that it was a two Michelin-starred restaurant. Damen dramatically groaned before he pulled his own suit — the only one he actually owned — out of the room’s closet where it had been hanging since they unloaded their bags. As he tugged it on, he suddenly heard Laurent’s voice in his head saying “My uncle hates black suits. He says it’s the most boring color of suit a man could wear and, as you know by now, Etoile is anything but boring.” He smiled, and he smiled even wider when Nik came out wearing a classic black suit as well.

“We can survive one more dinner,” Nik said.

“We can,” Damen said, though his statement sounded less convincing.

“No fighting any old French men that mispronounce my name.”

“I’m not making any promises there.”

“I know you think stuff like that is a big deal,” Nik said, adjusting his tie so the knot was a little looser, “but it’s not. A lot of the people at Etoile are like that, and they’re like that to everyone. Even each other.”

“Just because they’re like that to everyone doesn’t make it okay.” Damen opened the door for the both of them. “If you’re working, you’re part of what keeps everything turning the way it should. The least they can do is learn your name for that.”

“At least he didn’t call me Nikki,” Nik grimaced. A flood of memories came to them both at the name and Damen grimaced as well.

“Kyra was the worst. Nikki!” Damen imitated in a high voice, the hard ‘k’ sound clicking in a purposeful manner. “She tried all sorts of weird nicknames on me too. Dami, ‘Nos. She even tried to call me Big D one time and I shut that down real fast.”

“I think Vannes might start calling you that if you’re not careful around her,” Nik said with warning.

“Let’s hope we can live the rest of our lives without that ever happening again.”

Restaurant Le Meurice Alain was the most Etoile appropriate restaurant Damen could have imagined. Its interior was almost reminiscent of the set design for the show tomorrow, like a tamer Hall of Mirrors with similar white and gold walls, chandeliers, crystal, and grandiose paintings on the walls. It turns out, Damen wasn’t far off at all in that comparison as he quickly found out upon running into Estienne , alone, that this restaurant was inspired by the Salon de la Paix in Versailles. He found out a lot more he truly wasn’t interested in, such as the man that had interpreted and designed the restaurant, the restaurant owner’s philosophy, and the way in which Restaurant Le Meurice Alain truly embodied classic French cuisine. But Damen eventually got away, only to find the restaurant flooded with the very same people from the rehearsal, all of which cleaned up quickly and quite nicely.

Nik had been swept away by a group of antsy people the moment they had been escorted into the room with the white table cloth covered tables and crystal glasses upon every surface, and Damen gave him a wave before he found his attention diverted once again by a hand tugging at the arm of his jacket.

Nicaise.

“That suit is hideous,” Nicaise said, that very unpleasant sneer on his face.

“At least I don’t have to click my heels three times to go home,” Damen said, not missing a beat as he pointedly took in Nicaise’s glittering white dress that complimented the glittering jewels in his hair, all pulled together by rubied shoes that had laced up straps at the beginning of his tiny ankles.

“What?” Nicaise asked.

Damen had no idea how a face so young could look so haughty.

“The Wizard of Oz? No? You’ve never seen The Wizard of Oz?” Damen asked incredulously.

“If you’ve watched it, that means it’s probably made for toddlers. My tastes are more sophisticated than that.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Damen said honestly. “But you should check it out. It’s a classic.”

“No, a little black dress is a classic.”

Damen couldn’t help the laugh that exited at that. Nicaise didn’t seem amused at all and actually appeared to get almost angry that Damen was. “What are you laughing at?”

“You. Who taught you to talk the way that you do?”

Before even Nicaise’s quick wit could respond, Laurent’s voice said, “That would be me.” Nicaise visibly seethed.

“That would not be you,” Nicaise said. “I don’t take after anyone but myself.”

Laurent was dressed in a suit that almost matched Damen and Nik’s own. It was a classic black suit with a white undershirt and black shoes. There were a few notable differences though, namely the silk of the lapels and the lack of tie given that the white undershirt was left unbuttoned just enough to be considered a tease with the skin that it revealed. Nicaise clearly wasn’t a fan of the suit. He had the exact same unpleasant sneer on his face looking at it as he had Damen’s suit.

“If you say so,” Laurent said dismissively.

“I do.”

Nicaise’s arms crossed over his chest in a display of defiance, though Damen didn’t truly know what the boy was being defiant about. But then he turned his head to look at somebody or something across the way and it made the jewels in his hair sparkle like rain landing on dark asphalt underneath the lights of a city at night.

“I can’t be seen with you two and your horrid excuses for formal wear,” Nicaise said after a moment. “I’m going.”

“I bet if you ask nicely tonight, someone would let you sip from their wine. You’re almost old enough now, aren’t you?” Laurent asked.

If a look could kill, Damen was certain Laurent would have fallen over dead on the spot. But Laurent was unfazed, staring back with a deadly and steady stare of his own until Nicaise clenched his fists and stormed off to do whatever it was that fourteen year olds did at events such as this one.

“What is it you want with Nicaise?”

Immediately Damen felt ten steps behind in this conversation. There was something in Laurent’s tone as he asked the question, something that would have scared a man that wasn’t Damen.

“Excuse me?” Damen asked, unsure if he had heard correctly.

“What is it you want with Nicaise?” Laurent asked again, his accent coming out heavily on Nicaise’s name.

“I think it’s more what is it he wants with me, and I’m fairly certain the answer to that is merely to insult,” Damen said. Confusion was evident in his voice. “He came over here to tell me how hideous he found my suit.”

Laurent didn’t say anything, but the way he was scanning Damen’s face made Damen feel as though he was being interrogated for something he hadn’t even done. But after a moment, Laurent seemed to relent, settling back on his heels. A server walked by with a tray full of glasses of deep red wine and Laurent grabbed one. Damen didn’t know why exactly, but he was surprised when Laurent took a long, deep drink from it.

“What did you think of the show?” he asked Damen, any and all malice from his previous question dissipated, and then he took another drink.

“It was beautiful,” Damen said, trying to keep up with today’s continued whiplash. “Your uncle has quite an eye for beauty.”

Laurent took another drink after Damen said that. “Indeed. But did you really like it?”

“I was telling your uncle today that I don’t know much about high fashion,” Damen admitted for the second time that day. Laurent finished the wine with one last final long and deep drink. His lips were tinged red close to the seam of his mouth.

“I don’t think anyone thought you knew much about high fashion to begin with. I don’t mean that as an insult either, but merely an observation of your repetitious fashion habits yourself.”

“What do you mean then?” Damen asked. He silently quirked an eyebrow when Laurent grabbed a second glass of wine from another server’s tray as they passed, leaving his old one in its place.

“I heard what you and your friend wore to your first meeting with my uncle. It’s all anyone at Etoile could talk about for days upon your arrival. Then today you wore,” Laurent paused as if trying to remember and he took another drink from his glass then. “You wore joggers. You wore black sweatpants to an Etoile dress rehearsal.”

Unlike when Nicaise spoke, Laurent didn’t necessarily sound offensive. He sounded more like his uncle here, amused by what Damen was saying even if Damen wasn’t trying to be funny. Damen almost preferred Nicaise’s tone.

“Wait, you saw what I was wearing today?” Damen asked instead of letting whatever else Laurent was saying get into his head. He asked it lowly, smiling with a flirtatious smile that came without thought, but Laurent’s blue eyes only flicked away.

“It’s a little difficult to miss the singular person wearing sweatpants while everyone else is dressed for the runway. Quite literally, I might add.”

“I’ll pretend it’s because you couldn’t take your eyes off of me.”

“You pretend that to be truth and I’ll pretend like I can actually eat any of this food tonight. Deal?”

“What do you mean you’ll pretend you can actually eat any of this food tonight?” All casual flirting — the kind that came naturally to Damen’s charm — died at Laurent’s sardonic tone as he struck their imaginary deal.

“Look around you,” Laurent said, lifting one elegant finger to circle the room. “The only people you’ll see eating tonight will be those who work behind the scenes. Everyone else will nitpick at their meal, pretend to eat whilst they prattle on about how overrated Prada’s show will be, and the models won’t eat a thing.”

“Why?”

“To be thin for all the cameras tomorrow. Haven’t you ever seen photos after the Victoria’s Secret show where all the models are picking up In-and-Out the second the show has ended? You seem like a guy that would be familiar with at least that. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. No water either. It makes my collarbones sharp and my cheekbones sharper. All the things the critics will care about beyond the clothes themselves.” Laurent was nearing the end of his second glass. “Thus explaining my diet of alcohol.”

“You’re just going to feel like shit tomorrow though,” Damen said, a worried furrow between his brows at, well, everything Laurent had just said.

“Mmm, no doubt. But after tomorrow I can sleep for the rest of the week if I choose and I very much might choose.”

Damen opened his mouth to respond, to ask about something, or comment on something, but there was an occurrence across the room that had clearly captured Laurent’s attention. From the side, his eyelashes were endless.

“I’m off to placate a fourteen year old before he stabs someone with a fork. I’ll probably grab more wine on my way.” Laurent handed Damen his current wine glass and said over his shoulder, “Enjoy your meal,” before he faded into the throng of people, leaving Damen’s head absolutely spinning.

“What the fuck.”

No one was around to hear it.

“Dude,” Damen started, aware of the crowd now all around him, when he found Nik again. “I can’t wait to get out of here and tell you about my day. You won’t even believe half of the shit that’s gone on.”

Nik looked up at him from the table he was seated at alongside Jeurre and Charls who were having a horribly deep conversation in slurred French. “What the hell could have happened today? We’ve been together half the day. In fact, today’s the first day we haven’t been in separate places all day since last week.”

“I know, but it’s been,” Damen huffed, “a day. I didn’t know I’d be getting stressed out while you were doing the work.”

“Well, dinner is supposed to start in about five minutes if my shoddy French is correct. We’ll talk later about whatever has you all frazzled.”

“We might want to snag a bottle of wine or five before I go into it because it’s seriously that kind of day.”

Nik’s shoddy French was correct though and they were once more treated by courses of food being set in front of them, all delicately plated and each one more delicious than the next. Impossibly, Damen found himself looking for Laurent in the crowds of tables. When he found him, he watched as Laurent did exactly what he said everyone would do. Damen watched as Laurent’s fork moved his food around on his plate, but never once left its surface to his mouth. Damen watched as he drank more wine. Looking around at others, Damen found none of Laurent’s fellow models eating either. It was unnerving, and by the third course Damen found his own appetite had dwindled into almost nothing.

After the entré of silk grain veal, Jeruselum artichokes, and ceps, people began to get up and wander again. Damen caught sight of Nicaise’s sparkling curls as he talked to Laurent’s uncle and received a gentle pat on the cheek before he was herded out the doors by the same stoic man that had driven the two earlier. It made sense as it was nearing nine.

Nik seemed to get along with Talik and her manager especially well and the three were in a conversation that was far over Damen’s head. It was something about lighting, coloring, and the disgrace of it all in regard to those with warm undertoned skin, so Damen skirted around the perimeter of the restaurant hoping to run into Jord. His no-nonsense attitude Damen had had the pleasure of meeting on a few occasions was something he thought would allow him to end his day on a semi-decent, non-dramatic note. But then he saw Laurent and all ideas of that vanished.

Laurent was in the place Nicaise had just been minutes before, talking to his uncle in a way that looked extremely calm and collected. But Damen could see he wasn’t quite as put together as he appeared, could see the way his finger kept tapping at his own leg incessantly, could see the flush of alcohol or anger or both across his ears, face, even the top of his chest underneath his white shirt. Laurent’s uncle did appear extremely calm and collected, however, and there were no signs he was anything but. He was regarding his nephew with patience, listening to whatever Laurent was saying, but Laurent was clearly displeased by the responses he was getting. Then, like it was in slow motion, Damen watched as Laurent turned on his heel and headed determinedly to the door to leave.

Damen saw him stumble. It was just a wiggle really. But Damen saw him stumble, and it was enough to have Damen following.

He cast one last look back at Nik, hoping Nik had seen, hoping Nik would at least see him so he could signal some kind of ‘I’ll be back’, but Nik was listening to Talik who talked louder with her hands than her voice.

Out the doors and on the sidewalk, Damen looked around once, twice, ignoring the welcomeness of the cool air, before he found Laurent leaning against a one-way street sign at the corner. Laurent’s eyes were closed, his head tilted back against the dark metal, and his chest was rising and falling just fast enough that it didn’t look quite natural. Those eyelashes Damen had briefly admired earlier were swooped against the apples of his cheeks.

“Hey.”

Laurent’s eyes opened instantly.

It was more obvious up close how drunk he was. There was a flush to his cheeks, to his ears, to the top of his chest that was most definitely alcohol, and there was a something unfocused in his gaze, as though finding Damen with his eyes required too much effort. Damen wondered how he had kept his balance so well on his own.

“Let me walk you home,” Damen said, taking another step closer.

Head still tilted back against the street sign, Laurent smiled. It wasn’t the small smile Damen had seen on him exactly twice in the few times they had met, but a full smile that reached all the way up to his eyes. Had this been almost any other circumstance, Damen would have told Laurent with all the genuineness in the world that his smile was truly the most beautiful smile Damen had ever seen in his life. But there was something unsettling about it with how today had gone, with how Laurent had just been before he had left the restaurant, with how he had been in his conversation with Damen before that.

“If I wanted someone to take advantage of me drunk, I would go off to one of the hundred parties being held tonight to kick off fashion week,” Laurent said.

Revulsion was like a punch in the gut, quite literally so like one that Damen took a physical step back. “What? No, Laurent, I just want to walk you to your apartment.”

Said apartment was across the street and three buildings down to the right. It would take five minutes, and that would mostly be due to Laurent’s expected stumbling. Still, Laurent made no effort to move, choosing to stay and watch Damen with a wary eye.

“One doesn’t leave the world of silks and bared skin unscathed. Chivalry, my dear brute in shining armor, is but a mask.”

Damen wondered, only for a moment, how Laurent was talking like that in his drunken state, but the deep-seated revulsion that Laurent thought Damen might do something awful to him was heavy. Looking around at the throngs of people still about and the cars still driving on the road, Damen couldn’t let his offer go untaken.

“Let me at least help you cross the street and watch you get into your building.” He put both hands up in a display of surrender. “I won’t follow, I’ll stay right here, but let me watch.”

Laurent’s gaze was still wary and a bit unfocused. “Why?”

“Because you’re beautiful and drunk and people are awful sometimes.” It was another heavy thing. “Plus, if anything happened to you I bet it’d be a nightmare for tomorrow’s show and Nik’s worked too hard for that.”

It took a moment, a moment in which Damen started pulling reasonable arguments to the front of his thoughts in case Laurent continued to be against such a simple request, but Laurent pushed himself away from the sign and swayed ever so slightly before settling.

“Fine. But just across the street.”

“You have my word,” Damen said, making a show of crossing over his heart.

Cast-iron will alone seemed to fuel Laurent into a briefly sober mindset, just long enough for them to cross the street without any issues. Damen knew better than to touch him given how the conversation had been going, but he kept one hand lifted and ready just in case Laurent actually fell. Once on the other side, the side of Laurent’s building, Laurent seemed to be entirely done with talking. He looked at Damen, sweeping over him as though he would find an answer to something, and then he left without so much as a wave or nod or goodbye, goodnight.

As Damen promised, he stayed put on the sidewalk and only watched as Laurent headed toward his apartment so steadily that Damen wondered exactly what Laurent’s alcohol tolerance was. It was only when Laurent reached the entrance that he looked back at Damen. It was one last look, maybe to see if Damen had kept his word, and it lasted only a second. Then he was gone, into the building and, assumingly, up the elevator to his apartment.

Crossing the street once more, Damen stopped at the same one-way street sign Laurent had been at and leaned against it, head tilted back in the same fashion to breathe in the chilled Parisian air. He was tired of trying to think, to make sense of a damn thing that had happened today. All he could think about was how there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world that would get him and Nik both through explaining today’s events.

And gods forbid Nik had any drama of his own.

[mytwilightimagines13]

Vampire (Caius Volturi) (Part Nine)

(Alright, this is mostly just the musical. Only the last part is back to the main characters part. If anyone wants to see the musical with English subtitles: Part one Part two I hope you will all enjoy it!)

Word count: 2480

“Kommen Sie her meine Damen und Herren! Während da drin in der Kathedrale an diesem denkwürdigen 8. Juni 1867 der Kaiser von Österreich und die überirdisch schöne Elisabeth... König und Königin von Ungarn werden, haben Sie hier die einmalige Gelegenheit, ein wertvolles Erinnerungsstück zu erwerben! Alles sehr billig! Bitte, treten Sie näher” Lucheni yells as he walks through the crowds. It is the 8th of June, 1867, the day the Emperor and Empress of Austria became the King and Queen of Hungary! Soon the new King and Queen walk out of the Cathedral where they had just been crowned, the people waiting impatiently for the new couple, a happy day for all. Everyone happy as the new king and queen helped unify Austria and Hungary, defeating their enemies. Elisabeth returned to Death shortly after, gloating in her triumph, gloating in the knowledge she was right, and that she did not need him at all. When she wanted to dance, she would dance, and she alone would decide when, where and to what music. Only Death herself had a different view on that. She won by using her against her enemies, and through that they are bounded. “Was für ein Triumph.” Elisabeth sang. “Mein Triumph.” Death sang back, starting their duet. “Welch ein Fest.” “Mein Fest.” “Ich hab die Feinde überwunden.” Death leaned forward towards Elisabeth as she stood upon the carriage Elisabeth had used to go the the palace. “So änderst du den Lauf der Welt In meinem Sinn. So eng sind wir verbunden” Death replied. “Ich tus nicht für die Welt.” Elisabeth shot back. “Nicht für die Welt.” “Nur für mich.” “Für mich!” Death sang, almost threatening. “Jetzt hab ich meinen Weg gefunden.” “Sie haben über dich gelacht. Doch jetzt hast du dich durchgesetzt. Und sie besiegt” “Sie hielten mich an Drähten fest. Als Puppe die man tanzen lässt. Doch ich werd' keine Marionette sein” Elisabeth sang before going to the refrain of the song. “Wenn ich tanzen will, Dann tanz' ich so wies mir gefällt. Ich allein bestimm die Stunde. Ich allein wähl die Musik. Wenn ich tanzen will, Dann tanze ich auf meine ganz besond're Art. Am Rand des Abgrunds. Oder nur in deinem Blick” she sang as she looked Death in her eyes, daringly. Death smirked before hanging on the carriage, waving her arm while playing Elisabeth as a puppet on strings. “Schwarze Möwe flieg...” She sang “Ich flieg” Elisabeth sang, answering Death. “Ich allein...” “Allein...” “Will dich durch Nacht und Sturm begleiten.” Ich will nicht mehr begleitet sein, Auch nicht von dir. Ich lass mich nicht leiten.” Death jumped down from the carriage and grabbed Elisabeth’s arm, her hands still securely wrapped in gloves. “Frei bist du nur durch mich.” She said, the sweet tone in her voice now gone. “Nur durch mich...” Elisabeth protested. “Nur für mich” “Für mich...” “Den du sollst mir den Weg bereiten.” “Ich geh jetzt meinen eig'nen Weg. Ich habe mich getrennt von dir. Lass mich in Ruh” Death now had both Elisabeth’s wrists in her hands, playing her around like a little doll. “Du hast dich in mich verliebt. Weil's Freiheit ohne mich nicht gibt. Und keiner dich versteh'n kann, außer mir.” No, nobody would ever understand Elisabeth like she did, no one would love her like she did. And never would she have freedom without her. Together they sang the refrain again while Death held Elisabeth down as she ‘flew’. “Ich bin stark genug allein...” Elisabeth said as she escaped part of Death’s grip. Death frowned and dropped her other arm while walking away slightly. “Stark warst du nur solang Du noch geglaubt hast schwach zu sein!” Death sang, slightly frustrated. “Ich ruf dich nicht!” “Du wirst mich rufen!” “Ich such dich nicht!” “Du wirst mich suchen!” “Ich fang an das Leben zu lieben!” “Bald wird es dir verhasst sein!” They sang the refrain once more together, now dancing around eachother, never once leaving eachothers glance. “Wenn ich tanzen will, Und mit wem ich tanzen will, Bestimm nur ich Allein!” They both sang the final word in an amazingly strong and powerful note, clearly stating the discussion between them. Elisabeth soon fled the stage and her youngest son Rudolph ran on, shouting for his mother. His mother had not looked once at Rudolph since she became queen of Hungary, and he missed his mother dearly. Death watched the young boy closely and soon approached him. “Sie hört dich nicht, ruf nicht nach ihr.” Death sang as she approached the young boy. “Wer bist du?” the young boy asked in wonder. Death smiled reassurlingly at him and sat next to him on the couch. “Ich bin ein Freund. Wenn du mich brauchst, komm ich zu dir.” She said as she started to stand up and leave, yet Rudolph placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her back. “Bleib da!” he said, fear of being alone creeped through him. “Ich bleib dir nah.” Death sang to him as she sat back down on the bed, listening to the young boys worries. “Ach Mama, ich möchte immer bei dir sein. Doch fährst du fort nimmst du mich nicht mit Und wenn du da bist schließt du dich ein. Warum lässt du mich allein?” the boy sang while Death took the boy in her arms and carried him towards his bed, like he had done with the boys’ mother many years ago.

Elisabeth and Franz Joseph grow distant, apart from the occasions where they would share the bed, and Franz finds the satisfaction of his needs at many different Salons, one of which is owned by Frau Wolf. Soon Elisabeth falls ill and a doctor is send to check up on her. The man was dressed in a cloak and a top hat. The doctor asks what has happened and the first maid rapidly tells him what happened. “Lassen sie uns… Allein!” the man said as he made his way towards Elisabeth, who was layin ontop of a few chairs. “Der Puls…” he sang “Es geht schon besser.” Elisabeth sang, answering the dokter. “Die Stirn ist heiß.” “Es fehlt mir nichts!” Soon the voice of the Doctor became lighter, more feminine. “Der Lidrand beinah’ weiß. Wenn ich mich nicht irre, Und ich irre nie, Ist dies die gewisse Maladie. Eine Infektion, Majestät. Nicht lebensgefährlich, aber unangenehm. Das was man eine "Französische Krankheit" nennt.” The doctor sang, her voice now completely feminine, a small smirk plastered around her lips. “Das ist nicht wahr! Was fällt Ihnen ein! Was Sie da sagen ist ganz unmöglich!” Elisabeth said offended while standing up. “Unmöglich, warum? Auch Kaiser sind schwach!” the doctor sang as she removed her top hat, revealing beautiful and long curls. “Mein Mann ist mir treu!” Elisabeth sang, her voice now desperate. “Das ist ein Irrtum!” the doctor said as she removed her cloak. “Gott, wenn das stimmt, hat mich mein Mann tief in den Schmutz gezogen” “Das allerdings!” “Ich werde ihn hassen! Werd’ ihn für immer verlassen. Noch besser, ich bringe mich um!” Elisabeth shouted. “Tu es, Elisabeth!” the doctor now revealed to be death herself shouted, a huge smirk on her face. “Ich freu mich auf dich!” “Du!” Elisabeth said in confusion, taking a few steps away from Death. Death soon closed the space and danced around her. “Das ist vielleicht die letzte Chance, Ergreif sie, flieh mit mir! Komm tanz mit mir den letzten Tanz Lass alles hinter dir!” she sang, trying once more to tempt Elisabeth to choose for her, for her love, for freedom. Away from the pain her husband caused her. “Nein, ich bleib da! Mein Mann hat mir in Wahrheit einen Gefallen getan! Wo seine Moral zu Ende ist, Fängt meine Freiheit an! Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stark! Ich werde es allen beweisen! Seine Schuld gibt mir das Recht, die Kette zu zerreißen! Geh!” Elisabeth ripped the necklace she had recieved from Franz Joseph as a first gift off of her neck and threw it at Death, whom had walked up the slobe once more. Death caught the necklace and ran off, hurt, but she knew one day, Elisabeth would give in to her embrace.

A decade passes by, and Rudolph starts to stand against his father, thinking he has his mothers back. Yet Death creeps up to him, his never ending battle with Death, the temptation growing with each passing day. Once he calls for his mother once more, yet she leaves him alone once more is the cause for him to snap. Death plays around with him, dressed like his mistress, gloves now gone, for a little longer before helping bring Rudolph the pistol to his head. And with a final kiss to the mouth, Rudolph commits suicide. This event completely breaks down Elisabeth and she begs Death to take her. “Komm öffne mir! Laß mich nicht warten... Bin ich nicht genug gequält? Erbarme dich! Komm, süßer Tod... verfluchter Tod... Erlöse mich!” she sang, her voice broken and tired. However, her scorned lover now refuses to take her in. “Zu spät! Ich will dich nicht - Nicht so! Ich brauch' dich nicht! Geh!” she sang, frustrated. She wanted her now, but Death did not want her like this. She had given Elisabeth multiple chances to come to her embrace, but she loved the strong and independent woman, not this mess that was laying at her feet. Another decade goes by. Elisabeth still wanders from place to place, dressed in permanent mourning. Franz Joseph visits her from time to time, begging her to return home to Vienna, firmly believing that love is the answer to all sorrows, but Elisabeth refuses, citing that sometimes love is simply not enough to cure old wounds. Finally, in a horrifying vision of the fall of the House of Habsburg, Franz Joseph at last meets his mysterious rival. “Was ist das hier? Ein Irrenhaus?” he sings “Ihr sinkendes Schiff, Majestät!” Death now stood high up on the slope again, her black suit now replaced by her white, angelic outfit once more. “Wie komm' ich hierher?” Franz Joseph asks, as he stands eye to eye with his rival. “Fragen Sie mich nicht! Das ist doch Ihr Alptraum!” Death laughs, her laugh angelic yet devious. “Alles ein Alptraum, Alptraum!” the dead sing, confirming Franz Josephs nightmare. “Wo ist die Kaiserin?” he asks, looking around for Elisabeth, making Death furious. “Elisabeth? Meine Elisabeth?” she screams. “Meine Elisabeth!” Franz argues, angering Death only further. “Sie gehört mir!” she screams “Impertinenz!” “Sie liebt mich!” “Schluss mit dem Unsinn!” Franz Joseph shouts at Death, but she only laughs. “Das ist doch Ihr Alptraum?!” she asks him, laughing all the while. “Ich gab ihr mein Leben...” Franz Joseph sang to Elisabeth. “Armseliges Geschenk!” Death sang, knowing she and she alone possed the one gift Elisabeth longed for. “...geb' ihr Halt und Sicherheit...” Franz Joseph sang. “Ich geb' ihr die Freiheit!” Death sang to Elisabeth, reaching out to her. “...und Glanz!” “Der Augenblick ist nah” Death sang, getting more excited with each passing minute. “Du willst sie mir entreißen.” Franz Joseph sang but his words were useless, Death’s voice was stronger, more powerful. “Ich erlöse sie!” “Du? Wie denn?” Franz Joseph asked ironically. “Mit dieser Feile!” “Mörder!” “Hey Lucheni, es ist soweit!” Death said, showing she was indeed the one who had ordered Lucheni to murder Elisabeth for her. For their love. She threw the dagger towards Lucheni, whom caught it, unsure of himself. “Her damit! Sofort! Ich befehle es Ihnen... Nein!” Franz Joseph sang. He watched as Death throws Lucheni a dagger, but crushed by the weight of his imperial crest, he is powerless to save his wife. “Alle tanzten mit dem Tod. Doch niemand wie Elisabeth. Alle tanzten mit dem Tod. Doch niemand wie Elisabeth.” The dead sang as everything grew dark.

On September 10, 1898, while on her way to board a ship in Geneva, Empress Elisabeth of Austria is mortally wounded, stabbed in the heart with a crudely sharpened file. “Der Schleier fällt. Verlass die Schatten Ich hab’ mich so Nach dir gesehnt. Laß mich nicht warten.” Death sang as she slowly walked from the shadows. Her once tied up hair now flowing down her beautiful face. Elisabeth’s face seems to get some of her youth back as she strips herself from her black dress, revealing a light and white dress underneath it. “Mach die Nacht zum Morgen. Lass mich befreit sein und geborgen. Lösch die Erinn’rung in mir aus. Gib’ meiner Seele ein Zuhaus.” Yes she was ready for Death, her Death to take her, to keep her safe and to give her soul a home. “Lass die Welt versinken.” Death began singing and soon the two sang their duet together. “Ich will mit dir im Nichts ertrinken. Mit dir als Feuer aufersteh’n. Und in der Ewigkeit vergeh’n!” Elisabeth made her way towards her Death, finally falling into her arms, completely embracing her. Death couldn’t believe it at first, but soon wrapped her arms around her Elisabeth. Elisabeth presses her forhead against the forehead of her Death. “Ich weinte, ich lachte, War mutlos und hoffte neu. Doch was ich auch machte. Mir selbst blieb ich immer treu.” She sang before being joined by Death once more. “Die Welt sucht vergebens Den Sinn meines (deines) Lebens.” “Denn ich gehör…” Elisabeth sang, getting ready for her final note and final breath. “Du gehörst…” Death sang, feeling the anticipation for her victory. “…nur mir!” they sang together in a beautiful and strong last note. As she lies dying, Death comes to claim her spirit with a kiss. With their embrace, the show ends.

The show had ended and I, along with my fellow actors, walked onto the stage to receive our applause. The adrenaline still rushing through my veins, and the largest smile I had every produced was plastered on my face. The audience was clapping, whistling, shouting, all in excitement. Goosebumps of pride formed themselves on my skin and tears of happiness pricked behind my eyes. I looked up towards the balcony, where the Cullens and the Volturi where standing. Emmett, Jasper and Felix where shouted, and whistling. Alice, Rosalie, Bella and Renesmee where clapping hard as well, huge smiles on their faces. Aro, Carlisle and Esme all had looks in their eyes of proud parents. Alec, Jane and Demetri where politely clapping, still smiles of amusement plastered over their faces. But I saved the most important one for last. The man’s whose approval I most longed for, even though I would never admit it out loud. Caius was standing up, a huge smile of pride on his face and adoration in his eyes. He was clapping the hardest of them all, something that seemed way out of character for him, but it made the smile on my face only grow wider. The curtains fell for the final time and silence surrounded us.

[fahye]

hey freya i don't know if you go here anymore BUT you should read/watch Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation lol i just keep thinking "fahye would like this" it's like a damen-type dude dies hated by the world and gets reincarnated years later, is intelligent enough to solve ghost mysteries with the ice queen dude but too dumb to notice the guy has had a crush on him since they were 15, etc. i feel like that's relevant to yr interests! check it out!

HELLO ANON

god knows you’ve probably long forgotten sending this, but I have some good news for you: I am here, right now, industriously brushing the dust off this tumblr because I am currently embroiled in watching this show and I NEED THE FANDOM EXPERIENCE. 

I am yelling at everyone I know in group chats and have successfully seduced several people into joining me, but sometimes a girl just needs to reblog a lot of beautiful gif sets and maaaaaybe to dip her toe into fanfic again after a long, long stretch of churning out original novels.

I would say that wei wuxian is less damen and more ‘if james t kirk collided headfirst with the family dynamics and martyrdom tendencies of francis crawford of lymond’ but I am EXTREMELY here for it either way.

tl;dr - everyone watch the live-action version of THE UNTAMED (chinese historical fantasy c-drama, the most romantic thing this side of captive prince)

it’s on netflix, I’m obsessed, gif sets incoming

[monsterfluffandstuff]

Dr. Elder (plague doctor variety 1) x Beatrix Galen (first person) Platonic

This is strictly friendly fluff and supernatural exposition(that could lead to romance in the future if i revisit these characters). Based on what was supposed to be a drabble for @fuckyouamanda turned into me being sleep deprived and getting a bit carried away with lore.

`~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We’d been driving for miles, trying to find this little cottage I was supposed to be staying at, a detour for raspberry tarts had gotten us lost. As the sun began to sink further into the night, the needle on our fuel gauge sank into the red. My driver for the trip, Damen, found a small station and hopped out to raise some help. I remember waving to Damen as he turned and mouthed that someone was coming to the door. I got out of the car and start walking off to the side of the station, to make a call and make sure my reservation hadn’t been forfeited. I couldn’t get signal and I moved further away, waving my phone around like a mad woman. Then I heard Damen yell and I turned to see his face was full of horror, his arms were waving. Everything got very slow as I felt the air leave my body. I didn’t feel the pain until I hit the ground, I heard a crack, and everything went dark.

 My eyes hurt when I try to open them, maybe I don’t want to open them, really. I’m so…tired. So, I drift back off and I dream, of a - person, no - are they even human? The figure is tall and slender with broad shoulders and flowing robes, they look like some illustrations that I saw in a museum in…I can’t remember where. But I remember this shape, the beaked mask with glass eyes. Am I dying? Is my brain throwing images at me of what I’ve seen? No, I only see them, the figure and their assistant.  

These odd visions persist, these waking dreams. Sometimes all I see is a ceiling covered in lovely swirling designs, but there is a voice. This voice has a deepness that is comforting but it lilts and flows as it reads me prose. I know this must be a dream as everything I hear is something I remember. There is Shakespeare, Austen, and even some excerpts from stand-up routines I love. Hearing “There’s a horse loose in the hospital” in the confused tones of the voice in my head makes it, oddly, more hilarious. It was also comforting. To think that I am fighting, on whatever subconscious level, is reassuring. If I ever properly wake up, I hope I remember this.

 ~~~~~~~

 When I wake again I am sore, but my eyes are more cooperative. The room is dim, but I am thankful for that. All around me, the walls are a mild mint green, as if they’ve faded from years of wear, the curtains are drawn, patterned in vines and sprigs of leaves. I feel as if I lay on a cloud, and as much as I want to know where I am, I feel no need to leave this place. I finally become aware of the I.V. hooked up on my left, at least they picked the easy arm.  Well, I assume they picked the easy arm, its hard to tell if they had any false starts as my arms are fairly covered in bruises. The bag is covered by a casing, so I can’t see if they have me on saline or something else. My arms are swollen so saline is a good bet, but that could be the bruising too. I try to wiggle my finger and find something in my left hand. A small red button on a corded white toggle. I don’t try to see where the cord leads because craning my neck is still too laborious. I use every bit of strength to push the button and I hear a delicate bell chime coming from the other side of the door.

 I don’t really know where I am but I’m more concerned about how I am. I’ve never been in a car crash before, but I feel like I’ve been dehydrated, crushed up, and reconstituted.  A nurse knocks and enters my room and she looks like some colorized version of those portraits my gran used to show me. All but her cap, as it bears a small black bird.

 “Ah finally awake, I see”

 I try to speak, I want to but my throat feels dry and scratchy, and so I cough and stutter. The nurse comes over and offers me some ice chips and I nod, feebly.

 “The doc will be in momentarily. He’ll explain everything.”

 As the door opens once more and the nurse exits, the figure takes her place. The mask is closer to a dark brown than the black in my visions. But it could be lighting. Damn these drugs must be phenomenal.

 “Ms. Galen, pleasure to see you properly awake. I’m Dr. Elder and I’m sure you have a lot of questions about-“

 I smiled, I smiled like a damn goof. It was the voice, the one that was so baffled as to the meaning of a teenage boy yelling scatter and smashing a “forty, what is a blasted forty?” on the ground.

 “You were reading to me, weren’t you? How did you know what I liked? How did you get into my dream?”

 I know I must sound delirious, but the doctor doesn’t seem to notice as they shuffle their feet a bit and sit down in the chair by my bed. I feel a hand on my wrist, checking my pulse. There is a faint light behind the eyes of the mask, like a dying glowstick in the dawn of the day after a rave. Blue, lovely blue. Like the old icebox Gran had when I was little, before she was sent away. She made this pie that tasted like blue skies and honeysuckle. I miss Gran.

 “Ms. Galen? Can you hear me?”

 I realize I’ve been drifting in and out, too many memories to ignore all of them, so I let a few nice ones sneak through.

 “Yes, loud and clear, sorry, Doc. My ears still work, at least. What happened to me?”

 The nose of the mask bobs down then back up, the glass portholes seeming to stare into me. I don’t really mind them.

 “Well, Ms. Galen-“

 “Oh please call me Bea, or Beatrix.”

 The nose bobbed again, the mask nodding.

 “Ms. Beatrix, you were in a rather nasty accident involving some improperly parked farm equipment, I’m afraid that you- you-”

 I peer at the mask, questioning.

 “I what, Doc? Is it my legs my spine, my arms?”

 In an odd sort of calculated panic, I start to wiggle everything, and though it is all sore, everything all seems to work. I reach for the cup of ice chips next to me and the doctor seems shocked. Obviously, there are no eyebrows to clue me in, but the shoulders, broad a they are, rise ever higher. The beak bobs side to side, ever so slightly, as if shaking in disbelief.

 “Listen, Doc, let me level with you, I feel sore but otherwise functional. I’d really like the rundown on what I’m in for- Oh, and Damen, is he ok? Is he here too?”

 “No, Ms. Gal- Beatrix. He was well away from the car when the accident occurred, he was unharmed. Your recovery will be extended, however you should regain most of the function in your extremities, your right leg was not broken but it hasn’t responded to stimuli as actively as your left. I’m afraid, it isn’t possible to transfer you to another facility as there was a terrible storm not long after you were brought in, and we aren’t currently able to reach anyone.”

 I nod as I take it in, he’s ignored my dream-based inquiries, so I guess I really did dream them. I must have heard his voice while I was out, and my brain did the rest. It was a bit scary, not having a way to let anyone know. But I realized, only my school would really need to know.

 “What kind of facility is this? And what exactly am I on for pain?”

 The mask bobs again, my imagination is much more vivid than I ever realized. The doctor rises to his full height.

 “This is a small clinic. Our purpose is to help our patients get to a place where they can move on. We typically only house about three to five patients at a time and usually we only deal with minor maladies. Currently we just have you with us.” He paused for a breath and poured me a glass of cold water to go beside my ice chips.

 “As for the pain, if you are having any just ring Lottie again and she will help you.” The good doc picks up my chart and hums.  “We have you on dilaudid, but your last dose should’ve worn off by now. If that is all, Beatrix, I’ll be getting on to some of my other duties that need tending. I will be back to see you though, I promise, you are our priority.”

 I nod, numbly, feeling there is something I’m missing. As the door swings shut I realize that I can, in fact, feel an excruciating pain in my right shoulder and hip, and I just know a headache is coming on. I ring for Lottie and ask for an icepack and something to eat, as I feel starved.

 There are worse places to recover, I suppose, than a comfortable room with a lovely view of- were those gardens? I wonder to myself, if the food is good. Back home when I was hospitalized the cafeteria had the best roast beef. Gran loved it, she joked that she visited me just to sneak food off my plate.

 But this was a clinic, I didn’t expect a large cafeteria or anything like what I’d known. As if by some universal alignment, a heaping plate of roast beef with gravy, mash, and veg, arrived for supper. I dig in and it tastes like back home. I use a cloth napkin, embroidered with another black bird, to dab at my mouth. That is when I realize it, and my fork clatters onto the plate.

 The mask is real. The glowing eyes. Real.

 Somehow this doesn’t faze me as much as I think it should, but I’ve seen stranger things. I dig back into my roast beef and wonder what tomorrow will bring.

 ~~~~~~~

The next couple of days blended into this calming routine. It turns out that I did, in fact, need a wheelchair for a bit, as my good leg got tired after short bursts of activity. But the physio seemed to help, even as old fashioned as the physical therapist was. A slim man with a handlebar mustache, that served in the army at one point; he went by Butch and always seemed to be smiling.

 I got to know Lottie too, and found there were even more of these clinics, dotted about the whole of Europe. No one ever explained why Dr.Elder wore the mask but I never asked either.

 True to his word, I did see the good doctor again. Quite frequently. It started with morning check in, then there were impromptu visits, a few walks/ rolls, around the grounds, when it wasn’t pouring. As there were no other patients, and communications were still down from the storm, I found Elder to be great company. I hadn’t mentioned the dreams again, but volumes of my favorite stories appeared on my night table, and some nights when I was too tired to read, but too sore to sleep, Elder read to me. He admitted to reading to me, before I’d woken up, saying it seemed to soothe patients. We would talk about which stories we liked best, what we had grown up with. He had an upbringing rife with old classics, but once brought in a book of poetry. The verses were completely new to me, and I loved them. Lottie later told me they were his, he’d written them about patients over the years, the good and the bad. Being a doctor takes a toll on your soul and he relieved his burden through his writing.  

 I began spending the bulk of my time with him and we fell into a comfortable sort of friendship, something I had failed at achieving with even my closest classmates in nursing school. I felt better, every day and I wondered if my accident had really been as bad as all that.

 The storm that had knocked out the phone lines was still coming in waves, and the fourth day of dreary weather in a row, I decided it was time to offer up some alternate entertainment. I went looking through my effects and found my laptop and my external hard drive full of movies and music. I switched it on and wondered why it hadn’t occurred to me to do this earlier. When Elder came up for a check in, I was watching John Mulaney, as I couldn’t stop thinking about the excerpts from my dreams. He sat down with me, and before we knew it we had blown through a good chuck of my stand-up.

 He tried to laugh along in the right places, even though a lot of it seemed to go over his head, but at the end he did seem to be thoroughly happy. We were just about to start on some animated movies when Lottie started banging down my door calling for us “chortling heathens” to come take supper in the dining room.

 I also got along with Lottie and Butch through all of this, but they seemed more focused on each other and that was just fine with me. I liked my time with the Doc, and he seemed to like it too. Even spending as much time as we did together, I avoided mentioning his interesting choice of mask. I mocked up a few jokes about taking safety a bit too seriously but decided against them.

 The longer I spent at the clinic the more I came to realize that there was most certainly something distinctly “other” about it, but there was something in me that didn’t need that to be acknowledged. I was still on vacation time and I was sending my brain on vacation too.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 After a time I was able to leave the wheelchair in my room and graduate to a cane, it was a cause for celebration. I was warned that I may need to use one intermittently in the long term, to help the healing along, and because I was showing signs of post traumatic arthritis in my right hip. I decided that once I was able, I would cover my cane with tacky stickers and sparkly duct tape. There are many canes like it but this one is mine, god-dammit.

 Elder complimented my cane when we went on my first stroll in the gardens. He said I seemed to be glowing. As we walked parts of the grounds that I didn’t dare roll through, Elder told me that the clinic and its grounds had been a dairy farm long ago. its small size suited their purposes just fine. They had planted all a manner of flowers and fruit trees to yield beauty and fresh produce in the right seasons. We came across a raspberry bush and I remembered my tarts.

 “Are the phones working, yet, could I make a call?”

 “I can check, but they are supposed to be up and running today, these ancient lines go down so frequently.”

I stopped and picked a few raspberries, just ripe, so perfect I could do without the pastry. I offered some to Elder, and he declined. It was time.

 “Doc, why do you wear it?”

 Elders shoulders hunched, and I could feel something change. A mild tension that had permeated the air between us, dissipated.

 “Well I never saw the sense in it, but now it seems I can never take it off.”

 I let go of a breath, relieved I weren’t hallucinating, but now very aware that something was most assuredly different about this place, and my new-found friend.

 “Have you tried, do you need help?”

 Elder shook his head and took my hand. He led me to bench along the path and we took a rest.

 “I can’t remember when I last tried, or when someone else last remarked on it. To our regular patients I look however they need me to. Whatever face will put them at ease. I’ve worn so many, I can’t remember my own.”

I patted his back with my left hand, minding the catheter still in my arm. I’d been on I.V just before our walk, a small transfusion of fluids was ordered, as I had been feeling very dehydrated and a bit dizzy.

 “Lottie does her best, as well. You surprised her a bit, as young as you are. The memories help her a lot, so she’s grateful you seemed to have some pleasant ones to draw on. This isn’t a clinic for normal patients, I take it you’ve realized that by now.”

 He sat silent for a moment and I motioned to speak.

 “My Gran was a nurse long before I was born. Helping people was her calling and she worked from the day she got a job at the hospital to the day I was born. She would have worked until they stopped her, but she had earned her pension, so she retired to enjoy her family. When I happened, my father was pushing forty, and she was almost sixty. I was the apple of her eye when he adopted me.” I started to cry but I didn’t waver for more than a second.

I told Elder about dad dying when I was ten, a fluke heart attack. Gran being sent away when I was eleven, my aunt taking over. Gran dying, within a year, alone, in some home, from some treatable illness. Running away and getting caught, being put into a group home when they saw what my aunt had considered a suitable accommodation for a twelve year old. But I muddled through, and I graduated. I went to nursing school, for Gran. I had finished my first semester and entered a stupid raffle at the summer fair. I won, courtesy of our local travel agency, an all-expenses paid trip to *drumroll* England. I was studying in Ireland at the time, so really it was just a hop skip and a jump away, but I took it. And now here I was.

 When I finished, he nodded and helped me stand.

 “Beatrix, I wanted to tell you the truth about this place. Our patients are, not quite here nor there. Some of them are with us for only a night but some have stayed for the equivalent of years. When they are ready to move on they do, whether that means going back to their house… or going ‘home’. Every once in while someone with a physical form finds their way here and we care for them as we would anyone else. But only once in a blue moon can someone see the mask. That is how Lottie came to be here, Butch has his own story. But that’s why these little clinics began popping up all over. More and more of us came to be, and we wanted to help as best we could. There are more and more people not ready to leave this world, so we help encourage them along.’

 It all made an odd kind of sense, and it is vastly more comforting to think that one has stumbled onto something benevolent, and otherworldly. You know, as opposed to being trapped by a strange sadist wearing a bird mask.

 “So this means, I’m dead.”

 “Not quite. You aren’t…yet. You were supposed to proceed along as usual but you were so-“

 “If you say full of life I’m liable to punch you in the arm.”

 He flinched away with a laugh and held up his hands in defense.

 “Well you are, for lack of a better word. Your body wasn’t supposed to last much longer, it has been put through so much. But you just aren’t ready to be parted from it. Or this world. So we kept you alive, the only way we could and we planned to tell you when the time was right. I could tell you saw the mask the moment you saw me enter your room. I just wanted to give you some time before you had to decide”

 “How are you keeping me alive? Do I have to decide to die or-”

 A small chuckle, not sinister, just a bit of an “oh boy, you wouldn’t believe” sort of noise.

 “There is an energy that we use to stay here in between planes, it was given to me when I was dying to prolong my usefulness during a time of great need. But I never wanted to stop helping, and I adapted. It is ambient within this world and easy to find if you know where to look. It comes from love, from happiness, from the basic components of life itself.  That is what has been in your I.V, what causes my subdued glow, and your budding glow as well.”

 “So my decision, as it stands, is between allowing myself to die and possibly pass on, or staying here, helping other souls cross over, like glow worm Charon in scrubs?”

 I thought for a bit, as we continued to walk. But I stopped Elder when we reached the tree bearing his name.

 “So if I stay, Does this mean I have to wear the bird mask?’

 This time it was a full blown laugh, I’d even go so far as to say, a chortle.

 “Not unless you want to. When I passed into this state, this is how people who were purported to be healers often dressed. So I chose it, thinking anyone who saw this form would feel comforted by it. Times have changed of course, and I can make others see whatever they like, but I’ve gone so long without really changing that I don’t know what may lay beneath, if anything does. For all intents and purposes, this is my face now. Elder was not my name in life, I didn’t remember who I was. But I knew I wanted to help. You would look however you liked, most likely how you look right now, but maybe with less bruising. And you don’t have to wear scrubs or dresses or anything-‘

 He stuttered and corrected himself.

 “Well, I mean, you can wear anything you like. You don’t even have to help, I’d just… I’d like it if you stayed” The eyes went down, and the beak was perpendicular to he ground.

 ‘Lottie is lovely and kind and she has been here for decades now, and we get along just fine. But I can’t read Shakespeare with her, and she isn’t much for comedy. Though I don’t always understand yours, I like it, and I’d like it if you’d teach me more about it, and even about the world. Lottie can blend in with the crowd, but I never venture out if I don’t have to, I feel awkward and out of time.

 “Butch is a sweet man but he keeps to himself, goes to the cinema with Lottie, he likes going through the motions of being an out and about human. That’s fine and dandy for him, and I hope he enjoys every moment of it”

He took both my hands in his and we looked into each other’s eyes as best we could. In that moment I swore I could see proper blue eyes peeking back at me.

 “But you, Beatrix, you make me feel like I’m not alone. You are the first proper friend I’ve had since I still had my own face. I don’t want to force you to stay, I know you have others to see in whatever comes next, but I don’t want to lose my friend. That’s why I wanted to prolong your stay here. I feel guilty for not having told you sooner but-“

 I put two fingers, close as I could get, to where Elders mouth would have been.

 “Oh hush, you old crow. Of course, I’m staying. Gran would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t do what she raised me to. And even without Grans watchful eyes over my shoulder… I would never leave a friend behind.”

 I was promptly lifted and hugged so impossibly tight, and yet, as I hugged him back I didn’t feel a single twinge of pain. When he reluctantly set me down the bruises were gone. His glow was a bit brighter, and I felt brand new.

 “Well, now I suppose we must tell Lottie”

 A loud happy chortle floated down from the clinics back door.

 “I already know, you two lollygaggers. Now, come on. Doc, nurse trainee, we have two new patients who need processing, and someone has to help me.”

[josselinkohl]

10 Year Angsty Reunion - DRAFT WIP Chapter 3

Previously: one, two

The journey was uneventful. Damen could feel Nikandros hovering near him. He wondered what Nikandros was worried was going to happen. That Damen was going to turn the procession around? Declare war on Vere? Lose his temper and yell at the servants?

The arrival at the festival, like much of the festival itself, was carefully choreographed. That was Laurent’s work, or at least one of the Veretian administrators. Damen didn’t care about the ceremony with which he was supposed to arrive, or that they both approach the final half-mile at the same time so there was no debating over who arrived first. It seemed silly to him that they delayed a morning a mile away from the site to stage the arrival so, but he spent the morning climbing trees with his children near the river and followed the ceremonial instructions.

Aratia was the best tree climber. Damen stayed in the low branches where he was confident they were thick enough to support his weight, but the others went higher. Euandros wasn’t big enough to make it up as high as his sisters, and Eradne made it half way up the tree before pulling a book from her pocket and continuing to read. Leon and Aratia went up further, but Leon was more timid than Aratia as the branches of the tree thinned out closer to the top, and she made it to the highest point alone.

“Very good climbing,” Damen told Aratia, while Nikandros yelled from the ground that they should all climb down carefully.

The only casualty of the climbing diversions was Euandros’s tunic, which caught on a twig as he hopped off the lowest branch and tore. Damen helped him redrape it around himself so that the tear wasn’t visible.

The arrival ceremony was overly long and formal. Damen and his children were arranged in a line with Damen in the center. Leon was on his left and Euandros was on his right. Damen could feel Euandros fidgeting next to him as the ceremony drew on.

Across from them, Laurent was alone. He didn’t have any children and there were no cadet branches of the Veretian royal house to join him.

Damen understood from the Veretian ambassador that the king’s childless state caused a great deal of anxiety in the kingdom, because the court did not know what to expect when the time came for succession. There was a nobleman in Kempt who claimed to be a distant cousin and was putting himself forward as a contender, but he was actually older than Laurent and also childless. Laurent seemed to favor a certain noblewoman in Arles, Lady Mathilde, who he had appointed to his council and entrusted with significant administration of the kingdom. There was a lot of hope in the court that the king would marry Lady Mathilde. The ambassador had paused before confiding to Damen that there had even been a coup at the court where some gentlemen began scheming that Lady Mathilde should have a child, and then the king would marry her out of pity, and at least then there would be an heir, even if it stunk of bastardy.

The ambassador then had waved his hands and said, “No offense to your highness or your children, of course, you know that Veretians feel differently about such things,” and Damen had simply nodded and let it go.

Damen avoided eye contact with Laurent at first, resting his eyes on Laurent’s embroidered collar or carefully scanning the line of the Veretian council two steps behind him. As the master of ceremonies droned on, Damen met Laurent’s eyes, and found Laurent gazing directly back at him coolly. Damen set his jaw and held Laurent’s gaze, watching until the master of ceremonies finally finished, and even then he let Laurent turn away first.

They were to greet each other after the introduction, and there had been some sort of special instruction on what Damen was to do, but he no longer remembered what it was. He offered his hand in a traditional Akielon greeting, lifting it and turning his palm up in an invitation.

Laurent might be wondering why Damen was not following the agreed upon lines, but he did not hesitate, and rested his hand delicately on top of Damen’s. His hand was cool. It didn’t seem as though they were actually touching, even though they were.

“Our brother of Akielos,” said Laurent. His voice was the same. It was an echo of the way he had spoken the same words long ago in a command pavilion at Fortaine. There was a similar chill to how he spoke now.

“Our brother of Vere,” said Damen, automatically. Damen was wiser, now, perhaps. If Laurent said that he had brought Damen a gift, Damen was going to decline without knowing what it was, political spectacle be damned.

When they had arranged their spectacle at Fortaine, Damen had brought along his own gift, the golden cuff tucked in a velvet bag, carefully reworked by a blacksmith to fit Laurent’s wrist. He had the same cuffs with him now, tucked in a velvet bag yet again. But it was different. They were not at the ready with one of his squires, but carefully tucked away in his trunk, with instructions to his squires specifically not to touch them. He wasn’t wearing one of them himself, and his wrists were conspicuously bare. Laurent’s wrists were covered by his jacket.

Laurent had left the cuff behind when he had left New Artes. Damen had continued wearing his for a while after Laurent’s departure, much to Nikandros’s dismay. After Aratia had been born, he had been playing with her in the gardens, and she had liked the way the light caught on the cuff, and Damen had been teasing her with it and only paying half-attention.

Jokaste came to relax with them in the gardens and had given his cuff a cool glance and had said, only, “You will have to explain it to her, one day.” Damen had had a blacksmith help him remove it that evening, and had tucked the opened pieces into the velvet sack where he kept Laurent’s cuff, and spoke of it no further. He could feel Jokaste’s eyes on his wrist the following morning when he came to fetch Aratia for breakfast, but she said nothing.

Laurent withdrew his hand and, still stone-faced, nodded at each of the princes and princesses, starting with Leon as the oldest, and then Aratia, Eradne, and Euandros. Each of them were solemn, and they nodded back politely without saying anything. Then, a horn blew, and the festival was officially begun, and they all made their way into the grounds to watch the opening ceremony and feast.

Royalty was seating in two pavilions at the front of the festival, one draped in Veretian colors and the other in Akielon. Servants came and and out of both, serving food and refilling goblets. Damen observed a Veretian servant pouring into Laurent’s cup at one point and Laurent was not drinking water.

Damen was kept busy throughout the feast by the children. Euandros decided he didn’t want to eat any fowl with bones and kept asking Leon and Damen to check his plate to ensure that none of the poultry he was served had any small bones hiding in it. Damen was more patient with this than Leon was, who scolded Euandros that he shouldn't be a baby and should just eat around the bones. There was an archery contest for children, and Aratia wanted to participate, so Damen left the dais for a bit to help her with her arm guards. She didn’t win, but she was gracious in congratulating the Veretian boy who did.

Leon and Eradne started talking about the Veretian words for various things at the festival, and when they exhausted Leon’s vocabulary they drew Damen into their conversation to help.

After the meal was finished, there was a wrestling competition. It was only Akielons participating, with the Veretians looking on curiously. Damen watched and pointed out various expert moves to Leon; the participants were quite skilled.

The matches were won by a wrestler Damen had seen before, one of Makedon’s younger sons named Lander. He had Makedon’s build and athletic inclination, but was somewhat cannier about strategy than Makedon himself. Damen raised his goblet in admiration at the conclusion of the match, and Lander bowed his head in honor.

Lander then approached the Akielon dais.

Damen groaned. “Lander, you know I’m too old for that.”

Lander snuck a grin up at a his king and then bowed his head against respectfully, going down on one knee. “Your highness, you would honor me?”

“I just ate,” Damen said.

“Father says one must always be ready to fight, even after eating,” Lander said slyly, and Damen left the dais grumbling that Makedon was going to be the death of him.

Damen won the first bout, quickly, using an ancient technique that he found many young wrestlers hadn’t studied, though he thought that if anyone trained their sons in the old moves it might have been Makedon.

“Best two of three,” Lander said, streaked with oil, and Damen was enjoying the noise of the crowd and the thrill of wrestling a truly talented opponent, so he agreed.

Lander won the second match, though Damen was pleased that it at least took him several minutes to do so, and Lander looked thrilled afterward.

The third match drew on just as long, and then Damen managed to get Lander in a headlock, and he was able to use his greater bulk as an advantage in that position, and Lander conceded.

They shook hands afterward, and they were both laughing as a servant handed them each towels to try to wipe off some of the extra oil. “Good fight,” Damen told Lander, and Lander went off to join his friends, who toasted him with mugs of ale, and Damen went back to the dais.

“Father, your hair has oil in it,” Eradne told him, and Damen told her very seriously that that happened sometimes when wrestling, and gestured for one of the servants to refill his goblet.

After the feast had concluded, and his children were sleeping in their tents, Damen retired to his own tent and tried to work on the oil left in his hair from the wrestling with a towel. It was hopeless; he would have to wash. He decided he would speak to his servants in the morning.

There was a noise, and he turned around.

Laurent stood in the doorway of his tent. The tent flap fell shut behind him, shutting out the moonlight. They were lit only by the brazier. Laurent was holding a wine bottle; Damen noted that the bottle was not full. Given how he had been drinking at the feast, it appeared that Laurent had successfully developed a tolerance.

Damen felt for a moment as though he ought to be holding a weapon for this encounter, and he relaxed his empty hand deliberately. He felt both anticipatory and relieved. Part of him had known he had come to this festival specifically for this moment, to talk to Laurent, to have it out with Laurent, to have the fight that they’d never managed to have ten years earlier when Laurent had simply left. Damen was much better at fighting than he was at dealing with Laurent’s dance of avoidance.

Laurent took another step into Damen’s tent. He swayed slightly as he stepped, but when he spoke his voice was crisp.

“In ten years, I haven’t been even remotely tempted to have sex with anyone, and then you show up and wrestle with your shirt off and--” Laurent drank from the bottle he was holding.

Damen took a step closer to him, annoyed. He had thought that they were finally going to talk about what had happened, not talk about sex. “I’m not going to have sex with you,” said Damen.

Laurent eyed Damen’s skirt. “I think you will.”

Laurent was right. Damen still hated that Laurent was always right.

Laurent took a step closer to Damen, looking up at him, and then Laurent reached for Damen’s skirt. Damen caught his arm and held his wrist warningly. Laurent made no attempt to free his wrist, but he leaned in with his body. For a moment Damen thought that he was angling for a kiss, but then Laurent’s mouth landed on Damen’s jaw, and he bit Damen, gently.

Damen made a warning sound in his throat and let go of Laurent’s wrist and put both of his hands on Laurent’s shoulders. Laurent went after his skirt yet again, and the anger within Damen changed, suddenly, thwarted in wanting to argue with Laurent finally after ten years, and he roughly pulled Laurent in even closer and Damen kissed him.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. Laurent still seemed to be in a biting mood, and it was as though Damen was trying to make his point from the argument with his body now, rather than with his words. Laurent managed to get his hand wrapped around Damen’s cock through his skirts, and Damen impatiently pushed Laurent down toward his bedroll, and then kneeled over him to follow.

Damen unwrapped his skirt. Laurent had managed to tangle it somehow when he had reached inside it, but Damen was still undressed before Laurent. Laurent wasn’t wearing a jacket, but he had ties on his shirt to loosen before he pulled it off over his head, and laces on his trousers.

Damen knelt over where Laurent was reclined on the bedroll and watched. Laurent met his gaze evenly as he removed his clothing. He pushed the clothes off of the bedroll and then relaxed into a lounging position again, his arousal obvious.

“I want to talk,” said Damen, aware that it was a ridiculous assertion when they were poised on the bed, hard and wanting.

“Your timing is as poor as ever,” said Laurent, and then more than wanting to talk, Damen wanted to shut him up, and he crawled up over Laurent and took his mouth in a kiss again.

They didn’t talk, during. They didn’t need to talk, because their bodies remembered how to move in sync. Whenever Damen became tempted to say something, Laurent bit him.

After their breath had slowed, Damen gentled. He ran a hand along Laurent’s arm. “You haven’t been training,” he observed. Laurent hadn’t the same musculature he had when he regularly practiced swordfighting.

“I haven’t had a reason,” said Laurent.

Damen sighed. “I suppose I’m glad you don’t hate me enough to be training to kill me any longer.”

Laurent sat up. “I don’t go after things I know are impossible.” He slithered out of Damen’s bedroll and pulled his trousers on.

Damen watched him dress for a long moment. Laurent moved to the entrance of the tent. “Running away,” said Damen. “I see you’re still good at that.”

Laurent turned and looked back at him in the darkness. His expression was cold and unreadable. Damen thought about apologizing and taking his comment back, but then Laurent was gone.

[winmance]

Help, I’m alive

Chapter 1

Beta by @readerwriterme​

Smoke. That’s the first thing he notices when his mind starts to come around.

He can’t place where he is or who he’s with. He’s probably working but maybe he isn’t; maybe the fire is in his own house? No, it can’t be; there’s a child’s voice somewhere.

A child. He needs to get to the child. He tries to walk but his body is too heavy and his mind is becoming dizzy. Someone calls his name. It’s Nikandros, he thinks, only he sounds more scared than he ever has.

Does he remember that time they were camping, and a snake came into their tent? They both started screaming so loud that Damen’s dad crawled out of his own tent completely naked, thinking something awful had happened. It took ten seconds for Damen and Nikandros’s tears to turn into laughter.

He should ask Nikandros if he remembers that. Not right now of course, because right now, he’s lying on the floor and can’t breathe correctly. Can’t breathe at all actually. He’s not aware of what’s happening around him anymore. Did he get the kid out before falling? He thinks he did. Maybe he didn’t. He doesn’t want to die for nothing.

That snake wasn’t even poisonous.

It’s time to sleep now.

“Patient 20. Male, thirty years old, firefighter. He was caught in a fire six months ago. We’ve put him in an artificial coma.”

The voice continues talking but Damen doesn’t understand everything. He thinks they’re talking about him, but they said that the patient had burns all over his back, his lungs had been torched, and his left leg is practically destroyed and obviously, that isn’t the case with him. He’s fine. Nothing was hurting, not really. Sure, he’s feeling a little dizzy but that’s about it.

He wants to tell the guy who’s talking but he can’t open his eyes. He can’t move his body either, and when he wants to frown he realizes he can’t move his face. He’s asleep. That must be it. He’s having a bad dream, nothing more.

He hears footsteps and a door closing. Is he alone now? He doesn’t want to be. He needs someone to talk to him, to notice him, anything that could prove to him that he isn’t dead yet.

“I’m Dr. Laurent De Vere. I’ll be taking care of you from here on out,” the man – doctor says. “Your previous doctor wanted to turn your machines off. He said there was nothing more we could do for you. I disagree so he gave me your case. Don’t think it was a gift, it wasn’t. They’re all waiting for me to make a mistake, but I won’t. I’ve never been wrong, and it won’t start now. So, if you can hear me, Damianos, which I doubt, know that I’m gonna save you no matter how long it takes.”

There’s footsteps and a door closing again. He isn’t alone. He isn’t dead yet.

  He’s not always awake. He doesn’t think so anyway. It’s impossible to tell when a day starts and when a day ends, or if his last memory is from an hour ago or a week ago. He hears his doctor’s voice, almost every time he’s awake. Sometimes he hears the nurses who are taking care of him too. Sometimes he even hears other doctors or other patients. He still hasn’t heard his brother, Jokase, or even Nikandros. He hopes his mind will let him be awake the next time they come.

  “Hello, Damianos,” Dr. De Vere says, as he often does. Damen is starting to notice a pattern: his doctor only talks to him when he’s alone. If other doctors or interns are there, he doesn’t acknowledge him, not like he does when it’s just the two of them.

 “Today I had three people telling me how nice the weather has been lately. Three people! Do they think I can’t tell that the weather had been good? Why do they need to say it?”

If Damen could answer, he would tell his doc that people just want to make small talk and that they’re not insulting his intelligence. He would probably smile while explaining it, amused by the fact that his super smart doctor is getting angry about something most people consider amicable.

“I’m sure you’re the type of guy who would say that the weather is good,” his doc mumbles.

He is.

“I’m gonna start a new treatment on your burns next week. It’s an expensive one so you better be fighting for your life because the whole hospital hates me because of you.” There’s a pause but Damen knows the conversation isn’t over. He’s starting to understand the way his doc likes to talk. “Well, let’s be honest, it’s not just because of you; they hated me before too.”

If he was awake, he would probably laugh and tell his doctor that yes, he is fighting for his life, and soon they both will be laughing together at all the doctors who said Damen was a lost cause.

  Nikandros had decided he wanted to be a firefighter after one of their friends brought his dad during “Present your parent’s job” day at school. The man had talked for almost an hour about the time he’d saved a whole family from a car on fire, not caring that he was putting his own life in danger. His coworkers had begged him to stop, but he had refused, claiming that if it was him in that car, they wouldn’t have stopped until they’d gotten him out of there. He’d gotten the five people in the car out and was sent off to the hospital to recover. One of the women he’d saved came to see him a few days later, then the next day too, and the day after that. Not only had he had saved five people that would have been dead otherwise, but he had gotten an impressive and cool scar on his right arm and found the love of his life.

Damen had decided he wanted to be a firefighter after he saw one rescuing a bunch of kittens who were stuck into a hole.

The firefighter ended up adopting all the kittens, claiming that they were his responsibility now. Every now and then, Damen would stop at his place to help give baby bottles to the kittens and play with them.

Their friend’s father had died one year later in a fire trying to rescue an old lady. It was later proven that she was dead before the fire began.

  “Teenagers are a fucking nightmare,” his doc says in greeting.

Damen mentally sighs in relief, a wave of happiness spreading through him. He hasn’t heard his doc for quite a while now, either because he wasn’t “awake” when he came or because his doc simply hadn’t come, he isn’t sure. Through the last one is unlikely; if he believes what the nurses said, his doc had been coming to see him every single day since he was transferred to his service.

“I had to go up to Nicaise’s high school because the little shit put ten bath bombs in the school’s pool while other kids were in it.”

Nicaise? Is he his son? He thought his doc was pretty young, but maybe he’d been wrong. Also, where did Nicaise find ten bath bombs?

“Nicaise is my nephew,” his doc says. “I’ve been raising him for a while now which probably explains why he’s turning into a little shit.”

He wants to protest that putting bath bombs in a pool full of people is pretty cool, but he’s not sure his doc will agree if he said so. Not that he can, anyway.

“It’s… hard, to raise a kid. My brother died seven years ago when Nicaise was only eight and since his mom had never been around, I took him with me. I’m not that much older than him; only ten years, which makes things even harder. How am I supposed to act like a dad to him when I could very well be his brother?” He sighs, “I just want Auguste to be proud of me. I promised him I would look after his son and I… I don’t think I’m doing a very good job.”

Damen doesn’t think that’s true. He doesn’t know Nicaise and he doesn’t really know his doc either, but the fact that his doc cares so much about this kid tells him that he loves him. Isn’t that what his brother would have wanted; for someone to love his child as much as he loved him?

“You’re back is healing really well. We’ve only been using the new treatment for three months, but I can already see the result. It’s really encouraging.”

Three months? Has it really been three months already? That means that he’s been in the hospital for nine months. Shouldn’t he be awake by now?

“I’ll come back to see you before leaving tonight.”

  Someone is in his room. It’s not his doc, he knows that. Laurent – he started calling him that not that long ago, what’s the point of being polite if no one can hear you? Laurent has a particular way of walking, graceful in a way that makes you think his feet barely touch the floor, that suits his personality just fine; but the person in his room right now is walking very loudly. He thinks it’s a man because of the way he breathes, heavily and angrily. He doesn’t like him at all. Where’s Laurent?

He hears someone else stepping into the room, a woman this time.

“Are you sure, Smith? De Vere is gonna throw a tantrum when he finds out.”

“Fuck De Vere! I’m tired of that bitch telling us all what to do and not to do. He’s been using all the money on this patient for nothing. It’s time to put an end to it.”

Damen never wanted to be more awake than right now. Who the fuck does this doctor think he is, insulting Laurent like that?

“You get away from him!” Laurent yells, stepping into the room. “He is my patient, I’m the one making decisions, not you!”

“It’s been a year. One whole year, and still nothing. Not a single movement. Nothing. Nada. His family agreed to have him taken off machines.”

Did they? No. Kastor wouldn’t let him die. He simply wouldn’t. He’s his big brother. They love each other. He wouldn’t let him die like that.

“Because you’ve told them there wasn’t anything more we could do, which isn’t true. Damianos is getting stronger. I can see it.”

“You can’t see a thing!”

He needs to move. He needs to prove to them that he isn’t dead. He needs to help Laurent. He doesn’t want to die yet. He’s too young and there are too many things he hasn’t done. He wants to know what Laurent looks like. He wants to thank him for all he’s done.

 “Yes, I can! Because unlike you, I’m good at my job.”

“You better watch your mouth boy!”

Laurent never left him, and he won’t leave him either.

He can move his fingers. Maybe not his whole hand, he knows that’s too much, but if Laurent would just hold his hand, he could move his fingers and prove those assholes wrong.

“He’s not brain dead. He’s a healthy man, a hero. I’m not gonna stop fighting now. I’ll continue until I decide there’s no chance left.”

“Then take him off his meds. Let him wake up,” the woman says.

“No. He’ll be in too much pain. His body isn’t ready yet.”

“It’s been a year. When is he gonna be ready?”

Do they realize he’s right in front of them? Do they care? He’s here! He’s right here and yet, they’re talking like he’s just a computer waiting to be turned off.

“That isn’t your call to make,” Laurent says. “nor is it your decision. I’m his doctor and unless the Chief tells me we need to cut his life support, I won’t. Now, it would be better for the two of you to leave this room before I call security.”

“Once you realize that you’ve been wrong,” the man starts, “don’t come crying to us because you’ve been fired.”

The door is closed and he hears Laurent coming closer to him. He wants to cry with frustration, to scream at the top of his lungs, to punch something, to see, he wants to see so fucking bad. Everything has been black for so long now. He needs to see.

“I believe in you,” Laurent says. “And I don’t- I know you can’t hear me, but I believe in you. So please know that I won’t let anyone hurt you. We’re a team now.”

He won’t let them hurt Laurent either.

  He dreams of the snake again, the same snake they later found out Kastor had put into their tent. This time though, instead of screaming, he gets down on his knees and holds his hand out for the snake to touch. The snake is scared at first, but slowly, it gets closer to Damen’s hand until they’re almost touching.

Then the snake turns into butterflies, hundreds of butterflies flying around Damen. They’re beautiful, full of life and color.

Had the snake always been that pretty?

   Food. It smells like food. Lasagna maybe? He’s not sure. Fuck, he can’t remember the last thing he ate before the fire. He’s sure it didn’t smell as good as this.

“Nicaise is staying with some friends tonight so I figured I could keep you company.”

Why would someone choose to stay with a dead body instead of enjoying a night alone? No one in their right minds. Still, he’s thrilled by the fact that Laurent chose to be with him.

“I’ve met your brother. In case you didn’t know, he’s an idiot.”

He knows that. He loves his brother to death, but even he can admit that he isn’t what one would call nice.

“His girlfriend isn’t any better. A real bitch. Guess they were meant to find each other, weren’t they?”

Kastor has a girlfriend. He didn’t before the fire. Then again, it’s been over a year. He can’t expect people to just stop living.

“He reminds of my uncle,” Laurent says, his voice dropping. His family is a sensitive subject. “He’s… my parents died, when I was seven. Car crash. I was with them when it happened. I was a mess after that. Who wouldn’t be? I was the only one who came out alive. I saw their dead bodies.

Anyway, Auguste and I were sent to live with our uncle. Everybody thought he was so generous, to take his two orphaned nephews with him, even more, when I started showing signs of PTSD. He sent Auguste away almost immediately. Put him in a boarding school so we could only see each other every so often.

Nights were awful. I would beg him to stay with me so he did.”

There’s an awful feeling growing in Damen’s stomach. He doesn’t want it to be true, doesn’t want to know that some sick asshole hurt Laurent like that. He doesn’t because there’s no way for him to express his anger right now.

“It lasted until I was fifteen. Then I told Auguste that I wanted to come and live with him. He said yes right away, didn’t wait for an explanation. He loved me, you know. Auguste loved me so much and I loved him right back.

“Uncle had stolen so many years from us. So many years where we could have been together, so we tried to make the most of it. We were waiting for uncle to try to get me back, but when I turned eighteen and he still hadn’t done anything, we thought it was over.

“Auguste died one week after I turned eighteen. Car crash. I was supposed to be in the car too, but Nicaise was sick so I told Auguste to enjoy his night out.

“My parents had a hospital. A whole hospital and a whole lot of money, too. It was our heritage but if we had both died, it would have been my uncle’s property and so would have Nicaise. I was already too old for my uncle’s liking.”

Laurent isn’t crying but his voice is shaking, and Damen wonders how many times he’s told this story. Never, probably. He’s the first one to hear it and he’ll take it to the grave with him, he promises that.

“I fought really hard to prove that I was worthy to keep Nicaise. Uncle said that I was unfit, just a spoiled child that didn’t deserve anything. I skipped a lot of class and he used that against me. Said that I was smart, but that I didn’t have any social skills, that I couldn’t give love to Nicaise.

I had zero friends, zero lovers, and zero support. They gave Nicaise the choice and he, of course, chose me. I was so relieved. I would have given all the money and the hospital away as long as it meant keeping Nicaise.

My uncle owns 20% of the hospital. It’s small, but enough that I can’t fire him. I left that hospital when I was twenty-two. I couldn’t deal with seeing him every day. It’s a shame; I really loved that hospital. We’re still fighting. He has a reputation, he’s an excellent surgeon, a respected man and I’m a twenty-five-year-old surgeon that has the reputation of being an iron cold bitch. I don’t even know why I don’t just give up on the hospital.”

It’s unfair. This entire story is unfair. Why did Laurent have to be the one to go? He didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing at all.

“Do that again,” Laurent says suddenly, short of breath.

Did someone else enter the room?

“Damianos, move your fingers again,” Laurent begs. “Please.”

Did he move his fingers? He doesn’t know how he did it. He didn’t even know he did it before Laurent said it!

He feels something. Someone is touching him, holding his hand. It’s Laurent. Laurent is holding his hand. He’s begging him to move and Damen would be damned if he let Laurent down.

He concentrates hard. The feeling of Laurent holding his hand is barely noticeable, but it’s there. How does one move his fingers? It’s something so natural, so easy, that he’s never really thought about it. It’s funny, how you only realize that you should have paid better attention to things once they’re gone.

“Call doctor Travis!” Laurent yells, probably to one of the nurses. Then he whispers to Damen only, “I knew you were still there. I knew it. You can’t hear me, Damianos, but I’m gonna help you. I’m gonna save you. I promise.”

I can hear you, he wants to say, and I’m gonna save you, too.

[philtaton]

Into You - A Captive Prince fanfiction

This is my gift for number 4, for the @capri-secretsanta​ event! My pairing of choice was my lovely princes and my prompt was the Ariana Grande song that I’m so happy I got introduced to. I wish you happy holidays!

You can also read the story on [Ao3]

Summary:  Damen is a bodyguard. His assignment: Torveld and his fiance Laurent. What's supposed to be a routine job breaks Damen's heart. The question is who will pick up the pieces.

"I have eyes on the hallway. The way to the elevator is free. Waiting for the all clear."

Damen squints his eyes, his arm stretched out to keep his clients from entering the hallway until the static sound of his communication line is interrupted by the rustling answers of his team members.

"Lobby and reception area. All clear." Makedon.

"Elevator One. All clear." Pallas.

"Elevator Two. All clear." Erasmus.

"I'm waiting in front of the building. I have eyes on the car. All clear." Nikandros.

Damen lowers his arm and glances back at his clients one last time. "Just like we discussed. Don't stall. Let's move."

It was a small group that sets into motion. Damen in the front, his focus on every movement. Behind him Laurent and Torveld with Aimeric and Lazar and, at the end of the line, Kastor to have their backs. Damen trusts his team with his life and that of his clients'. Why the hell Laurent insisted on having his own two bodyguards with him as well is beyond Damen but so far it hasn't been a problem. Only now they fall back for just a few seconds to check the very hallway Damen himself gave the all clear for.

"No stalling," Damen growls through gritted teeth and Aimeric gives him smug smile for it.

Then everything happens very fast.

Kastor himself pulls his gun, aiming at Laurent, Aimeric does the same, but with his gun held to Torveld's head. Both Lazar and Damen move into action, caught by surprise but not enough to forget their duty. The shot from Kastor's gun rings out the moment Damen pushes against his hand, the bullet hits the wall behind Laurent whose eyes widen and meet Damen's. For a moment there is genuine confusion and maybe even fear, then suddenly it's replaced by cold anger.

The second shot rings out, this one meant for Torveld who manages to twist from Aimeric's grasp. Damen screams no, but Laurent already throws himself at Aimeric, who shoots again, this time missing Laurent only by inches.

"We've been compromised," Damen yells into his earpiece, barely aware of the curses and commands Nikandros yells in response. He's too busy trying to disarm his brother who fights like a lion until Daman manages to slam his fist clean against his jaw and knock him out.

Damen doesn't hesitate. He leaves his brother moaning and barely conscious on the floor and kicks against Aimeric's hand to disarm him before he pulls Laurent up. Torveld's fiancé keeps trying to get to Aimeric and punch his lights out, but Damen holds him in a tight grasp while Torveld himself is dragged to his feet by Lazar who looks at Damen and awaits commands.

"Let's get them out of here."

They run. Torveld is too shocked and just follows Lazar quietly while Damen has to restrain Laurent every step until he's had enough and pins him against the wall.

Once more their eyes meet and Damen wants to pull back from the cold hatred. It only takes a moment though before he gets himself together and growls. "I will not risk your life for revenge, okay?"

"Fuck you," Laurent spits back. "They betrayed us!"

"I know!" Damen shouts and then deflates, even when his grip on Laurent doesn't ease up. Only his voice sounds softer – weaker – when he repeats it. "I know. But we have to get you two out of here. Just let me do my job… You two are too valuable."

Laurent scoffs and Damen can't even be mad at him for that. There is no doubt who's considered to be of value to this world. Torveld is the one who ended the war in his country, the one who is about to become President and sign treaties with both neighbor states, the one who can lead the whole continent into a stable future. Laurent? Laurent is just the brother of a King. He's a trophy. He knows it himself. The whole world knows it. And Damen knows it too.

"You don't even believe it yourself," Laurent says quietly and the fight drains out of him. "Let's go."

Damen steps back and almost wants to say something but Nik's voice asks for their status and reality hits him. He blinks slowly and motions towards the staircase as he pushes the button of his com. "We're coming."

---

Ten weeks. Ten weeks of asking himself why it all happened and what he could have done to prevent it. Maybe it would be different if Kastor hadn't gotten away. Like this, Damen can't ask his brother and find any answers. He only has the questions. Days of being tense and wondering if there is another betrayal right around the corner. Nights of startling awake, wondering if he missed anything.

Nothing about the situation is easy. But the remaining team stands united and somehow that gives Damen the strength to not just throw it all away and drink himself into blissful ignorance.

Rolling his shoulders, Damen slips into his suit jacket and nods at Torveld. "Ready for the evening, Sir?"

Torveld offers a smile that somehow manages to make him look desperate. "It's a celebration, right?A reason to be happy."

Damen frowns. "You're not?"

"I am… In a way," Torveld says with a shrug. "The treaty was important and now that it's signed we can finally start on the real work. But first… Champagne and handshakes. All evening. Let the fun begin."

It makes Damen chuckle and it might be the first time Torveld looks a bit more human. "Nik is waiting for you right outside. I will wait for your fiancé, Sir."

Torveld glances at the bathroom, the sound of the shower the only sound in the room. Laurent has a reputation for being fashionable late, even if it could potentially lead to a diplomatic disaster. Damen tries not to feel bad Torveld when he sighs and thanks Damen. "Don't tell him to hurry when he gets out of there. It will make him take his time."

Damen nods and watches Torveld leave, relaxing only when Nik's voice confirms that they safely made it into the ball room. Security is tight there and it's not just his own company but the intelligence service and the police as well. Damen can focus on Laurent who opens the bathroom door right that moment.

The dark towel around his hips makes his skin look even more pale and his hair is still damp. He looks bored when he plugs the hairdryer in. "Torveld couldn't wait for me, I suppose?"

Damen tries not to be annoyed. "This isn't just a party tonight. It's a symbol."

"Yes, sure," Laurent says and frowns before he picks up a small tin of lotion to tab it into the skin under his eyes. "World peace and a golden future… It all depends on brainless small talk and petite beauties laughing at jokes their husbands make. Well, petite beauties and me of course."

"You're beautiful as well," Damen says and then realizes what he just said. "I mean… You know…"

Laurent is unfazed but at least turns around to look at Damen. It's a very brief moment of attention and it makes Damen want to ask, What is it? What do you see?

But as quickly as it came, it's gone and the familiar boredom glazes Laurent's eyes over. "You can wait outside. I'll be right there."

---

When Laurent closes the door behind him, he looks stunning. The dark blue suit is classic, without anything special on first glance. But it fits perfectly, the cut showing off everything that is right with the young Prince and Damen can't help but think that maybe he was born and lived his life just so he could see Laurent in this suit. He stares for a moment longer than he should, then clears his throat. "Ready?"

"To drop some jaws?" Laurent says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Lead the way."

The guests start to mumble when Laurent enters the ballroom and they don't recognize how shallow his smile is as he makes his way across the room to Torveld to gently touch his shoulder and accept his glass of champagne. Damen keeps his eyes on both of them and he has to say that Laurent plays his part well. He is stunning, a revelation of elegance of beauty and everyone in the room, men and women alike, must think the same – nobody can touch this man.

But one can, and one does. Torveld is as smitten as the rest, his hand always roaming, from Laurent's arm to the small of his back, to his shoulder. He hangs on Laurent's lips whenever he talks and sometimes they share a look that shows how well they know each other. There is a certain intimacy there, but also a certain sadness. Maybe nobody else can see it, but Damen does. It's written into the way Torveld smiles as well as into the way Laurent keeps his shoulders straight.

Aside from this particular tension, the evening is easy. Security is high, but the people in the room are relaxed and the evening gets to the point where people get tipsy. Not drunk. They hardly ever get drunk on nights like this. But enough so people get bold. They flirt, with both Torveld and Laurent. Damen is more relieved than ever that he doesn't have to play this game when suddenly, Laurent excuses himself. And faster than Damen can look, he's gone.

Damen quickly goes after him and when he lost sight, he starts to run. Out of the room, down the heavy-carpeted hallway of the summer palace. He wants to call for backup when he spots the open glass door that leads out to the small balcony.

"You can't just run off like that," Damen says quietly as he approaches quietly. "You know that."

"I knew you'd follow anyways," Laurent replies somberly. "And like this at least I had a few seconds to myself."

The Prince seems… weary. Damen closes the balcony door behind him after he stepped outside. "Are you all right?"

"I want to go away," Laurent whispers. For a long moment he just stares out into the night, then he straightens up and looks at Damen before he lets out a laugh. "I don't even know why I told you that."

Damen shrugs. "I'm used to it. Bodyguards are like priests. The things I've heard…"

That makes Laurent squint and he cocks his head. "And you've never sold out anyone?"

"Why would I?" Damen asks honestly. "I'm proud of what I do, so I won't betray that for gossip."

"A noble hero." Laurent manages to make it sound not quite bitter. But it comes close. It frustrates Damen and he doesn't know what to reply. The silence takes over, but the tension dissolves and then it's just the quiet of the night mixed with the faraway sounds of the ballroom.

"I could take you away, you know?" It's an outrageous suggestion. Damen has no idea why he makes it. "We could say there was something alarming. Maybe a shady guy following you out on the balcony. And I had to get you out."

"And where would you take me? Out into the desert? To a shady motel where we drink cheap beer and watch awful TV?" There is amusement now. And a smile on Laurent's lips. A real smile.

Damen shrugs. "Why not? Except for the awful TV. We'd play cards."

Now Laurent laughs. And Damen grins. He wants to make that happen again. "Cards?"

"Well, yeah. I'm awesome at cards."

Laurent bites his lips, they look at each other. "How would you take me?"

"My motor cycle is at the back door. For a quick getaway."

A heartbeat or two. No more. And then Laurent nods. "Take me out of here."

--- It shouldn't be happening. It's crazy and wrong and it could ruin him. Who is Damen even kidding? It will ruin him. But it's also too late to turn back.

Laurent is clinging to him, Damen's leather jacket way too big on him and occasionally he will cry out, probably thinking Damen can't hear him because of the wind and the motor and the helmets. But Laurent is screaming his lungs out and Damen's heart beats faster because of it. Like watching a caged bird fly.

They really do aim for the desert. Seemingly endless roads and starlight like crystals woven into the pitch black night sky. They drive for an hour or two until Damen stops at a motel that looks like its best days have been behind it since the late 80s.

Laurent takes off his helmet and walks a few steps towards the shabby building. Damen expects a protest. Instead Laurent turns around and nods. "Perfect."

---

"Why did you want to leave?"

Such a simple question. And yet, it wipes Laurent's smile from his face. Damen has been trying to make it show on Laurent's face for such a long time and now it's simply gone.

"I'm not a person when I'm at those gala parties." Laurent takes another sip from his drink. It's not cheap beer, but cheap sparkling wine and Laurent has abandoned his red cup to drink straight from the bottle. "I feel like a pet."

"You're not a pet," Damen says quietly and there is this strand of hair that falls into Laurent's face. Damen tucks it behind his ear. Laurent freezes but lets it happen. "You're a person and if they treat you like that, they're all assholes."

The smile is back. Laurent drinks from the bottle again. He was right from the start, Damen thinks. It is perfect.

---

They return the next morning and Nikandros is fuming. Of course he is. And Torveld? Out of his mind from worry. Damen wants to explain, but Laurent steps forward.

"I panicked," he simply says. "The ordeal with the security breach… It suddenly all came up and I asked Damianos to take me out of the city. It suddenly felt like the only safe place."

Torveld sighs and he pulls Laurent into his arms. He's buying it. Nikandros doesn't.

---

It happens again. The next time it's a museum opening a week later and as always Laurent looks impeccable and makes sure to keep all of Torveld's acquaintances in good mood. This time he doesn't run, though. He excuses himself because of a headache. Everyone looks heartbroken, even Laurent, until Damen leads him out of the room and is about to get them a driver.

"No cars," Laurent says before Damen can get the message out. "Where's your bike? I want to rent a room again."

---

Sometimes rituals are born without anyone noticing it. Just because you keep doing something over and over again.

Sometimes love is the same. Just because someone makes you smile.

---

The first time they decide to sleep there instead of driving back, Damen doesn't like it. But he doesn't really like much about these trips. Except Laurent and the way he looks when he gets off the bike. Happy and carefree, smiling more often than not.

"They will be worried," Damen says for the tenth time. "Everyone. Torveld, my team… They'll be pissed."

"You're tired," Laurent says. "We're staying."

And so the decision is made. Damen tries not to feel grateful when he falls into bed. It's been one of those nights. One nightmare after the other. Even now the thought drives him crazy and makes him feel hot. He shakes off his jacket and closes his eyes. Then he feels a weight next to him on the bed.

When Damen looks up again, Laurent is staring at him. "Do your tattoos mean anything?"

He hesitates but then carefully starts to trace the tribal pattern that covers Damen's upper arm with his fingertips. Damen lets him.

"Some of them do," Damen says and tries not to think about his brother's name inked across his heart right next to his father's and mother's. "Most of them I just wanted because I thought they look cool."

Laurent nods. "They do. I want one too."

"Yeah?" Damen grins and props himself up on his elbows. "What do you want?"

Laurent thinks or a moment. "A kelpie."

"A kelpie?" Damen raises his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

Laurent shrugs. "Looks like a nice horse. Would probably eat you. I like that."

Damen starts to laugh and Laurent joins in. After a while, they forget why they're even laughing, they just do, until they're breathless and their stomachs hurt.

And then Laurent catches Damen by surprise.

"Thank you," he says with the kind of honesty that can't be taken for granted. "For taking me out of there sometimes. For letting me be a person for a while."

What Damen wants to say is, You're welcome.

Instead he says, "I want you to be."

They look at each other. Damen opens his mouth to say something. He doesn't. He just keeps his eyes locked with Laurent. He doesn't even breath. Not until Laurent leans in and their lips touch. It's soft and feather light.

They don't talk about it afterwards. Laurent just puts his head on Damen's chest and they both stare at the ceiling until they fall asleep.

---

After that, they don't just try to get away after parties, but on random days as well. Nikandros suspects something, but is smart enough not to say anything. Torveld might suspect something, but he just keeps smiling sadly. Laurent wouldn't stop anyways. That's clear to Damen at this point. He would either run with him or without him.

They always take the same room. They listen to music, create weird Spotify playlists and dance to them. They do play a lot of cards.

And they kiss. Sometimes that's all they do. And yet, they never talk about it. Not about what it means or what it could do to Laurent's life or Damen's career.

___

Weeks pass. Months.

Damen thinks that maybe he's falling in love.

---

"What do you mean, you've never been to an amusement park?"

Laurent runs his hands through Damen's hair as he straddles him on the worn down carpet of their room. "It means that it's very unprincely to do. So I never went."

"But… What?" Damen is shocked. It gets easier when Laurent kisses him. Still, as soon as their lips don't touch anymore, the shock is back. "You've never been on a roller coaster? Or on a Ferris wheel?"

"I've always wanted to be on one of those!" Laurent exclaims and his cheeks flush. "They look so amazing."

Damen wraps his arms around Laurent and their foreheads touch before he stretches his neck and pecks the corner of Laurent's lips. "I'm gonna take you some day."

"You mean when we move past this motel and just… drive into the sunset and never come back?"

Laurent is mocking him. Damen tries hard not to take it personal. There is something beyond the bitterness. Maybe sadness. Maybe longing.

"Would that be so bad?" Damen asks.

Something shifts. Laurent's shoulders slump and then he pushes himself up. "Can you take me back?"

"Laurent…" Damen is on his feet quickly and he reaches out, but Laurent looks up and suddenly he's that man from the gala party again. The one nobody can touch. Not even Damen.

"Please take me back."

---

After that, it's over.

There are glances, of course. And conversations. Damen is still Laurent's bodyguard after all and they work together closely. But Laurent doesn't ask for a way out anymore and Damen doesn't push.

Sometimes he thinks about it. About a love letter or a bunch of roses. Some romantic gesture that might win Laurent's heart.

But the truth is that this is a prince and Damen is a bodyguard. And what they had was a moment, nothing more. A spark.

Hope is a hard thing to kill, though. So Damen waits, patiently. He wonders if maybe some day Laurent will try to escape again, out on the balcony, then into the desert. But it never happens.

---

"Are you ready, love?"

Laurent turns towards the door. Torveld is on the other side, waiting for an answer. Two more months and they will be married. If nothing happens. Laurent closes his eyes. "I'll be right there in a few moments."

It's their dance by now. Torveld leaves with Nikandros, Laurent gets ready and follows with Damen. Nothing has changed in the past months. Only everything has changed the day before. Laurent can still hear the buzzing and he can still feel the pain. His shoulder is aching.

And he is nervous. Because in a way, this is how it started. With a towel wrapped around his hips and Torveld closing the door behind him.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Laurent finds Damen waiting. More often than not these days, his bodyguard has his eyes on the floor. Laurent needs him to look up now. He moves past him, to the drawer, and waits.

It doesn't take long until Damen lifts his eyes. Laurent catches him in the mirror. The frown, the confusion. "You got a tattoo?"

Laurent turns around, swallows hard. "Do you like it?"

Damen crosses the room and stares into the mirror where Laurent knows he can see the fresh ink. "It's a Ferris Wheel."

They're standing so close. "You said you'd take me some day."

Damen's frown deepens and he looks into Laurent's eyes, searching for answers. When he understands, his eyes widen. "Yes… I did."

"So…" Laurent pushes up on his toes and kisses Damen's jaw.  "Where is your bike?"

[nikanndros]

The Post-Canon Time Travel AU

[Prologue] [Act I: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5] [Act II: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5] [Act III: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4]

Act III, Part 5.

Laurent storms out of his rooms, leaving Damen alone, and towards the practice courts. He needs to calm down - and he’d love to knock someone around to do it. When Laurent gets there, he looks up and sees Nikandros, and thinks, Perfect, someone else I have hurt.

Nikandros looks over at his entrance, and does not look pleased. “Your highness,” he says, dipping his head but not too much. Some things really don’t change.

“Nikandros,” Laurent says. “Would you like to hit me?”

Confusion clouds his face. “Excuse me?”

Laurent gestures to the courts. He’d been planning on getting a sword, but sometimes being up close and physical with violence is better. “Wrestle with me.” He starts unlacing his undershirt. He’d forgotten to put his jacket back on.

Nikandros is still hesitating. This is their first proper interaction in this world, it’s no wonder he’s confused.

“Come on,” Laurent says. “Don’t pretend you haven’t thought of fighting me.”

“Keep your pants on,” Nikandros replies, bending down to take off his sandals.

-

Nik rolls off of Laurent and they both lie there, in the dirt, breathing heavily.

“You’re not awful,” Nikandros says, finally. Which is actually kind of gracious of him, considering he has just beat Laurent three times straight.

“You were the one teaching me,” Laurent replies.

“Ah,” Nikandros says. He turns his head to look at Laurent. “It truly is you then? From the other world.”

“Yes.”

Nikandros laughs. “Look at you,” he says. “You’re not even threatened by me. Damen tends to rose tint his relationships, so I had had some hope that you weren’t as wonderful and in love as he said.”

Laurent sighs. He supposes they should have had this conversation a lot earlier. In his old life, Laurent had been something like friends with Nikandros, and he finds that he does not want to ruin that potential in this life. “I’m not sorry,” he says. “But I do regret that you’ve been hurt, in this world.”

“Well,” Nikandros says, sitting up. “It helps to know that I’m much better at wrestling than you.”

Laurent shakes his head. “You taught me,” he tells him again. “My lack of prowess is only a comment on your teaching skills.”

“If that helps you sleep at night.”

Laurent sits up too, so that they are side by side, and it feels almost like comradery. “I do feel threatened by you, for what it’s worth,” Laurent admits. “I know Damen loves me, I have faith in that never changing. But you’re a good person. There are things that I’ve done that I don’t think you would ever do.”

“Like murder his brother?” Nik asks, with a raised eyebrow.

“Ah,” Laurent says. “No. We have that one in common, actually.”

“Really?”

“Damen didn’t tell you.”

Nikandros shrugs and looks away. “He hasn’t told me much about your old world. Except that you were both kings and your brother died at Marlas.”

“Yes,” Laurent agrees. He frowns at the reminder of Auguste. “And now it turns out I’m not a very good brother.” He doesn’t know why he admits this to Nik, except that he’s always been a trustworthy person, and also Laurent doesn’t really have anyone else to talk to right now. Damen is the only other person who knows everything, and sibling talk has long been an uncomfortable subject between them.

Nikandros gives Laurent an appraising look. “Asking me to fight you earlier was because you fought with your brother then?”

Laurent shrugs. “I don’t remember us ever fighting before Marlas.”

Nik scoffs. “I can guarantee that you fought.”

“No,” Laurent says.

“Siblings fight,” Nikandros insists. “I have a younger sister, who I love dearly, but when we were six I tried to give her away to the town witch.”

“Why?”

“She was high-pitched and bossy and she used to pull my hair.”

Laurent laughs. He can’t imagine it, because it’s impossible to imagine Nikandros as anything but a stoic adult. “I think our disagreement is worse than that.”

“Go talk to him, now that you’re calm,” Nikandros says.

Laurent nods, and stands up, collecting his undershirt. “Nikandros,” Laurent says, pulling his shirt on.

“Yes?”

“You’re not awful, either.”

-

Laurent walks to Auguste’s rooms without going back for his jacket. He thinks if he makes a detour he’s going to get caught up in overplanning or he’ll run into Damen and it’s best if he just gets this out of the way.

Jord is guarding the door, and he looks about as happy to see Laurent as usual, so not at all happy.

“Let me in,” Laurent says.

Jord frowns, and gives Laurent a suspicious once over. “Why?” he says.

“Really?” Laurent replies. “Look at me: it’s not like I have any weapons on me. The worst I can do at this point is yell.”

Jord knocks on the door and announces Laurent’s request to enter. There is a very long pause in which Laurent is concerned that he’s about to be sent away, and then Auguste calls for him to enter.

Auguste looks… well, he looks like he’s recently had a devastating fight with his only living relative. He’s sitting on his lounge, with a goblet of wine, and he looks at Laurent for only a moment before he’s clenching his jaw and looking away.

“Brother,” Laurent says, stepping into the room.

Auguste says, “I have to admit, I was really starting to believe you this time. You must be so proud.”

“Stop,” Laurent says. “Let’s talk about this. Calmly. Please.”

Auguste waves a hand, a sign for Laurent to go ahead.

“Firstly,” Laurent says. “I wanted to apologise for what I said to you. I know I tend to lash out verbally, when I’m upset and I’m trying to work on that, but it’s no excuse for… I shouldn’t have said that you were like uncle. You’re nothing like him. I know that, and I only said it because I knew it was what would hurt you the most.”

“On the contrary, what hurt me the most was finding out you blame me for everything after all.”

“I don’t,” Laurent says. He takes another step forward and then takes a seat next to Auguste. “I shouldn’t have said that either. What happened after Marlas was neither of our faults.”

“Fine,” Auguste says. He still won’t look at Laurent and so Laurent reaches out and takes his brother’s hand.

“Please look at me,” Laurent says. “I know that it must have been unsettling to walk in on me and Damianos, and I obviously know how it can be to get irrationally upset-”

Auguste pulls his hand away. “I’m not being irrational.”

“Auguste,” Laurent says. “We were just kissing. Consensually. And you tried to murder him.”

“No,” Auguste replies. “You were being intimate with our enemy, with the full knowledge that I did not approve.”

“I love you,” Laurent says. “And I respect you as my king. But I am an adult and it’s not entirely your choice who I want to let into my bed.”

“You’ve never shown an interest in anyone else before,” Auguste says.

“Damianos is not quite like anyone else.”

“That’s true. Damianos’s lover murdered his brother,” Auguste says. “I’m sure the idea appeals to you: finding your own lover to do your dirty work.”

“That,” Laurent begins, and then he closes his mouth. “You think I am seducing him so he’ll kill you for me.”

“You didn’t think of that? I’m not an idiot, I know you allying yourself with an enemy king is not a good sign.”

“No, I thought of it,” Laurent says. “I just didn’t think you would.” And it hurts to know that Auguste, who was always good-hearted and blind to the worst things in life, has had to adapt to be wary of betrayal. Laurent did this - he has hurt his brother so much that he now looks for hidden motives in things. He thinks Laurent is capable of murdering him.

“Prove me wrong,” Auguste replies. “End your dalliance with him.”

“I love him,” Laurent says.

“You barely know him,” Auguste says. “You’re truly going to put a few days of sneaking around with a foreigner, ahead of a lifetime as my brother?”

“No!” Laurent says. “It’s not like that.”  Except that it is. Laurent has gone about this entire situation wrong, in his eagerness to see Damen and fix everything as fast as possible. They shouldn’t have been romantically involved at all for this trip. Laurent should have suggested going back to Ios with the Akielons to fine-tune the alliance, or get a better understanding of the country, and then they could have had a long, drawn out courtship over there. Laurent succumbing to months of positive attention and affection is more believable than a fortnight of making love.

He wants to tell Auguste the truth, but he can’t. Vere doesn’t believe in magic and myths about caves. And Auguste already doesn’t trust Laurent - he has no reason to believe that Laurent was telling the truth and not just enacting another elaborate ploy. And he has no proof to make Auguste believe him, just a series of memories in his head that never happened here.

“I’m going to talk to Damianos,” Laurent says, slowly. “And then I’ll come back and we can talk this through properly.” He has to figure something out. He has to think. 

“Wonderful,” Auguste says, taking a long sip of wine. “Tell him to bring his sword this time.”

-

“I have a plan,” Laurent says, walking into Damen’s rooms.

“Hello lover,” Damen replies, stepping in from the balcony. “It’s nice to see you again too.”

Laurent sighs and moves into Damen’s space so that he can kiss him hello. “I’m sorry,” Laurent says, quietly against his mouth. “I know I was awful earlier.”

“You were emotional,” Damen says. “It’s okay.”

“You’re not going to like the plan.”

Damen takes a step back. He looks wary. He generally looks wary whenever Laurent announces a new plan. “Alright,” Damen says.

“We need to end our relationship,” Laurent says. “Temporarily. And I’m going to work on Auguste. It will take a while, you should probably go back to Ios for some time, but all I really need to do is convince him that I have no interest in betraying him.” He’ll give away his lands and work more on making sure that the people love their King more than they love their wayward Prince. He can figure that out. And then once Auguste understands that Laurent has changed, he will slowly reintroduce the idea of Laurent wanting a lover.

“How long will it take?” Damen asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe a couple of years. I know it’s not ideal, and it’s a risk, but it’s the easiest way to resolve this without my brother declaring war on you.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I know,” Laurent says. “And I know it’s selfish of me to ask you to wait for me. And if you want to take a lover while I’m away, I won’t stop you-”

“Will you stop trying to convince me to take a lover?” Damen says, frustrated.

He doesn’t want Damen to be with anyone else. He loves him like nothing else. Damen is the other half of Laurent’s soul and Laurent knows that he wouldn’t survive without Damen - not anymore, not with how connected they are. But he also knows that Damen is strong, and wonderful and brave - and that Damen does have his flaws, but he also has an inherent capacity for good that Laurent doesn’t.

Or maybe, all of this, the magic cave and the new world they’ve been thrust into, has just been here to teach Laurent a lesson. He is young and he is selfish and he is clinging desperately to his brother and Damen so tightly that he will drown them in the end. Perhaps the whole point of this is to show Laurent that he-

“I don’t deserve you,” Laurent says, realises, admits. “And you have done nothing bad enough to deserve someone like me.”

“Laurent,” Damen says, frowning, “where is this coming from?”

“In every life I am duplicitous,” Laurent says.“I have been plotting to kill my own brother for years.” And it is like every insecurity that Laurent has ever felt is suddenly in the forefront of his mind, and he can’t stop them from spilling out. Damen is a good person. Auguste is a good person. Laurent is just the common factor between them - he is not good, he tries to be, but sometimes he thinks he never had that capacity.

“That’s not you.” Damen looks thrown and concerned and hurt, because of course he does - Laurent is hurting him once again.

“It is!” Laurent says. “It is a version of me. And I am no better in the life you knew me. I had you lashed to the brink of death. I had you drugged and tried to have you raped-”

“That is in the past,” Damen cuts in, quickly, because he does not like thinking about these things. “And it was an attempt, it didn’t happen-”

“That doesn’t mean the intention wasn’t there!” Laurent replies. “And then Ancel actually did-”

“Why are we speaking of this?!”

“Because I’m trying to make you see sense! I am not worthy of you. I have done unforgivable things in this life and in the one before.”

“Stop,” Damen orders, but Laurent is past the point of listening.

“You could go and be with Nikandros, and learn to love him back. You will be happy like the other version of you was. And he will support you and kill for you and he won’t make you wait around for him.”

“Stop this!” Damen says. “I don’t care if you think you aren’t worthy of me. I don’t even care if it’s true - which it’s not. I want you. I love you. And you don’t get to presume to tell me where my line is. I have forgiven you. I have survived the worst parts of you and I have learnt to love you. It is my choice, not yours.”

“It’s the wrong choice!”

“Not to me.”

Laurent breathes out, he feels his shoulders slump in defeat. “I don’t have a plan,” he admits, quietly. “I don’t know if it’s possible for us to -- to overcome this. I cannot choose between you, I cannot force Auguste to trust us. I am stuck. Perhaps I am meant to give up you both.”

Damen shakes his head. “That’s it,” he says. “We’re doing this my way.”

“What?” Laurent says.

“Follow me,” Damen says, and then he’s pushing his way out of the door.