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It wasn’t easy to – resume.
There were touches Laurent had learnt to weather. Akielons were more physical than Veretians, in any matter, starting from greetings. As he had taken up the role of Damianos’ speaker-person during his recovery, at least with those guests who would welcome the words of a Veretian - as he was a Veretian here, before being a king -, Laurent had had to endure more touching from strangers in the last fortnight than in his entire life.
Damianos had many ideas of what a king should be. He had apparently found renewed wisdom in his injury, as if the sword, together with his gut, had breached also the secrets to good leadership. One of those professed qualities was smiling while doing all sorts of unpleasant things for their subjects’ approval.
Laurent had also never smiled so much in his lifetime. He could hardly remember ever smiling at all. The meeting with a particularly conversation-oriented kyros had threatened to leave him permanently paralysed. He hadn't received nearly enough sympathy from Damianos after the fact, as he had declared, like the idiot he was, that he liked Laurent's smile and wouldn't mind seeing it all the time.
Laurent had opted to take it as a sign of increasing well-being. Damianos' recovery proceeded steadily, as he was built like a bull. His stitches had teared only once, due to an excess of optimism on his part, and the incident had served to postpone indefinitely Laurent's journey back to Arles. It was a quite stupid but very flattering coincidence.
Everything had gone smoothly ever since, and soon Damianos' bedchamber could turn from a sickroom and makeshift reception hall back to what it was intended to be - a place of respite and repose.
Well. Not only repose.
There were other touches, too. Touches Laurent had grown so familiar with that their lack felt like ants milling about under his skin. Damianos' lips on his brow, on his mouth, on his neck whenever it stood uncovered. Damianos' arms around him. Damianos' hands everywhere, as he seemed worried Laurent might disappear and enjoyed having a literal grasp of him whenever they were close - and alone - enough.
Laurent's was a body-wide craving, and that made his own – deficiency more maddening.
For there were touches that had Laurent closing off like a mollusc in its shell.
Like now.
He tried to imagine how he might look from Damianos’ perspective, petrified between his legs. He could feel his limbs quivering like ground under hooves, but he couldn't move. He could only turn his head to the side, into the pillow, even though it helped little to escape Damianos' infuriatingly worried gaze.
"Maybe it'd be less painful if I left," said Damianos. "You could finish by yourself."
Laurent's chest constricted, as if he was being choked from the inside. Stupid, noble Damen, who thought Laurent could be better off with only his serpentine mind for company.
"I don't, I don't usually -"
He shook his head, his nose nuzzling into the bedding.
"I liked it." The words sprung out of his mouth of their own volition. "When you didn't know."
He didn't want to talk, he didn't, but the effort was too much. He could restrain himself for only a finite amount and he was exhausting it, his hands twisting, his toes curling with it.
A final shudder made him arch his back, then it went away. Every part of him felt so heavy, he marvelled how the bed could hold him up.
The words didn't stop.
"All those times I wanted to tell you," he said. "You're thinking back at them, it's plain on your face. Everything is always plain on you face, my honourable king."
"You did tell me." Damen was absurdly large, sitting in the middle of the bed, his chiton in disarray. His cock still hard. "There has only been one other person. I didn't want to see."
Laurent would have snorted, but he was not receiving enough air for it.
"You couldn't,” he said. He could hardly tell if his voice was carrying at all, or if, from the outside, he was just gasping, mute like a fish and equally hollow-eyed. “In your world, it was unconceivable.” His lashes fluttered shut. “I liked that world. I never wanted to leave it."
“If you think it changes –“
“Changes? It already has.” He pushed up on his elbows and met Damianos’ gaze. It was easier like this. To cut. To hurt. “If not, why aren’t you smiling indulgingly at me? You used to find my inexperience endearing. Not so much anymore, is it?”
It was ugly, and ugly was what it did to Damianos' face. How his jaw hardened, then slackened in defeat.
"Don't do this," said Damianos, softly, as if Laurent would leap and run otherwise. "Don't hide. I'll leave it alone. But don't hide."
Something was stuck in Laurent's throat. It was the only explanation. He couldn't breath. He didn't think he could move, but Damianos made to leave the bed, and Laurent couldn't -
"No, just -" he said. He was leaning forward, his hand clutching Damianos' wrist with desperate firmness, "- stay." His speech came out like drops from a broken faucet.
Damianos brought the foot he'd pressed on the floor back on the bed, jostling the entire frame. Laurent blamed on it - that he had to shift closer, to sit upright and look at Damianos right in his eyes.
He searched for something - anger, pity, impatience. Boredom. Distaste. There was none, no trace of anything he could name easily. It was a kind of look Laurent had unlearned to expect.
He was still holding Damianos' wrist.
"It's when you're," he said, "not close enough." The thing in his throat - it wouldn't go down, and it squeezed. "It's harder to fight it, to not," like notches on a belt around his neck, tightening half inch by half inch, "drift."
Damianos squinted his eyes at him. Laurent was not – he wasn't good at this, but he imagined that was what taking part in a silent conversation was like.
It's fine, was what he tried to convey. Maybe he just appeared mental. His cheeks were so hot they could melt wax.
It's fine. Keep going. I want this. I have no words for how much I want this.
Eventually, Damianos licked his lips in contemplation. "How close?" he asked. His voice was still rough, but with an impish edge to it.
He raised the arm in Laurent's grip. Laurent, powerless, followed the motion.
"This close?" Only Damianos’ arm, held to his chest, separated them. The position, with his fist against his shoulder, made his bicep swell to a degree that was almost disproportionate.
Laurent let out a breath, and wondered if Damen felt it against his mouth.
He released Damianos’ wrist in favour of the side of his neck, his fingertips resting beneath his curls, where the skin was hot and dampened with sweat. He was due for a haircut. It wouldn’t do for a king to look like a brown poodle.
He didn’t have time to vocalise that thought. Damianos cut him off. His arms, more specifically, those ridiculous biceps, as they lifted him with what Damen probably considered grace but was just showing off.
He was smiling that smile that had Laurent torn between taunting and helplessness.
Damianos set him down in his lap and embraced him. He was everywhere, so much that Laurent had trouble remembering that something existed outside this room. Maybe nothing did. Maybe this truly was just a delirium of his shattered mind. It felt like it, when people called him King, and asked, tentatively, how the other King was doing.
With his deep, vibrant voice, Damianos said, “Or this close?”
The sound reverberated in Laurent’s ribcage, a happiness so pure it threatened to bruise.
He stirred in Damianos’ lap with intent and found him soft but attentive. Damianos, though more experienced and devoid of his – issues, was never patronising. Yet, when he failed to suppress a gasp, it felt good to be back on a more equal footing.
“Almost,” said Laurent. He brought the pad of his thumb to Damianos’ upper lip and traced it. Damianos touched it with a flick of his tongue. His eyes were hooded, dark and half closed, and he looked hungry, ready to pounce.
Damianos’ reactions were always so spontaneous, it was impossible not to be flattered. What were they saying? It was terribly distracting.
The kiss was the product of a synchronous motion. Kissing was uncomplicated. Damianos made all physical things seem uncomplicated, all those things Laurent had strenuously trained to enhance or repress. But this, nothing could taint this, for there was no precedent at all in Laurent’s experience. It was new, unadulterated and so overwhelming it required every part of Laurent – mind and body alike – to commit to it.
Their mouths didn’t dislodge when he went up to his knees, the inside of his thighs pressed to Damen’s hips. Damen followed him move for move, his overlarge hands roaming until, finally satisfied, they settled around him in a way that helped press their hardening cocks together. Convenient. And unfair, as Damianos was still fully dressed.
He leant back, using Damianos’ shoulders for leverage. Damianos, his breathing laboured, looked up at him with a ridiculous pleading expression, red shiny lips curved in a pout.
With a palm open in the middle of his chest, Laurent pushed him down on his back.
Damianos let himself fall with no resistance.
Laurent said, “Take off your clothes.”
“I would,” said Damianos, warm and grinning. “But you happen to be sitting on them.”
Laurent reached for the edge of the chiton and tugged, careful that the fabric, sliding up, caressed as much of Damen’s skin as possible. It made Damianos trade his smirk for a whimper.
With Damianos only half cooperating, the process wasn’t as smooth as it was when Damianos did it himself – a quick pull on the lion pin at the shoulder and that was it. The heavy white cotton resisted, and got tangled, and there was nowhere to simply unlace it. Laurent’s clothes closed and opened. It was practical. Damen would never get to complain again.
“Do you need a hand?” asked Damianos, but he didn’t actually do anything in that sense. He remained with his body firmly on the mattress, expression gloating and cock, now free, fully roused and leaking on his stomach.
Laurent abandoned the chiton, now no more than a pile of bunched white cloth, and took hold of Damianos’ cock instead.
“No,” said Laurent. Damen buckled his hips against him, once, then Laurent let go. He lifted his hand and wriggled his fingers in the air. “Do you?”
Damianos let out a guttural sound that may have been an Akielon word or simply an Akielon demonstration of distress. He took the chiton off with fast, economical movements, smooth enough that Laurent just had to wait, steady on his lap. In a moment, he was naked.
He looked as beautiful as he always did, with the sculpted chest and the sharp vees of his hips. The scar, in the middle of it, was brutal. Both of them were, both of them from the same owner.
But Laurent couldn’t judge. The front belonged to Kastor. The back belonged to him.
Paschal had deemed the wound healed, but the skin around it still seemed tender, dotted where the thread had gone through.
Laurent rested his thumb at its end. He’d never touched it before. He almost stopped, like he had to ask permission, but Damianos didn’t ask for permission. He was respectful of his boundaries, but he had no qualm in reaching as far as Laurent would allow him. He acted with the understanding that Laurent would say no if he was displeased.
It was a hard thing to think about, and an easy one to do in practice.
The muscles shivered beneath his finger. It could have been Damianos breathing. He didn’t protest, anyway.
Laurent didn’t ask if it hurt. Wounds hurt. They pulled, and itched, even when they were healed. His shoulder had no lasting damage, but it would never feel the same again. Wasn’t that a lasting damage too, though, the feeling?
“Does it make me less attractive?” said Damianos, lying with his hand in his curls.
“Mh,” hummed Laurent. Damianos’ skin was scalding hot. “It’s compensated by the crown on your head.”
Damianos said, “You have a crown of your own.”
“Yes. One I should go collect at some point.”
Laurent voiced it as an idle thought, though it wasn’t. The crown that awaited him in Arles was an extravagant gallimaufry of gemstones, pearls and heavy gold that probably weighted more than his brain did. Not something he wished to have resting on his head.
But he was the King, and Arles awaited him. He could only impart his rulings with a three-day delay for so long.
“We need to discuss that too,” said Damianos. He sat up with no help from his hands, and Laurent had the delight of seeing what it did to the grid of muscles on his abdomen.
Laurent loosely circled his neck. He wasn’t in the mood for discussions. He was hard. Damianos, underneath him, was hard. And no one was doing anything about it.
“I thought we were having sex,” he said.
Damianos laughed, without malice. “We were. Now we’re talking.” The corners of his eyes were crinkled. “In a bit, if you want, we’ll go back to having sex.”
He tilted his head forward, and their lips met. Briefly, like a physical punctuation mark.
“There are no rules, Laurent.” So little space was between them that Laurent couldn’t tell if the puffs of breath he felt on his mouth were Damen’s or his. “Whatever you like.”
“Everything has rules,” said Laurent, who enjoyed being difficult. “Whatever I like. That is a rule.”
Damianos, who enjoyed Laurent being difficult, smiled and kissed him.
“Rule number one,” he said. He leant closer – “You like,” enough for their mouths to touch - “being kissed.”
“It’s tolerable,” Laurent acquiesced, and pressed against Damianos’ lips until he could pry them open with his tongue.
Laurent’s mind blanked, which alarmed him, which had him working deliberately to suppress said alarm. In the middle of it, Damen let out a noise like a low growl. Laurent’s mind blanked again, this time for good. It was a talent of Damen’s.
The kiss required dedication. He had to do things with his hands, and with his tongue, and with his hips, and he had to lead, because Damianos took pleasure in following Laurent’s pleasure.
As he caught his breath, Damianos said, “Two.”
Laurent kept kissing his jaw, a line upward until he reached the flashy part of Damen’s ear. Number one was good. Number one was great. They should stick to number one.
He felt Damianos’ chuckle against his neck.
“You like,” Damianos continued, “being held.” His voice was a bit shaky from the attention Laurent’s teeth were paying to his ear.
Laurent said, “I can withstand it.”
He lay down on the bed and brought Damianos with him, to rest between his parted legs. It involved a significant amount of friction. What had been indolent and cottony was now charged. Burning.
But Damianos wasn’t moving. He was caressing Laurent’s sides, and he was just – holding.
Laurent felt himself leak.
“Three,” said Damianos, softly, indulgently. The idiot. How could he still be talking? Laurent wished for him to never stop talking.
Damianos’ hand slid down, across his stomach and on the jut of his hipbone, then the crease of his thigh.
Laurent tensed. The muscles of his legs clenched like a door being locked, and he had to work to release them, one by one. Damianos was thumbing where the white skin faded beneath a patch of blood hair. It helped.
He looked up at Damen. His stupid poodle hair was getting in front of his eyes. Laurent had to brush some curls away, though he was under no delusion that they would stay how he was arranging them. He cupped Damen’s cheeks, flushed and warm, and felt Damen’s grip tighten on his hips.
One of his legs slipped. It fell, bonelessly, straight on the mattress.
“You like,” said Damianos, but he was cautious this time, like the prelude to a question. “Being touched.”
His palm was wide on his flank, his fingertips a hair’s breadth away from Laurent’s cock.
Laurent had to sort through all the ways it could end badly - it was what he did -, but he came out empty handed.
He could nod, and let go, and come.
Or he could deny himself, again. And they would try, again, and there would be a next time, and a next, and a next. It had been the end on the world half an hour ago, and here they were now.
He found himself trusting Damianos with a certainty that went beyond any logic, and yet, it had never failed him.
“Yes,” Laurent said, and Damen took him in his hand.