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They were too loud, these Akielon halls. Despite the click of boot heels on polished stone in Vere, every respectable Veretian knew how to be light of step, especially near the royal quarters. But these Akielons with their leather sandals slapping against marble, incessantly at all hours, an echoing cacophony that never ceased made Laurent long for the quietude of his home country. To a point.
Sometimes his memory loved reminding him what else occurred in the quiet of Vere’s castles. That keen ears had surely heard, or at least suspected, the extent of Uncle’s foulness, and had done nothing.
No, none of that now. Damen was here.
Damen was speaking, asking him a question that Laurent half-heard.
“Yes, we’ll have time to fit in your little—” Laurent waved a hand behind him “—Akielon tradition.”
He hadn’t slept well. Laurent’s sleeping habits, already atrocious, always devolved further during anticipation of travel. They only had a few weeks left here in Ios and Laurent looked down the list of tasks left. He reached his arms above his head, letting them drop quickly. A futile attempt to find relief from the hunched over writing and reading position at his desk.
“Fit it in?” came Damen’s voice after a pause in the rustling of fabric. Laurent could picture him pinning his chiton, standing in front of the looking glass all kingly and impressive.
“Mmm.”
Laurent crossed off the builders’ guild meeting. That could be reassigned to Nikandros.
“My ‘little Akielon tradition’?” Damen sounded closer now.
“Mmm.”
If they took the market visitation off the schedule, they would have more time for—
“Are you…do you even want to do it?” asked Damen, now right behind Laurent.
“Do what?”
“The rites? The rites you agreed to take last night?”
“Yes, fine,” said Laurent, terse, and sealed another set of orders for the household staff.
Silence was not a virtue of Damen’s. Even if he did not speak, he could somehow breathe in a way that imparted all the giant emotions welling within his formidable chest.
“Now what?” Laurent called, raising his head from his work. He could feel Damen’s looming presence at his back.
“It is only…I thought you meant it. When you said yes.”
The man had a knack for infusing hurt into his voice when he felt slighted. Something he’d deny until his last breath, but the palpable vehemence with which Damen laced his every reaction seemed an indomitable habit.
Laurent sighed and turned to face him. “Damen, I mean everything I say. Especially as I am taking precious time out of my work to ensure our unification ceremony is properly staffed and supplied to cater to your ego. So, by all means take whatever time you need to prepare for this frivolity before we leave for Marlas.”
“Frivolity.”
“Please, do keep repeating my own words back to me, it always makes for such thrilling conversation.”
Damen left then, muttering under his breath and Laurent was fairly confident he heard the words “training” and “Nikandros.”
Good, let those two occupy each other so as to minimize their tedious interference. Laurent expected some physical exertion would cure Damen of his sudden turn to sulkiness. A few hours up and down the training room and no doubt Damen would return shining with sweat and his worries shed from those overly broad shoulders.
Yet Damen did not come back from training with a carefree smile, a jaunt in his step after the joys of physical exertion. His features stayed clouded, his brow preoccupied, and when he did speak to Laurent, it was with a distant, careful tone.
Though he held Laurent in their bed during the nights, greeted him in the morning with kisses to his shoulder, Damen’s usual buoyant, overflowing affection had yet to resume.
Laurent could put this dour mood from his mind with all the concerns of ruling during the day, but the very second he had any sort of free time, Damen’s unsmiling face filled his mind. As days passed and Laurent waited for the mood to shift, to correct, his lover had yet to revert to his usual good-humored manner. He pouted, Damen, even if he didn’t think he did. Laurent saw much less of the dimple and more of the furrow between his thick eyebrows.
The guilt crept in on the third day. It ambushed Laurent when he least expected it, exhaustion making him an easy target for such melancholy. The doubts whispered to him, whispered about his inadequacies in pleasing the mighty King of Akielos; snickered about Laurent’s clear deficiencies as a lover, as a caring partner. For what kind of man could cause Damen to put on a poor attempt at a brave face whenever Laurent looked his way?
That frown. Laurent put that there. Laurent had (accidentally, at least, this time) caused him distress.
Damen, who had stood in front of a hostile crowd and declared himself proud to have been Laurent’s lover. Who had staked a public claim and shouted about Laurent’s goodness, his worthiness as a man, as a leader; defended Laurent so vociferously, in a way no one ever had before.
Both of them had given up much in this unification process. Laurent held the physical evidence of these sacrifices each day in his hand. With each brush of ink as he signed his name and royal title to decree after decree, Laurent knew that he and Damen had achieved something so precious, so important to protect.
It was a careful destruction: dismantling the damage done by his uncle’s court, rooting out Kastor’s supporters, laying the foundation for abolishing the slave practices, bringing Vask into the fold, appeasing Patras, sending envoys to Kempt; a delicate diplomacy that left little room for error.
Anxiety bloomed within Laurent. That even after daring to feel secure in Damen’s affections and trust, that he could still drive the man away with his abrasive personality. And though Laurent knew he’d been the one to cause strife between them, it was Damen who held him all the tighter in the night, as if Laurent would disappear come morning.
A loud slapping of leather sandals announced the arrival of the Kyros of Ios. Nikandros blew by guards and royal protocol to confront Laurent in his private study. Laurent had moved here for his daily correspondence; the royal chambers he shared with Damen and all his angst-ridden sighs only fed Laurent’s shame and clouded his thoughts.
But as awful as Laurent felt now, as much as he wanted to punish himself for whatever offense he had caused Damen, he refused to be cowed by the likes of Nikandros.
Nikandros did not bow, did not kneel, did not offer any sign of obeisance to Laurent.
He merely stood in front of Laurent, breathing hard, and said, “Whatever you did to him, fix it. Now.”
Red-faced, half-dressed, and dripping in sweat, Nikandros appeared a man at the end of his physical, mental, and emotional limit. He had a cut above one eyebrow and fresh bruises dotting one bare shoulder.
Laurent leaned back in his chair, surveyed Nikandros down his nose. “I beg your pardon, kyros?”
Nikandros did not heed the warning in Laurent’s voice and carried on. “I cannot be his sparring partner in these conditions. If you mean for me to die, just order an execution. It would be far less drawn out.”
Laurent scowled. “I do not know what has thrown him into melancholy.”
“It can only be you,” said Nikandros, which under normal circumstances would cause Laurent to threaten all sorts of violence, but that was, apparently, the other man’s goal and Laurent would hate to acquiesce to him in any way.
“Perhaps I made light of that ceremony he proposed, but I did agree, so I’ve no idea what’s meant to be bothering him.”
Nikandros perked up, like a hunting dog scenting its prey. “What ceremony?”
“Revenant Rites, I believe they are called. There is no information on them in any of your texts here.”
Nikandros paled and hid his face in his hands. “I do not…I do not have the strength for this. I would like to resign as kyros and throw myself into the sea. Remember me fondly.”
“I reject your resignation.”
Nikandros sat himself on the nearest settee without so much as a by-your-leave. “It is the most sacred, solemn ceremony in all of Akielon tradition. It is more meaningful than marriage, than,” his eyes flicked down to Laurent’s gold wrist cuff, “Fuck me, than a coronation.”
Something awful and bright flared to life within Laurent’s chest and with effort, he subdued it.
“Oh, well that clarifies everything for me, thank you.”
“I cannot believe he asked this of you,” Nikandros fumed. “On second thought, I can, the besotted idiot. And you…you were dismissive about it? No wonder he’s acting like you’ve stabbed him.”
“I’ve stabbed all the Akielons I wanted, I’m quite done with that vice. Though I am happy to make an exception for you.”
“Please. Your Majesty. Tell him you do not wish to go through with the ceremony. Put him and by extension me, out of misery.”
Nikandros was clearly in a desperate state if he would willingly address Laurent by his title and resort to begging. A few intriguing scenarios entered Laurent’s mind which involved Nikandros suffering further verbal indignities via Laurent, but he tamped down the urge.
“Explain this ceremony Damen wants, he did not impart the significance well. Surely there is no higher commitment than us uniting our kingdoms and ruling together?”
Nikandros ran a hand through his beard. “I am unsure how to translate this custom since there is no Veretian equivalent. Damen wants to pledge himself to you in death.”
Nikandros had reverted to an Akielon term for the last word.
“Death?” Laurent asked, in Veretian.
“Yes. He is asking that in any sort of afterlife that you love him there, too. That your love transcends your mortal forms and travels with you into either the next life, or death.”
Laurent took that information in stride, turning it over in his mind. Growing up, he’d sought to learn everything he could about Akielos—fighting style, court politics, battle strategy, succession laws—with revenge in mind. Then when Damen overturned all of that, Laurent’s attention shifted to studying the culture; the people he would co-rule, their customs and traditions.
It briefly delighted Laurent now to discover something heretofore unknown about this country he’d once hated, to once more reclassify his understanding of his former enemy. But then, the full weight of Nikandros’ explanation threatened to overtake all his senses. For when he’d said Damen was negligent in relaying the gravity of such vows, Laurent had undersold it.
Damen wanted…? Damen wanted him now, yes, of course. Laurent’s rational mind knew Damen took pleasure in Laurent’s looks, in his physical beauty. On his better days, Laurent knew that they’d come into a hard-earned trust, a bond that would be difficult to break forged between them that went far beyond mere lovers.
These rites sounded grave. Indelible. Far-reaching and mystical and beyond the bounds of anything that could and should be on offer for Laurent.
“What are the ceremonial obligations?" Laurent asked in an attempt to quell his internal panic.
“All I know is they are conducted completely in the dark. No one witnesses the ceremony. No one but those who have spoken the rites knows what they are. It is our last true oral tradition in Akielos.”
Laurent reached an absent-minded hand for the bowl on his desk, the one perpetually filled with oranges. He slowly peeled one.
“Who performs the ceremony?”
“It may only be performed by those who have completed it themselves. King Theomedes only blessed two during his entire reign.”
“Could you find one of these couples and make the arrangements?”
“The…the arrangements, your Majesty?”
“For the Revenant Rites I will be taking with Damen.”
“You leave for Marlas in one week.”
“Yes, I am aware of our schedule and the passage of time.”
Nikandros’ mouth opened and closed several times. Laurent wondered which Akielon epithets the kyros wanted to hurl at him.
Eventually, Nikandros groaned and shook his head. “You are the luckiest…my aunt and uncle still reside here in Ios. They were one of the couples.”
“Please request their presence here as soon as they are able. You also have to teach me ancient Akielon, I presume.”
“I will send you texts for your own perusal, your Majesty, and a tutor if you prefer. I am no language scholar.”
“Thank you kyros, you are dismissed so you may complete this task.” Laurent coupled this statement with a shooing motion.
Laurent did not have to look up to know that Nikandros scowled as he made a short bow and took his leave. He at least saved any derogatory muttering until he was out of earshot, which was an improvement in their tentative accord.
Laurent then abandoned the correspondence on the desk. He tossed the orange from hand to hand, eyes unfocused on the maps hung along the stone walls.
Of all the places in the palace of Ios, Laurent’s private study was the most Veretian. He retreated here when the wide, open halls; the looming pillars; the airy balconies and uncovered windows allowed too many other things in besides the sunlight and crisp sea breeze. When he wanted to close himself in and temporarily block out the hustle and bustle of the city below, the blossoms permeating the air, when he wanted to pretend he was in his palace in Arles and if he so chose, he could wander down the hall to another room and inquire if Auguste had any advice for him.
None of that now.
Laurent pushed his way out of his dimly lit chambers into the stark whites of the marble halls. He moved with an easy manner through the palace now, accustomed to the servants’ behaviors, the familiar faces that resided and aided them here. He took care to remember their names, to greet them when appropriate, to present a commanding figure but one who was not as frigid as they had been led to believe.
He wore chitons when they stayed here. For practical purposes (the heat would see him wilted one of these days) but also to ingratiate himself with observance of customs, if his personality could not do the job for him.
Besides, chitons had the extra benefit of driving Damen to distraction, which had its own perks.
Laurent found Damen within their private quarters, fresh from the baths after (allegedly) abusing their host in the training arena, but appearing no less relaxed for these normally refreshing activities.
Now that Laurent knew the full extent of Damen’s melancholy, it hurt all the more to see it in his movements. Only half his mouth turned up at the sight of Laurent, a delicate gesture, as if he were too afraid to show any more hope than that.
“I have time this afternoon if you wish for me to consult the trade route map again,” Damen said by way of greeting. “Let me take that on, at least, I know the kyroi have all had rather contentious comments about the selected roads and I—”
“No. That can wait.”
Damen’s face fell. “Oh. Can I be of use in some other capacity? You have taken on much and we do not have long before—”
“These Revenant Rites. Tell me of their origin. I could not find much in your library.”
Damen reeled back as if from a blow. He searched Laurent’s face carefully, as if looking for the trick, the cruelty.
“You would not find any text there. It is an oral tradition,” Damen said in a hesitant tone that Laurent hated. They should be past this by now, the two of them, long past second-guessing malice hidden in words, sniffing out an intended hurt.
“Nikandros said they are conducted completely in the dark,” continued Laurent. “That they…they are a symbolic pledge, between two people, to have their love endure in death.”
Laurent used the Akielon term for death as Nikandros had done, and now Damen’s smile rivaled the sun.
“Yes. It is…esoteric, as traditions go. I’d honestly forgotten about their existence until the feast last week. There was a line in the poem I requested…it had been so long since I’d heard it sung, and—”
“The Tragedy of Nephele.”
Damen froze again, struck dumb by Laurent’s words. So, Laurent cleared his throat and recited:
“And though her love remained,
on earth for many mortal days,
the vows spoken true and soft,
would be realized in death,
the revenants’ rites fulfilled.”
Silence settled, Damen at a loss for words, gazing at Laurent with rapt wonder. Laurent did not quail under such a look, though it was a near thing. Every pulse of Damen’s heart, every breath pushing past his lips, felt entwined with Laurent’s own. The palpable connection that Laurent had resented once, tried to deny existed at all, enveloped them now.
It was an anguish tinged with pleasure to be cherished without a physical embrace, to ache for him at a distance, even in close proximity.
This was Laurent’s only tactic, only defense, against the constant tide within him, to voice adoration without having to speak it plainly. Yet Damen recognized it, every time, and every time it appeared to knock him flat. This giant man taken down by a correctly interpreted gesture or remark.
Damen’s voice, when he spoke next, was a low rasp, hoarse with all he felt.
“I am not one who puts much faith in destiny. The way our paths crossed…the way our fates played out…there was too much violence and pain involved to get us here. And I have regrets, I do, for how. Though I know it’s symbolic, it is a rare occurrence. But then…so are we.”
“And you would wish this for us?” Laurent kept his tone flat and neutral.
Damen saw right through him.
“When you speak to me of…of your brother. When you talk of how we could have been, in a different time, a different world. I want that, Laurent. But here…here I cannot go back and give that to you, much as I would like to, more than anything. I cannot erase what has been done to you. What I have done to you. But this…if there is even the slimmest chance that in some other life I could court you properly, Auguste at your side…then I am taking it.”
Laurent stepped to him then, put his hands on his shoulders, and pressed their lips together, once.
The sentiment of this man. Too much, at times, for Laurent to comprehend, to withstand.
Direct it elsewhere, Laurent wanted to plead. I am wholly unprepared for this onslaught.
It made him happy. It made him vulnerable.
Happily vulnerable.
Vulnerably happy.
Hard to distinguish between anything at all when Laurent felt consumed.
He’d had cause to think of death often in his young life. It had come close to beckoning Laurent beyond the pale on more than one occasion. His uncle’s assassins. At the mercy of an Akielon soldier. In the cell with Govart. During the hours-long farce of a trial by his own council.
The thought of his own death had never been pleasant. Not since he’d been intimately introduced to the concept when his mother died, then Auguste, then his father in cruel, rapid succession.
Perhaps the closest he’d gotten to a positive association with his death was in the relief of it. Laurent could be at peace, secure in the knowledge that Damen would not have rested until he’d avenged Laurent, beaten his uncle, dethroned Kastor, righted every wrong.
Death pushed to the forefront as Laurent stood outside a polished, ornate door. He pressed a hand to the cool stone and hesitated. An unknown, unforeseen joy awaited him on the other side.
Auguste entered his mind, as he was wont to do. Would he resent Laurent this happiness? Would he be proud? Would he look upon him, horrified, and see a stranger?
There was a fantasy world Laurent liked to inhabit when these thoughts gave over to misery. As he’d told Damen before, he’d jump into the fairytale of a Damen and Auguste friendship from boyhood. Of those older princes forging a brotherly bond themselves, good-natured and easygoing, in keeping with both their temperaments. Auguste would be by Laurent’s side now, teasing and encouraging him in turn about this maudlin Akielon ceremony Damen desired.
Laurent squeezed his eyes shut, allowed himself one moment of memory, of the way Auguste’s laugh sounded.
The gold cuff felt heavy against his wrist then. As if it had a life of its own, and wanted Laurent to acknowledge its existence. In this existence, he could not have Auguste by his side, today or any day.
Auguste faded away as another specter pushed to the front. Sneaky, as had been his way in life.
The barbarian? Really? These questions voiced loudly coupled with outright disgust on a young, fair-featured face.
Laurent indulged in responding to this ghost.
Yes, Nicaise. You’d have liked him eventually.
Doubtful. This said with a sneer.
Laurent entombed both shadows of his past tight inside his chest, then pushed open the door, stepped within, and let it shut behind him.
The dark room enveloped him and he had a brief panic at what a stupendously roundabout assassination attempt this would be. He quelled the paranoia, and took the thirty measured paces as instructed, coming to an abrupt halt as he’d rehearsed only yesterday.
Someone breathed out in relief, not an arm’s length away.
Damen. Laurent’s chest clenched in a twin sensation of anxiety and calm.
Just as Laurent’s eyes started to adjust to the pitch dark, a door at the far end of the chamber opened. A man and woman entered, each carrying one single lit candle, providing just enough light to illuminate their faces.
By the dim glow, Laurent beheld the lined face of Nikandros’ aunt, Eleni. The older, grey-bearded man at her side, her husband Ioannis. Laurent swallowed the inclination to greet them, to welcome them to the palace, as he endeavored to match the solemnity of this practice. They could exchange pleasantries post-ceremony.
Damen shifted his weight from side to side; an adorable fidget for the size of him. Laurent could picture it all too readily.
Eleni smiled, kind and understanding of her king’s impatience. She exchanged a nod with her husband and spoke:
“To fear what lies in the dark is human. It is to fear the unknown. It is fear that we will not find our way through or out. Today, you have come here to ask the universe for a kindness. That as you pledge your heart and body to another, as you choose an opaque path, that you may be blessed to know your one again.”
Laurent almost fell over. Eleni spoke in Veretian. Not in ancient, esoteric Akielon, the language he’d attempted to bend his Veretian mind and tongue around in a scant few days and only come away frustrated.
This was Damen’s doing, he knew. As he perpetually sought to make Laurent’s existence more than just palatable, but comfortable, teetering on joyful, in Akielos.
This is your home too, Damen said constantly, non-verbally, in acts such as these. Here, I have essentially desecrated an ancient Akielon tradition by having it spoken in your mother tongue.
Nikandros’ aunt spoke fluidly, while Ioannis carried a heavier accent when he spoke next. “At birth you left darkness for light, at death you shall return in darkness. But do not fear, for you will find your one. In darkness your love was forged, in darkness it will endure.”
“Reach out now for your beloved,” instructed Eleni.
A hand scrabbled at the back of his, and Laurent turned his hand to meet Damen’s insistent touch and interlaced their fingers.
“Declare the name of your beloved aloud,” said Eleni.
“Laurent,” he heard in an instant; a deep, hushed reverence coating the syllables.
“Damianos,” he offered back, offering everything within him.
“We can never know the will of the gods,” said Ioannis. “Nor can we, as mere mortals, know the truth of death. Therefore, we place our faith in love’s bond. Today, we bind in the dark, that which we endeavor to find in any light to come.”
Eleni lifted her candle above her head, as if presenting it to the gods above. “Damianos. You have chosen to walk life’s path with your beloved. To spend the rest of your days loving none but him. Do you now declare that it is your intent to seek him in the next life?”
“Yes.”
Ioannis performed the same offering with this candle. “Damianos, do you speak this vow of your own free will?”
“Yes.”
Eleni lowered her candle in a graceful arc, casting brief shadows along the walls. “Damianos, do you accept fate’s desire to obscure your love and thus, meeting as strangers, may not recognize your love?”
“I accept.”
Ioannis copied her movement again. “And do you, Damianos, leave yourself open to receiving your beloved in what lies beyond?”
“I do.”
Damen answered each question immediately. The second one of the elders stopped speaking, Damen filled the silence with the quickest of assent.
Laurent repeated the vows as they were put to him, but did not answer as quickly as Damen. He left pauses, slight lingering silences out of respect to the gravity of the commitments imbued in the words.
They did not often speak words of love to one another. Of the two of them, Damen was of course the more effusive, vocal lover.
When they were apart, he was also the more romantic letter writer. They did not write the words, “I love you” or “I miss you.” But Damen, as transparent in his affections as any of his other feelings, made Laurent know these concepts anyway.
“I ordered a new orange grove planted. By spring you shall have more than even you can eat,” he’d written once.
“Today’s weather was perfect for a long ride. I expect you would have remained out far longer than our guards thought prudent,” he’d written too.
“The sun shines so bright and hot today I cannot help but picture the pink tint to your beautiful skin.”
With Laurent’s portion of the rites finished, Eleni brought the ceremony to a close.
“Though your stations may change next you meet, though kings may become beggars and beggars kings, you have vowed to connect your hearts across lives, should you be fortunate enough to exist again elsewhere. May you find each other in the dark, the revenants reunited.”
Eleni blew out her candle, Ioannis followed suit, and they heard a door open and shut, leaving Laurent alone with Damen in the dark.
Fear reared up again, at her final statement.
The dark was where the twisty things dwelled. Where a creature like Laurent made his festering home. The dark revealed all his rot. All his true ugliness laid bare. He could not conceal the taint within, could not divert with delicate and precisely draped limbs, an insouciant pose, a winsome smile, artfully tousled hair. His cutting, icy exterior held no sway here.
He was going to be ill. He was going to be sick all over these thrice-polished floors. None of this was supposed to ever matter. Not for Laurent. There should have been a political arrangement at the absolute best, where he’d have to stomach scheduled affections and mandated touching. In Arles, men and women had wanted Laurent for a moment, a night. They imagined a lurid fling with an untouchable beauty, someone to own and discard for his shallow promise. A pretty bauble to dangle, as he was often subjected to overhearing from gossiping courtiers.
But not Damianos of fucking Akielos. He wanted Laurent with no ornamentation. No armor. No artifice. Damen’s head might have been turned because of the bright blond and the sharp tongue, but this ceremony, these words, meant he wanted what hid beneath. What no one else could reach.
A desperate possession seized Laurent.
This was a love Laurent had dreamed for, bled for, schemed for, suffered for, killed for, almost thrown away a kingdom for, and he would have it here, now, and he would have it again, forever.
Initiation in any sort of lovemaking, even in minor affectionate displays, still required tremendous effort on Laurent’s part. It did not come naturally, or at least, the execution of his desires did not always feel within reach. Commands became his preferred method. Instead of leaning over and performing the deed himself, he’d simply tell Damen, “kiss me,” and the end result would be the same.
He squeezed Damen’s hand once, the only warning he gave, then launched himself into his waiting arms. Laurent heard and felt the “oomph” of surprise, but he silenced it with his mouth, capturing Damen’s lips and breath in a bruising kiss.
Damen gentled him, steadied his hold at Laurent’s hips, then rested their foreheads together.
“Easy, my love. It is only me,” said Damen.
A hysterical urge to laugh seized Laurent. Oh yes, only you. Only ever you. No Uncle, no Torveld, no male Vaskian captors, only ever you.
Nothing of the before mattered now, hadn’t mattered since he’d first given of himself to Damen. Damen’s touches forged him anew. Laurent could set the past ablaze, could discount all that had come before and declare what love was supposed to mean. What passion and sex and touch should be: wanted and reciprocated, without condition, coercion, or fear. Damen had given him that. Again and again in an endless looping cycle of the utmost trust.
Would Laurent choose to walk this path again? Given the chance for a love like Damen’s, would he? They’d slain monstrous men together here, been monsters themselves.
I would, Laurent thought, sudden and fierce. Even if the monster I must defeat is myself, I would.
Magic did not exist and the ceremony was performative, Laurent knew that. Nothing could tether them in an entwined existence beyond the grave. It would not stop Laurent from treating their lovemaking like holy rites.
He kissed Damen and if Laurent surprised him by initiating again, he did not show it. Laurent deepened the kiss, sliding his hands through Damen’s curls, pressing bodily against him. Their flimsy chitons hid nothing from the other, Laurent finding himself roused faster than ever before and not bothering to interrogate that fact for once. His mind had fully given over to how Damen felt, how Damen could make him feel, and it did the beautiful work of obliterating any hesitancy.
Once or twice, Damen attempted to slow the pace, to draw back from Laurent. Each time, Laurent refused to cede any ground, tonguing into his mouth deeper, fisting his hair, and going so far as to wind one leg up and around Damen to grind against him. Damen groaned into his mouth and Laurent spasmed with need at the guttural sound.
He pressed open-mouthed kisses down Damen’s smooth jaw, sucked at the pulsepoint, then continued along one shoulder; Damen panting with desire against him. Laurent’s fingers made quick work of Damen’s gold pin, able to remove it without sight by now. It clattered to the floor close by, and Laurent hastened to remove the rest of Damen’s garments.
A large, firm palm rested on Laurent’s chest and halted his amorous progress. “We don’t have to…here. Consummation is not a requirement.”
Their upcoming unification ceremony at Marlas would be full of pomp and performative grandeur. It would be stiff with formality and lengthy speeches imploring peace across the two lands, now becoming one. In the midst of it all, Damen and Laurent would stand, arm in arm, crowns affixed to their heads and beatific smiles upon their faces as they greeted crowds of their subjects and brought their councils together. There would be no embraces that suggested anything beyond fraternal bonds, even if their wrists communicated their devotion to the entire world. They would speak vows of loyalty to one another, oaths of fealty, but the words would not include any outward affection other than the clasping of palms.
For today’s commitment, Laurent would spurn such cold formality; protocol had no place here and if he could not have Damen in plain sight for fear of causing offense with the potency of their love, then he would claim it now, if only so Damen might understand the divine depths into which Laurent had sunk.
“I want to.”
He kissed Damen once more, then shed his own chiton, grateful that he’d chosen Akielon clothing for the ceremony and not his royal Veretian garments.
It was an inconsequential distinction, that people believed Laurent’s tightly laced clothes kept him protected and untouchable within their confines. Fabric armor to prevent the breach of all sentiment; a protective layer against emotions, feelings, and sensations. The opposite held true. The constricting outfits prevented all that was Laurent from spilling over in a constant, unstoppable stream.
Sometimes, Laurent pictured romantic advances as the stages of garment unlacing. Hard to do in chiton, however. In but two maneuvers, one could be free of any and all coverings.
He returned to Damen’s waiting arms and lips; both of their bodies bare but for the gold cuffs adorning their wrists. Damen’s hands roamed along Laurent’s skin now, uninhibited and without Laurent having to puzzle through each progression of lovemaking and deciding how he’d allow touch to continue.
How awful that Laurent felt safest in these hands. No, he stopped that line of thinking immediately. He recast it instead. How beautiful that these hands could deliver tenderness to someone like Laurent. To specifically, Laurent. Fear extinguished with the power of Damen’s touch. It ran through Laurent’s hair in a hurried reverence and he cupped the back of Laurent’s head to keep him still. Laurent, once their passions reached a certain point, always tried to hasten things to the incendiary conclusion. Damen would meet this hastiness with a deliberate patience, tilting Laurent’s head back so as to meander down the column of his throat. The kisses, solid and worshipful, never failed to draw obscene noises from Laurent. He arched back further into Damen’s hands, into his mouth. His lover possessed an insatiable need to cover Laurent’s neck with signs of their mutual affection, and though Laurent might feign irritation, he secretly enjoyed these attentions paid to a public staking of their love.
As if the wrist cuffs weren’t enough already.
The slow kisses dropped with the utmost care set Laurent alight and drove him mad with wanting. He tamped down the normal urge to be crude about their lovemaking, to get in an acidic quip that would hustle Damen along. Instead, he tugged Damen’s hair and brought their mouths back together, as their kissing devolved into a sloppier, unhinged passion.
The teasing verbal jabs were an easily wielded tactic on Laurent’s part to combat the tenderhearted inclinations he harbored for Damen. None of that today. The lack of light that had first sparked unease now served as the perfect refuge for Laurent. This could be a true shedding of performance, this cover of darkness. If he became misty-eyed from Damen’s ministrations, from his active devotion, it was a private fact.
Laurent ran his touch down Damen’s chest, raked his nails against the taut abdomen to yield a pleased sigh, and closed his fingers in a light grip around Damen’s erection. He only had to pump twice before he got what he wanted.
“Laurent. Would you want—?”
“You. Inside me.”
“We will need—”
“I brought some.”
If Damen could see him, Laurent was sure it would have looked entirely undignified; a king on his hands and knees searching his discarded clothing for a small glass vial.
Fumbling around the cloth, he eventually succeeded in finding the oil, and then blindly kissed his way up Damen’s thighs, avoiding his cock, up the sides of his hips, until he stood tall and could reach his lips again. The twisting of the stopper sounded scandalous in the quiet, though Laurent imagined the noises to come would be all the more salacious.
“How should we proceed?” Damen asked. “The floor is too hard for your back.”
“I am not so delicate a flower. Here, I can make do with a clothing pile if you insist on prioritizing my comfort.”
“Laurent.” A strong grip to his jaw tilted his face up and held it in place. “That must always be my priority.”
Though he could not see Damen’s face, Laurent could picture that intense, focused adoration and sincerity directed at him. His entire being, which before would sing with tension at the outset of lovemaking, now yearned for it in the most desperate of ways.
They found their way to the ground, embracing and kissing as Damen slicked his fingers, as he laid Laurent down gently. Damen surrounded him; physically of course, but in every way possible Damen infiltrated Laurent’s senses. In the dark he could focus on sound, on movement, on taste.
As Damen’s fingers breached him, Laurent gasped, “Damen. Your mouth, please.”
He said it in Akielon.
In the next second, his lover’s generous mouth engulfed him in glorious heat, and Laurent’s hips bucked up. Damen took the thrust in stride, breathing out hard through his nose, opening his throat. Within and around each other, their bodies moved synchronously to deliver and receive pleasure.
When Laurent’s hips became erratic, Damen pulled away and pressed a lingering kiss to his navel. His fingers left too, and Laurent only experienced a momentary loss before Damen returned, his cock oiled and primed to enter him.
A brief burn, and then the pain subsided; swapped for delicious fulfillment. As he excelled in all things with power and precision, Damen dedicated himself to the task of pleasing Laurent. The flimsy cotton between his back and the ground ensured he might have some interesting bruises in new places tomorrow, but Laurent found he did not care, with Damen driving into him with measured, languid strokes.
Laurent canted his hips up, allowing Damen to thrust at a deeper angle, then locked his heels behind Damen, urging him ever onward. Here in the heavy dark, Laurent should feel smothered and restricted, especially with the way Damen pressed atop him.
But Laurent wanted him closer, to revel in the heat and friction between their sweat-slicked bodies. All the expert control Damen exerted over his enviable musculature thrilled Laurent to no end, that he would direct and dedicate his flawless physique to fucking Laurent until his eyes rolled back and he lost all sense of self. Damen’s thrusts sped up in a gradual quickening, Laurent answering each snap of his hips, matching him kiss for breath-stealing kiss.
“You’ll come for me?” Damen whispered against his cheek and Laurent nodded.
Damen’s hand snaked in between them, taking Laurent in a sure grip. If he’d been able to see, Laurent would have shut his eyes tight, as a delirium took charge with each stroke of Damen’s hand. Tears pricked his eyes; an overwhelming sensation outside of bodily pleasure seizing him, causing his breath to hitch.
“I’ve got you,” rasped Damen. “I am here.”
Stay with me here, in the dark. Forever if need be.
“Damen,” Laurent said. He said it again and again. It became a chant; his lover’s name a more meaningful rite than anything he’d uttered today.
Damen responded in kind.
“Laurent…Laurent…thank you…you are everything…you mean everything to me…my love…beloved, beloved.”
Laurent brought everything to a blissful end when he echoed Damen’s Akielon endearment: “Beloved.”
Pleasure overtook them both, and Laurent came hard, coating his stomach. Damen lasted a stroke longer, spilling deep inside, his face buried in Laurent’s hair. Even as his body stilled, Damen’s murmurings continued, and Laurent did not know that he could withstand this amount of veneration much longer before demanding that Damen take him again.
When their bodies had cooled, Damen cleaning him off with the first garment he could grab, they remained on the floor in a tangle of limbs.
Damen cupped Laurent’s jaw and ran a broad thumb along his bottom lip; the darkness making him all the more tactile than usual.
“Thank you,” Damen said, and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips.
“For what?”
“Agreeing to the rites. My life. Our kingdom.”
“Yes, you know I have been meaning to collect my due from you on those matters, as it happens.”
“Oh? What do you require as recompense?”
“Well, you did swear undying devotion to me not a half hour ago. I shall need to think of another form of repayment.”
“I am not exiling Nikandros.”
“You never let me have anything I want.” Then, “he is a true friend to you.”
Damen was kind or perhaps sated enough to let that statement exist without mocking acknowledgment or further commentary.
Laurent for his part could not think of a recent time in which he had felt this content, this at peace. Laid out in the blinding blackness of an Akielon palace chamber, amongst discarded clothing and fitted in Damen’s embrace. A fine opposite of how their unification ceremony would end, where they had been appealed to by councilors and kyroi alike to keep their mannerisms fraternal. There would be no declarations of the kind made today, and the euphemistic terms they would refer to one another would be based in royal tradition. Words like “paramour” or “spouse” or even “partner” had been discouraged for public propriety, even if everyone from Arles to Isthima knew that “co-rulers” and “the joint kings” did little to describe the true nature of their sovereigns’ relationship.
Loath as he was to move from his current position, Laurent sat up, feeling Damen do the same at his side with an accompanying sigh.
As he groped around the floor, wondering if he’d grabbed his clothes or Damen’s, Laurent started laughing. Long and loud and so boisterous that his sides ached with it.
Damen’s arms enveloped him and he nosed at Laurent’s neck. Laurent felt the smile in his voice when he asked, “What is it?”
“How do you suggest we leave the chamber? I cannot get dressed in the dark.”
Damen’s chest rumbled with his own laughter. “I believe our clothes are somewhat sullied as well.”
Laurent gave up the attempt and stood.
“How would you feel, my shy Akielon, about a nude jaunt through the palace?”
Damen found Laurent’s outstretched hand in the dark.
“I think, with you, I could withstand anything.”
Together, they stumbled through the dark, found a door, and walked out into the bright light.