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English
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2024-12-29
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The Sweet Ache of Impossible Golden Days

Summary:

In Damen’s defense, he thought it’d be cute. And also just a tiny bit of revenge. But the sweet kind!

The plan was foolproof: learn some Veretian terms of endearment, surprise Laurent with them and enjoy his blushing reactions.

It's only fair, after Laurent has been turning him tongue-tied and blushing in front of his entire court with every sweetly accented Akielon pet name. He knows what he's doing, the snake! It's time for Laurent to reap what he's sown, or Damen isn't King of Akielos!

Notes:

Did I just write 2000 words of angst and fluff inspired by a single cute line in Laurent is Sick and the World Hasn't Ended (Yet) ? Yes, yes I did. Fair_Kid, I blame you for this one.

Work Text:

In Damen’s defense, he thought it’d be cute. And also just a tiny bit of revenge. But the sweet kind!

The plan was foolproof: learn some Veretian terms of endearment, surprise Laurent with them and enjoy his blushing reactions. Laurent’s genuine expressiveness with him is new and precious. It is his favorite part of their new-found footing with each other. Laurent may keep up his impenetrable walls and defenses with everyone else, but when it comes to Damen, finally, finally he's left within those walls, all the masks set aside.

And it’s not fair if Laurent should be the only one to wield this particular weapon!

Akielon endearments, spoken in Laurent’s softly accented tones, are Damen’s ultimate weakness. It’s embarrassing! A mighty warrior king, felled by a few short syllables and a bit of a blush on pale Veretian skin. It takes him out at the knees every time, the sweetest arrow to the heart imaginable.

And Laurent, the snake, knows this full well and uses it against him mercilessly. It’s been a lovingly-waged war of attrition ever since they set up their shared court, gradually but surely escalating.

First it was “Honey,” spoken at a murmur during an interminable council meeting. He’d nearly overpromised on the new trade treaty in the aftermath and had to stammer his way through an excruciating amendment. Laurent had merely crossed his legs and leaned his head on his hand through the whole ordeal, the angle of his wrist showing off a peek of gold above his cuff. Unrepentant and smug.

“My sweet,” slipped in casually while Damen was discussing strategy with the kyroi. That particular arrow had struck multiple targets: Damen, mortifyingly red-cheeked and empty-headed (strategy who?), and Nikandros, who had looked like he was about to be sick all over their painstakingly drawn sand map. Another victory for the Veretian viper.

And then: “My soul”, whispered at the head banquet table, soft lips brushing the shell of his ear. He’d shot to his feet like there was a pin on his seat, to the astonishment of all present. Rather than try to find some excuse for his behavior, he seized the opportunity to enact minor revenge by tugging Laurent bodily out of his seat and all but carrying him from the hall. Even that was more of an embarrassment for him than for Laurent, since blatantly carrying off a paramour for a tumble is de rigueur in Vere.

This was war. He won’t take these volleys lying down (or well, he would, and gladly, with Laurent lying beneath him, moonlight on ivory skin—gah, he needs to focus). Anyways, this kind of sabotage within his own court cannot be borne. Laurent will come to regret starting a battle on this turf because no one is better at pet names than Damianos, King of Akielos!

He went about his reconnaissance strategically. A few drinks with Lazar, some subtle probing. ‘How’s Pallas’ and ‘Oh, that’s great to hear’ and ‘Say, if there’s any language barrier, please allow me to assist.’ So smooth. So subtle.

A pact to exchange information was forged five drinks in: Veretian endearments swapped for Akielon. Truly the soldier is the epitome of upstanding Veretian honor, a fine and worthy fellow. Damen staggers away from their meeting in the early hours before dawn, tired but pleased, the hangover well-worth the vast array of weapons now at his disposal.

He plans his opening gambit carefully.

As much as he’d love to give as good as he’s gotten, publicly and shamelessly, Laurent requires a more careful approach. So much of their courtship has been a delicate dance of deepening intimacy, Laurent leading each new step, Damen following gladly where he cares to lead. Damen loves the slow blossoming of Laurent’s affections, the confidence and trust they’ve built together. No teasing battle would be worth risking that trust.

So he starts in the privacy of their shared suite, where there’s no need for walls or appearances.

He’s been waiting for a while by the time Laurent returns. The breeze through the curtained archways is cool, the droning hum of cicadas fading with the red-gold light of the sunset. The oil lamps are lit, setting the whole room to a gentle, golden glow.

Laurent walks in, spots Damen and strides briskly over to bury his face in his chest.

“Oof, hello to you too,” Damen says, cupping his head with a gentle hand, enjoying the silk-fine softness of his hair. He rubs his other hand in slow strokes up and down Laurent’s back in time with his breathing, feeling the tension there slowly release. Eventually Laurent pulls back enough to look up at Damen, his face seeming to come alive now that he’s dropped the mask of indifference he wears to court.

“Hello to you, my flower,” Laurent says in Akielon, dipping his eyes demurely, golden lashes the finest filigree against his cheeks. He’d be the perfect picture of a sweet and innocent lover, if not for the wicked gleam Damen catches in that clever blue gaze.

He tilts up Laurent’s chin with a knuckle, and laughs when the gleam turns into an unrepentant smirk. He loves this version of Laurent: sharp wit finally allowed free rein to tease and play.

“So cruel to me,” he sighs, affecting a pout, “Are these the slings and arrows of Veretian love?”

“Mm, I’m afraid it will only grow worse from here. Best gird yourself, my Akielon brute.” Laurent tugs on his chiton playfully.

“Perhaps I already have,” he says, and smirks in response to Laurent’s raised eyebrow. To distract him from his curiosity Damen takes his hand and begins unlacing first one cuff, then the other. He caresses the soft skin of his exposed wrists briefly, earning a near-silent inhale between softly parted lips.

Rather than chase that reaction with a kiss, as he usually does, he moves to start on the laces at his back, brushing aside the soft feathers of hair at his nape. This service has taken on a different meaning for them now, voluntary devotion replacing servitude, a balm applied diligently over healing scars. It has become a calming ritual for them both, a way to mark the end of their day.

“Oh, but that does feel better,” Lauren sighs, shrugging out of the stiff shell of his coat. He stretches his arms above his head and arches like a cat, the shadow of his lithe form visible through his thin white shirt in the lamp light.

Damen shakes his head, trying to keep focus. His heart is beating faster, unexpectedly nervous. He takes Laurent’s hand and leads him to the bed, and then urges him to sit between his thighs. Laurent goes where he leads trustingly, letting Damen position him. Who would have thought he’d someday have the King of Vere, cast-iron bitch feared and revered in equal measure by friend and foe, so pliable beneath his hands. It almost makes him regret the next step in this particular plot. Almost.

He wraps his arms gently, lovingly around Laurent in a perfect wrestling lock, pinning his arms to his chest. He feels Laurent's posture snap to tension a split second too late. The trap has been sprung, he won't get free.

“What, you! Unhand me—” he spits, snapping his head back in what's honestly pretty good instincts for someone who never trained in Akielan wrestling. Damen is expecting it though, so instead of crushing his nose it just smacks harmlessly onto the meat of his shoulder, which lets him nuzzle against Laurent’s warm, flushed cheek.

“Shh, no need to struggle, mon chéri,” Damen croons in his ear. He’s rewarded with a sound, strangled yet full of desire. Laurent is frozen save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest against the cage of Damen’s arms, strung tight as a bow.

“So it’s like this, is it,” he says with a game attempt at bitter resignation. It’d probably sound more convincing if he wasn’t breathless, his voice hoarse with desire. He’s gone bright red, the flush reaching past his collar bones to disappear beneath the loose collar of his shirt.

“Oh, you know it’s like this, mon petite puce,” Damen responds with syrupy sweetness.

“Damen, please,” Laurent gasps, his chest hitching around stifled giggles.

“Please what, mon coeur?”

“It’s pronounced mon cœur and you sound like an old country grandmother—”

“Oh is that so, mon tigre, l’amour de ma vie, ma raison d’être.” Damen has released his iron grip now that Laurent has been reduced to helpless flailing laughter, mouthing the words into his neck, fingers finding his ticklish spots with accuracy. Revenge has never tasted this sweet.

“Chouchou—”

All of the sudden Damen’s hands are empty. Laurent is standing, facing away from him, his shoulders suddenly drawn up tense.

“Laurent?”

“Not—not that one.”

Damen feels his stomach drop with sudden dread. He realizes he’s been stupid again, incautious. If that was something the Regent called him, if he’d shattered this moment in such a way.

He stands and approaches cautiously. Apologies crowd his throat, choking him when he sees tears shining on the curve of his cheek, catching the light. Laurent won’t look at him. It’s a bad sign.

Before he can decide whether to offer touch or not, Laurent spins on his heel and launches himself at Damen’s chest, jamming his face in Damen’s neck like that would keep his tears from falling. Damen carefully pets his back, careful not to constrict him if he needs to withdraw.

“Auguste—that’s one that Auguste used to call me,” Laurent whispers to the hollow of Damen’s throat. “I’d forgotten, until you said it just now.” Damen’s chest twists with a different kind of ache, part relief, part familiar guilt.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking—”

“No, no. I’m—I was the one that started it,” Laurent said with a wet little laugh. “Turnabout is certainly fair play.” He looks up into Damen’s eyes, his fair lashes clumped together with tears. Laurent is a beautiful cryer, tears turning his eyes crystalline blue, though Damen chastises himself for noticing such things. Laurent presses his thumb to the furrow of Damen’s frown, the nail a little sharp.

“It’s not like you could have known,” he says gently.

Damen pulls him in close, trying to press some of the aching out of his voice by force. When Laurent hugs back he picks him up and sets him in the bed, pretending not to see when he wipes away the remaining tears.

They lay facing each other, the mood quiet and a little fragile. Laurent weaves their fingers together, eyes a little distant.

“I’m glad you reminded me. There’s a lot about Auguste that I haven’t thought about in so long. Remembering was…painful, and revenge and the Regent and the stupid court took up so much of my mind. I told myself it was better not to dwell on those impossible, golden days we’d spent together. I loved him, but I couldn’t let myself remember him.”

“It’s only now that I’m starting to remember the little things. How he’d wake me up in the morning. The way he’d sit up with me when I was sick. The stupid pet names, which embarrassed me so much that last year we had together, because I wanted to seem grown up but there he was calling me baby names at court.” Laurent breathes a sad little laugh, and Damen answers by cupping his hands, and pressing a kiss to his fingers.

They talk late into the night about Auguste and those early years, until the lamps burn low. The night air blows clean and cool through the archways and the crickets sing their songs to the ever-turning stars.