Chapter Text
Dark apprehension sinks its teeth into Laurent’s flesh. His flesh is an easy, open target; on display in this massive, empty bed. When Laurent’s eyes open, he is alone.
He sits up slowly, clutching the sheets to him, and hears gentle movement in the room just beyond. The air is warm, but he feels chilled, and pulls on a plain linen shirt before venturing out of the bedroom.
He finds Damen seated on their balcony with an impressive array of breakfast set out. He stands when he sees Laurent and pulls out a chair for him.
“I take it this is your way of saving me from joining the Kemptians for another tedious yet rage-inducing morning meal?” Laurent asks as he sits.
Damen grins, boyish and sweet.
“I thought you might prefer it if it were just us this morning. No servants, no guests.”
Laurent plucks an orange from the center bowl but does not peel it. His attention alternates between watching Damen eat and the sunlight rippling on the distant water. The warm morning air ruffles his hair; a greeting caress from this lovely part of his kingdom. Yet melancholy pulls at him; a troubling doubt has settled in his bones and more than likely is displayed across his face.
“What did you like about last night?” asks Damen.
“That he never once looked to you for permission to touch me.”
“Nor should he have. I do not own you.”
Laurent digs a nail into the orange. “I think some at court and in particular, our Kemptian guests, have a different impression of our dynamic.”
“Ah yes, the dainty Veretian king with a sharp tongue brought to heel by his dominant, barbaric Akielon,” Damen ends this sentence with a derisive snort then leans forward. He clinks his cuff against Laurent’s and says, “They are fools who lack any intellect.”
“Yet we must appease them in some way to gain their favor.” Laurent tosses the orange onto his plate.
“Wrong,” Damen says as he picks it up and begins peeling it. “It is they who must convince us of their necessity. We are an empire. They are a forgotten northern country with a tenuous, at best, alliance with Patras.”
“Speaking of, how go the harbor watches?”
Damen presses an orange slice to Laurent’s lips. He rolls his eyes but eats it all the same, taking care to nip Damen’s fingers. Damen laughs and sets the rest of the peeled orange onto Laurent’s plate.
“It’ll be any day now.”
“Any word from Isthima?” Laurent takes another orange slice and brings one leg up onto his chair, tucking his chin atop his knee.
“We have not diverted from the original timeline,” replies Damen. “As you well know. Tell me what is truly on your mind.”
“Last night, when we…and with Nikandros…you are all right with what we did together?”
“Yes. Did you enjoy it?” Damen asks.
“Yes.”
“That is what matters to me,” says Damen.
“Did you find it enjoyable?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Laurent asks.
He wants to understand the appeal from Damen’s perspective. It had not felt like lascivious titillation, like Laurent was merely someone being used for others’ pleasure. But perhaps he had been tricked by the dim lighting of the room, the heady thrill of the illicit scene to be enacted.
In the stark bright of day, he wants to recoil from himself. Is he no more than a deviant as he was once accused of being?
Damen’s smile is like a sword, cutting down that horrid line of thinking with swift skill.
“Seeing you be adored and seeing you accept that genuine adoration from my dearest friend … you have no idea how much you deserve such worship. And it is not because you are a king or the epitome of physical beauty, though those are two truths about you. You, specifically you, are exquisite with your walls lowered.”
How do you do that? Laurent wants to shout at him. How do you always know the precise thing I need to hear from that kind, humble mouth?
Laurent’s fear takes hold of another route and pursues that instead.
“You said, when I first broached the subject with you, that I had never experienced a ‘meaningless dalliance.”
“Which is true,” says Damen.
“It is.”
“There is more to sex than a forgettable tryst or,” Damen gestures back and forth between himself and Laurent, “lovemaking between devoted spouses. An array of experiences falls in between.”
Laurent’s leg drops back to the ground and bounces in an anxious rhythm.
“I do not enjoy ambiguities.”
“You are prone to categorizing in extremes.”
Despite Damen’s light teasing, Laurent despairs in a bitter tone, “I am a novice and Nikandros is a high-born commander who has been accustomed to perfectly trained slaves attending to his every need. I cannot imagine anything I did last night was particularly revelatory for him.”
Damen looks distressed. He bursts from his chair and falls to his knees, chin on Laurent’s thigh.
“Is this how you felt after the first time we made love?”
“Yes. Though there were other competing concerns with you.” Laurent strokes Damen’s curls from his forehead.
“I could spend all day recounting the ways in which I find you alluring, but I do not think it will make much difference here.”
Laurent sighs. “I know I must face him.”
Damen says nothing more and kisses his knee.
Laurent remembers all the places Nikandros kissed him last night. Where he had kissed Nikandros. He’d allowed, he’d encouraged, he’d reciprocated.
As he’d answered Damen’s direct question truthfully, he’d enjoyed it.
Laurent had acquired intimate knowledge of another man, an exchange of sexual leverage had occurred.
Is that all it had been? Laurent tries to shy away from such thoughts but like a dog with a bone, they persist long after Damen clears their breakfast plates.
Laurent has a mere few orange sections in his stomach when he shows up to the training room. Anything more and he might have thrown it all right back up.
Regret has not made him borderline ill. He has searched his feelings for hours now and cannot come away with wishing last night’s events had not occurred with Nikandros. He cannot tell if it is shame or even more pathetic, an acute embarrassment that clouds his mind and soul now.
When he steps over the threshold of the training room, he finds Nikandros waiting for him with a smile on his face.
It hits Laurent with thrilling force: He is glad to see me.
This expression, like Damen’s, is so artless and so antithetical to everything that Laurent had learned to survive in Vere.
Nikandros looks him up and down. “I see you are wearing more clothing today. Will it be a day for sparring instead of wrestling, then?”
Fear shoots through Laurent. What expectations does Nikandros have for this interaction, for future interactions? It had not seemed that way last night, when a mutual respect had ruled their actions, even in the more passionate moments.
“Do you often presume things about me based on how much clothing I choose to wear?”
Laurent says this in his worst, most scathing tone. It does not come out of his mouth in a light, teasing comment, but sour and ugly, like the twisted emotions taking up residence in his chest.
Nikandros’ face clouds over. “What game are you playing now?”
Laurent rolls his shoulders, looks away. “No games. We can spar.”
Nikandros eyes him warily for a moment more, then moves to the wall with hanging practice weapons.
“We can practice with the curved blades today. There’s a technique I wish to demonstrate for a quick draw.”
His voice rings with confident authority and it makes Laurent envious and resentful all at once. Why can’t Laurent be the one teaching a skills lesson? Why can’t Laurent have a handle on the right thing to do or say when confronted with a former lover?
“Speed has its advantages in sword work, to be sure,” Laurent drawls. “You seem well versed in it. Is it commonplace to leave one's bed partners so soon after finishing, too?”
Nikandros whirls around to face him, angry and disappointed. “I should have known. I really should have known better. More fool me.”
Laurent knows if he were not his king, Nikandros would go. He would turn his back and walk out. But royal protocol roots Nikandros to the spot, even as his face conveys his wish to leave Laurent to his horrid, awful mood.
Laurent ruins things. He’d come very near to ruining Damen, but that man refused to be taken down by anything, let alone Laurent and his vengeful machinations.
He stands at a crossroads. He can continue on as his uncle would have predicted: a capricious, cruel young man with no great talent for ruling nor a good head for politics. He can remain cutting and distant to anyone who is not Damen; spurn friendships and closer connections like the one offered by this steadfast, faithful man.
Laurent sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I do not know how to act.”
Nikandros says nothing because it’s not nearly enough. Barely an explanation and certainly not an apology.
Laurent continues. “Now that you have seen me in such a way…I worry that your view of me will be solely of those moments.”
He maintains eye contact because the moment calls for it and because Laurent would like to convey some humility even if his pride is the price.
“I am not Veretian, your majesty,” says Nikandros. “I speak plainly what I feel. If I am in an amorous mood, you would know it. I have no salacious designs on you. We are here for sports. For practice. That is my only aim here.’’
The far too honorable reply reduces Laurent to what he fears he will always be: juvenile and scrambling beneath the icy, unaffected exterior.
He sits on one of the wooden benches that ring the room. After a beat, Nikandros sits beside him.
“You left,” says Laurent. “After. I did not know how to interpret your absence.”
Nikandros’ hand rests near Laurent’s thigh but he does not touch him. “I only had your comfort in mind and did not want to overstay my welcome. Does his majesty think so little of me?’
“On the contrary, kyros.”
“Laurent.”
The exasperation in those two accented syllables is almost enough to pull Laurent from melancholy.
Nikandros continues, “I know it was a privilege. To witness what I witnessed.”
“You did more than merely witness.”
Nikandros levels him with a flat look and though Laurent smiles faintly, he does not know how to voice his gratitude.
“If you have no further interest in me…if last night was merely indulging curiosity, I can accept that,” says Nikandros and clasps his hands in his lap.
Laurent cannot read into this and it is maddening. Because it is as straightforward and candid as everything that comes from Nikandros but Laurent wants to determine the meaning behind, around, beneath these words. Is Nikandros disappointed? Is he unbothered?
“You believe my desire for you was momentary?” Laurent asks.
“I think you indulged your fleeting attraction in one night of passion, yes. A very enjoyable night, might I add.” Nikandros smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Ah. A king trying out a new thrill for his own wanton amusement.”
“I would not put it so crudely, but yes. I was convenient.”
Laurent reaches out and pries Nikandros’ fingers apart, as he had on the beach previously.
“Nikandros. You were, you are, convenient. You have made yourself so. You are indispensable to both Damen and me. Last night was yet another instance of you proving that you are to be trusted. So yes, how convenient that now when I finally feel free of many burdens that I have you to rely upon. Do you feel it is wrong of me to notice you? To admire you?”
Nikandros folds his thumb over Laurent’s hand and circles the skin. “I am not like Kastor. I do not covet that which is not mine.”
“Do you take me for Jokaste then?”
“I might have, once.”
“And now?”
Nikandros adjusts his grip, picks up Laurent’s wrist, and presses a kiss to the gold cuff.
“I will not complicate things. We are friends. You are my king. Damen occupies both those roles as well. I do not confuse pleasure and attraction with marital vows. I enjoyed our time together in bed, and I enjoy our time together out of bed.”
Laurent can almost grasp the sentiment, the line of thinking. The conclusion he draws makes his entire body heat: Nikandros likes him, as a person. Not only as a fuckable beauty, to be cast aside after carnal delights had been explored.
“Tonight, will you join us again?” Laurent asks. “For drinks and conversation, to be clear.”
“Of course.”
Laurent stands, calling a halt to all this confessional conversing. He then requests a wrestling bout instead of swordwork. Like Nikandros, he is far from amorous at the moment, but something about proximity to another person, something about touch that feels safe, provides a reversion to normalcy.
Even if Nikandros pins him once again, the return to the amiable flares so brightly within Laurent he cannot even dredge up a mocking quip about finding himself flat on his back, beneath him.
The good humor extends into the night when Nikandros joins him and Damen as promised. They do this the next few nights, too, lounge and drink and chat, and their little triumvirate never leaves the front chamber for the bedroom. Friendliness instead of lust rules the evenings, though Laurent kisses Nikandros on the mouth when he leaves them for his own bed.
The fraternization settles around his shoulders like a mantle and with anxiety’s weight shed, Laurent burns with satisfaction when Pallas reports to the three of them one night with the exact confirmation Damen has spent all his mornings trying to achieve: time for their Kemptian guests to leave.
Relief courses through him, and something else, too. He has earned this, Laurent thinks. He’d clawed his way out of the ditch Uncle tried to bury him in. He’d found a happiness, a love, a respect from a man he’d chosen to marry. He’d ascended his own country’s throne, and now this one. What he and Damen had achieved together was once considered absolute lunacy. But they’d done it, and now it was on them to safeguard it.
A job made easier with men like Nikandros by their side.
Pressure releases. There is no grip on Laurent’s neck, no axe swinging over his head. They’d discovered a threat, a problem, dealt with it swiftly and now could bask in a leisurely evening’s glow.
When he grows fatigued, he lounges with his head in Nikandros’ lap and his feet in Damen’s and hopes every single one of his dead enemies is spinning in their traitors’ graves.
Only half the company is to Laurent’s liking this morning. The setting is spectacular, at least.
“Have you had the chance to explore these gardens before, Ambassador?” Laurent asks.
“No. Your majesty.” Gerhard glances around, bored, and swirls the wine in his glass.
“These are the gardens formerly used by Nereus for training palace slaves,” says Laurent. “Is that the correct pronunciation, Kyros? Nereus?”
Nikandros, trailing barely two steps behind Laurent, nods.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk away from the noisy hall,” Laurent says to Gerhard. “I find my head clears in the open air and conversing easier without so many eager ears.”
Gerhard slants a suspicious look at Nikandros and then refocuses on Laurent. “What does his majesty wish to discuss?”
“No need to rush to business,” says Laurent heartily. He leads them down a pebbled path to a flowering overlook. “Such lovely views from here. One could track all the comings and goings of the royal family and their staff. The happy bustle of a thriving palace. Ah, speaking of.”
They watch as a stream of well-dressed Akielons process by; bare-chested men and women as customary in the summer months in as far south as Ios. Bringing up the rear they can see Damen walking arm and arm with a statuesque, amply-bosomed dark-haired woman. From here, Laurent cannot hear their conversation, but it appears to be an exuberant and amusing one.
Gerhard regards the plethora of half-dressed bodies with the same overt hunger he reserves for the palace meals.
“Is this the reason your Exalted has been enjoying such late mornings?” asks Gerhard with a lewd grin.
“She is beautiful, is she not?” asks Laurent, gesturing to the woman at Damen’s side.
The group below passes out of sight and into the shade of the lower halls.
“Exquisite,” says Gerhard. “Though I am surprised Damianos would flaunt a lover without hair of gold.” He says it like an in-joke and Laurent smiles wide.
“You are under the impression that my husband keeps other lovers?”
Gerhard leans forward, conspiratorial. “His voracious appetite as a lover and prowess in the bedroom precedes him, to be sure. It is also their way, in Akielos, to have many partners,” he says with an almost lecherous pity.
“I am not sure they can help it,” continues Gerhard. “You all in Vere are so afraid of bastards you cannot comprehend such inclinations.”
He attempts to give Nikandros a look of commiseration, but the kyros is so stoic and unmoving he is almost indistinguishable from the marble statues dotting the garden’s edge.
“Let me summarize this conversation,” says Laurent. “You, a foreign ambassador who has never visited Akielos, are explaining to me, this country’s ruler, that my husband is some mindless, sex-crazed barbarian and that I, as a born-Veretian who is also half Kemptian, am too uptight to satiate all his boundless needs?”
Gerhard purses his thin lips. “If I have offended with the truth—”
“The only person you have offended is that woman, though, fortunately for you, she did not overhear your boorish remark,” says Laurent. “You haven’t the first idea who she is, do you?”
Gerhard sputters something incoherent and rude.
Laurent continues embarrassing him. “Her name is Aglaia and she, like the wine you are consuming so thoroughly at this early an hour, also hails from Isthima. She is its kyros.”
When the man’s pale, bulging face blanches, Laurent leans closer to sneer.
“Oh my. Did you think that former island nation regretted joining with the mainland kingdom after Kastor’s coup? Did you not think that the second I took this joint throne that I did not assess which territories would remain loyal? That Damianos and I did not thoroughly vet each and every Veretian lord and Akielon kyros?”
Gerhard recovers enough to puff up his chest and feebly bleat, “The revolts among nobility and merchants alike are—”
“You were working with old, outdated information,” Nikandros cuts in. “Prince Torveld laid a false trail and you followed it so very beautifully. Once he warned us of your intentions, it was all too simple to send word to our loyal kyros on Isthima. You embarrassed yourself quite thoroughly, might I add, at each and every stop through our kingdom on your way here. We’ve been hearing reports of your discourteous plotting for months.”
Warmth builds in Laurent at the venom dripping from Nikandros’ deep, rich voice. Not to mention, the phrase ‘discourteous plotting’ has such a Veretian taste that Laurent cannot help but think he has affected the other man’s speech patterns and that fucking delights him.
“King Torgeir will not be pleased with your king when he finds out you have been stirring up unrest with rebel Patran factions,” says Laurent.
Gerhard, to his credit, still does not waver. “We have done nothing but remain loyal to alliances forged long before your birth,” he says with a sniff.
“Yet you reneged on our alliance when my mother died,” says Laurent coldly. “Further, your country grew lazy and stupid. You stopped paying attention to Vere. Now that you have seen what Vere and Akielos can accomplish as a united nation, you have come crawling back while double-dealing behind our backs.”
Gerhard sneers. “This proves nothing. Patras will not be swayed by hearsay.”
“No, they won’t,” says Laurent. “Would they, Kyros Nikandros?”
“I am inclined to agree with you, my king.”
A private thrill. Nikandros has to know by now what that does to Laurent.
“Yes, only the strongest evidence will do. Which is why Damianos and a trusted crew have been circling our shores every morning, intercepting all the missives you have tried sending to Isthima about how they’ve been treated wrongly by us. That they are so hard done by our abolishment of slavery and would they be interested in some aid from you and Patras in undermining our regime?”
“I have no knowledge of such messages,” says Gerhard. He’s sweating openly along his brow.
Laurent pouts. “Oh come now, Ambassador. My husband has dressed himself every morning as a common fisherman in order to intercept them. I was not allowed along, and—the kyros here knows this—I am ever so fond of such theatrics but I was forbidden from going along because I am far too conspicuous. The blond hair is both a blessing and a curse, I suppose.” Laurent sighs. “Not only do we have every single letter, but as you only now saw, the kyros herself is here to discuss their contents.”
Laurent steps closer to Gerhard. “Would you like the opportunity to explain yourself directly, Ambassador Gerhard? Prince Torveld and his retinue will arrive soon. How soon do you think, Kyros Nikandros?”
“They will reach our shore within the hour, my king.”
“Splendid.” Laurent steps back and smooths down his chiton.
“Perhaps I have underestimated the esteem in which these people hold Damianos-Exalted,” says Gerhard.
“No,” says Nikandros, harshly. “You underestimated King Laurent. Many before you have done so, to their detriment.”
Gerhard’s beady eyes narrow at Nikandros. Lip curling, he turns to Laurent and decides to continue constructing his own tomb.
“Everyone knows you whored yourself out to Torveld to secure those Patran troops to mutiny against your uncle,” spits Gerhard. “Then your whoring landed you in the King of Akielos’ impulsive, lust-driven lap. Your talent for reducing high-born men to drooling slaves is well known.”
Laurent’s uncle has been dead for years now, but to hear his words repeated is jarring. The Regent’s rumors would of course spread north of Vere to ensure Laurent never ran into the waiting arms of his mother’s former kingdom.
Laurent inspects his nails. “Well, if I am a whore, I am a rather successful one, aren’t I? An entire kingdom of two former enemy countries, slavery abolished. Perhaps I should set my slutty sights on Vask and see if the Empress has anything of value.”
Nikandros snorts.
Gerhard glares at them in turn, then dumps his wine out on the ground and throws the cup for good measure. All mirth wipes clean from Nikandros’ face.
“Understand this,” says Gerhard with malicious relish. “Your Damianos-Exalted is nothing more than a —”
Gerhard stops talking because Laurent has pressed a dagger against the man’s protruding stomach. It’s a pretty little weapon with a bejeweled handle and Laurent would hate to waste it on this repugnant man.
Still, needs must.
“Damianos-Exalted is a gifted statesman,” coos Laurent in a poisoned-honey tone. “He is unrivaled on the battlefield and in all sporting events, but his practicality and fair-minded diplomacy, his ingratiating manners, have won over many to our cause of a united kingdom.” Laurent slides the blade up higher, to Gerhard’s top button. “Drag my reputation through filth for all I care, I have heard the worst of the worst spoken about me and from far more formidable opponents. But if you ever speak ill of my husband again, if I hear a whisper of slander about his character, if a mere rumor reaches my ears about anyone in Kempt regarding him as less than a divine being deigning to walk the earth with us mere mortals I will travel all the way north to your meager, irrelevant kingdom and slice you from stomach to throat after I force you to choke on your own paltry cock.”
In a blink, Laurent steps back, and hides his weapon so effortlessly that it would be impossible to discover where he has stowed it without stripping him nude.
“Our attendants will help you pack,” says Laurent. “I do not care if you scamper now or take your lashings from Torveld before you go, but I want you out of my palace by sundown. I will inform your king that we have selected Lady Mathilde as your replacement should your kingdom wish to reopen negotiations.”
“Lady Mathilde?”
“She has proven herself willing to be friendly and was believably ignorant to your idiotic schemes. Now.” Laurent advances, glares down his nose at the quivering Gerhard. “Get out of my palace.”
Gerhard whirls away and stalks from the gardens. The moment they are alone, Laurent turns to Nikandros, eyes blazing and his pulse roaring. They don’t speak. As one, they hurry from the gardens, from the grounds, and in the direction of the royal quarters.
The two of them make it to the first turn in the hall when Nikandros seizes Laurent’s arm and all but shoves him into a hidden alcove.
Laurent leans against the stone, breathing hard, as Nikandros cages him in with his body. They aren’t touching, not yet, but with each rise and fall of their chests come closer to brushing. Each heavy breath expands their bodies and shrinks the space. Just when Laurent wants to pitch himself forward, Nikandros leans in and puts one hand on the wall beside Laurent’s head and his mouth to his ear.
“Is that how you look when you defend Damen? Gods above.”
The words sink beneath Laurent’s skin and prod his already pounding heart to beat faster.
“You should have seen my fight against Kastor,” Laurent murmurs in reply.
“I wish I’d been there.”
He doesn’t say it with the regret of someone who neglected to protect Damen. He says it with a bloodlust.
This is the frenzied hatred Laurent knows so well. Nikandros does not have to hide this fury from someone like Laurent, who had lived in that type of all-consuming loathing for years. It sings from both of them now; that simmering tension and a hostility they can share.
Laurent summons his significant willpower to not cant his hips forward. He has his suspicions about what he will find if he does.
He tilts his mouth slightly closer to Nikandros’ skin and whispers: “Would you have grabbed a sword and joined me?”
“Perhaps I would have enjoyed watching you defeat him.”
Nikandros’ breaths are ragged and it only spurs Laurent further: “Shall I tell you how it was? How confident he was that he would kill me? How it felt when my blade went through?”
He puts a hand to Nikandros’ windpipe and presses gently. “I slit his throat with a dagger for good measure.”
“Laurent.”
“Nikandros. Take me to my chambers.”
Laurent’s blood is up, like after a battle, and now the king can claim his victory prize. He pushes Nikandros back, and they stalk down the hall with purpose.
“Summon Damianos-Exalted. With urgency,” Laurent orders to the guard outside his rooms before sequestering himself inside with Nikandros.
In silent agreement, they move to the bedroom and Laurent lingers at the threshold. He puts himself at a calculated distance from Nikandros.
“Nothing is to happen between us until Damen is here.”
“Agreed,” says Nikandros.
Laurent removes both the daggers on his person and tosses them onto a chaise. “To be clear, I do not want you inside me. I prefer that be only Damen.”
“I understand.” Nikandros unstraps three daggers, placing them down on a low table with care. “Although, if you’d allow me, I would oil your thighs and my cock and fuck you in that manner.”
Laurent’s mouth goes dry. “We have never…I have never done that.”
Nikandros runs his gaze down Laurent’s body. “With legs like yours, that is a crime.”
Neither of them moves and no more is said. Laurent’s ears strain with the effort of listening for Damen’s footfalls. There is something in the waiting. In the anticipation. In the not touching but thinking very much about touching.
Laurent had made a critical oversight from their previous lovemaking. He had not properly appreciated looking at Nikandros’ body. He rectifies this now.
Most Akielon soldiers have hulking, brawny frames. Damen’s body is singular not only for the sheer size and sprawl of his musculature, but because he wields all of it with precision and grace.
Nikandros, while not quite as tall or wide, has a considerable bulk to him. He’s sturdy and strapping; a robust, towering presence that Laurent revels in learning sports from, even if he only expresses that admiration in cutting quips.
The long black hair lends Nikandros a gorgeous softness when it cascades down his broad, tawny shoulders. He has dark chest hair to match, more than Damen. Though his chiton does not allow Laurent to see much more than the top of his chest, he knows that the hair continues down over a taut abdomen beneath the clothing, and further down, surrounding an impressive cock. Laurent is not quite hard, not yet, but he suspects Nikandros might already be aroused. The rest of Laurent’s body is aflame though, and it will probably only take a glance from Damen to get him primed for lovemaking.
There are both severe and gentle contours to the planes of Nikandros’ angular face. He habitually holds his jaw tight, perpetually on watch for his kings, his people. Laurent likes it best when he can surprise Nikandros into a laugh or a scowl, breaking through the stoicism to that inner array of expressions the kyros has trained himself to suppress. Currently, Nikandros’ face hides nothing. Beautifully revealed, he regards Laurent with an open want, brighter and hotter than any fire.
Both Nikandros and Laurent startle when they hear the outer door thrown open and then closed. Damen walks into the bedchamber, brown eyes sweeping between Nikandros and Laurent, and Laurent sees the pleasant shock on his face. He’s touched, charmed, that they waited for him.
“I have been informed Ambassador Gerhard will be on his way within the hour,” says Damen. “Kyros Aglaia is currently being entertained by Makedon. Spare a thought for our spear collection between those two.”
“Torveld?” asks Laurent.
“Their ship has been spotted. Lady Mathilde and her husband have decided to stay on and smooth over this gaffe.”
Laurent smirks. “All seems settled, then, does it not?”
“Laurent,” Damen says. “Go kiss him.”
Laurent is across the room in an instant. He takes Nikandros’ face with both hands and their mouths meet in a rabid reintroduction. Laurent blows past the chaste pecks he’s been bestowing as of late and forces his tongue past Nikandros’ eagerly parting lips. They kiss their fill, and though Laurent lets his hands roam wantonly all over Nikandros’ chest, back, neck, and hair, the other man keeps himself anchored to Laurent’s waist.
When Laurent pulls away with spit-slicked, swollen lips, he turns to Damen.
“Now you,” he orders and all but shoves Nikandros at him.
Neither hesitates which perhaps speaks to Nikandros’ training to obey his king, or Damen’s inclination to obey Laurent, or both of their internal drive to never back down from a proffered challenge.
They collide like two monuments to Akielon masculinity, and when they intertwine in a passionate embrace, Laurent’s mind almost rejects the tangible image right in front of him.
How? How had they never done that together? Did they have any idea how that looked?
Laurent had only ever witnessed Damen kissing women before. When they’d spent that memorable night in the company of Halvik’s tribe and the Vaskians had shown Damen their specific brand of hospitality.
This, however, might be the single most erotic sight Laurent has ever beheld.
Damen and Nikandros kiss in a skillful demonstration, like an extension of a sporting exhibition. Laurent watches, an awed spectator, unsure who he should crown the victor. Trust these two to treat kissing like a tournament of champions. Laurent senses no awkwardness from the lifelong friends nor do the kisses appear impersonal. There is none of the bored detachment Laurent recalls from some of the pets in Arles. Damen and Nikandros kiss for the sake of holding up the contract of this space, this glorious moment.
They won. So now, they celebrate.
Laurent’s reward for once again defending what he and Damen have achieved, is to see them clutch at each other’s backs and hair, while full-lipped mouths do their best to deepen each kiss. As they are occupied, Laurent contents himself with undressing swiftly and lounging on the bed.
Damen ends the kissing abruptly and groans at the sight of a naked Laurent.
“The next time we are all in bed together, Laurent, you will be in full Veretian court regalia. I need someone else to understand the trials of the laces.”
Nikandros laughs and pats Damen on the cheek. “Do not sulk, Damen, it is unbecoming.”
They exchange a fond look and Damen briefly raises his eyebrows, a quick temperature check. Nikandros dips his chin in reassurance and with that, all reservations are left behind.
Laurent, who has needed to know exactly how he would be touched and where, has shed all that prior trepidation. He surrenders himself to a tangle of limbs and lips. It matters not, in this moment, who is touching him and where, because he will be cherished securely whether it is Damen or Nikandros.
When Laurent whispers in Damen’s ear what Nikandros plans to do to his thighs, Damen spasms, cock jerking in Laurent’s grip.
“And you want that?” he confirms with Laurent while Nikandros kisses up his neck.
“Mmmm, yes.” Laurent tips his head back to give Nikandros an easier angle. “Get the oil.”
As Damen pads across the room, Laurent grabs Nikandros and rolls them so he can sit astride him.
Leaning down, he kisses him deep and slow, grinding their hips together. Nikandros squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a moan. Laurent takes both his wrists in hand and places them above his head, pressing them against the bed.
“Nikandros,” says Laurent as he kisses along his sharp jaw to his ear. “I have finally pinned you.”
Nikandros blinks up at him and Damen almost drops the oil from laughing.
“Please tell me that is not what all this has been about,” says Nikandros.
“That would be excessively elaborate, even for me,” says Laurent.
They all laugh and it hits Laurent with sudden, magnificent clarity. This is running across the rooftops of Nesson. This is playing pet in an inn, this is coordinating a raid with a Vaskian tribe, this is disguising himself as a renowned Veretian cloth merchant.
This is fun.
He kisses the brief frown off Nikandros’ mouth and then loses himself entirely in the revelry of it all.
Laurent clambers off Nikandros and turns on his side, and inviting him to fuck between mostly closed thighs from behind by way of an apology. Damen slides down as well, facing Laurent so the two of them can kiss and stroke each other with practiced hands.
What began as a frenzy slows now, as the scandalous sounds of fucking fill the room. Laurent adjusts to the strange yet not unpleasant sensation of Nikandros’ thrusts between his legs, and does his best to keep the muscles flexed and tight for him.
Ruling can take its toll on Laurent. It’s watching his back and Damen’s. Ensuring Damen isn’t too trusting and Laurent resists reverting to former iciness. They have to maintain an inscrutable relationship to the public, to their respective councils who, though now unified, still retain some overt prejudices. They have to travel often, show their faces more than either he or Damen would want. Periods of respite are few and far between and when they do occur, are interrupted by foolish amateurs like Gerhard.
But ruling also has its benefits, and Laurent means to have this one in particular. Gone is the need to present a humble facade, an even-tempered manner. Here, he is craven and desired and insatiable. He can let his guard down so low that Nikandros barely has to raise his foot to clear it.
Nikandros gasps as his hips stutter and Laurent feels come dripping down his legs. With kisses pressing on either side of his neck from both men, he spills, too, and Damen swears at the sight of it. There’s a flurry of movement and more kissing and more touching and Laurent demands Damen’s fingers inside him. Nikandros and Damen have swapped sides now, but Laurent remains between them, exactly where he wants to be.
The ghosts of his past have been if not silenced, then subdued.
You can want this.
It is easier to believe now with Damen and Nikandros surrounding him in every sense.
You can have this.
They’ve tired each other out for the third or fourth time (Laurent has lost count now) and are clean and dry.
You can keep this.
He watches Damen and Nikandros take turns tossing dates back and forth for the other to catch with their mouths.
There will be more threats to their stability. No empire is without tribulation. But after all Laurent has killed, bled, and schemed for, he allows himself to envision the happy and lighter days, too, in this kingdom.
Those visions look exactly like the present moment, interspersed with different backdrops. The beaches of Ios, the riding trails, the Summer Palace, the new palace at Marlas.
Laurent breathes in his happiness and though he exhales the air, the emotion remains; pure, indelible, and all his own.
FIN