Archive of Our Own

The eyeliner was too much, Laurent thought. Too straight, too neat. It gave the impression that he'd stood at his bathroom mirror and put it on carefully, with precise hands. He had, but that wasn't the image he needed to wear tonight.

Instead of removing it, he pressed the heel of his palm into each eye, hard, and dragged outwards. The eyeliner smeared into a puddle of greasy black. Now he looked sloppy drunk and unhygienic. Perfect. Laurent left it and carefully washed the black streaks from his hands.

He had been seeing his therapist, a quiet bespectacled woman with a mind like a whip, for a year already when she suggested offhandedly that perhaps Laurent was...controlling. Rigid. As if that revelation was a shock to Laurent, who had been writing down his own daily itineraries in fifteen-minute increments since he was twelve years old.

She had been the first therapist he'd seen who had not broken under his calm thrashing of her character, who had not suggested that he find someone with “more experience” or “a background in trauma” or, on one memorable occasion, “fucking anyone but me, get the hell out of my office before I call the police.” For that, Laurent owed her a modicum of respect and the barest of effort. He still thought the idea was ludicrous. Laurent had once been a boy with no control over his own life; it had not been a positive experience.

The smell of mousse was cloying in the small space of his bathroom. Laurent dragged it through his hair, letting the locks fall in a disheveled mess around his face. He'd just had it cut on Thursday; long enough to put back for court days, short enough that it only took a modicum of effort to leave down. He worked too much overtime for anything more complicated.

Laurent's therapist had not been pleased with his ongoing implementation of her suggestion. Does this feel like it's in the spirit of the exercise? She'd asked. That had happened after the drag racing. He hadn't even told her about the drugs. Her meaning was clear; she thought Laurent was sabotaging the experiment by swinging wildly in the opposite direction, so far that his experiences were bound to be negative. She worried about his ability to moderate his own behavior. She didn't see how Laurent applied the same precise, cut-throat logic to this version of 'letting go' that he did to everything else in his life. He took precautions. He picked locations far away from where he lived. He paid off the right people to keep their mouths shut. He mussed his hair and blacked his eyes until no one would recognize Laurent De Vere, respected prosecutor, as he fell apart gracefully in front of them.

She wanted him to lose control, but not too much and not too little and not in any way that was truly dangerous; perhaps it was her that was controlling.

Laurent checked himself one last time. The sheer amount of skin he had on display tonight made the back of his neck prickle uncomfortably. Laurent didn't like the whisper of open air on his arms, or his collarbones, or his stomach. But if his therapist wanted him to let go, then let go he would.

The club, when Laurent stepped out of his ride share, was crowded, loud, and sick with the smell of sweating bodies. Though it was early, there was already a gaggle of girls huddled on the curb, looking as though they might be collapse at any moment. Laurent brushed past them, flashed his ID to the bouncer, and strode into hell.

The base thumped against his backbone and pressed worryingly against his teeth. Laurent headed straight for the bar. He accepted the shot of vodka the bartender slid to him, threw it back with a grimace, and tried to enjoy the way his veins lit up with warmth. It didn’t feel like pleasure; it felt like losing touch with his body. How did people enjoy this feeling? When Laurent closed his eyes like this, what he saw was not pleasantries. It was the smell of rancid fruit on too-hot breath; vomit in a waste basket and he doesn’t know if it’s from the drink or from the sex; the fathomless ache inside a lonely boy as he watched his brother lowered into the ground. Alcohol summoned nothing but ghosts.

Doggedly, as he did each Saturday that he was forced through this ritual, Laurent beat back the memories and focused on what was in front of him. Flashing lights and the hazy vapor of a smoke machine. A top 40 hit remixed for the dance floor. The feel of the sticky bar top under his fingertips. The smell of spilled beer and body odor.

He could do this. Laurent pushed off the bar and thrust into the crowd of bodies out on the floor.

Begrudgingly, he had admitted to his therapist that he did, in fact, enjoy dancing. The drinking made that part easier; Laurent didn't worry about what he looked like, whether he was putting on a convincing show or using his body to the correct advantage for any goal. There was no goal, only moving until he was trembling and sore with fatigue.

The song changed to something deeper, the base more primal and slightly slower. A body appeared in front of Laurent. Laurent looked up and caught the gaze of an olive-skinned man with dark hair and eyes. He was a few inches taller than Laurent and much broader, the fabric of his t-shirt straining across his chest and biceps. He smiled at Laurent, his teeth a strip of sunlight against the darkness.

Laurent did not know what expression he made in return, but it couldn't have been wholly scathing, because the man didn't leave. Instead, he moved closer and put a broad hand on Laurent's hip. Then he was in Laurent's space, his breath hot on Laurent's ear, the slide of his jeans rough against Laurent's thigh.

The first time Laurent had done this, it had been overwhelming, and he'd immediately left the club and walked the whole way home, shivering in the dark. Now, he had control enough of himself that he could continue moving, even as his body shuddered and rebelled against the touch of a stranger. He didn't want to be dancing with anyone. He didn't want broad hands at his hip or breath at his temple, or the slick feel of sweat dripping down the small of his back. He kept dancing. He was here to let go. To experience what other people did. It was apparently not enough for his therapist that he simply did not want it. So he would do this, and he decided there, in that moment, that he would finally push a step farther. If the man asked him home, Laurent would not turn him down. He would go.

A hand touched the sweaty hair at his temple, brushed it behind his ear. The hand at his hip pressed insistently; Laurent let himself be spun around so a broad chest could plaster itself to his back. Possessive hands slid down his torso to his thighs and back up again. Laurent threw his head back and let the nausea slide through him alongside the vodka.

They danced together through another song, then the man took Laurent's hand and led him from the dance floor towards the bar. The man yelled something at the bartender that Laurent didn't catch; Laurent expected the cup the bartender pressed into his hand to be more alcohol, but when he took a sip, it was just ice water, pure and sweet down his aching throat.

“You looked thirsty.” the man shouted, leaning in close so Laurent could hear him. “My name is Damen. What's yours?”

Laurent took another sip of the water and looked up at Damen through his lashes. Damen was not unattractive; a broad jaw and nose, slightly humped as if it had been broken at one time. Dark eyes that were intent but forthright. His hands had been impertinent on the dance floor but were not occupied as Damen leaned on the bar, flashing those white teeth.

“Do you require a name to fuck me into the floor?” Laurent shouted back. “How sentimental.”

The man – Damen – smiled wider. “Well, you can't blame me if you don't like the one I make up, then. Come on.”

Apparently, Laurent's response had signed him up to be the lay for the night, rather faster than he'd intended. Well, he had decided he was committed to it, if it happened. Draining the rest of the water, Laurent discarded the cup on the table and let himself be pulled towards the entrance to the club. Damen stopped once, to let another man know he was leaving. The man glanced at Laurent, rolled his eyes, and went back to doing shots.

The night air was so relieving it nearly took Laurent's breath away to step into it. He reveled in the feel of space, distance around his body, the crisp air teasing at his overheated skin and drawing heat from his pores. Until a body pressed against his own. He just barely stopped himself from a violent reaction.

“Come back to mine?” Damen murmured in Laurent's neck. “I called the cab already.”

“Seems my choice is made for me.” Laurent said. Damen did not catch the bitterness in Laurent's voice. He was too busy pressing soft lips against the pulse point just under Laurent's jaw. Laurent lifted his hands and slid them across Damen's chest, feeling the heft of muscle underneath his fingertips.

What would he do this evening? Laurent wondered, thoughts distant. He'd let men touch him before, touched them in return, but nothing yet that required the removing of clothes. Now here he was, going home with a man. His therapist would be so pleased. Laurent De Vere, laying himself bare for a stranger to feast on, just as he had done for his uncle so many years ago. How thrilling. How healing.

Damen's mouth slid upwards and pressed against Laurent's. Laurent let himself be levered open and scraped clean by Damen's lips and his tongue, his arms and hips moving mechanically against Damen as necessary. The man smelled of earth and jasmine.

It was a brief cab ride to Damen's apartment. Damen occupied them both the whole way. Then it was a short trip up a flight of stairs, and Damen fumbling keys out of his pocket, and they were inside an apartment and Damen was pressing Laurent against the wall of the entryway and then dropping to his knees to mouth at the exposed skin on Laurent's hip. All of it flashes of movement, like shots in a dizzying montage.

The scratch of teeth against his skin had Laurent jolting, hands flying out to push Damen away. Damen lifted his head and looked at Laurent, eyes dark with desire.

“Sorry. Too rough?” he asked, voice low. “You didn't strike me as a sweet lover.”

“Do you manhandle all your conquests like sacks of grain? Or have you forgotten it’s a person you’re touching and not just your right hand?” Laurent asked. He was well aware his words were on the verge of giving away the game, but he was too far gone to curb them. The tension in his body had boiled up faster than he'd expected; just stepping into a stranger's house knowing what was waiting for him had apparently been a larger leap than he'd expected. He felt like a rubber band about to snap.

“So you do like it sweet.” Damen said softly. He leaned forward again, but his lips didn't touch Laurent's hip. Instead, he simply exhaled. The breath spread across Laurent's skin and sent prickles up his spine. Damen pushed back to his feet slowly and bracketed Laurent's head with his hands. When he leaned in this time, he did it it slowly, his eyes on Laurent's face until he was too close to focus, and then his eyelids fluttered shut, and he pressed his mouth to Laurent's.

The kiss this time was light, beseeching. Damen's lips were gentle against Laurent's own. He withdrew a beat, then leaned in again and kissed for another moment. Nothing of his body pressed against Laurent, though after a moment one hand reached up and traced the line of Laurent's jaw.

“Better?” Damen asked, pulling away. Shockingly, he seemed just as aroused as he had a moment ago, when he'd been ready to strip Laurent bare in the entryway. Perhaps he was simply that keen for a fuck, like an animal ready to rut the moment it was able. His pupils were blown wide and his lips glistened wetly.

Laurent could feel his body slackening with the increased distance. Conversely, his brain was kicking into overdrive. If his body would not protect him, his mind would; his mind would remember that this wasn't a situation to be enjoyed, but to be endured. With a growl of frustration, Laurent wrapped one hand around Damen's impossibly broad bicep and tugged him in the direction of the hallway, where Damen's room had to be located.

The bed was unmade, but otherwise, the room was reasonably clean and orderly. It smelled more strongly of Damen, though not unpleasantly so. Laurent swung the man around and shoved him on the bed. Before Damen could sit up, Laurent was crawling on top of him. It felt a bit like crawling his way to the guillotine. Laurent bracketed Damen’s hips with his thighs and let his weight settle down, nearly shuddering at the writhe of a body beneath him. When Damen shifted, groaning, Laurent could feel the stiffness of his arousal through his jeans. Leaning forward, Laurent brought his mouth to Damen's again, pushing away the sensation of Damen spreading his hands across Laurent's ass and pressing him down into that arousal.

Time passed. A dim haze settled over Laurent, one he hadn't felt since those years long ago when he'd been a child in a man's bed. He knew his limbs were moving and his mouth was working, sucking dark bruises into Damen's neck as Damen humped against him. He distantly watched as Damen yanked Laurent's shirt over his head and dragged a thumb over Laurent's nipple, then did the same with his tongue. It had been over a decade since the last time, and yet it was all so familiar. A puzzle to solve. A game to play, piece by piece, move by move. If Laurent did this, Damen would do that. If Laurent touched here, Damen would make this sound. Laurent could almost feel the chalis dragging through his veins.

Then Damen shifted, flipping Laurent onto his back, and everything changed.

It was strange, how little of this part he could remember afterwards. One moment he was on his back, a hot body pressed against his from collarbone to groin, and then Laurent was inside a bathroom he didn't recognize with his fingers on the lock. The inside of his head was a shrieking void. His vision went dark at the edges and seemed to lose focus wherever he looked; his skin throbbed like an exposed nerve. He twisted the doorknob to be sure it was locked, then sank to the floor and curled up in the corner, chest heaving with the force of his breath.

“Shit. Are you alright in there? What happened?” came a voice at the door. Laurent shrank away. A knock came, but the doorknob did not turn.

The sound of slow footsteps, moving away. Laurent's vision was kaleidoscoping. He could feel that he was breathing too shallowly. He tried to take a deeper breath and choked. His hair, wet with sweat, lay dank and cold against his neck.

Laurent tried to focus on the bathroom. Use his senses. He could see the bright halogen light of the overhead fixture, the deep blue of the shower curtain. He could hear Damen walking – no, he could hear the rustle of his jeans against the wall. He could smell something masculine, a soap or a cologne. He could press his hands to the ground and feel cool tile. He could taste his own alcohol-laden breath.

“Hey.” the voice was back at the door. “Listen. I'm sorry. I didn't realize – I thought we were doing okay. You took me by surprise there. Take as long as you need, okay? I'll go sit in the bedroom.”

There was silence for an indeterminate amount of time. The darkness at the edge of his vision lightened. Laurent looked down at the floor and tried to count the tiles. Damen's bathmat needed laundering. He tapped at the wall to hear the steady, rhythmic sound it made.

Footsteps approached again. “Hey. Obviously we're done for the night. I mean, I don't know if that was obvious. You don't owe me anything. When you're feeling up to it, I'll call you a cab and you can head home.”

The voice keyed up Laurent's nerves again, but it took him less time to return to himself. Whatever had happened, he was getting it under control. His breaths were steadier and deeper.

Something began creeping in, a sense of embarrassment as he realized what he'd done. Laurent had turned and fled before, but he'd never locked himself in a person's bathroom. It was, without a doubt, the worst possible move, because it meant when he emerged, he had to face Damen and whatever emotion he insisted on having at Laurent.

Fuck losing control. Having control would have meant that Laurent could have left before he was overwhelmed and saved himself this whole situation. He was going to fire his therapist. But not until after he ripped apart her profession and her credentials so scathingly that she fled the room weeping.

Eventually, he was able to stand. There was no noise outside the bathroom. Laurent ran the tap, washing the sweat from his face and rinsing the foul taste from his mouth. He looked up into the mirror. He was a wreck. It no longer seemed as amusing as it had before he'd left for the club.

It had been too long, and Laurent was many things, but he was not a coward. The moment he was able, he unlocked the door and stepped back through into reality, ready to accept the aftermath of what he had wrought.

Damen was no longer in the bedroom, the door to which was closed and had Laurent's shirt hanging from the doorknob, nor was he lingering outside the bathroom. Laurent dressed and found him in the living room, curled up on the couch half-asleep. Laurent couldn't remember if Damen had taken his shirt off, but now he was clothed from head to toe. He looked up when Laurent emerged, but made no move to get up from the couch.

“Hey.” Damen said. The tone was awkward, its artificial lightness not quite seamless at the edges. “Feeling better?”

Laurent had no intention of answering that question, nor of extending mercy to Damen for the situation he'd caused. All he wanted was to escape, as cleanly and simply as possible. “You said you'd call me a cab?”

“Oh. Yeah, of course.” Damen said. His cell was laying discarded on the coffee table; he snatched it up and started dialing. Laurent left him to it and went in search of his shoes.

When he returned, Damen was in the midst of a furious conversation on the phone, eyebrows furrowed.

“It's a Saturday – how can you have nothing available on a Saturday? Yes - I understand it's late, but every single one of the bars is still open. What kind of business are you running here?”

He stopped and listened for a moment, then spoke again abruptly, as if cutting someone off. “You know what, fine. You're wasting my time.”

Damen lowered the phone and jabbed at the screen. When he looked up at Laurent, the anger had gone, replaced with a sheepish smile. “Apparently the cabs don't run this late at night.”

“I'll walk.” Laurent said tonelessly. He was already turning to leave when Damen stood and strode towards him. He stopped the moment Laurent's shoulders tensed.

“It's too cold out. Plus, it's not exactly safe this time of night. I'm mostly sober by now. Let me drive you.”

Laurent considered it, discarded it. He thought about walking alone in his current state. Then he snatched the set of car keys hanging from a hook near the front door and yanked the door open.

“I drive.” he said flatly. “I sobered up hours ago.”

Laurent expected Damen to protest, but he just shrugged and pulled on a jacket and a pair of shoes. Laurent followed Damen out of the apartment and down to an olive-green Jeep. He took the driver's side as if the Jeep belonged to him, eased it out of its parking spot, then peeled out of the parking lot and skidded out onto the road. Damen grabbed for the handle on the ceiling of the Jeep, but said nothing else.

They were halfway home when Damen spoke. Laurent had hoped, but not expected, for him to keep quiet the rest of the way. What Damen chose to say still took him by surprise.

“Sorry. It really seemed like you were into it. I didn't mean to push you past your limits.”

Laurent thought about saying something sharp. But the drawn-out silence and the distance that Damen had carefully kept between them since he’d exited the bathroom left Laurent the space to realize that he'd stolen something from Damen too – the pleasure of an easy night out, the warmth of a willing body. Damen did not want to be here, shepherding Laurent home. And yet he was, with more grace than most could muster in such circumstances.

“I wasn't aware it was a limit until we were past it.” Laurent said. That wasn't strictly true – Laurent had known he was angling to overwhelm himself, he just didn't known that when it happened, it would be so instantaneous, so vicious. He’d perhaps not realized that there were parts of this situation, of himself, that he really couldn’t control. But what he'd said was the closest thing he could offer to the truth. Outside the window of the Jeep, the streetlights flashed by as Laurent drove, taking turns savagely, pushing the vehicle to roaring life.

“Did you like any of it?” Damen asked simply. Laurent's silence must have been enough of a response. He didn't ask any more questions.

They arrived at Laurent's townhouse in silence. Laurent pulled into a spot, left the Jeep rumbling, stepped out of the car. Damen came around the hood and stood in front of him, hands shoved deep into his pockets to ward against the chill of the night.

“Do you need to call someone?” Damen asked. “I don't want to leave you alone if you're still hurting.”

“If you're quick about it, you can still find a pretty young blond to stick your cock in.” Laurent said. He didn't mean to say it. He didn't like the way Damen drew back from him, as if slapped. But it had been said. There was no turning back time.

“Have a good night.” Damen replied, voice soft. He didn't try to touch Laurent. He didn't let his eyes linger. He just slipped past and into the driver's side of the Jeep, and then he was pulling off into the night, and then he was gone.

Laurent walked up to his apartment. The bottle of wine he'd bought and rejected earlier in the evening was still waiting patiently on the counter. Laurent opened it unceremoniously and took a swig directly from the bottle.

He fell asleep like that on the couch, drunk and nauseated and dreaming of broad olive fingers on his hips while a bearded face brushed against his neck.

–

Laurent went back the next month. In truth, he'd wanted to go back the next week, but that was not how this game worked. He played the loss of control game once a month, not more often; as it was this staunch commitment to routine and compartmentalization that had gotten him to where he was in life, so he was not going to start falling apart now.

Damen was there. Laurent didn't know if had wanted that outcome or not. Perhaps both were simultaneously true.

He was doing shots with the man he had said goodbye to the month before. Then he was out on the dance floor with a slim blonde with waist-length hair, clasping her hips and licking at the sweat on her neck.

When he staggered to the bar – alone – Laurent was there. Damen raised an eyebrow at the cup Laurent procured from the bartender, but the moment the water touched his lips, he drank deeply, head tilted back to expose the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. When he was finished, he draw the back of his hand across his wet lips and gave Laurent an unreadable look.

“I'm not interested in being part of whatever self-destructive game you're playing.” Damen said.

Still. He had drank the water. It was not a complete rejection.

“Which of these people do you plan to play it with instead, then?” Laurent asked, gesturing to the seething mass of flesh around them. “Ah. The one you were dancing with suits. Does it matter if the hair comes from a bottle?”

“It's not like that for everyone, you know. The rest of us are here to enjoy ourselves.” Damen leaned against the bar. “Or if they are, we find something else to do. It's not sex every time.”

“What else could you possibly being doing?” Laurent asked scornfully.

Which was how they ended up at a 24-hour diner with a waiter that perfumed the air around their booth with the reeking scent of weed and then took twenty minutes just to bring their coffees.

Damen ordered an omelet. He ate like a bear in the springtime; Laurent nearly expected him to start licking the plate. When he reached his fork out to steal a blueberry from Laurent's breakfast and was nearly impaled for the audacity, his smile was broad and genuine. He ordered two more eggs and a side of ham while Laurent picked through his fruit and toast.

“I saw you a couple weeks ago.” Damen said, after the battlefield of their 2 AM breakfast had been plundered and abandoned. Laurent kept his face carefully neutral.

“Oh?” His voice was calm.

Damen nodded. “I volunteer some time at Arles.”

Arles. The boy’s home. Laurent had been there to meet with Nicaise two weeks ago. He took a sip of his coffee to give himself a moment. He was not in the right mindset to think about the aspects of Nicaise's case he'd been there to discuss. Work thoughts belonged in work hours when his feelings were strapped down, or in the quiet early hours of his apartment, when no one else was around to see.

“Thank you for your discretion, then.” Laurent said. Damen smiled wryly.

“You think I'd go around shouting your business to people you work with?”

“I think I have been in your presence for less than three hours in total and the activities you've indulged in give me little reason to discard the possibility.”

“Laurent.” Damen said. “I'm a therapist. If I considered it a bad thing for a prosecutor who works cases on behalf of abused boys to have his own experiences with trauma, the therapy gods would descend from the heavens and smack the shit out of me.” Something must have shown on Laurent's expression, because he added, “I'm not therapizing you right now. I'm having coffee with an attractive man I met at the club. I just thought it might be important to you to know that I knew something about you outside of this context.”

Important so that Laurent wasn't blindsided when he inevitably noticed their paths had crossed, or important so that Laurent was aware of Damen's bit of leverage over him? Neither possibility was of concern – casually outmaneuvering boorish men who tried to manipulate him was old hat for Laurent.

“You must be intimately familiar with that club and its patrons.” Laurent said casually to change the subject.

Damen shrugged. He had caught Laurent's slight, but didn't appear ready to rise to it. “I like to dance. I like to fuck.”

What blunt, easy sensuality this man exuded, like a well-satisfied stallion in a herd of fertile mares. Damen held himself like a king, the world made especially for him, his place in it tailored to his every measurement. Laurent wished he had met Damen as a therapy patient. Laurent would never have chosen someone like Damen, of course; too handsome, too self-assured, too much. But for exactly those reasons, it would have been fun to lounge on his therapy couch and make a game of dismantling him. Laurent thought he rather deserved it.

“That explains your barbaric appetite for diner food.” Laurent shot back. Damen snatched up his fork and snaked out; this time, Laurent let him steal a piece of strawberry from his discarded plate. The fruit left a streak of bloody juice on his lower lip, which he swiped off with a fingertip and then licked from said finger casually.

They walked out together. Outside the door, Damen's hand brushed Laurent's, then wrapped around his wrist gently. Laurent turned, ready to pull away, but Damen just leaned against the side of the diner and smiled at him.

“Can I drive you home? I won't come in.” Damen asked. His hand turned Laurent's over so his pale wrist was exposed to the night air and drew a gentle line down Laurent's palm. Then, without prompting, he let go.

“I drive.” Laurent said. Damen slid a hand in his pocket, tossed his keys to Laurent. They walked back to Damen's Jeep together and settled in, Damen's hand going to the overhead handle almost automatically. Laurent took the first half mile at a sedate pace just to disarm him, then slammed his foot on the accelerator and whipped around the next corner so fast the back of the Jeep fishtailed.

They parted in front of Laurent's house the same as they'd done before. Laurent stepped out of the Jeep, Damen watched him go, then unceremoniously climbed into the driver's side and left.

Laurent brushed his hair, washed his face – no wine this time – and slid into bed.

The dreams were unbearable.

–

On the third month, Damen was waiting for Laurent at the bar. There was a sheen of sweat at his hairline, but if he'd been dancing with anyone, he'd taken the time to rest. He smiled at Laurent, shrugged into his jacket, and followed him outside.

“Am I giving you my keys?” Damen asked, when they had stepped out into the cool street. Laurent liked that he asked.

“No. It's my turn.” Laurent said dismissively. Damen shrugged and followed him, a small smile on his face.

The cabin of Laurent's Mercedes, perfectly sized for its usual passenger load of just Laurent, shrank uncomfortably when Damen curled his bulk into the passenger seat. His shoulders nearly brushed Laurent's and his elbow bumped into Laurent's forearm as Laurent shifted into first gear, pulling them away from the curb. It was silent in the car; Laurent switched the sound system on and Chopin whirled softly through the air.

Laurent took them on a winding route through the city and then out to the south where the city melted into wild landscape. The road snaked up through the hills, thick with darkness and the scent of pine. The headlights of oncoming cars trickled to a stop until they were alone on the road with the wind and the swooping branches of the trees overhead.

At the apex of the route, another road split off and began to meander back down the curves of the mountainside. Laurent turned onto it, shifted. The engine roared.

It felt like falling. The tires seemed to only touch the road by the barest of tread. The asphalt twisted to the left; ahead of them, a wall of tree trunks advanced. Laurent downshifted and swung the steering wheel to the right, and they flew around the curve, bodies pressed deep into the seats by centrifugal forces.

Laurent had chosen a road that was still fairly new to him. There were other roads he'd driven a thousand times, his journey down them imprinted in his body like a scar. He didn't want that comfort or familiarity tonight. He wanted the illicit thrill of not quite knowing which way the path bent in front of them, so that each moment was new and thrilling. Each curve pushed the car and the bodies inside it to the limit, promising severe consequences for the slightest mistake. When Laurent looked over, Damen was alive but not concerned; his pupils were blown wide in the darkness and his body was loose and vibrating, leaning into the turns as they came.

The next turn, Laurent took just a little too wide; his back wheel spun in the gravel on the side of the road, spraying rocks out into the darkness. After a split moment of uncertainty, the tire caught back on the road and they straightened out. Damen didn't close his eyes, didn't flinch.

It was over too soon. At the bottom of the hill, where the road straightened back out and meandered through a series of fields overgrown with golden grass, Laurent pulled off onto a turnaround and threw the car into park. The engine and the music cut off, replaced by the thunk of the doors opening and the sound of shoes on hard dirt.

“How'd you find this place?” Damen asked, as they leaned against the side of Laurent's car and looked up at the sky. No that was incredible, no where'd you learn to drive like that. It wasn't that Damen was unsurprised by this secret of Laurent's; it was like he'd looked at Laurent and known that he had secrets to share. He had known that Laurent had something worth offering, even after Laurent had dredged up the biggest weakness he had and put it on display in their first meeting.

“I have friends in the drag racing community.” Laurent said simply. Damn huffed a laugh. He had a deep, melodic laugh that stuck in a person's bones to hear it.

Slowly, Damen turned and reached a hand towards Laurent's face. Laurent didn't move. After a moment, Damen pressed his hand to Laurent's jaw and lifted his face, just slightly. The kiss he pressed to Laurent's mouth was mellow, almost soothing. He kissed, and kissed again, and then he kissed the side of Laurent's face, and then the tense curve of his neck, where Laurent's pulse struggled like a trapped thing.

“I'd like to do something for you. You have to tell me if you want me to stop.” Damen said. He dropped to his knees in front of Laurent.

Laurent's hands came up and buried themselves in Damen's hair, holding him still for a long minute. Damen looked up at him. He was not made smaller by being on his knees, kowtowed to Laurent. He looked precisely like a man who had placed himself there with full confidence that he was still in control of the situation. The sweep of his dark eyelashes was princely. Laurent let his hands soften in Damen's curls.

Damen leaned forward and exhaled a hot breath against the zipper of Laurent's pants. One hand wrapped around the back of Laurent's knee; the other touched his waistband at the hip and traced across to the button.

The air was chilly where it hit Laurent's exposed skin. Damen pulled out only the part of him that needed attention; the rest of Laurent's clothes stayed tightly, fastidiously tied. Then he leaned forward and opened his mouth.

Every press of Damen's hand, every swipe of his tongue was firm and slow, so that Laurent could feel the sensation fully even when his eyes slid shut. There was no question about where Damen's hands or mouth would go next; his every move built a platform of desire for Laurent, stable under him as Laurent's body hummed with tension and ache. He needed that stability when the desire hit and thickened him against Damen's tongue. Laurent and desire were not fast companions.

Laurent had not been this aroused since he – something slapped down inside of him, like a cell door slamming shut. The muscles in Laurent's abdomen heaved. Damen felt it and pulled off with a wet pop, looking up at Laurent.

“What do you need?” Damen asked. His voice was rough from what his throat had just been subjected to. The air was painfully cold on Laurent's wet, aching cock. Laurent tried and failed to keep his hands from tightening in Damen's hair, but Damen made no protest.

“Just keep going.” Laurent said tightly. Damen gave him a look. When he tried to rise to his feet, Laurent shifted forward and pushed him back down onto his knees.

“I just need time to work through it. Keep going. Slowly.” Laurent commanded. Explained. For a moment, Damen kept looking at him, and Laurent thought he would refuse, but then he cast his eyes downwards and leaned in again.

Damen raised the hand that wasn't wrapped around Laurent's knee and pried one of Laurent's hands from his hair. Laurent let his grip be transferred to Damen's hand instead and clenched, white-knuckled, as Damen's tongue and lips dragged over him in a slow, relentless rhythm.

Undoing his instinctive reaction to shut down was like dismantling a wall, brick by brick. Laurent had to sink himself into the sensation and grow accustomed to it. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and forced his muscles to relax. He felt the slight, chilly breeze on his face and the press of the car door into his back. Slowly, Laurent's cock filled again. The strange sensation of pressure and desire built in his body, and Laurent used every measure of his control to resist controlling it.

Damen pressed his tongue flat to the underside of Laurent's cock and slid forward until his lips were pressed against Laurent's abdomen. His throat was a slick, tight heat. Laurent drew in a breath sharply. It took every ounce of his self-discipline, the actions of a man lost at sea allowing himself to slip beneath the waves, but Laurent gritted his teeth and allowed himself to let go.

When the aftershocks had faded and Laurent had set himself to rights, Damen stood and leaned against the side of the Mercedes again. It was as if it had never happened, except that Damen's lips were swollen and Laurent felt a sensation inside his chest like broken glass.

“I'm not reciprocating.” Laurent said.

Damen said, calmly, “I wasn't expecting you to.”

The front of his pants was tented, but Damen was acting as if he hadn't noticed. Laurent couldn't tell if something had been given to him or taken away by what had just happened. Maybe both. It was too early to tell how he felt about it.

“Let's go.” he said.

“Can I drive?” Damen asked. Laurent looked at him. “I've never driven a Mercedes. I can drive stick.”

“Can you?” Laurent asked lightly. Damen's gaze did not drop to Laurent's waist. The edges of his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

Giving up the keys was like ripping his own tooth out with a pair of pliers. Laurent had never sat in the passenger seat of his own car before. Damen could indeed drive a manual; it took him a moment to adjust to the rhythm of the Mercedes, but in a few minutes he had taken to it with ease and surety born of experience. He was not on Laurent’s level, but Laurent had to admit that, once the first few minutes had passed and some of the tension had eased from his frame, it was – pleasant – to see Damen take joy from something Laurent himself liked so much. To share that.

Damen pulled up next to his Jeep, parked a few streets down from the club, and got out of the car. They lingered this time.

“No jokes this time about going to find someone to stick my cock in?” Damen asked easily, jokingly.

“There's a hole in the fence over there. Maybe you'll get lucky.” Laurent replied.

The side of Damen's mouth quirked up. Laurent saw him think about leaning in to kiss Laurent good night, reconsider, and step towards his car. It was a relief; if Damen had kissed him just then, Laurent would have bit him.

–

The next month, Laurent didn't go back. He drove up the mountain on his own and flew down the path to the turnaround at the bottom. He got out, jacket collar popped against the chill, and pressed himself back against the side of his car. His hands felt empty, so he spread them against the smooth blue expanse of the car door. Then he went home and stretched out on his bed with his hand fisted around his cock and stroked relentlessly until the drag of his palm physically hurt against the sensitive skin. He thought about a crop of dark curls under his fingertips, a tongue pressed under the sensitive head, the undulation of a tight throat. He thought about Damen's teeth, bright in the darkness of the club, and his lip streaked with strawberry juice. Laurent dismantled the wall. It was still a shock when he came. The spurt was feeble, the clench of pleasure in his gut little more than that caused by a pleasant stretch, but his memory of the last time he'd finished on his own was so old this might as well have been the first time.

–

The room the volunteer therapists used at Arles doubled as the nurse's station. Laurent had never been inside, but he was aware of the regular rotation of men and women that occupied it. Laurent always paid close attention to those that disappeared behind a closed door with a child.

When he pushed the door open, the sole occupant had his back turned and was bent over, digging through a messenger bag lying on a small loveseat shoved into the corner of the absurdly tiny room. The position did good things for the broad expanse of Damen's back and the tight flex of his ass.

“Hey, I'm not quite re – oh. Hello. Fancy meeting you here.” Damen meet Laurent's eyes and grinned. “When you didn't show up on Saturday, I thought maybe we were done.”

“Nicaise told me you usually take a break before his session.” Laurent said, slipping into the room so he could lean against the desk propped up against the wall. It must have been where Damen sat during sessions; there was a closed laptop and a notepad on it.

“You asked Nicaise about me?” Damen said, approaching. He did it as if his attention was all on Laurent, but one hand reached out surreptitiously and flipped the notepad on the desk over so the notes were hidden from Laurent's view. Laurent liked him for it. “That's going to make our session interesting.”

Laurent didn't reach out to Damen, but the closeness of him felt like transgression regardless. Damen didn't make himself shy of looking at Laurent from head to toe, nor of projecting that he was enjoying the process.

“You look different in your work clothes. Or maybe it's the lack of smeared eyeliner.” Damen said.

“Funny, you look exactly the same. It's a shock they let you through the door.”

The barb was just that, but the spirit was true. The Damen that stood before him was the same man. The collared shirt and dress pants only amplified what had been visible about him on the dance floor: that he was measured and confident, but with a warmth to him that drew the eye. Laurent wondered what Nicaise thought of him. Nicaise was an excellent judge of character and a harsh critic, but he was also a boy ready to be enamored by anyone that would extend a hand to him. Laurent suspected that if he were the fourteen year old sitting on the couch, taking that hand would feel as easy as sinking into deep water and drowning.

Laurent realized he was staring, and the longer he stared, the wider Damen's smile got. Breaking the eye contact, he drew a business card from his back pocket and proffered it with two fingers.

Damen took it. “Do I need a lawyer?” he asked, studying the card.

“I thought we could schedule something, so next time, you don't already smell of body odor and women's perfume by the time I get there.”

“You told me to stick my cock in the hole in the fence. I didn't have any control over what was on the other side.”

“I'll just have to show up with a bouquet of wet wipes.” Laurent said. “Or we can find a garden hose and spray you down like a dog.”

“Maybe then they'll let me in the door.” Damen's eyes were crinkling in the corners. A shuffle and then a knock came at the door. “I've got to go. I'm sure you know Nicaise isn't very patient.”

When Laurent opened the door, Nicaise was on the other side, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and already scowling, as if he'd prepared the expression in advance.

“Are you fucking my therapist?” Nicaise asked Laurent scornfully. His hair was getting long; it made him look a little bit like an angry brown poodle.

Laurent ignored him. “Think about what we talked about. We've only got one more session before your case goes to court.” Laurent told him.

Nicaise narrowed his eyes at Laurent's avoidance of the question. Laurent was hinging on Nicaise chalking it up to being an inappropriate topic of discussion for one's lawyer. Either way, it was Damen's problem to deal with; he watched Nicaise stalk into the tiny nurse's station and slam the door shut, then drove back to his office and threw himself into his work until he almost forgot all about handing over the business card.

–

Laurent was at his office, hunched over a mound of paperwork, when Damen called two days later. He thought about ignoring the phone call and putting the inevitable until later, but then he decided he was responsible for the consequences of his own actions and hit the accept button.

“Laurent de Vere.” he answered tersely. There was a low chuckle from the other end.

“You would answer the phone like that. Isn't this your mobile?” Damen asked.

“It's my mobile, sitting on my work desk, in my work office, where I am working.” Laurent responded. He was not as put off by the call as he was insinuating. He'd been studying the paperwork in front of him so intently that he'd given himself a headache. Damen's voice was – soothing.

“Well then, I'll get to the point. Do you want to come over tomorrow for dinner?” Damen asked.

There was a pause. Then Laurent said, “What time?”

“Seven okay?” Laurent made an agreeable noise. “Anything you don't eat?”

Laurent was thinking about Damen's entryway, his unmade bed, the tile on the floor in his bathroom. His mouth said, “Surprise me.”

“I was thinking steak.” Damen said in response. Laurent hung up on him, because he didn't like that Damen had figured out how little Laurent liked surprises.

–

When he showed up the next evening, it was in the most restrictive clothing he could find, with an endless row of small buttons down the front of the shirt, leather lacing down each forearm that would be hell to untie with blunt fingers, and high-waisted pants with a hidden clasp. He was covered from just under his neck down to the wrist and had on socks that pulled nearly up to his knees. The bite of the band around his calf was soothing.

Damen was dressed as far to the opposite as he could get without stripping. He had on a loose white shirt with a full three buttons undone at the top, revealing an expanse of olive collarbone, and short white sleeves that stretched over his massive biceps. His khaki pants clung to the outline of muscular thighs. His expression was equally loose and revealing; too much pure pleasure at the sight of Laurent on his doorstep for Laurent to handle.

“You made it. I was just about to throw the steaks on. Come on in.”

The smell of baking potatoes wafted through as Damen disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving Laurent to pull off his shoes. Damen didn't so much as touch him. That was not what Laurent had been prepared for. The relief of not being pushed warred with the unease at an unexpected action as Laurent shrugged his jacket off and hung it on a hook on the wall.

The door to the bathroom and the bedroom were both closed. When Laurent emerged cautiously into the kitchen, Damen was heating butter and garlic in a pan with his back turned to Laurent. There was a half-full glass of wine at his elbow. The bottle, a Veretian Cabernet of a good vintage, sat open on the counter with another glass next to it. Laurent pointedly ignored it and pulled a glass from the cabinet to fill with water.

There was a sharp sizzle from the stove and the smell of cooking meat.

“How do you like your steak?” Damen asked casually, his eyes on the counter as he picked up the other steak to transfer to the hot pan. “Medium? Rare? Still mooing?”

“If you'd really set out to impress, you would have let me pull the trigger.” Laurent quipped. Damen laughed as he flipped the steaks.

“Maybe next time. We'll put a spear in your hand and let you loose with the hounds, I think that would suit you.”

“You make dangerous promises.”

Damen looked up and caught Laurent's eye. He had one of the slabs of meat up on the side and was pressing the raw edge down on the hot pan to sear it shut. “And I mean every one.” he said. His mouth was smiling; his eyes were very serious.

Laurent held his gaze. Damen met it levelly. When he broke eye contact, it was not a case of Damen blinking first. The moment slipped back into normalcy.

“So – not that I'm asking for any privileged information – but what is Nicaise doing with a lawyer? Most cases are handled by the social worker.”

“Why not ask Nicaise?” Laurent parried, taking a sip of his water. “You get a full hour alone with him each week to rifle through his thoughts.”

If Damen was affected by Laurent's slightly unflattering depiction of therapists, he didn't show it. “It's not what we need to meet about. He has plenty of more important things he needs to work through.”

“I'm aware. He is not shy with information about his previous home life.” Laurent paused for a moment, discerning what he could and couldn't share. “Nicaise hired me himself, actually. He sent me an email several months after he'd been placed into the group home. He was...not pleased with the handling of his case. As it happens, I had an interest in helping him out.”

The steaks were done. Damen moved them to a plate to rest and then turned his full attention to Laurent. Laurent's eye paused on the line of Damen's throat as he swallowed a mouthful of wine.

“Is there something about his case that I should be talking to him about?” Damen asked. “I'm not his court-mandated therapist so I've been told to focus on his adjustment issues, but if there's something I need to be concerned about...”

“I would think you would be concerned with all aspects of the rehabilitation of a child whore.” Laurent said shortly. “But by all means, leave it to his case worker if you think they can handle it. I'm sure they'll find some time between the fifty other cases they're handling to give Nicaise's situation its due.”

Damen was frowning now, a tightness going through his shoulders. “You shouldn't talk about him like that.”

“I talk about him just as he talks about himself. A boy whose own mother farmed him out for drug money doesn't need my pity or yours. Your understanding would be a different matter.”

A timer went off on the oven. Damen set his wine down and turned to pull a pair of baked potatoes and a tray of roasted broccoli out of the oven. When he stood back up he said, “I've only met his case worker once, but he seemed like a professional. Still, your point stands. I'll try to bring it up next week.”

Damen pulled down two plates and they took their dinner to the small table just off the kitchen. If Laurent let his knee lean too far to the side, it bumped Damen's under the table. The atmosphere was tense after their exchange about Nicaise, but after a few minutes of stilted conversation it relaxed into something like a friendly interchange.

“I don't think I totally follow how you started at a motorcycle race and ended up in a brothel.” Damen said doubtfully, fork paused halfway to his mouth. A rivulet of juice was running down the gleaning silver of the fork towards his fingers. “It seems like if you were being chased by the cops, you wouldn't want to lead them right to an even more illegal activity.”

“If you're facing down a group of men with guns, it helps to be behind a row of attractive women who can suck a golf ball through a straw.” Damen had put the piece of steak in his mouth; at Laurent's statement, he choked and started beating on his chest. “Most of them turned out to already be a first-name basis and abandoned the chase in favor of a hands-on demonstration.”

Damen managed to swallow the meat and was laughing helplessly, face buried in his hands. He looked up, caught Laurent's stone-sober expression, and started laughing harder.

“I'm letting you plan the next date.” Damen said finally, after he'd caught his breath. “I don't think I could come up with anything half that exciting.”

“I might enjoy going to the zoo and watching you hoot at the gorillas, if you need a suggestion.” Laurent offered.

“We'll have to stick with the monkeys. The gorillas have too wide of a vocabulary.”

It was – pleasant, that Laurent could joke like this and evoke amusement rather than anger. Most didn't react well to Laurent's sardonic sense of humor. Damen had a unique cross-section of qualities; a confidence in himself that let him laugh at his own expense without concern and an unexpected humbleness Laurent hadn't expected to find in a man with biceps the size of softballs. Bicep circumference and ability to take a joke were, in Laurent's experience, inversely related.

“I meant to make something for dessert, but I ran out of time. Do you want to stick around for a movie?” Damen asked as they cleaned up the plates. Damen wasn't nearly as fastidious as Laurent was, being willing to simply dump the rinsed plates in the sink, but Laurent found to his surprise he wasn't bothered. Normally discomfort triggered his instinct to clean.

He realized suddenly he wasn't bothered because, for once, he was in a man's house and didn't feel uncomfortable.

He said, looking at Damen, “We could find something else to do.”

Damen's eyes went dark for a moment, but then a crease appeared between his brows. He turned and headed for the living room. Laurent followed him, suddenly wary.

The living room was well-decorated but lived in. A few books and the controller for a game console were scattered across the coffee table. The couch was a stout, comfortable three-seater made of brown leather with a few blue pillows and a blanket draped across it. Damen sat on one end of the couch and gestured Laurent to join him. Laurent sat, not touching.

“If we're going to keep going, we need to talk about this. I don't want to play this game where you use me as a tool to trigger yourself.” Damen said bluntly. “I need to know that you're going to say stop when you need to say stop and that you're not going to push through doing things you don't want.”

His tone brooked no argument, which was the best way to prompt Laurent to argue. “Do you want to stick your cock in me, Damen, or don't you? Because you are not a complex man when it comes to fucking, so if you can't figure your feelings on your own, let me illuminate you. If you're concerned I'll lock myself in your bathroom again, I assure you I won't.”

Damen's brows drew together. “Laurent, has it occurred to you that this is only fun for me if it's fun for you too?”

Laurent opened his mouth. Closed it. That thought did not make sense.

Laurent said, “Why do you insist that I pantomime some gasping virgin in the marriage bed? Is it not enough that I am saying yes?”

“No.” Damen said. “It's not.”

Before Laurent could formulate a response, Damen broke his gaze and snatched up the remote, jabbing at the power button. After a moment of fiddling with the controls, he sighed and turned back to Laurent.

“I'm being an ass.” he admitted. “I mean what I'm saying, but. My point is, I'm doing all of this because I like you. I like spending time with you. I find you an interesting person, Laurent de Vere. If that's not mutual, let me walk you to the door, because you shouldn't be wasting your Friday night on a man you don't even like being with.”

He had turned the television onto some sort of children's show that was completely incongruous with the seriousness of his tone. The childish sound of a cartoon cat running off the edge of a cliff and then backpedaling in mid-air as it fell punctuated the silence between them.

Laurent half-licked his lips, and then stifled the movement for the gesture of nervousness it was. Damen carefully didn't look down at his mouth.

“How about,” Laurent said, “for the next twenty minutes, I'll tell you what I want from you. Will you do what I tell you?”

“Yes.” Damen replied. He said it immediately, without pause. “If it's what you want, and it's what you're comfortable with, then yes.”

Laurent stood and left the living room. He returned with the chair he'd sat in at the dinner table and placed it five feet away from where Damen sat on the couch. He sat in the chair, one leg stretched out before him, hand draped over his thigh. Damen watched him, suddenly alert like a warrior sizing up an unexpected threat.

“Unbutton your pants.” Laurent said.

Damen inhaled sharply. He raised a hand uncertainly, eyes still on Laurent.

“I am telling you what I want, Damen.” Laurent said. “Will you comply, or will you make a liar of yourself? Unbutton your pants.”

Laurent could see the moment that Damen realized he was being tested. Another moment while he considered the thought. Then, without fanfare, he unbuttoned his pants.

“Good. Touch yourself lightly through your underwear. Just your fingertips. Already half-hard, aren't you? Do you like being ordered to put your hands on your cock?”

“Jesus.” Damen bit out. He was clearly experiencing whiplash from the sudden descent into sex, and Laurent reveled in that without shame. Damen's eyes were on Laurent as if he couldn't look away. The cartoon was still playing on the television; it cast strange neon colors over Damen's face and the tent in his underwear.

“Unbutton your shirt with your other hand. Touch your nipple. What do you think I'd do, if I had my mouth there?”

“I think you'd bite me. Hard enough to leave a mark.” Damen said, his voice rough. He had sank down into the couch and let his knees fall apart, giving Laurent a better view of his fingers dragging ceaselessly over the fabric of his underwear. Laurent couldn't quite see on the dark fabric, but he thought there was a damp spot just where the press of Damen's cock ended.

“It's not the only tender place on you I'd bite.” Laurent said boredly. Damen's hips jerked. “Ah. You enjoy it rough. Like going to bed with vipers, do you?”

“Laurent. Please.” There was a note of desperation in Damen's voice. He bucked restlessly, though his fingers continued to drag only lightly over himself, as Laurent had ordered.

“Take your clothes off. All of them.”

There was a brief interlude as Damen struggled out of his clothes. Laurent oscillated between watching patiently and inspecting his nails. Damen didn't seem particularly flustered to be stark naked while Laurent watched him, still fully clothed, but a deep flush had spread across his chest and high over his cheekbones. His cock hung full between his legs, weeping pre-cum.

Damen had asked for Laurent's enjoyment. Well. He was enjoying this, the freedom to look without the fear of touch, the way he could hold himself so steady and relaxed in his chair, the jerk of Damen's body as Laurent said something crude and surprising. A heady feeling of power spread through his limbs. He realized he was half-hard himself.

“Sit back down.” Laurent instructed. “Take yourself in hand. Slowly. You're holding too tightly, loosen your grip. I wouldn't want you to enjoy this too much.”

“Fuck you.” Damen said tightly. His hand loosened. The deep scarlet head of his member flashed and disappeared as it pumped slowly through his fist.

“I think you would like that. To fuck me. Sad for you that it won't happen tonight. Are you imagining it, Damen? Are you imagining bending me over the arm of your couch and ramming your cock into me? You'd fuck me like a bitch in heat. Or maybe you'd want to lay back and let me ride you so I could do all the work. Is that what you're picturing, my body arched over you while I fuck myself on your cock?”

Damen's breathing was hoarse and unsteady. His toes curled into the carpet. A bead of sweat had appeared at his hairline; he wiped it away with the back of one hand and then dug his fingernails into the muscle of his thigh.

“Let's imagine something else.” Laurent continued. “Put your index and your middle finger in your mouth. Suck on them. Maybe you could imagine they're my cock. Remember when you blew me on the side of the road? Dirty. Did you remember to wipe the knees of your jeans off so you didn't show the world what you'd been up to?”

Damen's groaning was stifled by his fingers. He looked good like that. Laurent wondered if Damen had an oral fixation. He had a mouth that was constantly in motion – eating, smiling, frowning, pressing itself to the places on Laurent that were bruised and tender.

“Are they wet? Keep your grip loose on your dick, Damianos. Don't make me tell you again. You won't like the punishment for failing to follow orders.” That got a reaction; Damen glared at Laurent, his hand loosening again. From the looks of him, Laurent thought Damen might enjoy a little punishment.

“Now. Put your fingers inside you.”

Damen's fingers, glistening with spit, slid down past his balls and nudged at his entrance. After a slow, careful moment, the tip of his index finger breached. Damen's head fell back, eyes closing.

“He's what I want you to think about, Damen. I know you've been thinking about fucking me. I see it in your face. You'd like to open me up for your cock. So instead, I want you to think about me fucking you.”

Damen slid the rest of his index finger inside, as far as he could reach with the awkward angle. His middle finger pressed alongside and slid in slowly. It, or Laurent's words, brought a soft sound from his lips.

“Imagine it's me opening you up. You like my hands, don't you? I do have long fingers. Would you like them in your ass? You look pretty tight now, but I don't think it would take long for you to loosen up enough for me. Maybe you'd even take care of it yourself beforehand, so I could slide right in to the hilt.”

The sound Damen let out was dangerously close to a whimper. He opened his eyes again and looked at Laurent.

“You can tighten your grip now. Drag your thumb over the slit. That feels good, doesn't it? Keep doing it. Fuck yourself on your fingers. I'd fuck you raw, Damen. I'd fuck you until you were begging for it.”

“Laurent.” Damen begged hoarsely. It was a request. Laurent lifted his hand from his thigh and flicked his fingers dismissively. Permission granted.

Damen shuddered, eyes fluttering closed. A stream of white splattered against his chest once, twice, three times. Damen milked himself through the aftershocks, fingers still pumping restlessly inside, then finally withdrew and slumped against the couch. When he opened his eyes again, it was with a sated smile and the boneless sprawl of the well-fucked.

Laurent pushed to his feet and wordlessly left for the bathroom. He took a long moment for himself under the guise of waiting for the water in the sink to warm. The mirror reflected back a slim man, fully dressed, totally composed except for the lightest hint of pink high across his cheeks. Laurent could have walked right into the grocery store and nobody would have spared a glance.

He wet a washcloth with the warm water and returned to the living room. Damen accepted the washcloth with a grateful smile and mopped up his mess, then set about pulling his clothing back on. If he had thoughts about what had just happened, he didn't share them. He disappeared from the living room for a moment to discard the washcloth and wash his hands. Laurent sat on his couch and wondered that he wasn't already angling for the door.

“You still up for a movie?” Damen asked when he returned, collapsing on the couch. He looked perhaps slightly more disheveled than usual, but nothing about his behavior reflected their liaison. “My buddy Nikandros recommended something to me that I've been meaning to watch.”

“Sure.” Laurent said. Any attempt he could have made at a snarky comment had been drained by the effort of what they'd just done. He'd known the act itself wouldn't bother him, but it was a novel feeling to not want to escape afterwards.

Such filth he’d spewed, and yet somehow it felt Damen was closer to him, not farther away. There he sat, unembarrassed by anything he’d done, anything Laurent had asked of him. He didn’t seem to think it the least bit strange. He could have spend this night with number of people that would have stripped on command on jumped on top of him, and instead he’d saved it for Laurent, bared himself and fucked himself and shown with every glance how glad he was to do it.

Damen put on an action movie and relaxed into the cushions. Laurent sat on the other end of the couch. After a moment, he swung his feet up and let them stretch out until they just brushed Damen's thigh. He didn't startle at the light touch of a hand on his ankle, or the gentle pressure of a thumb rubbing his instep, one small point of connection that lasted well into the night.

–

Laurent's skin felt too tender for his clothes for a full week. His moods oscillated, one moment tentatively cheerful, the next dark as a stormcloud. He sweated through each night as bad dreams battered at him mind like they hadn't done in years. He woke up with hard-ons and couldn't remember which memories had caused them. He thought of Damen in odd moments like a lovesick teenager.

When his meeting with Nicaise came around on Wednesday, he was exhausted, irritable, and clutching his second espresso of the day. Nicaise was slouched truculently back in his seat at the card table they used for these meetings, staring at Laurent. At 14 and a half, he was just starting to hit a growth spurt, and he had stopped shaving the sparse, dark hairs over his upper lip.

“You have a bruise on your neck.” Nicaise said flatly. Laurent's hand flew up to his neck. He was wearing a turtleneck. Damn; Laurent must be truly exhausted to have been caught out by that trick.

“So you are fucking my therapist.” Nicaise said scornfully, mop of brown curls shaking with the force of his statement.

“You are aware that there are a lot of people in this world that are not your therapist.” Laurent said. Nicaise smiled. Sweetly. The smile looked familiar; had he learned it from Laurent? What a bad influence Laurent was.

“I don't really care, I just wanted to know.” Nicaise said dismissively. He sounded sincere; Nicaise wasn't yet good enough at lying to fool Laurent. “That way if he comes in moping one day, I'll know you've dumped him.”

“How have your sessions been with him? Does he listen to you?” Laurent asked as he sat down. He busied himself with pulling a folder from his messenger bag, but watched Nicaise from the corner of his eye. Laurent would trust his own mind and body to someone half-vetted; he would never, ever take that gamble on Nicaise.

“Don't.” Nicaise said instantly, his voice tight. Laurent looked up; the smile had dropped off Nicaise's face. “Don't run him off. He -” Nicaise seemed to catch hold of himself and he immediately slumped back in his chair, lifting his face to the ceiling and plastering a bored expression over his features. “It's annoying to start over with a new therapist. He's fine. Don't worry about it.”

The spike that went through Laurent was sharp, like a knife to the gut. Nicaise liked Damen. Nicaise liked Damen, more than Laurent had seen the boy like anyone. Laurent thought about Damen's gentle smile, his strength of presence, his knack for noticing everything but being soft with that knowledge. Of course Nicaise liked him. Maybe that wasn’t such a dangerous thing.

Laurent had to not fuck it up for him, then. Nicaise didn't deserve to lose Damen. A flash went through Laurent's brain – a warm smile, a halo of blond hair a shade darker than his – and was lost.

Letting the subject drop, Laurent pulled a neat pile of papers out of the accordion folder he'd unearthed and set them in front of himself. He turned to Nicaise.

“Well?” Laurent asked.

Nicaise's eyes dropped from the ceiling to meeting Laurent's. His lips pressed together in a hard line. Laurent had expected an unwelcoming reaction. He was asking Nicaise to make a hard choice, and frankly Laurent had no idea if Nicaise was ready to give the trust Laurent was asking for. Laurent wouldn't have, if someone had asked him this same thing at Nicaise's age. He'd have spit venom at anyone who dared to ask until they left the room and never came back.

“Say we do.” Nicaise started haltingly. “What's – what does this look like. You'd be, what, my dad? You honestly expect that to work?”

“No. I'd be your legal guardian, and if we went through with the adoption, I'd be labeled as your parent on paper. In reality, we'd be something like we are right now – two people who know each other and are committed to making this work given the reality of our situation. You would have to trust me enough to listen to me as your legal guardian. But you would not have to treat me as a parent or family member. The shape of that relationship would be yours to determine.”

The expression on Nicaise’s face lost its unsurety and iced over. “What's my end of the bargain?” he demanded. Many would have simpered and whinged over the cold-bloodedness of such a question from a child; Laurent, who knew better, approved of him asking it.

“You continue therapy. You continue coming to me when you need things. You give me a chance to pull you back out when you go off the deep end. If at any point it stops working, we figure out the next best step together. You're not beholden to anything, but you do have to try.”

Nicaise scowled, the adolescent mustache on his upper lip bristling. “That's not what I fucking mean, and you know it. What do you want from me, Laurent? What are you getting out of this?”

Nicaise pushed out of his chair and turned from Laurent, pacing back and forth across the room as he clenched his fists. He kicked over a trash can. He slapped the wall. Then he stormed back and stared at Laurent from across the table. His mouth was twisted into an ugly grimace.

“Is this a sick thrill for you? Or you having a moment of guilt that you can't deal with? What happens a year down the road when I'm still here and you still have to fucking deal with me? Are you going to just toss me into the garbage, or are you going to start asking me to do shit to 'pay you back'?”

Laurent knew exactly what Nicaise meant by pay you back. Nicaise’s body language shouted that he wanted Laurent to know. Laurent let his eyes meet Nicaise's levelly, keeping himself still, not allowing any moment of tension to show. His stomach had twisted itself into knots, but he had ample experience keeping that from his face.

“Do you remember when you told me you wished you'd punched that man in the face and ran out of the room the first time it happened?” Laurent asked. Nicaise's shoulders crept up around his ears, but he nodded warily. “You didn't. You never get to change that. If you are anything like me, you will remember that fact for the rest of your life. What happened to me – I never get to change that either. I never get to go back and stop it. All I can do is stop things that are happening right now. That is what I'm getting out of this.”

There was a pause, as the air settled over the both of them like an avalanche, suffocating.

Laurent looked down to the paperwork in front of him and split the pile in half neatly where he'd laid a divider in the stack. He flipped each around and slid them across the table, along with a pen.

“If you don't want to go for the legal guardianship, then we'll focus all our energy on getting you a new case worker.” he explained, tapping the first stack with the pen. “I will continue to represent you as long as that takes, and afterwards for whatever you need from me. Read both stacks. If you have questions, I'll answer them when I come back.”

And he left Nicaise in silence with the paperwork, a loud-mouthed speck of a boy like a dust mote in a very large, cruel world.

When Laurent came back some time later, another cup of coffee clutched in his hand from the shitty coffee maker down the hallway, there was one stack of papers on the card table. There was no Nicaise.

Laurent crossed to the table and pulled the papers towards him. His eyes caught on a line on the first page.

- Laurent de Vere, as Legal Guardian of the Protected Minor -

On each page, Nicaise had scrawled a lopsided, childish signature next to the signature markers Laurent had placed. The other pile of paperwork – the stack that had been only a legal request for assignment of a new case worker – had been tossed unceremoniously in the trash.

Laurent stacked the papers neatly and slid them back into the accordion folder carefully, his hands as tender as if he were handling spun glass.

–

The rest of the week was hard. Laurent felt himself wound too tight. He was working long hours making sure every last detail was in place for Nicaise's court hearing the next week. He snapped at his secretary, eviscerated a rude customer in the coffee shop, and had to table emails until he could respond to them without irreparably damaging his relationship with several of his clients. They were all used to Laurent's sharpness, but there was still only so deep they'd let him cut.

Finally, he buried his head in his hands on Saturday afternoon, head throbbing. He'd been at the office since 5:30 AM and if he kept working, he'd start making things worse instead of better. The silence seemed to press in on his eardrums; he was the only one in the office, and normally he appreciated the quiet, but just then it grated on his ears.

Rubbing his face with one hand, he picked up the handset from his desk phone with the other and dialed Damen's number.

“Damianos Akielos.”

It was with surprise that Laurent felt the touch of a smile bend his lips. “Turnabout is fair play, is it?”

“I'm very busy right now, is there something you needed?” Damen said teasingly. Laurent could hear the sound of the television behind him; it came through the phone briefly louder, as if Damen had held the phone out so Laurent could hear how very “busy” he was.

“And is there any time in your busy schedule for me this weekend?”

“Absolutely.” Damen said. “I’ve killed enough brain cells today. What were you thinking?”

Laurent felt the faint tinge of nausea in his body, feeding into his headache. He'd had nothing all day but coffee.

“I can't promise it will be very exciting, but I haven't eaten lunch yet today. I'm at my office. If you wanted to pick something up and come by....”

“Consider me on my way. Text me the address.”

Laurent hung up and sent the text message. The smile had taken full, dangerous hold on his mouth. There was no one to see him; he laid his head down on his arms and reveled, quietly, in the feeling of a man still being ready to drop everything he was doing just to bring Laurent lunch after willingly subjecting himself to Laurent's presence four times.

By the time the knock came on the door to the reception area, Laurent had buttoned himself back up and neatly boxed up whatever lapse in emotional control he'd been experiencing. He opened the front door to a wide expanse of tanned chest, the smell of Greek food, and a bouquet of flowers. When Laurent didn't immediately move to take the flowers, Damen grinned and shoved them at Laurent; Laurent had to take them to keep them from falling on the floor. It was a mixture of purple irises and white-yellow freesias, the scent of them just barely overlaying the smell of spice and grilled meat.

“I – thank you.” Laurent said awkwardly, still looking at the flowers. Had anyone ever bought him flowers before? Not in his memory. The trend for grateful clients these days was expensive chocolates and fruit towers. Laurent found, surreally, that he wasn't quite sure what to do with the bouquet.

If Damen had noticed Laurent's reaction – and he had, because Laurent knew him to be keener than pretended – he didn't linger on it. Instead, he simply walked past Laurent into the reception area and then stopped, eyes flicking over the leather couches and the framed prints against the warm white walls.

“You designed this, didn't you?” Damen asked, amused. He didn't wait for Laurent's answer. “Where do you want to eat?”

Laurent led him to his office, still clutching the bouquet. Damen set the food down on the mostly-cleared desk, took the bouquet from Laurent's hands, and then crowded him slowly up against the bookcase on the side of the room until Laurent's back was pressed into the shelves. Only when Laurent tilted his chin up did Damen drop forward the last inch and press his mouth to Laurent's. The kiss was slow and tender. One of Damen's hands lifted to Laurent's jaw and tilted his head just so; the new angle deepened the kiss, but Damen kept it slow and strangely chaste. His mouth and hand were the only points of contact between them. Laurent felt himself leaning forward, chasing the heat of Damen's body, and forced himself to tighten his grip on the shelf behind him and stay still.

Finally, Damen drew back. Laurent realized he needed to breathe or he would faint. It had seemed so unnecessary a moment ago. Damen's hand slid back and through the fine hairs at Laurent's neck, then pulled away.

“Let's eat before you keel over from hunger.”

Nicaise's casework was still spread over the desk. Laurent stacked it and slid it into a folder as Damen unpacked the lunches – gyros from a restaurant Laurent recognized was just down the street, and two bottles of lemonade. Sitting in his regular spot felt strangely distant from Damen, so instead Laurent took the other client chair, leaving them eating side-by-side.

“How is that going?” Damen asked, motioning at the folder Laurent had set on his keyboard as Laurent took a bite of his gyro. “Nicaise told me his hearing is this week?”

“Tuesday.” Laurent replied, wiping a smear of tzatziki from his mouth. “I think at this point, everything is as ready as it can be. For the legal aspect.” He paused for a moment. “I'm worried about Nicaise. This won't be an easy time for him. Especially if we lose.”

“What are the chances of that?”

Laurent's mouth twisted. “As low as I can make them, but not zero. I am a single man with a busy career, proposing to take on full care for a teenager who endured long-term sexual abuse. It would be trivial to argue that I am not a good fit for Nicaise.”

There was silence. Laurent felt the whole of himself shy away from that silence and attempt to curl up defensively. He opened his mouth again.

“I also have an extensive history being seen by mental health professionals. I could be declared unfit to care for Nicaise due to mental instability.”

The look of offense on Damen's face was both laughable and reassuring. Though Laurent had expected exactly this response, it helped to ease the tension in his body.

Damen took a drink from his lemonade. When he brought the bottle down, he'd schooled his face into a less openly upset expression, but a frown still pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“It's frustrating to me that the system can see the value in providing mental health services to minors but punish adults for the same thing.” Damen said tightly. “You shouldn't be seen as less than fit for choosing to go to therapy. If anything, it's a mark in your favor. You have the emotional maturity to take care of your own health despite stigma, and the personal experience to help Nicaise do the same.” With a sigh, Damen ran his hands through his hair. “I'm sorry, I know I'm preaching to the choir, I just...this is a common issue in my line of work.”

The inside of Laurent's mouth had gone dry. He watched Damen from under his lashes as he took another bite of his gyro. There was an odd feeling in his body, like he was riding a rollercoasater blindfolded, unable to know when the drop would happen.

Laurent had talked about therapy with plenty of people over the years. He'd been attending since it was court-mandated after Auguste's death when he was a child. When he'd first spoken with the judge presiding over Nicaise's case about becoming Nicaise's legal guardian, that had provoked another round of discussions about his mental health. He'd discussed it in college at times, with doctors, in a handful of other circumstances. But those conversations had been different. There had been a dynamic there, a game to be played, a certain outcome to be won. Young Laurent had been fighting to be believed about what had happened to him. Adult Laurent negotiated with therapists that were obligated to provide him a health service. Lawyer Laurent presented a case for his fitness as Nicaise's legal guardian.

He'd never had someone make an authentic, uninfluenced case that he was not broken for needing therapy. He'd never had someone say that to him who wasn't obligated to by the money he was paying. It was not particularly a secret that even now, after a decade of sessions, Laurent still didn't truly trust therapists.

Damen's words were genuine. Unprompted. Wholly unnecessary for what was happening between them, but Damen offered them anyway. Without even knowing what Laurent attended therapy for, he was on Laurent's side.

Laurent took another bite of his sandwich.

“Look,” Damen said, cutting into his thoughts, “since I'm not Nicaise's court-mandated therapist, I'm not asked for my thoughts on what's best for him. And I don't want to invite myself into this if you have it covered. But if you think that it would be helpful, I could come to the hearing on Tuesday and give the judge an assessment. I would ask Nicaise first, of course. We have a session tomorrow. But it would help your case.”

Damen's tone was steady. He met Laurent's eyes, the look in them level and unflinching. It struck Laurent again how dangerously open this man was. Not just open, but intentionally so. Damen's force of character shone through not because it had no choice; Damen chose for it to do so. He put himself on display so that Laurent could see the honesty and the resolve in him, and he did it not like that openness was a vulnerability, but like it was a strength.

Laurent had tested that and found it to be true. Where others were tender and weak, Damen was muscle and steel. It was infuriating.

“Why would you do that?” Laurent asked. It was a true question. “You cannot possibly go to these lengths for all of your patients. Nicaise isn’t even a real patient. He’s a charity case. You’re already expending yourself just to see him once a week.”

“Because you're the right choice, Laurent.” Damen said. Honesty shone forth from the words like warmth, like sunlight. “Nicaise needs you. I don’t think even you or he knows how much he needs you. And if I can make that happen, I will.”

There was a sudden traitorous lump in Laurent’s throat. He hadn’t expected -

He hadn’t expected.

“Then I will see you on Tuesday.” Laurent finally bit out. His breath was not steady. Damen said nothing.

When their meal had been reduced to empty wrappers and bottles, Laurent stood and moved Nicaise's paperwork to a drawer, leaving the top of his desk bare.

“Come here.” he said from behind the desk. Damen came.

Laurent pushed him back into the desk by the collar of his shirt and kissed him. He kept one hand on the desk so he could let his eyes flutter shut. The warm, familiar smoothness of the desk grounded him as lips and tongue moved against Damen's mouth, as a hand slid around his waist and splayed across his back. He was Laurent de Vere, prosecutor, and this was his office where he was kissing a man he'd invited in and eaten lunch with. His eyes flickered open and caught sight of the bouquet laying on the corner of the desk.

Damen's legs fell open as he leaned his weight back on the desk, and Laurent stepped into them and let their hips come together. Damen grunted at the increase in friction. His mouth was hot on Laurent's. Laurent pressed again, not quite a thrust but something like it, and swallowed the sound Damen made.

Damen jolted a bit at the feel of Laurent tugging at his waistband. He didn't interfere as Laurent unzipped his pants and pulled him, hot and wanting, from his underwear. It was only when Laurent's mouth left his and Laurent dropped to fall level with Damen's waist that a hand laid itself gently over Laurent's.

“Is this you telling me what you want?” Damen asked. His voice was rough from kissing. His cock, aching for attention, twitched almost as in protest to his words.

Laurent twisted his hand in Damen's grasp and set Damen's hand on the edge of the desk. Then he moved the other one from where it had settled on the back of his neck to the desk as well. Now Laurent was intimately close to Damen, his breath settling over Damen's cock, but the only point of true contact was the slight press of Damen's knee into Laurent's shoulder.

“Don't touch me. That's what I want.” Laurent said. Damen nodded and wrapped his hands around the edge of the desktop.

This was his office. Laurent was an adult with a career, and he had invited a man over to have lunch with him. Damen smelled of earth and jasmine. There was no jazz playing; the only sound was the rustle of clothing and their heavy breaths. The desk was cool and smooth against his palms. His mouth was clean of the taste of wine and ash. Laurent leaned forward.

It was easier than he thought it would be. He hadn't left his reaction up to chance, but there were still parts of this experience he couldn't reproduce on his own, when he'd prepared to take this step. Laurent licked up the side of Damen's cock to the tip. The taste was unpleasant, but not triggering. Damen's groaning helped; the deep, mellow tones of his voice were unique and therefore grounding. Laurent wrapped his lips around the head and sank down. An aborted jerk of Damen's hips, but he got it under control almost instantly.

Once the novelty had faded, it started to become a game. Damen liked a mix of intense pressure and soft, gentle touches. The more unpredictably Laurent moved, the tighter his body wound. When Laurent lifted a hand and wrapped it, unexpectedly, around the base of Damen's cock, he threw his head back and cursed, though his hips stayed glued to the desk top. His head tilted back down and his eyes met Laurent's. Laurent sank down again until his lips met his hand and weathered the shudder that ran through Damen's body.

“Laurent,” Damen said, hands flexing on the desk top, “Can you – come up here. Please.”

The popping sound that Laurent's mouth made as it detached from Damen's cock was loud and lewd in the silence of the office. A string of saliva stretched from the mushroom head to Laurent's lip and then broke.

“Will you kiss me?” Damen asked. He turned one hand over, beseeching. Laurent took it and put it on his waist, then bent forward and pressed his mouth to Damen's.

When Damen's hand traced around to the front of Laurent's pants carefully, Laurent didn't stop him. Instead, he buried his face in the crook of Damen's neck and sucked, hard, as Damen wrapped his hand around Laurent's hard cock and dragged it out into the open air. Damen's other hand pulled Laurent's hips snug against Damen's and then he was taking both of them in hand, his palm slick with spit. Laurent thrust into that tight grip. Damen thrust back; his hand dragged ceaselessly, pushing desire and need into every cell of Laurent's body.

That wall loomed in front of him as the wave of pleasure grew. Can I do this? Laurent thought. A wave of tension swept through him.

The feel of the desk top under his fingers. The smell of Damen's skin. Damen's voice. He dismantled the wall. Damen held him the whole way as his body jerked to its finish, his spend following a few moments after.

Laurent had to close his eyes for a few long moments and just breathe. When he opened them again, it was to a dripping mess on the front of Damen's shirt and Damen's satisfied, unrepentant gaze on his face. Laurent felt light and distant, like his feet might lift off the floor and send him floating up into the sky at the slightest push.

“A moment.” he heard himself say. His feet traced their way through the empty office to the bathroom. He didn't bother to set himself to rights first; there was no one there to see. When the lock was flipped and he was alone, he wet a paper towel and ran it along the back of his neck, feeling the weight of his body come back down to earth in the solitude.

When he returned with a wad of damp paper towels, it was to an expanse of bronze skin. Damen was studying the books in his bookcase, soiled shirt balled up in one broad hand. He caught Laurent’s eye and smiled, not in the least bit sheepish.

“I figured a half-naked man coming out of your office is better than one in a stained shirt.” he explained. “Unless you have a spare…?”

“Unless I have a spare tent laying around? This is a lawyer’s office, not a circus.” Laurent shot back, voice droll. He was coming to expect the crinkle at the edge of Damen’s eyes and the dimple that peeked out from his right cheek. Laurent was nonplussed to find that he even, perhaps, hoped for it.

“The rest of my day is free.” Laurent found himself saying, as Damen swiped the wad of paper towels against the broad expanse of his chest. It was a surprise to him, and absolutely untrue. He’d planned, after Damen left, to continue working on Nicaise’s case. But, then, there was nothing else to do. Laurent had planned everything, down to the last detail; the last thing he needed to accomplish had been tied up today. All that was left to do was wait.

“Are you asking me to spend it with you?” Damen asked, amused. He threw the paper towels in the trash, but settled against the wall rather than approaching Laurent. Doubtless he knew his state of half-nakedness was more than Laurent could stand. “Because if you are, my answer will be yes.”

The way he settled back and watched, arms folded against his chest, was infuriating. Laurent knew he was waiting for answer, and he equally knew that Damen could and would wait all afternoon to hear it.

Just to be obstinate, Laurent let the silence stretch out for a long minute. Staring into Damen’s eyes was like trying to push over a brick wall with one’s bare hands. Finally, begrudgingly, he said, “Yes. I suppose I am.”

Damen let out a short huff of laughter. “Wish I’d gotten that on camera. I may never hear that again. Laurent De Vere, wishing for my company.”

“Stupid enough to film a lawyer without permission, are you?” Laurent snarked as he tidied away the office. “I won one of my first big cases off illegal filming. It would be nostalgic to revisit it.”

Damen smiled. He’d moved to the doorway so he was out of Laurent’s way as he cleaned up. “Was that before you moved here?”

“It was.” Laurent stopped and raised an eyebrow at Damen. “And you knew that – ah, because you only need one party’s permission here. Shall I regale you with the thousand other crimes I could string you up for instead?”

“Not a type of foreplay I’ve tried before, but I’m willing to give it a shot.” Damen mused. “You ready to get out of here?”

Turning the lights off in his office felt stranger than usual. It was something that Laurent did nearly every day, and yet this time, watching the office go dark felt like saying goodbye to something. Not, not a goodbye – more an acknowledgment of something leaving that Laurent no longer needed to hold onto.

It was an odd thought, and too sentimental for Laurent’s taste. He ignored it and followed Damen out of the building.

–

The close of the door behind him as Laurent walked into the courthouse made a sound not unlike a cell door slamming shut. Since Laurent had felt that way every day he'd walked through that door, reaching back to his first case, he was practiced at ruthlessly binning the feelings he was experiencing. He did so then as he emptied his pockets and stepped through the metal detector. The silent exchange with a guard, a broad woman with a terse manner, was calming in its familiarity.

As was his manner, Laurent was earlier than everyone else. He took it as he always did; one last check in the bathroom to make sure every hair was in place, that he didn't have any stray lint on his trousers or wardrobe malfunctions marring the line of his suit. He'd struggled more than usual donning his panoply this morning; Laurent had a well-practiced persona for his cases, but he'd never had to make himself look suitable as a legal guardian before. Should he look warmer, more personable? Older? More distinguished?

In the end, he'd chosen to go with his usual attire. A suit in slim cut with lapels and tie to match; his shirt was a deep royal blue with a grey tie. His hair was pulled back into a sleek tail at the nape of his neck, leaving his sharp cheekbones on display. In the courtroom, Laurent was the brash, modern young lawyer from head to toe. It set him apart from his more traditional opponents, who thought contemporariness loathsome. They wore wind-up watches, Laurent donned a smart watch and made phone calls from it in the waiting room; they kept full breaks in their trousers while Laurent had his hemmed ruthlessly, exposing his carefully charming socks when he crossed his legs; they made pointed attacks at his youth and he turned them aside with careful barbs at their old-fashioned haircuts and outdated legal references. He didn't know if it was the right play for guardianship, but Laurent's looks had always tipped him too close to pretty and soft. He needed to appear capable today, of all days.

When he emerged back onto the battlefield of the courtroom, it was to Nicaise and his escort seated in the chairs. Nicaise's glance at Laurent attempted boredom and failed. He probably didn't even realize the jagged bouncing of his leg or the way his eyes darted around, looking for danger. Someone had attempted to smooth his mess of curls back with gel, but Nicaise had wrecked it. His suit jacket was too short in the sleeves.

“You've destroyed your hair.” Laurent said by way of greeting. Nicaise narrowed his eyes and ran his hands through. It made it worse. Laurent resisted the sudden, strange urge to fix it for him.

“I'm hungry. You have any change for the vending machine?” Nicaise asked. He asked every time; it was a deflection method for when he was too keyed up to address what they were there to do. And, Laurent had recognized after the first few instances, a careful probing of boundaries. Will you still like me if I'm annoying? Demanding? Inappropriate?

“The snacks in that machine have been there since before I started practicing law.” Laurent replied. Nicaise caught the package of sour gummy worms Laurent produced from his briefcase and tore into them with the rabid hunger only a 14 year old could produce.

The door to the waiting room swished open, letting in a blast of icy hair. Laurent turned.

It was not who expected. Or, to be more clear, it was someone he had every reason to expect, but it was still a shock to see his face. Damen's eyes scanned the room and lit on them. His smile was a patch of warmth that did entirely inappropriate things to Laurent's stomach.

“Hey.” he said to them loquaciously, then threw himself down into a chair next to Nicaise and gestured at the package Nicaise was holding. “Can I have one of those?”

Nicaise, mouth stuffed full of brightly colored candy, held the package out without ceremony. Damen fished out a worm and popped it into his mouth as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Laurent attempted not to stare at the easy companionship Nicaise and Damen attempted to share. Still, his eyes caught Damen's. Damen smiled again and, for a moment so brief as to be unnoticeable, flicked down Laurent's form and then back up to his face.

Laurent wanted to fuck him sideways on every available surface in the courthouse. He ignored the look and went to check the schedule outside the court room.

Nicaise's cases were always sparsely attended; unlike other cases, they were held by themselves and the audience was restricted due to the nature of Nicaise's background. Laurent had been required to submit extra paperwork just to get Damen in the door, though it hadn't been a difficult sell. There was no legitimate reason to bar a mental health professional who had been seeing Nicaise, no matter what the subject of their sessions. There would likely be people waiting outside when they emerged after the session, but for the duration of their time in front of the judge, it would be just a handful of them spread across the ludicrously large room. Laurent didn't mind that; he liked the official setting more than the cramped, informal meetings he sometimes had in conference rooms or the judge's office. It stripped away all artifice from the process. Everyone in that room was there for blood; battles like that should be held on a battleground, not a conference room.

The legal assistant pushed the door to the court room open, their sign to enter and be seated to wait for the judge. Optics were important in the seat selection; as Nicaise's lawyer, Laurent sat with him, but Nicaise's escort from the group home and Damen sat in the audience, waiting to be called forward for their testimony as officially neutral witnesses.

The aide had opened the door early. They sat, a silent group inside of a too large space, all of them too tense to think of anything acceptably neutral to talk about. Damen would have been the one to steer such a conversation, but the general seating was awkwardly far away from the table where Laurent and Nicaise sat.

Nicaise tugged at Laurent's sleeve. He had abandoned the facade of boredom; there was a pure line of blue around his pupils and he was gritting his teeth so hard Laurent imagined a cracking sound.

“Are they coming?” he demanded in a vicious hiss of a whisper. “Maybe they won't. They could -”

“They are going to come.” Laurent cut in calmly. “This happens every time. It's a tactic, Nicaise. Don't fall for it. They want you off-balance, that works in their favor.”

Nicaise cursed and looked back at Damen. Damen looked tense too. He was turned around with one arm across the back of the visitor bench, eyes on the open doorway.

“I'm glad you asked Damen to come.” Laurent broached. Nicaise's reaction was unexpected; he flushed slightly and looked downwards, as if in guilt. What did he have to be guilty about? Especially in regards to Da-

Laurent made his voice as toneless as possible. “Nicaise, did you talk to Damen about your case worker?”

The flush across Nicaise's face got deeper. His mouth flattened into a thin line. Laurent didn’t have to hear his response; he already knew what Nicaise was going to say. “I-”

Someone strode through the open court case door. Two someones. Laurent had no time to think about what he'd just found out. He angled his body indolently towards Nicaise, posture open, one elbow sprawled across the table top in front of him. He did not rise.

He met the unperturbed smile presented to him by the taller of the two men, as they drew near.

“Hello, Uncle.”

–

Laurent's uncle didn't return the greeting. He did, however, let a heavy hand rest on Nicaise's shoulder for a long moment before he and Nicaise's regular therapist took their seats. Guion did not pretend neutrality; he sat right at the table.

Nicaise had gone stiff under the touch. His teeth gritted, every atom of him going tense to stop the trembling that would otherwise follow. Laurent caught his eyes and, demonstrably, took a long, slow breath in and then released it. Nicaise followed suit. His shoulders slumped. In an achingly familiar gesture, one hand lifted to cover his shoulder, as if attempting to take back the sensation there for himself.

As always, Laurent’s uncle had impeccable timing. They had barely a moment to breathe before the aide called for them to rise. The judge strode in and took her spot without ceremony; they waited in silence as she studied the documents in front of her for a long few moments. It was the moment of quiet just before two sides plunged into bloody, screaming war.

“Alright. We're here to come to a decision on the petition for legal guardianship submitted by Laurent de Vere. Give your opening statement.” the judge motioned to Laurent, face impassive.

This was a speech Laurent had spent hours slaving over. He was good at picking apart the competence of others; it was what made him a good prosecutor. His skill at selling his own competence was comparably poor. He shoved that out of his mind ruthlessly; he was here now, and there was nothing he could do but perform to the best of his ability.

“Nicaise Varenne has been in a group home situation for just shy of six months now.” Laurent started. “He has adapted exceedingly well to the circumstances life has forced him into. Better than anyone could have a right to ask of him.”

He didn't mean to, but his eyes slid to Nicaise's. Nicaise was glaring at him. He had never liked praise. Or rather, he couldn't be seen to like it, but underneath the facade he was as hungry for it as Laurent had been, once upon a time. Laurent felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth and repressed it; it was not the time.

“It is my belief that Nicaise has outgrown the assistance that social services provides. More than that, he deserves the stability and comfort of a permanent home. As I've come to know Nicaise, I realized that I wanted to be the one to provide that stability and comfort to him. It is for this reason that I discussed the option with Nicaise and then, with his consent, presented my petition to the court. Regardless of how the court judges my fitness for the role, it is my hope that his position within the group home will be re-assessed, so that he is provided the care he needs to thrive.”

Opening statement delivered, Laurent sat. He dared one glance across the room to take the temperature of the responses.

Nicaise was slumped back in his seat, leg jiggling uncontrollably. Damen's face was neutral and unreadable; his eyes were on the judge. And at the other table -

Uncle was giving Laurent a soft smile. Laurent could see the streaks of pity around the edges; they would be invisible to anyone that didn't know this man as Laurent did. It was a message to Laurent and Laurent only, an attempt to get under his skin. Laurent ignored it. The battle was only just beginning. He couldn't afford to lose composure over one of Uncle's trademark pity smiles.

At the judge's prompting, Uncle rose. His presence settled over the room as he looked about. Laurent knew how others viewed the man – calm, composed, professional. Experienced. Laurent played to his strengths by presenting himself as a modern upstart in the court room; his uncle did the opposite and did it well. He was the perfect picture of trustworthiness. And Laurent knew that every word out of his mouth would be chosen selectively to skewer Laurent's reputation.

“I have been working with Nicaise as his case worker the full six months that he has been under the state's care. I agree with prosecutor de Vere – Nicaise's progress is remarkable. However, the circumstances of Nicaise's childhood are also remarkable. It would be premature to take Nicaise away from the suite of support sources he's been building there. And, as prosecutor de Vere has mentioned, Nicaise requires stability and comfort. Sadly, I'm not predisposed to believe that a single man in his late 20's with a demanding job can provide either. It is my professional opinion that the court should wait and find a more suitable home for Nicaise.”

“If you've been sitting on an application that I and the rest of the court have not been informed of, pray tell us.” Laurent cut in drolly. “Perhaps one of that endless supply of married, middle age couples with 2.5 children and a Labrador Retriever in the front yard has offered to open their hearts and homes?”

The judge made a 'hmm' noise in her throat. “While I don't appreciate you speaking out of turn, Counselor de Vere, I do note your point. We no longer judge the suitability of permanent households based on their marital status. Do you have other reasons to deem Counselor de Vere an unfit option?” the judge asked, turned back to Laurent's uncle. He smiled, undeterred; Laurent was not surprised. This was just the opening salvo, a shot across the bow.

“Your honor, I'm not the only one that feels Nicaise isn't prepared. If I may call Nicaise's therapist, Guion Belloy, to the stand?”

The judge nodded her assent.

Guion's seat on the stand was a formality; he was not sworn in and required to tell the truth. Child custody cases were more informal than that. This did not bother Laurent, who would not have expected Guion to tell the truth even if he'd sworn to. To Guion, the truth was whatever benefited him most, and his entrance alongside Laurent's uncle was no surprise.

“Your honor, I too have worked with Nicaise since he was surrendered into state care, and I agree that he is not ready for placement in a permanent home. He continues to struggle with anger issues and is not always able to find a suitable outlet for his feelings. He is also unable to open up about the experiences he's had in our sessions. Until such time as he's able to be vulnerable about what he's gone through, I can't recommend that he leave state care.”

Guion's nasally voice and the slather of mock sympathy on his face were repugnant to every one of Laurent's senses. “What he's 'gone through'?” Laurent responded, laying the scorn on thick so it came through clearly. “I presume you're referring to the sexual abuse orchestrated by Nicaise's mother? How is Nicaise meant to be honest about his experiences if his therapist cannot?”

Guion's face went a lovely plum color. “I hardly think this public setting is approp-”

“Nicaise, can you clarify for us why you were placed into state care?” Laurent asked, cutting him off.

Nicaise's voice was clear and calm, though his knuckles were white where they were clenched into the fabric of his pants. “My mother offered me as a child prostitute to fund her drug habit, starting when I was eight. I had sex with at least two people a week until one of the men my mother was in contact with was arrested on a separate charge, his computer searched, and their email chain found.” His eyes slid to Guion, hard as cut glass. “And I have talked to my therapist about what happened to me.”

“We certainly have not!” Guion retorted. “Your honor, my notes -”

“I didn't say I talked about it with you, Dr. Belloy.” the tone Nicaise used on Guion's name made it clear he was using it in place of something much stronger and more obscene. “You're not my only therapist.”

Not one to miss an opening, Laurent added, “Happily, Nicaise's other therapist is here today and can give his own assessment. And it should be noted that Mr. Akielos has already agreed to take Nicaise on fully as a patient so that he can maintain continuity of care if the state grants me guardianship. Mr. Akielos? Your thoughts?”

Damen had made no such promise. And yet Laurent knew, deep in his bones, that Damen wouldn't contradict him. He would do it. He would take Nicaise as a patient. Laurent could see it in the way Damen was meeting Nicaise's eyes now, a pillar of warmth and stability inside the hostile walls of the court room. Nicaise was looking back at him almost helplessly, and Laurent could see how, for a moment, they were the only two people in the room.

The context was different, but Laurent knew exactly what that felt like. His chest gave a strange, uncomfortable twinge. He ignored it.

“Your assessment then please, Mr. Akielos.” the judge said.

All eyes fell on Damen as he stood, the silver tie bar on his suit winking in the light. When he looked around, comfortable in taking a moment of silence to establish himself, it was as if he was meeting all of them in the eyes individually. It wasn't the flippant, condescending authority that Laurent managed, or the conservative professionalism Laurent's uncle gave off. It was steady and trustworthy and reliable. Warmth. Unshakable conviction.

“First,” Damen said, “It's true that if Counselor de Vere is granted guardianship, I'll take on Nicaise as a full-time patient. I was assigned to Nicaise on a volunteer basis to help with his adjustment to the group home. But as any therapist would, when I found that Nicaise was comfortable enough with me to speak openly on other topics, I made space for those discussions.”

Damen's eyes slid to Nicaise. “Nicaise is a singular young man who has shouldered a lot of pain and weathered it better than could ever be expected of him. His choice not to speak with Dr. Belloy is due to therapeutic incompatibility, not a failing on Nicaise's part. My assessment is that Nicaise is not just ready for a permanent home, but that it's the next stage of growth for him. Nicaise wants to form a healthy relationship with a parental figure. He deserves that chance. Furthermore, denying it at this stage would not just be delaying Nicaise’s growth, but actively sabotaging it.”

The smile he gave Nicaise then made the boy bloom like a flower opening to the sun. The intensity of it, when Damen lifted his gaze to Laurent, was searing. Enough that Laurent had to stop himself from jerking backwards, dropping his gaze to avoid those eyes. He felt – observed.

No. He felt seen. Damen was looking at him like every modicum of his self was laid bare to him.

“During our discussions, we've also spoken about Counselor de Vere.” Damen said, keeping his eyes on Laurent. The weight in the room shifted and set the back of Laurent’s neck to tingling. “Counselor de Vere has been instrumental in Nicaise's growth. Nicaise credits him with being the adult that made him realize not everyone was like his mother, and his steadfast commitment to helping Nicaise without regard for material or personal gain was what convinced Nicaise to take a chance on opening up to me. My direct knowledge of Counselor de Vere is limited, but it's clear that his commitment to Nicaise runs bone deep. I can think of no better option for legal guardianship.”

Unable to keep eye contact, Laurent let his eyes drift up to the space between Damen’s brows while he focused on keeping his breathing even and his shoulders square.

He had walked into the court room prepared to put everything on the line for Nicaise. He'd orchestrated what he could to ensure the necessary outcome. Worked countless hours to make his case. It was his efforts that had assured Damen would be here.

Yet somehow, he hadn't realized until this moment that he'd still felt like he was doing all of this alone. Yes, he had invited Damen because he expected the man to stand up for what was right for Nicaise. Laurent expected Nicaise to stand up for himself. But the bone-deep surety in Damen’s voice wasn’t just that. It was about Laurent too.

It was like spending your life tiptoeing across cracking ice, your entire survival depending on the precision of each painstaking step, only to fall to your knees and realize you’d finally hit solid ground. Laurent wasn’t sure until that moment that he’d even believe such a thing existed.

Something moved in the corner of his eye.

“A pretty speech.” a serpentine voice cut in. “However, I think it's relevant to point out that both Nicaise and Mr. Akielos's views of Counselor de Vere are limited. Neither of them have known him for more than six months. I have a much longer view of Counselor de Vere's fitness as a guardian.”

Uncle stood, allowing the distinguished suit he was wearing, the carefully conservative cut of his hair, to be on full display. The expression he took was not disapproving; it was concerned and grave. Precisely calculated to undercut the strength of Damen’s words. When he turned that look on Nicaise, the boy shrunk back in his chair like a whipped dog.

“I assume you’re speaking about your familiar relationship with Counselor de Vere. You’re his uncle, is that correct?” the judge remarked, turning her gaze down to the pile of paperwork on her desk.

There was only one person in the room that didn’t already know that little piece of information. Doubtless, Damen would not be happy Laurent withheld it. But that was a battle Laurent knew he could delay until after the case. He would rather slit himself open from neck to navel than talk about Uncle before forced to.

Uncle must have nodded, because the judge continued. “As a child, Counselor de Vere was placed into your care for several years after his brother passed away, is that correct?”

“Until I filed for emancipation and was granted it at the age of 16.” Laurent cut in smoothly.

His uncle ignored his outburst and the reframing of their relationship it offered and continued, “Yes, Laurent lived with me from the age of ten to sixteen.”

The judge looked up from her paperwork, face unreadable. “While I appreciate the information, I’m not sure that your personal relationship with Counselor de Vere is entirely relevant to this hearing.”

“Allow me to make my case, your Honor.” Uncle said, undeterred. “Laurent was distraught by the death of his older brother when he was a child. It has had a severe impact on his mental health, one that I am not certain he’s overcome. In my opinion, that raises significant concerns as to his ability to care for Nicaise.”

The judge frowned. “Grieving a death is hardly unusual, Counselor. Particularly as an adolescent.”

Here it came, as predictable as the sun rising. Listening to it happen was like watching a car crash in motion. In a move he hadn’t needed to rely on for years, Laurent wrapped one hand around his opposite wrist and clenched until his nails bit into the tender skin. He knew, from extensive experience, that his expression would not betray him. He’d bled his way through court cases plenty of times.

“Your Honor,” his uncle began, “Laurent has attempted suicide at least four times that I am aware of. Twice while in my care, and twice more after receiving his emancipation.”

There was silence in the court room.

It took every ounce of grit that Laurent had to open his mouth and interrupt that oppressive, damning silence. His voice did not break; these were words he’d spoken rotely into the mirror at home until his voice was hoarse and rasping. The pain in his wrist helped then come out evenly.

“This is true. However, I have not harbored any suicidal ideation in over ten years. As you can see, your Honor, I’ve submitted a signed statement from my current therapist that she considers me mentally sound and capable of providing a good home for a child.”

The judge did not reply. Laurent stifled a desperate need to keep talking; it would not benefit him. A tense line had appeared between her eyebrows as she looked down at the paperwork on her desk; the suicide attempts weren’t listed, because they’d all occurred before Laurent had turned 18, and he was not required to report on his mental health as a minor. But it was a damning pile nonetheless. Every clinician he’d foolishly scared away, every hospitalization, every hellish moment of Laurent’s past turned into clean, spare text on a page. He didn’t have a choice – the judge had a right to the information.

When Laurent glanced from the corner of his eye, he could see his uncle sit back down in his chair, drinking in the atmosphere like a lion sated on a good kill.

The judge looked up. Her eyes, apologetic, met Laurent’s. There was only outcome that would warrant that look, and it was not the one Laurent wanted. His heart dropped into his stomach.

“Gentlemen, I appreciate your time today. Based on what you’ve told me, I believe the best decision -”

A loud crack cut her off. Nicaise had stood up and slapped his hand on the table, face flushed.

“Do I not get to say anything about this?” he said, trembling. His voice cracked on the word ‘anything’. “It’s my life, isn’t it? Don’t you care what I want? Or are you just going to make all these decisions about me while I’m sitting right here?”

The judge, well used to emotional outbursts, was unruffled by the anger lacing Nicaise’s voice; she simply gestured at him with a brief, placating smile. “Go ahead, then. I will of course take your opinion into account.”

“It’s not just my opinion. You don’t know everything about the situation.” Nicaise’s voice cracked again, and the volume decreased steadily as he spoke until he was almost whispering. His chest was starting to heave.

“Nicaise.” Laurent said, with a dawning sense of horror. He knew exactly what the boy was about to say. It was going to turn the entire case upside down if he did. “You don’t-”

“Shut up, Laurent. I don’t want to hear it. I have to say this.” Nicaise let out a deep breath, chest still heaving. He had gone deathly pale, except for two spots of red on his cheekbones, and he was rubbing his hands obsessively on his pants, as if to wipe something off of them.

“I don’t want to get rid of my case worker because he’s shit at his job. Though he is. It’s because -” here, Nicaise’s words seemed to fail him. He looked down at the table, shoulders creeping skyward and head hanging down until he looked more like a child than a fourteen year old boy. “It-”

The words appeared to be stuck in his throat. He let out a wordless noise of frustration and slammed a fist into his thigh. Once, twice, three times. Laurent didn’t reach for him; he knew better than to touch Nicaise in that moment.

Still mute, Nicaise flung himself around, eyes searching the room desperately. They caught on Damen and stayed there. Damen was leaning forward in his seat; his gaze was steady and unshakable where it met Nicaise’s. Damen gave one nod, and the tension flowed out of Nicaise’s shoulders like water.

Nicaise turned, and in the same moment, he said all in a rush, “I want to get rid of my case worker because he’s been making me suck his dick for four months.”

The air in the room went so still it could have suffocated every single one of them.

Nicaise started again before anyone could interject. “It started getting weird at our meetings the first month. He kept touching me all the time, and talking about how ‘hard’ he was working to find me a placement and how I had to help him out and ‘work hard’ too. Then one day, he came in and told me that I needed to do something for him. That’s how it started. He tells me every time that I have to keep it a secret because he’s ‘not allowed to play favorites.’” Nicaise stopped, turned towards Laurent’s uncle, and made a face that Laurent couldn’t see. “But I’m not stupid, you asshole. You’re just a disgusting old man that likes to touch little boys.”

The bluntness of that accusation broke the dam. There was movement, all at once. Guion stood up, face purple, his chair nearly falling over with the force. Laurent’s uncle turned to the judge to speak; the judge had gone pale and was trying to talk over him. Nicaise was still speaking, his voice getting louder to cut over the noise of the room.

And Laurent - Laurent’s mind was racing, trying to put together the puzzle, figure out the next step, the next pivot to make sure -

He didn’t get the chance. He didn’t need the chance. Because Damen stood, suddenly a hundred feet tall and as wide as the ocean, and when he spoke, there was stillness, and they all craned their necks toward him in supplication, like worshippers whose god had just materialized out of thin air.

“Your honor.” Damen said. His voice seemed to make every molecule in Laurent’s body shiver with anticipation. “Nicaise asked me at our last session to meet with him this morning. When we did, he told me he was experiencing sexual abuse. I filed the police report right before I drove to the courthouse.”

“This is an outrage!” Guion cut in, the jowls on his face flapping with outrage. “Nicaise has clearly been instructed to lie in order to defame his case worker. Counselor de Vere -”

It didn’t take more than the force of those eyes on his face for Guion’s mouth to snap shut. He looked like he was about to throw himself on the floor and beg for mercy. Damen, for his part, turned his attention away from the man as if he were no more substantial than an ant.

“The allegation is credible, your Honor.” Damen explained. “The police have all of the necessary information.”

The judge looked as if she wanted to ask for more information, but she too withered under the force of Damen’s attention. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and, in an obvious gesture of closure, picked up the paperwork on her desk and began to straighten it.

“This is now a criminal case, and as such, it is outside my jurisdiction. I will submit the proceedings today to the police so they can follow up on these allegations. I expect they’ll want to speak to everyone here. Until we get this case moved over to the proper court, no one involved here is to have any interaction with Mr. Varennes whatsoever. His group home will be contacted to provide him with a new case worker, therapist, and guardian ad litem. Everyone besides Mr. Varennes is dismissed; Mr. Varennes, I’d like to speak to you directly.”

The conclusion hung awkwardly in the air, a group of people ready for bloodshed that had just found their weapons disappeared from their hands. That was not outside Laurent’s span of expertise; few cases ended with triumphant victory or decisive outcome. They simply ended. Hushedly, everyone packed up their paperwork and stood up from their desks under the watchful eye of the judge. A bailiff, called in to ensure a peaceful exit, stood silently at the back of the court room.

T he only person who dared to challenge the new world order was the only one who could get away with it. When Laurent hesitated on standing , wondering how he could possibly abandon Nicaise after what had just happened, the boy threw himself up and flung his body into Laurent’s, gangly arms wrapping around Laurent’s waist.

“It’s going to be okay.” he mumbled into Laurent’s suit coat. And then, looking up with clear blue eyes, “I promise. It’ll be okay. See you soon.”

“Mr. Varennes.” the judge said reproachfully. Nicaise let go of Laurent – who, he was just realizing, hadn’t even managed to return the hug – and turned, back straight as an arrow as he made his way to the judge’s bench.

L aurent’s uncle and Guion had already left, doubtless to begin planning their defense. The feeling of space and distance followed Laurent out of the courtroom, threatening to take over his body. He tried to shove it away as he usually did, but his mind was – his mind -

Damen hadn’t left the building. He was waiting just on the other side of the door, face impassive, for Laurent to appear. Tthe man fell into step with him without a word. Without quite knowing how it happened, Laurent found himself in the passenger seat of Damen’s Jeep. It felt as if cotton had been stuffed into his ears, though a strange whistling seemed to be taking place inside his head.

“Laurent, I’m sorry.” Damen said abruptly. His gaze was forward on the dash; he’d turned on the car to get the heater going, but made no move for the gear shift. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. But Nicaise came to me, and I had to report it.”

Laurent’s words sounded very far away when he spoke. “We were trying to avoid this. If the petition for guardianship was approved, Nicaise would have stopping seeing him immediately.”

“Nicaise knew if he took that route, other boys could be affected.” Damen’s voice was gentle. “He wanted to do more. That’s why he came to me.”

Something inside Laurent shifted at the words. Other boys could be affected. He wanted to do more.

Laurent had also wanted to do more. He’d considered it countless times – first when he petitioned for emancipation, again after he turned 18, and every year since, as long as his uncle was still working in social services. If he’d just – but there had never been enough evidence, not even to plant a seed of doubt. He’d gone to law school, hoping for some option he hadn’t yet considered, hoping that if he turned himself from a scared ten year old boy to a state-sanctioned prosecutor, he’d have the control he needed to fix what had been done to him.

It didn’t work. Uncle was always two steps ahead. Until now.

Nicaise was stronger than him, to try for this, and Laurent’s chest was so full of something at that thought that he could hardly breathe.

A bronzed hand settled lightly over his on his thigh, bringing him back into himself.

“Laurent.” Damen said. “He told me it was because of you. That he wanted to do more. He wouldn’t explain, but – something you did, or said to him, made him brave enough to try to stop this.”

Laurent turned his face, unbidden, to Damen’s. He felt like an exposed nerve that someone had just flicked. Surely it wasn’t – there was nothing about Laurent that would prompt – but the look on Damen’s face brooked no argument

“It was you.” he said again.

Laurent had to stop drawing breath. His exhales threatened to come out as gasps.

He turned his face away, prompting Damen’s thumb to rub against the side of his hand coaxingly. Laurent did not reach for his face. He didn’t want Damen to know there was anything there to wipe away.

“You engineered this whole thing, didn’t you?” Damen said finally. “When did you figure out who I was? That I knew Nicaise?”

This had been the second confrontation that Laurent had girded himself for. One that he hadn’t been sure he wouldn’t simply avoid altogether by disappearing into his Mercedes and driving away.

The words might have been accusatory, but it was hard to tell. Damen’s voice was quiet and devoid of inflection. And that hand was still on Laurent’s, warm and methodical in its ministrations.

“After the first time at the club.” Laurent said, when he could speak somewhat evenly. “I researched you and realized I recognized the name. I wanted to make sure you were trustworthy. That you wouldn’t take advantage of him.”

“When you invited me for lunch. You left his case file out deliberately so I would see it. So I’d ask to be invited today.”

Laurent’s voice came in a whisper. “Yes.”

Damen’s next words came after an interminable silence, and were slightly louder, almost embarrassingly affected. “Once the criminal case has been decided, your petition for guardianship will be revisited, and I’m certain it will be approved. They’ll be eager to get Nicaise -”

Laurent snatched his hand away, and Damen’s drew back as if burned. It was comical, to try to turn the full force of his glare on Damen when sitting beside him in a car, but Laurent did his best, and judging by Damen’s face, he didn’t disappoint.

“Let me spell this out for you, you half-wit. I used you.” Laurent spat. His spine felt as if it were about to snap in two. “Every moment of this was to win this case. All of it. You were a pawn, Damianos. It wasn’t real.”

He couldn’t – he couldn’t stand this anymore, the way Damen talked to him so gently, like he still deserved kindness after Laurent had used him the way he had. Laurent didn’t need to get his hopes up that this was forgiveness, when the reality was that Damen’s imbecilic mouth was talking before his thick head had truly grasped the situation.

Laurent was too brittle to take that. When Damen finally realized the kind of person that Laurent was, it would shatter Laurent like glass.

Damen stared at him. Slowly, strangely, the shocked expression on his face slipped away, replaced by, of all things, a smile. It made Laurent want to throttle him.

“It was real.” Damen said simply. Outside the Jeep, the clouds shifted, allowing a streak of sunlight to fall across Damen’s cheek. “Both things can be true. You used me to protect Nicaise. And. What we had together was real.”

“I cannot fathom the depths of your arrogance. Perhaps you assume your cock is so seductive that I must -”

Damen took his hand off Laurent’s and brought it up to his face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Laurent hadn’t even realized it had come loose. After a beat, it occurred to him that he’d stopped speaking.

“You are so strong,” Damen murmured, “to walk into that court room and fight for that boy, after everything you’ve gone through. After what your uncle did to you.”

Of course. Of course Damen would guess. Perhaps in other circumstances – but Damen’s first experience of Laurent had been a moment of terrible weakness, a glimpse of the crack that ran right to the core of him. Of course Damen had figured it out, this thing that had shaped Laurent’s every waking moment since his brother had breathed his last.

Yet his touch was undeterred, somehow. His expression, grave but so very focused. Slowly, Laurent’s need to fling himself out of the Jeep and away from the truth laid bare between them ebbed away.

If he was going to stay, he had to say something. The words struggled to come. His attention was being pulled in so many directions – the soft hush of Damen’s breath, his fingers hovering by Laurent’s ear, the sweet smell of him.

“I will always put Nicaise first.” Laurent said finally. “No matter the circumstances.”

Damen smiled. Laurent swayed forward a half centimeter, entranced.

“That’s why you were the right choice. And that’s why, as his therapist, it would be inappropriate for me to date his legal guardian.”

Laurent blinked. He was still so ensnared, he almost missed that he was being broken up with. “We were not dating, Damianos. It was -”

“Don’t.” Damen said. His wide mouth, so made for smiling, twisted into a frown. Laurent’s fingers ached to press away the line between his brows. “Don’t run away from this, Laurent. It happened. It was real, and it mattered. I just wish that giving Nicaise what he deserves wasn’t at odds with giving you what you deserve.”

Thick fingers traced the line of Laurent’s jaw. Laurent realized he was on the precipice of something dangerous. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought Damen was going to kiss him one last time, and if he did, Laurent might have lost himself to it in a way that threatened everything he’d struggled so hard to build.

Damen didn’t kiss him. His fingers withdrew. It was over.

“Once everything is sorted out, I’ll contact you about setting up appointments.”

Laurent got out of the Jeep and walked away.

--

One Year, 10 Months Later

The sound of the front door slamming, harder every time than it needed to be, preceded Nicaise’s appearance in the kitchen. Laurent, not willing to split his attention from the carrots he was chopping, set the knife down and watched as Nicaise slung his backpack down on the floor and threw himself onto a bar stool at the far end of the island. He had the precise, weary demeanor of a soldier returning from war.

“How was it?” Laurent asked, without preamble.

Nicaise, with all the exuberance of youth, rolled his eyes and snatched a piece of carrot from the cutting board. He’d shot up even more in the past few months and already had a few inches on Laurent. Between that and his joining the rugby team, Laurent could hardly keep him fed.

“It was fine. She’s nice.” Nicaise shoved the entire carrot in, chewing with his mouth wide open. He still did that, occasionally – intentional annoyances to poke at Laurent’s boundaries, to see if Laurent would turn on him or lose his temper. It had lessened a lot in the past year, but feelings of abandonment and distrust weren’t easy to get over. Laurent knew that from experience. The new therapist, with her background in childhood PTSD, was meant to help with that. “She gave me some paperwork to fill out. It’s in my bag.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Laurent said. “Just make sure you get your schedule straightened out so you don’t double-book with any of your math tutoring sessions again.”

At the mention of math, Nicaise collapsed forward onto the island, quite as if he were a balloon that someone had unceremoniously punctured. The hood of his hoodie - emblazoned with some skating company Laurent was unfamiliar with, the one thing Nicaise had asked for at Christmas, still with that artificially uninterested demeanor that said he didn’t want to hope too much that someone would buy him presents – flopped forward to cover his dark curls.

“I would have re-thought this whole thing if I knew you were going to be so annoying about math.” he muttered into the counter.

“And here I thought I was annoying about many things. If it’s only math, I’m doing you a disservice as your guardian.” Laurent shot back. He went back to chopping vegetables with a smile at the edge of his mouth.

They were just now to this point, where they could joke about it a little bit without it feeling too tender to address. Nicaise had started bringing friends over to the house and introducing them to Laurent. Laurent had printed a few pictures of him and Nicaise to put in his office. The two of them had a standing movie night on Thursdays and fought good-naturedly about what spices to put on the popcorn. Nicaise had even asked, haltedly, if ‘it would be weird if Nicaise called him something other than Laurent’. He hadn’t settled on anything yet, but it made Laurent’s chest clench just to know that Nicaise wanted to.

Nicaise’s head popped up, apparently done with his faux-moping. “Can I go over to Bernadette’s for dinner?”

Laurent frowned, gesturing at the cutting board with his knife. “I am literally making us dinner right now.”

Nicaise pouted. It was less effective as a broad-jawed teenager than it had been when Laurent had first met him, but even Laurent had to admit he wasn’t wholly immune. Besides, as Laurent had discussed with Nicaise’s new therapist, having a crush on a schoolmate (particularly one that, as Laurent had confirmed with his own eyes, was equally as besotted) was a huge step in the right direction. “Laurent. You have plans tonight, though.”

“Unless I’ve made a serious error in my schedule, I’m pretty sure I don’t.” Nicaise’s eyes got, somehow, more pleading. Laurent sighed. “...Fine. Be back by ten.”

Nicaise shot up like an arrow and was nearly gone before Laurent had even finished his sentence. “Thanks-will-do-see-you-later-Baba!”

He was out of the kitchen before Laurent even caught what he’d said, and Laurent had a feeling it was on purpose. He stood at the counter, one hand pressed over his chest. Baba. It was terrible and kitschy. He wanted to hear it again.

The slight sound of shuffling and a low voice – two voices? - came from the direction of the front door. Sighing, Laurent wiped his hands against his apron, wondering if it was even worth it to finish the pot pie he’d been planning or if he should keep it for tomorrow night, and went to see what was going on. It was either the package he’d ordered or his neighbor Barbara, coming to complain about the leaning bush in the front yard he’d yet to remove.

By the time he arrived, Nicaise was no longer there, but someone else was. And it was not Barbara.

Laurent froze halfway to the door, taking in the form that blocked the doorway. Olive skin framed by bright white, and a head of dark hair almost tall enough to need to stoop to fit in the door frame. A broad hand holding a riot of colors – irises and freesias. The late afternoon sunlight backlit him, so that he seemed to be surrounded almost by a halo.

The name formed on Laurent’s lips, but he couldn’t voice it, so Damen broke the silence for him.

“Laurent.” he said, smile easy, as easy as if they’d just seen each other a week ago, as if a year and a half and countless life events hadn’t shoved in between them and pushed them out of each other’s reach. “I came to see if you wanted to go to dinner.”

The words were at once straightforward and baffling. “But – Nicaise-”

“ - isn’t my patient anymore. Hasn’t been for a month now.” Damen cut in patiently.

It was true. Damen had starting seeing Nicaise the moment he was released to Laurent's care, and they'd only just recently mutually agreed that Nicaise had grown enough to move on to a more specialized therapist. Outside of his volunteering, Damen worked mostly with adults, so it was judged that a transfer would be beneficial.

Laurent couldn’t stop himself from drinking in all those small details of Damen’s form that he’d come – and yes, he could admit it now, after several fraught sessions with his therapist and some light slander of her character – to miss. He and Damen talked here and there, of course – about Nicaise and his progress, or on small administrative matters, but always by phone or email, and never breaching the bounds of decorum, no matter how Laurent wanted to.

The number of Saturdays Laurent had laid awake, wondering whether Damen was at the club where they’d met, who he was dancing with, who he was taking home and fucking – that was all left unsaid.

In some minor ways, the time had marked itself on Damen’s body. His hair was slightly shorter, and his skin was darker, as if he'd just returned from some tropical vacation. Could he actually be wider in the shoulders than he had been before? Surely not. In other ways, it looked as if no time had passed at all. Laurent's body told him that if he simply committed to it, he'd find Damen's hands just as large on his hips, his lips just as warm.

He wanted to find out.

Other things – protests, questions, mindless verbalizations – bubbled up and struggled to take hold, but instead of letting any of them come to pass, he just looked at Damen and moved until he was standing in front of him at the doorway.

“You realize I did not expect you to wait for me.” Laurent said. It sounded – cold, to his own ears. He didn’t mean it to. He didn’t want Damen to think he was being cold. He was just surprised, that Damen would do such a thing. Nearly two years. Laurent did not think he was worth such patience. Such – commitment.

“I like breaking your expectations.” Damen said simply. Had they gotten closer? Yes, somehow, though Laurent didn’t recall moving. He was close enough to catch the scent of earth and jasmine. “And I’ve been missing our drives.”

It should have been hard, Laurent thought. Every last muscle should have screamed against it, this drawing closer to a man, letting himself be pulled into orbit again like a lovesick fool. He could tell by the frantic thudding in his chest that he was not in control of this situation, and Laurent de Vere no longer tolerated situations he could not control. He should have rebelled instead of taking the flowers, instead of letting himself be drawn against a warm chest, instead of tilting his chin up at the touch of broad fingers. Letting himself be under the influence of another had never ended well for him.

Or perhaps that was untrue. Perhaps there was one time in his life, sitting on a bathroom floor with the door locked, that a man had the chance to take advantage of him, and he’d chosen not to. A man who’d demonstrated restraint. Patience. Kindness. Who was even now waiting for permission to take what he so clearly wanted. So in that moment, Laurent fluttered his eyes closed, accepted the warm press of a smiling mouth, and he let go.