Work Text:
It’s not a mortal wound, but Laurent tends to him like it is.
In fact, he hovers over Damen at all hours, supplying him with carafes of water and cool wash cloths. Adds and removes pillows and frowns at the configuration of Damen’s sickbed as though it has personally wronged him. Requests for him broth and cheese and only the finest cuts of meat and juiciest samples of fruit.
When the physician attends to him, Laurent comes too, his eyes sharp and mouth severe. Today is no different.
Pellucid blue eyes turn stormy as he watches the physician, Cyr, tend to Damen’s wound, his hands passing over torn stomach flesh with salves and bandages. Laurent’s cool, removed exterior has cracked. The venomous tongue remains, but this time it’s not Damen on the receiving end. There’s a restraint to it, though, and Damen knows it’s tiredness and concern creeping up on Laurent that has his patience flagging.
A tug from the physician’s binding of his stomach punches an exhale from him.
Damen is accustomed to pain. He is a warrior, after all, with all the scars to prove it. But with his defenses low and his body aching, he’s not immune to flinching, however slight, as his flesh dribbles blood into the new bandage. Laurent is too fastidious in his watch to miss it, and too on edge to let the perceived offence go.
“Are you trying to bleed him dry,” Laurent says from his spot against the far wall, his tone caustic.
Cyr, flushes around the ears. “No, Your Highness,” he answers dutifully, rightly sensing that it would be in his best interest to respond. Then, to Damen, “Any fevers, Your Hi- Exalted?”
Damen opens his mouth to respond, only for Laurent’s voice to cut in. “Minimal. I applied cool washcloths last night and his temperature returned to normal throughout the night.”
His chest feels warm as he gazes across at Laurent, and he feels quite unable to school his features into anything but fondness. Laurent gives him a withering look in return that Damen wants to kiss off his face.
Today, Laurent’s blond hair is loose, hiding some of the purple bruises beneath his eyes in the shadows. Damen is glad to see that he’s at least dressed in clean Veretian clothing, laced tightly up from ankle to throat. For over a day after the bells had rung, heralding in their respective victories, Laurent had set about the palace giving firm directions and pulling together a fledgling sort of order, the scraps of his Akielon tunic covered by a cloak.
Jail the reactionaries. Fortify the palace. Send messengers out to Patras and Vask, the kyroi and those Veretians in Vere that remained loyal to Laurent. Strip the King’s room of any traces of Kastor, confer with the Council to arrange their departure, take stock of the changes Ios had undergone in the many months since Theomedes’ death. Task upon task smoothly delegated from the room adjacent to Damen’s sick room for Laurent refused to stray far from him.
“I dare say you are in good hands, Exalted,” Cyr says by way of acknowledgement as he begins to pack away his supplies, Damen now settled back on his pillows. “My advice is the same. Rest. Sleep, if you can. The body needs time to recover, and throwing yourself headfirst into your duties will slow your progress. Perhaps weaken you to the point of illness.” His dark eyes flit meaningfully to Laurent.
“Thank you, Cyr,” Laurent says silkily. “You may go.” His tone leaves little room for disagreement and the physician makes a shallow bow before exiting the rooms, his kit clinking by his side.
Alone again, Damen relaxes back and gazes across at Laurent. A moment passes before he pushes off the wall and prowls closer, his expression transformed into one of concern. Damen is not afraid to admit that Laurent’s readiness to wear his emotions more openly makes him a little giddy.
“How are you feeling, really?” Laurent’s pale hand brushes over the freshly bandaged stab wound, pink lips downturned.
“I am healing well,” he promises. It is the truth. The ache is dull, and though his body remains heavy and tired he can feel his strength returning. “It is not a mortal wound, only a highly inconvenient one.”
Laurent traces the bandage as he nods his acknowledgment. “Do you require anything?”
“You,” Damen says simply.
It’s a magnificent sight to see Laurent blush. Colour climbs up his neck and splashes itself across his cheeks. “I am right here,” he reminds Damen, almost shy as he takes Damen’s hand in his.
As cold as Laurent’s exterior might seem, his countenance stern, eyes icy and his clothing sharp and impenetrable, his hand is warm in Damen’s own. Damen doesn’t hesitate to interlock their fingers, and smiles as Laurent watches with fascination, copying Damen’s movements such that their hands twine neatly together. “Closer.”
“I will hurt you.”
“The other side, then.”
A moment of hesitation. Then, Laurent removes his hand and circles around to the other side of the bed, his movements aborted as he takes in the thin slice of cot awaiting him. “Damen,” he admonishes. Hearing his name on Laurent’s tongue merely pulls a broader smile from him, his heart flipping inside his chest.
He offers his arm, patient while he waits for Laurent to yield. Carefully, Laurent sits himself down and turns sideways, lowering his head to rest on the juncture between Damen’s shoulder and bicep. Damen shifts to view him better, his right hand finding the curve of Laurent’s hip and settling there.
To his delight, Laurent reaches out a hand to trace his bare chest, brushing lightly over the dark hair dusting his pecs before following the line of his sternum. His cheeks are ever so slightly pink.
“I am healing,” he promises again. Laurent makes a noise low in his throat, a I know you are, you don’t have to tell me again.
Laurent's fingers linger, slowly mapping the ridges of Damen’s abdomen, the hard muscle and the softness of his flesh. His breath is warm on Damen’s collarbone.
“I was afraid.” Laurent admits suddenly. He glances at Damen out of the corner of his eye.
A pause. “You did not seem it,” Damen tells him, rubbing a thumb over his hipbone, still prominent even under layers of Veretian clothing. “You were determined. Brave. What you lack in strength you make up for in ingenuity and speed.”
“I am not talking about Kastor,” Laurent says, a note of exasperation colouring his voice. “I am talking about you.”
Ah. Damen looks down at him curled into his side, blonde hair splayed over his bicep and bright eyes staring up at him. His heart floods with devotion. Then he says the thought that had spun around in his head in a continuous loop in those moments before the bells had begun to sing. “I would not let even a fatal wound take me from you,” he says honestly.
Laurent’s overfine skin flushes pink. “Damen,” he says softly. Happy. There’s still a disarming shyness about him that flips Damen’s heart over in his chest. “Be careful-”
Damen ignores him, shifting his body and lowering his head in invitation. Laurent surges up to meet him, hand pressing down on his chest, his lips warm and kisses firm.
They part with shared smiles. Damen’s broad, his affection easy and overflowing, Laurent’s with the promising beauty of a blossoming rose. Damen yearns to draw him closer, to wrap him up tightly and press his affections into every inch of skin he can reach.
Instead, they fall into a companionable silence. Damen finds himself content to lie still and take pleasure in the press of their bodies, breathing in Laurent’s scent and letting his body drift into semi-consciousness. Laurent’s weight is lightly distributed. He’s clearly being careful, vigilant in Damen’s recovery. It warms Damen all the more.
“You should rest,” he says quietly. He tips his head sideways and brushes his lips over the crown of Laurent’s blonde head.
Laurent hums. Takes Damen’s bigger hand in his again and runs a thumb over Damen’s bruised knuckles. “I am not the one bleeding out,” he points out, but there’s no bite to it. In fact, for Laurent it’s hardly a protest.
“Yes,” Damen allows, sliding their fingers together. “But you are the one that has hardly slept since we won.”
“Won,” Laurent muses. He turns the word over and considers it. “We are just getting started.”
“Yes. But we have some time. Some breathing room.”
“I suppose,” Laurent says. They play with each other’s hands, fingertips pressing against each other before Damen’s palm folds over Laurent’s again and locks their fingers.
He thinks of all the time they have had. All the time that they haven’t. Months in Arles and the months on the road, the Regent’s noose tugging at Laurent’s throat. The jagged blade of their shared history finally defeated and buried. Even in the aftermath of victory there is the omnipresent responsibility curling over them like a second skin.
But now they have the ability to delegate. Loyal people and loyal allies. They have time to take stock of themselves before throwing themselves into the next impossible challenge.
“I don’t know what to do with it,” Laurent admits finally. “I am not accustomed to … this.”
Damen casts his mind back to the days before Kastor’s betrayal. He’d attended to his duties as heir to Akielos; had spent time in the training rings, had sat at Theomedes’ side and learned the way of Akielon politics and visited the kyroi when needed. And yet, he’d indulged in rest when it had been appropriate to do so. One could not be at their full strength if they did not adequately rest their body and mind.
Laurent had not been blessed with the same flexibility, or at least he had not allowed himself to indulge in it. Years of playing his Uncle’s games had honed him into a weapon of destruction, poised to strike, both mentally and physically. Though Damen had initially brushed him off as lazy and an indulgent brat, he now knows it to be the opposite. He supposes it’s not a stretch to imagine this is the first time Laurent has been able to breathe in years … since before Marlas, at the very least.
Though a crown sits heavy upon each of their heads now, he’s willing to take his time to heal. Most of all, he wants to languish in the time he has with Laurent before he takes up his duties, and have Laurent know that it’s perfectly alright to want the same.
“Perhaps, you should take Cyr’s advice,” he says finally, grinning as Laurent’s head jerks up, eyes narrowing. “Is sleeping by my side such a hardship?”
Laurent’s expression is unimpressed but there’s something about his mouth that betrays his amusement. “I do not believe Cyr prescribed …” he stops, suddenly shy, unable to meet Damen’s eyes.
“I believe,” Damen begins softly, “it is called cuddling.”
Laurent’s grip on him tightens incrementally and he looks up at Damen as though he can’t quite believe that it’s him; that he said that. But there’s fondness there. Adoration too, Damen notes with another flip of his heart. “Cuddling.”
“I only meant that you are allowed this,” Damen tells him earnestly. “Time to rest. Time with me. You have hardly stopped, working overtime for the both of us. Taking care of me. It is time to allow me to take care of you.”
“By cuddling me,” Laurent says. He blinks up at his Damen, all golden lashes and golden hair and eyes the colour of the Ellosean sea. “I have ne-”
“Me neither,” Damen admits.
He has lain with his partner in the aftermath of sex, of course. Tended to his partner with care and kisses and soft words of appreciation. With Jokaste it had lasted longer, perhaps, with more words exchanged and a tug in his sternum as he had looked at her.
With Laurent, though. The urge to lay tangled in each other’s arms is almost overwhelming. A tug in his too big heart, an unquenchable thirst that will only be satiated by drawing Laurent closer. His mouth feels dry as he watches the cogs in Laurent’s brain turn.
“I want to.”
Damen’s chest loosens with relief.
“Let me–” Laurent stands and though Damen hates to lose him from arm’s reach, he’s pleased by the sight of Laurent tugging free the laces of his doublet and removing his boots and pants until he’s left in only his breeches and billowy undershirt.
“You’re beautiful,” Damen tells him, inching over to give him more space. Not too far, however, for that would defeat the purpose of his suggestion.
Laurent’s smile is radiant as he shucks the last of his clothes and perches on the side of the bed. “As are you,” he says and then he’s kissing Damen, a hand on his shoulder to keep him flat on the bed, his lips soft and explorative. It’s so sweet that Damen’s chest aches.
When Laurent pulls back he smooths Damen’s hair back from his face, expression tender. Damen simply watches, drinking him in, carefully committing each new expression that flits across Laurent’s face to memory. His face is so full of light Damen never wants to look away.
He’s forced to, though, as Laurent lays his body down beside Damen’s and curls close. Damen cannot move freely yet for fear of tearing his wound or triggering a flash of pain, but he does wrap his right arm around Laurent and settle his hand on the smooth curve of Laurent’s waist. His skin is warm to the touch, his weight comforting as their legs tangle, Laurent’s leg hitched over one of Damen’s.
“Laurent,” he murmurs.
Laurent’s hand rests over his heart and he nuzzles his head into Damen’s pec. “Damen,” he replies. Kisses his chest briefly and lays down again.
They lie like that for a few moments, content, the silence deepening into something almost sacred. Damen presses his lips against Laurent’s temple and closes his eyes, lingering, enjoying the freedom of being able to do so. Of being able to … cuddle.
Eventually, Laurent’s breathing evens out and his body slackens with sleep, the last vestiges of tension evaporating. Damen is tired too, but he forces himself to stay awake just a little longer, his nose buried in Laurent’s hair, unable to stop smiling.
Slowly Damen feels himself drifting away again, wrapped in Laurent’s warmth, in the scent of his skin and the promise of tomorrow.