Hydrangea - a Captive Prince fanfiction
Hey @not-into-frying-pans! I know you had lost hope, but here I am: your captive prince secret santa! Amazing, right? With gift, no less! Jk. I hope you enjoy the story, and I hope it fits what you wanted. I would’ve said Happy Christmas, but it’s more of a happy-end-of-January situation here. That said, I really hope you enjoy it! For reference, these are hydrangea flowers:
Picture has been taken from here Also, thanks to @helaris for kicking my butt on a daily basis and to @a-kielon for beta-reading this.
The story is under the cut. Or, if you rather read it on ao3, here it is: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9531131
Laurent had been born on a stormy spring night. He’d made Auguste smile, so, on his way out of the hospital, Damen had picked some flowers from the blue hydrangea bushes in front of the door. “For Laurent,” he’d told Auguste, his expression serious. Auguste had taken the flowers in his chubby hands and nodded. “I’ll give them to him. He can’t appreciate them yet, but someday he will. College/University AU
Hydrangea Laurent had been born on a stormy spring night. Hennike and Aleron had shown up on Egeria and Theomedes’s doorstep just after midnight, and when they’d left Auguste had been lying in Damen’s bed, turning nervously around and around. "When my baby brother is born, you have to teach him how to be a good little brother,” he’d said. Damen had nodded. “I will.” “And I have to be a good big brother. I’ll be the best big brother.” “Better than Kastor?” “I’ll be better than any other big brother, you’ll see.” They’d hooked their pinkies in a promise, and that’s how Aleron had found them, blissfully unaware of the wind howling outside, when he’d come to pick them up. It had been raining when they’d knocked on Hennike’s door, lightning cracking the sky open when Auguste’s brother had stared right at Damen, his eyes blue like his brother’s, only clearer, his lashes fluttering to the beat of the drops against the glass of the window. That was the first time Damen had been so close to something, someone that hadn’t been before and that today was, as if he had appeared by magic.
By magic he’d made Auguste smile, by magic he’d made Hennike and Aleron calm and tired and quiet while they’d been hugging each other. So, on his way out, Damen had picked some wet flowers from the blue hydrangea bushes in front of the hospital’s door. “For Laurent,” he’d told Auguste, his expression serious. Auguste had taken the flowers in his chubby hands and nodded. “I’ll give them to him. He can’t appreciate them yet, but someday he will.”
So Damen had kept bringing them, always bringing a different flower that, time and time again, would go to Hennike because Laurent was still too small to appreciate it.
Eventually, he’d stopped. And it would be a long time before he started again.
18 years later, February
Visiting Auguste’s flat had always been similar and different to visiting him when he’d been living home
Different because while Hennike used to make him keep his room tidy, now there were clothes Damen was sure Auguste had worn last week abandoned on the kitchen chair. Just like before, though, you could find Laurent sitting on the couch with his legs folded under him, quietly reading while Auguste was nowhere to be seen. Damen figured that if he was going through with this, and he was going through with this, then he’d be seeing a lot more of Auguste’s brother from now on.
“Where can I put this?” Damen asked, jerking his chin towards the box he was holding.
Laurent didn’t lift his eyes from his book. “Auguste said to wait for him.” He briefly glanced at his watch. “But that was two hours ago, so I suggest you just leave it here somewhere,” he said, waving his hand in the air with nonchalance. “Is it fine here?” Laurent lifted his eyes very briefly from his book. “Whatever. Do as if it were your home.” Damen snorted at that. “Don’t worry, kid. I will.” Laurent unfolded from his position, stretching his legs in front of him and leaning his right foot on the opposite knee. He didn’t answer, though.
Damen dropped the box next to the couch, then picked up one of Auguste’s jackets that had somehow gotten under it and hung it on the coat rack.
“You better stop doing that.” “Pardon?” “Leave him his clutter. Hell, let him die in his clutter if he so wishes.” Then the silence came back. It lingered until the key turned in the lock and Auguste walked through the door. “Sorry, I’m late,” Auguste said from the doorway.
“Don’t worry, you always are.” Laurent’s voice was cool, but Auguste just smiled. “You’re right. I always am,” he replied, then he put another big crate right next to where Damen had put his. It had been closed with paper tape, Damen written on it in familiar, neat handwriting. “She said Kastor told her. I thought it would be better if–” Damen nodded. “Yeah. It is. Thank you.” He averted his gaze from his name, hands going up to massage his temples while Jokaste’s words repeated themselves again and again in his mind. “It’s the way things are, Damen. People fall in love and–I’ve loved you so much. And I still do bu–”
The noise of Laurent turning a page rose in the atmosphere, and then he was brought back to the reality of Auguste’s tastefully furnished living room, only Auguste wasn’t in front of him anymore.
It was just him and Laurent. “It’s not your loss.” Another page turned.
“Pardon me?” “I said–” Laurent’s voice lowered. “It’s not your loss.” He put the book down, stretched his arms in front of him in that boyish way he had. “If you don’t get your shit together, though, it won’t be her loss, either.” Damen blinked once. Twice. Then started laughing. “Thanks, kiddo.” Laurent’s eyes narrowed at that. “No, really. Thanks,” Damen repeated.
Laurent shrugged.
When Damen had accepted to move in with Auguste he’d been aware that Auguste came with Laurent. What he hadn’t taken into account was that Laurent came with Nicaise, and that today youths had no respect for sleep or relax whatsoever if they thought that 10 am on a Sunday was a reasonable hour to start studying. Damen hadn’t even known 10 am existed on Sundays.
He turned around, trying to go back to sleep as the chattering went on in the living room, trying to find once more that place where his muscles would start relaxing, his breath slowing. He’d been just there, on the brink of it, waiting for sleep to pull him under when Nicaise’s high pitched voice jerked him back to awareness. Whatever Nicaise said, Laurent’s answer came in that smooth, clear voice of his that reminded him of the honey covered lemons his mother would make them after every football game.
It was a nice voice, more melodic than either Aleron’s or Auguste’s.
It would’ve been a good singing voice.
Jokaste has a good singing voice, too.
And that, Damen knew, was his cue to get up.
Laurent and Nicaise had taken up most of the living room. Laurent had curled up on the couch, his textbook in his lap and a highlighter in his palm, Nicaise was half draped over the main table, his arms crossed on the tabletop, his face buried underneath them.
“Kids,” Damen started, “no offense but don’t you guys have a life?”
Laurent snorted from the couch while Nicaise flipped him off.
“Don’t you have a shirt?! Seriously, Damianos, you’re going to give Laurent a heart attack.” “Ah, I see. Trouble with schoolwork?” “Go get dressed and shut up, will you?” Nicaise exclaimed. Damen shrugged. “Coffee first, bitching later,” he said, ruffling Nicaise’s hair on his way to the kitchen. “You guys want any?” Nicaise made a gagging sound, so Damen turned around and nodded at Laurent. “You?” Laurent lifted a hand, putting a strand of blond hair behind his ear and then rested his hand against his throat. It had, before then, never occurred to Damen how slender Laurent’s throat was. Long, and delicate, as if it were to fit better a statue than a person. Then again, statues didn’t flush, Damen thought, while a blush that didn’t quite manage to be darker than pink climbed all the way to Laurent’s cheekbones.
He saw Laurent’s adam’s apple bobble when he swallowed.
“Yes, please,” he said. His voice calm and cool, his face expressionless as he went back to taking notes. Damen nodded, turned towards the coffee maker, set everything up and waited as the coffee dripped into the carafe, its aroma filling the air, mixing with the scent of her skin in his mind, clean and hot, and that of all the mornings they’d spent in bed, making the coffee go cold. When she’d left him, he hadn’t know anything about making coffee. Now, though, even if it wasn’t as fantastic as hers had been, it wasn’t too bad either.
“I’ll take the blue cup.” “He’ll take the blue cup,” Nicaise repeated, ripping the page away and throwing it at Laurent. Laurent dodged it. Damen watched them with a smile then went to pour the coffee. He was about to bring it to Laurent when something occurred to him. “Two spoons of sugar, a little milk,” came the cool voice before he could say anything. Damen nodded. “I don’t know why I was under the impression you drank it bitter.” “So do my parents. I think it’s because I hang out with him.” Nicaise’s pen flew across the room, missing Laurent by thirty centimeters or so. “But people assume I like bitter things in general.”
Damen snorted, making his way towards the couch. “That must be it,” Damen said, winking at him. When Laurent took the mug from Damen’s hands, the blush had yet to fade. Damen liked to think that it was the same blush that lingered on his cheekbones the next sunday. And the one after it. And every time Damen would pass him, without no more than a nod, a blue cup with two spoons of sugar and a little milk in his hands.
March
“Your brother is pretty.”
It had slipped out. They’d been at Hennike and Aleron’s place, washing the dishes, the pink roses he’d gotten Hennike for her birthday blushing under the kitchen lights, their color reminding Damen of Laurent’s skin. The way it flushed with the steam of tea or coffee, too pale to really turn red.
“What?” The dish Auguste had been holding fell back into the foamy water, the splash making some drops reach them. “First of all, my brother isn’t pretty,” Auguste said. Then he clarified: “Nicaise is pretty, my brother is gorgeous.” He huffed. “Second of all, no. Damen, he’s too young for you.”
“Calm down. I was just thinking.”
“Well, don’t think about my brother!” “You are aware he’s an adult, aren’t you?” “Hands off.” And then Auguste was frowning, pointing a wet finger at him. “Also, I think you scare him.” “What?” Auguste shrugged. “He is usually very quiet. Around you, more so. Maybe it’s the whole–” he gestured his hand at Damen, encompassing his entire body with the movement. “–man-beast thing you’ve got going on.” Damen shoved him on the shoulder and Auguste answered in kind, then went to dip his hands in the dirty water. Damen had known Auguste long enough to know that he wouldn’t hesitate and would, in fact, splash him with dirty soap water. So, being the firm believer in quitting while you were ahead and knowing how and when to pick your battles, he ran straight to the stairs that led to the upstairs living room, leaving Auguste to curse him and finish the dishes on his own. Oh well, Hennike would’ve had both their heads anyways if they’d ruined their shirts.
The upstairs living room was the place in the De Vere house Damen was the most familiar with. He, Auguste, and Laurent had spent almost every rainy afternoon of their childhood in it, sprawled on the soft blue rug, playing with the legos and making puzzles so that quiet, shy Laurent could play along rather than watch from behind Auguste. There had been minor changes through the years; now there were pictures of the three of them hanging on the wall and on the cabinets, and the curtains were different, but there was the same once-forbidden cookie jar, now full with dried flowers, sitting on the top of the armoire, and the same old couch with its same favourite occupant in exactly the same spot.
“Do you do anything else despite reading on couches?” “I read on chairs.” “And besides that?” “I am an accomplished reader in beds, too. Were they to turn it into a sport, I’d sure be one of the top contenders.” He paused. Then: “Why? Does it bother you?” Damen shrugged. “Are you afraid of me?” Laurent cocked an eyebrow. “Of you?” “Yep.” “Damen, I have known you my whole life.” Damen shrugged. “Blame your brother. He said you’re quieter around me than around others.”
“We really don’t have much in common.” Laurent shifted uncomfortably, crossed his feet at the ankles and pulled his knees towards his chest. “I don’t know.” Damen shrugged. Laurent narrowed his eyebrows, puzzled. Damen went on: “It’s stupid, I know. But–” He frowned “ you can’t be sure of that. I–You don’t know.”
Laurent looked up at him. “That’s my point.” Damen shrugged. “Well, I don’t like reading as much as you do. I can’t focus and it makes me sleepy. But besides that–” “Ah, yes. I’m sure your professor is thrilled,” Laurent said, then he lowered his voice to mimic Damen’s deep one, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Excuse me, sir. I couldn’t finish the chapter because reading makes me sleepy.” Damen frowned. “Why are you so on my case about university?” Laurent shrugged. “It was… very unlike you.” His voice had returned to its normal pitch, but it had a serious tone. Damen sighed. “I know. It's–I know.” And then there was only the slight pitter patter of rain on the rooftop, the droplets sliding down the glass of the windows. Damen stared at the pictures, at the younger versions of themselves gazing back at him from within the frames. What would they think of the people we have become? Absentmindedly, he picked up the book Laurent had left on the couch.
“It’s not about the action of reading,” Laurent said. “I was just teasing.” “I know. But–It’s about the story. It’s about discovering. And getting to know more.”
Damen smiled, thumbing through the pages of the book in his hand. Then he lifted his gaze “You? Being curious? You don’t say.”
“Oh, shut up,” Laurent groaned. “You’re like a cat,” Damen said, poking him in the leg with the corner of the novel. Laurent slapped it away. A smirk. “That’s false.” A snort. “Like hell it is.” “Nuh-uh.” Damen pointed at the old cookie jar. “That’s why you knew how to get the cookies, right?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Maybe nosy would be a better word for it, actually.” Then: “Admit it, I know stuff about you.” Laurent rolled his eyes, still curled up in his corner of the couch, the tension leaving his shoulders as he made himself comfortable. “I concede. Do I get no credit at all?” “I think you should try to go to college. It’s want you want. You’re smart, so what’s stopping you?.” “I’ve loved you so much, and I still do. But–it’s not the right time. It’s not the right kind of love to keep us together. I’m sorry.” “Mom, I can’t make it. I don’t think I can anymore. What? No, it’s not because of her.”
“You’ve won your house a hundred points,” Damen said. Maybe a thousand, he didn’t know. “It’s not like me to give up, isn’t it?” Laurent shook his head. “Not at all.”
The day after, he woke up with the feeling of Laurent’s skin still etched into his skin. Not at all, Laurent had said, not at all. Then he’d gone quiet. So Damen had said “I think your mother wouldn’t appreciate it if you were late to cut the cake.” And he’d extended his hand. Laurent had stared at it. “Come on, stand up,” Damen had said. And it was with a slightly trembling hand that Laurent had grabbed his, unfolding and letting himself be pulled to his feet by Damen. “By the way,” Damen had said, “I like dogs better than cats, your brother makes fun of me because I keep putting his things in the washing machine every time I find something out of its place, and,–” He’d made eye contact. “–I actually do like bitter things.”
The smoothness of Laurent’s skin, the fine bones of his fingers, his lashes fluttering in puzzlement had been novel. Endearing.
“I see.” Laurent had said, pulling his hand away from his. Then, remembering that first conversation when Damen had arrived, he said: “You’re not very good at doing what you’re told, either, are you?” Damen had shaken his head. “Nope. He’s not going to die in his clutter while he’s with me.”
There was a sharp knock and then the door to Damen’s bedroom was pushed open. Auguste made his way to the bed, shaking a small box wrapped with pretty paper between his hands. “Open it,” he said, letting himself drop down on the mattress. “Come on, open it.”
So Damen did, a feeling of uneasiness rising within him as he looked at Auguste biting his thumb nail, waiting on Damen. “Say,” Damen began, looking at a second box, wrapped in a beautiful paper just like the first one had been, which had fallen out of the previous one. “Who is this present from?”
Auguste didn’t answer. Damen had to unwrap two more boxes before coming to hold a small, light blue mp3 player. It took him a moment, once he’d turned it on, to recognize the tracks. The note just read: My favourite colour is blue – L
“Why did my brother give you an mp3 player?” Auguste asked. “Oh well, you know,” Damen said, fishing out his cell phone from his pocket. He quickly typed in a message and pressed enter. blue? no way. red is better. thank you. “It really is quite like him to gift an entire library, isn’t it?” Laurent texted him back a moment later. Wouldn’t want you to fall asleep, would we?
April
The audiobooks Laurent had put on the mp3 player were mostly his course books and study material in general, but there were also four novels. Since Laurent’s text they had been keeping an ongoing exchange of small facts about themselves.
From Damen: I hate cauliflower, I really like the colour grey From Laurent: Yes, because it’s as dull as your personality From Damen: I’d really appreciate it if you were to fuck off From Laurent: Got nobody to fuck off with, will keep you updated From Damen: Is the spot open?
From Lauren: I really like the quiet late at night, it allows me to think From Damen: Don’t you think too much already? From Laurent: Better too much than too little; thank you for telling me
The last one from Lauren read: I’d really like to know your opinions on the novels
Damen got started on la Dame Gentile on a thursday while driving from university to the gym, and kept listening to it during dinner. When Laurent came by the day afterwards, he was almost done with it. “I knew you’d liked it,” Laurent said, his arms crossed and his teeth worrying his bottom lip–full, dry from the cold but not yet chapped–out of habit. “How did you know?” The more Laurent worried his lips, the redder they got. It made Damen want to reach forward, take his chin between his thumb and forefinger and pull him towards him, press their mouths together. Were his lips soft? They certainly looked it.
But then the teeth released the lip, and Laurent’s eyebrow went up. “Duels and war campaigns and honour? ”
And Damen thought back to the roman soldiers figurines he’d had as a child, and how he and Auguste would build entire armies with them. He laughed.
“True. Do you like it, too?” Laurent scrunched up his nose. “It’s more your style.” Damen nodded, then went to get the coffee in the kitchen. “Which of the ones you’ve put on there is your favourite?” Laurent’s eyes widened minutely and glimmered under the light. “Why don’t you try and guess?” he said in the most honeyed tone Damen had ever heard and immediately realized he was being made fun of. He passed Laurent the blue cup, their fingers touching as the cup went from one hand to the other. “Don’t think I can do it, do you?” Damen asked. Laurent lifted his cup, as if in a toast. “You’ll see,” Damen said. And then: “By the way. Red suits you very well.” Laurent blushed at that, then tipped his head back. His blue eyes met Damen’s brown ones, and there was a lazy smirk on his lips. “You think so?” Damen’s breath caught in his throat, and he became unable and unwilling to shift his gaze away. In the back of his mind, he could hear Auguste screaming. Lord knows he was in trouble. May
The more the exams session neared, the heavier the small mp3 player seemed to grow in his pocket. Damen had tried listening to them once, and he’d gotten the feeling that it was much like being in class, with the added bonus that he could stand up while listening as well as follow along with his hands and no one would nag him for it. I see, Jokaste had said when she’d seen him trying to study by gesturing more with his hands than speaking with his mouth. You’re a kinesthetic learner. Then she’d went and taught him how to study best and how to keep track of informations with his hands.
In the end, he thought, it had been that which had broken him. Every time he’d sat down and tried to understand what was written on his book, keeping track with his hands, beating to a tune with his foot to associate sound and knowledge, he’d seen her trying to teach him, gentle and soft and laughing and witty. Eventually, he ended up leaning over his books, with his face in his hands and tears waiting to roll down his face. After she’d left him, he’d screwed up his session. When lectures had started up again, he hadn’t attended them, only barely handing in the assignments. He might as well not have handed them in at all. It was as if It was her idea. I used to do this for her had been written on every one of them.
Now, sitting cross legged on the floor, he took his mp3 player in hand. It’s what you want, so what’s stopping you?
It was a memory, only somehow the voice was morphed, lowered, turned masculine and smooth, and just the slightest bit breathless. It’s just–it isn’t like you.
So he took a deep breath, grabbed his notebook, and pressed play.
“So, have you found out?”
The sushi place was full, and had Nicaise not been working there for the past semester and holding a grudge against the owner, they wouldn’t have gotten a table. As it was, Nicaise couldn’t have cared less about “that asshole and his policies”, and they’d skipped the line and gotten a table anyway. Admittedly, Damen didn’t know if it was for the best. He was pretty sure running two flights of stairs just to catch up with a blond head that might or might not have been Laurent had been a pretty bad plan in the first place; keeping on staring at him instead of looking at the menu was an even worse one. Only he couldn’t help it.
“I thought you quit wearing glasses when you were, like, sixteen,” Damen commented casually. "And I thought you knew that contact lenses exist, but what can I say–” Laurent put his menu down on the tabletop and placed his hands neatly over it.“–we live and we learn.”
“So”, Laurent said after a moment, drumming his fingers on the menu. “ What’s your guess? It’s not like there’s that many books to choose from.” “My answer isn’t ready yet,” Damen said, watching puzzlement change the set of Laurent’s lips. “It’s not a test, you know.” “With you, everything is.” Laurent arched an eyebrow, and Damen went on: “I’m getting the feeling you’re trying to understand something.” “Is that so,” Laurent said, his voice low, his black rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. “And what test would it be?” The place was loud and hot, and chatter could be heard from the other tables around them. At the front, the line was growing longer and the waiters were having trouble getting to the tables. So, the first thing Damen thought was Don’t, you’ll scare him. The second was He can’t run away, anyway. Which really didn’t justify why he still opened his mouth. “About how well I know you. About how well I’m getting to know you. And I want to pass with flying colours.” He saw the way Laurent’s shoulders stiffened, saw the heaving of his chest under the night blue shirt quicken as his breathing became faster, saw his eyes go wide and the bridge of his nose turn pink. His plan had been to cover Laurent’s hand with his, but just before they touched he moved it, putting it on the table just so that his thumb was touching Laurent’s skin by slightly overlapping his wrist, pressing the pad of his thumb ever so slightly against his slender bone.
“You don’t think you could pass it now?”
Damen shook his head, gently brushing his thumb over Laurent’s wrist, just as if he were made of air and the slightest pressure would have him skittering away and dissolving under his touch. “I think that if I had no chance, you would have already told me by now.” Laurent raised his eyebrow, his eyes darker than usual, clouded, his pupils slightly dilated; they looked a lot like the blue hydrangea flowers he’d picked up for him more than eighteen years ago.
It was Laurent who pulled away first, his eyes never leaving Damen’s while he slid his hand away from Damen’s touch. He leaned against the back of his chair, holding his wrist where Damen’s thumb had just been. “So.” Damen cleared his throat. “Do you have classes later?” Someone huffed impatiently next to Damen and then he felt the edge of a clipboard being tapped against his shoulder. “Are you ready to order?” Nicaise asked. Laurent nodded, then gave his order. Damen was about to give his when he felt a foot timidly pressing against his. He couldn’t help but grin at Laurent, stalling in giving his order just enough for Nicaise to roll his eyes. “Oh my God, I don’t have the whole day.” Damen stopped himself again only to see Nicaise’s lips rise in a smirk. “You’ve been staring at Mister Marigold over here, haven’t you? Do you even know what we offer?” Damen felt himself flush. “He’ll have the same as I am having.” It was Damen’s turn to lift his eyebrow. “How do you know I’m going to like that?” he said, using his feet to trap Laurent’s foot between his. “You think you won’t?” Laurent countered. “That wasn’t the question.” “Ah, I see. Maybe you think I’m not observant enough, perhaps?” A smirk. “Like you?”
“I’m going to barf.” “Fine with me, but not anywhere near our table. I don’t want to slip when I get up. I have classes to get to,” Laurent said. Nicaise rolled his eyes and jotted something down, then made his way to the kitchen. “I think we better leave him a good tip,” said Damen, watching Nicaise leave. “What time do your classes start?” Laurent wiggled his foot, which Damen only now realized was still trapped between his. “Why are you smiling?” Laurent said. “So… I haven’t been the only one doing the staring, have I?” “The girl–” Laurent nodded to the table in the alcove on the other side of the aisle they were in “–has been picking raw fish from her plate and giving it to her partner the whole time, and he–” He nodded to the waiter rushing between one table and the other “–knows he got the order wrong and will likely give them a discount.” “If it’s your way to tell me I’m not special, I’m not falling for it,” Damen deadpanned. Laurent wiggled his foot between Damen’s again. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you?”
Damen laughed, and held Laurent’s foot tighter between his. He laughed again when he took a sip of the green drink Nicaise had brought to their table, and said: “You do like bitter things, after all.” “I never said I didn’t. I said people always assume I do.” Damen nodded. After a while, he spoke again: “May I walk you to class?” Laurent tapped his finger against his lips, the movement rhythmic like the pendulum of a metronome, hypnotizing. “You may.”
The walk from the main building to building C–where Laurent was supposed to take his lesson–was ten minutes. Fifteen if you took the dirt road that made its way through the open-aired portion the botanical gardens, its path steadily disappearing between the reds and greens of the flowers and the vine covered pergolas with a barely visible plastic roof. Countless times, while making his way through the campus with Auguste, Damen had purposefully avoided that road–because it was Jokaste’s favorite. There were dark clouds looming over them now and the wind was whipping Laurent’s blonde hair against his cheeks, and even though Damen knew he should’ve taken the fastest road, he couldn’t be bothered to give up those five extra minutes with Laurent. He made his way to the gardens.
Four minutes into their walk, Laurent looked up to the sky just when a drop of water fell on his nose. “I’m going to kill you,” he said. Seven minutes into their walk, lightning was splitting open the sky. Nine minutes into their walk, the wind was howling around them and it was pouring, and Damen was grabbing Laurent’s hand, still not any warmer than before, and pulling him behind himself as they run to the closest pergola. It was raining so hard and Laurent’s hand in his was so soft, so delicate and slender–but not small–, the places where their skin touched so hot and threatening to get him lost that it was only the sound of rain hitting plastic that told Damen they had effectively reached shelter. He stopped abruptly and turned around, Laurent careening into his chest before he was able to stop himself. “You motherfucking–”Laurent hissed through his teeth "What in fuck’s name–” But Damen was only half listening, his arms closing around his waist, pressing him against his chest and feeling–just feeling–their hipbones touching, the rising and falling of his chest and his breath ghosting against his neck. It was dark under the pergola, the vines and clouds covering any light that might have filtered through. Still, he recognized the smell; it was heavy, mixing with Laurent’s fresh one. It was that and the adrenaline and the beating in his own chest that made him say: “Laurent?” “What?” he snapped. He was still leaning against Damen. “Would you go out with me, say, tomorrow?” Lightning lit up Laurent’s face, who was staring up at Damen, his eyes wide and flickering between Damen’s own eyes and his mouth. Damen felt his arms tighten around his middle. Thunder reverberated all around them, the sharp crack of a whip tearing open the sky covering Laurent’s words. It was a good thing, Damen thought, that they were pressed against each other or he’d never felt the nod.
“Laurent?” Damen lowered his head, his lips touching the shell of Laurent’s ear. “May I kiss you?” Lighting tore open the sky a second time, and Damen smiled as the flash of light illuminated the scenery around them. How beautiful, he thought. They were dark blue rather than indigo, soaking wet and scattered all around them, so that when Laurent ran his hands up his neck, fisted them in his hair and pulled him close, pressing their lips together, he did so among hundreds of dripping hydrangea flowers.
For the second time in his life, Damen thought Laurent must be magical.
He smiled again when their lips parted, Laurent’s mouth chasing after him, a barely audible sigh coming from his throat. “You taste bitter” Damen said, going in for another kiss. Laurent smiled against Damen’s lips, and Damen felt the flutter of his lashes against his cheek. “Ah, but I know you don’t mind.”
How beautiful, indeed.
