Still! He never assumed he'd feel anything of the sort. With his life a baby seemed unthinkable, human babies should grow up in villages and towns and houses and know other people and never feel unsafe.
TFW you wanna write a fic with the working title "How About That Sexual Awakening Feral Boy" but it means you're rotating the character in your brain like a centrifuge and making yourself sad.
my written piece for @capri-secretsanta 2017, for participant #22. the damen/laurent soulmate au no one asked for, but i hope you enjoy it! wishing you a happy holiday!
Condemned to the Underworld by magic and betrayal, Damen has nothing left to him except the promise of vengeance, of setting right what he did wrong, but with no means of leaving Death’s suffocating hold, there is very little he can do.
Then, Laurent comes.
my written piece for @capri-anthology, beta’d by @lets-talk-about-captive-prince, with art by @berahthraben. all my thanks to the wonderful people involved in the project, it was an amazing experience from start to finish!
here’s my secret santa for @stishovite! it’s like 3000 years late, but i hope you enjoy it! i may have taken modern au and ran too far with it ahhh, anyways i hope you had a good holidays!!
Damen stands in front of the apartment door holding only a piece of paper with a name and number on it, and the hesitant hope that this can work.
He knocks and waits, heartbeat stuck somewhere in his throat.
After moments of silence: “Nicaise?” comes a voice from inside - a man’s voice, which isn’t what Damen expects. It throws him off, and he hesitates. He’d expected -
Well.
He’s not completely sure what he expected, coming here. DeVere is scrawled hastily on the piece of paper clutched in his hand, certainly not a first name, so he supposes he’d just assumed that it would be a woman.
After all, he’s seeking the services of a witch.
He’s not sure if he should answer, because, duh, he’s not Nicaise, and he doesn’t know anyone by that name, and Nikandros would’ve told him to just go in. Smartly, Damen doesn’t take that advice.
Eventually, he hears footsteps drawing near and the door swings open to reveal blond hair and startling blue eyes. Damen catches himself staring before he tells himself to smile. Holds out his hand. “Hi, are you - ”
“You’re not Nicaise,” the man says with all the warmth of someone who had just discovered something unpleasant on their doorstep. He doesn’t take Damen’s hand, so he lets it drop to his side, feeling a little awkward.
“What do you want.”
“Oh, well, I, uh - ” and he feels a slow flush creeping over his face (not that he’d admit it, of course; it was cold enough outside that reddened cheeks were excusable) as he silently cursed Nikandros in his mind. “A friend told me that you did magic for people, with the right price.”
Instead of an answer, the man makes a show of looking Damen up and down, letting his eyes drag over him with exaggerated slowness that Damen feels himself starting to blush again. It’s not like him to after all, it’s not like he has anything to be embarrassed about, but maybe it’s the frown on the man’s lips (he’s not staring at those lips, no way) that says, plainly, not impressed that makes Damen feel like he’s ten again under his father’s critical gaze.
“I don’t do holiday wishes,” the man tells him in a perfectly flat voice, and goes to close the door on him.
Damen panics. He thinks, no, you can’t, and this is the only option left, and please bring him back, and catches the door before it can swing shut on him, shoving himself into the space that the man just left.
He thinks he sees the man’s eyes flash, cold fire burning bright, as his features contort for the length of a breath, but it can’t be more than a trick of the light. Damen blinks and it’s gone, emotion shuttering into blank neutrality - a politician’s face that bears too much resemblance to Jokaste’s moments before she scams you for all you’re worth.
Immediately, he backs off, holding his hands out in front of him, palms up. “Sorry,” he says, wishing viciously that he hadn’t done that, “I’m not here for uh, holiday wishes. You’re - DeVere, I guess?” The way the man says holiday wishes is the same way Nikandros tells Damen what he can do with his mother when he’s woken up before the sun on the days that Damen goes out for runs.
“I was hoping you could help me. With my dad. He’s - sick.” The words come out in a rush, scraping Damen’s throat raw in the process. It doesn’t hurt any less than the day he’d gotten a call in the middle of class, told by an impersonal voice that his father had collapsed in the middle of a meeting and was in the hospital. It doesn’t hurt less for all the days that Damen’s spent at his bedside since, watching the beeps on the screen that tell him that his father’s still alive . “I heard you could do it, that you’re - you’re good with healing.” Witchcraft.
What would his father say, if he knew.
“No.” DeVere sneers. “I don’t treat with barbarians. Leave.”
It stings. A slap in the face that Damen doesn’t expect but should’ve; he should’ve expected - what did he expect, trying to reason with witches? He feels that familiar need to just do something seize him, the impulse to grab DeVere by the shoulders and shake him an overwhelming thing that blots out his vision.
He could make him - no. Damen takes a deep breath. “Why not?"
“Do you think I don’t know who you are? Damianos of Akielos. Your father is famous for the laws he passed on magic. Witches, to be arrested on sight? People with magic chased out of your country and into mine?” There’s a cruel set to DeVere’s lips, a hardness in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago.
“You let my brother die,” he says, and Damen feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “So you will forgive me if I don’t particularly care to help that man, or you for that matter. Happy holidays.”
The door slams in a burst of magic, sparks flying from the hinges that sends Damen recoiling back out into the hallway.
He crumples the paper in his fist and lets it drop to the floor.
“He seriously said that to you?” Nikandros says, disbelieving, slumped over Damen’s kitchen counter like the freeloader he is. He holds up the half-empty glass of scotch in a passing approximation of a toast. “Well, now you know better than to ask witches for help. If you listened to me, it would’ve saved you a trip.” His words are only a little slurred.
Damen scowls at him. “Jord said -”
“Jord was probably fucking with you, man.” Nikandros squints. “You said that the guy looked like Jokaste?”
“What? That’s not the point.” Even if Damen still sometimes catches himself daydreaming about the man, telling Nikandros is the last thing he needs. “I’m going back there tomorrow. You think I should lead with an apology?”
“You didn’t do anything that needs apologizing for, why would you lead with an apology?”
“My father -”
“I still think it’s bullshit,” Nikandros says seriously, setting the cup down. “We both know why you’re going back there, and I’m telling you it’s a bad idea.”
“I’m not going to try to get in his pants!”
Nikandros smirks, downs the rest of the scotch in one gulp, and has this look in his eyes that makes Damen regret ever becoming friends with him in the first place. “You said it, not me.”
They’re hit by a snowstorm the following night, and Damen finds himself staying late to finish his paper. By the time he steps off campus, the sky is already dark, streetlights sharing what light they can to illuminate the snowflakes drifting in the air.
His phone buzzes with the latest of Nikandros’ texts (he’s pretty sure it’s Nikandros, anyways). With numb fingers, Damen fishes it out of his pocket and looks at the glowing screen.
when are you back??? dinner???
Damen smiles, texts back a time an hour from now. DeVere’s apartment is only a fifteen minute walk from the library, and he figures that sooner is probably better than later. He doesn’t know how many more tomorrows his dad has left.
By the time he pulls open the door to the apartment, Damen is dusted over with snow, clumps of it falling from his hair, and his scarf, and the creases of his coat even as he is clamoring up the stairs. He sniffs, and feels his nose running.
DeVere’s apartment number is 305, and when it’s pulled open, Damen is greeted with the sight of a boy not older than fifteen with curling brown hair and wide blue eyes that glitter like sapphires. Like DeVere’s, Damen thinks abstractedly, wondering if perhaps this was his younger brother. The hair color says otherwise, though.
“Is -” he starts, peering over the kid into the apartment, trying to see.
“No.” The kid cuts him off with particular glee, and slams the door in his face.
Damen stands outside for another minute, trying to process what just happened, and hears distinctly the tenor of the boy’s voice coming from inside: “Laurent, he’s gone now.”
Laurent, Damen thinks viciously, imagining in perfect detail the man plunged headfirst into two metres of snow.
He catches Laurent in the foyer when he drops by between classes.
Before Damen can get a word out, Laurent says, “You came here. In the storm.”
Damen blanks, and ends up staring at him uncomprehendingly for two heartbeats before his mind catches up with him. “Yeah.” Like an idiot.
“Why?” His voice is so soft that Damen nearly misses it.
He meets Laurent’s gaze and does not flinch. “I need your help.”
Silence settles between them like a blanket, heavy and encompassing, broken only by the clattering of the door, footsteps echoing in empty corners.
“What if I told you to beg?” Laurent’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade.
Damen hesitates. Instinct rushes forward, followed closely by pride. He is the son of Theomedes, and he does not beg anyone, least of all a witch. Witches were a danger to their people, to the natural order of the world itself. Witches were treacherous and dirty, honorless and false.
Witches were Damen’s only chance.
He clenches his fists by his side, forces the tension from his body. “Do you want me to get on my knees?” he asks, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. He keeps his chin held high, a challenge, even as he starts to lower himself to the floor.
For a fraction of a second, Laurent’s eyes widen and his lips part in surprise. As if he hadn’t expected Damen to agree. As if this wasn’t what he wanted after all. He starts forward, as if to catch Damen. Stops himself. Straightens and says, “No, stop, are you stupid?”
Without another word, Laurent pushes past Damen and leaves the apartment.
Damen is walking with Nikandros back to his car when he sees Laurent on the street, peering into the darkness like he’s looking for something.
It’s only because it’s three in the morning that Damen stops at all (at least, this is what he tells himself), and calls Laurent’s name, raises a hand in greeting. Nikandros gives him a puzzling look, sees Laurent, and starts to shake his head.
“Damen -” he starts.
“What if he needs help?” Damen’s brows furrow. It’s not safe to be out on the streets in the middle of the night.
“He’s a witch, he’ll figure it out.” It bothers Damen more than he’ll admit to hear Nikandros say it like it’s a swear word, like it’s something worse.
“Go first, I’ll catch up,” he tells his friend.
“Damen, it’s three in the fucking morning.”
But Damen is already crossing the street at a jog to catch up with Laurent, who didn’t stop to acknowledge them.
“What are you doing.” Even in the dark, Damen thinks he can see Laurent glaring at him.
“Are you alright?” Damen asks, having come to the conclusion that sometimes it’s better to ignore Laurent’s words altogether.
“Fine,” he replies icily, and starts walking again.
When Damen follows, Laurent stops again. “Stop following me.”
“Look, you shouldn’t be wandering around by yourself right now. It’s not safe.”
Laurent just stares at him for long enough that Damen wonders if he even sees him anymore, but then he says, “Nicaise is missing.” The words feel like they’ve been ripped out of him, and Damen takes it for what it is: an admission.
“Nicaise? The kid from the other day? The one who told me you weren’t home when you were?”
“He thought it would be funny.” Laurent shakes his head, sighs. “We’ve been. We haven’t been getting along lately. He didn’t come home from school today, and -” His voice tapers off. Retries. “It’s not safe out here,” he says flatly, an echo of Damen’s words that is really an accusation.
“I’ll help you look,” Damen says because he has to.
“I -” Laurent stares into the distance, gaze unfocused. “Yes, thank you.”
By the time they find Nicaise sulking in the community park, the sun is already peaking over the horizon, and Damen has to blink frantically to avoid from falling flat on his face. Still, he doesn’t miss the way Laurent picks up his pace as soon as they spot the kid, doesn’t miss the way his shoulders sag just that little bit in relief.
Later, as Damen starts to head back towards his own apartment, he feels a touch on his arm.
“I’ll help him,” Laurent says quietly into the dawn.
Laurent cannot help him.
Theomedes is already dead.
That is the devastating news that waits for Damen at the hospital. He is told that his father stopped breathing some time in the early hours of the day, and he cannot help but think that it’s his fault. Instead of wandering around half the city in the dark, he could’ve been here. By his father’s side.
Would it have saved him? Damen knows the answer - knows it, and rejects it, because it does not matter.
Theomedes is - was - dead, and Laurent saved him anyways.
“Damianos.” Laurent’s voice startles Damen from where he’s sitting in Kingsmeet Café, staring into his untouched cup of coffee. Laurent hesitates beside the table, then gestures to the empty seat across from Damen. “Can I sit?"
Damen makes a noise of agreement and Laurent sits.
“Auguste. I remember.” He remembers broad shoulders and a challenge in piercing blue eyes, remembers the way he stared death in the face with his head held high. Remembers, too, the sunlight caught in his hair, brighter than gold.
The most powerful witch of this age, comes his father’s voice, unbidden. Too dangerous to let live.
Damen looks at Laurent who is looking back at him through narrowed eyes. If his cheeks are a little flushed, it can only be because of the cold. It’s started snowing outside again. Laurent, who had pulled his dying - dead - father back (Damen hadn’t believed it, couldn’t, even when he saw with his own eyes Theomedes draw a shuddering breath, eyelids fluttering) despite all accounts of it being impossible.
He remembers Jord telling him, I know a guy who’s good at healing.
He thinks, Auguste isn’t the most powerful. Damen closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
Coffee and mint, sea salt and magic.
“Laurent,” he says, his tongue curling around the name in a way that is not uncomfortable, and means please, means I’m sorry, means thank you (suddenly, all-consumingly, Damen wants it to mean more).
Laurent bites his lips, looks down at his own cup for a brief moment before flicking his gaze up again. “I don’t know how I did it,” he says, slowly, “It’s not supposed to be possible. Magic isn’t supposed to be used this way, and it’s certainly not common, not this. No one has heard of this before.” Already, Damen can feel him drawing back, his expression shuttering, the walls that Laurent puts between himself and the world being reconstructed one by one. What must he think of this? Magic, already hated, shown to do even more. He thinks of the laws his father’s passed in the last decade, and knows what this means.
Laurent is too dangerous to let live; his father was right, all that time. Magic shouldn’t be allowed - and Laurent sees this, and he knows, and he’s trying. Damen knows he’s trying to protect other witches though his own life is forfeit, surely he must know.
Dangerous. There it is again, his father’s word, the means of which he's built his empire on, this ragged country of theirs. He thinks of his father in his dark suit, thinks of his father lying prone on a hospital bed.
Thinks of Auguste, who should not have died, and the people he left behind.
A kingdom, or this.
He catches Laurent’s hand in his own, squeezes gently. “I won’t let them hurt you.” He doesn’t know if he means Laurent, or witches, or people in general, doesn’t know whether or not that’s a promise he can keep, but he knows, in bone and flesh and blood, that it is that.
