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Laurent groggily opens his eyes. An act as simple as that sends bolts of pain across his skull. He looks for the source of light without jostling his head from where it’s nestled against his pillow. Daylight dissipates into the room, seeping through the barrier of blinds that is shut. Laurent is extremely glad that the light is muted enough not to hurt his now sensitive eyes. He cannot tell what time it is. If Damen’s side of the bed is cold, it must be really late. Unlike Damen — who requires the assistance of a natural calamity to rouse him — Laurent wakes with the sun.
Perplexed by his own abnormal behaviour, he instinctively calls for Damen. A faint growl escapes his lips instead of Damen’s name. Suddenly, an unknown panic clogs his heart at the loss of his ability to function.
But then, slowly but surely, memories of the previous night seep into his head like sunlight touching the floor of a tropical forest, past the canopy of leaves. It’s a plethora of muddled recollections really; some strong, some weak, some a blur, but there is no mistaking the jumble of familiar faces, the richness of expensive wine and Damen’s voice, a whisper in his ear asking him: ‘Are you alright, sweetheart?’
Slowly, keeping his head as still as possible, Laurent sits up and gingerly leans his back against the headboard. There’s a glass of water and a strip of aspirin on the bedside table on his side of the bed, and a bin just beneath it. Not just that, on further observation, not a single article in the bedroom is out of place. Not even a stray sock, shoe or towel on the pillow. Even their dress shirts and slacks from the previous night have been folded neatly and placed in the hamper. It is suspiciously clean — just the way he likes it.
Laurent carefully swings his legs off the edge of the bed, painfully aware of every aching muscle. He sways when he finally gets on his feet, bracing himself against the nearest wall for support to keep him from falling. His mind feels like a blob of clay, taking new shapes every time he tries to think. The back of his eye sockets feel as though they have been stabbed by blunt knives. His throat grates over its insides whenever he tries to swallow. Even the muffled sound of a car passing in the distance feels like a banshee’s wail. There might be an industrial-grade mixer in his stomach right now, and his limbs have turned into jelly, unwilling into his submission.
This is one of the reasons he hates getting drunk. He hates losing control of his faculties, his agility and nimbleness. The ability to speak and walk. Without those, he feels like a snail slugging precariously on a wet twig.
Purposefully slow, keeping one foot in front of the other, he heads for the ensuite.
Laurent almost doesn’t recognise the image in front of him in the mirror. His shoulder-length hair is in such disarray that it might have housed a flock of birds overnight. His eyes are puffy, and his lashes feel stiff where the fine hairs have stuck together stubbornly. There’s an imprint of the pillow on his face, which is also blotchy. He cards one hand through his hair, silently threatening the strands to fall into place, and sighs when they fail to. The action fills the space above the sink with a ghastly smell. He might have slept with an army of rodents while he was at it. Now that he begins to recognise, he surely smells like it. Like the rodents have been feasting on rotten eggs.
This is another reason he hates getting drunk. Laurent has trained himself over the years to look and smell impeccable at all times, hair a shiny gold above his head, not a single lock astray, face and features neatly groomed, and always primly dressed in clean and ironed clothes. Even Damen rarely sees him like this, with him already ready for work by the time Damen wakes up. Being drunk shoves all that effort down the drain. The fact that he’s covered only in his favourite t-shirt is probably the only consolation. It’s Damen’s, over-large on his frame, and the hem breaching his mid-thigh. The fabric is soft and clean-smelling, soothing his exponentially growing vexation a little. Strange, he doesn’t remember putting it on.
Laurent sets himself up to the task of cleaning his mouth, brushing, flossing and rinsing in tandem to rid his mouth of the wretched smell. He washes his face after and brushes his hair to bring back some semblance.
The blaring of his phone pulls his attention. He winces at the sharp sound and promises himself to eviscerate whoever it is on the other end. He trudges back to the bedroom — all the while swearing under his breath — and picks up the phone, ignoring the name on the screen.
‘I swear to God, if nobody is dying, I will personally make you suffer,’ he starts, his voice unrecognisable to his own ears, gravelly and rough.
‘Are you hungover? Fuck!’ It unfortunately turns out to be Nicaise, mumbling curses of his own to himself. ‘Auguste didn’t tell me about it. Fuck it. I’ll just let your husband deal with you.’
Laurent opens his mouth to reduce him to tears for the last statement alone, but the line goes dead before that.
This is one more reason he hates getting drunk. People run away from his side soon after, leaving Damen to handle him. He’s not a child who needs handling. It’s quite the opposite, Damen being the overgrown child in the relationship. It’s not like he’s a velociraptor waiting to rip heads off people’s shoulders for approaching him. Is he? Even Auguste — who has raised him — thinks that Damen is the expert on all things Laurent.
Tossing the phone on his bed, he trudges out of the bedroom.
The living room and the kitchen are the same as the bedroom, no signs of being lived in. He finds Damen in the open kitchen. There’s an electric kettle beginning to boil in the corner on the counter. Judging by the slim wisps of smoke rising from it, it must have been turned on a few minutes ago, sometime when he got out of the bathroom. There’s not a dish in the sink. The sleek metal countertops are clean, confusingly so. It shouldn’t be this way if Damen is cooking.
Laurent leans against the edge of the counter and takes in Damen’s form. The latter is searching for something in the overhead cabinets. It’s almost unfair how easily he does it. Laurent would have to host a circus with his height in order to do the same. It’s also unfair how his bare muscles ripple and clench under his skin with the motions. He’s in a pair of boxers, putting his strong arms and broad shoulders on display. If Damen’s bed head is still intact, he hasn’t been to the gym. Laurent wonders what he’s been doing staying at home.
Damen retrieves from the cabinet what looks like a tea box. That’s not the flavour Laurent drinks daily, or even recognises. He then picks a square napkin from a rack and walks to the table by the window on which there are two plates of pancakes. There’s a mug of coffee by one and a generous serving of maple syrup on the other. He places the square cloth next to the second plate, proceeding to arrange the cutlery. The sunlight frames his person, catching on the tumble of messy curls on top of his head and his smouldering brown skin. It shimmers like polished copper.
At that moment, Damen turns and catches his eye.
‘Good morning,’ Damen says with a fond smile, displaying the straight line of his white teeth. It’s almost as warm as the sunshine but doesn’t sting his eyes like the latter does. His voice is rich and deep, like molten chocolate. The sound and sight alleviate some of the weight on Laurent’s senses and carve their path into his brain.
I hate you for staying back, because you’re exactly what I need right now, Laurent wants to say.
‘Nicaise had called,’ is what he says instead.
Damen winces as he plods back to the kitchen, mumbling something under his breath that sounds like, ‘I knew I was forgetting something.’
Damen pulls out a tea bag from the box into a mug and empties the kettle of boiling water into it. When Damen lifts his arms to deposit the tea box in the overhead cabinets, sunlight catches on the gold band on his left hand and glints against his dark skin.
A lump forms in Laurent’s throat at the sight, and swallowing becomes difficult. Laurent closes the distance between them in a near sprint and hugs Damen from behind, hands tightening around his waist, and smashes his face between Damen’s shoulder blades.
Damen’s surprise is evident in the way he stills in the movement of closing the cabinet doors. It’s only for a fraction of a second before Damen turns easily in Laurent’s hold and snakes his arms around Laurent’s shoulder. Damen chuckles, kissing the crown of his head. Its rumble travels through his ear, easing its passage into his brain. He snuggles the side of his head into Damen’s chest.
Laurent breathes Damen’s musk, inhaling a deep lungful. It effuses its way through his body — like a burst of spice — lulling his senses. The man has no right to smell this good without making an effort.
Damen’s voice is a muffled mumble when he asks, ‘Sleep well?’
Laurent just nods. He doesn’t remember how he slept, or much of anything before he slept for that matter.
Wordlessly, Damen rocks him from side to side, nose buried deep in his hair. The motion should be jarring on his still-churning stomach, but it isn’t. It almost has the opposite effect, propitiating the riot in his gut enough to be ignored.
Damen picks up the mug of tea with one hand, wedging Laurent to his side with the other. ‘Come on. Let’s have breakfast,’ he says, nudging Laurent to move from his spot. Not that Laurent needs any motivation. He sticks to Damen’s side, locking his wrists around his waist.
When they reach the small table, Damen stops to place the mug next to the plate that is devoid of a beverage, but Laurent doesn’t. He pushes Damen further until he slumps on the side of the sofa, a few feet away from the table. Damen chuckles at his petulance, but takes the cue, lifting one leg and locking his feet behind the other knee, creating a seat of sorts for Laurent.
Damen does know him well, because as soon as Laurent cocoons his body by bringing his legs up against his chest, Damen’s hands settle at the end of Laurent’s spine, digging his meaty fingers into his tense muscles. Laurent moans into the contact, the way Damen’s strong fingers remove the knots in his back. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, lips parted in appreciation.
‘Why did you let me drink?’ he groans. Because that is what a good husband should do, prevent his spouse from overindulging.
‘Hey, you’ve been working non-stop since last month. You needed a break, and you needed to relax,’ Damen says.
Drinking is not what Laurent needs. This. Damen’s hands wringing out the stress from his body. This is what he needs. He’s not sure if he says it out aloud.
‘What did I drink?’ he asks, revelling in the way Damen is working his way up his spine, one vertebra at a time. He remembers wine, but he’s sure there was more.
‘It started off with wine. Then came griva,’ Damen says.
No wonder Laurent smells like a pig. Though Makedon was absent at the party, apparently, his pride and patented griva was not. He groans at just the thought of the vile drink.
‘Did I say something?’ Laurent asks. This is always the interesting part. Damen’s hands have reached his shoulder blades now, pressing with just the right amount of pressure and at just the right angle to pop the cricks between his scapula.
‘Well, nothing new,’ he starts. There’s amusement in Damen’s voice, edging on restrained laughter. ‘You called Jakoste a two-timing bitch. Reprimanded Nik for being a coward and not proposing to Kashel. You called Jord an irresponsible idiot and scared a few bartenders.’
This is one other reason he hates getting drunk. Not that he isn’t capable of blasting all of his opinions on people’s faces when he is sober. Oh no. When not drunk on a hotchpotch of alcohol, he would have remembered their reactions to his boorish words. But now…
‘Don’t feel so bad,’ Damen cuts his thoughts. ‘Auguste has it all recorded on his phone. I’m sure he’ll share it with you.’ Damen is barely trying to hide his chuckle.
Laurent whimpers, whether by the clever twist of Damen’s hands at the base of his neck or at the thought of watching a video of himself without having the vaguest memory of the incident, he doesn’t know.
‘And speaking of Auguste,’ Damen continues. ‘You told him about the meeting you had with the Patran corporation.’
Laurent growls. And this time, it’s not because of Damen. He would have told Auguste eventually, of course, but this was too early. Unlike him, Auguste was not good with secrets. He would let it slip somewhere or in meeting with someone. Laurent was sure of that.
This is yet another reason he hates getting drunk. Laurent weaves circumstances and situations around people. Nothing is ever a coincidence or luck with him. Everything is hard work. Hours of life ground into their family business. Alcohol puts a damper on his life’s works. The situation in hand being an example. Auguste will understand, of course. But now, with another audience, his old plan will not stand good. He’ll have to come up with a new one. It simply implies Damen being exposed to endless hours of his acidic moods.
‘Hey, Auguste didn’t seem angry. I’m sure he’ll understand. Relax,’ Damen voices his own thoughts. Laurent makes a noncommittal sound in acknowledgement.
‘How did we get home?’ he asks. He knows the answer to his question. Auguste and Helen had picked them up; they must have hailed a taxi on their way back. But at this moment, he prefers the mundanity of his life over thinking of the other board members he can get on his side to merge with the Patras.
‘I carried you on my shoulder and walked back,’ Damen replies nonchalantly.
If Laurent had wanted a diversion, he had got one. He laughs, his shoulders shaking under Damen’s hands. The sound is still strange coming from his unused larynx. He opens his eyes to the sight of Damen smirking, a warm humour sparkling in his eyes.
Just because he couldn’t stop himself, Laurent pinches Damen’s bicep and says haughtily, ‘Barbarian.’
‘Oh, that’s not what you said last night!’ Damen drawls; his face lights, eyes crinkle and his cheeks dimple with the grin that splits his face.
Oh! This is not going to be good.
‘You said that, and I quote: My husband is a gentle giant. My personal teddy bear, without whom I can’t sleep at night!’ Damen even mimics his dreamy tone and the airy tilt of his chin.
Laurent moans. He feels his face heat up by at least five degrees and he’s sure that his skin would have traversed a range of scarlet shades in the few seconds.
‘I hate you!’ He scowls, batting at Damen’s shoulder. The idiot only laughs, low and deep.
Laurent hides his face in the crook of Damen’s neck to hide his mortification, punching Damen again. He’s sure that even a child can tell the fondness in the action.
Damen hugs him and pulls him tighter to his chest. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Breakfast is getting cold.’
This is the major reason Laurent hates getting drunk. Alcohol turns him into an utter and uncontrollable sap.
He hates it! Certainly. Absolutely. Resolutely.
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