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Time goes by. And things... Things are well.
Building up a kingdom is a difficult thing, especially when you build it on burnt and poisoned foundations. But they manage. They pull themselves out of bed, even when they only slept two or three hours, and they get ready, and they fight. They fight bandits and traitors and all of them faceless enemies who hate the new nation, who hate them, who want them dead and gone. They fight illegal slavers, and they make careful treaties, day after day. They fight when it feels like they fight alone, uselessly, and their life will be only this until they are too tired to do so and they lose.
But they keep doing it. They're strong enough to keep doing it, together. Resting on each other when they lose their grip, they fight again. Laurent is regal and charming and biting. Damen is strong and proud and brave. Behind the scenes, in their bedroom, they are lovers. They hold on to each other and sleep well, and bicker and smile and relax, and they remind themselves why it all matters.
And things are well.
That's perhaps what makes it sad, what makes them sad. When they lie together that night, and Damen knows and Laurent pretend he doesn't, that this is an anniversary.
Not that of their coronation. No, the third anniversary of that will come in a few months time. No, it's tonight the night of blood and sapphire and a beautiful child and a dirty bag and gore and disgrace and cruelty.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Damen has asked, because he forgot the first year, and he found Laurent gone and then cold and closed and then like nothing had happened, and on the second year Laurent was out of the province for three weeks.
“I don't,” says Laurent's quiet voice. He sounds more like a man then he ever did, these days. It's like it took him this long to finally outgrow his teenaged grace and wildness and to become something more solid.
Damen strokes his forearm. They sleep face to face, with the big shape of him still making a shield for his lover. Laurent has his eyes shut, but he moves a little bit forward. Damen extends his caress to his arm, his shoulder.
“He would insult us every single day, you know,” Laurent says at last. “He would be annoying. And loud. He would question our every action and do so publicly. He would drive servants crazy. It would be a nightmare.”
“Nikandros would absolutely hate him,” Damen supplies.
Laurent opens his eyes. Damen meets them, a question in his eyes. Then his lover smiles, a tiny and not quite happy smile.
“He would. I would have loved to see it,” he said softly.
There is silence, and Damen wonders if this is all they will say about it. Sometimes he still doesn't know when Laurent would prefer to speak and is too reserved to do so, and when he just prefers to keep quiet. So he just waits, trying to be helpful by being there.
“Torvel told me of a great painter,” Laurent says after a moment. “He purchased a painting of Erasmus from him. He says he is very pleased.”
“There is room for a new portrait,” Damen agrees simply.
Laurent does not say anything else. He closes his eyes again and breath, and lie down closer to him. Damen brushes his skin, feeling himself pulled to sleep by the exhaustion of the day. There is nothing else to be said, but he falls asleep with a familiar thought of thanks and regrets for a pouty, foolish, beautiful little boy.