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Vaskian hospitality was not Laurent’s favourite but certainly not the worst he had experienced in recent weeks, he decided as he practically crawled through the entrance to their shared tent. He spotted Damen, reclined on the furs on the ground, and reconsidered his assessment. The man was practically naked. His skin was clean and dry and only covered the barest bit by a loincloth. Laurent just stared at him, the relaxed, open face, the vast expanse of muscle under dark skin, and the ugly bruise on his side that looked so very enticing to press to get a reaction.
He managed to pull his eyes up to Damen’s in the low light and said, “Here’s to Vaskian hospitality.”
“It’s a traditional garment,” Damen said in a relaxed voice, “All the men wear them.”
Laurent dropped the thick fur cloak while he thought about how much of a man Damen truly was. His bedclothes covered him almost completely. “Mine has a little more fabric,” he quipped with as much level-headedness as he could muster, “Are you disappointed?” Despite being more covered, he felt naked and exposed under Damen’s gaze.
“I would be, if the lamp weren’t behind you,” Damen answered. He moved his legs in the cramped space.
He had no response to that. Part of him wanted to grab for the fur coat or to run and hide somewhere. He didn’t. He stayed stiffly where he had been for a moment before sinking down and joining his slave on the furs.
It was Damen who broke the silence by thanking Laurent in his usual, empty headed manner.
“For claiming the Lord’s right? … How inflamed are you?”
“Stop it. I didn’t drink any hakesh.”
Laurent hadn’t thought he would. Damen had not taken advantage when it was Laurent threatened by a pleasure drug and he didn’t think Damen would bring himself into a situation of impaired judgement when Laurent’s safety was at stake. He wished he had exerted that same kind of judgement seven years ago in Marlas.
The following banter happened easily enough for Laurent. He allowed the light mood to continue, allowed Damen to tease and prod. It solidified his intention to take care of his laceration. It was the least he could do.
He pulled the cluster of ice wrapped in the cloth from his discarded coat, eyes intent on the purple-ish bruise on Damen’s side.
The muscle in Damen’s stomach twitched violently at the cold when Laurent pressed the cloth, already wet from the ice, to his side. Maybe, Laurent thought, if he kept his hand on the ice long enough, he would melt right alongside it.
Gradually the muscles under and around the bruise relaxed and so did Damen’s face. Laurent tried not to stare into his eyes through golden lashes. His gaze fell, instead, onto a well-formed mouth.
He would be dead.
The thought crossed his mind like a lightning strike. Without Damen, he would be dead by now. There was no way he would have survived all of his uncle’s machinations without this honourable barbarian by his side. He had flayed the man open. He had tortured him. He had, for all intents and purposes, ordered his violent rape. And yet, Damen was in this tent with him, an injury sustained while trying to protect Laurent on his side, and an easy smile on his face.
Another thought swished through his mind, unbidden. It was a memory of that first day in the baths. Damen’s uninvited, wandering hands on his body, the blank panic and disgust that had gripped Laurent. Now, it was Laurent who was taking liberties. He had taken many liberties in their acquaintance: In the garden with Ancel, every appraising touch at banquets, every nasty sexual comment.
His finger, almost as cold as the ice, grazed Damen’s skin. He was sure the Akielon couldn’t feel it. But Laurent could feel it. He knew.
Back in the baths, Damen’s hands had felt like a brand. A horrible, ugly weapon that would mark his skin. Now, Laurent longed for that hot touch again. Not on his body. He would not hesitate to leave Damen alone in this tent if he tried. But the more he looked at those perfect lips surrounded by slight stubble the more he wondered how those lips would feel against his.
Maybe Damen had spoken, maybe his fingers had grazed Laurent’s when he took over the ice. Laurent didn’t know. All he knew was that suddenly he leaned over and his lips were on Damen’s.
His muscles were tense as a rock, Laurent could tell. Laurent himself waited. He had made this mistake. He had let his baser instincts guide him. Now he had to make it seem deliberate, less like a lapse in judgement and more like the indulgence of a cold and tactical Prince.
Much like under the coldness of the ice, Damen’s body slowly relaxed under the steady weight of Laurent’s kiss. Very carefully, he slid his hand up over Laurent’s shoulder until he could tangle it in the ends of his hair.
It was unlike any kiss Laurent had ever experienced. He called the shots. He had allowed it. It was a heady rush of power to know that this barbarian made of pure muscle allowed him to guide the kiss. It was as if a bear had rolled over in submission to a hissing housecat.
Damen’s mouth tasted like nothing in particular. Not like Hakesh, not like beer, not like the staleness of a long night. Laurent thought he tasted a bit of a metallic tang but if that was blood or simply his imagination he could not tell.
It felt like ages but it was only a few moments before he pulled back from Damen. The Akielon looked at him dumbfounded but with heavy lidded eyes.
“Laurent,” he started but nothing else came from his mouth.
“A consolation,” he forced himself to say evenly, “for not attending the coupling fires tonight. With that, he laid down and rolled with his back to Damen.
A warm hand hovered over his shoulder and then pulled back. “I need no consolation,” Damen said, earnest as ever. Before falling into silence.