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Chapter Text

Laurent tiptoed his way through the halls, following a route he knew better than anything. The door opened easily beneath his hand, and Laurent slipped inside the dark entry, giggling. Auguste always left the door unlocked because Laurent spent more time in his brother’s rooms than his own.

Auguste smiled at him from the desk where he was working, lamp valiantly fighting the shadows.

“Hello, little bird,” Auguste greeted warmly.

“Auguste,” Laurent whispered, delighted just to say his name.

He made his eyes wide and didn’t blink until they watered, his lower lip sticking out in a practiced pout.

Auguste tilted his head knowingly. “Another nightmare?”

Laurent nodded pathetically, fighting down a grin, his small shoulders shaking with the effort of hiding his giggles. In truth, he hadn’t had a nightmare, hadn’t even tried to sleep before sneaking away to his brother’s rooms. But Auguste could never deny him anything, and Laurent loved the ceremony that followed his ‘nightmares.’

Auguste pushed back his chair and stood, all patient fondness. He bent down, scooping Laurent up with the ease of someone who never once thought him too heavy, even though Father had said he was far too old to be carried now that he’d reached his eighth birthday. But Father never pressed the issue when it came to Auguste. No one did. Everyone loved him. Laurent loved him most of all.

Held high against his brother’s chest, Laurent wrapped his arms around his neck and sighed happily, his pretense of misery already crumbling now that he was getting what he wanted.

Auguste gave him a little toss, laying him onto the wide bed, then crossed the room to a carved chest, its surface etched with leaves and curling vines. A heavy lock kept it shut, but the key never left Auguste’s keeping. He turned it now, the click loud in the quiet chamber, and pulled free the treasure inside: his pelt, shimmering and glorious in the lamplight.

Laurent’s eyes went wide as always. No matter how many times he saw it, the sight of Auguste’s pelt never failed to steal his breath. It was everything Laurent wanted for himself, bright and magnificent, soft and shining, smelling like the very essence of his brother. Laurent’s own pelt, tucked away in his small wooden chest, was a dull mix of grey and white, like a small bird’s feathers in winter. He secretly wished it would change, wished it could be as splendid as Auguste’s.

Auguste returned to the bed, climbing in and pulling Laurent close. The pelt settled over them like a second sky, large enough to wrap them together. They had to press against one another to fit beneath it completely, but Laurent didn’t mind. He loved the closeness, loved the way the world outside seemed to vanish when Auguste’s pelt cocooned them both.

“There we go, little bird,” Auguste said cheerfully, brushing a strand of hair off Laurent’s forehead. “Now no nightmares will get to you.”

Laurent burrowed against him, fingers stroking reverently at the fur. “What if they’re very clever nightmares?” he whispered, half-hoping Auguste would take the bait.

“Then they’ll have to answer to me,” Auguste replied easily, tightening his arm around Laurent. “And you know how well I deal with troublesome things.”

Laurent giggled, his earlier lie all but forgotten. He tilted his chin up. “Tell me a story.”

Auguste chuckled. “I thought you were too tired, after all your bad dreams.”

Laurent’s mouth pulled into a stubborn line. “I’ll sleep better if you tell one.”

“Mm,” Auguste hummed, the sound rich and indulgent. “Very well. Let me think.” He adjusted the pelt around them, tucking it in close, then began in that storyteller’s voice Laurent adored. “Once, long ago, there was a little bird who was much too small to fly with the others. The other birds flew high into the sky, but he could only hop along the branches and look up at them. He was terribly jealous.”

Laurent wriggled, indignant. Why would he be jealous? He had Auguste. “That’s me.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Auguste said, laughter in his voice. “But listen, because this little bird, he had something none of the others did. He had a brother who was the strongest, fastest falcon in the skies. And whenever the little bird wanted, the falcon would swoop down, carry him up into the clouds, and they would fly together. Higher than all the rest.”

Laurent’s lips curved into a slow smile. “And the bird wasn’t afraid anymore?”

“No,” Auguste promised. He brushed his hand down Laurent’s back, soothing. “Because he knew the falcon would never let him fall.”

Laurent blinked sleepily, though he fought it. He wanted to cling to this moment, wanted it to last longer, wanted his brother’s voice to go on forever.

“Auguste?” he whispered.

“Yes, little bird?”

“Will you always tell me stories? Even when I’m older?”

Auguste kissed the crown of his head. “Always.”

Laurent smiled, eyes fluttering shut, convinced he’d fooled Auguste into giving him what he wanted. He never noticed the way his brother was still smiling too, amused and endlessly tender, perfectly aware that Laurent had never been afraid at all—only that he wanted to be held.

And because he could never deny him, Auguste held him until morning.

When sunlight broke across the room, Laurent was still nestled in the pelt, cocooned in warmth and the scent of his brother. He stretched lazily, content, until the sound of footsteps in the hall made him stiffen. The door creaked open without ceremony.

“Auguste?” Berenger’s voice called softly before he entered.

Laurent scowled at once, his whole body going taut. Berenger, with his easy smile and calm manner, slipped inside like he belonged there, which he often did, far too often in Laurent’s opinion.

“Morning,” Auguste greeted, cheerful as ever, shifting up on one elbow. His pelt slid slightly, the rich fur gleaming in the light.

Berenger’s eyes flicked toward it but never lingered, as if deliberately denying himself the sight. He had always been careful about that. Still, Laurent saw the way he noticed, saw the way Berenger moved with quiet familiarity in his brother’s presence, and it made something hot and sharp twist in his chest.

This was their time. His and Auguste’s. Not Berenger’s.

Laurent burrowed closer into Auguste’s side, pressing possessively against him and clutching at the edge of the pelt, as though to remind Berenger where he stood. He refused to speak, refused to even acknowledge him.

Auguste didn’t seem to notice Laurent’s sulk. He sat up more fully, ruffling Laurent’s hair absently before turning his attention to his friend. “You’re early,” he said with a grin. “Couldn’t wait to see me?”

Berenger laughed softly, the sound warm. “Something like that. I thought we could go over the plans before the hunt tomorrow. Better to be prepared.”

Their conversation wove easily from there, the words low and steady, carrying weight Laurent didn’t bother trying to understand. He let their voices wash over him like cotton, muffled and unimportant. What mattered was that Berenger was here, taking his brother’s attention, daring to sit at the edge of the bed where the pelt brushed close to him.

Laurent glared openly now, though neither of them seemed to notice. He hated the way Berenger fit into the room so well, as if he belonged with Auguste in this secret world that should have been only theirs.

Still, even in his jealousy, Laurent could not miss the significance: Berenger never reached for the pelt, never even brushed it, though it lay so near. That was the clearest sign of respect Laurent had ever seen because to touch a pelt uninvited was unthinkable, a violation. That Auguste allowed him near it at all spoke volumes.

Laurent knew it was trust. He just wished Auguste didn’t have so much of it to give away. Auguste only really needed to trust Laurent; Laurent could keep him safe.

So he closed his eyes again, burrowed into the warmth of his brother’s chest, and decided that if he pretended to sleep, Auguste would surely remember who mattered most.

And Auguste, for all his laughing words to Berenger, shifted his arm to hold him a little tighter.

Chapter Text

The mercenaries held a pelt.

Laurent froze, his body locking in place before he even had the chance to breathe. His chest constricted, air caught sharp in his throat, and for a heartbeat he could do nothing but stare. The pelt dangled from a pair of filthy hands, its soft fur eye catching in the golden sun, and Laurent felt the ground tilt beneath him.

The man who held it, broad-shouldered and scarred, his expression carved into an ugly sneer, his Uncle’s man through and through, smirked at Laurent. “Hello, Prince,” he drawled, shaking the fur as though it were some trinket. “Guess what we found in your fancy little tent?”

The mercenary rubbed his dirty palms across the soft pelt, and Laurent’s teeth ground together. His muscles screamed to lunge forward, to tear it away, but he forced himself to remain still. His hands curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

Behind him, Jord and the Prince’s Guard waited in a tense silence. They mirrored Laurent’s stillness, though he could feel the weight of their uncertainty pressing down on him. This was no ordinary theft. This was a noose tightening. A golden collar clicking around a pale throat.

Around them, men began to gather. A circle formed, soldiers and mercenaries both, their eyes drawn as though magnetized to the sight of the pelt. Whispers rippled through the ranks, a mix of awe and unease. Few of them had ever seen a selkie’s pelt before, rarer than gold, rarer than diamonds. Even fewer could believe that one belonged to their prince. Their gazes flickered to Laurent, uncertain, unsettled. Unsure of what to do now with their Prince so thoroughly caught.

And Damen—Damen was trembling with fury, every line of his body straining toward violence. Beside him, Nikandros looked ready to unsheathe his sword at the first word. Akielions believed firmly that those who attempted to catch and trap a selkie deserved worse than death. Refusing, of course, to see the similarities to Akielois’s own slavery. 

Laurent managed, his voice quieter than he intended, “My uncle told you.”

There could be no other explanation. The Regent was the only one who knew where Laurent hid his pelts, locked away in a trunk, in his tent or his chambers, always with the key on Laurent’s person. He had guarded them with a ferocity he showed to little else. The Regent had never been able to seize them before, because Laurent never slipped. But last night… last night he had slept with Auguste’s pelt. He had left it sprawled across the bed for comfort, for the illusion of safety. And this morning, in his rush to drills with his men, he had not locked it away.

The mercenary’s grin widened. “The Regent told us your trunk held a prize. A pretty little prize. And you were kind enough to lay it out for us so we needn’t even go searching for it.” He shook the fur, and Laurent’s stomach twisted. He would have almost preferred it had been his pelt that Auguste’s being besmirched like this.

Laurent stepped forward before he realized he was moving. Every nerve in his body screamed with fury, with protectiveness, with grief. His hand hovered near his sword hilt.

“Uh-uh, no you don’t,” the mercenary sneered, raising the pelt higher. Laurent’s hand froze.

“So it’s true, then,” the man muttered, watching Laurent’s twitching fingers, his shallow breaths. “A selkie.” Triumph gleamed in his narrow, beady eyes. “That means I can order you.”

He shook the pelt again, as though testing its weight, and Laurent’s jaw locked until his teeth ached. Everyone knew the old stories: whoever held a selkie’s pelt could command the selkie’s will.

The mercenary straightened, savoring the moment. The other mercenaries behind him exchanged greedy looks, eyes trailing Laurent’s body, his face. “I think my first order will be this—tell your men to let us pass. My men and I will be riding away from here, and you’ll come with us. Step closer, Princeling.”

Laurent’s feet moved almost against his will, each step dragging, every breath tasting of ash, forcing himself closer, trying to think quickly and figure a way out of this with Auguste’s pelt unharmed. He stopped so near he could smell the man’s rancid breath.

“You’ll order them,” the mercenary said softly, almost gloating. “Tell them to stand aside. And after that—” His finger brushed Laurent’s lips. Laurent’s glare could have cut steel, but he forced himself still, made himself keep his position. Wait, patience. “After that, we’ll have some fun, pretty boy.” His hand tugged at the laces of Laurent’s jacket.

Damen’s blade rasped free of its sheath. “Laurent’s men might have to listen to him,” he growled, voice low and lethal, “but I don’t. And my men follow me.”

Laurent’s voice, cold and cutting, followed: “Another problem with your brilliant plan.” His hand finally closed around his sword and pulled it free.

The mercenary hesitated, uneasy, though his grip tightened on the golden fur.

“That isn’t my pelt.”

His sword flashed. Steel cut through flesh. Blood poured from the mercenary’s throat.

Chaos erupted, steel against steel, and Damen was there at Laurent’s side, both of them moving as if they had always fought together. The Prince’s Guard surged forward, blades flashing. When silence returned, only bodies littered the dirt. The pelt lay among them, spattered with blood and dirt.

But even as Laurent watched, the stains began to fade, the fur cleaning itself, as if refusing to be defiled.

Damen bent instinctively to pick it up, but Laurent’s snarl ripped through the air, animal and raw: “Don’t you dare, Damianos. You have no right.”

The command was so fierce, so unguarded, that Damen froze. He straightened slowly, stepping back, his dark eyes wary.

Laurent swept forward, snatching the pelt into his arms. He pressed it tight against his chest, his shoulders shaking, though his face remained composed. The scent struck him at once, sun-warmed stone, the faint tang of sword oil, the memory of a full bellied laugh that filled the air like light. Grief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled.

Auguste’s pelt always has this effect on him, wanting him to simultaneously tug it closer and throw it in the sea, as far from him as it could be.

Once it had shone like a sunflower, radiant gold in the sun like a reflection of Auguste himself. Now it was fading, the color leached to the pale, husked brown of drying corn. Selkie pelts broke down when their wearer died—slowly, painfully slowly—but it had lost its brilliance, its life, the day Auguste fell.

Laurent buried his face in the fur for one heartbeat, one stolen breath, letting the fear of almost losing it sweep through him and then forcing the emotions away, then tore his gaze upward again, eyes hard. 

His own pelt still waited in the trunk, hidden but not safe, not anymore. They all knew where it was now. His heart hammered with the thought. He would need to find a new place, one no one could reach, not even Damen. Especially not Damen, because if there was ever anyone whom Laurent would give his pelt to, it would be Damen. The thought feels sacriligious with the pelt of his dead brother, whom Damen killed, held in his arms.

Laurent tightened his grip on Auguste’s pelt and forced his voice steady. “Clear the field,” he ordered. His soldiers moved at once, grateful for orders to follow. The Akielion soldiers followed the Veretians away, with Nikandros shooing them back to their work.

Only Damen lingered, watching him.

Laurent turned away, clutching the last remnant of his brother as though it were his own beating heart. It certainly felt like it was.

Chapter Text

The pelt lay in clear sight on their bed, and Laurent knew the moment Damen saw it because his steps faltered. The silence changed. Laurent didn’t lift his head, didn’t move, though his heart thudded painfully in his chest. He kept his eyes fixed on the paper before him, quill scratching meaningless lines. His body was tense, straining to hear every shift of Damen’s breath, every rustle of fabric.

Surely Damen would be reaching for it now. Picking it up. Taking it away, tucking it somewhere safe, keeping it away from Laurent. That was what was supposed to happen. That was what always happened in stories.

Where would he put it? Perhaps in the Akielon treasury, sealed away with gold and ivory. But Laurent could get in there, eventually. He always could. Or maybe Damen would hide it somewhere closer, somewhere only he had access to—

But Damen’s footsteps moved away. A door closed softly behind him.

Laurent spun around so fast his chair scraped harshly against the floor. His breath came short. His eyes darted to the bed, already bracing for emptiness.

The pelt was still there.

A wave broke over him—anger, confusion, relief—too many feelings at once, leaving him dizzy. He crossed to the bed and pressed his hand against it. Soft, familiar grey and white. Not magnificent like Auguste’s shining pelt, not striking, but still his. Still decent enough. Still him.

Why hadn’t Damen taken it?

Did he not want to? Did he not like it? Did he not like Laurent?

Maybe Damen thought it was laughable, that this meagre, boring, bird-coloured thing wasn’t worthy of notice. Maybe Damen was just waiting—waiting for Laurent to leave, waiting for Laurent to realize he wasn’t wanted, waiting to cast him off with quiet Akielon practicality.

The thought made Laurent’s chest twist so sharply he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound. He gathered the pelt in his arms and held it tightly, as though Damen might storm back in and snatch it away after all.

Perhaps Damen hadn’t recognized it for what it was. Perhaps he didn’t know.

Laurent folded it carefully, his movements slow and precise despite the wild churn of his thoughts. He returned it to his trunk, locking it away beside Auguste’s treasured pelt, and slipped the key into his jewelry box. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he would try again. Damen couldn’t refuse if he just… tried harder.

_______________________________________________

The next morning, Laurent laid his pelt across Damen’s desk, arranged so there could be no mistaking it. Then he retreated to a corner by the bookshelf—stuffed with volumes Damen never touched—and sat, waiting. Jord was stationed outside the door; Damen would know instantly that Laurent was here.

Hours later, the door opened. Damen entered, speaking quietly to Jord before shutting the door. His eyes fell on the pelt at once. His whole body stilled.

Laurent’s heart clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

Damen’s hand twitched, as though reaching, and then stilled. He bit his lip, his jaw working, and sat deliberately at the desk. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t even brush it aside.

Laurent felt as if the air had been driven from his lungs.

“Why won’t you take it?” he demanded, the words tearing out of him before he could think.

Damen’s head lifted, but he didn’t look at Laurent. His voice was calm, unbearably steady. “Because I won’t make you my prisoner.”

It was like being struck.

Laurent surged to his feet, heat burning behind his eyes, his throat tight. “You could make me stay,” he snapped. His words were tumbling, incoherent, tripping over themselves. “You could make me—make me—” Easier. Kinder. Sweeter. Better. Someone Damen might actually want to keep.

“Just take it,” Laurent pleaded, voice breaking, thick with tears.

Damen’s gaze finally rose to his. His eyes were warm, steady, agonizing. “I won’t.”

That finality undid him. The tears spilled over, hot and humiliating. He turned sharply, storming out before Damen could see the full collapse of his composure. He left the pelt behind, abandoned, unwanted.

Damen didn’t want it.

He walked quickly, too quickly, through the halls, ignoring the startled faces of servants, soldiers, nobles. Jord followed silently, wisely keeping his distance. Laurent slammed their bedroom door behind him with a crack, chest heaving, throat raw with the scream he couldn’t release.

He wanted to tear the room apart. Shatter glass, splinter wood, rip fabric until there was nothing left. Instead, his hands shook as he fumbled at the lock of his trunk, pulling free Auguste’s pelt. He wrapped himself in it, curled tightly on his side of the bed, pressing his face into the pillow to smother the sound of his sobs.

Hours passed. His tears slowed. The silence pressed in. He stared at the wall, hollow, shivering under the memory of Damen’s refusal.

When the door opened softly, he didn’t move. Damen’s footsteps crossed the room. Laurent closed his eyes, forced his breath into an even rhythm.

A kiss pressed gently against his cheek. Damen’s hand lingered, careful, but never strayed near Auguste’s pelt. He wouldn’t touch it. Wouldn’t touch him.

In that moment, Laurent hated him so much it hurt to breathe.

_________________________________________________

Nikandros was easy to find.

“I need to speak with you,” Laurent said tightly.

Nikandros lifted his eyes from the sword he was polishing, his expression impassive. “Now?”

Laurent nodded once, his hand curling into his palm until his nails bit skin.

He led Nikandros into the first empty room he could find, shutting the door sharply behind them.

“Damen won’t take my pelt.”

For a heartbeat, Nikandros simply stared. Then his expression shifted, shock breaking through the stoicism. His mouth opened, closed, before he said, very carefully, “You… offered Damen your pelt?”

“Basically, yes.”

Nikandros exhaled, long and low, setting the sword aside. He looked at Laurent in a way that made him feel suddenly, dangerously exposed. “And he refused?”

Laurent’s jaw tightened. He nodded once, sharp and brittle.

Nikandros closed his eyes briefly, as though debating. “Laurent,” he said finally, voice quieter than Laurent had ever heard it, “you don’t understand. Do you know what that means?”

Laurent forced his chin high, though his throat ached and his eyes were sore from crying. “I know what it means,” he said. His voice sounded sharp, but underneath it trembled. “It means he doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want me.”

Nikandros’s brow furrowed, his mouth flattening into something dangerously close to pity. It made Laurent want to snarl and strike out like an animal in a trap. “That’s not what it means.”

Laurent’s nails dug harder into his palms. “You didn’t see him. Twice, Nikandros. Twice I placed it in his sight. He wouldn’t touch it.” He laughed, brittle. “He wouldn’t even look at me.”

Nikandros stepped closer slowly. His voice was even, cautious, like he was speaking to a spooked animal. “Laurent. You offered Damen your pelt. That’s not a trinket. That’s not something you test.”

“I know that,” Laurent snapped, voice cracking. He felt exposed, raw. “Do you think I don’t know? I wanted him to have it. I wanted him to keep me.” His breath hitched, ragged. “And he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.”

Nikandros studied him for a long moment, unreadable. Then he said, softly, “Damen wants nothing more than to take your pelt.”

Laurent’s breath caught. His gaze snapped up, sharp, defensive. “Then why hasn’t he?”

Nikandros hesitated, clearly weighing how much to say. “Because he thinks it would bind you. Because he thinks it would mean keeping you against your will. Taking your pelt would make you his slave. And he won’t do that. Not even for you. Especially not to you.”

The words struck Laurent like a blow. He stared at Nikandros, uncomprehending. His thoughts twisted, tangled, splintered apart.

Bind him? Imprison him? Laurent hadn’t thought of that. He hadn’t thought of anything beyond the sting of rejection, beyond the fear that Damen found him lacking, unwanted. He hadn’t thought that Damen might see the offer differently—that Damen might be restraining himself, not refusing him.

His lips parted, but no sound came. His chest felt hollow, caving in.

Nikandros sighed through his nose, folding his arms. “You two really do need to discuss this, I’m tired of both of you coming to me about everything.”

Laurent staggered back a step, his shoulder hitting the wall, not hearing Nikandros. He hated how badly his eyes burned again, how unsteady he felt. His pelt was locked safely away in his trunk, and Damen hadn’t touched it, and suddenly Laurent didn’t know what to think anymore.

________________________________________________________

Meanwhile, Damen sat alone in his office.

The pelt still lay on his desk where Laurent had left it yesterday, folded neatly, unbearably tempting. He hadn’t moved it. He hadn’t dared. He was worried if he touched it, he would never be strong enough to let it go.

His hands were braced on the desk on either side of it, knuckles white with the effort of keeping them there, away from what he wanted more than anything in the world.

Laurent’s pelt.

It was soft, grey-white, familiar as Laurent’s sharp tongue and stubborn silences, as his rare laughter. Damen wanted to seize it, hold it against his chest, press his face into it. He wanted to guard it, keep it safe, never let it leave his sight. He wanted to lock it away, hide it in his treasury, because it would be his most prized possession so Laurent could never leave. He wanted Laurent bound to him as surely as he was bound to Laurent.

But it wasn’t his.

It was Laurent’s.

And to take it would mean more than holding him. It would mean owning him. Keeping him. Caging him. Laurent could never tell him no, could never be free.

Damen closed his eyes, his breath rough in his throat. He could still hear Laurent’s voice, breaking with tears: Just take it. He could still see the way Laurent’s face had crumpled when he refused.

He had hurt him. The thought made his chest twist until it ached. He had done the very thing he wanted least in the world.

But what else could he have done?

If Laurent gave his pelt without knowing the weight of it, without choosing it fully, Damen would not be the man to take advantage of that.

So he left it where it was, untouched, trying to ignore the siren pull of it in his chest.

______________________________________________

Laurent didn’t sleep that night, just like the night before. He had retrieved his pelt from Damen’s office and locked it away again.

He lay awake in the dark, Auguste’s pelt wrapped tight around him again, his chest aching with the effort of holding himself together. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Damen’s face, steady and calm, as he refused him. Every time he thought of the desk, of his pelt untouched, it was like another knife in his ribs. Damen wants nothing more than to take your pelt. He needed to speak with Damen; that much was clear. But Laurent wasn’t sure he could have that conversation without losing his temper.

When the door opened, he was already awake. Damen’s step was careful, hesitant. Laurent stayed very still, eyes narrowed to slits, watching as Damen crossed the room.

“Laurent,” Damen said softly.

The sound of his voice was unbearable. Laurent sat up sharply, Auguste’s pelt sliding from his shoulders. “Don’t.” His tone was cold, brittle. “Don’t say my name like that, as if you haven’t made it perfectly clear what you want. Made it perfectly clear you don’t want me.”

Damen stopped a few feet away. His face was steady, but his eyes betrayed him, full of guilt, of longing. “Laurent, it isn’t what you think—”

“It is.” Laurent cut him off, voice shaking despite his iron control. “You didn’t take it. Twice. I laid it in front of you. I begged you. And you wouldn’t.” His breath hitched, sharp. “You don’t want me.”

Damen’s eyes widened. “Don’t—don’t ever say that. Laurent don’t say that, sweetheart.”

“What else am I supposed to think?” Laurent snapped, his words tumbling faster now, edged with desperation, his control slipping. “You could have kept me. You could have bound me to you. And you refused. You don’t want me, don’t want my pelt.”

“Because I love you,” Damen broke in, his voice rough with the force of it.

Laurent froze. He knew Damen loved him.

Damen raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Do you understand what it would mean, if I took your pelt? It wouldn’t just be keeping it safe. It would mean ownership. It would mean you were mine whether you wanted it or not. And I won’t do that to you. Not you.”

Laurent stared, lips parted, his throat tight. “You think I don’t know what it means?” His voice cracked on the words. “You think I would offer lightly? Do you have any idea how much I—” He broke off, biting down on the words, shaking with the effort not to cry again. Want you to take it because I know you would treat it kindly, treat me kindly, and it would be out of my hands, and I wouldn’t have to worry anymore because you would take care of it.

“I know,” Damen said quickly, stepping closer, hands out as if to steady him though he didn’t touch. “I know, Laurent. And I want it more than anything. But I won’t take it unless you are sure.”

Laurent’s vision blurred. He turned his face away, his fists curling tight. “You make it sound noble,” he whispered. “But all I hear is that you don’t trust me. That you think I don’t know my own mind.”

The silence between them hurt. Then Damen said, low and aching, “I trust you more than I trust myself. That’s why I can’t. Laurent, when you put it on my desk, I wanted to take it so badly. Wanted to grab it and run and hide it away from you so you could never leave. I would bury it deep underground, guard it with my best soldiers. You would never find it, never be free, and I could keep you always, but that isn’t what you want, Laurent.”

Something in Laurent cracked at that, sharp as glass, then softened because Damen’s voice was breaking too, and his hands trembled with restraint, and he looked as if he was barely holding himself upright.

Laurent’s anger faltered. His throat burned.

“I hate you,” he whispered, and his voice was wet, small, ruined. “I hate you for making me feel like this.”

Damen stepped forward, finally, and Laurent didn’t resist when he pulled him into his arms. Laurent pressed his face against Damen’s chest, the sob that escaped him muffled in warm skin and fabric. Damen held him tightly, as if he would never let go.

“I know,” Damen murmured into his hair. “And I love you.”

Laurent clung to him, breathing ragged. His pelt was still locked away, safe but untouched. It wasn’t enough. It was too much.

Finally, Laurent pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes red-rimmed. “Then what do we do?”

Damen’s hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing a tear away. “We keep it safe. Somewhere only we can reach. Not yours alone, not mine alone. Ours.”

Laurent swallowed, the word snagging on something deep inside him. Ours.

Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. Ours.

For a long moment, they only breathed together, Laurent still pressed close, Damen’s thumb stroking his cheek as if to memorize every line of his face.

Then, haltingly, Laurent said, “You can… touch it.” His voice was raw, hesitant. He blinked hard, unsure if Damen would want to. “Just once. I would like that.”

Damen went very still. His hand fell away from Laurent’s face, and his eyes widened, dark with wanting. “Laurent…”

“Not keep,” Laurent added quickly, sharp even through the crack in his voice. He couldn’t help it. His throat tightened. “Just—touch.”

Damen nodded once, firmly. He didn’t move until Laurent did.

Together, they crossed to the trunk. Laurent’s fingers shook only slightly as he unlocked it. The lid creaked open, and there it was: soft grey and white, folded neatly. Waiting.

Laurent lifted it carefully, more carefully than he had ever touched it before, and held it out. His stomach twisted—half dread, half yearning—as Damen reached forward.

When Damen’s fingers finally brushed the pelt, Laurent’s breath caught.

It was a reverent touch, slow and careful, as though Damen were afraid of hurting it or him. He stroked once, twice, the motion unbearably tender. His hand trembled, and he bowed his head, pressing his forehead against the top of Laurent’s head. For a moment, Laurent thought Damen would take it, snatch it away. Laurent would let him. Laurent would let him do anything.

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” Damen whispered. “But it’s yours. Always yours.”

Something in Laurent cracked, but it didn’t hurt this time. It felt like being split open to make space for something else, something gentler. His throat went tight, his eyes wet again, but he didn’t look away.

“Ours,” Laurent corrected softly, surprising even himself.

Damen’s head lifted, his eyes shining, and for the first time that day, Laurent almost smiled.

_______________________________________________________

The decision came easily after that.

A new trunk was ordered, larger than Laurent’s current one, with a smooth cedar finish and iron fittings. It was designed with an expensive lock with two keys, one key for Laurent, one for Damen. No one else would be able to open it.

Laurent insisted Auguste’s pelt remain in the old trunk, untouched. That one had only a single key, and it would always belong to him alone. It was not something he would share. Damen would never touch his brother's pelt.

But the new trunk, this one, was different. This one was for his own pelt.

When it arrived, polished and gleaming, Laurent traced the carved edges with his fingertips. Damen stood at his shoulder, silent, waiting. Together, they lifted the pelt, folded soft and shining, and placed it inside.

The lid shut with a quiet, decisive click.

Laurent slipped his key into the lock and turned it, unlocking it before locking it again. Then Damen did the same with his. 

Laurent let out a slow breath. “Now,” he said, his voice steadier, “if you want it, you can take it. And if I want it, I can give it. No one else.”

Damen looked at him then—really looked—and Laurent had to glance away under the weight of it, under the weight of the emotion in those large trusting eyes. But Damen reached for his hand, warm and sure, and Laurent didn’t pull back. He could trust this man, who held his heart in his overly large hand.

The trunk sat at the foot of their bed, holding the pelt between them. Not mine, not yours. Theirs.

And for the first time, Laurent felt like he could breathe.