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Damen watches raptly as Laurent walks down the corridor, gait effortless and elegant. Long columns of sunlight spill into the open passage, tender and bright. Laurent’s blond hair glints and his creamy skin gleams under the sun’s caress. Though the thick velvet of the cloak that encases his smaller frame covers most of Laurent’s attire, Damen catches a glimpse of the golden flowers that peek out from his vest. The design is intricate, no doubt made especially for this day.
Damen wonders which of the two Veretian guards escorting Laurent dressed him, the tall one or the bulky one. Regardless, a sharp pang of jealousy settles in the pit of his gut at the thought of anyone who isn’t him touching Laurent. That privilege and right is solely his.
Two days. Two whole days, and Damen hasn’t touched Laurent. Hasn’t laced his vest or massaged his shoulders in the privacy of their chambers. Hasn’t touched his skin or kissed his lips.
Normally, Damen isn’t one for superstitions. He wouldn’t have heeded the Veretian Council's order of staying away from Laurent until the festivities ended if it hadn’t been for the gravitas of the occasion.
A Golden Prince—no, Damen corrects himself—a Golden King with golden hair.
Soon, a crown will replace the golden circlet on Laurent’s head, and the unification of their kingdoms will be legitimised.
Laurent looks the part, with his unbanished panache and astonishing profile. It’s easy to love him if you also knew that he has a golden heart.
Damen watches, transfixed, as Laurent comes to a halt in front of him. The chirpy spring air sifts through his hair, isolating a strand that sits on the apple of his cheek. Damen’s hand itches to tuck the dislodged lock behind his ear, but he waits until the two guards leave them alone, per Laurent’s instruction.
The tips of his fingers tingle as they glide across Laurent’s cheek and the silk of Laurent’s hair.
‘Perfect,’ Damen whispers, drawing his hand away, but Laurent catches his wrist in place with a tight grip.
Laurent’s blue eyes are acutely bright this close, and his breaths are coming out in short puffs. Damen realises belatedly that Laurent’s fingers are trembling on his wrist. The change from his nonchalant demeanour is so minute that it’s easy to miss if one wasn’t looking.
‘Kiss me. Quick,’ Laurent orders, and his voice wobbles a little. And who is Damen to dismiss the command of a to-be king?
He leans forward and captures Laurent’s lips in a soft kiss. Damen kisses slowly; their breaths mingle, and their tongues tangle. Laurent kisses him back with a fervour that has Damen thinking that maybe he wasn’t the only one itching to touch; wasn’t the only one needing the reassurance of a lover.
It’s an eternity before they pull back—and even then, it’s for air.
‘Ready?’ Damen asks, rubbing his hands up and down Laurent’s sides.
‘Now I am,’ Laurent replies, and links their hands together.
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