Chapter Text
It takes a tremendous effort for Laurent to remain impassive at the sight of the Kemptian emissary’s table manners. The man eats olives with his front-most teeth, so that it takes multiple bites to consume even one. The pits he arranges on his plate in neat lines, and has no care for the olive juice that runs down his fingers and wrists. Wine is gulped, cheese and fruit chewed with an open mouth.
If Laurent thought this a cultural trait of Kempt, he’d be more forgiving. Alas, the rest of the foreign visitors dine with the grace more befitting their appointed stations.
Ambassador Gerhard (a supposed cousin of the Kemptian king, though he is vague on the exact details of their relation, leading Laurent to believe this a vastly inflated claim) has the bloated midsection of a man past his prime and doing nothing whatsoever to keep his physique in good health. His thinning hair might once have shared Laurent’s coloring, but is now a dull gray and plastered to his round head.
The food of the palace at Ios seems to be to the man’s liking, even if nothing else about Akielos satisfies him.
“This Akielon heat,” Gerhard gripes as their midday meal concludes, “I do not know how you stand it.”
Laurent adopts a sympathetic expression and tone. “It does take some getting used to. I find the local clothing style well suited to such weather. I would be happy to have the palace tailors be of service to any in your delegation who wish to partake in the traditional clothing during their stay.”
The delegation had arrived some days prior, dressed in furs and with a bounty of animal skins as offerings to the kings and their united empire. Publicly, he and Damen had expressed delight at such gifts, while privately, Laurent seethed.
An insult, he’d explained later to Damen, to bring such impractical items from Kempt. As a country, Akielos hardly saw snow, and it had never snowed this far south in Ios.
Laurent’s suspicions of intended offense were only confirmed the longer he spent in this man’s presence.
The heat bothered Gerhard. The horses were too confined in the palace stables. The palace had too many open windows and courtyards. The servants wore too little clothing. All this before he’d started in on everything else he did not enjoy about the kings’ united rule.
To Laurent’s current benevolent offer for a free, customized Akielon ensemble, Gerhard chuckles and drinks more wine. He casts an appraising glance at Laurent’s chiton.
“You have adopted their ways of fashion,” he says in heavily accented Veretian, as Laurent does not speak enough Kemptian and none among Gerhard’s party speaks Akielon. “I imagine it makes things simpler for your king.”
Laurent cycles through several replies in his head. Most are volatile and violent, several call into question the impertinent man’s parentage in objectively lewd and offensive terms (Laurent has no love for the Kemptian language, but their word for whore simply rolls off the tongue) but foregoes starting an international incident so early in the day.
“Damianos-Exalted is anything but simple,” says Laurent with as much ice in his voice as he can muster.
Gerhard colors slightly, but Laurent does not find the man as apologetic as he should be at such an overt implication.
Damen is not here to defend his honor or Laurent’s. Kyros Nikandros sits beside Laurent for this meal, and has spent the entirety of it so tense that Laurent thinks he will develop a new muscle in his back to join the already impressive physique showcased there.
When they bid their guests farewell until dinner, Laurent rubs at his temples. He walks the halls in silence, but not alone. With but a mere glance, he summons Nikandros to his side, and they tread a familiar path to the royal quarters.
“Was I misguided in inviting them here?” Laurent asks.
“No, your majesty. Proactive diplomacy is sound strategy.”
They stop at an empty courtyard and Laurent leans against a pillar, eyes trained on the breathtaking gardens below. The flowering gardens give way to the palace grounds, to the stone roofs of the city, and finally to the open, rolling sea.
“Ios is beautiful,” Laurent says. “You have taken care of your territory well, kyros.”
“It is your territory, your majesty. I am merely a steward for my kings.”
Nikandros stands at the ledge, hands clasped behind him, alert and on guard. The consummate commander.
“What do you make of the ambassador?”
Nikandros frowns. “Ill-mannered and presumptuous. I was surprised you were not harsher with him just now.”
“I do believe he expected it and was provoking me on purpose. Not to worry, kyros, by the week’s end I’ll reveal my true, horrible nature and send him screaming from Akielos. Rumors of the vile Veretian king will spread from here to Patras.”
“Not if I cut out his tongue.”
“You’ll have your chance this evening.”
“You expect him to be so bold with Damen in attendance?”
“No,” says Laurent. “I expect his tongue to hang so far out of his mouth at the sight of your kitchens’ offerings you could lop it off with a blunt table knife.”
Nikandros laughs so hard he clutches his stomach. “It is—ridiculous. Who…who taught him to eat in such a way?”
“I have seen salivating hunting dogs with better command of their jowls.”
Nikandros laughs again, even harder. His soldier’s posture has crumbled and his braid swings forward over his shoulder. His strong-jawed face splits wide and he gasps for breath. The early afternoon sun lights upon his dark eyes, his bronze skin. The uptight kyros undone by Laurent’s humorous remark.
He looks lovely when he laughs, Laurent thinks. Such a rarity, and an entrancing one at that.
But no, it is not so rare; Laurent sees Nikandros laugh all the time. Especially, almost exclusively, with Damen. They have a sweet, boyish familiarity with one another in private that speaks to years of camaraderie and friendship.
It is because Laurent is the one responsible for Nikandros laughing. That must be what has Laurent so flustered at the sight before him now. Achieving this reaction from Nikandros causes warmth to bloom in his chest; his midsection tightens, and he cannot look away.
His mouth goes dry as Nikandros collects himself and straightens up; traces of mirth still shining in his eyes and a lingering smile playing about his mouth.
“I shall leave you to your afternoon, your majesty. Unless you require anything else?”
Laurent can only shake his head and then is left alone. As Nikandros disappears from view, Laurent panics. Confusion, guilt, and shame shove forward and blast apart any of the pleasant feelings Nikandros had unknowingly bestowed.
He rushes to his bed chambers, finds the nearest basin and splashes water on his flushed face. His cheeks are red, he knows it. He avoids the looking glass; he will have no witness to his deserved self-flaggellation, reflected or otherwise.
Laurent perches on the edge of his bed, the bed he shares with Damen, and hangs his head. He knows that this—whatever this is—has never been allowed by him before. This anxious terror is a holdover from his uncle’s monstrous ways. Laurent’s immediate inclination to smother any outward sign of regard or interest for fear of how the regent would have retaliated. Apparently Laurent still has internal knots yet to be undone from his uncle’s grotesque machinations.
You are too old for this, Laurent chides himself. He is twenty-five now. He has been a king for four years and married to Damen for three. Their new, united empire is in its infancy and Laurent cannot afford distractions from loyal, handsome men, nor can he unravel from old internal wounds.
Laurent groans and throws himself backwards onto the pillows.
It is exhaustion, that is all. The busy days and long nights can shoulder the blame for Laurent’s confused wonderings.
Still, when he closes his eyes and attempts to catch a moment’s rest, he is greeted with visions of Nikandros in the throes of laughter.
Damen, as always, helps Laurent by existing. The feast that evening is free of any gaffes or uncouth remarks lobbed at their relationship, their joint kingdom. Ambassador Gerhard is on his best behavior with the other king at his table.
Yet, the interaction with Gerhard from earlier still smarts. These are Laurent’s mother’s people and moreover, he is a king. That it takes the looming yet genial presence of Damen to stay any snide commentary needles at Laurent.
As dinner plates are cleared by servants, Damen takes advantage of the activity around the room to speak for Laurent’s ears only. He leans close and strokes the back of Laurent’s hand.
“I am sorry you had to deal with them on your own earlier,” he says. “The harbor master at least was able to allay our concerns. Any unauthorized dockings will be dealt with swiftly from now on.”
“That is a relief to hear,” says Laurent.
“Have our guests been intolerable?”
“It is nothing I am incapable of handling.”
“Yes, but you need not handle it alone.”
“I was not alone. Nikandros attended, as he always does.”
“I am glad. What else can I do for you?”
Laurent cannot pinpoint the source of his anxiety. Damen, missing nothing when it comes to Laurent, has surely noticed, and his fingers are tracing a light pattern along Laurent’s skin.
No one compares to Damen. Not in any capacity, but especially in the way he can strike into the heart of Laurent’s distress and offer a route to calm.
“You do much already,” Laurent murmurs.
They then must briefly part to perform their proper hosting duties as sovereigns. As they slip in and out of the different chatting groups milling about the great hall, Laurent keeps Damen in his periphery no matter where he stands. This is not a difficult task, Damen being of a size that makes him impossible to miss. This even before one mentions his royal bearing, the assured way he carries himself, the fucking dimple. The cloak pinned along his shoulders is a bright scarlet, while Laurent’s is a bright blue.
Scattered among their Kemptian guests, Veretian councillors and courtiers, are a fair number of Akielon kyroi and their retinues. Within the ranks of the palace guards, there are other men of similar coloring to Damen and with defined muscles. The short hemlines and tall leather sandals accentuate all the thick thighs on display.
The kyros of Ios included.
Laurent diverts his focus to other Akielons as he tries to puzzle through this sudden fascination with Nikandros’ existence. He cannot deny that many of these men are objectively appealing, but one and all lack the allure Damen exudes by simply breathing.
Pallas is the same age as Laurent, but he has always found him too eager, too green.
Lydos is boring, and Aktis is dull as well. Makedon is too old and broad, a stubborn bull of a man. He lifts his cup in a jovial, silent toast to Laurent. It makes Laurent smile, genuinely, but does not inspire the curious reaction Laurent had experienced with Nikandros this morning.
Nikandros wears a cape of red, too, the same shade as Damen’s. His black hair is braided again, settling on his back just below his shoulders. He is speaking with one of the Kemptian nobles, Lady Mathilde, and Laurent surmises it must be a conversation in Veretian, for none from Kempt have yet revealed any inclination for learning Akielon phrases and indeed, had neglected to bring a translator on their trip south.
Nikandros is loyal, but then, so is Jord. Laurent has never felt anything resembling passion or curiosity when he thinks of Jord.
So what is it about Nikandros that is causing Laurent such vexation? Is it because Damen holds him in such high regard and that opinion has now influenced Laurent?
Nikandros is patience embodied, Laurent thinks. He has always tempered Damen’s rages and passionate urges, kept Makedon in check, ruled his own men without a reputation as a bloodthirsty war mongerer despite serving in such a contentious territory as Delfeur for years.
Laurent does not realize he is staring until Nikandros looks up from Lady Mathilde and meets Laurent’s gaze. He tilts his head, narrows his eyes in concern.
Laurent turns, excuses himself from whatever inconsequential person he is being abominably rude to, and approaches Damen.
“I require a moment,” he whispers to Damen who nods with an understanding look in his eyes.
The wine has flowed for hours now, which means Laurent can slip to the edge of the room with ease, as more boisterous behavior comes to the forefront. Tongues and inhibitions loosen, and many in the crowd will now turn their attention to finding a pleasurable partner for the night instead of performing propriety for the kings.
Laurent nods at a guard and steps out onto the open air balcony. This one faces the sea and Laurent rests his forearms on the marble ledge, his stiff posture relaxing after hours of maintaining it.
The quiet of the dark night is a welcome reprieve from the cacophonous hall. Laughter and chattering filters out at a much more tolerable volume, and Laurent then hears the trilling notes from a kithara.
Soft footsteps sound out next and Laurent already knows their owner. There are only two people who would be allowed past the guard stationed at the balcony’s entrance, and Damen is not going to leave the feast while Laurent is absent.
Nikandros halts beside Laurent and mimics his pose. Their forearms are but one handspan apart on the marble.
“The entertainments have begun,” Nikandros says. “That should keep the guests occupied for some time yet.”
“If we are in need of further distraction, we can unpin Damen’s cloak and oil up his muscles.”
Nikandros snorts.
Silence descends, but it is a comfortable one. Laurent contents himself with stargazing, running through the constellations he recognizes in his head.
“You have not visited the library in some time,” says Nikandros.
Laurent startles from his reverie. “No. I did not realize my reading habits were being tracked.”
“Our lamp and candle use in that room has dwindled significantly without your lengthy visits,” says Nikandros, lips quirked.
“It is a beautiful collection. I am sorry to have been neglecting it as of late.”
“I can have texts sent to your rooms instead, if you wish it. Your days have been busy.”
More surprising to Laurent that someone else had noticed his absence from the library is that he’d not himself realized he’d been neglecting this favorite pastime. A sadness grips him then, that ruling and all its responsibilities has made it feel impossible as of late to enjoy his previous hobbies.
“That is a kind offer,” Laurent says, keeping any melancholy from his voice.
“They are your books, you know. Will you be ransacking the library here to stock your new palace at Marlas?”
“Your barbarian books are safe, kyros. I shall only bring the finest Veretian literature from Arles.”
Nikandros chuckles. “Not even the Akielon poetry I know you favor?”
Laurent sniffs. “I’ve changed my mind. I am taking every text on Akielon military strategy and battle tactics. Your descendants will have to invent their own fighting styles with no guidance.”
Nikandros shakes his head and it reeks of fondness. For Laurent.
Laurent slouches further over the balcony, unsure of how or why he’s feeling as if he’s dangling from a precipice. The pressures of hosting have mostly sloughed from his shoulders, but it is only a temporary reprieve. They have two weeks more with the Kemptian delegation and Laurent needs to summon his resolve if he means to see it through. A trade treaty is the end goal, but more than that, Laurent wants to prove that he is more than the young, untested ruler who had landed on the throne by a series of misfortunes.
“Are you all right, your majesty?”
Nikandros’ face is full of concern, his dark eyebrows furrowed, mouth turned down in worry. His hand has inched closer to Laurent’s, but does not touch him.
“I am now,” Laurent says.
He does not know if he means because of the air or the company.
Nikandros makes it all the worse by giving him an encouraging smile. It is not in any way lecherous or expectant. Any other man might have interpreted Laurent’s statement as an invitation for bold action. If he is honest with himself, Laurent is not entirely unsure if he had not meant it in that way.
“Will you join Damen and me later?” Laurent asks. “It will be a reprieve to be among friends after this boorish affair.”
“Of course, your majesty.”
They say nothing more and rejoin the party.
When Damen sees him walking beside Nikandros, their shoulders brushing, his broad grin rivals the brightest star in the night sky.