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#lamen week 2021
c-leadraw · 3 years
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Captive Prince - C.S Pacat
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marmartea · 3 years
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After the bells
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mrs-amber · 3 years
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Laurent wasn’t looking at him when he said it, and it was a long moment before he lifted his eyes to Damen’s waiting ones, and Damen’s breath caught at what he saw there, the odd shyness of it, as though Laurent was asking instead of answering.
‘Yes,’ said Damen, feeling light-headed at the question.
Lamen Week 2021, Day 8: "it was one kingdom, once". [@lamenweek]
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03rin · 3 years
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@lamenweek 2021: Day 6 - Auguste Lives AU
how to officially tell your brother that you’re dating his best friend
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goldencuffs · 3 years
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untraditional
@lamenweek day five: traditions
Damen doesn’t think he’s supposed to feel so bone-weary at thirty-one.
Everything in his body aches, and he’s already greying at his temples. Last night, he had gone to bed at eight.
Theomedes doesn’t look up from the Ios Financial Times when Damen enters the Drawing Room. The table already has been set: Damen’s seat is, as usual, is to the left of his father, exactly fourty-seven centimetres apart. Damen’s food has been already served, because his father got here before him, and everyone gets served the same time as Theomedes.
Damen’s entire life has been dictated by these traditions, guidelines and precedents.
Some of them are good, but most of them are like this: nonsensical and elitist.
Even Theomedes’ and Damianos’ tea is prepared via strict protocol: one teaspoon of loose tea leaves per cup, heated to a hundred degrees celcius (seventy for green tea), with a tablespoon of organic, raw honey added straight to the teapot.
(It’s amazing tea, though).
Theomedes says, “Your food is cold.”
Damen stares at the pile of mash potatoes and salmon. “I’m not hungry.”
He also hates salmon, but Theomedes is the only one who sets the menu for the week with the head chef. Last week, they had roast beef and vegetables four times.
“You’re not still sulking are you?” Theomedes finally says, three minutes later.
Damen grips his table fork. He forces himself to do the breathing exercises Makedon had taught him.
In an ideal world, he wouldn’t reply, but in this one, everyone answered to the King.
“No, sir,” Damen says, and shoves a polite bite of food in his mouth.
“You haven’t had a meal with me in three weeks,” Theomedes says, and he sounds hurt and disappointed.
“Hmm,” Damen says. “I’ve been busy. You know I’ve been working on the preservation of Marlas with Nikandros.”
Theomedes crosses his fork and knife over his plate. Instantly, three different staff members rush forward to clear the table.
Damen’s plate is cleared too; no one eats after the King has left. Another useless, bane tradition.
“You know I did what’s best for you,” Theomedes says, looming over Damen.
When Damen nods, Theomedes kisses his temple. “You’ll realise it sooner, rather than later.”
“Yes, sir,” Damen says quietly, and rises only after Theomedes has left, as is protocol.
*
An hour later, the itch under Damen’s skin becomes unbearable, and he finds himself burrowing under the left corner of his mattress for certain… supplies.
He pulls on the red, shoulder-length curly wig with little care, and then the faux-leather beret. It’s peeling and terrible, but Damen doesn’t care.
The rest of his outfit is just layers: sunglasses, two coats, scarves, and a muted shirt, to hide as much of his body as possible.
He normally doesn’t leave so early in the day, when he’s being patrolled by guards and the Kyros.
Luckily, it’s only Nikandros who catches him, right outside his door.
His expression is flat. “You’re not serious. You’re leaving now? We’re in the middle of drafting the Delpha treaty!”
Damen shrugs. “I have to go.”
“You don’t have to—” Nikandros cuts himself off with a sigh. “Whatever. Can you please bring me back those caramel slices?”
Damen grins. “You got it, boss.”
Once he’s past the Main Foyer, the rest of the journey is easy: Damen takes an hour and a half train ride from Central Ios to Andris, and then a fifteen minute bus ride on the eighty-six. And then finally, an eight minute walk to the Andris Office District.
There’s a small bookstore there called Pocket Bookmark, painted emerald green, the lettering done in gold.
Inside, it’s not too busy: it’s not quite the end of a business day, and the customers in here are high school students, skimming the Shakespeare section, and a man hovering near the new releases.
Damen keeps his head down, weaving through the aisles.
Nicaise, the mouthy teenage cashier rolls his eyes when he sees Damen approaching, lifting up the wooden flap on on the bench, allowing Damen to duck through.
“Thanks, kid,” Damen says, mussing his hair.
“Ah, fuck off,” Nicaise grunts, but fondly. He’s warmed up to Damen ever since Damen bought him his first car. (Nothing too flashy, obviously).
Damen hurries all the way to the back, opening the door marked, No entry, and then goes up the narrow steps, which always make the worst creaking noises.
There’s another door a the small porch upstairs, and Damen fishes out the key in his pocket to open it.
Instantly, he’s hit with the smell of butter chicken simmering on the stove, and his mouth salivates. He dumps his entire attire by the small settee in the hallway, inhaling gratefully.
The second thing he’s greeted with is Wendy, who meows and claws at his leg.
“Come here, baby,” Damen murmurs, picking her up and holding her to his chest. She purrs and curls up, like a big ball of fluff and he kisses her head. “I love you so much.”
She meows in response, and snuggles closer.
Laurent turns off the stove in the tiny kitchen. He looks over his shoulder for just a second and scrunches his nose. “Ugh, she’s such a slut. I’ve been petting her for the last hour, but apparently I’m just not good enough.”
Laurent is in his after work attire: which means he’s as half dressed as possible. The shirt he’s wearing is one of Damen’s, and his shorts are the pair that shrunk in the wash; they ride too high up his thigh.
Laurent’s just come out of the shower: the hair at his nape is still wet, and his skin is pinked and glowing. Even with the curry, Damen can smell jasmine and coconut.
Laurent has got this sweet, soft smile that lights up his eyes.
It takes Damen’s breath away: not just Laurent, but this entire picture of domesticity. It’s all Damen’s wanted his entire life.
He means to make a snarky comment about Wendy, but what comes out is: “Marry me.”
Laurent drops the wooden spoon, eyes wide.
Damen grips Wendy too tightly and she lets out a shriek and jumps out of his arms.
They stare at each other for a moment. Damen’s heart is racing.
Laurent blinks. “Oh, sorry. I think I hallucinated for a minute.”
Damen steps forward, smiling. “It wasn’t a hallucination. Marry me.”
Laurent makes a small noise in the back of his throat. “Are you asking me or telling me?” He swallows, eyes darting all over Damen’s face, his body. “I don’t see a ring,” he says quietly.
Damen groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Shit, I know. I had this whole plan, I was going to propose with the Queen’s ring, but obviously I’d have to talk to my father first and—” He sits down at the kitchen table, pulling out his phone. “There’s a courthouse ten minutes from here. It’s Thursday night, so they’re still open. We just need to show up with a signed ‘Intended Marriage Certificate’. It’s like three pages, we’ll be fine.”
“…Oh.” Laurent has gone very still. “You’re looking up courthouses. You’re serious.”
“Shit,” Damen says, watching him. “I’m so sorry. You—Do you want to marry me, Laurent? Because I’ve been dying to marry you since I first saw you. Er. No pressure, though.”
Laurent glares at him, affronted. “Of course I want to marry you, you fucking idiot!”
Damen leaps to his feet, grinning and flushed. “Fuck yeah! Let’s go print this form and—”
“Damen!” Laurent laughs, looking a little crazed. “We can’t just—Just wait a minute.”
“Alright. Shoot, baby.”
Predictably, Laurent flushes pink. “Is it even legal? Aren’t there special ceremonies for royals? And—and the King still thinks we broke up!”
Damen winces a little at that.
After an entire year of sneaking around, of meeting up in discreet hotels, and making plans to move in together one day, Damen had fucked up three weeks ago.
Drunk and enamoured, he had kissed Laurent outside his bookstore after a date. There had been photos—and the only saving grace had been the fact that Laurent’s face had been inscrutable.
But the fact that he was a commoner had been enough for Theomedes to unleash his rage. He had ordered Damen to break things off with Laurent, and Damen had pretended to, but… Well, Laurent had been hurt. It had been the first time he had realised how shaky their entire relationship was, how quickly it could come crumbling down.
Damen had spent days convincing him otherwise, and Laurent had finally agreed, but there had still been shadows in his eyes.
Now—now, though, Damen realises exactly what he can do, what he should have done months ago, to make Laurent realise he’s it.
“Fuck the King,” Damen says. He finally closes the distance between them, gripping Laurent’s hands. “Laurent, listen. I can still get married legally in a civil ceremony.”
“But—” Laurent bites his lip. “I don’t want you to get into trouble. And,” His voice grows small. “I know there’s so many rules and traditions you have to follow. I’ve read about the whole tradition where your father is supposed to gift you a diptych piece.”
Damen’s heart is warm. He smiles down at Laurent, smitten. “You’ve read up on royal wedding traditions?”
Laurent colours even more. “Of course.”
Damen kisses him hard, unable to bare the love swelling up inside him. Laurent flings his arms around Damen’s neck, his mouth emitting small, sweet gasps.
When they pull apart, Damen presses his forehead to Laurent’s. “Fuck the King,” he repeats. “Fuck the customs and rules and traditions. You are the only thing that matters to me. Just forget everything for a moment and answer: do you want to go downtown and marry me?”
Laurent’s smile overtakes his face, his eyes shining. “Yes,” he says softly. “I want to—so much.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t ask you in a better way or give you a ring or—”
“Stop. This was absolutely perfect.” He sighs. “You’re perfect.”
Damen kisses him again, pressing him to the counter. “I want you to have my mother’s ring.”
Laurent buries his head into Damen’s chest, overwhelmed. He nods.
Damen drops a kiss to his hair. “Get changed, baby. We’re getting married.”
Laurent looks up at him in wonder. “We’re getting married.”
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lamenweek · 3 years
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Hey hey hey!
How are you all?
I hope you are all doing well! ❤️
Lamen Week will start in less than a month, and I'm super excited about it!
Before we can start, let’s just make a few rules clear!
Lamen Week Rules :
The week will run from the 21st to the 28th of June 2021.
The prompts are:
Day 1. Summer Palace
Day 2. Folklore & Mythology
Day 3. Hurt/Comfort
Day 4. Family
Day 5. Traditions
Day 6. Auguste lives au
Day 7. Healing
Day 8. “It was one kingdom, once”
You can create any kind of content! Fanfics, fanarts, edits, headcanons, cosplay, tiktoks whatever your imagination suggests you, everything is welcome.
Remember whatever Social media or platform you'll publish things in, use the hashtags #Lamen Week and #Lamen Week 2021 and if you will use tumblr remember to tag the blog. I’ll be very happy to reblog all your creations!
You can write in every language you feel more comfortable writing in.
You can post following your own time zone, no particular time zone to follow.
If you have any questions, just ask me, I'll be here to answer!
Last but not least, HAVE FUN!
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not-a-coral-snake · 3 years
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for the @lamenweek Day 6 prompt: Auguste Lives Au
inspired by this post by @skyline-sunset-in-my-veins and @phoenixtcm
“When I am in Arles this fall,” Damianos says, words soft in the summer sunset air around them, “I will kneel before your brother the king and ask his permission to court you.” He pauses, smile just the slightest bit cocky. Laurent is lounging, hair mussed and shirt trailing half-opened laces, in Damen’s arms. “Court you officially, I mean.” 
“You are going to Arles for the negotiations yourself this year?” Laurent says. Seated as they are, Damen cannot mistake the shudder of tension, quickly repressed, that runs through Laurent at Damen’s words.
“You haven’t told him yet,” he says. 
“It’s just I thought that the ambassador—”
“You haven’t told him yet,” Damen says again. “You said when I saw you last fall that you would tell him last winter for sure.” He tries not to sound accusatory, but well. It is not the first time they have had this conversation.
“I haven’t told him yet,” Laurent concedes. It should not be so hard. It’s been six years since Marlas. Vere and Akielos are at peace. Laurent is in the habit of sharing nearly everything with Auguste, and yet— 
“I’m waiting for the right moment,” he says, as he always does. “It’s a sensitive matter, I wish to catch him in the right mood, lest he make up his mind before hearing me out.” 
“And you’re afraid of hurting him,” Damen says, as he always does.
“And I want to ensure I don’t hurt him. So I have to find the right time—”
“It’s been years now,” Damen cuts in. “Should we believe that, somehow, the perfect moment will occur this summer, when it did not last winter, or last spring, or the summer before that?”
“Damen—”
“This can just be a fling, if you want,” Damen says, gently.
‘That’s not what I—no,” says Laurent. Damen’s never said that before. 
“We can just keep meeting a few times a year. It doesn’t need to be serious. It doesn’t need to be something we tell others about.”
“Damen, stop,” Laurent says. “No. I want to court you. I want it to be official. I want it to be serious.”
“Well, then let it become serious.”
“I’ll tell him this time,” Laurent says. He can do this. It’s been six years since Marlas. Auguste always speaks of Prince Damianos in respectful tones. Laurent picks up Damen’s hand, kisses his knuckles. “Promise.”
And Laurent means to tell Auguste that summer, he really does. He meant to upon his return last fall as well, and the time before that, and the time before that. It’s just that—well, it’s just that every time he returns from diplomatic visits to Delfeur or Ios, he’s struck again with the slow, deliberate way that Auguste moves now. Each year as late spring ripens into summer, he sees how it saddens Auguste that he still no longer has the vigor or endurance for hunts or long rides or anything more taxing than a slow turn around the gardens. Each year as fall deepens into winter, he sees how another year has gone by and the cold makes Auguste’s injuries ache just as much as they had the winter before. 
Auguste had nearly died on the battlefield at Marlas. But that wasn’t the whole of it. Even after he had survived the trip home to Arles, he almost died of fever, of wound rot, of the pneumonia his battle-damaged lungs nearly couldn’t shake. And he almost died of assassination, not one time but many. There were few ways to kill a king in the peak of youth and health without attracting undue suspicion, but endless subtle ways to hasten the death of a man in his sickbed. Their uncle, left to rule the court unchecked, had tried seemingly most of them, endless schemes which Laurent had only barely managed to avert and which left behind no conclusive evidence for Laurent to show the court. Even as Auguste had gained strength, the schemes had continued, until the day Laurent gave up trying to beat his uncle while playing by his uncle’s own rules and had simply arranged an accident of his own. 
After that, Auguste was safe, but the fallout from their uncle’s years ruling the court and admittedly-suspicious death left him with nearly as many enemies as allies. As prince, Auguste had been universally adored. As king, he faced a yearslong struggle to regain the allegiance of erstwhile allies. 
And all this was, at its root, because of Marlas. Because of Damianos. Auguste’s history with Damen wasn’t just the matter of an injury six years ago, not when that injury had colored every day of his life since. And Laurent can’t imagine a way of telling him that he loves Damen, wants a future with him, without it sounding like a betrayal. 
To make matters more awkward, Auguste has, for whatever reason, gotten it into his head to nag Laurent about romance. It’s uncomfortable enough to be keeping his relationship with Damen a secret from Auguste. It’s worse to lie, outright or by omission, every time Auguste asks him if there’s anyone Laurent is interested in pursuing. 
And then— “You know you can tell me anything, little brother,” Auguste says quietly, a few minutes after Laurent has let a conversation about an overly-flirtatious marquis from Lys lapse. 
Laurent swallows, mutely cataloging the darker corners of his past. He does not like to lie to Auguste. But he does.
And there are things he probably will never tell his brother about, things Auguste does not need to know, but also— “Actually, Auguste,” he makes himself say. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
And then he pauses, because he still hasn’t figured out a semi-workable phrasing. I’m in love with Prince Damianos, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still upset about what he did to you. I’m fucking the man who almost killed you, and I’m sorry but also I won’t stop. I know seeing the prince of Akielos this fall will probably be terrible for you but also when he asks to court me please say yes.
It’s Auguste who rescues him, after a moment or two of expectant silence. “Is this going to be you finally telling me about your romantic entanglement with Prince Damianos?” he says. “Because honestly, I’m getting sick of seeing you walking around looking guilty and sad all the time.”
“You knew?” Laurent says.
“Of course I knew! You, dear baby brother, are not very subtle. And I’ve had to hear all your reports from the negotiations with Akielos twice a year. Was I somehow not supposed to notice how you gradually stopped insulting Damianos and started telling me about all his varied and impressive positive traits?”
“I said that he was straightforward and committed to the good of his people, and thus that the negotiations were likely to be a productive use of time!”
“And then the trip after that, you said that he was an innovative thinker, a natural leader, and you couldn’t help but admire his tenacity. You said you didn’t mind having to go on hunts with him, which anyone who knows you understands is a major compliment, and when you said he was patient, you smiled that quiet smile of yours that means you are remembering something that made you very happy.”
“Auguste—”
“And yet! Whenever anyone suggests you have developed any fondness for the man, you deny it. Why go to such lengths to conceal a friendly working relationship?”
“Auguste—”
“And honestly, brother, even back when you hated him, I couldn’t help but notice you mentioned his appearance rather a lot. You were always complaining that he was ridiculously tall, or offensively muscular, or something along those lines.”
“I said he was a brute!”
“You also said that his eyes were, and I quote, ‘disgustingly soulful.’ Oh, and the letters! Was I not supposed to notice that in the last year your correspondence with the prince of Akielos has roughly quadrupled in volume and frequency, even as the official negotiations are reaching a standstill? There isn’t enough policy discussion to account for a tenth of the letters you write. There isn’t enough policy discussion to justify you going to Delfeur in person twice a year, and yet you insist on overseeing things personally each time anyway.”
“Auguste, I’m sorry, all right? I know that this must have been painful for you to witness, and I don’t want you to think I don’t care about everything you’ve been through.” He swallows. “But I don’t want to stop seeing Damianos.”
“All right.”
“‘’All right?’ You’re okay with it? Just like that?”
“He makes you happy. If your judgement of him is to be believed, then he sounds like a worthy man. And I trust your judgement.”
“But he stabbed you. And now I’m sleeping with him.”
“Well, we were at war. And it was years ago. And I’m fine. We’re at peace, the nation’s moving on, you’ve moved on in your opinion of him, I can move on as well.”
“It’s not that simple!”
“Why can’t it be? I only met him for about ten minutes. I’m sure there’s more to him than he revealed in a single duel. You have my blessing, Laurent.”
“How can you just—”
“Remember when your pony threw you and you broke your collarbone?”
“This is not the same, this is not even close to the same—”
“You snuck out of the infirmary to go to the stables and tell Chuckles you weren’t mad at him.”
“I was seven, he meant me no ill will, and the bone healed in a month. Also he was a horse,” Laurent grits out. “Damianos was—is—a grown man, responsible for his choices, the injuries he inflicted did lasting damage, and he was trying to kill you.”
“Well, no one is asking you to sleep with him,” Auguste says, in his reasonable-big-brother voice. 
Laurent lets out a breath, sits back in his chair. “I started managing the negotiations with Akielos so that you wouldn’t have to speak with him,” he says. “We said that it was because I could travel more easily, that it was because you could not justify spending so much time away from court. But in truth, I did not want you to have to be in a room with him, to have to learn to make polite conversation with him and pretend that Marlas did not happen, that it didn’t matter. If I have come to know him as far more than just the soldier who attacked you, if I have put his past actions behind me, come to care for him in spite of them—that does not mean I expect you to do the same. Could ever ask you to do the same.” 
“You’ve always been protecting me, all these years,” Auguste says softly. “Don’t think I don’t know it, or appreciate it. But let me be the protective big brother again once in a while? You’ve learned to let the past go and let yourself have the present you want with Damianos, because you’re in love with him. Allow me to let the past go and have the future I want, where my little brother is happy.”
He’s looking Laurent in the eye, gaze steady, and slowly Laurent allows himself to believe that Auguste is serious, that in his heart of hearts, he does not mind. That he is happy for Laurent. 
“Thank you,” he says. “For your blessing.” 
“Of course,” Auguste says. And then, “Well, when I say you have my blessing, I mean informally, of course. Prince Damianos will have to ask me himself.”
“You just want the chance to make him squirm,” Laurent says. 
“I just want the chance to make him squirm,” Auguste concedes, and he and Laurent break into quiet laughter, imagining it.
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hennike · 3 years
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for sake of modesty
for @lamenweek day 1 prompt: summer palace (read on ao3 here)
“You are,” Laurent says, pulling briefly away from Damen’s lips, just enough to speak, “energetic.”
“My lover has at long last returned to me,” says Damen by way of explanation, pushing Laurent up firmly against the sturdy trunk of the orange tree. He watches the corner of Laurent’s mouth tug up into something lovely, something miraculous.
“I was gone barely a fortnight,” says Laurent, just shy of incredulous.
“I ached for you the moment we parted,” says Damen, before capturing Laurent’s budding smile in a kiss.
He feels half-delirious with Laurent’s presence, intoxicated by the warmth of him after so long. He’d missed this, the sweetness of Laurent’s mouth, the lines of Laurent’s jaw sharp against the flesh of Damen’s palm, the heady scent of him, clean and male.
There is time yet, he knows, but desperation pumps through his veins like blood; a desperation that makes his hands quiver where they are tight around Laurent’s hips, eager to touch and touch. Damen hikes Laurent up, paying no mind to the rough scrape of Laurent’s jacket against bark, and listening instead for the hitch in Laurent’s breath. A hand slides down Laurent’s thigh, hooking behind his knee and bringing it to Damen’s waist. Laurent goes pliantly, pressing up against Damen, until suddenly, he gasps, “Wait.”
Immediately, Damen pulls away.
“I,” Laurent says, breathless. His arms are wrapped around Damen’s neck, a vice that Damen happily succumbs to, “have missed you.”
Damen hums, pressing their foreheads together.
“But we cannot do this here.”
“Here?”
“In this garden.”
“Are you shy?” asks Damen. They have been… intimate, in public, in the past; it is a thrill they are both exploring, together. Laurent has never shied away from it; in fact, it is usually Laurent who initiates, so it confuses Damen, that he is suddenly so meek now.
“I,” Laurent starts, but says nothing more.
“You are,” Damen says, marvelling slightly.
“No,” says Laurent, sharply. “It’s just,” he pauses, his face taking on a deep red, “your mother.”
“My– what?”
Laurent stares pointedly beyond Damen’s shoulder. Damen follows his gaze, finding its destination in the statue of his mother, a short distance away from them.
It dawns on Damen, then. “My mother,” he says, his lips pulling into a wide grin. He turns his smile on Laurent, whose embarrassed expression twists. “Shall we hide from her?”
“Damen,” Laurent hisses, tugging the hair at Damen’s neck in warning.
“We move when her back is turned.”
“Damianos.”
Damen tucks his face into Laurent’s neck and laughs, the sound of it muffled by the fabric of Laurent’s jacket. He hears Laurent sigh, reluctant but no less indulgent, and it fills Damen with light.
“I’ve half a mind to leave you here and return to Vere,” says Laurent.
“We can’t have that,” says Damen, remnants of laughter staining his voice. He lifts his head and presses a brief kiss to Laurent’s mouth. “Come then. Let us celebrate our reunion in the next garden.”
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bluethedream · 3 years
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This Tenderness
Lamen Week 2021, Day 1: The Summer Place
The sunlight pouring through the room wakes Damen up, and reminds him of what he is going to do today. He has a gift for Laurent.
.
‘Tomorrow, let’s go riding,’ said Damen, thinking of the gift he had already waiting in the stables, a proud five-year-old with a curved neck and a waterfall of mane. He’d lead her out and give her to Laurent, and they’d ride out through fields of wildflowers, the air sweet with summer. When they reached a clearing, Damen would draw their horses together, lean over and kiss him.
-The Summer Palace, C.S.Pacat
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rosyandraw · 3 years
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Les Liaisons Dangereuses
@lamenweek Day 6: Auguste Lives AU.
For years they had been on the brink of war. It had seemed inevitable and yet suddenly here they were; the furthest south any Veretian royalty had been in a generation, ready to peddle peace. To sign a treaty nearly four years in the making. Since the truce at Marlas.
Yes, and Damen was a celibate who planned to join a temple. He didn’t buy it for a second, but that didn’t mean they could afford to have this go any way other than perfect. Every protocol had to be observed, the questionable etiquettes from the Veretian court had to be respected and catered to, the volcanic ground of cultural differences must be carefully navigated and they must not -under any circumstances- offend the delegation or give them cause to pull out of the peace treaty.
He was on the balcony, overlooking the courtyard. Nikandros on his right was frowning, equally as annoyed as Damen over hosting half the Veretian Royals for the summer. On his left was Jokaste, leaning against the rails and watching avidly as the train of horses spilled into the courtyard on a wave of blue and gold.
Her skin was strikingly pale against the dark crimson of her gown and Damen was not unaware of the way she let her own fingers dance across her one bare shoulder and clavicle. Look at me the gesture said. Damen looked, with her he would always look. But not touch. Not yet. 
Jokaste had been the object of his affections for months now. He’d been courting her from the moment he’d seen her but she was too smart to give in too quickly. Nikandros might call Damen stupid sometimes but stupid he most definitely was not. He knew what kind of games women like Jokaste wanted to play and he was not interested in gifting a grasping minor Lords daughter the throne. Though admittedly, he’d come close several times when the tension reached a fever pitch and she made her smirking excuses. But he knew better. Marginally.
“Here we go,” Nikandros said drawing Damen’s attention back to the scene below.
The Veretians were coming to a halt in the courtyard. They were a large party and Damen could not help the way his eyes went inevitably to the head. The Princes were easy to spot, dismounting first, in clothes so tight and so fussy Damen had to wonder how on Earth you’d get them off.
Auguste drew his gaze first.
The Crown Prince had hair like spun gold and a commanding presence. He was a few years older than Damen and made every show of paying due respect as he greeted his father. The younger brother was about eighteen and followed behind him, hair a shade paler than Auguste’s. Prince Laurent had a smaller frame and was some inches shorter but he carried himself as though the whole place was beneath him. His bow to the King was not quite so impressively eager as his brothers had been.
They were both obscenely attractive. The rumours did not lie it would seem.
“Just your type,” Jokaste said inclining her head to the princes below.
“And yours,” Nik said from Damen’s other side “Royal, wealthy, and pretty… that’s what you like isn’t it Jo?”
“Some of us have taste, yes,” she said without taking her eyes off the Veretian Princes
Nikandros scoffed, grumbling about Jokaste as Damen stared at his father gesticulating below, looking imposing and battle hardened next to the silks and fuss of Vere. The clothes didn’t look bad on the princes though, quite the opposite and Jokaste was right, they were his favoured type. Which she well knew.
He watched for a few long moments, the unnecessary ceremony of greeting the Royals upon the steps that his father observed only as a nod to Veretian custom. A custom Damen had refused. But from his vantage on the balcony he could watch and assess easy enough.
Auguste was talking, too far away for his voice to carry but it wasn’t him he watched. Prince Laurent beside him drew Damen’s gaze despite himself. He looked bored at best. Disdainful at worst. His lip curled and he turned his head often, eyes wandering; inspecting, judging. Damen wanted to rile against the disregard. And he did. Was.
But there was no denying his beauty. Damen was overcome with visions of ruining his stiff poise, of wiping the derisive expression from his face, of wrecking the tight laces and making all that pale skin turn pink and blotchy on his cheeks, and chest, and between his thighs. Of what he’d look like on his knees and begging for whatever Damen would give him.
“I know that look,” Nikandros said after a few seconds, which had Jokaste turning her eyes on him
“Which one are you going after?” Jokaste said, apropos of nothing.
Damen scoffed “who said I’m going after either of them?”
They were Veretian after all, pretty they may be but Damen knew better than to follow through with any momentary desires. Especially desires born from a place that felt like lust but with all the sharp edges of animosity.
Nikandros laughed “Damen they’re blonde, unobtainable, and beautiful, surely the only question is, which one?”
“I don’t think he’s fussy which Nikandros,” Jokaste smiled, feline and sultry all at once.
“I think he’ll go for which ever one you’re not going for,” Nikandros fired back
“Who said I am?” Jokaste smiled, leaning further to see around Damen, eyes on Nikandros.
It was Damen’s turn to smile eyes still on the Prince below “because there is a Y in the day and air in your lungs,”
“Are you calling me a whore Damianos?” She asked, not unpleasantly
“Never dear, I’m merely saying you play this game well,” he said, tearing his eyes away from Laurent to grin at her.
She studied him for a beat “better than you?”
Damen scoffed “now I wouldn’t say that,”
“Prove it then,”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” Nikandros said straightening to stare at Jokaste too as she reached up to toy with the necklace sitting prettily at her throat; coral and pearl. A gift from Damen himself.
“Prove it?” he asked distracted for a beat by the way her teeth nipped at her lip.
She nodded, already smirking “how about a little bet?”
Nikandros instantly groaned “Damen, a bet? This isn’t wise, your father would kill you, this is a peace summit remember, if they found out you were making sport of them-”
“I remember,” he said, cutting him off, still staring at Jokaste “name it,”
Behind him Nikandros let out a put-upon sigh and Jokaste smiled widely.
“A race,”
“Race?”
“First to bed one of the Veretian Princes wins,” she said and she most definitely had his attention. This was what he liked about Jokaste. She never failed to surprise him.
“And what do we win?” he asked because if she was making a wager she would have something in mind most definitely.
“If I win I want an independent title,” she said
It wasn’t impossible. Highly unlikely and almost unheard of. But he could do it. It was better than her asking for a crown. His father would kill him though, so it was a good job he didn’t plan on losing.
“And if I win?” Damen asked “what do I get?”
Jokaste’s laugh was melodic and she stepped into him, tipping her head up, so close they were all but touching “something you want,” she said and though she had lowered her tone the loud tut from Nikandros behind him meant he’d heard her anyway.
“And what do I want?”
“Me,” She said simply, shrugging one gentle shoulder with a sultry smile. She wasn’t wrong. And it couldn’t be so very hard, could it? Damen was very good at getting what he wanted; he’d just never played with stakes before. He didn’t even think about it. For Jokaste, to have her, he’d do worse than play a silly game of bets and wagers.
“The terms?” he asked, gratified by the pleased expression on her face.
“No cheating, you can’t tell them it’s a bet, it doesn’t matter which one you get as long as you get one into bed,” she said still staring up at him as though daring him to naysay her, she looked thoughtful for a moment before adding “to win you have to fuck one of them, or let them fuck you if you’re feeling adventurous,”
“Deal,” he said and shook her outstretched hand, entranced by the slow smile pulling at her mouth.
Simple enough. No loophole. Hands and mouths didn't count. It had to be all in. A fair game.
Perhaps the Veretian visit wouldn’t be quite as tedious as he had feared. He was going to fuck not one but two pretty blondes by the time they were leaving again. A golden Prince and Jokaste. It was all the incentive he could possibly need.
Damen dropped her hand, turned his face back to the scene below and was almost surprised to see at least one Veretian head had turned toward their balcony. Laurent did not immediately look away, in fact, he almost made Damen feel as though he were the one who had been caught staring. But Damen didn’t look away and it was only Auguste putting a hand on Laurent’s shoulder that drew the younger Prince's attention away from the balcony. He had not looked impressed. Perhaps Damen's lack of attendance had not gone unnoticed. Or unjudged. But then waiting on the steps was a Veretian tradition and he'd seen no particular reason to join when his father hadn't insisted. Kastor wasn't present either though the Veretian distaste for bastards meant he was likely to find a pressing reason to be away from court soon.
“This is a terrible idea,” Nikandros groused some moments later once they'd bid farewell to Jokaste and started toward the throne room.
“Don’t worry Nik it’s just a game,” Damen said, flashing him a smile “besides you said yourself, the only question is, which one?”
Nikandros flashed him an unimpressed look but Damen already knew exactly which one he wanted. The only real question was how far he’d go to get him.
~*~
Aware the Damen/Jokaste may be breaking the rules somewhat and that I’m relying heavily on the fact everyone knows the plot line of Cruel Intentions. That is my excuse and I am sticking to it because this has been living rent-free in my head for a while.
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tajmutthall · 3 years
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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Lazar/Pallas (Captive Prince) Characters: Damen (Captive Prince), Laurent (Captive Prince), Lazar (Captive Prince), Pallas (Captive Prince) Additional Tags: Lamen Week 2021, Lamen Week, humor and nonsense, It was one country once, Day 8 of Lamen Week and I made it through alive, Arguing for arguing's sake, Rapid switching between languages Series: Part 7 of Lamen Week 2021 works at Taj MuttHall Summary:
@lamenweek 2021 Day 8 - "It was one country, once"
Damen tried not to crush his soda can because it still held several sips more of his favorite, cherry. Instead, he placed it with considerable care and attention off to the side and folded his hands. “It *was* one country once,” he said in Veretian.
Lazar smacked the tabletop with his fist. Again. “There is no. Evidence. For. It.”
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bumblebee-whiskey · 3 years
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Laurent is seven when he first hears the tale of the boy with wings of wax and string, sixteen the first time he understood why Icarus had jumped, and twenty when he learns what it feels like to kiss the sun.
--
Written for @lamenweek 2021, Day 2: Folklore and Mythology
A story of Laurent's self reflection through the myth of Icarus
Rated: M, Ships: Damen/Laurent, Content warnings: references to canon child abuse, suicidal thoughts, mild nsfw
Read it on Ao3
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dreamdropxoxo · 3 years
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My entry for Lamen Week 2021 Day 3: Hurt/Comfort.

This is heavy Angst. Please check the tags and take them seriously. I’m not kidding and while I only wrote fluff up to this point this story is going to hurt.

Excerpt: 

“I knew my son didn’t grow up to be so beautiful for nothing,” Aleron declared as he gleefully rubbed his hands together, and while Laurent kept his back straight and his head down, he still saw the movement. He felt sick. Auguste beside him was tense and his angry scent wafted towards Laurent in waves.
“Father, Laurent is not an object! You can’t sell him off like this.” His older brother protested. Their father didn’t care.
Laurent knew that everything would have been different had his mother survived her sickness four years ago. Aleron had lost his mind to grief, at least that’s what people spoke about behind closed doors. Still, he was the King, Laurent’s father and his guardian.

“I’m not selling him off, Auguste. Laurent knows that this is his duty to this family. We need to show them that we’re willing to agree to peace and I’m not risking it. This country shouldn’t be forced to fight another war with one of our neighbors because of some selfish desire. Laurent understands that.” 

Laurent knew that his father was right. The feud between the countries of the continent had been going on long enough. That there was a peace summit to be held was promising enough. It was true, he could understand his father’s reasoning. He wasn’t even angry about it. He had accepted his fate as the only omega child of the Veretian Royal Family as soon as his mother died.

“Your brother will accompany us to the summit and be presented as a possible mate to the other royal families.”
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mrs-amber · 3 years
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A Summer Palace
It had been built centuries ago, by a loving king as a gift to his beloved wife.
Rated: T, Ships: Damen/Laurent
[Read it on Ao3 or below the cut]
It had been built centuries ago, by a loving king as a gift to his beloved wife.
It had been just a sea crag before, where the mountains were wild and the ocean was visible from the eastern side, between headlands of tumbled rocks. Water crashed into cliffs and stone and the tumble of land into the sea was jagged and inhospitable.
It had been like this before, quiet and peaceful, empty. The Palace now rested there, beautiful, nestled in a series of gardens, with flower sprays and fountains, and meandering paths that offered startling views of the sea. The King had loved his wife as nobody had done before, and he had gifted her a place where she could live and grow, cultivate flowers, trees, where she could be happy.
The Palace now had its walls filled and thrumming with the love they shared for each other, and with that, all those who walked through its halls, even centuries later, could feel the warm and welcoming energy running through it.
Its marble colonnades were simple and led inside to atriums and further gardens, and cooler spaces where the heat of summer was distant, like the outdoor hum of cicadas.
The King would travel to the Palace with his Queen and children when the warmer times of the year came. They would hold feasts, hunts, balls, they would go down the marble steps and bathe in the bluest sea.
But the Palace was left on its own during winter, only receiving back its guests and reverberating with energy during summer. A Summer Palace.
As the years and centuries passed, the Palace stood there, and its guests changed. The King and Queen's children grew and had children of their own, who would walk and run and hide between the Palace's walls and grounds. Each generation and each person had a different way to show and demonstrate love and affection. But the Palace knew, and it remained open, rejoicing in the simple way its inhabitants chose to cultivate it.
There was a beautiful Queen who came in the more recent times, she had come often and the Palace grew fond of her. She had a sadness within her and she longed to find love, to make love grow, to cultivate it, and to be responsible for it. She prayed in the gardens, her hands deep in the earth as she planted seed after seed and watered and cared for each new bulb, each new leaf, every new color and perfume she could see blooming around her.
Her King had a son, but it wasn't hers. For all the flowers and trees she could grow in the gardens, she couldn't bear a child of her own. And it made her hurt and made her weep, and she would come to the gardens in the summer and talk to the flowers about a love the gods wouldn't grant her the possibility to pursue.
Nine years passed and the Queen finally saw her body change, and she would beam and her eyes sparkled with the pure joy and happiness she felt. And the Palace felt it too when she came to visit it with the news.
After she was gone that time, she never came back. And soon the Palace understood he wouldn't get to feel her loving energy anymore. They placed a statue of her, in an arched open garden. Egeria looked out towards the sea with a marble face and marble eyes, even though she’d had dark hair and eyes. The old-fashioned dress of marble, the curled hair, her high, classical brow and outraised arm.
The Palace would miss its loving and gentle Queen.
Some years later she returned, but in the form of a little boy, a prince. The Palace could recognize the love that she carried, that was now living inside of him. He was not like his brother, the other son the King already had. His nature was kind and trusting and he resembled his mother in so many ways.
The little prince returned a few times with his older brother, he carried him on his shoulders, swam with him, wrestled with him. He brought him a conch shell, once, from the sea. The little prince had love and was happy, so the Palace was glad.
It took many years for the Palace to see the little prince again, but when he did the little prince wasn't little or a prince anymore.
He was full grown, and a King.
He was tougher, wiser, but he still held on to that love that once belonged to his mother. He had someone new now to put his love upon as well, a fair prince, gleaming under the sunlight. And the Palace could feel the love they shared once again filling his walls and giving them life. The Palace had been made out of love, and with love, it rejoiced and continued to live.
It watched as they met, both eager, yet unsure. It watched as they walked from the east fountain to a nearby garden, plucking white flowers to present each other, and the Palace felt how much it meant. It watched as his King guided his Prince to meet his mother, the mother not even the King himself had met in life, and listened while the Prince talked to her.
And the Palace knew his Queen would have loved this foreign Prince.
And it was then the Palace knew he shouldn't worry about his King's love anymore, because it would be well taken care of, and the King would be happy.
The Prince would too.
It watched as they walked through the grounds, bathed, loved, and fell for each other, deeper and deeper.
The sun shining on them, reflecting through the marble walls, the cotton curtains, and the sea, as blue and deep as the Prince's eyes, as their witness.
And the Summer Palace was at peace once again, sure as it could be that the love would continue to enter and flow between its walls.
Sure that the time could stop, or go on, and the Palace would remain there, as beautiful as it had been when it was built, and as a forever place in which those who loved could come, and rest, and feel at peace, and the Palace would take care of them.
And the Palace would remember them, for all next centuries to come.
Lamen Week 2021, Day 1: Summer Palace [@lamenweek]
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03rin · 3 years
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@lamenweek 2021: Day 2 - Folkore/Mythology
sun god!Damianos and moon god!Laurent are the gods that rule the sky. they deeply adored each other and wanted be as close as possible, but legend sadly says that they were only able to meet during the evening for a short amount of time :’))) cries
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goldencuffs · 3 years
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familial
@lamenweek day four: family
Like clockwork, Laurent arrives at eight in the evening on Friday, and the entire Vallis household bursts to life.
Sitting in the poorly lit alfresco, Damianos listens as Laurent makes his way down the hallway, room by room. In the living room, Theomedes’ laugh is loud and booming; it’s the first happy noise he’s made all week. In the kitchen, Egeria’s voice is sweet as she offers Laurent thirteen different dishes because he’s too thin.
Kastor is in the shower, but Damen swears the sound of running water amplifies under Laurent’s presence.
The night is warm and sticky, alive with the start of summer. Damen’s t-shirt is clinging to him, damp at the nape. It hadn’t bothered him through dinner, but now he becomes wholly conscious of it as he hears Laurent’s approaching footsteps.
The door slides open. “Hello, you,” Laurent’s voice is a gentle lull amongst the stars.
Damen turns, terrified and excited. His lungs seize up, because Laurent is the most beautiful, warm person he’s ever known.
He’s dressed magnificently tonight, like always. The material of his shirt is light, expensive. There’s a silk ribbon cinched around his waist, and his leather boots cost more than Damen’s monthly salary.
He hasn’t done his hair; it falls into his eyes, and when he pushes it back behind his ear, Damen falls in love all over again.
“Hey,” Damen smiles, so wide it splits his face. “You’re stunning.”
Laurent flushes. Damen can’t see it, but he knows Laurent like himself.
Laurent peers over at the garden. “Did Theomedes plant more tulips?”
“Yeah,” Damen says, still grinning, pleased that Laurent notices these things about his family home. “He spent four whole days trying to rearrange them into the colours of the rainbow.”
Laurent smiles, looking charmed. He comes and sits next to Damen on the sagging couch, close. Damen can smell his cologne, Voyage d’Hermes. Laurent sprays it on everything: his pillow, his bedsheets, his bag, the pinked skin behind his ear.
Their knees touch. Laurent reaches into his pocket, and pulls out the lighter Damen gifted him for his twenty-first and a pack of cigarettes.
The flame dances across Laurent’s face as he lights his cigarette. There’s something pale and shimmery applied to his eyelids, and it keeps changing colour.
Damen is obsessed with it—especially when he catches it flickering against Laurent’s collarbones.
Damen knows his smile is goofy, smitten. Alone like this, he doesn’t care.
When he touches Laurent’s knee, Laurent shifts a little closer, and then passes over his cigarette.
Damen doesn’t smoke, but he always does with Laurent, because the intimacy of it drives him wild. There’s something illicit about putting his mouth at the dampened end, which has been marked by Laurent’s tongue and spit.
The smoke is pungent. It fills the air around them, like a comforting hug.
In the quiet, Damen can feel grateful for his life. He’s young, in love, and has the attention of the world’s most gorgeous man.
Laurent says, “Work alright?”
“Yeah,” Damen says. “Finally figured out which kid has been writing ‘fuck’ for spelling homework.”
Laurent raises an eyebrow. “Nicaise?”
“Fucking Nicaise,” Damen says, laughing. “I don’t think I even knew that word at six, fucking hell.”
“I did,” Laurent smirks, mischievous, his eyes sparkling. It dulls the glitter.
Damen’s breath catches, and he coughs on the next exhale.
Laurent pats his back, laughing, and the sound is magical.
Damen could look at him forever.
Laurent’s smile slowly falls off his face, and he gives Damen a small, quizzical look.
The sliding door opens, and Kastor’s hulking figure comes out onto the alfresco. His hair is still a little damp, curling over his ears. His three piece suit is freshly pressed, stretching over his broad chest.
He looks over at Damen with steel in his eyes. “Cuddling without me?”
Shoving the last half of the cigarette into Damen’s fumbling fingers, Laurent springs to his feet, his smile like sunshine. He makes a graceful leap over Damen’s outstretched legs to Kastor, flinging his arms around him.
“You shaved!” Laurent sounds young, delighted, completely enamoured. “This must be a very fancy dinner.”
The ice in Kastor melts away. He gazes at Laurent with hunger, with wonder. “I told you it was.” He pushes the hair away from Laurent’s forehead. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Thank you.” The response is painfully shy. Laurent presses his painted fingertips to the tiny mole on the underside of Kastor’s chin and then his dimple. “I’ve missed these.”
Kastor kisses Laurent then, and Laurent falls into it sweetly, his moans soft and reverent in the night.
Damen turns away, dragging on the cigarette, the smoke now acrid, clinging to the inside of the lungs like tar.
Laurent murmurs something softly in Veretian when he pulls away. Damen hears the word love, and he hates it.
“Give me a sec, yeah?” Kastor says into Laurent’s ear, and Laurent goes, always willing to listen.
He kisses Kastor again before walking back inside, biting his lip on a smile when Kastor swats his ass.
Two seconds after Laurent has gone back inside, he quickly reappears in the doorway. “Shit, sorry, Damen! See you!”
Damen waves at him, stomach curling with a familiar bitterness. Laurent always seems to forget about him the moment Kastor walks into a room.
When he leaves again, Kastor assesses Damen with an equally familiar coolness.
“What?” Damen finally snaps, stubbing out the cigarette.
To his surprise, Kastor comes over to sit next to him, unbuttoning his suit jacket around the middle.
This close, Damen can feel their thighs touching, and he jerks in surprise, staring at Kastor with wide eyes.
Kastor’s expression is more open, boyish than Damen remembers. Without his beard, he looks younger, the cut of his eyebrows less severe, his mouth more pronounced.
Kastor presses his forehead to Damen’s shoulder. Damen stills in shock.
“Please,” Kastor says in a quiet voice. “Please just let me have this.”
Damen moves away, face hot. “I haven’t fucking done anything!” he snaps, his defensiveness heating his words.
Kastor closes his eyes. “I see how you look at him, Damen. Please, please don’t. Don’t pull your usual shit. I love him. Don’t take him away from me.”
Damen’s armpits are damp now. “My usual shit,” he repeats flatly.
But Kastor doesn’t rise to the bait. He looks miserable. “Yeah,” he says. “Your usual shit.”
And Damen knows. He thinks of Jokaste, Kyra, Lykaois, Erasmus, Kallias, and something unravels in him.
He swallows, turns away.
“Please,” Kastor says again. “I’m asking as your brother.”
Egeria used to call Kastor and Damen two halves of one soul. They’d been close, had remained close, despite everything. They’d seen the worst of each other, and the best like any other family would. Egeria had even joked that sometimes, it seemed like they had been split in half, because Damen’s dimple was on the left, and Kastor’s on the right.
It’s the guilt that chokes Damen—because he’s thought time and time again in these last two years how easy it would be to have Laurent, if he really tried. If he caught Laurent in a moment of weakness.
Now, he says, “Whatever,” and makes sure his tone suggests the end of the conversation.
Kastor is silent for a while. Then he stands up with a sigh.
Damen doesn’t plan on saying it, but when Kastor is crossing the doorway, he says, “He’s going to say yes. You don’t have to be worried.”
For a second, Kastor looks confused. Then his fingers press against his thigh, the place where Damen had felt the tiny box.
“Yeah, I know,” Kastor says, finally. “Don’t let it kill you, alright?”
It’s said firmly, softly: a big brother bestowing advice to his younger brother.
Damen doesn’t answer, and Kastor leaves, eager to get back to his lover.
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