#auguste lives

throne / statue / horse / cup (this is a real cup on display at the met!) / armor / palace / sword / laurel

Some days have passed now. With some embarrassing encounters between the two of them, especially when August was not around and Laurent was not expecting to see anyone. Laurent was starting to feel uncomfortable. Not for bad reasons, as you might think. But exclusively because in each and every following encounter he behaved more and more incoherent than the one before. He stumbled in chairs, dropped books and couldn’t make himself speak when asked something. Really, could that be anything worse? What else could happen?

August realizing his crush could happen.

Laurent was reading on the sofa, his legs on top of Auguste’s lap, while he was watching something on the TV. Damen came home late from work that night, and Laurent pretended not to see anything when he came inside, talked to his brother and then went to take a shower. A little after that Laurent stiffened on the sofa. 

“What is it?”, Auguste turned to him with a preoccupied expression.

Damen was singing in the shower. Singing. Had he no shame? For fuck’s sake.

“Is he singing?”, the question was more to himself than to his brother.

Auguste’s expression softened. “Oh, he does that some times”, he explained, expression turning to an amused one. 

‘Oh, really’, Laurent thought and felt his face warming.

“You’re blushing!”, he almost shouted, pointing a finger to Laurent’s face.

“No, I’m not!”, but he knew he was. What was wrong in trying to maintain some dignity, right?

And as if hearing they were talking (or rather thinking) about him, Damen chose that moment to leave the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his hip. And there was nothing Laurent could do now to hide his blush, because it was as red as ever and went all the way down his neck and to his chest. Damen was almost naked!

And August couldn’t help but throw back his head and laugh, loud, while Damen stared, oblivious to what was happening. Or not.

As a demonstration of trust and good faith, he had come ahead of the Akielon King Theomedes and arrived without splendor or festivity, hopping off his horse with a modest guard of only two men at either flank. Laurent had not even left his rooms to greet him. He knew he had come for Auguste. Theirs was the business of heirs, not second sons. 

That morning, Laurent carried on as usual. He sat in his favorite chair in his favorite corner of the library with his favorite snacks. With his legs folded comfortably beneath him, he tried to focus on his studies. 

They could not hold his attention. 

Cruelly, he could hear the faint sound of commotion, laughter and the clanging of swords drifting in through the open window. 

He tried to resist. 

Really, he did. 

His curiosity took him over to look out. 

Down below in the courtyard, Laurent saw them—his brother and the Prince of Akielos. They were sparring, a small crowd gathered around to catch a glimpse of the Princes and their budding friendship. It was an important symbol for their countries. Once disputing, now reaching peace. Laurent knew the significance, even from the periphery as he was. Not long ago, whispers of war frightened him to nightmares. Despite his unwavering confidence in his older brother, he could not risk Auguste leaving for battle and never returning to him. He would not survive it. 

Watching the two of them, Laurent felt especially relieved that their nations would be signed into a peaceful alliance within the week. 

The Prince of Akielos was… imposing, physically. Younger than Auguste, Laurent knew, but taller, wider, with a longer reach, and very, very skilled. Auguste was the best fighter in Vere. The Akielon Prince was rumored to be the best fighter on the whole continent. It was unsettling in more ways than Laurent could place. 

His clothing was sparse, an Akielon custom. His accent was heavy, detectable even at a distant height, deep and strong. His laugh was—

Captivating. Laurent thought he might go and hear it up close.

His pulse bounded as he walked, a massive book in tow, as fast as his legs would carry him. He knew he must hurry before his mind changed and he chickened out of his plan: He would casually read resting against a tree nearby where they were sparring. 

He would not be watching the Prince of Akielos at all. Only reading. 

As he approached, Laurent made himself as unobtrusive as possible, his eyes careful on the broad back of the Akielon Prince. He had not yet made it to the tree, and so looking at him was still permitted. 

His upper body was distractingly bare, his complexion dark and golden warm, with thick, curly hair to match. Everything else seemed to fade to black as Laurent looked him over, once, then again, admiring the way his muscles flexed beneath smooth skin. He was unlike anyone Laurent had ever seen. 

As Laurent made to move past them to his chosen tree, horrifically, Auguste yelled to him, blowing his cover: 

“Laurent! You came out of your room, little brother!” It was not as shocking as Auguste’s voice suggested. Then— “Come and meet Damianos.” 

Laurent simply could not, but now he must. 

The Prince of Akielos turned. 

Laurent’s mouth dropped open, a muted gasp escaping him, and without his permission, his feet brought him over to them. 

The Prince was smiling, brighter than the sun that shined in Laurent’s eyes. A dimple adorned his left cheek. He said, in perfect Veretian, “Good morning, Your Highness,” and gave a bow of his head. “It’s an honor to meet you.” 

Laurent had a funny feeling fluttering in his stomach, heated all over. The Prince’s mere presence was quite nearly more overwhelming than his… everything else. Had Auguste honestly needed to call his name? Did he live to humiliate him?

Through his internal crisis, Laurent answered in his best Akielon, “Hello, Damianos. Welcome to Arles.” 

“Akielon!” the Prince said, delighted. He had been practicing for the visit. Then, much to Laurent’s surprise, he added, “Damen. Call me Damen.” 

“Damen,” Laurent repeated, smiling. The Prince had not even permitted Auguste to call him that. Laurent’s cheeks were surely the shade of the apples he had fed his horse with breakfast that morning. 

“Did you come to watch us?” Auguste asked, reaching out to ruffle his hair. The nerve. Laurent wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. 

“I came to read,” Laurent deflected, gesturing with his book. 

“And what have you come to read?” the Prince—Damen—asked. His tone held kindness and something akin to genuine interest, and Laurent was, again, taken aback. He did not expect the Prince to be so warm. Whatever the rush of feelings was inside Laurent, he had never experienced it before. 

“Oh, um—” Laurent stumbled his words, silently wishing for death. He had read the book countless times but could suddenly, uselessly remember nothing. “It’s just a silly story about a Prince on an adventure.”

“I happen to love silly stories about princes on adventures,” Damen said, using the towel a servant had brought to wipe the sweat from his neck and shoulders. “Perhaps you’ll tell me about it later?” 

“Of course,” Laurent nodded, his smile growing wider despite his efforts to conceal it. Ill-timed or not, he took that as his cue to leave, backing away slowly then turning quickly to retreat in case Damen changed his mind. 

“Well then,” Auguste chuckled, calling to him again, “See you around, little brother!” 

Laurent threw a half-wave over his shoulder, utterly mortified. Again with the little brother. He was trying to make friends with the Prince of Akielos! Auguste was not helping!

Once he arrived at his chosen tree, Laurent positioned it between them, taking a deep breath behind the safety of its wide trunk as he sat and leaned his back against it. After collecting himself, he opened his book to think about the best parts he might share, if asked by someone. 

If Laurent peered around the tree a few times for another look at the Prince as he read, that was no one’s business but his own.

+++ 

Damen rode into Arles for the first time in six years, with Nikandros and a single guard at his back just as he had come before. 

The countryside was vibrant, the breeze sweet and floral in the summertime. Damen felt rejuvenated upon his arrival. It was fun to escape Ios for a change, and to leave his country entirely was an adventure, especially for one as…stimulating as Vere. Another visit was long overdue; only this time, the King of Akielos would not be following behind him. It was a trip for catching up, not business, and Damen trusted the Veretians. 

They were, in a shocking turn of events for both countries, the closest ally of Akielos. Since the signing of their treaty, peace and friendship prevailed, which was a stark contrast from the violent past his father had taught him about growing up. 

And so, over the years, the Kings corresponded through letters, as did the Princes. As for the Prince of Vere’s younger brother, Damen sent him books once in a while. More silly stories about princes and other things with simple handwritten notes inside, inspired by their first meeting. He had hoped he liked them. Now Damen could ask. 

As he rode toward the palace, he passed a set of stables, grand and ornate as he remembered everything else in Arles. There were stablehands working, noblemen waiting for their mounts to be saddled. He wondered how many horses the building held and to whom they all belonged. 

Then, a young man walked out, his stride so graceful, as though moving on air. His hair was striking, golden yellow, with longer strands framing his lovely face. He carried himself with an arresting elegance, his expression neutral with an aura of unattainability. He was, indisputably, the most breathtaking individual Damen had ever seen. Since his last visit to Vere, he had warmed to the idea of men, bedding them when it suited him, but never had one bewitched him quite so strongly, so quickly, without a word or an act beyond walking. 

Damen stopped his horse in her tracks, squinting at him in the sunlight. He looked oddly familiar, but of course, Damen knew no one from Arles of his own age. He had not been there in a half dozen years. Suddenly, he wished to know this man from Arles. 

That singular, acute desire drove him off his horse without a second thought. 

“What are you doing, Damianos?” Nikandros asked, alarm dripping from his words. 

Damen barely looked at him. “Nothing. Go on to the palace. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Will you?” Nikandros pressed, dubious as ever. 

“Yes,” Damen answered. “Take my horse. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.” 

“I’m sure,” Nikandros grumbled, and if he said anything more after taking the reins from him, Damen was too far away to hear it. 

He turned the corner where the young man had gone, finding him with his sword in an empty arena around the opposite side of the stables. Meant for training horses, he was training himself. 

As he approached, Damen said, in soft Veretian, “Hello there.”

The young man looked, blinking a few times in quick succession, then looked again with a secret in his eyes. 

“Hello,” he said back, also in Veretian, a smile pleasantly threatening his mouth. 

“Do you keep a horse here?” Damen asked, unfortunately the first viable question to cross his mind through his nerves. It was unusual for him to experience them in any pursuit. 

It was exciting. 

“Have you come to police the stables?” the young man returned, tilting his head to one side in question. It was interesting he seemed to pay no mind to Damen’s status, obvious as it was with the red cape and golden lion pin at his shoulder. Damen did not care. He could do anything short of cursing his mother’s grave, and Damen might accept it. 

He was gorgeous, even in confusion, his eyes intensely blue and penetrating right through to the center of him, it seemed. His features were delicate in some ways, stronger and more distinctive in others. The sharpness of his cheekbones and jawline, the plush curve of his lips, his flawless skin… 

“No. Of course not. I just—” Damen faltered. “I’m only curious about you.” 

He lowered his gaze. Damen interpreted the flush that rose to his cheeks as a sign of encouragement. He eventually said, “I keep many, but only one is truly mine. Her name is Dauphiné.” 

“That’s a beautiful name,” Damen said. His accent flowing from that pretty mouth only served to enhance it all. “I would like to know the name of Dauphiné’s owner as well, if he would like that in return.” 

His smile grew wider, more amused than Damen thought warranted. “You don’t remember me at all, do you?” 

Damen furrowed his brow. “What do you mea—”  

“Damianos, my friend!” Auguste’s voice boomed from behind him with impeccable timing. Damen wanted to shoo him away. “I see you’ve found my little brother already!” 

Damen recoiled at his words, stammering, “I’m sorry—Your little—What?” 

Little brother. 

Damen was stunned. It was as though the ground shifted beneath his feet, the world turning on its head to reconcile what he previously knew with who stood before him and what he saw and felt now. This was not a stablehand or a nobleman waiting for his horse. He had not cared that Damen was the Prince because he, too, was the Prince. 

He was completely blind not to see it. 

The blushing fourteen year old he met six years ago had grown into a man. A very attractive man. 

It was Laurent. And he was laughing, silently to himself. 

Damen could not locate his voice to speak. 

“Yes, Your Highness, he found me, but I was just leaving. I’m sure you two have fascinating things to attend to after all this time,” Laurent said, walking past where he stood in shock next to Auguste on his way out. Cooly, he murmured, in much-improved Akielon, “Welcome back to Arles, Damianos.” 

Damen could do nothing but stare, open-mouthed, after him. 

+++