Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This was the last time Laurent was going to listen to his brother. Ever.

Fucking Auguste and his fucking ideas about 'friendship'. Why the fuck did anyone even care about 'friendship' anyway? It wasn't the be-all-end-all of human experiences that Auguste continued to insist it was. Case in point: tonight's social train wreck waiting to happen.

Sure, Laurent didn't have many actual friends. Or any, really. There was Auguste and Nicaise and Kashel, but they were family. They had to put up with him. And even that loving tolerance didn't stop them from using whatever approach they could to try to convince him to do what they thought was best for him.

Usually, all it took was Auguste's calm, twisty logic offered up as the most reasonable approach. Sometimes, it was Kashel's disappointed face, her I know you could do better face. If he was very unlucky—or had done something that his future sister-in-law considered particularly worrying—he would see her eyes filling with tears. Occasionally it was a battle of wills, as Nicaise was just as stubborn as he was. Sometimes it was all of these tactics combined, outright manipulating him into doing what they called 'self care'. Laurent sighed. If he was being fair, he'd have to admit that he would do the same for them, if he thought it was necessary. It was only tolerable because he knew that if he put his foot down, his family would back off and let him make his own choices.

A flash of Auguste's recent lecture played through his head, reminding him why he'd even agreed to come here at all.

"You can't spend your entire life inside, Lolo." His brother's smile had flashed softly, kindly. It was a smile that had disarmed many a witness on the stand, putting them at ease... right before they spilled everything they knew. "You might be able to fool everyone else, but don't try to lie to me. I know you're lonely. "

"That doesn't matter. I'm fine," Laurent had insisted, looking away.

"It matters to me," Auguste had come to stand next to him, had rested his arm around Laurent's shoulder. "I want you to be more than 'fine'. I want you to be happy. You need people, Lolo. Everyone needs at least a few people."

"I have you," Laurent had leaned his head down, resting it on his brother's shoulder.

"And you always will. But you deserve more than that, Lo. And we'll be moving out in a few months, after the wedding." Laurent had tensed, and Auguste had reached up, had run his fingers through Laurent's pale blonde hair, the gesture familiar and comforting. "It's not like I won't see you, but you will be alone more. I just want you to try to make some friends, Lolo. Just to try. Didn't you mention that guy in your painting class invited you to go to his band's concert?"

"Yes," Laurent had admitted dryly, "right before I told you that I wouldn't go to a house party in a million years."

"All I want you to do is try, Lolo. Just try...do it for me? Consider it an early wedding present."

Laurent had stepped back, had looked into those seemingly guileless blue eyes. They were nearly an exact match to his own.

"Please?" Auguste looked so hopeful. Laurent couldn't stand the thought of disappointment replacing the soft look on his brother's face.

So Laurent had caved and agreed to go.

And okay, maybe it took Auguste physically barging into Laurent's room and snatching the paintbrush out of his hand an hour before he'd had to leave for Laurent to actually get moving, but that didn't mean that Laurent had been deliberately trying to flake out on his promise. He would have made it there himself. Eventually. Probably.

But none of that ultimately mattered, because he was here now. Making friends.

Auguste would be so proud.

Laurent glanced around to survey the situation he had placed himself in. If this was what happened when you had friends....well, he was fine alone.

The house party was overwhelming. Despite the large space, the number of people crammed inside managed to make it feel cramped. So many voices, talking all at once, until you couldn't hear yourself think. Bodies were moving, dancing through the space, brushing up against him. It was hot as fuck in here, and only getting hotter by the minute. Laurent imagined there was probably some room where he could stow his jacket, but he wasn't going to take the risk that some drunken asshole would wander away with his favorite piece of clothing.

The large jean jacket was spacious on Laurent, to say the least. It had once belonged to Auguste. His brother had a much more muscular physique, and was five inches taller. No amount of weight-lifting or strength training on Laurent's part had ever gotten him close to having that kind of build. Laurent wasn't a weakling by any means. His lean form was filled out with toned muscle, but his slighter frame was deceptive, especially when he draped himself in a jacket four sizes too large for him. The size difference didn’t matter to Laurent. He loved it.

Every time he'd put the jacket on, he'd felt...safe. It was almost like he was brining Auguste along with him, like the denim itself was some kind of armor, a protection against harm. He'd take it with him to class, or wear it when he rode the bus to his therapy appointments, or just bundle himself up in it while hanging around the apartment. It was big enough to wrap around himself, concealing Laurent's body behind the well-worn denim. Laurent had "borrowed" it so many times that Auguste had just given it to him.

Auguste still occasionally made fun of how big the thing was on Laurent, but Laurent didn't care. He'd bleached and dyed it a pale, soft blue that reminded him of a cloudless summer sky. It had gotten streaked with paint over the years, blotches of color here and there the casualties of wearing it while deep in the zone, working on his art. Laurent actually liked the look that the smears of acrylic added to the jacket.

The large back patch had come later, a gift from Kashel a few birthdays ago. It featured a stylized snake surrounded by the moon phases, which she'd said reminded her of him. Laurent had carefully stitched the patch onto the jacket that same day. He smiled, remembering the day that Auguste had planned for him...

Laurent was abruptly startled back into the present moment when a drunk girl stumbled in front of him, nearly spilling the contents of her red solo cup all over him. Laurent's icy scowl of rebuke was lost on her as she spotted whoever she was looking for in the crowd and started pushing her way forward.

Laurent pulled the jacket tighter around himself, ignoring the heat, taking comfort in the familiar weight of it on his shoulders.

He indulged in a brief fantasy of walking out into the crisp October air. He was one quick Uber ride away from a bubble bath, an oversized mug of hot chocolate, and a book.

Gritting his teeth, Laurent began maneuvering through the crowd. He was here, and he would make damn sure that he was seen so that he could get credit for putting himself through this torture.

Fucking 'friendship'.

Finally, he claimed a space right in front of what was generously being referred to as the 'stage'.

Really, it was just a slightly raised dining room in an open concept ground floor. Microphones and speakers and a large number of instruments were set up under the glow of several spotlights, which had obviously been jury-rigged to the beams criss-crossing the high ceilings. Idly, Laurent visually traced the wires back to a power strip plugged into another power strip, which appeared to be plugged into an extension chord.

Lovely. Not only was Laurent using every drop of his own emotional energy to be here, but he was also going to die in a house fire.

Perfect.

Five minutes. He would stay for five more minutes. If Lazar and his stupid band didn't make an appearance, he was leaving, 'friendship' be damned.

Moments after the thought, the lights dimmed, extinguished. In the darkened space in front of him, Laurent caught a glimpse of some movement. The already loud crowd began cheering and clapping, jostling forward until Laurent was almost pushed onto the stage space himself. His chest tightened, and he felt a rush of anxiety start to rise.

Laurent breathed deeply, focusing on the familiar measured inhales and exhales, letting his breath calm the pounding in his chest.

A steady drum beat began pulsing. It was followed by a low baseline, melodic in the darkness. That would be Lazar.

Laurent focused on the notes, and the tightness in his chest eased by a fraction. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Unconsciously, he had synced up with the steady throb of the drum.

And then, a higher note began to weave its way into the sound. A violin? Laurent distinctly remembered Lazar proudly describing his band as, "punk cabaret rock world groove alternative fusion". Laurent had no idea what the fuck that combination would sound like, but he'd imagined it would be the audio equivalent of mixing 12 different kinds of condiments and then chugging the resulting sludge.

But this...this was hypnotic. The violin caught the melody of the base, matched it, then wove it into something new. It was haunting. Caught in spite of himself, Laurent felt himself sway forward.

Now, another layer of drums, the rhythms unfamiliar, the beats almost melodic in their own right. Laurent thought of those tall drums he'd seen people playing in a circle out on the quad in front of the school. What were they called again? A djembe. Yes. There was almost certainly a djembe, and other percussion besides.

Laurent found himself idly rubbing his thumb along his fingernails, fingertips itching for a paintbrush, for color and canvas. His mind's eye was already pulling pattern and movement from the sound, colors and textures a ghost of sensation working their way towards the forefront of his mind. Denied an outlet, he noticed that he'd started shifting his whole body to the beat. In a flash of annoyance at himself, forced his hips to stillness.

A piano joined, pushing the song into something edgier, and moments later a guitar layered in.

The music was picking up even more speed, the intensity rising, rising...

The lights flashed on, and all of the instruments went silent, replaced by a tight layering of voices for a beat, two, three...chills raced up Laurent's spine. The voices wrapped around him...and then the instrumentation dropped back in all at once, creating a frenetic whirlwind with the vocals.

The sound was unlike anything Laurent had ever heard. The song was thrumming down into his bones, his limbs were itching to move in time to the music. But even as it called to him, in that moment, the music faded to the background.

In front of him, illuminated now, was the most attractive man he'd ever seen.

Tall. Laurent’s mind stuttered. He was tall. Tall and big. And that skin. So much skin, shifting from gold to copper under the warm spotlights. The man swayed, powerful arms holding a violin that looked nearly comically small when cradled in those hands. His fingers moved gracefully, dancing over the strings with a precision and dexterity that had something bright and hot clenching low in Laurent's stomach.

The glow from above lit the angles and planes of a body that belonged to a statue in an art museum. Some ancient God of hedonism and debauchery perhaps, caught in marble...no, cast in bronze. Just waiting, poised for the right moment to spring to life.

But to his knowledge, no classic sculpture wore tight leather pants that clung to powerful thighs like a second skin. And no fallen deity immortalized in metal had ever sported a broad muscular chest rising from...a black and red brocade underbust corset?

And that face. A jawline that could cut glass, dusted with a five o'clock shadow that Laurent would bet never fully went away. Curly brown hair like a cloud, brushing those broad, powerful shoulders, the strands lit with red and gold in the lights from above. Lips that were full and expressive were moving, singing into a microphone even as he worked the violin, adding to a melody that was temporarily lost to Laurent. Heavy-lidded eyes smudged artfully with liner and gold paint, closed now in concentration, framed by the thickest lashes he'd ever seen on a person.

That face was a work of art.

The music reached its crescendo and peaked, the last wailing notes ringing in the air.

The crowd lost its damn mind.

Laurent could empathize.

The man in front of him was breathing heavily, smiling out into the sea of people stuffed into the house. He leaned into the microphone, speaking with a rich voice that Laurent felt resonate through his body.

"Hey everyone, thanks for coming out tonight! We are Monarchs Rising!"

"We love you, Damen!" a voice called out from the back, and the man–Damen?– chuckled.

"I love you too, random dude!" The audience laughed, "Can I get the lights up for a minute? I want to see all of you!"

The stage lights dimmed as the room's lights came on. The singer was angled away, scanning the crowd. Laurent's mouth went dry as he got a glimpse of a perfect ass encased in tight leather. He shifted uncomfortably, unused to a complete stranger causing such an intense physical reaction. What the fuck?

"Wow, there are so many of you! Thank you all for coming out tonight, I'm–" the man turned back, and for the first time, his gaze met Laurent's. Brown, Laurent thought, again stunned. Brown eyes, but a deep, rich brown, with light dancing in its depths, brown like the stone on the pendant Auguste had given him...tiger's eye. His mind stuttered back online, noticing that everything had gone silent–"I'm...uhhh..."

"This is Damen, everyone!" A familiar voice jumped in, and Laurent's attention shifted to the entire reason he was here. Lazar had a mischievous grin on his face. The crowd cheered. Laurent caught a quick moment between the two bandmates, blink-and-you'll-miss-it fast, where Lazar looked at Damen, then followed the singer's gaze down to Laurent, and flicked back again. A flash of amusement crossed his face. "Damen's our violinist and lead singer...and apparently also our very distractible boy tonight. Give it up for Damen everybody!"

The crowd cheered again, and Damen seemed to focus back in on the wall of people in front of him, before angling to focus on Lazar. Was he blushing?

"Sorry, y'all... Just lost my train of thought there for a second. Over here–" Damen's smile was back, his tone playful–"on the bass, and also offering unnecessary commentary, we've got Lazar!"

More applause, as Lazar swept an exaggerated pantomime curtsy, followed by several moments of a bass solo, before dropping to a simple bass line.

Damen continued, turning his head to look behind him and gesturing, "On the world drums, we've got Nikandros! Give it up for Nik!" The man sitting behind an elaborate collection of various large drums beat out a quick intricate rhythm with his hands, then steadied into a background rhythm that joined the bass.

"On the guitar and vocals, we've got Pallas! Everybody say hi to Pallas!" The cheers rose in pitch as another tall man stepped forward, echoing the bass line from before, modifying it, while smiling cheekily over at Lazar. Lazar smiled and bit his lip, weaving the bass line to compliment the guitar.

"On the drum set, we've got the talented Talik, rocking our world!" A woman who looked like she could offer Damen a run for his money in the muscles department smiled from behind the drum kit and beat a quick, wicked rhythm on the drums, sticks nearly blurring with speed. The crowd cheered as the music built, each new instrument a layer.

"And last, but certainly not least, give a warm welcome to our pianist and queen of all things electronica, Vannes!" The dark-haired woman seated at the keyboard began banging out chords, her whole body swaying into the notes. Cheers rose up to meet her solo, and then the band, as one, launched into their next song.

Laurent listened, enraptured. The music was fast, and sometimes hard, but also playful and lilting. Beats from all over the world wove into the tapestry, complex rhythms mixing with electronic beats from the mixing board next to the piano. The voices and instruments played off of each other, were caught and layered through some electronic magic, each vying to take the melody or add to it, tossing it back and forth, ebbing and flowing from one song to the next.

Unable to help himself, Laurent began to move to music.

And through it all, Damen's gaze kept returning to Laurent.

It would have been hard for their eyes not to meet. To be fair, Laurent was standing right in front of him. It was the natural place for his eyes to rest.

But as the band moved through their set, those dark eyes would follow his movements. That smile–for FUCKS SAKE he had a goddamned DIMPLE–would quirk up wickedly whenever Laurent moved to the sound of the violin. Each time their eyes met Laurent felt it like a jolt of energy running through his body.

Damen played for the crowd as well. He was clearly enjoying the enthusiasm and energy of the people who had gathered to see the band play. During moments where he wasn't singing, he danced. His body would sway as his fingers moved over the violin strings. But always, his gaze would return to Laurent, intent and hot and playful, challenging him to keep the eye-contact, to move in synch with him to the music. It was almost as if they were dancing together, even though Damen was several feet away on the stage.

Song rolled into song, and Laurent danced and listened, but mostly, his attention was on the man in front of him.

Laurent felt the sweat dripping down his neck from moving to the music. He reached up, ran his fingers back through his own hair, tilting his head back as he wiped the moisture from his brow. Looking up, he found Damen's gaze hot on him, his lip caught between his teeth.

Laurent's own tongue swept out across his own lip in response, and he saw Damen's eyes darken.

The song ended, and Damen took a swig of water, before addressing the crowd.

"Thank you all again for coming out! We hope you all had a great time tonight! You can find us on most social media under 'Monarchs Rising', so follow us for updates on our touring schedule and new releases! I want to give a quick shout-out to Erasmus, who rigged the sound and lights for us. Thank you so much, buddy!" The crowd applauded as Damen waved off towards the back of the room.

"Our last song tonight is something a little bit different for us. It's a cover of one of my favorite artist's songs, and I just really wanted to end with this. So thanks again for coming out!"

The lights dimmed again, and a hush fell over the crowd.

Voices began to weave, humming a dark, haunting melody.

The bass and drums dropped in, heavy, throbbing, and the lights came up again, a deep red illumination on the stage.

Damen had placed his violin down, and stood at the microphone. His eyes met Laurent's again, and he began to sing.

"When I was a child, I heard voices
Some would sing and some would scream
You soon find you have few choices
I learned the voices died with me..."

He was singing to Laurent. There was no other way to put it. Every note, every word seemed offered up, almost like a benediction.

Laurent's heart was pounding in his chest. He could feel his hands tremble faintly, and gripped them into fists to try to regain some measure of control over his body. That heat that had pooled in his stomach before rose throughout his body, making him feel shaky and on-edge. And yet, he couldn't look away.

"All you have is your fire
And the place you need to reach
Don't you ever
Tame your demons
But always keep 'em on a leash"

Damen offered the song simply, all of his focus and energy going into the notes, into the connection that seemed to flow hot and bright between them. His body swayed gently, a subtle shifting in his hips, but that was all. His eyes never left Laurent's gaze.

The moment felt intimate, too intimate. The man on stage was a stranger. Why was Laurent feeling this way? Why did those eyes make him feel like his body was burning from the inside out? The confusion rose up with the heat, and his heart began to race even more.

"When I was a man, I thought it ended
When I knew love's perfect ache
But my peace has always been dependent
On all the ashes in my wake

All you have is your fire
And the place to need to reach
Don't you ever
Tame your demons
But always keep 'em on a leash."

The song ended, and Laurent felt his throat begin to close, his thoughts and feelings racing too fast. It was too hot. The crowd was cheering too loud. Damen's gaze went too deep, saw too much.

Laurent had to get out.

He turned away, breaking eye contact, and began to press his way back out through the crush of bodies.

"Wait..." Laurent heard Damen's voice through the speakers, but didn't look back. People shifted, letting him through, far more interested in pressing forward for an encore. Everything blurred as he made his way towards the front door, his choked gasps struggling for oxygen.

Finally, he made it through the door and out into the cool night air.

There were several people milling around the front of the house, cigarette smoke curling into the night sky from their fingers.

"Hey dude, are you okay?" someone called out, catching a glimpse of the panic on Laurent's face.

Laurent didn't even bother to answer, just pushed through the group and turned, wanting to get away from people, away from lights and noise and sound. He worked his way around the side of the house, hoping that no one would be around the back.

Thankfully, he was alone in the darkness.

Distantly, he heard the thrum of music as the band must have made its way back on stage for an encore. Flushed with confusion and embarrassment, Laurent pulled off his jacket and leaned against the house, hoping the night air would cool him down.

The moon was full, casting the backyard in a silvery glow. A well-manicured lawn backed up to a row of trees in the distance. Laurent focused on the in and out of his breath, counting the flow.

In...two...three...four.
Out...two...three...four.
In...two...three...four...five.
Out...two...three...four...five.
In...two...three...four...five...six–

When the count reached eight beats per breath, Laurent felt his heartbeat begin to slow. And there, the coil of anxiety loosened it's grip, just a bit. Just enough to give him room to think.

It was time to leave. He pulled out his phone and summoned an Uber to bring him home. His ride was about 20 minutes away. Well, that couldn't be helped. That's what you got for going to a house party in the fucking boondocks.

After a moment, he heard the crunch of footsteps pounding on the ground, rapidly approaching from around the side of the house.

Laurent tensed. His body was on high alert once more, ready to run. Whipping his head towards the noise, he saw who was rounding the corner. In the darkness, the figure came to an abrupt stop. After a beat, it slowly continued its approach, pace cautious and measured.

The tension coiled in Laurent's body shifted, but didn't lessen. If anything, his heart started to beat harder.

"Hey, hey....sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." Damen stepped closer in the shadows, breathing labored. He'd grabbed a jacket somewhere, but it was unbuttoned over that broad corseted chest. The moonlight caught on the sweat-sheened angles of his face, casting his strong features in relief.

Laurent stilled, mind working through a million possible reasons that Damen could have for following him, through a million potential responses.

This is perfect, thought Laurent, a little hysterically, this is exactly what I needed.

The man in front of him smiled, a hesitant quirk of his lips that showcased his dimple. His hair was falling in his face.

Laurent had a quick but vivid fantasy of stepping forward and brushing the hair back, of leaning in to get a better look at whatever expression was in Damen's eyes.

Fucking hell.

Chapter Text

Fucking hell.

Laurent glanced away from the man standing in front of him and up at the night sky. There was only one logical explanation for this situation. Clearly he had slighted some trickster deity at one point or another, and this was his punishment. How else could he explain Damen's presence here in the darkness?

Glancing back down, Laurent took a moment to assess the man standing in front of him. His large hands were out, palms up and empty, posture angled and unthreatening as if he was approaching a wild animal. "Hi. I'm Damen. Well, I guess you know that. Because you were, uhm, there when they said my name? Fuck." The soft, cautious grin fell away, replaced with a wry expression and a subtle shake of his head.

Damen ran his hands over his face, pushed his hair back with a frustrated sigh. "Sorry, I'm fucking this up. I just...I wanted to make sure you were okay. You ran out of there so fast, and the look on your face..." Damen lapsed into silence, waiting for Laurent to respond.

Laurent's mind whirled, disbelief and anxiety and–fuck–that clench of heat from before kicking back in, underneath of everything. What could you even say to someone in this situation? Hysteria was bubbling up underneath of the panic, offering up potential responses. Your band was really amazing, thanks for eye-fucking me for the last hour? No, not great. What about, You are literally the most attractive human I have ever seen, and I want to lick the sweat off of your chest, but please excuse me because I need to have a panic attack first? Perhaps a little too forward. Maybe, Hi, I'm Laurent and I have no friends and most people think I'm a pretentious asshole, but you're really pretty and do you maybe want to get married under some cherry blossom trees and move to the beach and adopt two dogs with me? Maybe getting a tad bit ahead of himself...

What came out instead was a clipped, "Shouldn't you be on stage for that encore?"

Well done, Laurent, he chided himself internally, way to win friends and influence people.

Instead of looking affronted, Damen grinned ruefully and rubbed the back of his own neck with a little wince.

"Yeah, I'm probably gonna get some shit for that later. But I honestly don't care. I just...I needed to...I wanted to–" those large hands gestured, palms up, as Damen glanced around, as if the words he was searching for would somehow materialize from the cold night air–"Look, I don't want to be a weirdo, so if you want me to leave you alone, I will, but you looked genuinely scared and upset for a second there, and I was just worried about you."

"You don't even know me. Why would you care?" Laurent snapped out, incredulous.

"Well. About that..." Damen dropped his hands again with a sheepish smile, "Don't freak out, okay? I promise I'm not some stalker weirdo, but–"

"That's comforting," Laurent muttered sardonically as Damen rushed on.

"–I do know you. Well, I know about you. You're Lazar's friend. Laurent, right? I follow your Instagram. Your art is amazing."

Laurent blinked up at Damen in the moonlight, taken aback. That was not what he expected.

With a raised eyebrow, Laurent shifted his stance, leaning back against the house and crossing his arms in front of his chest, "So you skipped out on the encore and came out here because you like my art?"

"Well, no. I mean, yes? Uhhh," Damen glanced down, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket–What did it say about Laurent that the larger man's discomfort actually put him at ease?–before continuing, "I had already planned on coming to talk to you after the show. Lazar told me you might be coming tonight, and I was pretty excited to meet you. We've got a new EP in production and we're going to need some cover art. We've been talking about commissioning someone for a while now, and Lazar recommended you. That’s how I found your Instagram. I’ve been working up the courage to message you and ask you about it, and then Lazar told me you might be coming tonight. So, uh, I was going to try to find you and talk to you after the show anyway. And then you were right up front, and then you were, well..."

Damen glanced off to the side, as if considering something, before looking back.

"Look, I know there's this stereotype about musicians just constantly picking up people to hook up with, but I want you to know I'm not like that. I don't do that. Like, ever, really. I was in a relationship for a long time, and then I wasn't, and the idea of just finding a face in the crowd to take home, that just..." Damen shook his head as if to dismiss the thought, "I can't do that. Not at this point in my life. But I have to say, what just happened in there? I felt a connection with you. Like, more than just the general energy you get from people when you’re performing. And I couldn’t help but think that maybe…” He took a shaky breath, caught Laurent's eyes, gaze earnest and open, "Maybe there could be something here? With you and me?”

Damen’s voice was softer now, “I've never had that kind of connection happen like that with someone before, especially without even talking to them. I mean, have you ever felt that before? It's never been like that with anyone for me. And I would kick myself forever if I didn't at least try to get to know you, to see if you felt the same way, to see if this could be something."

Damen was watching, clearly nervous, searching Laurent's face for some response.

Laurent's mind spun. He'd been approached before, many times. Men and women alike had made overtures, some subtle, some flattering, some obnoxious, a few outright scary. Laurent had never felt much of anything for any of them. He'd flick them off, kindly or coldly depending on the situation, and had gone on with his life. The dates he'd gone on had been experiments, and had mostly bored him.

But this, whatever this was, was different. He wanted, was even now imagining how it could be—Damen stepping closer, reaching up gently and brushing the sweep of Laurent's hair further to the side, leaning in and pressing those full lips to his neck, traveling up, lips and teeth and tongue like a gentle brand on his skin, searing him with sensation everywhere they touched, imagined how they would feel making their way to where his own mouth was open, panting for air, and finally slanting their mouths together, swallowing the moan that would rise from Laurent, the heat of him pressing their bodies together— fuck.

Laurent turned away, ruthlessly cutting off that train of thought, desperate to grab control of his thoughts, of those feelings.

Behind him, Laurent heard Damen shift in the darkness.

"Right, sorry. I made this weird," Gone was the voice that rang with power on stage. In its place, Damen's tone was soft and embarrassed, "If you're interested in taking a commission, you know how to get in touch with Lazar. I'm gonna go now. You came out here to be alone. You don't need people bothering you."

A flash of Laurent's earlier conversation with Auguste played through his mind, a reprise, "You need people, Lolo. Everyone needs at least a few people. "

"Wait..." Laurent turned, voice small and unsure. He saw Damen's receding figure pause, almost swallowed by the night. Fuck. Okay. He'd stopped him from leaving, but now what? How the fuck did people do this?

Damen turned, took several steps back towards Laurent. His face was carefully empty.

"I'm not telling you to leave," Laurent forced himself to stand straight, filled his voice with as much confidence as he could muster. Come on, Laurent chided himself, think of something witty to say, something biting and clever.

Laurent hated feeling this out of his depth, this inept. He needed to take the upper hand, needed to twist this conversation into something he understood, something he could control. Laurent rifled through various responses, calculating potential outcomes. It would be almost painfully easy to cut into Damen with words, to twist those open, honest admissions into some kind of dominance. It would be so simple.

Damen stepped closer, stopping a few feet in front of Laurent. He made no move to close the remaining distance between them. The moon was a glint reflected in his dark eyes. In that moment, his gaze seemed to kindle with a cautious hope.

How was it that such an imposing man could seem so vulnerable?

All at once, Laurent was fed up with his own attempts at pretense. Where had his own bullshit gotten him thus far in life? An empty bed. An empty life.

If he kept doing what he'd always done, nothing would ever change. He'd be alone forever. Wasn't that underneath of everything Auguste had been trying to tell him earlier?

He wouldn't let himself overthink this. Taking a shaky breath, Laurent let the words begin to tumble out.

"I'm not good at this. I don't know what I'm doing here, or what you're doing here, or what I should say or do or think. But—" Fuck it. Might as well go all in—"you're not wrong. I felt something, too. I just don't know what to do with it. With you. I haven't...I've never done this. Whatever this is. I don't know what I'm doing."

Damen let out a long breath. Head tilting, he searched Laurent's gaze, a small smile starting to bloom on his face, "I've got no expectations. There's no script for how this should go. I just want a chance to get to know you. But what matters to me is what you want...what do you want, Laurent?"

"I want..." You, his brain supplied helpfully as Laurent trailed off, conjuring those heated images again. But no. That wasn't all.

Laurent thought about hectic mornings with Auguste and Kash and Nicaise, crowded around the breakfast bar, the mad scramble for everyone to get on their way. Laughter and light and everyone talking at once, coordinating their day. He thought about how mornings would be once they were gone. Quiet. Peaceful.

Empty.

He thought about the space in his bed that only recently had stopped feeling like space and had started feeling like a void.

He thought about the look in Auguste's eyes when he watched Kashel when she wasn't looking, awed and grateful like the sun rose and set on her continued presence in his life. And for a moment, just a moment, he thought about what it would be like to turn and catch that same expression on Damen's regal features.

It was surprisingly easy to imagine.

"A chance sounds nice." There. He said it. Laurent's heart was pounding in his chest.

Damen's slow smile was like the sun parting the clouds. "Do you want to sit down? We can talk for a little bit."

"My ride will be here soon. I should go wait out front." Laurent shifted, glancing towards the side of the house.

"Maybe I can wait with you until they get here?"

Laurent hesitated, then nodded tersely.

Together they walked back around the house. The front lawn was equally well-tended, sloping gradually down, trees spaced tastefully.

"There's a little bench over here," Damen gestured to the shadows under a tree, just off the side of the driveway, where a tiny water feature caught the moonlight. The entrance to the long driveway was visible just down the hill a bit more.

Laurent sat on the bench, placing his jacket down next to him. Damen sat as well, his knee bumping Laurent's gently as he shifted, turning in. Glancing down at his phone, Laurent saw that his ride was five minutes away. He wondered how people usually ended these kinds of...moments? Encounters?

Human interaction was so fucking complicated.

Anxiety, always a static in the background, started to thrum louder under his skin. Laurent rubbed at his wrist, a familiar gesture meant to soothe.

"Are you cold?" Damen pulled off his jacket, offering it to Laurent, a soft smile on his face.

"No, I'm fine. Thank you."

Damen turned the jacket over in his hands, reached into a pocket. Setting the denim down, he pulled out a cellphone and thumbed it on. Sitting so close, Laurent caught a glimpse of what Damen's background was.

His breath caught in his throat.

What the eye noticed first was the swirls of color that bled into one another. Upon closer inspection, intricate patterns could be picked out in nearly identical colors, adding a barely perceptible visual texture. Strong tapered geometric designs overlaid this, forcing the eye to read them as depth, as a fractured road retreating into the distance. And just there, where the road dwindled out into the kaleidoscope of color, a single figure, silhouetted in melting rainbows. The figure was placed slightly off center from that retreating road, a deliberate choice designed to convey a subtle sense of unbalance, of discomfort. It was uncertain whether they were approaching the viewer or walking away, if they were stepping off of the road or floating into the ether.

It would usually be hard to pick out such intricate details from a quick glance at a tiny glowing screen, but Laurent had an advantage.

He'd painted it, after all.

"That's 'What Persists'," Laurent said, voice soft with some shifting emotion that he wasn't sure he wanted to examine just now.

"Huh?" Damen's gaze, illuminated by the screen, turned to his in confusion. Following Laurent's eyes down to the device in his hand, he let out a small puff of laughter. "Oh, the painting. Yeah. I'd been following your progress shots on that one. I mean, I love all of your work, but this piece just called to me. I could stare at it for hours. To be honest, I've been saving up to buy it. I want to hang it next to my bed so I can look at it every day. It's fucking amazing."

When Laurent didn't immediately respond, Damen pushed on, "I probably should have messaged you to ask you if it was okay if I used it as my phone background. I'm sorry. I hope that's okay. I just really love this piece."

"No, it's fine. It's—" It's me, he thought, that's a part of me, spilled onto canvas, and you liked it enough that you wanted to see it every time you open your phone—"fine. It's not actually finished. But...you can use it as your background. If you want."

"Awesome. Thank you." Damen smiled as he glanced down, pulled up his contacts list and opened a new entry. Looking up, he held the phone out towards Laurent, "Anyway, I know your ride is going to be here in just a second so, uh, can I get your number? And then maybe we can grab coffee sometime later this week?"

Laurent looked at the hopeful, excited expression on Damen's face as he held out the phone. He wondered what it would be like to be so open and trusting. Didn't Damen know that opening yourself up to other people meant that they could hurt you? Had life not taught him that lesson yet? He might as well be handing Laurent a knife.

What was it like to be able to trust that someone wouldn't just stab you and be done with it?

Damen's smile seemed to waver a bit in the moonlight as Laurent chased the tail end of his thoughts. He suddenly looked very vulnerable, holding out his phone in the darkness.

Maybe he did know what was at stake.

Maybe he knew and he was doing it anyway.

If Damen could take a risk like this, then so could he.

Laurent snatched the phone out of Damen's hand and swiftly entered his number, hitting save contact before he could over-think it. He handed the phone back to Damen. His heart was pounding in his chest.

Down at the bottom of the hill, headlights pulled up to the driveway and stopped, idling.

"That's probably my ride," Laurent's tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth. He didn't make a move to rise. He felt glued to the bench, stuck in the gravitational pull of Damen's gaze. The space between them seemed suddenly charged somehow, calling to mind the connection that has ignited between them during the show.

Damen's eyes flicked down to Laurent's mouth, then back up again, his teeth catching on the edge of his own lip. He reached up with one hand slowly, tentatively, his head tilting down towards Laurent in slow motion, his gaze a question that he was giving ample time for Laurent to answer.

As if in a dream, Laurent felt his own face angle up, felt his lips part.

"Laurent..." Damen's hand brushed an errant strand of blond hair back, fingers gently grazing the shell of Laurent's ear as he tucked it out of the way.

Laurent's breath hitched, a shaky gasp, as the sensation of that barely-there touch traveled down his spine, shivering through his body. His eyes fluttered closed.

And...nothing.

His eyes opened again, confused, only to find Damen had paused, inches from Laurent's face.

Their eyes met. Damen's gaze was intent on his. "Can I?" He asked, voice soft, breath a soft puff on his skin.

Did the brute need an engraved invitation?

"Yes," Laurent hissed, agitation beginning to creep under his skin, "God, what are you wai—"

And Damen closed the space between them.

Soft. That was the first thing that Laurent noticed. His lips were soft, far softer than Laurent would have anticipated.

Laurent had expected something rough and wet, had expected Damen to just take. Instead, Damen oh-so-softly brushed his lips against Laurent's, the barest whisper of friction.

Laurent felt it like a punch to his gut. He felt himself tremble, and instinctively leaned in to deepen the kiss.

It seemed that this was what Damen was waiting for. A hand threaded its way into Laurent's hair while the other cupped his jaw, tilting for a better angle. The slick slide of their lips was pushing every thought from Laurent's mind. He felt a gentle graze of teeth along his lower lip, immediately followed by a quick swipe of tongue.

Laurent gasped into Damen's mouth, and the he was leaning in even further, reaching up to feel the velvet warmth of Damen's collarbones under his fingertips, circling his hands around to bury them into Damen's wild curls and tugging, pulling him closer still, opening his mouth to follow the wet heat that Damen's tongue had traced, and sliding his own into that slick heat, feeling the first tentative brush of their tongues together and wanting more—

Laurent's phone was ringing, the vibrating tone insistent and jarring.

Damen pulled back enough to break the kiss. He rested his forehead against Laurent's, breath ragged, eyes clenched shut as if searching for composure. Damen traced his thumb once more along Laurent's jaw, and with a shaky exhale, dropped both hands away from Laurent and pulled back to sit up.

As Damen pulled away, Laurent released his own hold on Damen's curls, unclenching fingers that had somehow wound their way tightly into the thick locks.

Laurent answered the phone, hearing the slightly irritated tones from the Uber driver as if from a great distance.

"Yes, sorry, I'm...I'm here. I'll be right down." Laurent hung up the call, fingers still trembling slightly. He felt his face heat with embarrassment and desire. Fumbling to grab his jacket in the darkness, he risked a quick glance up at Damen, and was pleased to at least note that Damen seemed to be feeling just as dazed as he was. He stood, and Damen got to his feet as well.

"I'll text you soon," Damen said, voice wavering almost imperceptibly.

"Yes, okay." Laurent smoothed a hand through his own hair, took a step backwards, then another, almost stumbling. "Okay. Yes. Goodbye then. Goodnight." Turning, Laurent walked quickly down the hill.

"Goodnight, Laurent." Damen called out softly behind him. Laurent didn't risk glancing back.

It wasn't running away, Laurent assured himself. It was a dignified retreat.

Opening the door of the waiting car, Laurent threw himself down onto the seat, grateful for the dark heated interior and the quiet that greeted him. He let out a long breath as he pulled the door closed behind him.

The driver confirmed the destination in clipped tones, but settled into silence easily enough as they pulled away and began the drive to Laurent's apartment.

What the fuck was that? Is this what people felt when they talked about chemistry between two people? The heat still burning in his body and the pounding in his chest seemed to suggest that it was.

Laurent's thoughts were coming back online. What was this going to be? What did he think he was doing with Damen? He had no experience when this sort of thing. Damen seemed interested now, but how would he be once he realized how fucked up Laurent really was? Damen had kissed him, had clearly been attracted...surely he expected to be able to fuck Laurent soon. And that was....problematic. With a bitter chuckle to himself, Laurent realized that he hadn't done anything to dissuade Damen of that notion. No, he had practically crawled into Damen's lap, had felt ready to beg Damen for just a few more minutes together. God, what must Damen think about him? Laurent felt shame color his face, felt the familiar self-loathing start to creep in.

No, Damen didn't know what he was getting in to. He deserved someone who wasn't broken, someone who would be able to give him what he wanted without shutting down completely. Someone who didn't have his...issues, his history. Someone uncomplicated, someone who was social enough to fit in with his musician lifestyle.

His musician lifestyle. That was another thing. Damen was talented, his band as good if not better than anything Laurent heard on the radio. It was only a matter of time before they blew up. And where would that leave Laurent? Hanging around like a simpering groupie? Chasing after Damen from concert to concert, begging for his attention? Pathetic.

No, he couldn't do this. This was a bad idea. He shouldn't have kissed Damen, shouldn't have let him hope that something could come of this.

Laurent would just block his number once Damen texted him. Simple as that. Yes, it was kind of shitty to just ghost on someone, but Laurent didn't trust his own self-control when it came to Damen. Look at how he had acted at the party. No, it was far better to just break off all contact. The semester was going to be over in a few weeks, and then he wouldn't even have to see Lazar. No connections to Damen. A clean break.

Mind made up, Laurent ignored the heavy weight of disappointment that tried to settle around him in the silence.

This was how things had to be.

The driver pulled up to Laurent's apartment building, and Laurent offered his thanks and reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet to hand the driver a tip.

As he did, light from the streetlamp fell where he'd laid his jacket on the seat next to him.

Except it wasn't his jacket.

No, this was black denim instead of light blue. This was covered in band patches, instead of sporting paint stains and a single patch on the back.

This was Damen's jacket.

Which meant that Damen probably had Laurent's jacket.

When had they switched?

Laurent thought back, remembered grabbing a jacket in the darkness, assuming it was his, still dazed from the kiss, still aching to be in Damen's arms, to lose himself in Damen's embrace...

Fuck.

The driver cleared his throat, obviously impatient to be on his way. Prompted into motion, Laurent pulled out several bills for a tip and thrust them at the driver, who took them with a mutter under his breath. Laurent stood, turning to close the door behind him. The moment it latched, the car sped away.

Laurent was standing in the cold, holding a jacket that wasn't his.

His phone chimed a few times in quick succession in his pocket. Text messages. Probably from Damen.

Laurent pulled out his phone, took a deep breath, unlocked the screen. Stared at the image in the message that greeted him.

It was a picture of Damen, now bundled up in Laurent's jacket.

Even with the large size, Laurent was a little surprised to see that his jacket managed to fit Damen's large shoulders. And not only did it fit, but it looked like it was made specifically for him.

In the picture, Damen was looking down at the lapel of the pastel blue denim, which he held gently as if examining something novel, revealing a glimpse of tanned throat and collarbone. An amused smile stretched across his face. In the background, Laurent could make out the edge of a scornful face that was looking at Damen. It was the drummer from the band, what was his name? Nik-something. In the picture, he was definitely giving Damen a dirty look.

If that smile was anything to go by, Damen didn't seem to care very much.

Under the photo, several message waited.

Received Today 12:37 AM
So, I'm assuming that you ended up with my jacket? When I noticed I had this, I went back to look, but my jacket was gone.

Received Today 12:38 AM
How does it look on me? ;-)

Received Today 12:38 AM
I actually kinda like it. Maybe this is *my* jacket now ;-) :-P

Received Today 12:39 AM
You can wear mine if you want. :-D

Laurent rolled his eyes at the emoticons, felt a smile creep across his face before he remembered that he shouldn't be smiling at Damen's cheesy messages.

He wasn't going to do this with Damen. He was going to block his number and be done with it. Right?

Except Damen had his jacket, and Laurent wanted it back. Which meant Laurent had to see Damen at least one more time.

Surely Laurent could see him once more, and still make the right choice. The smart choice.

It was actually probably better this way. Damen deserved to not be ghosted. He deserved a face-to-face explanation. Laurent felt a sick, painful clutch in his stomach at the thought of what Damen's face would look like when Laurent told him that he wasn't interested in getting to know him. He'd have to be very convincing, especially after his...lapse in judgement tonight. Let's be honest, he'd also have to be extra careful that he didn't cave to his own weakness and have another 'lapse' the moment he was alone with Damen.

That last thought brought a flush to Laurent's cheeks as he remembered said 'lapse'.

Maybe face to face was a bad idea after all. He could always just give the jacket to Lazar, and hope that Damen would be honorable enough to return his as well.

Laurent shook his head in frustration and started walking through the parking lot, annoyed and confused by the conflicting emotions that were warring in his head.

His phone buzzed twice more in his hand, and Laurent paused, looking down.

Received Today 12:43 AM
Seriously, though, tonight was the best night I've had in a long long time. I'm still smiling this huge smile, even though Nik and Vannes yelled at me. It was worth it. :-D Lol. I don't know how I got lucky enough to meet you, but I'm so glad that I did. I really look forward to getting to know you and spending time with you. You are amazing and I am so excited to see what the future brings.

Received Today 12:44 AM
Please text me and let me know when you get home alright? I know it's kinda weird but I will worry.

Laurent felt his chest tighten, emotions that he'd rather not examine welling up at the words on the screen. He stared at the screen, scrolling back up to look at the photo once more. After a moment, as if seized by some impulsive recklessness, his fingers began moving, typing out a response.

Sent Today 12:46 AM
I just got home. Yes, I have your jacket. And no, you can't have mine. It's clearly superior to yours, and anyway it's my favorite piece of clothing. When can we get together to exchange them?

The response was almost instantaneous.

Received Today 12:47
I've got a lot going on this week with work and family stuff but I have all of Thursday and Friday free.

Shit. It was Saturday night. That meant that he'd have Damen's jacket for five days. That meant five days of ruminating about this, five days of vacillating between hundreds of different approaches to handling this.

Five days to fantasize about Damen's lips hot and slick, moving on his, Damen's hands tangling in his hair, Damen's chest solid and warm under his fingertips...

Enough. He could handle five days. He was an adult.

Sent Today 12:50 AM
Thursday works. Where and when?

A cold gust of air slammed into him. The temperature was dropping. He shivered, and eyed the jacket draped over his arm.

It was freezing now. Damen was wearing his jacket. What else was he supposed to do?

Sliding on the dark, patch-covered denim, Laurent caught a faint sent, dark and spicy. Damen's cologne. Unthinking, he pulled the lapels closer and tucked his head down, inhaling the smell. He felt a shiver run throughout body, but this time it had nothing to do with the cold.

Sighing in disgust at his own weakness, Lauren pocketed the cellphone, pulled the jacket tighter around him, and headed inside.

Chapter Text

Laurent slid his key into the lock, attempting to keep the sound as quiet as possible. It was nearly one in the morning. Everyone should be asleep, thank god. He did not want to deal with them right now.

As Laurent swung the door open softly, he realized he wasn't going to be that lucky.

Voices were coming from the dining area. It sounded like he'd walked in just in time to overhear an argument.

"Fuck your hotels. I'm not paying for that shit. I'll sleep in my car." Nicaise's voice was petulant.

"Language," Auguste responded without heat. At twelve years old, Nicaise was convinced that he knew everything. Clearlythe boy should be able to do whatever he wanted, including cultivating the mouth of a sailor. Laurent knew that Auguste didn't particularly care one way or the other if his son cursed. Well, as long as he didn't do it in places where there would be consequences. His admonishments were less actual censure and more self-deprecating humor. He seemed to get some bizarre enjoyment out of acknowledging the futility of trying to keep Nicaise from cursing. I guess he has to entertain himself somehow, Laurent thought, amused.

He'd done the same thing with Laurent when he was a teen.

For just a moment, Laurent's mind flashed through his years of rebellion: the outpatient facility, the court-appointed doctors and therapists, the lashing out...each action a new and inventive attempt to push everyone—especially Auguste—away.

If cursing was the worst thing Nicaise did in his teen years, they could consider themselves lucky.

"You don't have a car," Kashel's voice countered, the hint of a smug smile in her tone. This seemed to incense him because Nicaise nearly screeched back, "I AM THE CAR! I CAN SLEEP IN MYSELF IF I WANT TO!" Bright peals of laughter rang out, Kashel obviously tickled at the reaction.

Laurent imagined Nicaise was making his stubborn, sulky face.

He didn't feel bad for his nephew. By this point he should know better than to play Monopoly with Auguste and Kashel.

At least it didn't sound like the frustration had reached game-board flipping levels. Yet.

Maybe Laurent could avoid confrontation, after all.

As softly as possible, Laurent shifted the door behind him closed. The conversation from around the corner would hopefully cover any small noises that would alert his family to his presence. Laurent turned the latch on the deadbolt with a soft snick. He held his breath. The chatter continued on, uninterrupted.

Okay. All he needed to do now was make it down the hallway before anyone notic—

A soft, furry body wove around Laurent's feet in the darkness, causing him to stumble and throw out his arm for balance, his hand slapping loudly on the metal folding door of the hallway closet.

"Fuck! Ari, damn it! Get out from under my feet!" Laurent hissed the words under his breath, hoping that somehow, maybe, he hadn't attracted the attention of his family. Spooked from nearly getting squashed, his cat gave a yowl and tore off down the hall.

The conversation in the other room had stopped.

"Laurent's hooo-ooome!" Nicaise's voice was approaching, the words almost sing-song.

Laurent glanced around, mentally calculating how long it would take him to drag the hallway closet open, throw Damen's jacket inside, and shut it again. No. Too loud, too suspicious, not enough time. Laurent pulled the jacket off, and, gripping it in one hand, hid it behind his back. He angled his body. Hopefully it would look like he was leaning casually against the wall. Maybe Nicaise wouldn't notice if he took the offensive, distracted him right from the start.

"Sounds like you're losing at Monopoly." Laurent filled his voice with amused condescension as Nicaise rounded the corner, "Again. You should know better than to take on both of them at once. It's not like you can beat them."

"Yeah, well they cheat!" Nicaise stood in the entryway to between the living room and the kitchen, backlit by light from central dining area. The glow from the light made his tumble of brown curls look almost golden, a halo in the dark.

"We do not cheat!" Kashel's called out, indignant from the other room. "Having more skill is not cheating!"

Nicaise whipped his head back towards the kitchen, his stormy expression limned in the light that edged his profile. Laurent started shifting down the hall. He carefully kept the jacket at his back, and his back to the wall. As long as Nicaise stayed distracted and didn't turn on the light, Laurent might still be able to avoid being questioned.

No such luck.

The light in the hallway flicked on.

"Well if you're so good at Monopoly you come play, then. You can be on a team with me if you—" Nicaise's eyes zeroed in on Laurent's awkward posture and the dark fabric that wasn't completely hidden behind his back— "wait, what's that?"

Denial or nonchalance? It was too late to completely conceal the jacket, but if he denied it or pushed to try to hide it, Nicaise would only grow more suspicious.

Nonchalance, then.

"This?" Laurent held up the jacket calmly. "It's a jacket. There was a mix-up at the party, but I'm getting mine back later this week. It's annoying." Not technically a lie. Nicaise was one of the few people on earth who could pick up on Laurent lying.

The other two people with this ability were sitting in the other room, no doubt listening to this exchange.

Laurent dropped his hand down, still clutching the jacket. He forced himself to relax his posture even more, gentling his grip, dropping his shoulders where they'd begun to tense. Perhaps a misdirection? It was worth a try. He shrugged in dismissal. "So how is Kashel cheating?"

Nicaise's eyes narrowed, undeterred. "You never go anywhere without that jacket."

Of course it wasn't going be that easy.

"I got...overwhelmed. There were a lot of people there. I wasn't paying attention." Laurent watched as Nicaise tilted his head, clearly not sold. He felt himself getting defensive; he was tired, he didn't have the energy for this. "It was dark. I left in a hurry."

Fuck this. He wasn't going to do this, not when he felt scraped raw from everything that had happened tonight.

Laurent moved, stepping to bypass Nicaise.

Before he could make his escape, Kashel stepped into the entranceway, placing herself directly in front of Laurent. Auguste was a step behind her. He came to a stop next to Nicaise. Laurent trained his gaze on the space next to her eyes, where her hair met her forehead, refusing to meet her gaze head-on.

"Laur, are you okay?” Kashel asked cautiously. Laurent felt his chest start to tighten in response to Kashel’s concerned tone.

Laurent felt a touch on his arm, and felt himself give a tiny, uncontrolled flinch. He looked down at Kashel’s hand, and then back up again, finally meeting her gaze. He could tell by the small, resigned flash of hurt in her eyes that she’d noticed his reaction. Well, her feelings were her problem. It’s not like Laurent did it on purpose.

“Did it go badly? Did someone mess with you?” Auguste’s face was tense, his hands fisted at his sides as if he were gearing up to defend his younger brother, in battle if necessary.

“No, nothing like that,” Laurent angled towards his brother, shifting so that Kash’s hand dropped from his arm. “It’s fine. I’m just not used to being around that many people.”

Auguste's hands unclenched, and he let out a puff of breath. “I’m sorry for pushing you to go, Lolo.” His voice was soft and apologetic.

“It wasn’t that bad,“ Laurent back-peddled. He knew that his older brother would beat himself up if he thought that he’d placed Laurent in an upsetting situation. “It was just really crowded in there. You know I don’t like being in large crowds like that.”

“I didn’t realize your friend’s band was so popular.” The concern in Kashel’s voice seemed to have shifted to curiosity. She’d stepped back, leaning up against Auguste, who had pulled her in against him, wrapping his arm around her waist as she rested her head on his shoulder. “Were they good at least?”

“Yes, they were—“ Laurent’s mind flashed with a memory the way Damen’s eyes had caught the moonlight as he’d leaned in, his lips barely brushing against Laurent’s, and the flare of heat and want that had followed—“good. Very good.”

Laurent looked away, feeling his face flush at the memory.

“So…” Nicaise crossed his arms in front of his chest, his head tilted, mouth quirked up at the corner, “The band was good, but you got overwhelmed and left with someone else’s jacket?”

All three of them glanced down to the jacket still clutched in Laurent’s hand.

Laurent felt his face burn hotter, and mentally cursed his pale skin. It was still one of the few outward indicators of emotion that he sometimes struggled to master.

“Yes,” Laurent replied, forcing his voice into an unconcerned drawl, “Thankfully I’ve already arranged to get my jacket back later this week, so it’s no big deal. Everything’s fine. Now—” Laurent shifted, looking significantly down the hallway towards his room— “if you’ll excuse me, I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

Laurent moved decisively, ending the conversation by turning and walking down the hallway and into his room.

He wasn’t under any illusion that he’d completely shut this line of questioning down. If anything, his abrupt departure had probably piqued his family’s curiosity even more. He was definitely going to hear more about this tomorrow. He sighed, flicking the light on, and tossed the jacket down onto his bed. That was Future Laurent’s problem.

The emotional tumult of the evening was crashing down on him. His mind felt like it was vibrating, spinning through the details of the night with no discernable pattern or reason, jumbled and loud and fast.

Shit. It was going to be one of those nights. It was, unfortunately, frustratingly familiar. Held hostage by his brain, his body was denied sleep in favor of riding the looming sense of panic and dread that had no outlet.

No. Fuck that. Not tonight. Laurent didn’t like taking any sleep drugs as a rule, but nights like tonight were the exception.

Yes, the pills often left him feeling groggy and disoriented the next day, restless and agitated from fragments of nightmares that he told himself he couldn’t remember, wouldn’t remember. He also didn’t like the idea of becoming completely dependent on chemicals to the point where his brain no longer produced its own sleep hormones. Not to mention, the thought of being unresponsive and powerless, unable to protect himself or respond should someone…but no. He was safe here. And he needed sleep.

Give it up for self care, Laurent thought sardonically.

Poking his head out of his bedroom door, Laurent saw that his family had vacated the hallway, leaving him free to dart into the hallway bathroom without being bothered.

As much as Laurent was conflicted about his family moving out, there would be a few perks to finally being able to live on his own. At the top of the list was having a bathroom all to himself.

Laurent brushed his teeth and washed his face on auto-pilot. Wiping the water from his face with a towel, he looked into the mirror in front of him, staring for a moment at his reflection. Dispassionately, he searched his own features. He was pragmatic. Laurent knew that his face and body were an asset, a tool that could be wielded if necessary. This is all they ever see when they look at me, Laurent thought, Is this is all Damen sees?

His gaze traveled over the sweep of his golden brows, the deep blue of his eyes, his high cheekbones, his full lips—pretty little cocksucking lips, an echo of memory taunted.

Laurent felt himself go cold. His stomach was churning now. He looked away from the mirror, not wanting to see what he knew would be reflected in his own gaze.

Laurent reached up, pulling the mirrored cabinet open. Grabbed the mostly-untouched bottle of sleeping pills. Twisted the cap open. Tapped out the prescribed dosage with slightly trembling hands.

Laurent swallowed the pills dry. Forced himself to turn and walk calmly back to his bedroom.

Stripping mechanically, Laurent stepped out of his clothes and pulled on a frayed pair of pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt that had belonged to Auguste in high school. He plugged his phone in to charge, noticed that there was another text waiting for him. Yeah, he was not going to deal with that now. Another issue for Future Laurent.

Placing his phone down, Laurent stepped over and flicked the light off. Finally, in the darkness, he slid into his bed.

Despite the soft sheets and the forced sleep he knew was coming, Laurent couldn’t settle. He felt agitated. The shadows that lurked in his memory were prowling, waiting for his defenses to drop so that they could pounce. He knew that his anxiety, barred from having free reign to torture him into the early hours of the morning, would instead find its way into his dreams. It couldn’t be helped. This was the trade-off.

He wished that he had his jacket then, wished he could bundle himself in its familiar weight, cocooned and safe.

His mind was starting to feel fuzzy around the edges. The jagged memories were being pulled under as the medication started to spread throughout his body, tugging him towards sleep. Laurent rolled over, trying to find a comfortable position, trying to relax into the chemically-induced fog that was rolling over his mind. His hand brushed up against something rougher than the sheets, and Laurent remembered tossing Damen’s jacket down. He grabbed it, rolled over, ready to toss it onto the floor. The weight of the denim in his hand was familiar, almost indiscernible from his own jacket in the darkness.

Fuck it. It was close enough. Anything that could potentially stave off the dreams was worth a try.

He pushed himself up onto his elbow, his body feeling heavy, weighted down. Shrugging into the jacket, he felt something shaky and hard in his chest unknot itself. He sighed, wrapping the denim tight around himself, and collapsed back onto the bed. Lulled by the familiar comfort, Laurent caught that scent again. Damen. Laurent imagined the feeling of those soft lips touching his, gently, so gently. So soft. Finally, he slipped into sleep.

………………

In flickering dreams, music throbbed like the pulse beating in his body, hazy, red. Lips and teeth were dragged across heated flesh, big hands running over his body and sculpting it into something new, something dusted with gold, something shimmering, the need shuddering deep inside, hot like fire.

The flames licked higher, hotter, casting shadows. The beat was pounding faster, rhythm stuttering and halting now as the shadows twisted, changed. The darkness was shifting, something prowling, prowling. The smell of cognac and cigars. The copper tang of his own blood in his mouth. Floorboards shifting, the muffled echoes reverberating louder and louder, until they were nothing but banging, heavy cracks pounding on his skull. A presence was looming, reaching out—a flash of motion—the figure lunging forward, breath on the back of his neck heavy, panting, beginning the chase. It was behind him.

It was always just behind him.

In dreams, Laurent ran, his footsteps drowned out in the cacophony that battered relentlessly at inside of his head.

………………

Laurent came awake with a start, sure for just a moment that the apartment building was being demolished with him inside.

BANG BANG BANG BANG— The sound was coming from his door, pounding.

“Laurent, get your lazy ass up! Kashel’s making pancakes!”

Not demolition… Nicaise. Laurent groaned and rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head as if it could somehow muffle the pounding on his door.

Nicaise was clearly intent on waking Laurent in the most jarring way possible. Another round of banging thudded on the door, somehow even louder than before. “Laaaauuur-ennt! Get up! Pancakes, Laurent! PAAAAAAANCAKES!”

“Fuck off!” Laurent shouted in return. His voice was rusty from sleep. His head was starting to throb, and he hadn’t even stepped out of bed yet. Lovely.

Laurent glanced at the clock on his bedside table. 9:32. On a Sunday. Goddamn it.

He mentally calculated the chances that Nicaise would let him just go back to sleep.

“Get up or I’m going to come in there and stab you with a fork!”

That would be a zero percent chance, then. Nicaise’s motto might as well be, “Yes, this is the hill that I want to die on, but if I die, I’m taking you with me.” It was definitely going to get him in trouble someday.

And fuck all if I don’t actually love that about him, the stubborn little shit, Laurent thought with irritated affection, wincing as the banging resumed. Not that I’d ever admit it. It sounded like the banging might have progressed to actually kicking the door now. Or let him get away with it.

Fed up, Laurent untangled himself from under the covers and rolled out of bed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror- hair a tangled mess from a restless night sleep, dark smudges marring the delicate skin under his eyes, rumpled pajamas, Damen’s jacket…

Damen’s jacket.

The previous night’s events came flooding back to him all at once. The concert, the feeling of Damen’s gaze on him under those lights, the panic in his chest as Damen sang with the full focus of his intensity directed at Laurent, the conversation outside. He thought about Damen’s open vulnerability, about seeing his painting illuminated on Damen’s phone screen. With a shiver, his mind reminded him of the feeling of lips sliding hotly against his, the feeling of Damen’s curls fisted in Laurent’s hands… Laurent felt his breath hitch at the memory.

“Laaauur-ennnnt!’ Nicaise wasn’t going away. The end of last night replayed itself as well- Nicaise’s gaze, incredulous on his, when Laurent tried to brush off the jacket, everyone standing crowded in the hall, concern turning to curiosity, and Laurent cutting the conversation short, deciding that it was Future Laurent’s problem. Fuck.

Funny how whenever Future Laurent became Present Laurent, Present Laurent always kind of wanted to kick Past Laurent’s ass.

Laurent pulled off Damen’s jacket and tossed it over his desk chair, feeling a flush of shame at his own weakness. What kind of man needed a jacket to sleep at night? He sighed, knowing that this train of thought didn’t lead anywhere productive. Whatever. At least he’d slept.

“PAN-CAKES! PAN-CAKES! PAN-CAKES!” Nicaise was chanting now, full volume, punctuating the words with rhythmic bangs as if he was trying to summon some sort of arcane culinary beast.

If anyone could summon a pancake demon from the depths of breakfast hell with nothing more than annoying chanting and banging, it was Nicaise.

Laurent gripped the handle, waiting for the pause between bangs to throw the door open.

With a muffled thud, the door hit an obstacle, then rebounded, almost closing again.

“Ow! Fuck, that hurt!” Nicaise stepped out from behind the door, clutching his hand. Fixing a serene smile onto his face, Laurent assessed his nephew. No tears, no yelling. No real damage. Good, just as he'd intended. There was, however, an annoyed glare staring out from two blue eyes. If looks could kill, Laurent would be in some dire trouble indeed.

“Good morning, Nicaise. It's a lovely day, don't you think?“ Laurent kept his tone light, jovial, and had the pleasure of seeing lips purse and eyes narrow in irritation. “Is that pancakes I smell?”

Glancing down at where Nicaise clutched at his arm dramatically, Laurent gasped as if noticing his wounded posture for the first time. With a sweetly dismayed, “Oh, dear!” Laurent reached out, dripping concern, ostensibly to examine the arm. Nicaise stepped back. “Did you run into the door? You really should watch where you're going. ”

Two blotches of color were rising on Nicaise’s cheeks. Sometimes he made it too easy.

Neatly stepping around Nicaise, Laurent headed down the hall towards the kitchen. The morning was looking up.

Kashel was at the stove, her back towards him as she tended to several pans sizzling in front of her. Upbeat music played softly from wireless speaker on the counter. She was shifting her hips in time to it as she cooked. Sensing Laurent rounding the corner, she glanced over her shoulder and flashed him a quick, playful smile, before looking back and deftly flipping several pancakes.

Despite his annoyance at how he had been woken up, Laurent felt a flash of warm affection for Kashel. She had surely sanctioned Nicaise’s wake-up call, but he was finding it hard to stay angry when he was greeted with the smell of delicious breakfast. Laurent's mind idly categorized the scents. Pancakes, coffee—thank god—and—oh fuck yes—bacon.

The rush of fondness was followed by a mild sense of suspicion. Laurent's eyes narrowed.

Pancakes were one of his favorite foods. He would happily eat pancakes at any time, day or night. This was a fact which a Kash knew all too well. She was certainly not above using it to her advantage.

For Kashel, the act of making food could be many things. Cooking was an outlet for her emotions, a way to show her feelings.

Meals could be a celebratory congratulation, a reward for successes and achievements. They could also be a familiar comfort when things were shitty. Sometimes they were a rueful apology for overstepping, which happened often enough since Kash could be, well, intense about the people she cared for. It also wasn't unusual for favorite meals to be offered as a tasty bribe in exchange for whatever task or favor she currently wanted.

And sometimes—as Laurent suspected was the case this morning—food could be a disarming attempt to lull one into revealing things they'd rather not talk about.

Or she could just be in the mood for pancakes.

Laurent supposed he'd find out soon enough.
She turned then, spatula in hand, and gestured with it to the breakfast bar that extended out from the counter, dividing the kitchen from the open dining space and living room.

“Sit. Pancakes are almost ready.” Kash eyed him, gaze lingering on his face. She was maybe one of the most perceptive people he'd ever met. It was terrifying sometimes, how much she could see with just a glance.

Laurent knew she noticed the shadows under his eyes, knew that she was aware of what caused them. Thankfully, she didn't comment on it, opting instead to offer him an understanding smile, her face soft with empathy.

Humming noncommittally, Laurent turned away. He pulled out a stool and perched where he could watch her cook.

Kashel danced around the kitchen, clearly in her element. He watched as she scooped the bacon from the pan and on to a paper towel covered plate, saw her shift the pan back and turn the flame off. His mouth watered as she used the spatula to carefully transfer several more pancakes onto a stack next to her on the counter.

Laurent had never quite mastered the magic of cooking multiple dishes and having them all finish at once. He was always impressed with Kash’s ability to effortlessly coordinate things like that.

Kashel reached up into a cabinet and pulled out a large mug. Singing absently along with the music, she filled the mug with steaming coffee, then added cream and sugar. She turned and placed the coffee in front of Laurent with a smile.

Laurent took a sip, and then sighed in gratitude. Light and sweet, exactly the way he liked it.

Food could be a lot of complicated things for Kashel, but sometimes food was simple.

Sometimes it was just love.

Resting up against the counter, she placed her hand casually next to his. She caught his gaze over the rim of his cup, glanced down to where his other hand rested on the counter, then back up. She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth gently quirking into a grin. Laurent offered a small smile in response. Kashel reached forward and squeezed his hand for a moment before letting it go.

“Bacon pancakes, makin’ bacon pancakes!” Nicaise rounded the corner, singing loudly as he plopped down onto the stool next to Laurent.

Without missing a beat, Kashel jumped in, joining him in the ridiculous song, “Take some bacon and I put it in a pancake! Bacon pancakes, that's what it's gonna make, ba-con pan-caaaaaakes!”

The two finished on a note that was nearly a yell, then dissolved into a fit of giggles. Laurent rolled his eyes, let out a long-suffering sigh. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch in reluctant mirth. He quickly bit the inside of his lip to stifle the laughter that threatened to bubble out.

He had an appearance to maintain, after all.

Bacon pancakes, makin’ bacon pancakes…

Great, now that song was going to be stuck in his head all day.

Laurent caught Nicaise’s eye, shook his head in amused exasperation. Nicaise stuck his tongue out.

Maybe later tonight they could all watch a few episodes of Adventure Time. Watching the show was something they often did together, though Laurent always protested, jokingly insisting that the show was too juvenile. In actuality, he enjoyed the show. It reminded him of art school, of students making weird art just for the sake of being weird. He appreciated the animation style, even liked the bizarre, abstracted humor.

He just also liked needling Nicaise.

Laurent startled for a second, feeling a soft movement against his bare feet. He looked down to see Ari winding his soft gray body around the legs of the chair. When the Ari noticed that he’d gotten his human’s attention, he looked up and let out a plaintive meow.

Big green eyes blinked at him, and then the cat rolled onto his side, then onto his back. He stretched his paws out, little toe-beans flexing, and lolled his head to the side. Laurent thought of this as the ‘some assembly required’ pose, since Ari’s little furry legs splayed out managed to make it look like someone had put him together without reading the directions first.

It was, as far as Laurent was concerned, the cutest fucking thing on the entire planet.

Ari meowed, even louder this time, and lifted his head to look at Laurent, as if to make sure his human was still watching.

“And what do you want, you little animal?” Laurent said affectionately, smiling as Ari’s tongue darted out, licking up between the two little fangs that were almost always visible. “Silly Bat Cat. I bet you want your breakfast.”

At the word ‘breakfast’, the cat rolled back up into a sitting position and licked his tongue out a few more times before meowing loudly again, eyes pleading.

“Don't listen to him,” Kashel said dryly as she placed a stack of plates onto the counter, followed by a handful of forks and knives. “He had his breakfast already this morning. Gluttony, ” she chided, stepping around the corner of the counter for a moment to observe Ari’s begging, “is one of the seven deadly sins. Do you want to go to hell, Mr. Aristotle Bat Cat DeVere?”

The cat turned his head up to look at Kashel, letting out another loud meow.

“He says, ‘Better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven.’” Laurent smirked, and slid off of his chair, careful to not step on the furry con-artist at his feet.

Maneuvering around Kashel, Laurent grabbed the plate with the pancakes and the plate with the bacon and deposited them onto the breakfast bar. He scooped up the cutlery, and Nicaise reached forward to shift the plates, placing one in front of each stool. There were four place settings.

“So where's Auguste?” Laurent asked. He began divvying up the forks and knives. Usually his brother would be in the kitchen, alternating between helpfully assisting Kashel and trying to distract her with playful kisses and caresses. Thinking about their constant PDA, Laurent felt a wave of amused distaste, nearly rolling his eyes at the thought.

“He went to go get maple syrup, we were running low. He should be back any minute.” Kashel set a dish with butter down, then turned her attention to Nicaise. “Do you want some orange juice?”

“Do bears shit in the woods?” Nicaise quipped, by way of agreement.

“Well, I wouldn't know,” Kash replied, voice edged with a put-on sweetness. “You're the one being a little shit here, why don't you tell me?”

Laurent choked out a laugh, nearly snorting the hot coffee that he'd just brought to his lips.

“I think the response you were looking for is, ‘Yes, please. Thank you very much for offering. You are the queen of breakfast and I bow before your glory.’ ” Kashel folded her arms, fixing Nicaise with a haughty smirk, “I mean, that's assuming you want pancakes. You could always have dry cereal.”

Nicaise’s mouth turned down at the edges, sullen. He met Kashel’s expectant gaze, then glanced at the stack of perfectly golden brown pancakes that waited for them.

Nicaise was stubborn, but so was Kashel. Laurent had no doubt that she'd ban Nicaise from today's pancakes if he didn't comply. She could occasionally be petty when pushed hard enough, even when joking.

Coming to a decision, Nicaise schooled his features to exaggerated obeisance. He clutched his hands together, a mock supplication, “Yes please, Your Majesty. Thank you, O Exalted One—” Nicaise glanced over his shoulder, momentarily distracted at the sound of keys in the door. Kashel cleared her throat expectantly. Nicaise turned back, rolling his eyes.

“ ‘You are the queen of breakfast, and I bow to your glory,’ ” Laurent prompted helpfully, enjoying the interaction. Nicaise turned to glare at him, a promise of retribution in his gaze. Over his head, Kashel flashed anappreciative, conspiratorial grin.

“You are the queen of breakfast,” The words were ground out, teeth bared in what couldn't quite be called a smile. “I bow to your glory.”

“Damn straight,” Auguste stepped into the kitchen, having caught the tail end of the interaction. He dropped a small grocery bag onto the counter and reached over to ruffle Nicaise’s curls. Nicaise twisted out of the way, leaning back with a hiss of disgust.

Auguste grabbed a piece of bacon from the plate. With obvious relish, he shoved the whole thing into his mouth in one go, crunching happily. He let out a small hum of appreciation as he surveyed the spread.

Kashel placed a glass of orange juice in front of Nicaise. She turned, catching Auguste with a stern look as he leaned over, nearly knocking over the juice as he reached for another piece of bacon. “The queen is not pleased. Look at this appalling behavior. Peasants. All of you.”

Bacon temporarily abandoned, Auguste straightened, the corner of his mouth quirked into a wicked grin. He walked over to Kashel, stepped up into her personal space. Instead of retreating, she glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow. His grin widened. As if unimpressed by the large man crowding into her space, she turned her eyes down, examining her fingernails in apparent disinterest.

Auguste snaked one hand out around her waist, pulling her close. Kashel’s hand came up in reflex, then rested on his chest. She was looking up at him, her gaze not quite managing to pull off ‘disinterested’ anymore.

“Darling,” Auguste said, voice rich with amused indulgence. His other hand came up, tangled in her hair. He tugged her in for a brief, deep kiss, before pulling away with a self - satisfied smile. “I'm not a peasant. I'm King.”

“Ew! You guys are always so gross!” Nicaise made an exaggerated gagging sound, pretending to retch in disgust.
“If you're a king, it's only because you're marrying royalty.” Kashel was gazing up at Auguste, paying no mind to Nicaise’s theatrics. Her face was flushed.

“True.” Auguste leaned in, pressing a much softer kiss to her lips. She leaned in, her hands coming up to rest on his shoulders.

Laurent cleared his throat in exasperation. “If you two were any sweeter, we wouldn't even need maple syrup for these pancakes.”

“You're just jealous,” Auguste quipped back, attention still focused on his fiance as he smoothed his hand once more over her hair before stepping back.

Jealous? Laurent scoffed internally, but even as he attempted to dismiss the idea, something twisted in the back of his mind.

Laurent's thoughts traitorously jumped to Damen. For a second, he imagined being wrapped up in his arms, could almost feel how it would be to have his whole world narrow in until all he could see was Damen’s face, expression soft and reverent, lips curved into a smile as he leaned in closer…

Laurent felt a clutch in his gut that was suspiciously like shame, if shame could be wrapped up in yearning. He looked down and took a steady breath, pressing his eyes closed for a moment.

When he looked up, Nicaise was staring straight at him, a look of dawning comprehension on his face. Laurent saw his eyes light up with mischievous glee.

Fuck.

Forcing his face to remain calm, he reached forward and served himself two pancakes.

“So Laurent,” Nicaise’s voice was saccharine, his eyes bright with amusement, “whose jacket did you end up with last night anyway?”

Shit. Laurent's mind raced, searching for a response that wouldn't cause his family to fall on him, tearing into him with questions like well - meaning piranhas.

Auguste pulled out a stool and glanced over, noting Laurent's pause in responding. “Yeah, I'd wondered that, too. You said you've already arranged to get your jacket back. Is it that guy from your painting class?”

Laurent considered latching onto that, then immediately dismissed the thought. Auguste could see through his bullshit better than anyone, except maybe Kashel.

And then, just like that, Laurent's thoughts lined up, clicking into place: Lazar— painting class—Damen’s phone screen in the darkness— Damen’s voice, somehow shy and even a little embarrassed, We've been talking about commissioning someone—

“No, actually.” Laurent reached for the butter, pasting a small smile on his face, trying to infuse his words with enthusiasm, “It was the lead singer of that band. Lazar told him about my art, and now he wants to commission me to do the cover art for their new EP.”

“Really? Laurent, that's great!” Kashel’s face lit with excitement as she finally sat, placing a mug of coffee in front of Auguste.

Auguste took a sip of coffee, smiled at the taste. He offered Kashel a quick smile of gratitude. “What's the name of the band, again?” His voice was curious, but Laurent recognized the look in his eyes. Auguste could be so damn protective sometimes. Did he think that Laurent was going to be hoodwinked into giving his art away for free? Well, at least he was focused on the risks of art as a business, and not Laurent's…involvement, or whatever it was, with Damen.

“Monarchs Rising,” Laurent replied, hoping his voice sounded casual. There couldn't be any harm in them knowing the name of Damen’s band, right? Auguste probably just wanted to look them up and see if they'd ever gotten any sort of bad press. Actually, that would probably be good to know anyway. “Pass the bacon, please?”

Nicaise grabbed the plate, offered it over with a considering tilt to his head.

“You said you got overwhelmed and left in a hurry,” Nicaise offered up the comment bluntly, challenge glittering in his eyes now, “You got so overwhelmed that you left without checking to make sure you had your jacket. Even though it got cold as shit last night. You know, the jacket you won't even let me touch—” his voice dripped with an almost giddy scorn— “let alone wear?”

Nicaise took a slow sip of orange juice, before leaning in to continue, “And you left in such a hurry that you didn't realize that you had a rock star’s jacket? A jacket that he coincidentally also wasn't wearing, in the same place where you weren't wearing your jacket?”

Nicaise folded his arms and leaned back, his smug smile clearly saying, your move.

That little fucking—

“Laurent, are you sure you're okay?” Auguste’s voice was cautiously neutral and soft, where Nicaise’s had been scathing, “If something…happened—” Shit. Of course that's what Auguste’s mind would jump to. Fuck. Fuck. Laurent's heart started to pound in his chest.

Auguste leaned in, caught Laurent's gaze, searching his face, earnest and concerned— “You know you can tell us if something happened, right? You can tell me. ” His voice broke, just a little bit, on the last word. Laurent probably wouldn't have caught it if it were anyone but Auguste.

Laurent heard that little change in tone like it was glass shattering.

He felt like he was trying to breathe in the shards.

Laurent’s eyes darted around the table. Nicaise's face had gone blank, as if what Auguste was asking had never even occurred to him. Auguste was sitting completely still, unsettling when compared to his normal kinetic energy. It was as if he was waiting, braced for some blow to drop. Maybe he was.

Kashel had leaned in to him, was stroking Auguste's arm in gentle comfort, but Laurent could see where her other hand gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles clenched with tension. At first glance, her face was calm, but there was a pinched look around her eyes, in the corners of her mouth.

Nicaise looked up at him now, the smug glee from before gone. In its place, his nephew just looked scared.

Young and scared.

God fucking damn it, this was not supposed to happen.

I have to tell them, Laurent thought, feeling panic start to vibrate under his skin. I have to, or Auguste is going to think this is just like—no. Laurent nearly shook his head in revulsion. This was nothing like that. The thought that Auguste might think that Damen...no. Unacceptable.

Laurent took a deep breath, willing the slight tremble beginning in his hands to stillness.

“No.” Auguste’s face didn't soften when Laurent started speaking, and Laurent realized what he'd responded to. He quickly corrected himself, “I mean, yes, Auguste, I know that I could tell you if something happened. I would tell you.”

Auguste still looked unsure, even hurt, and Laurent felt old anger start to rise up inside of him. Why should it be my job to dance around his feelings about this? He's not the one who—Laurent ruthlessly cut the thought short. If he was being logical, he'd acknowledge that Auguste did have his reasons for not automatically believing Laurent, at least when it came to his denial. Still, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

“Look,” Laurent steeled himself, forcing the words to come out calmly, “I'm not thirteen anymore. I know you don't trust me to be honest with you—”

A look of dismayed shock flitted over Auguste's face, and he held up a hand, cutting Laurent off, “Don't trust—” he shook his head, as if to dismiss the very idea— “Fuck, Laurent. Of course I trust you. No, look at me, please—”

Laurent was trying to choke back the hot feeling of burning in his throat. It was rising, screaming behind his eyes, tensing his body. Some part of him, trained to the point where it had become reflexive, began to clinically label the emotions: frustration, anger, indignation… shame? Fuck, what did it matter? He didn't want to do this. The tumult of emotions swirled, growing. Laurent tried to focus on his breathing.

He forced his gaze back up to Auguste's, saw concern, and something that might have been exasperation.

“I do trust you. It's not about trusting you or not. You know as well as I do that everyone processes things differently, when…” Auguste winced, then pushed on, “I wouldn't blame anyone for not wanting to talk about it if something—”

Laurent felt it, almost like a click- the moment his control snapped, “Thank you, Auguste.” Laurent's voice was icy now, hard and edged, “We both went to the same therapy sessions, I think I understand what you're trying to say.

“Now I want you to listen to me. Nothing like that happened last night. No, don't interrupt me,” He could see that Auguste wanted to jump in, but Laurent couldn't listen to his well - meaning interference anymore. Laurent tried to modulate his voice back to neutral, but he knew he still sounded on-edge, “Just give me a moment. Please.”

He needed to end this conversation, needed to shut it down now. And that means… Laurent took another deep breath, feeling annoyance join the other emotions churning in his gut. Well, fuck…

The only way Laurent knew how to truly shut them up about this would be to just fucking tell them what had happened last night. He nearly let out a bitter laugh. Of course, they'd probably have something to say about that, too, but there was no way it would be worse than this.

Anything less than complete honesty was going to ping as evasion, and Laurent couldn't deal with Auguste’s fragility when it came to this. He shouldn't fucking have to. But ‘shouldn't’ meant jack-shit. The reality was that Auguste had his own issues about this and he wasn't going to drop it.

So, the truth then. But how could he even explain what had happened when he didn't fully understand it himself?

Laurent took one more calming breath, and gathered his thoughts.

“I went to the show last night. It was good, but there were a lot of people. I did get overwhelmed,” Laurent cast a cool look at a Nicaise, whose gaze slid guiltily down at the table, “so I went outside to get some air. I was overheated, so I took my jacket off.

“Damen, the lead singer of the band, came out to look for me after the show. Lazar told him about my art and he's been following my Instagram. He wanted to talk to me.

“He asked me about commissioning some work for their new EP.” Laurent caught Kashel's gaze, and she gave him a small, encouraging smile. “He also—” Laurent paused, took a breath. Fucking hell, he did not want to have this conversation, and yet, Auguste wouldn't just take ‘Fuck off, this is none of your business’ as an answer— “he asked me out. On a date. I said yes.”

Laurent met Auguste’s eyes, saw the surprise that flashed on his face.

He pushed on, determined to get to the end, “He waited with me until my ride got there. He offered me his jacket because it was cold. He was being a gentleman. He must not have noticed that I had one, I don't think he's particularly observant,”

Was that fondness creeping into his voice? That was not what this was about. Focus, Laurent.

“My ride came,” Laurent said, feeling himself start to flush at the memory of what had happened next. There was no way he was going to tell them about that. “I left. It was dark. I must have grabbed his jacket by accident. I didn't realize I had it until I got out of the Uber. None of which—” Laurent looked around the table, catching Kashel’s gaze, then Nicaise’s, letting that annoyance creep into his voice— “is any of your business.”

Laurent turned to Auguste last, saw that at least his brother was starting to feel uncomfortable with how the conversation was going. Good. “I don't answer to you. I'm an adult. I know you care about me, but I need you to take me at my word when I tell you that I'm okay. I will tell you if something ever happens. I promise. But I do not like having my history thrown into my face every time you worry about me.”

“That's not what I was trying to—”

“It doesn't matter what you were trying to do. That's what it feels like, every time you do this. I know it's because you worry. But it's not particularly pleasant to come sit down for breakfast and be interrogated first thing in the morning.”

“Laurent,” Nicaise’s voice was quiet, apologetic, “I'm sorry.”

“Yes, I suppose you are.”

Laurent looked down at the plate in front of him. His appetite was gone. The headache that had threatened earlier was back now, throbbing with a vengeance.

“I'm going to go lay back down. I've got a headache.” Laurent rose, quickly spooning his untouched food back on to the serving plates. He grabbed his coffee mug, and stepped around the breakfast bar, heading towards the sink. He placed his dishes down, and turned.

“Laur,” Kashel's voice was soft, careful, “are you sure you don't want to at least eat some pancakes before you go?”

“No. I've lost my appetite.” Laurent looked at her now, saw the concern on her face. Felt himself soften, just a little bit. “But thank you anyway. It does look good. You guys eat it. I'll make something for myself later.”

Kash nodded, knowing well enough that it was time to back off. Nicaise was focusing on his pancakes, shoving the food around on his plate but making no move to eat. Auguste’s back was towards him. Laurent took in the tense set of his shoulders. Auguste would surely be beating himself up now, but Laurent didn't have the energy to do damage control.

He caught Kashel's eye, flicked his gaze to Auguste’s back, tilted his head in his direction.

She looked over, then back, giving a small nod of acknowledgement. She reached up, running a soothing hand over Auguste’s back.

Laurent saw him lean into her touch, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

It would be enough. Kashel would handle it.

Laurent left, heading down the hall and back into his room. He shut the door behind him quietly. He sighed, feeling his head throb, his stomach still tight with knots.

Just then, Laurent heard a buzz vibrate from the table next to his bed. A text. Laurent remembered that he still hadn't checked that last text from the night before.

He walked over, thumbed his phone on.

Received Today 12:55 AM
So there's this little coffee shop downtown called The Ugly Mug. They have good coffee and bagels and sandwiches and stuff. Would you want to meet me there for lunch? Like, noon on Thursday? Let me know.

Received Today 12:58 AM
Sleep well, Laurent. :-)

Received Today 9:42 AM
Hope you slept okay. I still can't stop smiling.

Received Today 10:05 AM
I'm wearing your jacket. Hope that's okay. It's chilly today. Already got one compliment on it actuality. A toddler told me it was “really really pretty” and that it looked like I “got rainbows all over”. I think they meant the paint, lol.

Laurent felt his lips curve up, despite the throbbing in his head. He imagined some tiny child staring up at Damen in awe.

He scrolled back to the texts from last night, stared at the picture that Damen had sent him.

Really, really pretty, indeed.

Sighing, Laurent scrolled back down. He didn't even have the energy to chastise himself. Damen was pretty. There's was no point in fighting this. His family knew, now. He was going on that date, if only to prove to them that he was capable of handling his own life.

He picked up the phone, and started to text.

Sent Today 10:07
I suppose you can wear it, if you must. It would be cruel to have you freeze to death because you didn't have adequate outerwear. Just know that if you damage it, you'll owe me big. Like, you'll owe me a kidney big. That jacket is important to me.

Thursday at noon works. I'll see you then.

Laurent sent the text. He expected to feel uncomfortable. Instead, he just felt…what? Amused? Playful? No. That wasn't quite it. Why was he not freaking out? At that, Laurent felt a sense of unease start to creep in, finding himself growing uncomfortable because...he wasn't uncomfortable? How did that even make sense?

Thank you, brain, Laurent’s own sarcasm turned inwards, That's very helpful.

The phone buzzed in Laurent's hand, text popping up on the already opened conversation.

Received Today 10:09
YAY! I'm really excited! Just curious… have you been wearing my jacket?

Laurent eyed the jacket tossed over the chair. He thought for a second, considered what to say in response.

Fuck it.

Grabbing the jacket, Laurent pulled it around his shoulders. Just shrugging the jacket on had some of the tightness in his chest from before easing. At this point it was probably a Pavlovian response to the weight of denim on his shoulders.

He opened his camera app, raised an eyebrow and gave what he hoped was a playful smile, snapping the pic. He looked down. Okay, he might have missed ‘playful’ and ended up with ‘smug’. Whatever. Good enough. Changing over to the text, Laurent added the pic as an attachment. Hit ‘send’. Waited for that crushing sense of dread to start.

It never came.

Laurent lay back on his bed, resting his head down gingerly in deference to the pain that still throbbed there.

The phone buzzed once more.

It was an emoji this time, instead of just the text emoticons that Damen usually sent. A tiny yellow face smiled up at him, two red hearts for eyes.

So fucking cheesy, Laurent thought. The tension in his chest was finally unwinding completely, a warm feeling taking its place. Who knew Damen was such a dork?

Chuckling to himself quietly, Laurent was miraculously able to let himself drift back into sleep.

Chapter Text

It was raining. 

Laurent sat in the front of the bus, his messenger bag propped to intentionally take up the seat next to him. His umbrella was down by his feet, dripping onto the floor. Headphones were tucked around his ears, but they were silent.

He wore them solely as a buffer. He had no interest in talking to strangers on public transit. 

Still, he surreptitiously watched everyone who got on the bus, as he always did. Front seat, most direct pathway out, and a clear view out of the giant windshield. 

He couldn't control the traffic, but at least he could keep an eye on it. 

The low - level anxiety that always accompanied riding public transit was a steady hum in his blood. It spiked with every jerking start or stop the bus made. 

Laurent had his driver's license. He'd finally gotten it several years ago, right after his twenty third birthday, meeting one of his earliest therapy goals. A ‘major milestone’, Paschal had called it.

 He and Paschal had worked their way up to it, early on, first just sitting behind the wheel, then driving around empty parking lots, and finally, street traffic. 

After a few months of exposure therapy, Laurent could even drive on the highway for short periods of time without dissolving into a panic attack. 

Well, most days. 

He'd passed his exam easily. It was never a question of developing the skills necessary to operate a vehicle. 

And once he had that license, he'd decided that he still didn't want to drive, at least whenever possible. Paschal said that was fine, because he at least had a choice now. 

After three years as Laurent's therapist, Paschal was now very familiar with all of the reasons that choice was so important to Laurent. 

And so he rode the bus, and tolerated the other passengers; he didn't mind the cramped space, the slow travel times, or the often unpredictable nature of being reliant on something outside of his control for transportation. It was…fine. 

He factored all of those things into his timetable. Adjusted for them as necessary. 

Laurent hated being late.

The bus trundled along, large windshield wipers swishing loudly, the rhythmic noise soothing in its repetition. 

With another jerking stop, the doors to the bus opened. Cold, damp air gusted in from outside as passengers entered and paid their fares. Laurent tugged at the jacket he was wearing—Damen's jacket—trying to wrap it even tighter around himself to ward off the chill. 

The black denim jacket looked fairly ridiculous on him, incongruous with his normal style. Nicaise called him a hipster, and maybe he was. Laurent didn't pay a ton of attention to fashion, so he couldn't really say. 

Damen's jacket definitely didn't match his style. It was edgy in a punk rock sort of way, and the patches were all for bands that Laurent had never heard of. Laurent's style was far more simple. Most days he wore skinny jeans and a button down shirt. Sometimes he'd add a sweater, or even a vest if he was feeling adventurous. 

The most stylized piece of clothing that he owned was his own jean jacket, which he would finally be getting back tomorrow.

 On his date.

 With Damen. 

The final passenger for this stop entered and swiped a bus pass, then began to make their way down the aisle. They were trying to settle in on the seat directly across the aisle from Laurent when the bus jerked back into motion. At the abrupt movement, they must have lost their footing, because a moment later they were jostling against Laurent, nearly falling in his lap. 

Startled, Laurent reached out his arm to stop a full collision. 

Laurent looked up and saw a young woman roughly his age steady herself on the back of his chair. Unthinking, Laurent pulled his headphones back and asked, “Are you okay?”. As the words left his mouth, he felt himself wince internally, only barely managing to keep the expression off of his face. 

Well done, idiot. What if she wants to talk to you?

“Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about that." The woman said. Her face flushed a bit as she turned and sat across from him. “The floors are really slippery.” 

“No worries,” Laurent responded, offering what he hoped was a reassuring, conversation - ending smile. He reached up, began pulling his headphones back on—

“Hey, you like Gogol Bordello? That's awesome!” The woman's face was lit up with excitement. 

She was still talking to Laurent for some reason. Lovely. 

“Excuse me?”  What had she even said? Gogol… Laurent tilted his head in confused irritation. 

“Your patch!” the woman gestured to Laurent's shoulder, barreling on, “Gogol Bordello is one of the best live shows I've ever seen, man! I actually went to New Jersey a few years back to see them live. Holy fuck was that an amazing show! Well, I went to visit my girlfriend mostly but she had tickets, so we drove to Atlantic City and— ”

Laurent could feel his eye twitch, just once. He forced himself to regulate his breathing into something calm and even.To try and focus on the cadence of the words coming at him instead of the deluge of personal information from a complete stranger. 

His overwhelming urge was to tell her to go fuck off, but that could lead to any number of potential negative outcomes, some of which included direct confrontation in an enclosed space. A space that he had to return to on a regular basis. It wasn't worth the risk. Perhaps he could just ignore her and she'd go away? 

Maybe she would get off at the next stop. 

The woman paused, and looked intently at him, as if she expected some kind of answer. Fuck. 

“Sorry, what?” Laurent said, infusing his voice with as much disinterest as he could while still maintaining the facade of civility. Take the hint, Laurent thought, and leave me the fuck alone. 

“Oh, I just asked what your favorite song was. Mine is probably Start Wearing Purple .” Showing no sign of having picked up on Laurent's discomfort, the woman smiled at Laurent expectantly. 

Fucking extroverts. Fucking jacket.

Laurent considered his current situation, calculating the most direct way of shutting down a conversation without causing a scene. 

He took in a quick visual inventory of the  woman's appearance: black leather jacket layered over a pink hoodie, distressed black jeans, combat boots, nose ring, heavy eyeliner. Her teal hair was peeking out from under a slouchy beanie and her black canvas messenger bag had a tiny rainbow pin on the strap—

A tiny rainbow pin . That pinged at something… something she'd said? He scanned quickly over what he could remember of her word vomit, and narrowed in on how she'd said, 'Well, I went to visit my girlfriend, mostly.'

Yes. That might work. Best not to overthink it… 

 “Actually,” Laurent said, pasting on what he hoped was a sheepish grin, “I don't really know what you're talking about. Sorry.”

Laurent paused for a beat, watched her gaze flicker back to his shoulder, obviously confused.

“Oh, sorry. It's just, you've got their…” her voice trailed off, awkward now. 

“This?” Laurent touched the patch lightly, letting fondness color his tone, sketching a caricature of a smile onto his face. 

“This is my boyfriend’s jacket,” Laurent's heart kicked up in his chest at the audacity of the lie, “Sometimes I just like having something to remind me of him, even if it's not really my style, you know?”

Bingo. The woman's face softened into a warm smile. 

“Yeah, I get that. This is actually my girlfriend's hoodie,” she said, reaching up to touch the pink hood sticking out of her jacket. 

Laurent felt his mouth twitch into a genuine grin. The woman sounded so affectionate. It was hard to stay irritated. 

“Well,” tone brightening again, the woman gestured at his jacket, “your boyfriend has good taste in music. Hey, I think they're coming into town in February, actually! You should get him some tickets for the holidays and go together. I bet he'd love it.”

Laurent let himself picture it for a moment, another crowded concert, pressed in on all sides, loud noise and movement and other people's sweat …ugh. Not fucking likely . Although, if Damen was behind him, shielding him from the crowd, dancing against him, moving in tandem with him, then maybe— Laurent felt his face start to flush, ever so slightly. 

“Thanks, I'll think about it.” 

“Anyway, this is my stop,” the woman pulled the cord and stood, grasping the bar tightly to keep herself balanced, “Have a great day!” 

“You, too,” Laurent murmured, offering her one last smile before she disappeared out into the cold. 

The smile faded from his face the moment the door closed. Laurent turned to stare at his own reflection in the window. The passing streets were a gray blur that mirrored his disgusted scowl back at himself. Cold rain pattered against the window, running in rivulets behind his reflection. 

What was that? His boyfriend's jacket?! Of all of the things that he could have possibly said, it was that? 

Maybe it was just that his date with Damen tomorrow was looming large in his mind. He'd done his best not to think about the rapidly approaching outing, but his best was…not good enough. 

Thoughts of Damen snuck into the forefront of Laurent's mind far more frequently than he liked.

One minute he'd be working on a piece, his brush becoming less of a tool and more of an elemental extension of his hand with every passing moment. 

He'd settle into that timeless state of flow where he was responding moment to moment, where it sometimes felt like the textures and colors of the growing image were painting him . And then, with no warning, Laurent would find himself distracted by thoughts of Damen, the way the light had played on his skin while he was on stage. 

Just yesterday afternoon he'd been working with calm, steady blues and greens, and before he knew it, his mind had wandered back to Damen. 

His memory lingered then, in a way he never actually allowed himself to do in real life, lingered in long stretches of brazen, blatant recall. His mind's eye traced the way those fingers had moved agile and sure on the violin. It lingered on the image of that  tigers-eye gaze lined in gold, lingered on the way the light from above had illuminated his sweat-dampened face, lingered on the way that same face had looked silhouetted in moonlight…

Laurent had noticed his train of thought, had cut it off ruthlessly, annoyed that he'd let himself get distracted from painting. Again . 

To add insult to injury, he'd looked down and realized that he'd somehow mindlessly added the reds and golds and coppers of that moment onto his palette, and had begun working them into tiny details in his piece. 

Not to mention the times when he'd found himself browsing Monarchs Rising's social media, clicking on video after video until he could hum the melodies of more than one of their songs to himself. That, at least—he reassured himself— was research for the commission. And hadn't he managed to resist stalking Damen himself down on social media altogether? Surely that counted for something. 

But it was harder to justify how often he'd found himself scrolling back through his texts, staring at the picture of Damen, smiling in Laurent's jacket. How often he'd found himself imagining his own hands running under that denim and up to those shoulders, pushing the jacket off of him while ghosting the barest touch along warm skin. Imagining the way Damen might respond— a quiet shiver, his eyelids fluttering closed as he focused in on the sensation? A soft noise hitching in the back of his throat, followed by a quick inhale, his eyes never leaving Laurent's, biting ever so slightly at his lower lip? Leaning into the touch, forcing the gentle graze of Laurent's fingertips to become full contact, so that Laurent would be able to feel the heat and strength of him sliding under his palms? 

What would happen if Laurent flexed his fingers, digging his nails into the movement? What if Laurent pulled that fabric down abruptly, letting it catch at Damen's elbows, gripping his fist in the fabric and twisting, pulling his arms back with the bunched fabric? What if he just held him there, forcing his chest forward with the makeshift restraint of Laurent's jacket? Would Damen let him? Would his breath come faster? Would his—

Laurent had forced himself to shove those kinds of thoughts down, before they'd gone any further. 

He'd had to do it more than once. 

Even today, consulting with Herode about his TA responsibilities for the next several weeks, Laurent's mind had wandered so much that he'd ended up having to ask his advisor to repeat himself not once, but twice . The older man had frowned slightly and muttered something about Laurent being careful to not overextend himself. 

Mentally kicking himself, Laurent had quickly assured Herode that he wasn't taking on too much. He was just very focused on polishing his portfolio. No, he didn't want to reconsider taking on further TA responsibilities next semester. Yes, he was studying for his GRE. Yes, he was still staying on top of his own course load. 

He didn't think that, ‘I'm just really nervous about this date tomorrow’ would be a reassuring excuse for being that distracted at an advisory meeting. He needed Herode's support now more than ever. He couldn't risk throwing it all away because he was anxious about getting coffee with Damen. 

He usually had better control than that. He did . So why was he feeling this way? 

Clearly, it was Damen's fault. 

Laurent wondered if Paschal would agree. He had a feeling that his therapist would probably have something to say about it. That is, he would if Laurent decided to tell him. 

Paschal. Fuck . Laurent dragged his attention back to the passing streets, realized where he was. Just in time, Laurent reached up and pulled the cord. He quickly reached down to grab his umbrella, scattering  drops of water all over himself in his haste. He stood as the bus rolled to a stop, making certain to grab his bag. The door opened. With a resigned sigh, Laurent stepped out into the gray, wet chill of the rainy afternoon. 

……….. 

Laurent relaxed a fraction, sitting back into the comfortable armchair. He was grateful for the warmth starting to seep into his body now that he was inside. Paschal was across the room, pouring hot water from his electric kettle into two styrofoam cups. A moment later he turned, carrying the tray over and placing it on the low coffee table in front of him. 

Following their normal pre-session ritual, Laurent spent a moment looking through the teabox that Paschal provided. He used the time to gather his thoughts. There were a lot of things that he could talk about today but he wasn't sure how much he wanted to delve into… certain topics. 

As Paschal settled in, Laurent mused over how wrong he'd been in his first assessment of the man sitting across from him now. 

Nothing about Paschal's appearance would lead one to think that the man had a core of no-nonsense practicality that could stand up against the worst that Laurent could toss at him. If anything, the 50-something year old man looked like the kind of person who would get into a huffy snit if Laurent dared to question the merits of the venerable Saint Freud or talk critically about the accessibility of mental health care for low income people in the city. 

With thinning graying hair and round, owlish glasses, Paschal looked like a stock photo result one might find if they searched for images of 'therapist': a middle aged, slightly balding man in a cardigan looking intensely out over a pair of glasses, pen poised over a yellow notepad, eyebrow raised as if to prompt the viewer to reveal their deepest secrets. 

Laurent remembered thinking that all he was missing was a watermark over half of his face. 

Within the first thirty seconds of their initial appointment, Laurent had pegged him as a self-important pedant who probably thought of himself as better than every single one of his clients.

Laurent had burnt through a fair number of those kinds of therapists over the years. There weren't many people who could stand up against an onslaught of his caustic observations, his often vicious disdain, and his outright ridicule at many of the components of traditional 'talk therapy'. 

But instead of self - important blather and thinly veiled judgement, Paschal had shown a clear, nearly serene patience that held up against anything Laurent threw at him. To Laurent's surprise, he found that the man was nearly unflappable. He had a way of calmly, quietly cutting through the bullshit, and in the space that remained after the scorn fell away, Laurent found himself talking. And talking. 

Those talks, Laurent found with some surprise, would follow him home. They would ricochet around in his head, knocking things over, spilling out feelings and memories and realizations, whether he wanted them or not. 

Laurent found that he wasn't always ready to dig down into the core of his thoughts and feelings. Wasn't always prepared to do the work of sifting through his own internal rubble to figure out whether the pieces could be salvaged. 

But ready or not, Laurent was here, just like he was every week at this time.

 He reminded himself that it was for the best. It was necessary .  He knew that without Paschal's gentle questions and steady demeanor he'd almost certainly avoid shining a light into those painful, jagged corners of himself, much less endure the discomfort of  examining what he found there. 

He'd eventually acknowledged that leaving those parts of himself untended wasn't really an option anymore. Without regular…maintenance, that darkness could fester and build. And invariably, the seething pressure of it would grow and grow the longer he ignored it, eventually lashing out when he could no longer hold the crushing force of it back. 

It was in Laurent's best interest to keep that from happening. It was in everyone's best interest that Laurent keep that from happening.

 It…never ended well. 

So Laurent came to his therapy appointments. He answered Paschal's questions. Well, most of them. He talked about his feelings. He discussed his worries. He made an effort to actually examine Paschal's offered insights instead of just dismissing them out of hand.

He even occasionally delved into his past, sometimes feeling like he had to untangle the words themselves to even be able to speak them, coaxing out a single strand of memory from the snarled knot of dread and anger and shame that was his childhood. 

He tolerated the raw, hollowed-out feeling that often remained at the end of a session, knowing that it was better than the alternative. 

Tea selected, Laurent added several packets of sugar to the steeping beverage. He stirred the water idly. The string from the tea bag wrapped itself around the plastic spoon, pulling the sodden bag halfway out of the drink and up onto the handle, the string wicking the moisture up, dripping it from the tag down the side of the cup. Laurent untwirled the spoon, allowing the tea bag to untangle and sink back underneath the water that was still swirling, darkening to a deep brown.

He wiped the wetness that had dripped on his hand onto the hem of the jacket. Sighed. Looked up and met Paschal's calm gaze. 

“Good afternoon, Laurent. How has your week been?”

“Eventful, I suppose,” Laurent felt the heat from the cup spreading into his fingers. His mind sifted through the events of the week, trying to decide what he was willing to divulge. 

Paschal took a delicate sip from his own cup, observing Laurent over the rim. He hummed softly, a gentle questioning encouragement to continue. 

“Yes. Herode has me making PowerPoint presentations from his ancient overhead projector sheets, which I can barely even read because he likely made them 30 years ago,” Laurent thought about the sheets of plastic, the writing smudged and nearly illegible. Felt his lips purse in disdain. “Who even uses overhead projectors anymore?” Laurent huffed a small breath out through his nose. Took a sip of his tea. Shook his head a bit in exasperation. 

As an afterthought, he added, “That's probably why he has me doing it, honestly.”

“Do you feel like it's a waste of your time?” 

“I mean, I guess that's the kind of thing I'm there to do. Lord knows that Herode would happily stay in the past if left to his own devices. I suspect more than one student complained about it in his last eval. So now I'm decoding his chicken scratch and trying to put together a semester's worth of presentations. Not to mention trying to teach him how to use the PowerPoints that I've made for him.”

Paschal nodded, considering. 

“Is that what you want to be doing?” 

“No. Not particularly,” Laurent took a swallow from his cup. He was quickly losing interest in this topic. 

Shouldn't have brought it up then, asshole, Laurent chided himself. 

“So, in a perfect world, what would Herode have you doing?” 

In a perfect world? In a perfect world, Laurent wouldn't even be a TA. In a perfect world, he  wouldn't have felt the need to compete for the coveted few undergraduate TA positions available at his school, wouldn't feel the pressure to exceed expectations, to stand out above his peers and claim as many scholarship opportunities as possible. Not to mention working to cultivate and secure the support of several of the most influential professors on staff. 

Those connections were more important than an actual degree, though that certainly helped. The art world was often a closed club. More than half of being a successful artist was knowing which doors to knock on, and knowing people who would actually invite you inside instead of slamming the door in your face. 

 In a perfect world, Laurent would just stay home and paint. 

“I guess that I'd rather be assisting with the hands-on portions of class. Prepping demos, maybe even leading them.”

Paschal looked thoughtful. “Could you talk to him about it? Ask him to change your responsibilities?”

“Are you kidding? No, ” Laurent scoffed, dismissive, “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why is that?” Paschal asked, in that carefully noncommittal tone that Laurent suspected meant that Paschal thought Laurent was full of shit. Laurent felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. 

He took a breath, lifted his cup to his mouth, sipping slowly. He reminded himself that he came here of his own volition, and that Paschal was most likely not being deliberately obtuse. He genuinely wanted to hear Laurent's reasoning. 

Fine. Laurent could spell it out for him. 

“Because,” Laurent responded, attempting to modulate his voice into something that didn't sound like he was explaining the most obvious thing in the world, “There's a power imbalance. He could decide to let me go. He could refuse to write me a letter of recommendation for grad school. He could ruin my reputation in the department. He could—”

“To your knowledge,” Paschal interjected, “has Herode ever done anything like that to a student? Or a colleague?”

“No,” Laurent ground the words out, irritation flaring at being interrupted, “Not to my knowledge, but that hardly means that he's never done it. There are lots of ways that things like that could be buried. And even if he hasn't, there's a first time for everything.”

Paschal leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other. He rested his hands on top of his knee. 

 “I suppose that's true. I hadn't considered that,” Paschal's voice had a measured, considering quality to it, “Has he ever seemed unhappy with your work? Has he ever said or hinted that you're not doing enough?”

“Well, no,” Laurent blinked, feeling his chest tighten, “but that doesn't mean—”

“And didn't he tell you specifically that he thought you'd make a good TA?”

“Yes, but—”

“What happens if you don't ask him about reevaluating your responsibilities?” Paschal leaned in, sliding his foot to the floor, bracing his weight on his forearms where they rested on his thighs, fingers steepled in front of him. 

Laurent leaned back, crossing his arms. Considered not responding. Let out a frustrated breath. 

“I suppose nothing is likely to change.” Obviously . Laurent's position of relative security was worth the frustration of acting as little more than a low level office drone. Wasn't it? 

“And we already know what the worst case scenario is if you ask and it goes poorly. What's  the best case scenario?”

Irritation needled at Laurent, had a stubborn defensiveness rising up. He decided not to dignify the question with an answer. It just wasn't worth the risk. And he was done talking about this subject. 

Paschal sat back in his chair, sipping his tea. His gently lined face was impassive, neutral. He didn't seem frustrated at all by Laurent's sullen silence. 

This was far from the first time they had hit a conversational impasse. Paschal had no problem pushing Laurent to challenge his assumptions. Over the years he'd learned when to step back. Though he'd never said as much, Laurent suspected that his therapist  knew that the words would simmer in the background all week. 

It was irritating that more often than not, Paschal had a valid point. 

After another beat of silence, Paschal's mouth tilted up in a moment of wry amusement, as if acknowledging Laurent's right to disengage from the topic. Laurent felt the tension in his shoulders lessen, felt what was probably a glare relax into something less combative. 

“Anything else interesting happen this week?” 

For a moment, Laurent thought about Damen, about tomorrow. But no, he wasn't ready to talk about that yet. 

“Well,” he said eventually, “I had a…confrontation. An argument, I guess. With Auguste and Nicaise and Kashel.”

“What was the argument about?”

Fuck. Walked myself right into that. Great job, Laurent.

 “I mean, it wasn't really an argument, per se,” he backtracked, hoping to sidestep any mention of Damen, “They were being pushy, like always. Which is fine. Whatever. I'm used to that.”

Laurent shook his head, remembering. He felt the anger he thought he'd managed to wrangle under control flare up again. “But then Auguste made it about Uncle. About before. And it had nothing to do with that at all.”

Paschal nodded with a soft hum, prompting Laurent to continue. Laurent felt the words bubbling up inside of him. 

“He always does this. He acts so concerned, but it has less to do with me and more to do with his own issues. And then I have to dance around his fucking feelings, and I have to be the mature one. I have to be the one in control.”

Laurent closed his eyes for a moment. Took a deep breath. His heart was pounding, he could feel the pressure of it throbbing behind his eyes. 

“What happens if you're not?” Paschal's question had Laurent blinking his eyes open, “The ‘in control one’, I mean.” 

A frantic, jagged fear shuddered under his skin at the query. The pressure in his chest tightened.

He felt the urge to get up, to walk outside and let the chill rain surround him until he was numb inside. As if this sharp-edged feeling could somehow be left behind in this room. 

Laurent knew better. He let his mind turn inwards, and leaned into the feeling, letting himself experience it fully. The discomfort crawling under his skin, the hot fear, Auguste's face, pale and young in his memory, tears running down his face as he begged Laurent to just tell him the truth … 

“Then I have to deal with seeing Auguste fall apart,” the words felt rusty, like they were scraping away at him from the inside, “And then it's my fault. I'm the bad guy.”

“Does he tell you it's your fault?”

“I mean, he doesn't say it,” Laurent remembered Auguste at the breakfast bar, his back towards Laurent, hunched over and tense, “But he wouldn't be upset like that if it wasn't for me. I'm still the catalyst.”

Something about that felt… tilted , unbalanced somehow in his head, but the words were coming faster now, like steam being released from a valve. 

“And then on top of it all, I'm even more upset, because I've made Auguste upset. Which makes him more upset. And then everyone is upset and everyone is sad and angry and I'm the reason.”

“Who do Auguste's feelings belong to?”

Laurent felt the unbalance in his thoughts from before click into place, righting themselves. The shift felt painful, a grinding cognitive dissonance. He knew the ‘right’ answer. Unfortunately, knowing it didn't seem to have much effect on the feelings themselves. 

Tears stung in the back of his eyes. He refused to let them fall. 

 “Auguste's feelings belong to Auguste,” There was only one way to answer that question. It wasn't the first time he'd said those words.

Paschal stayed quiet, as if waiting for something more. 

“I know that. I do. I just—” The pressure inside his chest had moved, had risen up higher, choking him as it tightened. Laurent took a quick, sharp breath. He held it for a moment, hoping that the burning in his throat, in the back of his eyes, would ease. When it didn't, Laurent exhaled unevenly. He gathered his thoughts together, forced them out through the shaky heat— “I hate seeing him like that.” 

“Like what?” Paschal persisted, following the thread. 

“I don't know. Upset. Disappointed…” Laurent looked down, stared at the wet lump of tea bag sitting in what remained of his tea. Took a breath. Another.

 “Hurt,” Instead of looking to see what expression was on Paschal's face, Laurent fiddled with the spoon, nudging the sodden packet around in the cup. For a moment, Laurent remembered the agonized look on Auguste's face all those years ago. Please tell me what he did, Laurent. You have to tell me, or I'll have to — Laurent jabbed the spoon into the bag, pressing hard. The tea bag tore, fibers pulling apart easily around the edge of the spoon. 

Laurent watched as a mess of tea flakes oozed out, wicked into the remaining liquid in the cup. Ruining the last few sips with the bitter dregs. 

“You can't stand to see him hurt?” 

“No. I hate it.”  Laurent dropped the spoon back into the pulpy mess. Set the cup down on the table. 

He looked up. Paschal was watching him closely. 

“Because it's your fault if he's hurt about something that happened to you?” Paschal let the words drop into the silence softly. Even so, the words rankled. Laurent felt himself frown in annoyance. 

“It doesn't make sense when you say it like that.” Laurent knew the look on his face was probably sulky, sullen. 

Paschal, on the other hand, remained unruffled, taking a moment to sip at tea, relaxed and attentive. And why not? He knew his point had landed. 

“So how did you handle it? The confrontation?” 

Laurent considered not answering out of spite. Considered it, and dismissed the petty urge. 

“Well, I didn't verbally eviscerate anyone, so that's good, I suppose. I ended up having to tell them what happened, because they wouldn't drop it otherwise. At least they all apologized later,” Laurent looked down at his hands, remembering each of them approaching him in turn, apologizing in their own ways, “I guess they felt bad for pushing me.”

“So wait, what happened?” Paschal's head tilted to the side just a bit, a confused furrow to his brow. Fuck. 

“Kashel made me fresh pancakes for lunch and said she was sorry. Auguste apologized later that night, after he'd calmed down. Nicaise's apology was a little lacking, but that's not a surprise.”

“No, what happened that you had to tell them about? That they were being pushy about?” 

Laurent sighed. Of course it hadn't worked. What did you expect? Laurent chided himself, That he'd just let it slide?

Alright. Fine . He was going to have to talk about this sooner or later. 

“I went to a concert on Saturday night,” Laurent began. He paused for a moment, picking through his thoughts carefully. 

“The one you mentioned last week?” Paschal prompted after a moment. 

“Yes, Auguste guilted me into going. I honestly would have rather stayed home and painted, but apparently I need to ‘make friends’—” Laurent huffed a breath out of his nose and rolled his eyes— “Like I'm some kind of child all by himself on a playground.”

“Is that what he was pushing you about?” 

“I mean, he was being pushy, but that's not what the fight was about. That came later.”

“Sorry. So you went to the concert?” 

“Yes. I went to the concert. And, I. Well,” Laurent took a breath, steadied himself, “I met someone."

Paschal sat back a little in his chair, one eyebrow rising. He said nothing, waiting for Laurent to continue.

The past week's agitation swirled up inside of him, began spilling out.

“His name is Damen. He's actually the lead singer of the band. I was right up front, and it. There was this—” Laurent shook his head, huffed out a breath. How could he even explain what had happened? Even now, a week later, he couldn't wrap his head around what had drawn him to Damen. Didn't understand the force that had sparked between them, as electric as the music that Damen had woven with the others on stage. 

“—I don't know, connection. Energy. Between us, I guess. I don't really know how to explain it. He looked at me,” Laurent raised both hands from where they rested on his lap, palms up in exasperation. It sounds small and silly when I say it out loud . “He just really looked at me. But it was more than that. He saw me. In the crowd, in the middle of performing, even with all the lights and the noise, he just—”

Laurent felt his face heat at the memory of how it had felt. He searched for words, needing to explain just how this interaction was different than some chance encounter. Maybe needing to justify what had come later. 

“—He saw me. Like he knew me already. Somehow. And I think in that moment, I saw him too. You know?” Laurent searched Paschal's gaze, hoping for some kind of confirmation that this was something that happened to people. 

Paschal nodded in understanding. His face was attentive, and nothing about his expression hinted at judgement. Laurent nodded a little to himself, gathering his thoughts to continue. 

“It was like that for the whole show. And it just kept growing, every time our eyes met. It was just… I mean. I've never…” he trailed off, searching for words. Found none.

Laurent shook his head, dismissing the thought. Focus . 

“Anyway, it just got to be too much. I started having a panic attack. I had to get out. So I did. I ran out before the encore and went around the side of the building. And I was actually able to bring the intensity down. With the breathing. It worked.”

“That's excellent, Laurent.” Paschal said, acknowledging the success with a warm smile. 

"Yes. Well. It worked. So there's that." Laurent shifted in his seat, tugged at the sleeve of the jacket, feeling the fabric slide over the skin of his wrist. Took a breath. Continued. 

"And then Damen came outside and found me. I don't know, he said he was worried. He said—" Laurent's breath caught for a moment at the memory of moonlight catching in brown eyes, nearly black in the darkness. Of that naked vulnerability that had shown like daylight on Damen's face— "He said that he follows my Instagram. That he knows my art, that he likes it, that he's been wanting to talk to me about commissioning a piece. And that he, uh," Laurent looked down, touched the sleeve of the jacket again. Rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. He continued to examine the texture of the fabric as he spoke,  "That he felt something for me, during the show. That he wanted to get to know me. Wants to get to know me. To see if there could be something. With us."

The silence stretched on until Laurent forced himself to look up, forced himself to meet Paschal's measuring blue gaze. He was not surprised that the expression was neutral, waiting for Laurent to continue. Paschal waited another moment, then nodded, his lips quirking just a bit, his brow raised in question. 

Laurent sighed, looked back down at his hands. Drew his fingertips back and forth, back and forth, feeling the texture of the sleeve under his touch. 

"And I. Well." Laurent felt his face flushing again. He started picking at his cuticle. There was red paint under his thumbnail. He frowned. How had he missed that? "Anyway. He waited with me until my Uber came. He had my painting— What Persists? You know, the one I've been fucking with for months now?— he had it as his phone background. He…he liked it so much that he had it set as his phone background . And he, uh. Invited me out for coffee. And I said yes. And then he…"

Laurent dug his nails into his palm, his heartbeat thudding in his chest. Took a breath. Another. And then forced the words out, a fast torrent. "He kissed me. And it was...it was. I… liked it. But it's never going to work. Obviously. There's no way it could work. So I was going to block his number and just be fine with it, right? I mean, I could be done with it. I wouldn't have to worry about it anymore, and it'd be done. But then we switched jackets by accident and I can't blow him off now because I have to see him to get my jacket back and I can't stop thinking about him all the time. Fucking hell."

Laurent risked a glance at up Paschal. His head  was tilted, eyes squinting just a bit like he was trying to work through some equation. 

"So let me see if I've got this right. He followed you outside, and asked you out, and you said yes, and he kissed you, and you liked it. Yes?" 

Laurent nodded. Felt the sting where his nails still dug into his palm. 

"But it's not going to work out because of…a jacket?"  Paschal sounded confused.

"No. I have to see him again because of the jacket. Tomorrow. We're meeting for coffee." Laurent plucked at the hem of the black denim, scowling down at it. "This is his. He has mine. It was dark. We switched by accident. It was a thing. Actually, it's the thing that I argued with everyone about. They noticed that the jacket was different, and got pushy when I didn't immediately tell them why I had it. No, the jacket was a mix up. It's not why it's not going to work. It's not going to work because—" 

The fabric under Laurent's hand was bunched now where Laurent grasped at it. 

"—because he's going to want things from me. Sex. And who knows if I can give it to him, ever. I'm just too fucking broken. And he's going to need someone who can keep up with him, you know? Someone who can show up at all of his concerts and be social and charming and— I don't fucking know— on. Does that make sense? Whatever. It doesn't matter. 

"And the thing is that his band is really fucking good. There's no way they aren't going to be successful, and then he'll be gone all the time and groupies will be throwing themselves at him left and right and he's going to want more from me and I won't be able to give it to him, so, I mean, path of least resistance, right? He's this gorgeous, popular, beautiful man who could literally have anyone . Why would he settle for an introverted, paint splattered shut-in who can't even drive himself around?" 

Laurent's breath was coming fast, his heart pounding. He let go of the fabric of Damen's jacket, clasped his hands together in his lap. Took a breath. Started counting. 

In...two...three...four .

After a moment, Paschal nodded. 

"That's a lot to unpack, Laurent. There are a lot of assumptions there. I'm going to work my way down the list, if that's alright?" 

Laurent nodded once, his mouth thinned to a line. Paschal would walk him through this,  regardless. This, too, was a recurring exercise in therapy. 

"Okay. You said he's going to want sex from you. Probability is high that he might want to be intimate with you someday, should your relationship develop. But the unspoken assumption here is that he's going to push you to be intimate with him before you're ready. That he won't go at your pace. Did he do or say anything that would lead you to think that this is the case?"

Laurent remembered Damen's face, hovering an inch from his, waiting for Laurent's gaze, waiting for permission. Can I ? Remembered his own impatience. Yes, What are you waiting for ? 

"No, but that doesn't mean that he won't—" 

"And you said that he's going to need someone who can keep up with him." Paschal barreled on, "The assumption being that you know what he wants and needs from a partner, and that it's not what you can give him. Again, did he say that's what he wanted from you?" 

"Well, no. Not yet. But—" 

"So you don't have all the facts. Okay. You mentioned people throwing themselves at him, with the implications that, what, he won't be faithful to you? That's quite the leap forward in time there, Laurent. You're mentally already dating him, and he's mentally already cheating on you. So let's check the facts."

Laurent scowled down at his fingers. He fucking hated this part. 

"One, you have no proof that Damen will be pushy and disrespectful when it comes to sex. Maybe he will, but maybe he won't. And you don't have enough information to decide. Two, you don't actually know what Damen needs or wants from a partner, because he hasn't told you yet. So again, not enough information. Three, there's nothing to suggest one way or the other that, should you start dating this man, he'd cheat on you. Being popular isn't the same as being promiscuous. And fourth…"

Paschal trailed off, his silence prompting Laurent to look up at him in question. 

"Fourth. Why would he 'settle' for you? Laurent, really . You're a brave, loyal, talented man. Who can drive, if he wants to, even though it scares him. However," Paschal paused here, raising an eyebrow and sitting back in his chair, bringing a finger to his cheek and tapping it there in a show of consideration. "You are frequently covered in paint. So there is that. Who knows? It could be a deal breaker for him. I guess you'll have to find out."

Laurent glared at Paschal, crossing his arms over his chest. Paschal just grinned back at him, amused and serene. Oh, fuck you, you smug, smartass—

"So you're seeing him tomorrow? For coffee? Sounds like a great chance to gather some more information." Paschal looked down at his wrist, checking his watch. "Oh, look at that, we're a few minutes over. Sorry. Don't want you to miss your bus. Same time next week?" Paschal stood, turned to walk briskly towards the door of his office. Laurent stood woodenly, and followed. 

"Here," Paschal said, handing over Laurent's still-damp umbrella. He reached out, clasped Laurent lightly on his arm, "You should try to go into this with an open mind. I think Damen might surprise you. And if he doesn't, we'll deal with it then. But for now, you have a chance to make a new friend, and maybe something more. That's good, Laurent." Paschal's hand squeezed gently in reassurance, and then dropped down. "You'll tell me how it goes next week, yes?" 

Laurent nodded, a little dazed at the abrupt end to the session. Paschal shuffled him out the door and into the waiting room, pulling it shut with a soft click behind him. Through the rain-misted glass of the widows lining the front of the small room, Laurent could see the bus a block or so down the street, slowly inching towards his stop in the afternoon traffic. Laurent dashed out, popping his umbrella open as he did. 

A few steps brought him to his stop. The bus was still stuck a block away at a red light. 

Laurent realized that there was no sound of rain   tapping down on his umbrella. There wasn't even a drizzle. 

He looked around as he closed his umbrella. The sun wasn't out yet, but the rain had stopped. 

At least for now.

Chapter Text

Here, a stroke, thin and tapering. Follow the edge, not too heavy. Delicate pressure, glossing along the layers, smooth over texture. Careful, careful.

Have to balance out the reds on this side, just enough. Not too much. Can't be too heavy-handed. I mean, really. Who the hell does Paschal even think that he is? Fucking self righteous asshole. Obviously he didn't understand the complexity of the situation with Damen. Or I just did a bad job of explaining— fuck. Too much. Where is the palette knife? Quick, asshole, before the acrylic dri—there. Okay, keep it at an angle, consistent pressure. Fuck. Okay. 

Wipe the palette knife down, and I'm putting the palette knife down here, to the right. Palette knife to the right. Palette knife to the right. Okay. Breathe. Do it again. 

Here, another stoke, even smoother than before. Better, even. 'Not a mistake'— What is it Herode always says?— 'an opportunity. Some of the best art I've ever made was by allowing my mistakes to not only take the forefront of my pieces, but to guide them. The trick is to make them look like they were something you meant to do all along.'

If I thin out that bit on the upper left, it could make the piece overall more cohesive, yes. But then what would Professor Randell think?  I suppose it would still meet the rubric for the piece— 'Utilizing the abstract methods presented in the first half of the semester, demonstrate one of the advanced color theory concepts listed below, while also showing an understanding of line weight, visual texture, and movement.'— Yes, if I thinned out all of the lines, then it could still work. Might even work better. Fuck. Fuck. That would take so much time, and I've already lost hours today at therapy. Shit. 

Laurent stood and stepped back. He envisioned the reworked piece. Considered it dispassionately. 

It would be better. Of course it would be better. 

Which meant he had to do it. Fuck. 

Fine. But he was done with this piece tonight. If he had to look at it for even one more minute, he was going to light it on fire. 

Laurent moved his palette to the desk— not really enough paint worth saving, considering he was going to start this section over anyway. Fucking hell. 

Where to put the wet canvas? Laurent looked around for a likely space. Top of the dresser was the emptiest, it would have to do. 

Laurent grabbed the few things that were there— his keys, a water bottle, his wallet, Damen's jacket— and placed them carefully on his desk, out of the way of his palette, ready for use tomorrow. 

He was still, very deliberately, not thinking about tomorrow. Therapy had left him flustered, barely registering the bus ride home. He'd thrown himself into homework, counting on the distraction to keep him occupied for the rest of the evening. That was before you fucked up and decided the whole piece needed to be reworked, asshole.

Laurent shook his head in irritation at himself, at the world at large. Maybe if he just tried to work it a little bit more—

 No. He knew better. He wasn't going to touch that piece again tonight. Experience had taught him that if he kept pushing once he'd hit a wall, his chances of fucking up increased exponentially. Far better to leave it alone and switch gears. Pick up another project entirely, and focus on that. 

So what was left? 

He was currently pretty on top of his other coursework. He could always pick up one of his various personal works in progress, he supposed. But none of his ongoing pieces really called to him at the moment. 

There was the commission Damen had mentioned. He'd been tossing around some ideas, mostly just color and movement at this point, but without a clear direction from Damen, he was hesitant to spend any real amount of time drawing up more complete thumbnails. 

Laurent would be seeing Damen tomorrow. He could ask him then. It would give them something to talk about, something to fill the silence if things got awkward. That was a plus. 

But he needed something to work on now . Maybe it would be okay to just...text Damen with a preliminary question about the design. So that way Laurent could do some rough sketches tonight and bring them to coffee tomorrow. Hell, that almost made it a business meeting. 

Laurent could do a business meeting. Business meetings were significantly less anxiety-producing than coffee dates. 

Laurent took his phone from his pocket, thumbed it on. He pulled up Damen's text and managed to resist the urge to scroll back and stare at Damen's photo. 

He deserved points for that, surely. 

Now to write the message…

Dear Damen, 

I've been thinking a lot about the commission we talked about the other night —

No, too personal. Way too close to admitting how much Damen had been on his mind. There was no need to give Damen any additional  advantage going into their date. 

Hi Damen! 

I'm excited to get started on that commission for Monarchs Rising—

No that wouldn't work either. It made Laurent seem far too eager. 

He needed to be professional. Calm. Collected.

After several minutes typing—then deleting—then typing again, Laurent nodded to himself. It was good enough. 

He hit send. 

Laurent stared at the phone, seeing his message appear on the screen. 

Sent Today 4:37 PM

Damen- 

I'm hoping to start preliminary work on the commission project for Monarchs Rising. Could you please give me a better idea of what you're looking for? I'd like to be able to bring some rough sketches tomorrow, so we can firm up a concept that I can work with. Also, if you give me your email address, I can send you my contract and commission rates . 

Laurent put the phone down. It would take Damen at least a few minutes to draft a reply. He reached behind himself, pressing his thumbs into his lower back and arching, stretching out the cramped muscles.

One of the pitfalls of painting, unfortunately, was a persistent stiffness and ache that would set in after hours sitting in front of a canvas. Maybe he should go grab a glass of water while he waited for Damen to—

His phone started ringing.  

Who the fuck was calling him? Was there some kind of emergency with Auguste? 

Laurent snatched up his phone, turning it over in his hand. Blinked at the screen in dawning horror. 

It was Damen. 

Calling him. 

Calling. Him . 

What the fuck!?  

Laurent's mind raced. He was definitely not ready to have a phone conversation with Damen! He was still psyching himself up for tomorrow, he wasn't ready to carry on any kind of intelligent conversation with Damen now! Especially with zero mental preparation… 

Fuck. Fuck. 

The phone would only ring for another moment. He had to do something . 

Laurent took a quick breath, pulled his shoulders back as if to steel himself for a blow, and answered the phone. 

"Yes?" Laurent assessed his tone. Adequate . He had somehow managed to sound reasonably calm, which was good. Damen didn't need to know that Laurent's heart was pounding in his chest. 

"Hey, Laurent!" Damen sounded like he was smiling into the phone. The tension banding Laurent's chest loosened, just a little bit. "I got your text and figured it'd be easier to just call you back." 

"Easier." Laurent echoed, still attempting to process that this was actually happening. 

"Yeah, honestly, I'm really not that into texting? I mean, I'll text, but it's faster for me to just say what I'm thinking, you know?" 

"Mmmm," Yes , Laurent thought to himself, speaking is technically faster, but how do you edit yourself? How do choose exactly the right wording? How do you make sure that you are communicating exactly what you want to communicate? 

"Anyway, it's really great to hear from you. I'm super excited about tomorrow."

Laurent felt his face flushing. Fuck, if he couldn't hold himself together during a phone call, how the fuck was he going to survive a date with Damen? 

"Yes, well…" Laurent cleared his throat and forcibly turned his mind towards the reason he'd texted Damen in the first place, "Have you thought about the commission? I'd really like to start sketching tonight." 

"I mean," Damen drew the words out, voice rising at the end. What was that ? Sarcasm? Was he making fun of Laurent somehow? This was important .

Or maybe it was…hesitation? Regret? Did Damen not want Laurent to do the commission anymore? Had he talked to the band, and they'd hated the idea? Maybe he just changed his mind… 

"I'm not the artist, Laurent, you are. I don't really have any specific ideas. I love everything of yours that I've seen. So I guess, just, like, do anything you want. I'm sure it will be perfect. I trust you."

Laurent absorbed these words in silence. Felt his eye give a tiny twitch. 

Do whatever you want!?  I trust you!? What the actual fuck!?

"You trust me." Laurent reached up, rubbed at the  bridge of his nose, where tension was building behind his eyes. He tried to pull his thoughts into some semblance of order. "Damen, that's not going to work. I need more than, 'Do what you want, I trust you.'''

Damen hummed, a considering noise. At least he was giving Laurent's insistence some thought. 

"Well, I really love your one painting. The one I have as my background? Maybe you could do something like that?" 

Of course he picks the one piece I've been struggling with for months. 

"Can you be a little more specific? If you can tell me what you like about it, I can try to incorporate those aspects into your commission."  

Excellent, Laurent, he thought scathingly, That doesn't sound like you're fishing for compliments at all .

Damen hummed under his breath again, a sound which Laurent was starting to think of as his buffering noise. 

It was not cute. It wasn't . 

"I really love the colors. How they look like they're melting into each other from far away, but really there's all this detail hidden inside. And I like the designs. Like, the shapes of the background, with the person just floating there. I don't know, it just makes me feel like I'm…" Damen paused, searching for a word. "Like I'm lost in a dream. Like this dream world is melting around me.

"I don't know, Laurent, it's hard to put into words… but if you could do anything even a little bit like that, it'll make an amazing cover for our EP. I trust your artistic sense. You know what you're doing. I don't want to limit you with ideas, because I know whatever you'll come up with will be a thousand times better."

Laurent's mind felt frozen, stunned by the thoughtfulness of Damen's response. 

He tried to think of how to respond, what to say. 

The silence stretched out between them. 

"Laurent, are you still there?" 

"I'm. Yes," Laurent took a breath, squeezed his eyes shut. Opening them again, he looked around the room. Where was his sketchbook? There . Peeking out from under his GRE prep book. Laurent picked it up, then turned to sit back at his desk. 

"Sorry, yes, I'm still here. I just had to grab something to take notes with." Laurent said, hoping that he didn't sound as breathless as he felt. 

"Okay, good," Damen sounded…relieved? "I was afraid my phone dropped the call. I didn't want you to think I just hung up on you." 

"No, I didn't think that." Wait, why was Laurent reassuring him? God, this is awkward. I'm being awkward, aren't I? 

"Good," Damen said. 

"Good," Laurent replied automatically, then winced. Pull it together, asshole . 

Laurent cleared his breath, then nodded to himself. Focus . "So let me make sure I have an idea of what you're looking for. You like the color palette that I used in What Persists, right?"

"Yeah. I love it."

Laurent flipped the sketchbook open to the next blank page, and began jotting down notes. 

• Heavily saturated pallette, ref WP

"And you like the design details in the color. Do you want them subtle like that, or maybe bolder?" 

"Uh," Damen replied, "I'm not sure? I think what you've got looks great. If they were bolder, do you think it'd be distracting?" 

He's not wrong , some obnoxious part of Laurent's brain pointed out helpfully. 

• Subtle designs in background

"Yes. I'll stick with that. So. You also like the larger, more geometric composition in the background? I can do that too." 

"Yeah, that sounds good," Damen said agreeably, "I mean it, Laurent, just do whatever you think is best." 

Laurent pursed his lips in annoyance at Damen's laid back attitude.  

"I'm just trying to make sure I have a clear understanding of what you're looking for, Damen. I need to have something to write on the contract I send you. This is an important step in the commission process." Laurent did his best to keep his voice even, to keep the words from being clipped and irate. "You should know that I charge an additional fee for every time I have to rework a piece because the client changes their mind."

"Oh, yeah... I guess that makes sense. Sorry," Damen said, apologetic. 

Maybe I didn't quite manage to keep all of the frustration out my voice after all. Ah, well, he doesn't sound too put off. 

"It's fine. We're almost done. So that was a yes on the geometric background composition elements?" 

"Yes. Definitely a yes. I like that a lot." 

"Good," Laurent nodded, making another note. 

• geometric background composition

"You also said you like how the figure is floating. I can do something similar. Maybe with the whole band, though?" Laurent suggested. 

"Oh, I really like that idea," Damen said, a smile in his voice, "I'm so excited to see what you do with this, Laurent. It's going to be amazing. I can feel it."

"Yes, well," Laurent felt his face begin to heat at the confidence in Damen's tone. He bit his lip. Focus . 

• Figures floating in foreground

"I think I have enough to go on to start playing around with some concepts, at any rate." Laurent said, hoping to bring the conversation to a close. 

"I'm really excited to see them. Honestly, I'm just really excited to see you in general." The warmth in Damen's voice had something  twisting in the pit of Laurent's stomach. What do I even say in response to something like that ? 

"Ah…yes. Well…" Laurent floundered, dropping the pencil on the desk and placing his hand over the fluttering in his gut. Laurent's mind raced, searching for something to say, anything, really—

A knock sounded at the door, interrupting the rising panic.

 "Laurent? Can I come in?" Nicaise called out, the door already swinging open without waiting for a response. 

"I have to go. My nephew needs something." Laurent spoke into the phone, at once both irritated at the unauthorized intrusion and profoundly grateful for the timely interruption. 

Nicaise stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob. 

"Laurent, I need help with my—" 

Laurent held up a finger, silencing him. 

Nicaise crossed his arms, waiting. 

"Oh, okay, that's fine. I've got stuff I have to do, too." Damen replied easily. Then his voice softened, like he was speaking through a smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, Laurent. Twelve o'clock, right?" 

"Yes, twelve o'clock. I'll, uh… see you then."  Nicaise raised an eyebrow at Laurent's response, opened his mouth as if to comment. Laurent shook his head. 

"I can't wait. Bye, Laurent." How did Damen manage to make these kinds of conversational transitions seem so effortless? 

It was baffling. 

"Bye." Laurent spat the word out, quickly ending the call before he could choke on his own awkwardness. 

He turned, taking his time to put his phone face-down on the desk. He reached over and closed his sketchbook, lining it up with the edge of the desk. Moved the pencil so that it was parallel to the book. He took a breath. Relaxed his shoulders. 

Only then did he turn to face his nephew. 

"What have I told you about just walking in without permission?" Laurent said without heat. He didn't want to jump into an argument with Nicaise, but the boy couldn't keep barging into his room like that. I need to start locking my door. What if I'd been jerking off?  

"I knocked." Nicaise said, petulant. 

"You did, but in polite society, one waits until they've been granted permission to enter. I value my privacy, Nicaise. How would you like it if I barged in on you anytime I wanted? I'm sure there are things that you do that you'd rather not have interrupted." Laurent said knowingly.

His nephew was a thirteen year old boy, after all. It wasn't rocket science. 

Nicaise's face flushed. "Fine. Whatever. Can you help me with my homework?" Nicaise dropped his arms, slouched back against the doorway. "I've got this essay, and I think it's okay, but Mr. Berenger is a hardass with grammar and shit. And I've got this Biology stuff that is so stupid, I mean, who the fuck cares about Punnett squares?" 

"Geneticists, I imagine." Laurent said, after casting his memory back into the murky waters of middle school biology to find the term. Something about peapods, right? 

"Yeah, well, I don't want to be a geneticist, so why should I care?" 

Laurent rubbed at the bridge of his nose and sighed. "You never know when you're going to need information, Nicaise. But understanding how science works in general is good. There are a lot of ignorant, ill-informed people out there who wilfully ignore things like climate change. Maybe they wouldn't be so easily swayed if they'd had a better grounding in the sciences."

Nicaise wrinkled his nose in apparent disgust, though whether that disgust was directed at the idea of a world filled with people who ignored the truth or at Laurent for pointing it out, he didn't know. 

"Anyway, can you help me? Dad is working late, and Kash is out at her book club thing. She said we're on our own for dinner, too."

Laurent glanced back at his sketchbook, considered how long it would take him to get at least a few quick thumbnail designs done.

"Sure, I can help you, but give me an hour to finish these concept sketches. Here," Laurent reached for his wallet and pulled out his credit card, "Order some pizza in about 20 minutes, and I'll help you after we eat, okay?" 

"Can we get pineapple on it?" Nicaise asked hopefully. 

"Your dad isn't here to argue, so yes, we can get pineapple." The validity of pineapple on pizza, or rather, the lack thereof, was something that Auguste would complain about at length if given half a chance. 

"Awesome." Nicaise grabbed the card, smiling. 

"Just come get me when the food gets here. And this time, wait after you knock, Nicaise. Don't barge in."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Fine." Nicaise rolled his eyes and pulled the door shut, slamming it a little harder then he needed to. 

Teenagers . 

Laurent's mind turned back to the call with Damen. He rubbed his hands down his face, exhaling deeply. So that happened. It could've been worse, he supposed. Who the fuck calls someone in response to a text? Damen hadn't even seemed phased by the call at all.

Laurent recalled Damen's tone there at the end… I'll see you tomorrow . For a moment, he visualized what Damen's face would have looked like when he spoke those words.

The fluttering sensation in his gut rippled back to life, shivering through him at the thought. He could picture, with a surprising clarity, how Damen's eyes would warm, how the corners might crinkle when he smiled around the affection in his voice. I'll see you tomorrow… 

He bit down on his lip, trying to tamp down where that flutter was turning to heat in his veins, pulsing low into his body. Traitorously, his memory was tripping back to that bench in the darkness, into the feeling of Damen's tongue sliding against his own. 

What if we hadn't been interrupted?

What if Laurent had swung his leg over Damen's lap, had straddled those thick thighs? Surely, Damen wouldn't have protested having Laurent writhing in his lap. Would he have felt the outline of Damen hard beneath him, even through layers of leather and denim? Would Damen gasp into his mouth when Laurent rocked down onto that hardness, grinding into it with his own? Would he—

That's enough . Laurent squeezed his eyes shut, as if closing them could somehow block out the sight he'd conjured in his mind's eye. He dug his fingers hard into his thighs, focused the entirety of his attention on the dull pain. Come on, you know how to control this. 

His mind flinched away from why he knew… and that itself was enough. He ignored the sick feeling that wanted to crawl up into his throat. It didn't apply to this. He wouldn't let it. 

After a few shakey moments, Laurent opened his eyes. Okay. It's okay… 

Fuck, he needed a distraction now . Well, at least he had a project to work on, and some idea of what Damen wanted. 

Flipping the sketchbook on his desk open, Laurent examined the list he'd made on the call with Damen. This is doable. I can do this.  

His colored pencils were already out, sharpened and ready in an oversized coffee mug that read, "Don't Talk to Me Until I've Eaten The DSM". Laurent smiled wryly as he pulled the cup closer to him on the desk. It was gift from Kashel, an irreverent nod to their shared history in the mental health system. Laurent had laughed so hard when he opened the box that he'd nearly cried. 

He flipped his sketchbook open to the next blank page and stared at it, the emptiness echoing with its visual silence, loud in its lack.

Choice paralysis. Laurent thought, knowing immediately what this particular fear was. Nope, not today. Time to sidestep.

It was his go-to technique for pushing through this kind of performance anxiety: distract enough that the yawning void of potential wouldn't swallow him whole, and then just start drawing. The goal was to just make one mark on the page, and then another, and then another. They didn't have to be good. 

They could always be erased later. 

It was the starting that mattered. 

Music . That should help. Drown it out, give it something to occupy itself,and then jump in . 

Laurent grabbed his phone, quickly navigated to his Monarchs Rising playlist. His finger hovered over the 'play' icon… 

Laurent shook his head, sighing. He bent down, rummaged through the pocket of his messenger bag. There . He pulled out the tangled headphones, picking at the loops of wire until they were mostly straight. He plugged them into his phone. No reason to give Nicaise any kind of ammunition to tease him about tomorrow. 

Laurent hit play, and let the complex weave of notes and rhythms pull him into the intricate tapestry of sound. 

He picked up a golden yellow pencil, the color warm and bright like the gleaming thread of melody that ribboned from Damen's violin. One mark. Just one.

He began drawing, loosely, letting himself fall into the flow of the music, refusing to think critically about the image growing on his page. These were thumbnails, not final products. He could afford to take wild risks here, where the stakes were low and there was no expectation of a polished piece at the end. 

Within minutes he was lost to it, quick lines filling the pages, composition, movement, texture, placement. The moment he had a rough idea of how the piece could come together, he'd force himself to flip the page and start over, making changes to the overall design. No getting stuck on ideas. That was for later. 

Imagery danced onto the pages, almost of its own accord. Laurent let his mind drift, settling into the flow—

Laurent was jolted back into awareness with a start, as something slid along his leg. What the… 

Laurent pulled out his headphones as he looked down. It was Ari, rubbing up against him, distressed meows audible now that his headphones were off. And he was covered in… fuck is that blood?!? 

Shoving the chair back, Laurent dropped to his knees next to his cat. His heart was pounding with fear. What the fuck happened? 

Except, upon closer inspection, Laurent realized that it wasn't blood streaking the short gray fur. 

It was paint. Red acrylic paint. 

Ari meowed again, clearly unhappy with the paint matted in his fur. Laurent reached down and touched the streaks of red. Still wet, thank god. He quickly glanced  around, noting the trail of paint on the carpet. 

Well that's a lost cause. When did he get in here? It must have been when Nicaise opened the door, he realized. This is exactly why Ari isn't allowed in here when I'm painting! 

Laurent scooped up his cat, holding him close to his chest. He'd worry about paint stains on the carpet later; now, he had to give his cat a bath, and quickly, before the acrylic dried into his fur. 

He maneuvered the door open, clutching his wriggling cat to himself even tighter with one arm, darting the other out to turn the knob. 

"Nicaise!" Laurent called out as he started down the hallway, voice loud and urgent. "I need your help right now! Ari got into my paint!" 

Nicaise darted around the corner, his eyes wide with concern. 

"Shit! What happened?" 

"He must have gotten in when you opened the door. Can you get the door to the bathroom?" 

"Yeah, here, let me…" Nicaise slipped past, opened the door. He quickly stepped back and out of the way. 

"I need you to go into my closet and grab my black hoodie. It should be hanging up. Then go into the front hall closet and dig out my winter gloves, the puffy ones. They're probably on the top shelf. Quickly, please." Laurent ordered as moved into the bathroom.

He could feel Ari's heart beating fast as he leaned over the tub. The cat started to squirm even more violently in his arms. He must know what was coming. 

This is going to be so much fun, Laurent thought grimly. 

Laurent placed his cat in the tub, careful to do so in such a way that allowed him to apply gentle but firm pressure to the cat's back, forcing him into a crouch that left him very little movement. 

Nicaise returned a moment later, holding the gloves in one hand and the hoodie in the other. 

"Good. Now shut the door. You can put those down there," Laurent nodded to the counter. "Grab a towel, not one of the nice ones. Yes, that works. Now come over here."

Nicaise crouched down next to Laurent, and looked at him questioningly. 

"I need you to drape the towel over him and hold him here. Just get it real tight around him before I pull my hands out, and then hold him so he can't get away, okay?" 

Nicaise nodded, and they quickly made the transfer. 

Ari's mewls were pitiful. He was clearly distressed. Well, that made two of them. Laurent felt terrible. He knew that Ari was going to hate what happened next even worse. 

Laurent reached under the sink, looking for the bottle of pet shampoo they'd bought after the last time Ari had gotten into the trash. There. He placed it on the side of the tub, then stood. 

"What are the hoodie and the gloves for?" Nicaise asked, risking a glance over his shoulder. 

"Protection." Laurent pulled the hoodie over his head, then started tugging on the gloves. "The last time I had to give him a bath, he clawed the shit out of me."

"Yikes." Nicaise said, scooching over to make room for Laurent without letting go of the towel. 

"Yikes, indeed. Alright, I'm going to turn on the water. He's probably going to freak out, so make sure you've got a good grip on him. Once I've got the water right, I'll switch with you. Then you should probably go, no need for both of us to get soaked. The pizza will be here soon anyway. Make sure you shut the door, I don't want him to be able to get out if he gets loose." Laurent knelt next to his nephew, "Oh, and grab a few more towels down for me? Okay, here I go."

Laurent turned on the water, adjusting the knobs until the were approximately at warm. Quickly, he reached back and secured his cat, who was definitely trying to escape in earnest now. 

"Do me a favor and feel that for me? Is it warm? Not too hot."

Nicaise felt the water with his hand. "It's good."

The boy stood, and turned to get more towels. 

"I'm sorry I let him get into your room, Laurent. I didn't mean to, I swear."

"I know you didn't do it on purpose. I'm not mad at you. This is just a pain in the ass. He's a sneaky little shit, aren't you buddy?" 

A chime sounded from the hallway. 

"That'll be the pizza. Leave them a $5 tip." 

"Okay." 

There was a click behind him, as the bathroom door latched closed. 

"Alright sweetheart," Laurent said, Ari's distraught meows making his heart clutch in his chest, "Let's get this over with."

…… 

Twenty minutes later, Laurent emerged from the bathroom with a clean, albeit damp and miserable, cat. 

Laurent himself was soaked, but at least the hoodie and the gloves had protected him from the worst of Ari's scratching. 

Laurent placed Ari down on the ground, finally letting him free. The cat took off, darting towards the living room. Probably gonna mope under the couch for a while, ungrateful little asshole . 

He headed back to his room, wanting to get out of his wet clothes, and hoping that maybe, somehow, he could get the paint out of the carpet. That was highly unlikely.. Once acrylic dried, it was basically plastic. There'd be no way to get the paint out other than to try to cut it out. 

It wasn't the first paint stain on Laurent's floor by any means. They'd been living here for over seven years, there was no way their security deposit wasn't fucked by now. But there was no reason to make it any worse than it already was. 

Laurent entered his room, giving it a more thorough inspection to inventory the stains. The paint on the carpet wasn't too terrible. How much had gotten on his desk? He turned to check—

No. Oh, fuck. No . 

The paint palette was overturned, face-down on the carpet. The paint on it was surely dried into the fibers by now. But that wasn't what made his mind freeze. 

Laurent forced himself to walk over and examine the top of his desk. 

Red paint was smeared over the surface, long streaks where Ari had obviously scrambled to try and free himself from the viscous mess. But that wasn't the problem, either. 

Damen's jacket was bunched up, a wrinkled mound of black and red. Laurent smoothed it out to survey the damage. 

Red paint was slashed over the entire back of Damen's jacket. It looked like Ari must have tried to wipe his paws off onto the black denim, but had only succeeded in spreading it around. 

Laurent touched the paint, just to be sure. The red was completely dry, the streaks jagged lines across the back of the jacket. 

It was ruined. Completely ruined. 

I ruined Damen's jacket.

Laurent felt a despairing laughter bubbling up inside of him. It had nothing to do with humor. 

 Never mind that Ari did it. It was in my possession, and it got ruined. 

Laurent sat down on his bed. He stared down at his hands. His mind was spinning. 

What am I going to say? How am I going to tell him? 

The laughter was turning into hitching breaths as the panic of it set in. 

Better figure it out soon, asshole , his brain taunted scathingly,  because you're going to have to tell him tomorrow. 

He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his thighs, then brought his forehead down to rest on his palms. 

It was going to be a long night.