Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

That first night in his uncle’s house was unbearably quiet.

Laurent hadn’t stopped crying since Auguste’s funeral. Now, curled in an unfamiliar bed, in a room that didn’t smell like home, all he wanted was his brother. He wanted Auguste to come tuck him in, ruffle his hair, kiss his forehead the way he always did.

But Auguste wasn’t coming. Not tonight. Not ever.

Laurent clutched his stuffed horse tighter, soaking its worn brown fur with fresh tears. The silence pressed in from all sides - too loud, too strange. He threw the blanket off and slipped out of bed, his small feet cold against the hardwood as he tiptoed down the hallway, breath hitching with each sob.

When he reached his uncle’s room, he hesitated. The door was slightly ajar, a warm light spilling out.

He pushed it open, slow and uncertain.

His uncle was sitting up in bed, a book in hand, glasses low on his nose. He looked up, eyes catching Laurent’s tear-streaked face - his expression softening between pity and something Laurent couldn’t quite figure out.

“What are you doing out of bed, sweetheart?” he asked gently.

When Laurent didn’t answer, his uncle quietly set his book aside and lifted the covers, a silent invitation.

Laurent hesitated only a moment before crossing the room. He climbed into the bed, small and shaking, and his uncle gently wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.

The warmth of the embrace made something in Laurent crumble. He buried his face into the older man’s chest, soaking his pajamas with fresh tears.

“I’m all alone,” he choked out between sobs. “Everyone’s gone - Mama, Papa… and now Auguste. I don’t have anyone left.”

His uncle sighed, almost theatrically, but his arms tightened around Laurent, settling the boy in his lap as if cradling something delicate.

"Yes," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Laurent’s damp cheek. "Everyone has left you. Poor thing."

He tilted Laurent’s chin upward, guiding his gaze until their eyes met - blue locked on blue, red-rimmed and shining.

"But you’ve got me now," he said softly. "I’ll take care of you, Laurent. You don’t have to worry about anything anymore."

At those words, Laurent’s face crumpled, fresh tears spilling over as he clung to his uncle’s shirt. The older man stroked his hair slowly, almost absently, fingertips trailing through the short, fine strands.

"There, there," he murmured. "No need for tears, silly boy. Uncle’s here. Uncle won’t leave you alone." He paused, voice low, coaxing. "Why don’t you sleep here with me tonight?"

Laurent nodded, wiping his face on the sleeve of his pajamas. He didn’t hesitate this time, just curled in closer, pressing his cheek against the softness of his uncle’s shirt. The steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath it was comforting, even if it wasn’t the one he wanted.

He just wanted someone to stay.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Just for tonight.”

His uncle smiled - not the warm kind that Auguste used to give, but something quieter, unreadable. He reached over to switch off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into shadows. One hand rested gently on Laurent’s back, holding him in place.

“That’s my good boy,” he said.

Laurent’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes still wet with tears. Exhaustion pulled at him. He didn’t notice the silence that followed, or how still his uncle had gone beside him.

He didn’t know - couldn’t know - that this was the beginning.

That just for tonight would turn into every night.

At first, Laurent thought he was just being allowed - indulged, even - because he was sad. His uncle never scolded him for climbing into bed uninvited. Instead, he would lift the covers with a quiet, knowing smile, always waiting. Sometimes he'd already be awake, reading. Other times, he'd be sitting up in the dark, as if expecting him.

During the day, too, his uncle was always there.

He’d sit with Laurent in the sunlit drawing room, let him curl up in his lap with a book, or rest his head on his shoulder during the long, quiet hours. He’d stroke Laurent’s hair while he read aloud, his voice low and gentle - like how Auguste used to read to him, only softer. Slower.

Gifts began to appear.

A soft blue sweater, just his size. A leather-bound sketchbook, even though Laurent didn’t draw. A silver comb for his hair. His uncle said it was because Laurent deserved nice things - because he was special.

At school, other children talked about playdates and parents and sports. Laurent had none of that anymore. But he had his uncle. His uncle, who was always waiting at home, always warm and kind, always calling him my darling boy.

So Laurent stayed close.

He didn’t notice when the air started to change.

When the touches lingered just a little longer. When the smiles grew quieter, heavier. When comfort became something else.

And so, the first time his uncle rolled on top of him in the quiet dark, Laurent didn’t stop him.

He didn’t understand - not really - only that this, too, felt like something he was supposed to accept. Something that came with the warmth, the safety, the attention. Something that proved he was loved, or at least not alone.

And all the times after that, he didn’t stop him either.

Because no one else was holding him. Because no one else was saying his name like it mattered. Because grief had hollowed him out, and his uncle was the only one filling the silence.

Laurent told himself it was love. That it must be.

Afterwards, his uncle would always hold him.

He’d gather Laurent up like nothing had happened - or like something important had - and rock him gently, as if the tears were just from bad dreams or old grief.

“You did so well,” he’d whisper, stroking his hair with slow, careful fingers. “It’s always hardest at first. But you’re strong, Laurent. You’re my strong, brave boy.”

Laurent didn’t feel strong. He felt split in two. A part of him floating just outside himself, watching the ceiling, the shadows, the quiet way the room never changed no matter what happened in it.

His uncle would hush him when he cried. He’d speak softly, kindly, like a lullaby.

“The pain won’t last much longer,” he promised. “You’ll get used to it soon. You’ll even start to like it. I know you will.”

And Laurent, too tired to fight, too confused to understand, just nodded. What else could he do? This was the only kind of love he had left.

And love was supposed to hurt sometimes. That’s what people said - in books, in movies, in quiet conversations he half remembered. Wasn’t it?

So he held onto that.

And while the nights bled into each other, the days at school blurred into the same dull fog.

Laurent sat quietly at his desk, smaller than the others, quieter too. He used to be sharp - Auguste said so, once - but now his mind wandered during lessons. Words on the board swam. His pencil sat untouched. He flinched when the classroom door slammed too hard.

He rarely raised his hand anymore.

Teachers began to notice.

They noticed how he stared through the window instead of at the chalkboard. How he jumped when someone touched his shoulder. How he never laughed when the other kids did, how he didn’t run at recess - and if he did, he limped. Subtly, awkwardly. Like he was trying not to let anyone see.

His homeroom teacher, began to make notes. “Fatigue,” she wrote in the margins of his report. “Lack of focus. Withdrawn. Possible injury?”

When she crouched beside his desk one day and gently asked, “Is everything okay at home, Laurent?” he just nodded, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Everything is fine, miss,” he said, soft and automatic.

He smiled, like he’d been told to

The gifts kept coming after that. But they weren’t like before.

Not toys or books or soft sweaters that smelled faintly of cedar and home. These were… different. A silver necklace that felt too heavy around his neck. Cologne in a glass bottle that made his head spin when he uncapped it.

“Because you’re growing up,” his uncle said, brushing Laurent’s hair back from his face. “You’re not a little boy anymore. You deserve things that match who you are.”

Laurent nodded, because that’s what he was supposed to do. But the packages that used to make his chest flutter now made his stomach twist. He didn’t want to hurt his uncle’s feelings - his uncle, who always held him when he cried, who told him he was special, that he was chosen. That no one else could understand him the way he did.

“They’d try to take you away from me if they knew,” his uncle whispered one night, voice hot against Laurent’s ear. “Because they don’t understand us. They don’t see how much we love each other. They’d ruin everything.”

Laurent didn’t know who they were. Teachers, maybe. Strangers. People with cold hands and official voices. He only knew that if they took him away, he’d be alone again. Lost again. And his uncle said that would be worse - worse than anything else.

“We don’t need anyone else,” his uncle said, pressing one of the new gifts - a silver earring, delicate and thin - into Laurent’s trembling hand. “It’s just you and me, Laurent. That’s all we’ll ever need.”

Laurent clutched the earring in his fist and said nothing.

The shine of the gifts dulled quickly, but he kept them all in a box beneath his bed. He didn’t know why he couldn’t throw them away. Only that he couldn’t. Not yet.

Everything changed the day Laurent came home to silence.

The front door clicked shut behind him, his backpack slipping off his shoulder. He heard the soft click of the phone being placed in its cradle, then the sound of footsteps - measured, deliberate - moving through the hall.

His uncle appeared in the doorway. His expression was tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t smile.

“Laurent, sweetheart,” he said. “Come here.”

Something in his voice made Laurent’s stomach twist. He walked over slowly, clutching the strap of his backpack with both hands.

“Who did you talk to at school today?” his uncle asked. Not casual. Not kind.

Laurent blinked. “No one,” he said quickly. 

“You didn’t tell anyone anything?”

Laurent shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I swear-”

Crack.

The slap came out of nowhere - fast and hard across his cheek. The sound rang in the hallway louder than anything else.

Laurent stumbled, his hand flying up to his face. His skin burned. His eyes stung. He looked up, dazed, not quite believing what had just happened.

His uncle’s face had changed - not angry anymore, exactly, but cold. Too calm.

“You do not lie to me,” he said. “Do you understand?”

Laurent nodded, trembling, pressing his lips together to stop from crying. He wasn’t lying. But he didn’t want to make things worse.

“I’ve protected you,” his uncle said, softer now, crouching to meet his eyes. “I’ve given you everything. All I’ve asked in return is your obedience. Is that too much to ask?”

“N-No,” Laurent whispered.

“Good.” A thumb brushed his cheek, right where the skin had reddened. “Then you’ll be more careful. You know how dangerous it is if people start asking questions. You don’t want them to take you away, do you?”

Laurent’s voice caught. “No.”

“Then we have to be more careful. That’s all. You didn’t mean to make me angry, did you?”

Laurent shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

His uncle smiled. Kissed the top of his head. “There’s my good boy.”

His Uncle took him on the sofa after that.

The curtains were drawn. The light was soft. His uncle’s arms were warm around him, his voice quieter than ever - sugar-sweet and soft like lullabies.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into Laurent’s hair as he breached him. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… love you so much. I can’t lose you.”

Laurent nodded, his face blank, body still as he felt himself stretch.

“I know,” he said. “It’s okay.”

He didn’t cry this time. He didn’t do much of anything. He just let his mind go where it always went now - to that quiet place inside where things didn’t feel so sharp, where voices muffled and hands became weightless and far away.

His uncle kissed his temple. His hands moved hungrily, like they always did.

Laurent floated.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was just glad his uncle wasn’t angry anymore. That he’d forgiven him. That things were okay again.

And if he stayed still enough, quiet enough, maybe they would stay that way.

A week later, his uncle sat him down with a new softness in his voice, like he was offering a treat.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Maybe school isn’t the best place for you right now. You’re sensitive. Special. I don’t think they really understand you there.”

Laurent stared at him, unsure. “I thought I was doing okay…”

His uncle smiled. “It’s not about grades, darling. It’s about your heart. And your heart needs peace, doesn’t it? Quiet. Stability. You’ve been through so much.”

He cupped Laurent’s face. “I can give you all that. I’ll teach you here. Just the two of us. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Laurent hesitated. But the way his uncle looked at him - so proud, so certain - made the words catch in his throat.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Because if his uncle was happy, then everything would be okay. Because it had to be.

And everything was okay. His Uncle taught him, and they’d have sex between lessons. His Uncle was gentler, calmer. Laurent felt cared for.

That peace shattered one night, without warning.

His uncle had made him wear something new - something tight, something that smelled faintly of cologne and fabric softener. He told Laurent to brush his hair, straighten the cuffs, smile.

“There’s someone coming by,” he said lightly. “Just a friend.”

Laurent didn’t understand. Not until the doorbell rang. Not until the man stepped inside with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and money exchanged hands like it meant nothing.

Not until the bedroom door closed behind him.

Then Laurent understood.

He cried. He sobbed until his throat burned, until his chest ached, and when the man touched him, he screamed for his uncle.

Begged him.

“Please - please don’t let him - Uncle, please-”

But his uncle didn’t come.

He waited just outside the room.

Afterwards, Laurent lay curled on the bed, shaking. He didn’t know how long he was there - only that everything felt wrong, everything felt broken. Like he had fallen out of himself and couldn’t find the way back in.

Later, his uncle stepped inside, calm and soft as ever. Like nothing had happened. Like it was all normal.

“You were so brave,” he said, scooping Laurent up and settling him in his lap. “I’m proud of you.”

He placed a wrapped box on the bed.

Laurent didn’t move.

“Special editions,” his uncle said, gently unwrapping the corners. “The whole collection. You mentioned them once, remember? I tracked them down just for you.”

Inside the box, the spines gleamed - cloth-bound, gold-embossed. Beautiful things.

Laurent stared at them, silent. Then at the roaring fire behind the grate.

All he could think about was throwing them in. Watching the pages curl and blacken. Listening to the crackle of flames eating up every lie.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just let the silence stretch, eyes dry now, because there were no tears left.

Over time his uncle’s attention narrowed in other ways too. Home tutoring stopped happening, lessons were dismissed with a laugh and an offhand remark about usefulness.

“I’d rather have a dumb pretty boy than a smart one,” his uncle joked once, the words soft and casual as if they were a compliment.

The house became Laurent’s entire curriculum: how to keep still, how to please, how to be polished for visitors. Schoolbooks gathered dust on a shelf he no longer touched. Education became an indulgence his uncle had no patience for - and Laurent learned to answer with the same small, obedient smile that kept the threats at bay.

Two years passed.

Two years of closed curtains and locked doors. Of men coming and going - some kind, most not, none of them seeing him as anything but a pretty face, a soft body, something bought and paid for.

Laurent stopped screaming after the first few times. It changed nothing.

He stopped begging, too.

He learned how to smile just enough, how to detach, how to let himself float somewhere far above the ceiling. He learned that silence earned less punishment. That obedience earned praise.

That was all he had now - the moments after. The warm hand stroking his hair. The whispered “You did so well, Laurie. I know that was hard, but you did it for me. I love you.” The soft murmur of his name as his uncle wrapped arms around his trembling frame and held him like a lover, not a child.

“You’re my special boy,” his uncle would say. “No one could ever understand you the way I do.”

And Laurent believed it. He had to.

Because the other men didn’t say his name. They didn’t look him in the eye. They didn’t care if he cried or bled or shook afterward. To them, he wasn’t even Laurent - just something to use and leave behind.

But his uncle was different. His uncle said he loved him.

And so, no matter how much Laurent hated sex - hated himself - it always felt almost okay when it was his uncle. When it was quiet. When it was just the two of them.

Because when his uncle touched him, it didn’t feel like being used.

It felt like being chosen.

But at night, when the house was dark and the fireplace long dead, Laurent would lie awake staring at the ceiling, his body aching, his thoughts louder than they’d ever been.

He thought about ending it. About disappearing. About how quiet everything would be if he just… stopped.

But he didn’t.

Because he had a purpose. His uncle gave him one.

And if this - was what love looked like… then maybe he didn’t deserve anything else.

The summer of Laurent’s fifteenth year, his uncle took him along on a business trip.

Laurent had never traveled with him before. After two years spent mostly shut inside the house, the world beyond its walls felt both too wide and too close, and his nerves prickled at every shift in the unfamiliar air.

At the hotel, his uncle requested a suite with a single double bed. The receptionist didn’t blink. Laurent felt the weight of his uncle’s hand resting low against his back and wondered what she saw. Did she think it strange, a grown man sharing a bed with a boy his age? Or did she smile inwardly at the image of a father and son too close to care about appearances?

It didn’t matter. They’d be gone in a week, and Laurent would never see her again.

After they entered their room, his uncle said they ought to "make use of the bed" before his conference. Laurent didn’t argue; arguing never made a difference.

Later, whilst his uncle adjusted his tie in the mirror, Laurent lay still, eyes closed, napping. When the door finally shut behind him, Laurent rose with quiet determination. He moved carefully, showered, and dressed. The ache of routine clung to him, but so did resolve.

He would not waste this chance at freedom by sitting inside a hotel room.

His uncle told him he could roam the hotel so long as he caused no trouble and returned by six. It wasn’t freedom, not really, but it was more than he was used to. His uncle trusted him - or perhaps knew Laurent had nowhere else to go. There was no one waiting for him beyond these walls, no one who would notice if he stayed away.

Laurent gathered his hair, now long enough to braid, fingers moving with practiced precision. His uncle liked it that way, said it made him look prettier.

He straightened his shirt, drew a steadying breath, and headed downstairs. The hotel lobby gleamed with polished marble and glass, too bright and too cold. Beyond the doors, the pool glittered in the sun, an invitation to anywhere that wasn’t a room upstairs.

His stomach gave a low, insistent growl. The thought of food turned him queasy -  it being too soon since his Uncle had finished inside of him. Besides, his uncle had mentioned he was putting on weight, a warning that echoed in his mind like a rule.

Laurent drifted through the hotel’s crowded halls, weaving past families in bright swimsuits and businesspeople in sharp suits. It was the height of summer, but he stayed on the edges, unnoticed.

Outside, a stone fountain gurgled in the heat. A cat sprawled along its rim, thin and ragged, its coat patchy and dull. Something in the sight tugged at Laurent’s chest. He approached slowly, crouching beside it. The cat eyed him warily, stiff and distant, until he held out a hand. After a pause, it allowed him to stroke its matted fur.

Laurent understood. He often felt like a cat himself - pampered, groomed, nails clipped short so they could never scratch. Pretty, but useless. A broken creature wasn’t entertaining for long, so his uncle granted him freedoms that weren’t freedoms at all. A cage without locks is still a cage, and Laurent knew he had nowhere else to run.

Footsteps scraped softly against the stone path. Laurent froze, every muscle pulled taut. They weren’t his uncle’s - too light, too hesitant - but he knew from experience that danger didn’t always announce itself. Strangers could harm just as easily.

Then came a voice, low and warm, not yet settled into adulthood. “Are you a cat whisperer or something? I’ve been trying to pet him for days, and he won’t let me near.”

Laurent turned carefully.

The boy standing behind him was taller, maybe a year or two older. His skin was a deep brown, his curly hair cropped short. Dimples appeared when he smiled, softening the sharp lines of his jaw. It was the kind of smile that looked like it came easily, as if the world hadn’t taught him to guard it.

Laurent’s heart thudded in his chest. Heat climbed up his neck into his cheeks. He dropped his eyes quickly, ashamed at being caught staring. His uncle’s touch had always left him cold. But this - this dizzy rush inside him - felt entirely new.

The boy stepped closer, crouching to eye the cat. “I swear he’s been plotting my murder. But you show up, and suddenly he’s purring. Unfair.”

Laurent’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He had no idea how to answer a boy who spoke so easily, who smiled without calculation. For a fleeting second, he thought about standing up and walking back to the hotel. He could close the curtains, open his book, and wait out the hours until six o’clock. It would be safer that way.

Before he could move, the stranger straightened. “I haven’t seen you around here before. I’m Damen.”

Laurent blinked at him, caught off guard by the bluntness. No pretense, no suspicion - just a name, offered freely, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Laurent,” he managed at last, the word clipped, his nod precise.

He kept his face carefully composed, lips pressed in a thin line. He wanted to seem indifferent, to project a chill that would push this boy - Damen - away. Friends weren’t safe. Strangers weren’t safe. No one was safe.

And yet, beneath the mask he wore, something inside him stirred restlessly at Damen’s presence.

“How long are you here for, Laurent?” Damen asked, falling into step beside him.

He was taller - noticeably so - and his arms already carried the beginnings of muscle. Laurent hadn’t caught up yet. The thought gnawed at him, tangled with the unease that always rose when his uncle spoke of his body changing, a disgust Laurent never quite understood but carried like a stone in his chest.

“None of your business,” he said flatly, already moving away.

The pounding in his head grew sharper, his hands trembling at his sides. Every nerve screamed to retreat. He wanted distance, silence, the safety of four walls and a locked door.

Behind him, Damen’s voice lifted, softer now. “Bye, then.” A thread of disappointment coloured the word, but Laurent didn’t turn.

He didn’t stop until he was back in the suite, until the latch clicked shut. The bed loomed in the center of the room, still carrying the memory of an hour ago. Laurent sank onto it, stiff and cold, and stared at the wall until the blur of his vision swallowed it whole.

A heavy pounding rattled the door just after six. Laurent startled awake, though he didn’t remember falling asleep. That happened often these days - all he seemed to do when he wasn’t entertaining his Uncle’s “friends” was sleep.

He dragged himself to his feet and unlatched the lock. His uncle swept inside at once, a storm of restless energy, and Laurent instinctively stepped aside to clear his path.

One glance was enough. His uncle’s face was set in a scowl, his movements sharp. He was in a bad mood.

Laurent knew better than to draw attention to himself when his uncle carried that kind of storm in with him. He did what he always did: made himself small.

He sank back onto the bed, shoulders rounded, eyes lowered to the patterned carpet. Not asleep this time, but waiting, steadying his breath, letting silence wrap around him like armour.

His uncle paced the suite, restless, heavy footsteps tracing the same circuit over and over. Laurent tracked the movements without ever lifting his gaze, alert in spite of his stillness. The air was tight with unspoken threat, and Laurent’s only defense was invisibility.

And when his Uncle finally shrugged off his blazer and began unzipping his trousers, settling on the edge of the bed, he looked at Laurent with a quiet command in his eyes.

“Come kneel for me, sweetheart” he said, voice low and deliberate. “I’ve had a stressful day.  Make me feel good.”

And Laurent obeyed without a moment’s hesitation.

Dinner was taken downstairs, just the two of them at a corner table. To anyone looking on, they must have seemed the picture of a family - an attentive guardian, a dutiful nephew. Laurent ate what was set in front of him without question, without preference, his fork rising and falling with practiced obedience.

Back in the room, his uncle dropped heavily onto the bed, the television flickering across his sleeping face within minutes.

Laurent sat on the edge of the bed and watched his uncle sleep. His chest ached with a tight, restless anxiety. These days, he couldn’t shake the sense that his uncle was pulling away from him - still demanding, still sharp, but colder, more distant.

It made Laurent’s stomach twist. He didn’t feel loved, not really, not in the way his uncle had made him feel before. What he felt was conditional, brittle. If his uncle turned from him completely, what would he have left? The thought scraped at him, sharp as glass.

The silence of the room grew heavier, pressing against his ribs. Each breath caught short, too shallow. The air was thin, and the walls seemed to lean closer, closer. His pulse drummed in his throat. He curled his hands into fists, fighting the dizzy swell that told him he was about to lose control.

He couldn’t stay here.

Moving carefully, he pulled a hoodie over his head, each motion deliberate, as if noise alone might shatter him. Quiet as a mouse, he unlatched the door and slipped into the hall.

The corridor stretched wide and empty. Then the night air hit him - a rush of cool against overheated skin. Laurent stopped, closed his eyes, and let it wash through him like a tide. His lungs opened at last, ragged but freer, and the world felt a fraction less suffocating.

He returned to the fountain, half-hoping for the ragged cat. The stone rim was empty. A hollow disappointment caught at him, but he kept walking.

The beach stretched just beyond the hotel, dark water pulling at the shore. Laurent stayed clear. The last time he’d been to a beach was with Auguste, and the memory was too sharp, too kind to touch now.

He doubted his older brother would even recognise him anymore. Worse, he was certain that if Auguste knew what he had become, what he had done, he would turn away in disgust.

Laurent wandered until the bright hotel lights fell away behind him. The path gave way to rocks, the sound of the waves following close, rhythmic and relentless. When he stumbled upon the mouth of a cave, he hesitated. The dark yawned open, silent and watchful. Darkness had never been safe for him; it carried too many memories of being cornered, unseen.

He was about to turn back when a sharp meow broke the quiet.

A moment later, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows. The ragged cat padded ahead, tail flicking, and behind it came the boy from earlier - Damen - murmuring to the animal as if it might answer. The cat ignored him entirely.

Damen’s eyes lifted, catching Laurent in the half-light. His grin came quick and easy. “Oh, it’s you - the moody cat whisperer.”

The words struck harder than they should have. Moody. Perhaps he was. Still, the sting made him bristle, especially standing there in his hoodie and pajama bottoms, vulnerable under the weight of another’s gaze.

“Still following that cat around, are you? What are you, five?” Laurent shot back, his voice sharp enough to mask the embarrassment heating his face.

Damen’s smile only deepened, dimples cutting in. Mischief flickered there, warm and teasing. “No. Seventeen. How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” Laurent said shortly, the syllables clipped. He drew his hoodie tighter around himself, suddenly conscious of the hour, of the risk of being seen at all. Without waiting for a reply, he turned, already retreating. “Goodnight.”

Laurent turned sharply, hoodie drawn tight, but Damen’s hand closed around his wrist before he could take a step. The contact made Laurent flinch so hard he nearly pulled free.

Damen dropped his grip at once. “Sorry! I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to-” His words tumbled over each other, urgent and genuine. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I just… don’t go yet. I wanted to show you something.”

Laurent steadied himself with a breath, forcing his pulse down. “Where?” he asked, cool as he could manage.

Damen pointed into the mouth of the cave, where the shadows pressed thick against the rocks.

A knot formed in Laurent’s chest. Excuses spun through his mind - he was tired, his uncle would notice if he was gone too long, he wasn’t interested. Anything to keep from admitting that it was the dark itself that unnerved him.

But Damen was watching him too closely, and Laurent saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Damen said softly, lifting a small flashlight. He clicked it on, the beam cutting a clean path through the black. “See? We won’t get lost.”

This time, he didn’t grab. He only held out his hand, palm open, patient. “Come on. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Laurent stared at the hand, frozen between instinct and longing. Every part of him screamed to return to the safety of the hotel room, to keep himself invisible, obedient. But another part - a quieter, restless part - stirred at the thought of doing something his uncle hadn’t dictated. Something that was his.

Before he could overthink it, Laurent slipped his hand into Damen’s.

He told himself it was rebellion, a small defiance. He didn’t want to admit how much he also wanted to.

The beam of Damen’s flashlight cut a narrow path through the dark. Laurent followed, each step cautious on the uneven stone, the cool air closing around him. He had never done anything like this before - not even as a child, before his world had unraveled. He had always been the quiet one, content in his mother’s lap, clinging to Auguste’s pant leg while his brother led the way. Adventure had belonged to others.

Now his heart pounded, loud in his ears. But then Damen’s hand gave a reassuring squeeze. Laurent glanced up, and the older boy was looking back at him with a grin that was all sunlight, even here underground.

Damen’s voice filled the cave, easy and constant. He rambled about his father, about his stepmother insisting on “family bonding,” about an older half brother he thought he got along with. It wasn’t that Laurent absorbed every word - half the stories slid past him - but the sound itself worked like balm, keeping the shadows from closing in. The rhythm of Damen’s chatter was comfort enough.

By the time they reached a wide cavern, Laurent’s chest had loosened. His fear had dulled to something quieter, a thrum beneath the surface instead of a roar.

“Okay,” Damen said, his grin tilting mischievous. “Now don’t freak out, but I’m going to turn the light off.”

The words froze Laurent where he stood. His breath hitched, panic tightening like a fist. “No!” His voice cracked, hands flying to clutch at Damen with both trembling fists. “Don’t.”

But before Laurent could stop him, the flashlight clicked, and the beam vanished.

A scream clawed at Laurent’s throat, but it never made it out. He wasn’t swallowed in black.

Instead, the chamber filled with a pale, ghostly glow.

“Look up,” Damen said softly.

Laurent did.

High above, the stone ceiling broke open into a perfect circle of sky, the full moon suspended in it like a lantern. Its light spilled into the cave, silvering the rock, painting Damen’s face in soft radiance.

Laurent’s breath caught - not in panic this time, but awe.

Laurent couldn’t drag his eyes away from the shaft of moonlight spilling into the cave. The silver glow softened the jagged stone, made the whole chamber feel less like a trap and more like something secret, hidden just for them.

He forced his expression smooth, schooling his breath as if he hadn’t just been trembling on the edge of panic. “It’s fine,” he murmured, his voice carefully even. “I wasn’t scared.”

Beside him, Damen gave a low laugh. Not cruel, not mocking - just warm, amused in a way that made Laurent’s cheeks burn. Damen’s hand was still clasped around his, and he could feel how tightly Laurent gripped back, his knuckles white.

“Sure you weren’t,” Damen said, but he didn’t tease further.

Together, they tilted their heads back. The moon hung above them, impossibly bright, like a coin cut into the ceiling of the world. For a moment, neither spoke.

Damen glanced sideways. In the glow, Laurent’s features were sharpened into something fragile and luminous, all fine bones and wide eyes. He carried sadness in the set of his mouth, in the stillness of his body - but now, staring upward, that sorrow eased. Awe broke through, softening him in a way that stole Damen’s breath.

He found himself wishing - fiercely - that he’d never have to see that sadness return. That this boy, with his guarded silences and brittle composure, could always look at the world as he was looking at the moon now.

After a while, the moon shifted, the light thinning. Damen flicked the flashlight back on, the beam cutting through the dark. Together they retraced their steps, their footsteps echoing against stone.

Damen glanced sideways. “So, what are you doing at the hotel?”

Laurent’s voice stayed level, practiced. “My uncle has a week long conference. He’s my guardian, so… I came with him.”

“Oh.” Damen hesitated, then asked gently, “Why your uncle?”

Laurent’s gaze stayed fixed ahead. “I don’t have anyone else.”

The words landed heavy in the silence. Damen frowned, his easy chatter stalling. He didn’t press further. Instead, he cleared his throat and tried again. “I like your hair. You had it in a plait earlier - it looks good like that. Pretty, even when it’s loose.”

Laurent’s hand twitched, fingers curling around the strands that brushed his shoulders - still damp from the second shower he’d had to take after his Uncle came back from his conference. Compliment or not, the words unsettled him.

Didn’t Damen see it? The sheen of filth that clung to him. Didn’t he see the ghost of his uncle’s come tangled in Laurent’s hair, the proof of what he was, what had been done to him? His chest tightened, shame crawling like a rash beneath his skin.

“Laurent?” Damen’s voice pulled him back.

He blinked, realising he’d gone silent, lost in the spiral of his own thoughts. They had already stepped out of the cave, the night air cooler here, the sound of the waves rushing back in.

By the time they reached the hotel lobby, neither of them spoke much. Their hands were no longer joined, but Damen slowed when they reached the doors.

“Hope I see you around again,” he said, a little tentative, but smiling all the same.

Laurent only nodded. He didn’t trust his voice. The want in his chest surprised him - wanting to say yes, wanting to believe it was possible - but the thought tangled up with fear, as everything did.

Upstairs, he slipped back into the suite as quietly as he could. The room was dark except for the blue flicker of the television. He thought his uncle was asleep until as Laurent settled down on the bed, a voice came, low and sharp in the stillness.

“Where have you been?”

Laurent’s throat closed. “I couldn’t sleep,” he murmured. “Went to see if I could find some alcohol.” It was an explanation his uncle would accept; after all, he was the one who had first pressed a glass of wine into Laurent’s hand on nights he woke from nightmares.

“You know I’ve got things to help you sleep, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t want to wake you up,” Laurent whispered.

There was a rustle of sheets, and then his uncle’s arm wrapped around him, pulling him close. A kiss brushed his temple.

“Such a sweet boy,” his uncle mumbled, already drifting off again.

Laurent lay rigid, staring into the dark. He didn’t believe the words anymore - not the way he once had, when he was thirteen and still desperate to.

As his uncle’s breathing deepened beside him, Laurent let his thoughts slip elsewhere - to the boy in the cave, with his easy smile and his endless voice, who had shown him the moon. Damen. Sweet in a way that was real.

It was that sweetness Laurent clung to as he finally closed his eyes.

His uncle was gone by the time Laurent woke, the room stripped of his presence except for the faint smell of cologne and the dent in the other side of the bed. The day stretched ahead, empty.

He skipped breakfast, the thought of food making his stomach twist, and drifted down to the pool instead. It was already buzzing with noise - families, couples, children shrieking as they splashed - but Laurent kept to the edges, invisible. He found a sunbed in the shade and sat with his book, knees drawn up, shielding himself with paper and silence.

He hadn’t managed to finish a single book in months. His eyes followed the words, line after line, but the sentences refused to settle. His mind slid away, too dulled, too frayed to hold onto the story.

Once, reading had been his world - his way of escaping, of breathing somewhere else. He missed it fiercely, the thrill of disappearing into another life. Now the pages just stared back at him, stubbornly flat.

Laurent let the book rest against his chest and shut his eyes, the sound of the pool a distant hum. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt truly absorbed by anything. Not since his uncle had put him to work.

“Are you sleeping?”

Laurent cracked one eye open, squinting up at Damen, who stood above him with that same open, curious expression. His peace was ruined, though the irritation he tried to summon dissolved almost immediately, chased away by the rush of remembering last night - the cave, the moonlight, Damen’s hand in his. The fact that Damen had sought him out again left something fizzy and unsteady in his chest.

“Are you usually this annoying,” Laurent muttered, closing his book with deliberate care, “or is it just me you like to pester?”

Damen tilted his head, pretending to think it over. “Do you think I’m annoying?”

The teasing was light, but Laurent’s stomach flipped. He replayed his own words and realised how sharp they might have sounded. He sat up straighter, meeting Damen’s gaze with unusual earnestness. “No. I’m sorry - I didn’t mean that.”

For a moment Damen only studied him, then his smile broke wide, dimples cutting deep. The warmth of it was impossible to ignore.

Laurent felt heat creep into his face and quickly looked down, fussing with the spine of his book as if it needed straightening. His pulse betrayed him though, quick and eager.

Damen dropped onto the sunbed beside him without hesitation, stretching out like he belonged there. “So,” he nodded at the closed book in Laurent’s lap, “what are you reading?”

Laurent hesitated, then turned the cover toward him. Damen leaned in, squinting at the title.

“Any good?”

Laurent’s mouth went dry. He hadn’t taken in more than three sentences, not really. “It’s fine,” he said quickly, then pivoted. “What do you want?”

That only made Damen grin wider. “Thought I’d see if you wanted to come into town with me. There’s a market today - music, food, all kinds of stalls. Could be fun. Only if you want to, though.”

Laurent’s heart stuttered. He did want to. The thought of being anywhere that wasn’t this hotel, anywhere his uncle’s shadow didn’t reach, lit something sharp and desperate inside him. But then came the inevitable thud of reality: the rules, the watchfulness, the consequences.

“I can’t,” he murmured, eyes darting away. “I’m not allowed to leave. My uncle would…” His throat tightened. “He’d be furious.”

For the first time, Damen’s smile dimmed, disappointment flickering across his face. He studied Laurent with quiet seriousness before saying, “We’ll be back before he even notices. I promise.”

Laurent bit his lip, pulse skittering. The temptation curled hot in his chest - rebellion, freedom, the possibility of being just a boy for an afternoon. But the fear was there too, pressing against his ribs, reminding him of the danger.

“Laurent…” Damen leaned forward, earnest, searching his face. “Would he really be that mad?”

The question caught Laurent off guard. His first instinct was yes. Of course his uncle would be furious - rules broken, trust betrayed, punishment waiting. But he couldn’t say that. Not to Damen.

His uncle had always told him no one would ever understand what bound them, the private world they shared. If Laurent ever tried to explain, people would twist it, look at him differently, hate him for it. They wouldn’t see the care, the protection. They wouldn’t see the love.

Laurent swallowed hard, his throat dry. He thought of Damen’s open face, his laughter, the way he’d taken Laurent’s hand in the cave. If Damen knew the truth, would he look at him with disgust? Would he walk away?

He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t let Damen - or anyone - see what was real.

So Laurent forced himself to nod, a small tilt of his chin. “Fine,” he said quietly. “I’ll come.”

Not because he wasn’t afraid, not because he wasn’t sure of what awaited him later if his uncle found out - but because it was easier this way. Easier to keep the secret hidden. Easier to appear, just for a while, like an ordinary boy saying yes to an ordinary invitation.

The market sprawled along the narrow seaside streets, stalls bursting with color. Strands of paper lanterns swung above them, bright against the blue summer sky, and every turn smelled of something different - grilled seafood, sugared almonds, fried dough dusted with cinnamon. Children darted between the crowd, their laughter carried on the salty air.

Damen fit right into it, his stride unhurried, broad shoulders cutting a steady path through the press of people. Laurent followed, stiff as a board, his eyes never still. Every flash of a tailored suit in the crowd, every tall figure out of the corner of his eye set his pulse hammering. He checked the time on his watch again and again, certain his uncle could appear at any moment.

“You’re wound tighter than that cat you were whispering to,” Damen said, glancing over his shoulder. “Relax. Nobody here’s going to bite.”

Laurent gave him a flat look. “You talk too much.”

Damen grinned, unfazed. He veered toward a food stall where skewers of sizzling meat crackled over hot coals. “Then I’ll put my mouth to better use.” He bought two with quick, practiced ease, pressing one into Laurent’s reluctant hand.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I can hear your tummy rumbling from here,” Damen said simply, biting into his own. “Come on, just try it. Not everything’s a trap.”

Laurent took the smallest bite possible. It was delicious - juicy, smoky, spiced just right - but he schooled his face into neutrality. Damen, watching, laughed.

“Figures. I’ve never met anyone who could make food look like a personal insult.”

They walked on. Damen stopped at stalls here and there, greeting vendors with the kind of careless friendliness that drew people in. He lingered over leather bracelets and glass pendants, then tested his aim at a ball-throwing game and won a cheap stuffed dolphin. He offered it to Laurent with a flourish.

Laurent looked at the dolphin as if Damen had just handed him a live grenade. “What exactly am I meant to do with that?”

“Keep it,” Damen said, dimples flashing. “Or throw it at me when I talk too much.”

Laurent tucked his arms close, resisting the urge to take it. His eyes dropped to his watch again, the minutes ticking mercilessly forward. Damen’s smile faltered as he caught it.

“You keep doing that,” Damen said, quieter now. “Checking the time.”

Laurent’s jaw tightened. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Damen replied, steady but not unkind. He slowed his pace, letting the crowd flow around them. “Who are you afraid of seeing? Your uncle?”

Laurent’s throat closed. He couldn’t answer.

Damen’s voice cut through, gentler than usual. “Are you okay?”

Laurent startled, then shook his head. “I’m ruining your time,” he said, his voice clipped, almost rehearsed. “You don’t have to drag me around. I’ll just - I’ll leave.”

The words seemed to hit Damen like a physical blow. He stopped in his tracks, expression faltering, hurt flickering openly across his face. “You… want to leave?”

Guilt knifed through Laurent’s chest. He hadn’t meant it like that. He hadn’t meant to make Damen look at him that way, like he’d just shoved him aside. The truth lodged in his throat - he didn’t want to leave. He just didn’t know how to stay.

Before he could sort the words out, Damen shook his head, determination sliding back into place. He stepped closer, eyes steady on Laurent’s. “I’m having fun, Laurent. Please don’t go. Stay.”

Laurent hesitated. He could feel the weight of his uncle’s rules pressing down, the danger of being missed, of being caught - but he couldn’t ignore the plea in Damen’s expression either. It was so rare to see someone want him there, to see someone’s face fall at the thought of him walking away.

“…Fine,” Laurent murmured, the word almost too soft to hear.

Relief broke across Damen’s face, warm and unguarded. He didn’t press. He just stuffed the dolphin into Laurent’s arms before Laurent could refuse again.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you came,” he said, his tone lighter once more.

Laurent held the toy against his chest, stiff and awkward, the heat of shame rising in his face. He didn’t believe Damen, not really - but a small, buried part of him wanted to.

Relief broke across Damen’s face, warm and unguarded. He reached for Laurent’s hand without thinking, fingers wrapping firmly around his. “Come on. Let’s go to the beach. They’ve got ice cream there.”

“Wait-” Laurent started, panic rising, but Damen was already tugging him along, stride confident, laughter spilling back into his voice.

“You’ll thank me later.”

Laurent stumbled a step before finding his footing, caught in the pull of Damen’s hand.

The boardwalk gave way to pale sand, the cries of gulls sharp above the hush and roar of the tide. Damen kicked off his sneakers the second they hit the beach, swinging them from one hand as though he’d been waiting for this moment all day. Laurent kept his shoes on, wary, but he didn’t pull away from Damen’s grip on his hand.

It had been years since he’d last stood on a beach. He’d expected it to hurt, the sight of the sea dredging up memories best left buried - but with his long hair tugged loose by the wind and Damen’s steady warmth at his side, the ache was softer than he’d imagined.

Damen steered them toward a vendor’s cart with the same easy assurance he carried everywhere, and returned with two ice creams: a cone piled high for himself, and a small plastic tub for Laurent.

“Didn’t think you looked like a cone person,” Damen said with a grin, handing it over.

Laurent accepted it carefully, the spoon light between his fingers. He didn’t tell Damen he was correct.

They settled in the sand, side by side. Damen dug his toes into it, comfortable as though the beach belonged to him. Laurent sat straighter, legs folded, shoes still on, watching the horizon.

For once, silence didn’t weigh on him. It stretched around them in soft layers: the hush of waves pulling back, the distant cries of children further down the shore, Damen’s easy breathing beside him. Laurent ate his ice cream slowly, savouring both the taste and the fact that for once, no one expected anything of him.

He let himself breathe. He let himself like the quiet.

The waves rolled in and out, a steady rhythm against the shore. Laurent had begun to feel almost lulled by it when Damen suddenly broke into laughter beside him, shaking his head as though at some private joke.

Laurent turned, wary. “What’s so funny?”

Damen wiped at his grin, though it didn’t quite fade. “Just thinking about my friend Nik back home. He’s going to throw a fit when I tell him I spent my summer vacation hanging out with a pretty blonde boy instead of him.”

The words landed like a spark under Laurent’s skin. His breath caught; heat rushed to his cheeks before he could school his expression. Pretty. He’d heard it before, but only from his uncle’s mouth or in the murmurs of strangers his uncle brought home - ugly words, heavy with possession.

From Damen, it was different. Softer. It set his pulse racing in a way he didn’t recognise, a way that made him feel both exposed and strangely light.

Damen noticed his silence, his own bravado faltering. He ducked his head, suddenly sheepish, as though regretting the slip of honesty.

Laurent stared out at the horizon, lips pressed together. Maybe in another life he would have found the courage to answer in kind, to tell Damen he was handsome, to lean in and brush a kiss across his cheek just because he wanted to. Maybe in another life he could have been that boy - carefree, blushing, normal.

But he wasn’t. Damen didn’t know the real him, the filth Laurent carried, the truth that stripped words like “pretty” of anything gentle.

Still, as the sea breeze tangled his hair and Damen’s laugh lingered in the air between them, Laurent let himself imagine. Just for this week. Just when Damen was looking at him. He could pretend.

That night, his uncle fucked him against the wall - just hours after Damen had coaxed him into the sea, after they’d walked back barefoot through the sand, Laurent grumbling about the heat while Damen laughed and spoke of Akielos, warning him that if he found this warm, he'd never survive a southern summer.

It was painful - slow and suffocating. Laurent didn’t fight. He stood there, motionless, silent, until it was over and his uncle told him to clean himself up.

Laurent shut himself in the bathroom and turned the water on hot - so hot it stung when it hit his skin. He stood beneath the spray until the air filled with steam, until the scalding heat blurred into numbness. It was the only way he knew to strip away the act, to make himself clean enough to bear.

When he finally stepped out, skin raw, he wrapped himself in a towel and caught his reflection in the mirror. His hair clung damp to his shoulders, his face pale, but there was something new in his chest - a flicker he couldn’t name.

Later, lying in the dark, the sheets pulled tight around him, he waited for the familiar heaviness to press him down. But it didn’t. Instead, there was the memory of warm sand under his shoes, of ice cream melting sweet on his tongue, of Damen’s smile.

For the first time in years, Laurent realised with quiet surprise that he was looking forward to waking up.

The next five days passed in a rhythm that felt both impossibly new and dangerously fleeting. Damen seemed to take it upon himself to find Laurent wherever he was - by the pool, in the lobby with a book he wasn’t reading, wandering the hotel grounds with his thoughts. Each time, he’d bring with him a kind of careless energy that made it easy for Laurent to follow, even when every part of him said he should retreat.

They went into town twice more, roaming through streets lined with market stalls and tiny cafes. Damen talked as though the world was his to share: stories of his school friends, his half-brother who he idolised, the petty arguments with his stepmother. Laurent, quiet beside him, listened more than he spoke. But Damen never pressed when Laurent kept his answers short. He simply carried the silence with an ease Laurent had never experienced, filling it with his steady presence.

On the third day, they went back to the beach. Damen coaxed Laurent to take off his shoes, to feel the sand between his toes. At first Laurent resisted, prickly and defensive, but in the end he let Damen tug them off, hiding his own embarrassment beneath a sharp remark. The warmth of the sun, the crash of the waves, and Damen’s laughter made the world feel - if only for a while - like it was wider than the walls of a hotel room.

Another day, Damen brought him to a cafe by the pier, buying them both cold drinks. They sat side by side watching the boats, Damen joking about the tourists, Laurent cutting him down with dry wit that only made Damen grin more. For once, Laurent felt as though his words were heard and not twisted back against him.

By the fifth day, their companionship had settled into something easy, almost instinctive. Damen didn’t touch him much - not beyond the casual brush of shoulders, the passing grip of a wrist when he pulled Laurent toward something new - but when he did, Laurent’s heart clenched in ways he didn’t understand. Damen treated him like an equal, never like a possession, never like something to be used. It left Laurent both light and unsettled, as if he were holding on to something fragile he didn’t dare name.

And though Laurent never admitted it to himself, beneath his sharp replies and guarded glances, there was a heaviness forming - a quiet dread at the thought of these days ending. He didn’t understand it, couldn’t name it, but the idea of never seeing Damen again lingered like the shadow of a bruise.

Laurent was certain his uncle knew.

Every evening when he slipped back into the hotel room, just before six, his uncle would look at him with an expression that made his chest seize - sharp-eyed, calculating, like he could strip Laurent bare with a glance. But then, without a word, his uncle would return to his phone calls or to the television, and Laurent would be left standing there, trembling under the silence.

The reprieve terrified him. He knew his uncle noticed patterns. He knew his uncle didn’t allow change. And yet, day after day, nothing was said. The lack of punishment only made Laurent more anxious, like he was waiting for a storm to break.

Still, he kept going back. He couldn’t stop himself. Damen had become a gravity of his own, pulling Laurent from the bed where he would normally hide, from the haze of sleep that dulled everything. Each time Damen caught his eye, each time he smiled like he wanted Laurent there, something inside him warmed and loosened.

But Laurent never told him anything real. Not when Damen asked about his uncle, not when he pressed lightly, in that earnest way of his. Laurent’s replies were sharp, evasive, laced with enough sarcasm to push Damen off the trail. The truth was a cage lined with razor wire - untouchable. No one would understand, not Damen, not anyone. It was what his uncle had told him, again and again: no one else could know. No one else could ever love what Laurent really was.

So Laurent let Damen believe whatever he wanted. That Laurent was simply guarded, private, difficult. That he was just another boy at the hotel, reluctant to open up. Damen didn’t need to know what he’d been made into.

Laurent promised himself he would leave this hotel with the secret still buried, Damen never finding out the truth of him. If Damen thought of him at all after, Laurent hoped it would only be as the sharp-tongued, moody boy who’d sat beside him on the sand, who’d looked at the moon in wonder, who’d almost smiled without shame.

He could live with that. He had to.

Laurent left Damen at the edge of the lobby, the boy’s easy grin lingering in his mind long after he turned away. They had promised to meet again in the morning, just for a little while before Laurent’s uncle packed them up and took him away. The promise pressed into Laurent’s chest like something fragile - half hope, half ache.

As he moved down the quiet hallway, the carpet muffling his steps, he let the weight of the week settle over him. He didn’t want to say goodbye tomorrow. He didn’t want the warmth Damen gave so freely, the careless laughter, to dissolve like mist when he left. But Laurent knew better than to expect more. He had learned that lesson too well.

He passed a housekeeping cart, the scent of soap lingering, then the soft hum of an ice machine, all the ordinary sounds of a hotel at night. Somehow, they felt sharper now, like he was walking through a world that didn’t quite belong to him but had let him borrow it for a little while.

Soon, he would go back to what he always was - his uncle’s perfect boy, trained and obedient, a pet to be kept. The thought should have hollowed him, but instead a strange calm held him upright. He’d had this. A handful of days where someone had treated him like a normal fifteen-year-old.

Damen didn’t know who he really was. And maybe that was for the best.

By the time Laurent reached the door to the suite, the ember of that thought still burned low in his chest. Whatever happened after, at least he’d had this week. At least he’d had Damen.

Laurent slid the keycard through the lock and pushed the door open, still carrying the ember of his thoughts like something fragile cupped in his hands.

And froze.

His uncle was inside. Not alone. A boy was perched on the bed - young, too young, blinking in startled confusion. Laurent saw his uncle’s shirt half-open, his belt loose, the whole scene searing into his mind before he could look away.

For a heartbeat Laurent couldn’t breathe. The ember in his chest cracked, shattering into something raw and jagged. His uncle wasn’t supposed to need anyone else. He wasn’t supposed to want anyone else. Laurent had been told, for years, that he was special, that everything done to him was proof of love. That it was just them, bound together in a way no one could understand.

And now - this.

A sound tore out of him before he could stop it, hoarse and strangled. “What are you doing?” The words came in a rush, louder, sharper, his voice breaking. “What is this? What is this?!”

The boy on the bed flinched, shrinking back. His uncle rose in an instant, moving with a speed Laurent knew too well. His hand closed around Laurent’s mouth, the other slamming him against the wall hard enough to make his teeth rattle.

“Quiet,” his uncle hissed, face inches from his own. The man’s cologne and sweat stung Laurent’s nose. “Not. A. Word.”

Laurent’s chest heaved, panic choking him. His uncle’s grip bruised, iron tight, and Laurent swallowed down the scream clawing its way up his throat. His eyes darted once to the younger boy, who stared back at him, wide-eyed and lost, before dropping his gaze in shame.

The ember that had carried Laurent down the hall was gone, smothered beneath the crushing weight of his uncle’s hand.

The boy on the bed whimpered, his voice high and unsteady. “What’s happening?”

Laurent’s uncle didn’t even glance at him. His hand was still crushing Laurent’s mouth, his breath hot against his ear. “Be quiet, Aimeric.”

The name hung in the air. The child - Aimeric - fell silent at once, small and trembling, eyes darting between them like a trapped animal.

Laurent stared at him. At the narrow shoulders, the wide, uncertain eyes, the way his bare feet curled against the sheets as if he wanted to disappear. It was like staring into a mirror that showed him not his face but the shape of his own loneliness, his own fear, all the years of it condensed into this fragile figure. For a moment, Laurent couldn’t tell if the hollow in his chest came from that recognition, or from the sharper truth - that his uncle had chosen someone else. That he was no longer singular, no longer special.

“Will you be quiet?” his uncle demanded, his grip tightening.

Laurent’s throat worked. His eyes burned. He nodded.

The hand released him at once. Laurent sagged back against the wall, swallowing hard against the tears spilling over. His uncle smoothed his hair as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t just pinned him there like a disobedient child.

Laurent’s throat was tight, but the words ripped out anyway, raw and jagged. “Who is he?”

His uncle’s eyes flicked to the bed, then back to him, sharp and assessing. For a moment Laurent thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he said lightly, “He’s a conference man’s son. He just needed someone to help him, show him how to do a good job. Nothing like you, Laurent.”

The boy - Aimeric - ducked his head, as though ashamed.

Laurent’s hands curled into fists. His chest felt hot, his pulse frantic. “Help him?” His voice cracked. “I thought-” He stopped himself, the rest caught in his throat, burning.

His uncle stepped closer, crowding him back against the wall, voice dropping into a low murmur. “Don’t be silly. You’re not the same. You’re my grown-up boy, Laurent. You understand me in ways he never could.” His fingers brushed down Laurent’s cheek, slow and deliberate, as though the boy in the bed wasn’t even there.

“I don’t-” Laurent choked, blinking hard as tears gathered. “You said it was us. That no one else-”

“It is us.” His uncle’s tone was firm, soothing, dangerous. “You’re everything to me. Don’t let jealousy cloud your judgment. You’re too important for that.” He tilted Laurent’s chin up, pressing a kiss against his hairline. “He’s just a child. But you,” The smile curved, indulgent. “You’re mature. My beautiful boy.”

Laurent shook his head, desperate, but the fight was slipping through his fingers. The words cut and soothed at once, the contradictions twisting him in knots. His uncle’s hand lingered warm on his neck, thumb stroking softly like comfort, like ownership.

His eyes darted once more to Aimeric - silent, small, frightened - and for a split second Laurent wanted to scream, to drag the boy out with him, to run. But the weight of his uncle’s gaze, the familiar, suffocating web of affection, pulled him down again.

The words came out low and shaking, steeped in bitterness. “Is that all I am to you? Another beautiful boy who spreads his legs for you?”

The slap came so fast Laurent didn’t see it coming. His head snapped to the side, the sting bright across his cheek, the sound echoing in the small room. Aimeric whimpered.

“Don’t,” his uncle hissed, towering, voice suddenly all steel. The silence pressed heavy, suffocating.

Then, as quick as the storm had struck, it passed. His uncle sighed, softening, and reached to tilt Laurent’s chin back toward him. The same hand that had struck him now cupped his face with aching gentleness.

Tears slipped hot down his face. He hated himself for it, but he leaned into the touch, just a fraction, needing something, anything, to hold onto.

“There now,” his uncle murmured, voice turning soft, coaxing. He cupped Laurent’s face, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “You’re too sensitive, sweetheart. Always have been. You know I love you. You know you’re my special boy.”

The words pierced through Laurent’s fury like a hook. He wanted to scream, to spit them back, to run from the room and never return. But the warmth of his uncle’s hand, the familiar cadence of those words - he had been trained to fold beneath them, to mistake them for safety.

Laurent closed his eyes, shuddering. Aimeric sat silent on the bed, the picture of what Laurent himself must have been once: quiet, small, waiting to be told what to feel.

And Laurent, for all his anger, for all his heartbreak, let himself be pulled into his uncle’s arms. Not because he believed the words anymore, but because he was fifteen, and he was lonely, and he had nowhere else to go.

Laurent sagged against his uncle’s chest, tears hot on his cheeks, the familiar weight of those words wrapping around him like chains. My beautiful boy. My grown-up boy. He had been told them so often he almost believed them. Almost.

But then, cutting through the fog, came a different memory. Damen’s laugh - unrestrained, sunlit. The way he’d tugged Laurent toward the market stalls, hand warm around his own. The simple, thoughtless kindness of a boy who asked nothing of him except to stay.

Laurent’s breath hitched. He saw Damen’s dimples, his bright, teasing grin, the way he’d said pretty without making it ugly. For the first time in years, Laurent felt the difference.

Before he even realised what he was doing, Laurent’s body moved. He tore himself free from his uncle’s grip and stumbled for the door, his heart hammering so loud he could hear nothing else.

“Laurent!” His uncle’s voice was sharp behind him, but Laurent didn’t stop.

The suite door slammed shut in his wake, and then he was running down the corridor, bare feet pounding the carpet, his long hair streaming behind him. He didn’t know where he was going, didn’t know what would happen when his uncle caught up. He only knew he had to run.

Laurent didn’t know how long he ran. The corridor blurred, the lobby flashed past, and suddenly the humid night air struck him like a slap. His lungs burned, his chest felt raw, but still he didn’t stop until the glow of lights pulled him toward the hotel’s outdoor restaurant.

The sound of clinking cutlery, low conversation, and laughter washed over him. Families crowded the tables, children leaning into their mothers, fathers pouring wine, the hum of ordinary happiness thick in the air. Laurent slowed, stumbling to a halt, his breath catching in his throat.

He stared.

Here were people who didn’t have to barter their bodies for affection. Families who loved without conditions. Parents who didn’t demand ruin in exchange for care. The sight was unbearable - too sweet, too sharp - and he almost turned away.

And then he saw him.

Damen sat at a long table with his family, his laughter bright, his shoulders relaxed. The light from the hanging lanterns caught on his skin, golden, and for one dizzy moment Laurent thought he’d imagined him. But no - he was there. Real. Damen, who had spent days pulling Laurent gently into his orbit, treating him like he wasn’t different. Damen, who didn’t know his secrets but had looked at him anyway, like he was worth seeing.

It was as if some invisible force tugged them toward each other. Laurent’s gaze locked on Damen’s, and instantly Damen’s smile faltered. Concern replaced it, sharp and immediate, his brows drawing tight as he took in Laurent’s disheveled hair, the wild look in his eyes.

At the table, Damen leaned in, speaking quickly to his father, his words lost beneath the restaurant’s noise. Then he pushed back his chair, rising with a scrape of wood on tile.

And before Laurent could even think of fleeing, Damen was moving - fast, determined - cutting through the tables, his gaze fixed on Laurent as though nothing else in the world mattered.

“Laurent?” Damen’s voice was low, urgent. He stopped just in front of him, eyes searching Laurent’s face. “What’s happened? Why are you crying?”

Laurent blinked at him, confused for a moment - until he felt it. The wetness on his cheeks, the tremor in his chest. He was crying. In front of someone.

The realisation splintered something inside him. For years, he had trained himself to lock it all down, to never let anyone see weakness, not even in private. His uncle had always said tears were for children. And now here he was, standing under the lantern glow with salt water on his face, Damen looking at him like he mattered.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. Shame burned through him hotter than any flame.

When Laurent didn’t respond, Damen’s expression tightened. Without a word, he reached for Laurent’s wrist. Laurent flinched at the sudden touch, but Damen didn’t let go - his grip was steady, not cruel, tugging him gently but firmly away from the restaurant, away from the curious eyes that might have already noticed them.

They didn’t stop moving until the sand gave way beneath their feet, the soft roar of the waves filling the silence. Only then did Damen slow, turning back to him, chest rising and falling with the effort of pulling him this far.

Laurent’s tears had dried by then. His breathing had steadied. The storm was gone, shut back behind the iron bars he kept locked tight. His face smoothed into the practiced blankness, his shoulders straightened, the cold mask sliding back into place.

By the time Damen looked at him again, there was no trace of the boy who had stood crying in the restaurant lights - only the Laurent who let nothing through.

Damen leaned over, close enough that his warmth cut into Laurent’s chill. He tilted his head, voice softer than Laurent had ever heard it. “Laurent. Please. What happened? Talk to me.”

Laurent instinctively leaned back, creating space, his body recoiling as if distance could keep him safe. “I’m fine. It was nothing. Stupid.” His voice was clipped, hurried. He gestured vaguely toward the hotel, his eyes darting away. “You should go back to your meal. Your family’s waiting.”

But Damen didn’t move. His brows drew together, his mouth tightening into a scowl. His eyes caught on Laurent’s cheek - red, faintly swollen in the moonlight. The realisation struck him like a fist. “Who did that to you?”

Laurent froze. He hadn’t thought about the mark, hadn’t thought Damen would notice. He turned his face away too late, heat rushing through him - not just from the sting on his skin, but from the exposure, the shame. “No one, I-”

“Don’t do that,” Damen said, his voice shaking with restrained anger.

Laurent’s throat closed. “Do what?” He shot the words back sharper than he meant, his instinct to push away flaring hot.

“Pretend you’re fine when you’re obviously not,” Damen snapped. His voice was firm, low, almost trembling with fury. “I saw you crying, Laurent. I’m not blind. Someone hit you.” He exhaled hard, trying to rein himself in. His tone softened, though the steel remained. “I’m worried about you.”

The words landed like a blow. For a second, Laurent almost folded, almost let the weight of everything tip into Damen’s waiting hands. The mark on his cheek seemed to burn hotter beneath Damen’s gaze, and the urge to confess - to finally tell someone - rose sharp in his throat.

But panic surged stronger. If Damen knew - if anyone knew - everything would unravel. His uncle’s voice was already there, whispering, warning.

Laurent’s chest tightened. His voice broke out of him, stern and cutting, not a yell but sharp enough to sting: “I can’t tell you. Do you understand? You just…” His breath hitched, betraying him. “You just need to go away. Forget about me.”

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the crash of the waves.

Laurent stared at Damen, jaw tight, every nerve in his body screaming with the effort of keeping himself together.

Laurent’s words hung between them, brittle and final. Damen didn’t move away.

Instead, he said, “If you think telling me will make me leave, you’re wrong.”

Laurent gave a short, bitter laugh. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Then explain it.”

“I can’t.” His voice wavered, sharper for it. He hated that it did. “There’s nothing you could do. Nothing anyone could do.”

Damen’s gaze didn’t falter. “Maybe. But I’d still rather know than watch you drown yourself in silence.”

Laurent felt the words like pressure against his chest. He shook his head, retreating into the sharpest edge of himself. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe,” Damen said, quiet, steady. “But I’m not leaving you like this.”

Laurent wanted to sneer, wanted to push him away with some cruel remark, but Damen was still there, broad-shouldered and stupidly earnest, offering warmth Laurent didn’t deserve. The longer Damen looked at him, the harder it was to hold the walls intact.

“Stop it,” Laurent said, low.

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” Damen’s mouth curved, not unkind. “Like I care?”

Laurent’s breath caught. He wanted to spit back, to remind Damen that he was no one, nothing. But the words wouldn’t come. Damen’s presence pressed against him, steady, unyielding, and Laurent felt something inside him bend, fragile and terrifying.

For once, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t calculate, couldn’t bite. All he could do was feel the pull Damen created, and it made him weak.

“Did something happen with your uncle?”

The question was soft, but it struck Laurent like a blow. He flinched before he could stop himself, his body betraying him.

Damen noticed. His brow furrowed. “Laurent.”

“Don’t,” Laurent said quickly. His voice sounded like glass about to break.

Damen didn’t relent. “Is he-” Damen hesitated, searching Laurent’s face, “is he a bad man? Did he hit you?”

Laurent’s head snapped in a sharp shake. “No.” The word came out too fast, too fierce, like he had to beat it into shape before it could betray him. “He takes care of me. I’m just-” he bit the inside of his cheek, tasting iron - “I’m just an ungrateful brat.”

He could hear it in his uncle’s voice, a litany repeated until it was his own thought. The words settled in him like a weight he’d never learned how to put down.

Damen’s jaw tightened. He leaned closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “That’s not true.”

Laurent let out a short, humourless laugh, the sound brittle. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know enough,” Damen said, steady. “I know the way you looked when I asked. I know the way you keep trying to convince yourself you’re the problem. And I know that’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

Laurent shook his head again, desperate to smother the heat rising in his chest. “You think you see something, but you don’t.”

“I see you,” Damen said.

Laurent’s throat closed. For a heartbeat, he thought he might actually collapse under the weight of that simple certainty. He couldn’t look Damen in the eye - because if he did, he might believe him.

Damen’s hand reached for him, slow, deliberate, like he was approaching something fragile that might shatter. Laurent didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He expected the touch to burn, to make his skin crawl like every other time someone’s hand closed on him.

But it didn’t.

Damen’s palm settled against his shoulder, steady and warm. He wasn’t pulling, wasn’t demanding. Just there.

Laurent’s throat tightened. He felt himself go rigid, prepared for the instinct to jerk away - except it never came. He stayed. His body betrayed him again, only this time not with fear but with the awful, aching safety that spread like heat through his chest.

“You make me unable to think,” Laurent whispered, the words torn out before he could bite them back. His voice cracked on the last word.

Damen’s eyes softened, but his grip didn’t. “Then don’t think. Just… stay. Stay out here, with me. Don’t go back.”

The plea twisted something inside Laurent. His breath came uneven. He wanted to - God, he wanted to - but the tide of his uncle’s voice was already there, the familiar chains rattling. He shook his head, staring at the sand beneath their feet.

“I can’t.”

“You can,” Damen pressed, quiet but fierce. “Laurent, you don’t have to go back to him.”

“I do.” Laurent forced his voice to steady, though it wavered anyway. He lifted his eyes, met Damen’s for the briefest second. “I have no choice. There’s no one else. He’s all I have. He’s-” his chest constricted, “-he’s the only one who loves me.”

The words, once spoken, felt poisonous. Laurent hated how small they sounded. He hated how broken they made him.

Damen shook his head, almost violently. “That’s not love. Whatever he makes you believe, it’s not.”

Laurent swallowed hard, his body trembling under Damen’s hand. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it,” Damen urged.

“I can’t,” Laurent said, voice harsh, final. “You wouldn’t like me anymore if I did.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the steady crash of waves. Damen’s hand stayed on him, grounding him even as Laurent tried to pull back into himself.

Damen exhaled, long and quiet, and when he spoke again it was barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to let you walk away tomorrow.”

Laurent closed his eyes. The words cut through him with a sweetness that hurt worse than anything his uncle had ever done. For one suspended moment, he let himself lean into Damen’s hand, just slightly, just enough to feel what it was like to be held without expectation.

Then he stepped back.

“I’m sorry,” he said. It was all he could give, the only truth left.

Damen’s hand fell, fingers curling helplessly at his side. He looked like he wanted to argue again, to beg, but he didn’t. He just stood there, the weight of everything unsaid pressing heavy between them.

Laurent turned away before his resolve could break. Tomorrow, he would leave. Tomorrow, this fragile, impossible week would dissolve.

And Damen - warm, safe, devastating Damen - would be nothing but a memory.

It took every ounce of strength Laurent had to peel himself from Damen’s warmth, to force his legs to move in the direction of the hotel. Each step was heavy, dragging him closer to the suite that smelled of sweat and sex, closer to the man who held his chains.

He stopped once, halfway across the sand. He didn’t turn - he couldn’t bear to see Damen’s face again. But he could hear him, the sharp rhythm of his breathing behind him, uneven, like he was fighting to hold something back.

“Thank you,” Laurent said. His voice was low, careful, steadying itself on the words. “For this week. I… I had a great time.”

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. He gripped his hands into fists to keep from shaking.

“I hope you move on. Forget about me. That would be for the best.”

Behind him, there was the faint crunch of sand, like Damen had taken a step forward. Then his voice, rough in a way Laurent hadn’t heard before, cut through the night.

“Laurent-”

But Laurent was already moving, shoulders set, gaze fixed ahead. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back.

Laurent made it back to the suite on unsteady legs. By the time the door shut behind him, his body felt hollow, as though he’d left something vital out there on the sand with Damen.

His uncle was waiting, arms opening at once, pulling him close, murmuring apologies against his temple. Kisses trailed over his skin, coaxing, claiming. Laurent didn’t flinch, didn’t resist. He didn’t feel anything.

Not when his uncle’s hands moved over him. Not when he took him apart, piece by piece, as though Laurent belonged to no one but him. Not when, afterwards, they lay side by side in the darkened room, his uncle asleep with the slow, heavy breaths of satisfaction.

Laurent stared at the ceiling, eyes dry, chest quiet. He let himself exist and nothing more.

The happy part of him - the fragile, laughing part Damen had uncovered - wasn’t here. He had left it behind: on the beach with the waves, at the market stalls, in the hum of a cafe over cups of coffee. Untouched, unspoiled.

Those memories would stay where they belonged, sealed away in a place his uncle could never reach.

Tomorrow he would go home with his uncle. But that part of him - the part that had felt free, if only for a week - would remain here.

Laurent didn’t see Damen the next morning. He made sure of it. He stayed shut inside the suite, back pressed to the cool wall, listening to the clock tick closer to their departure. When his uncle called, Laurent followed without hesitation, as though he had no will of his own left to resist.

By the time they were on the road, the hotel was already vanishing in the rearview mirror. Laurent sat silent, the window down, the salt-stung wind pulling at his long hair until it whipped across his face.

His uncle’s hand rested heavy on his thigh, a familiar weight, and Laurent let it sit there, numb to its presence.

But his thoughts weren’t numb. They circled back, over and over, to a boy with a smile like sunlight, dimples he hadn’t been able to forget. Damen.

Laurent imagined him scanning the lobby, walking down to the beach, searching the market stalls, waiting. He imagined the moment Damen realised he wasn’t coming. The disappointment, the hurt.

The knowledge that he’d left without a word.

Laurent pressed his eyes shut against the wind. Of all the things he had endured, this was the one he could not forgive himself for.

And still, the car drove on.

Chapter Text

Laurent dreamed of darkness.

It pressed against him on all sides, thick as tar, choking the breath in his throat. Hands slid over his skin - clammy, insistent, too many of them. A tongue licked against his neck, against his mouth, and he jerked away only to find more of them waiting. Bodies crowded him, slick with sweat, their weight suffocating.

He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. The silence was worse than the touch, worse than the heat - because it made him invisible, voiceless, a boy trapped in a body that wasn’t his own anymore.

Fifteen. He was fifteen again, and it would never end.

The dark swallowed him whole.

Laurent opened his eyes.

No jolt, no gasp - just the slow, heavy drag of lids lifting. The same ceiling waited above him, mottled with damp, the dark stain spreading out like rot from the corner. He traced it with his eyes, the way he had every morning.

The couch beneath him itched through the thin sheet, the coils bruising his back where the mattress had given way. From the kitchen came the faint, steady hum of the refrigerator. Down the hall, the softer rhythm of Nicaise’s breathing in the bedroom. Ordinary sounds. Safe sounds.

There was a hole in his chest where the dream had been, and where everything else should be. The nightmares didn’t make him cry, not anymore. They only hollowed him out, left him shaking faintly as though his bones remembered more than his mind would let him.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, willing the tremor to stop. One thought steadied him, the one he carried like a talisman each morning:

He’s dead.

Uncle was dead. Yet Laurent still woke like this.

He let the silence hold him for a heartbeat longer, then swung his legs over the couch and stood. Movement felt rehearsed - slow, mechanical - the kind of motion you make when you are half a ghost. He moved through the small apartment as if walking through someone else’s memories.

The kettle clicked on in the kitchen and began its thin hum. He left it and headed to the bathroom.

He stepped into the shower, letting the hot water stitch him together for a little while. The spray mapped the hollows of him; each drop down his ribs felt like he was fifteen again - always too small, always trying to make himself disappear. The soap slid from his fingers and left behind only the ache of muscle and skin.

He dressed without looking in the mirror. His hands moved on their own, pulling on the same pieces they always did - an old T-shirt, a faded hoodie, jeans worn soft at the seams. The clothes barely fit anymore, stretched and tired, but they were all he had. His uncle had bought them for him when he was seventeen.

He caught only the edge of his reflection as he passed the bathroom mirror and kept his eyes away. Seeing himself was dangerous; it asked questions he didn’t have the courage to answer.

Behind the medicine cabinet, in a tin he had wedged into the warped wood months ago, his anti-depressants waited. He opened the cabinet with two calm fingers, shook out a pale pill, and swallowed it dry.

They tasted metallic and wrong and made his stomach roll; they made him heavy, dulled the sharpness at the edges. He had learned the timetable of them - how the nausea would ache like a bruise for an hour, how his limbs would feel leaden for the afternoon. He swallowed anyway.

If he missed them, the spiral came faster now than it had before. Social services had said the word once in a clipped, pitying voice: unstable. They had suggested assessments, questioned the wisdom of a twenty-two year old living alone with a teenager. Laurent had heard the threat like a new language and learned to obey it.

He took the pills because the thought of Nicaise being taken - of a stranger deciding what was best for him - made something hot and animal rise in his throat. He would do whatever small humiliations and slow poisons it took to keep the kid where he belonged.

Social services had been the reason Nicaise had been placed into Uncle’s home.

Laurent had been sixteen then, still trapped under his uncle’s hands. He had watched, helpless, as a child too young to understand the world’s cruelty was broken against it.

Nicaise had been an innocent child the day he arrived in their home. But Uncle, and Laurent, had made him suffer in ways Laurent had already known all too well. Laurent had stayed silent, had stayed obedient, had stayed small, all whilst Nicaise suffered the same fate he had.

For two more years, Laurent had lain in his own misery, walled in by memories and bruises and the constant humiliation of a body that was not young enough anymore. He had been discarded by Uncle, left like trash to rot quietly, while Nicaise, untouched in comparison, got the remnants of the life Laurent had lived since his brother had died.

Nicaise got Uncle’s attention, his affection, his protection - everything Laurent had been denied since he’d “grown up”. Laurent had become “a regular whore,” Uncle’s words sharp and cutting, thrown at him like punishment.

He had been sent to strangers - scary men, cruel men, mean men, and sometimes, terrifyingly, sweet men who made him want to vomit. Meanwhile, Nicaise had been loved, cared for, shielded from the worst.

For years, that resentment had lived in him quietly, a bitter knot he refused to untangle. He had blamed Nicaise for the attention he had been denied, for the comfort that had been stolen from him, even though deep down he knew it was unfair.

It had taken Uncle’s death for Laurent to truly grow up - to see clearly that he had been misplacing his anger. It had never been that eleven-year-old boy’s fault. Never.

Now, 4 years later, he would never abandon Nicaise again. Never let him enter the system again. If taking pills, staying exhausted, keeping his body bruised by invisible chains was what it took to prevent the system from tearing Nicaise away, he would do it without hesitation. He would shoulder it all, endure it all, and vanish if necessary - because this time, he could not fail the boy.

The thought sharpened him, made him rigid as he stepped out into the hall. Every ache in his limbs, every twinge in his chest, every bitter taste of medicine in his mouth: it was a small price to pay. Nicaise’s life - his safety, his innocence, his chance at something better - was a debt Laurent had vowed never to default on.

Laurent padded down the narrow hallway, the boards creaking under his weight. At the far end was the apartment’s only bedroom. That was Nicaise’s space - his and his alone. Laurent had made sure of it, which was why he slept on the pull-out couch in the living room. The boy deserved four walls and a door he could close.

Nicaise was asleep, curled on his side, the blanket tangled around his legs. His face was slack in rare peace. He got nightmares too - violent, shattering things that sometimes dragged him screaming awake. But not this morning.

This morning he was still, his breath steady, his chest rising and falling in the same rhythm that had once comforted Laurent in the worst of nights. That sight made something in Laurent unclench.

At the end of the bed, draped across Nicaise’s feet, was the cat. Officially, Nicaise had named her Marquise. Unofficially, Laurent had named her Miss Dickhead. Laurent had never called her anything else.

She’d arrived without warning one evening, scrawny and streaked with grime, a ratty street-thing that looked like it had fought with death and nearly won. Nicaise had simply carried her in and dropped her onto the mattress, declaring she was theirs.

Laurent, nineteen then, exhausted and failing in more ways than he could count, hadn’t had it in him to argue. He wouldn’t have had the heart to tell the boy no, not when he’d been twelve and clinging to something - anything - that looked like softness. If a scrappy little cat made the kid smile, then fine.

Laurent stepped into the bedroom, the air heavy with sleep. Miss Dickhead flicked her tail at him from her perch at the foot of the bed. He clicked his tongue and gave her a light shove until she hopped down with a disdainful flick of her ears. Then he crossed to the window, tugged the curtains open, and let in the grey daylight.

“Up,” he said. “You’ll be late.”

Nicaise groaned and dragged the blanket over his head. “Five more minutes.”

Laurent didn’t yield. “Now.”

The boy muttered something unintelligible but shoved the blanket aside, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. His auburn curls stuck up in every direction, a mess of tangles and cowlicks. Laurent reached out automatically, smoothing them down, ruffling them with a touch that was more maternal than he liked to admit.

Nicaise ducked away, cheeks pink, retreating toward the bathroom. He shut the door behind him with a pointed click, the shower sputtering on a moment later.

Laurent stood for a beat in the empty room, watching the steam creep under the bathroom door. Then he turned back to the kitchen, the floor cold under his feet, and set about making toast - dry and quick, enough to get something in Nicaise before school.

Laurent had already decided: no breakfast. He knew better. Knew the pills hit harder on an empty stomach, knew the warning labels and the doctor’s clipped instructions. But the nightmare had left its sour film across his tongue, and the thought of food only twisted his gut tighter. Coffee would have to be enough.

He poured it black into a chipped mug and sat with it steaming between his hands. The bitter smell steadied him, grounded him in something sharp and simple.

Nicaise padded back in, dressed in his uniform, damp curls plastered to his forehead. Laurent slid the toast across the table toward him without comment. He sat opposite, cupping his mug like it could warm more than just his fingers.

Nicaise glanced at the plate, then at Laurent. His eyes narrowed, a sharp flash of green. “Not hungry?”

The guilt landed instantly, heavy as lead. Laurent could feel it in the pit where food should have gone. Nicaise already had too much to carry - exams, the endless catch-up that came from a childhood fractured, the thousand little responsibilities a boy his age should never have to think about. Laurent didn’t want to add himself to that list.

But he knew the truth was written plain on his body. They both knew. The skipped meals, the way his clothes hung looser each month. They just never said it. Couldn’t. It was too big, too ugly, too dangerous a thing to name.

So this was how they did it instead - pointed remarks from Nicaise, guilty deflections from Laurent. He forced a shrug, took a sip of coffee he couldn’t taste.

“I’ll eat at work,” he lied smoothly. “I’ll have a big lunch, don’t worry.”

Nicaise rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath, and bit into the toast. It was their ritual: accusation, denial, false promises. A broken kind of care, but care all the same.

Laurent could feel the weight of Nicaise’s stare still on him, so he reached for the first distraction that came to mind.

“So,” he said lightly, as if it were nothing at all, “how are things with the boy?”

It worked instantly. Nicaise’s cheeks flamed pink, his hand hitting against the plate as he tried to stuff down a too large bite of toast. “What boy?” he mumbled through crumbs.

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “The one you won’t shut up about when you come home from school. The one with the bad haircut.”

Nicaise groaned and ducked his head, suddenly intent on finishing breakfast as quickly as possible. The tips of his ears were scarlet. Laurent let himself smile, small and fleeting.

Moments like this made him feel almost normal. Made them both look almost normal - like two brothers at a kitchen table, one teasing the other about a crush. Like they didn’t have a past. Like their lives were theirs to shape, untouched by anyone else’s hands.

It reminded Laurent of a time before everything had rotted. Those years after their parents’ deaths, when Auguste had tried to raise him. Auguste had been stern but steady, the kind of anchor Laurent thought might hold forever. Until the night Laurent found him hanging in the bathroom, a rope cutting his brother’s last breath short.

They had said Auguste had suffered with depression too, that grief and responsibility had carved him hollow. That raising a child alone had been too much. That he had been drunk and killing himself had been an impulsive decision.

Maybe it had. Maybe it hadn’t.

Laurent swallowed against the bitterness in his throat, watching Nicaise fumble with his toast and blush over nothing. He would not follow in Auguste’s footsteps. He couldn’t.

Not while Nicaise was still here.

Nicaise finished his toast with the air of someone accepting defeat, then scraped back his chair and shouldered his bag.

“Have a good day,” Laurent said with his mug in hand. “Do well.”

Nicaise grumbled, made a show of rolling his eyes, but he didn’t argue. He never really did when it came to school. They both knew how much it mattered.

Laurent had had that stolen from him, ripped out of his hands before he’d even had the chance to finish growing into them. To see Nicaise going each day, complaining like any other teenager, made something warm settle in Laurent’s chest. At least the boy’s childhood hadn’t been completely stolen.

The door shut behind him, his footsteps fading down the stairwell. Silence folded back into the apartment.

Miss Dickhead slunk in from the bedroom, tail flicking, golden eyes sharp as coins. Laurent crouched to pour dry food into her bowl, the rattle loud in the quiet. She bent to eat without acknowledging him, arrogant as ever. He envied it, that kind of selfish certainty.

He refilled his mug, the second coffee already cooling between his palms, and let himself sit for a moment in the stillness. Just him and the cat. Then the clock ticked over and told him it was time to move.

He grabbed his jacket, scarf, keys, and the thin wallet he could never quite keep full, then locked the door behind him and stepped out into the day.

Laurent walked the half hour into the centre, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, the morning air damp against his skin.

The motel waited for him like it always did: a sagging building that had once been painted white, now dulled to the colour of old teeth. It didn’t pay well, but they hadn’t asked him for certificates or qualifications, hadn’t asked anything at all except that he showed up when he was told to.

So he did.

The day passed in small repetitions. He smiled thinly at customers as they checked in, passed over keycards, answered the same handful of questions. He listened to complaints about the air conditioning, the thin walls, the stains on the carpets, and murmured apologies in the tone he had learned to use - polite, blank, unshakable. His uncle had once taught him how to wear that voice, that face. Now it paid his rent.

Sometimes, in the back office, there was other work. Different customer service. He never called it anything else in his head. The motel had men passing through, men who looked at him a certain way. Laurent had known what that look meant for years, and he knew what to do with it. If it meant a few more notes folded into his wallet, enough to keep the bills paid and Nicaise fed, then so be it.

He didn’t think about whether it was right or wrong. He thought about the boy at school, the toast in the morning, the cat curling herself against Nicaise’s feet. That was what mattered. If this was the price, he would keep paying it.

At lunch, Laurent forced down a small sandwich, the bread dry against his tongue. He told himself it was enough. He told himself he was doing it for Nicaise - that if he didn’t eat at least something, he’d be too weak to keep working, too weak to keep the boy safe. Thinking of Nicaise made it easier to chew, easier to swallow.

The rest of the day blurred by in the rhythm of check-ins and complaints. By the time his shift ended, night had already dragged its weight across the sky. He walked home through streets sharp with winter air, his breath clouding, his nose and cheeks raw with cold. They flushed red, bright against his pale skin, and he knew before he’d even reached the apartment door that Nicaise would notice.

He was right. The boy smirked when Laurent came in, coat still buttoned tight. “You look ridiculous,” Nicaise said, flicking at his red nose like it was a button. Laurent only shook his head and set his bag down, but some small corner of him warmed at the teasing.

Nicaise had already finished his homework, neat stacks of paper pushed aside on the table. So they curled up together on the pull-out couch, a film playing low on the old television. Nicaise tucked under his arm, head on Laurent’s shoulder; Laurent’s hand resting lightly against the boy’s curls. For a little while, it was easy to pretend.

When the clock edged too close to seven, Laurent stood and shrugged into his coat again. “There’s food in the fridge,” he said, pulling his scarf tighter around his throat. “Don’t wait up for me.”

Nicaise frowned. “And you?”

Laurent offered the practiced lie with steady eyes. “I had a big lunch.”

Nicaise didn’t call him on it. He never did. He only made a skeptical noise and turned back toward the television, and Laurent left before the guilt could catch up to him.

The night air cut colder than it had that morning, the wind sharp against Laurent’s face. He tugged his scarf higher and kept walking, hands buried deep in his pockets. The streets blurred into greys and yellows, streetlamps buzzing overhead, puddles catching the dull reflection of the sky.

He tried to steady himself with each step. Tried to remind himself why he was doing this. For weeks now, he’d been coming here - to the charity-run night classes for adults who hadn’t graduated high school. To sit in plastic chairs under buzzing fluorescent lights and be reminded of everything he’d lost, everything Uncle had taken from him.

It was humiliating sometimes. The questions he didn’t know, the numbers that twisted themselves out of reach, the way the pen felt clumsy in his hand when it should have been second nature. The frustration ate at him, told him he was stupid, told him he didn’t belong here.

But then he thought of Nicaise, hunched over his homework at the kitchen table, curls falling into his face as he scowled at equations and grammar exercises. The boy had a chance. He had a future Laurent refused to let anyone steal. And if it meant clawing back some kind of qualification to give the kid a better life, something that might one day pay better than the motel, then Laurent would keep showing up.

He was tired tonight, his body heavy with the day’s weight. When he slipped into the classroom, the lesson hadn’t started yet. Still, the scrape of the chair felt loud as he pulled it back, settling into a seat at the very back. Head low, shoulders drawn in. He didn’t want to be noticed. Not tonight.

Laurent forced his eyes to the front, pen poised above the blank page in front of him. Focus. He told himself he needed to focus. But his stomach knotted tighter with every breath, his head pounding like a drum. Maybe he should just leave. Go home, crawl back onto the couch, let the dark swallow him for the night.

But then Nicaise would notice. Nicaise would know something was wrong, and Laurent couldn’t let him carry that. So he stayed, forcing himself still, forcing himself small.

He was so far inside the spiral he didn’t hear the door open, didn’t notice the shuffle of papers at the front of the room. It was the voice that dragged him back - warm, unfamiliar, not the clipped tone of their usual teacher.

Laurent looked up.

The man standing there was tall, broad-shouldered, built like sunlight might bend around him. His smile cut dimples into his cheeks, easy and unguarded, and something strange fluttered in Laurent’s chest. A memory, almost, rising like salt air - sea breeze in his lungs, the sharp tang of coffee on his tongue, the sound of waves breaking against the shore.

“Hello,” the man said. “Your usual teacher is out sick with the flu today, so I’ll be covering. You can call me Damen.”

Laurent’s heart stopped.

Damen.

The name cracked open something he had buried deep, and for a dizzying moment all he could see was his teenage self, fifteen and raw, sitting on a beach beside this boy, laughing, alive. That week in the hotel, the first time he’d felt seen, the first time someone had made him feel safe.

But fate wasn’t real. This wasn’t possible. Damen couldn’t be here, standing at the front of his night class, looking like the years had only sharpened him.

Laurent’s pulse thundered, panic clawing up his throat. Damen couldn’t see him like this. Not after everything. Not when Laurent had left without saying goodbye. Damen must hate him - of course he did. Laurent would hate himself, too.

He dropped his gaze to the desk, knuckles white around the pen, as though hiding might undo the impossible.

Laurent kept his eyes fixed on the page, the pen unmoving in his hand. He told himself not to look up again, not to risk it - but the pull was impossible. His gaze flicked upward, caught Damen’s for the briefest heartbeat, and then he dropped it, heat crawling across his face.

He prayed Damen hadn’t recognised him. Seven years had passed. He was a little taller and the baby fat his uncle used to poke and prod was gone, burned off by time and lean living, and with it, the softness in his face that people used to call pretty.

His hair was shorter now, though still longer than most men wore theirs, tied low at the nape of his neck in a plain ponytail. He thought of tugging up the hood of his jumper, hiding his face in the fabric, but the movement would only draw attention.

His heart hammered in his chest, each beat louder than the last. Sweat prickled down his spine, his throat tight, breath coming shallow and quick. It felt like the edge of a panic attack, the room narrowing, sound distorting.

But then - Damen’s voice. Calm, steady, filling the classroom. He moved easily through the lesson, pointing to the board, leaning down to answer a student’s question with the same patience he’d had as a boy. Laurent found himself staring, not at the work in front of him but at Damen himself.

It was dangerous, but it steadied him. Just as it had all those years ago. Back then, on the beach, when the world had felt too heavy, he had looked at Damen and found air in his lungs again. It was the same now.

He focused on him, on the way his dimples flashed when he smiled, on the warmth in his voice, on the ease with which he filled a space. Little by little, the panic eased, replaced with something quieter, almost mournful. He was still terrified, still sick with dread at being recognised, but beneath it all was that old, impossible feeling: safety.

The lesson folded up around them - papers rustling, a few chairs scraping - and Laurent moved before he’d planned to, shoving his bag under his arm, shoulders hunched. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He wanted to run until his legs burned.

“Laurent?”

The name - soft, certain - stopped him like a hand on his shoulder. He froze. For a few ragged heartbeats he could not tell if it was the sound of the name or the way it landed that made everything tilt. Damen’s eyes were on him. Damen recognised him.

He couldn’t pretend ignorance. He had no right to.

Damen crossed the aisle and stood a little way from him, the classroom light catching the planes of his face. He looked older, yes, but the dimples were the same; the smile was the same too, though it had a cautiousness now, like someone addressing a skittish animal.

“I knew it was you,” he said, voice low. “You’re here… why are you-?” He hesitated, then gave a small, sad half-smile. “You’re still as beautiful as that week.”

Laurent flinched as if struck. There was a taste in his mouth like metal. He squeezed his jaw shut and answered in a clipped thing that felt borrowed from somebody else. “If you just came over to flirt with me, I’m leaving.”

Damen’s smile didn’t falter; it shifted instead into something gentler. “I’m sorry - God, I’m sorry, that was… I never-” He stopped, struggling with the memory. “I looked for you. The morning you left.”

The words opened something and Laurent wanted to curl away from it. Heat crawled up from his stomach and his hands trembled. He could feel the old panic crouching at his ribs, the urge to go home and make himself small enough to disappear, to be sick until the noise stopped. He tasted bile and wanted to heave. He kept his face carefully blank.

“What do you want?” He kept the question sharp. Defensive. It was easier than answering when someone asked how he’d been for the last seven years.

Damen’s eyes darkened with something like regret. “Nothing,” he said. “I - only to talk to you. To know you were okay… I never stopped thinking about that week. I never stopped wondering how you were. Maybe we could catch up? Go for coffee?”

Laurent’s throat tightened. He could hear the small, sensible voice in his head - don’t tell him, don’t let him see this. So he deflected. “I’ve got to go home, my kid is waiting for me,” he said abruptly.

Damen blinked, surprise washing over his expression. “You - what? You have a child?”

Laurent felt himself go cold. “He’s fifteen,” he said. “I’m his guardian. I take care of him. That’s why I-” He stopped. Saying why would be saying more than he wanted to. Saying why would be admitting how much he still owed the world in blood and shame.

Damen’s gaze dropped for a moment, reading him, then met him again with an awkward gentleness. “Like… like your uncle was your guardian?” he asked, and instantly his mouth softened into an apology when he saw the way Laurent’s face closed.

Laurent’s whole body recoiled. The name of his uncle was a bruise that never quite healed. He had no right to clatter it across this fragile rapprochement. He only managed, “Don’t.”

Damen swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t have to mean anything,” Laurent cut in. The words turned brittle then fragile. He could feel the room tilt, the past and the present stacking up until the weight was almost too much. “I need to go, Damen.”

Damen paused, then reached into his pocket with a careful, almost shy motion. “Still - can I have your number? If you don’t want coffee, I understand. I just - I'd like to keep in touch. If that’s possible.”

There was something hopeful in the offer, and also a mourning - that regret for the boy he’d lost sight of, and for the part of Laurent that had been left behind. Laurent wanted to refuse. He wanted to run. He also wanted, in a small, sudden, fearful way, to see if the safety he’d felt in that remembered week could be found again now that the years had been added on.

He hesitated, fingers fumbling with the strap of his bag. Finally he gave his phone over, voice low. “Fine.”

Damen’s smile this time was tentative and bright. He typed, glanced up as if to memorise Laurent’s face, then one last question parked itself in his eyes. “Are you - okay?”

Laurent felt the old impulse rise like smoke: to make himself smaller, to punish, to disappear. He thought of Nicaise curled on the couch, of Miss Dickhead’s imperious tail, of pieces of life he refused to risk losing. He drew in a breath and managed something that passed for steadiness.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “I have to go.”

He turned and moved for the door, the classroom lights blurring at the edges. Behind him Damen’s voice was softer than he expected. “I’m really happy to see you, Laurent.”

Laurent stepped out into the night like someone stepping out of a window into cold air. His legs were lead and his chest a raw, hollow thing. He had a name in his phone that made his fingers itch; he had a past that had marched up to him on a Tuesday night and called him by the name he’d run from. He walked, and the city swallowed him, leaving the taste of sea air and coffee and something like both mercy and mourning in his mouth.

The apartment was dark when Laurent let himself in, the only light the flicker of the television. On the couch, Nicaise was curled in a blanket, eyes on some gory horror film, the volume low. He glanced up when Laurent entered, the screen flashing blood-red across his face, but he didn’t say anything.

Laurent dropped his bag and sank down beside him. His body was leaden, his nerves still buzzing with the echo of a name spoken aloud, of a smile he’d once thought he’d never see again. He didn’t have it in him to scold about the hour or the movie choice. He just leaned into the boy’s warmth, letting his shoulder press against his.

Nicaise didn’t ask questions. He never did when Laurent looked like this. He shifted the blanket so Laurent could tuck himself under, and after a long silence Laurent let himself slip sideways, head pillowed on Nicaise’s narrow lap. The boy’s hand came up automatically, fingers carding through Laurent’s hair in slow, casual strokes.

The gesture was nothing, wordless and instinctive, but it unstrung something deep inside him. He closed his eyes, breath evening out as the pull of exhaustion grew heavier.

But sleep wouldn’t be easy. Not with his mind pulled taut between the ache in his chest and the shadows behind his eyes. Damen’s face - older, stronger, impossibly familiar - still lingered in his head. The sound of the waves, the taste of coffee, the sunlit safety of that single week.

And here, now, the boy he loved more than himself, more than breath, sitting so still, holding him up without words.

And beneath it all - the self-loathing, sharp as glass. The certainty that he was ugly, tainted, a body ruined by too many hands. He did not deserve Damen’s smile, nor Nicaise’s quiet devotion. He would ruin them both, eventually.

He lay there anyway, letting the boy’s fingers soothe him, eyes half-shut against the television’s flicker. Somewhere between memory and exhaustion, caught in the jagged space between what he wanted and what he feared he was.

The credits rolled, the screen washing the room in pale light before it went dark. Nicaise flicked the remote aside and wriggled down on the sofa, tugging the blanket higher. Laurent followed without a word, shifting until they were lying side by side beneath the covers, shoulder to shoulder. The cushions dipped under their combined weight, the closeness instinctive by now.

For a while they just listened to the hum of the fridge, the muted noise of the street outside. Then Nicaise whispered, his voice so quiet Laurent almost missed it.

“I did well on my test today.”

Laurent turned his head on the pillow, just enough to see the outline of his face in the dimness. “Yeah?”

A small nod, curls brushing the fabric. “Thought you’d want to know.”

That simple truth hit Laurent harder than it should have. Warmth pushed through the hollow ache in his chest. He reached for Nicaise under the blanket, pulling him close, his grip firm, almost desperate.

“Good,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “That’s good.”

Nicaise said nothing else. He only let Laurent hold on, his breathing slow, his body loose against him. The weight of him, the warmth, the quiet - it soothed.

The two of them lay there in the dark, bound by something neither of them ever had to name. Two boys marked by the same violence, carrying it differently, but holding one another up in ways no one else could understand.

Laurent woke stiff and uncomfortable, still wrapped in yesterday’s clothes, the blanket twisted around his legs. His mouth was dry, his head heavy. Beside him, Nicaise was curled into the cushions, breathing deep, hair falling into his eyes. He looked younger in sleep. Safer.

Laurent stared at the ceiling. The memory of the night before rose up like a bruise pressed too hard - Damen’s smile, Damen’s voice saying his name, the shock of recognition. For years Laurent had tucked that boy away in some hidden corner of his mind, locked tight, preserved. The one good week of his youth. Untouched. Untainted.

He hadn’t thought he’d ever see him again when he moved them to Akielos three years ago. He hadn’t dared imagine it. Damen had been a memory, a fragment of sun on a grey horizon, and memories were safer left as they were.

Now - Laurent reached for his phone on the coffee table, thumb hovering before he unlocked it. The screen glowed in the dim morning, four unread messages from an unknown number. His chest tightened.

He opened them.

Hi, it’s Damen. Just wanted to make sure you got home safe.

Sorry if that’s weird. I just… wanted to check.

It was really good to see you again. I didn’t know if I’d ever. Yeah.

I don’t want to bother you, but if you ever want coffee (no pressure at all), I’d really like to catch up.

The words blurred a little as Laurent read them, a stinging ache swelling in his chest. They were clumsy, earnest, too open - and they were so utterly, painfully Damen.

Laurent’s pulse quickened as he scrolled, his heart thudding too hard in his chest. The corners of his mouth betrayed him, tugging upward, and before he could stop himself he felt heat creep across his cheeks. Blushing - ridiculous, adolescent, and utterly unlike him.

It wasn’t fear. Usually, when someone threatened to brush against the fragile walls of the life he’d built around himself and Nicaise, dread rose first, sharp and suffocating. But now… now it was something else. Something closer to curiosity.

“Who are you texting?”

Laurent flinched, thumb stabbing the screen dark. He twisted to find Nicaise leaning over his shoulder, curls wild from sleep, his grin sly.

“Nothing,” Laurent said too quickly, the word clipped, defensive.

The boy’s eyes lit with mischief. “Have you got a secret boyfriend?” He almost sang it, scooping up Marquise as she padded by, the cat slung carelessly in his arms like a prize.

“No.” The denial was flat, cold. Too cold.

Nicaise smirked, undeterred. “Mmh. Sure. That’s why your face is red.”

Laurent felt heat spike across his cheeks and ears, and he hated himself for it. “It’s not.”

“It is,” Nicaise said, grinning as the cat laid down on the sofa. “What’s he like? Old? Ugly? RICH?”

Laurent’s jaw clenched. “It’s not anyone.”

“You wouldn’t tell me even if it was,” Nicaise teased, pouting like a brat. “Because you’re secretive.”

“I’m private,” Laurent snapped.

“Same thing.”

“Nicaise-” Laurent started, his voice fraying with sharpness, but the boy only laughed, picking the cat back up and slipping away toward the bathroom. Marquise dangled limply in his arms, purring like she was in on the joke.

The last thing Laurent heard before the door clicked shut was Nicaise’s voice drifting back, wickedly sweet: “Don’t send him anything gross whilst I’m gone!”

Laurent buried his face in his hand, shame burning so hot he thought it might hollow him out from the inside.

When the door clicked shut, Laurent finally felt like he could breathe. He turned the phone back over in his hand, screen glowing once more, the five messages still waiting. Earnest. Awkward. Kind.

He read them again. And again. His lips pressed into a thin line as he tapped out a reply.

Got home safe.

Nothing more. No mention of coffee, no invitation to open a door that might not close again.

He hesitated, then pressed send, his heart skittering, his lips still tight as though he could hold the feeling in by force.

Morning blurred into routine: Nicaise scarfing down toast while Laurent reminded him not to miss the bus, the boy muttering complaints that never had teeth; Laurent pulling on his jacket and checking his wallet, already calculating the day ahead. By the time they stepped out into the cold, the teasing from earlier had been buried under habit. The messages stayed where they were, tucked away in Laurent’s pocket, silent. Forgotten - or at least pushed down.

At the motel, the hours bled together. He checked guests in, answered the phone, fixed the printer when it jammed again. He kept his voice level, his posture neat. He was good at this, the surface-level charm. Customers left satisfied, even if he felt nothing underneath.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. Once. Twice. Three times.

On his short break, he slid it out, thumb brushing the cracked screen. Damen again.

How’s your day going?

What are you up to these days?

How have you been, really?

Laurent’s stomach knotted. He should ignore them - he knew he should - but his fingers betrayed him.

Slow.

Working.

Busy.

Three replies, clipped and neat, enough to acknowledge but not invite.

A guest tapped the desk, demanding help with a double booking. Laurent slid the phone back into his pocket, pulling on the mask he wore for strangers, patient and polite until the complaint was smoothed over.

When he returned to the desk, his phone buzzed again. Damen had already replied.

Busy’s good.

Better than being bored, anyway.

What’s your job - do you like it?

Laurent stared at the screen, jaw tight. Why would Damen care? He tapped out, Receptionist. It pays and shoved the phone away.

But at his next break, curiosity tugged him back. Another message blinked on the screen.

Fair answer.

I used to work at a beach bar before I became a teacher - a lot of drunk tourists, a lot of sand everywhere. Still better than paperwork.

Laurent surprised himself with a huff of air, something like a laugh. His thumb hovered, then typed: Depends on the tourists.

The reply came before his shift even gave him time to pocket the phone.

True. Some were… better company than others.

Laurent’s face heated. He locked the screen, stuffed the phone away, and buried himself in work.

But by the time his next break came, he found himself pulling the phone out again before he even sat down. Damen’s messages were light, easy.

So when did you move to Akeilos?

Laurent hesitated, thumb tapping the screen. That felt too close, too personal. Still, he typed: Three years ago.

Three years? That’s a big move from Vere. What made you decide?

He swallowed, staring at this phone. He deleted three versions of the reply before sending the fourth: Needed a fresh start.

Damen didn’t press.

Makes sense. I like it here. Well I have lived here my whole life.

Laurent put the phone down. He should stop. But then it buzzed again.

Hey, by the way - who’s the kid? The one you mentioned last night?

Laurent’s chest tightened. My brother. Nicaise. He’s not my real brother, just legally.

He sounds like trouble.

Laurent surprised himself by smiling faintly. He is.

Another buzz.

But good trouble?

He chewed his lip. Yeah.

There was a pause, long enough for Laurent to think Damen might be finished. Then-

Got any pets?

Laurent snorted, thumbs moving without thought: No. Just a parasite my brother dragged in one day.

When Damen sent back a question mark, Laurent clarified: She’s a cat.

The reply came with a string of laughing emojis.

“Parasite” is a very dignified title. Bet she lives up to it.

She bites.

Sounds like you’re outnumbered.

Laurent leaned back in his chair, staring at the thread. He hadn’t meant to share any of this. And yet, here it was: Damen asking, Laurent answering. His life unfolding in short bursts of words, not the whole truth but… enough.

It was terrifying. It was dangerous.

And it was… nice.

He found himself pausing before hitting send, not because he was wary, but because he wanted to phrase it right. To give Damen something worth replying to.

By the end of the day, the conversation had become a steady rhythm. Laurent would check in customers, his phone buzzing quietly in his pocket, and he’d feel his heart kick - anticipation, almost. He knew he should shut it down, should delete the number and close the door before Damen wasted another second on him.

And yet.

Every break, he was there. Thinking about Damen’s dimples, his laugh, the way sea air had clung to him all those years ago.

And replying.

The apartment was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed in at the edges. Nicaise was out, tangled up with his new circle of friends, and Miss Dickhead had disappeared somewhere into the shadows, probably plotting her next attack. Laurent sat on the sofa in his hoodie, a cooling cup of coffee forgotten on the table.

His phone was beside him, face-down, but he could feel the weight of it like a stone. He thought of the thread waiting there, Damen’s easy questions, Laurent’s guarded replies that had somehow grown softer, warmer as the hours passed.

And then it struck him.

He hadn’t asked Damen a single thing. Not once. The conversation had been one-sided, Laurent taking and taking - answers, patience, lighthearted jokes. He felt selfish. Worse: exposed.

His thumb hovered. He pulled the phone into his hand and flicked through the thread, scrolling up past every bubble of Damen’s voice, the dimples he could almost hear in the text. He read them twice, three times, and the guilt settled heavier in his chest.

This wasn’t safe. It never was.

With a breath caught sharp in his throat, Laurent deleted the thread. The whole conversation vanished, leaving nothing but the cold expanse of an empty screen. He blocked the number before he could change his mind, before some treacherous part of him thought about waiting for the next message, the next flash of Damen’s name.

The phone went flying, landing somewhere behind the sofa with a muffled thud. Out of sight, out of reach.

Laurent stretched out across the cushions, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, and told himself the truth he had always known: he couldn’t have nice things. Nice things were a trick, a lure. They always soured, always came with consequences.

It had been enough - too much - to see Damen again, to hear his voice and remember the sun. Tomorrow his regular teacher would be back. Damen would vanish the way he should have years ago, a beautiful memory locked away.

It was for the best.

He closed his eyes, the hollow of his chest aching like an old wound.

But his teacher wasn’t back the next day.

Laurent walked into the classroom late, hood tugged up, prepared for dull familiarity - and froze. Damen was there again, at the front of the room, smiling faintly as he took attendance. Only it wasn’t the same smile. The dimples were dulled, his voice steady but thinner at the edges. His shoulders seemed heavier somehow.

Laurent sank into his chair, pulse thrumming. He had thought deleting the messages would close that door, neat and final. Instead, it felt like Damen had read the silence, and had understood what it meant. And it had hurt him.

The whole lesson Laurent’s eyes kept slipping forward, catching on Damen’s face. Watching him. Damen distracted, subdued, not the bright, open boy Laurent remembered. It was wrong. Damen wasn’t supposed to look like that. Damen was sunshine. Laurent was the rain.

By the end of class Laurent’s stomach was in knots. As soon as the books closed, he shoved his things into his bag and bolted, weaving through the rows, ignoring the sound of his name being called - low, urgent, please.

He made it as far as the exit. Then a hand closed around his wrist.

The touch dragged him backwards in time: seven years gone, the echo of waves on stone, a narrow cave mouth, a boy’s warm hand gripping his arm to keep him from running.

Back then Laurent had yanked free, retreating into the safety of silence.

Now, older, heavier with everything he carried, he didn’t pull away. He just stood there, frozen, heart pounding so hard he felt it in his throat. Damen’s hand was warm, steady.

“Laurent - wait!”

The sound of his name was low, rough with something Laurent didn’t want to name. Damen’s grip stayed firm but careful on his wrist, like holding him too tightly might scare him off.

Laurent turned slowly, pulse hammering in his ears. Damen’s eyes met his, wide and pained, and Laurent had to fight the urge to flinch.

“I’m sorry,” Damen said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I shouldn’t have - yesterday, all the messages, pushing like that. I didn’t mean to be-” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair, his mouth twisting. “Interfering. Forcing myself on you. I thought-” His voice caught, dimples flashing not with joy but with embarrassment. “I thought maybe you’d want to hear from me. But if you don’t-”

Laurent blinked, struck dumb. His stomach twisted, shame gnawing at him. This - this was because of him. Because he’d blocked the number, erased the thread. Damen hadn’t been wrong, hadn’t been cruel, hadn’t been anything but warm and kind, and Laurent had turned it into rejection.

Damen looked stricken, standing there in the doorway like he’d broken something fragile without meaning to. He let go of Laurent’s wrist at once, hands falling helplessly to his sides. “If I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry. I never wanted that.”

For a moment Laurent couldn’t speak. His throat burned. He wanted to tell Damen he hadn’t done anything wrong. That Damen never had. That every misstep, every cut, every scar between them had been his.

Instead he only whispered, raw, “You didn’t.”

Damen’s brows furrowed. “Laurent-”

But Laurent couldn’t bear it, not the worry in Damen’s face, not the tenderness in his voice. He stepped back, creating distance, his chest aching with the weight of the apology he couldn’t make.

“You didn’t.” Laurent said again, voice too thin, almost lost under the slamming of the exit door as the last students filed out.

Damen blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Laurent forced the words out, clipped, like spitting glass. “But I’m not-” His chest heaved. He hated how much effort it cost him to speak. “I’m not good. You shouldn’t waste your time getting involved.”

Damen’s brows drew together, a shadow of confusion crossing his face. Laurent pressed on before he could answer, desperate to carve distance between them.

“We’re not those boys anymore. It’s been years. And it’s better if we stay apart.”

For a moment Damen just looked at him. Really looked, eyes narrowing in thought, his head tilting slightly like he was piecing together a puzzle Laurent couldn’t bear to hand over. The silence stretched until it threatened to choke.

Finally Damen asked, softly but steady, “Is that what you really want?”

Laurent’s throat closed. His silence was answer enough.

Damen’s mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a frown. It was smaller, sadder, an expression Laurent had never seen on him before. “You still look as sad as you did then,” he murmured, almost to himself.

The words punched through Laurent’s chest like a blade. He stiffened, heart battering against his ribs.

“Why do you think you’re so unworthy?” Damen asked, and there was no judgment in it, only bafflement and an ache that felt unbearable to meet.

Laurent shook his head, a sharp jerk. “I can’t say.” His voice cracked. “If I tell you - you’ll look at me differently.”

“I won’t,” Damen said instantly, fierce.

“You will.” Laurent cut him off, the words sharp enough to bleed. “You don’t know me, Damen. You don’t know anything about me.”

The air between them was taut as wire, Damen staring at him, searching for something he wasn’t allowed to find. Laurent held his ground, every muscle tight, though inside he wanted to crumple.

Damen’s gaze softened, his voice dropping lower. “Does Nicaise know?”

Laurent’s jaw clenched. The urge to lie clawed at him, but he couldn’t make himself say the words. “Yes.”

Damen studied him, careful. “And does he look at you differently?”

Laurent’s chest ached. He swallowed, eyes darting away. “Nicaise is the same as me. A product of our childhoods.” The sentence landed like a stone, heavy and final. He offered nothing more.

Damen didn’t press. He only breathed out, a long exhale, like he was holding himself back from reaching across the gulf between them.

“If you really don’t want anything to do with me,” he said quietly, “I’ll leave you alone. I promise.” His mouth tilted, a faint shadow of the dimples Laurent remembered. “But the offer for coffee is still on the table, Laurent. Only if you want to.”

The words hung there, gentle, patient. Laurent wanted to tear them down, to turn and walk away and never risk this ache again. But the thought of Damen smiling across from him, laughing the way he used to, his voice tumbling over stories - Laurent wanted that.

He wanted it so badly it hurt.

And against every instinct screaming no, every wall he’d built around himself, he heard his own voice betray him.

“…Yes.”

Damen blinked, then smiled - real and warm this time, dimples deep, sunlight breaking through clouds.

Laurent’s heart hammered, shame and longing tangling in his chest. But for the first time in years, his “yes” didn’t feel like surrender.

“But it’s too late to go tonight,” Laurent said, voice flat, though his heart was still tripping unevenly.

“Tomorrow then,” Damen replied without hesitation, eyes lighting up. “Afternoon? You said yesterday you work mornings on Fridays.”

Laurent blinked. He hadn’t meant to give that away. Still, he nodded once. “Fine.”

The smile Damen gave him was unguarded, bright - so bright it almost hurt to look at. Dimples deepened, his whole face alive with excitement, and for a flicker of a moment Laurent felt something like pity. That Damen could be so eager to see him - a bitter, hollow shell. It felt undeserved. Cruel, almost.

But when Damen said goodbye, lingering like he wanted to say more, and finally turned away down the street, Laurent found himself standing still in the cold. And the strangest thing: the air didn’t bite as sharply. His chest felt less like a chasm and more like… space. Empty, yes, but lighter.

By the time he got home, the silence of the apartment waiting for him, Laurent pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered, then tapped. Damen’s number slid off the block list, the empty thread reappearing. He didn’t type anything. He couldn’t.

Two minutes later, the screen lit up anyway.

sleep well :)

Laurent stared at it, lips pressed tight, his heart knocking against his ribs. He set the phone facedown on the table and told himself not to feel anything. But when he lay down on the couch, he realised he was still a little warm.

Chapter Text

The bell above the cafe door chimed soft as Laurent pushed it open. He hesitated on the threshold, chest tight. The place smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon, all polished wood and mismatched art on the walls. It was quiet, a scattering of students hunched over laptops, a pair of old women chatting in the corner.

He almost turned back. But Damen was already there, sitting near the window. He saw Laurent instantly, face lighting up, and before Laurent could think of an excuse, Damen was on his feet, pulling out the opposite chair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Laurent sat down, stiff-backed, tugging at his sleeves.

“What do you want?” Damen asked, gesturing to the chalkboard menu above the counter.

Laurent murmured a choice, low, and Damen waved him off, striding to the barista before Laurent could argue. When he came back with two steaming mugs and a plate of pastries, Laurent dug for his wallet on instinct.

“How much?”

“Nothing,” Damen said simply, pushing a cup toward him.

Laurent’s brows snapped together. “I can pay for my own coffee.” The sharpness in his tone surprised even him.

Damen didn’t flinch. He only shook his head, calm. “I know you can. But I wanted to. Just something nice, that’s all.”

Laurent’s throat burned. It was worse, somehow, to be treated gently, to be given things without a price. He hated the thought of being pitied, of Damen seeing him as some charity case dragged in off the street. Especially when Damen knew he went to charity-run classes, when the thought of handouts scraped against every raw part of him.

But Damen’s face held nothing but openness. No condescension. No strings.

Laurent’s lips thinned. He forced the word out. “Thank you.”

Damen smiled, small but warm, dimples showing faintly. “You’re welcome.”

Laurent wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into his fingers, and tried not to feel the tremor of something loosening in his chest.

The coffee was too hot, but Laurent sipped anyway, letting the sting anchor him. Anything to keep his hands busy, his mouth occupied, his mind from short-circuiting the way it always did when Damen was close.

They had been texting since last night. Laurent could read, delete, rewrite. He could think. Here, with Damen across the table, the world narrowed down to the curve of his smile, the depth of his voice, the warmth Laurent couldn’t block out no matter how hard he tried.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The clink of cups and the low hum of conversation from other tables filled the space between them. Laurent stared into his mug, willing himself to be composed, to be cold, to not give anything away.

Then Damen leaned forward, elbows on the table, and started talking.

“Feels strange, being back in a classroom,” he said, dimples flashing faintly. “Though I guess I never really left. I went straight into post-grad after undergrad, so it’s been… what, nearly a decade? I think my dad was hoping I’d finally stop living in libraries.”

Laurent glanced up despite himself. Damen was smiling at his own joke, self-effacing, easy.

“I played sports all through undergrad,” Damen continued. “Rugby mostly. I’ve been trying to get into coaching since. It’s competitive, but I’m stubborn enough to keep at it.”

Laurent’s fingers tightened around his cup. He wanted to scoff, to say something cutting about stubbornness, but the words stuck. He just… listened.

Damen’s tone softened a fraction. “My family keeps me grounded. My dad is still in Akeilos. My brother too.” He hesitated, his gaze flicking to Laurent like he was weighing how much to reveal. “Though Kastor and I… we don’t talk much anymore.”

Laurent blinked at that, caught off guard. His memory of Damen at seventeen was so vivid: the way he’d spoken about his older half brother with admiration, almost reverence. Kastor had been untouchable in Damen’s eyes, the older sibling who could do no wrong.

Laurent found himself asking, before he could stop himself, “What happened?”

Damen let out a slow breath, the corner of his mouth tugging downward. “I was engaged. Last year. We’d been together three years. I walked in on her and Kastor.” His eyes dropped to his cup, voice quiet. “They even have a kid together now.”

Laurent’s eyebrows shot up despite himself. He said nothing while Damen spoke, but the story unfolded like a blow: a fiancé, betrayal, a child. The kind of melodrama Laurent would have dismissed outright if it weren’t Damen sitting here, telling him with unflinching honesty.

When Damen finally fell silent, Laurent tilted his head, lips pursed, as though considering it.

“How romantic,” he said flatly. “They should write vows in the family Bible.”

Damen’s eyes widened, and then - unexpectedly - he laughed. A real laugh, deep and startled, dimples showing. The sound filled the tiny cafe space between them, warm and ridiculous, cutting through the heaviness like sunlight through clouds.

Laurent looked away sharply, but not before Damen caught the faint curve tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Anyway. It’s been a long road. But I’m happy. Most days.”

Laurent dared another glance at him. Damen’s smile was still there, warm and real, though tempered with something fragile at the edges.

“My turn I guess.” Laurent’s voice was flat, deliberate, as if he were reading off a report. Not reliving it. “I never finished high school, as you’ve probably already guessed. After my uncle’s death, guardianship of Nicaise fell to me. His parents… they were addicts, lost custody years before. He was adopted into my uncle’s household officially after years in the foster system, and then, when my Uncle killed himself, it was on me. I was nineteen.”

He let the words hang, heavy, though carefully shorn of the ugliest truths. Enough weight to explain the lines under his eyes. Enough to show he hadn’t simply drifted into night classes by accident.

Damen didn’t speak at first, his brow knit, lips pressed tight. When he did, his voice was low, reverent. “That’s… a lot, Laurent. More than anyone should have had to carry.” A pause. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

The compliment lodged like a thorn. Laurent scoffed, shaking his head, the motion sharp enough to cut. “Don’t romanticise me. I’m not some saint. I’m barely keeping it together. I’m not a good parent to him. He deserves someone better.”

But even as he said it, another memory surfaced unbidden, dragging his chest tight. He’d asked Nicaise once - in one of his darker hours, when the burden felt impossible - if he’d rather live with someone else. Someone who could feed him properly, give him a real home.

He could still see the boy’s face in that moment, blotchy with tears, furious in a way Laurent hadn’t known him capable of. “Don’t you ever say that! Don’t you dare! I don’t want anyone else. I want to stay with you!” Nicaise had screamed until his voice broke, then clung to Laurent’s shirt with trembling fists.

The only time Laurent had ever seen him cry like that.

Now, across from Damen, Laurent pressed his lips together, staring into the swirl of his coffee. He would never tell Damen that part.

They lingered over the last of their drinks. Damen brushed the flakes of pastry from his plate, cheerful as ever, while Laurent tucked his untouched half into a paper bag to bring home to Nicaise. It was easier to make an excuse than to force himself to eat it. Everything he’d eaten today was already gone, vomited and flushed down a staff bathroom sink after a customer had pressed sweaty hands to his hips. More food was just a threat, not a comfort.

But here, with Damen, he almost forgot. Damen talked and talked - about a film he’d seen, about the bizarre regulars at his gym - his voice warm and low, full of an ease Laurent had no claim to. And Laurent… relaxed. His shoulders unknotted. His jaw softened. He could almost pretend he wasn’t tired to his bones.

Still, the thoughts crept in, quiet and sour. Would Damen keep smiling at him like this if he knew? If he knew what Laurent had done just to make rent, to keep Nicaise clothed and fed? If he knew Laurent was nothing more than a broke receptionist who let strangers fuck him in the back office? Who couldn’t even hold down a meal?

The scarf Damen had said earlier matched his eyes beautifully brushed Laurent’s throat. Laurent kept his eyes lowered, hiding the twist in his chest.

They finished their drinks and stepped out into the street, the late afternoon sun throwing long shadows across the pavement. The air had a bite to it, sharp against Laurent’s cheeks, but for once he didn’t feel cold.

They lingered just outside the café door, neither speaking, both waiting for the other to end it. Laurent’s heart tightened with the familiar ache of endings - of goodbyes unspoken and too soon. He didn’t want it yet, not this time. Inside his chest he was begging, just a little longer, just stay close a little longer.

And Damen, as though he’d heard, broke the silence. “I’ll walk you home,” he said, not casual, not heavy, simply certain.

Laurent blinked at him, lips parting. For a second he thought about refusing, the instinct to close the door before anyone could see inside his messy life too strong. But then he caught the earnestness in Damen’s eyes, the warmth that had followed him all afternoon.

A small smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. “Alright.”

Damen’s answering grin lit up his whole face, and they fell into step together, the city shifting around them as if it were just background noise.

The streets were hushed in the cold, the kind of winter afternoon where even the city seemed to soften under the pale light. Their breath fogged the air in twin clouds as they walked side by side. Laurent found himself strangely at ease, the tight coil in his chest loosened by Damen’s unhurried pace, by the warmth radiating from him.

For once, Laurent wasn’t overthinking every step. He let himself notice the way the sun slanted off glass windows, the crunch of salt underfoot, the way Damen kept just close enough their shoulders almost brushed. It was quiet, but not the kind of silence that demanded filling.

His fingers had gone numb, curled tight in his pockets. He hadn’t bothered with gloves - there hadn’t been money to spare, and besides, it was just cold. Damen noticed, of course.

“Your hands,” Damen said, half-laughing. “They must be freezing.”

Laurent gave a small shrug, tucking them deeper into his coat. Damen slipped off one of his gloves, held it out. “Here.”

“No, thank you.” Laurent said at once, sharper than he meant. He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

Damen didn’t argue. Instead, he reached, gentle but certain, and slipped his hand into Laurent’s. His palm was warm, his grip easy.

Laurent stopped short, staring down at their joined hands. “What are you doing?” His voice was low, wary.

“Warming your hand,” Damen answered simply. There was a pause, quiet but charged, before Damen added softly, “Is this okay?”

The words struck something deep in Laurent, leaving him breathless. No one had ever asked him that before - not about touch, not about anything. Everything had always been taken, demanded, performed. The question itself was a gift.

His throat felt tight as he forced himself to nod. “Yeah… yeah, it’s okay.”

They started walking again, hand in hand through the winter streets. To anyone else, it was nothing more than a small kindness. But to Laurent, it was everything.

Laurent slowed as they reached his building, the cracked steps and weathered bricks heavy with embarrassment. He didn’t want Damen to see - not the peeling paint, not the rusted railing, not the smallness of it all.

“You can stop here,” Laurent said quickly, tilting his head toward the entrance. “I’ll go up by myself.”

Damen shook his head. “Not a chance. I’ll walk you in. I want to know you’re home safe.”

Laurent hesitated, but the pressure of Damen’s hand still wrapped around his own made refusal impossible. So he let himself be tugged up the steps, through the door, the faint smell of damp plaster and dust greeting them. Damen’s hand tightened, just slightly, a wordless reassurance.

At Laurent’s apartment door they both paused, caught in a silence that stretched. Laurent’s chest rose and fell too quickly, something pressing against his ribs, demanding to be spoken. Finally, with a sigh, he let it out.

“Is this a date?”

Damen’s lips curved, his eyes warm with a smile that wasn’t mocking. “Do you want it to be?”

Laurent blinked, unsteady, fumbling for a way round the question. “Nicaise said it was. He teased me about it.”

Damen’s smile widened, teasing. “Do you go on many dates?”

“No. I-” Laurent stumbled, shaking his head. “No.”

The word hung between them, fragile and honest, the echo of something spoken once before, years ago, when they had been boys on a different shore. Damen didn’t push. He only gave Laurent’s hand one last squeeze before slowly letting go.

Suddenly, the door lock clicked, and before Laurent could even fish out his keys, the door flew open.

Nicaise stood there, curls sticking out in every direction, a mischievous glint already in his eye. His gaze flicked from Laurent to Damen, then back again, and his grin turned wicked.

“So this is him,” Nicaise announced, ignoring Damen entirely as though he were a prop in the scene. “The reason you’ve been checking your phone like a teenage girl for the past couple of days.”

“Nicaise,” Laurent warned, heat prickling at the back of his neck.

But the boy only leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirk sharp. “He’s taller than I thought. Not bad, I guess.” He finally turned to Damen, unabashed. “You want to come in or what?”

For the first time, Damen actually looked a little thrown. His dark eyes flicked to Laurent, silently asking permission.

Laurent flushed scarlet under the weight of both of their gazes. He could feel the words stick in his throat, but he managed, muttered, “People don’t usually come inside on the first date.”

Damen’s lips curved, amused. “We never confirmed this to be a date.”

And before Laurent could stop him, Damen was stepping over the threshold, into the cramped warmth of their tiny apartment.

Inside, the apartment felt suddenly too small, too exposed. Laurent slipped past them, shrugging off his coat, heading straight for the kitchen corner. It gave him something to do with his hands, something to hide behind. He filled the kettle, set out mugs. His movements were mechanical, his eyes fixed on the wall ahead of him, anywhere but the table where Damen sat down as though he belonged there.

Laurent could hear him, though. The scrape of the chair legs, the easy weight of his presence filling the room. For years Laurent had almost convinced himself that Damen had been a dream, some figment of his imagination conjured from salt air and a need for kindness. But no - he was here. Real. Sitting at Laurent’s tiny table, shoulders too broad for the cheap chair, dimples flashing when he smiled.

And Nicaise, of course, wasted no time. He perched across from Damen like a cat with claws half-unsheathed, interrogation ready. “So. Damen.” He drew the name out, sharp, suspicious. “How do you know Laurent?”

Laurent didn’t turn. He stood rigid by the counter, listening to the water heat.

Damen’s voice came, steady, unruffled. “We met a long time ago. On holiday, at the seaside.”

Nicaise narrowed his eyes. “And now you’ve just… appeared? Out of nowhere? At our door?”

Laurent winced. But Damen only chuckled, warmth threading through the sound. “I’m teaching one of his classes for a while. Not exactly dramatic fate, if that’s what you’re imagining.”

The boy hummed, unimpressed, but Laurent could hear the shift in his tone, the way Damen’s calm charm chipped at his suspicion. Damen didn’t bristle, didn’t bite back - he handled Nicaise like he was worth the patience.

Laurent stared harder at the wall, the smell of coffee filling the silence between their voices. He couldn’t believe Damen was here. In this place. At his table.

Laurent set the mugs down with practiced precision - one in front of Damen, one for himself. Damen’s hand brushed the side of his, deliberate and warm, as he took the cup.

"Thanks,” he said, his smile soft.

Laurent dipped his head, hiding the flicker in his chest, and slid into the seat opposite them.

Damen leaned his elbows lightly on the table, turning to Nicaise. “So. How’s school?”

Nicaise straightened, puffing himself up. “I passed my test this week.”

The pride in his voice was unmissable, and Laurent couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped him, quiet and fond. For years, Nicaise had only ever had Laurent to boast to. Seeing him share it with someone else, it was a strange relief, a crack of light.

Marquise wandered in then, tail high, brushing insistently against Laurent’s leg. He nudged her away with his knee. “Your cat’s hungry,” he told Nicaise, dry as ever.

“She’s our cat,” Nicaise shot back, but he pushed back from the table anyway, fetching food from the cupboard. Marquise followed at his heels, queenly in her procession.

Left alone for a beat, Damen glanced toward Laurent, eyes crinkling at the corners. “She’s called Marquise, right?”

“Officially,” Laurent replied, staring down at his coffee.

Before Damen could joke back, Nicaise returned, shaking kibble into the bowl. Marquise dove in, eating noisily, but not before detouring to Damen’s chair, brushing herself against his shin with shameless affection.

“She doesn’t usually like people,” Nicaise said, watching with mild irritation.

Damen crouched a little, scratching gently behind her ear. “Guess I’m the exception.”

Laurent sipped his coffee, face carefully neutral, pretending not to notice the swell of warmth in his chest.

The hours bled together almost without Laurent noticing. One moment they were talking over coffee, the next it was twilight outside, the apartment warmed by conversation and laughter. Damen was still there. Damen hadn’t left.

Nicaise was delighted by the company, chattering and sly, testing Damen with sharp little questions - and Damen, impossibly, met each one with good humour. He leaned into it, turning interrogations into jokes, and somehow Nicaise softened, his grin breaking wider each time.

Laurent barely spoke. He didn’t need to. He sat back and watched, listening, the sound of Damen’s voice washing over him like something he’d been starved of. Damen was beautiful when he talked - animated, his hands moving, eyes alive. So alive.

And Laurent thought, again and again: What is he doing here? Here in this tiny apartment with peeling paint, sitting across from someone ugly, dirty, small. Damen was golden, light spilling out of him, and Laurent - Laurent was nothing but shadow.

The thought should have hurt, but instead it left him staring. Damen laughed at something Nicaise said, head tilting back, smile wide, and Laurent’s chest clenched. Dim, dull, unworthy. Yet he couldn’t look away.

At some point, Nicaise suggested a film. To Laurent’s surprise, Damen agreed easily, sprawling on the rug like it was the most natural thing in the world. Nicaise curled in his usual corner of the sofa, pulling a blanket over his legs, muttering critiques as the opening credits rolled.

Laurent sat rigid at first, pressed into his own end of the couch. But gradually, he found himself relaxing. His body eased. His mind quieted. Damen was there, stretched out and comfortable, laughter low when the movie warranted it. Nicaise was content, engaged and alive in a way that made Laurent’s chest ache with pride.

And Laurent - Laurent was at ease. Truly at ease. For the first time in what felt like years.

The movie played on, flickering light casting shifting shadows across the walls. Damen stretched once, shifting his weight, and the motion drew Laurent’s gaze again, as if it hadn’t already been fixed there the entire evening.

Nicaise, predictably, lasted until the final act before he fell asleep in his corner, curled under the blanket, soft breaths evening out. Laurent glanced at him, fondness flickering across his face, before his eyes slipped back to Damen’s back.

He felt Damen shift on the rug, adjusting his sprawl, and then - without warning - Damen leaned back, just enough that his broad shoulders brushed against Laurent’s knees where they were bent against the couch.

The touch was nothing. Barely anything. A graze of warmth, soft and casual. But it rooted Laurent in place. His body went taut, breath trapped sharp in his lungs.

It wasn’t calculated. Wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t demanding. Damen simply… rested there. Present.

And yet, something happened in Laurent’s chest. A sudden, jolting awareness. His heart kicked hard against his ribs, as though it had only just remembered how to beat. A pulse, fast and insistent, spreading warmth through his veins until it was all he could do not to shudder with it.

He wanted to move - should have moved, to keep the distance, to keep control - but instead he sat frozen, letting the heat of Damen’s body seep into him through the thin barrier of his clothes. It was ridiculous, childish even, to feel undone by such a small touch. But Laurent felt it anyway: the ache, the longing, the terrifying bloom of something he had no name for.

And under it all, deep in the marrow of him, the recognition that maybe this falling hadn’t started here at all. Maybe it had begun seven years ago, in the shadow of a cave, in a week that had burned itself into his memory like sunlight.

And that was the undoing of him.

Tears welled before he could stop them, slipping silently and unchecked down his cheeks. He didn’t even know when they’d started - just that his throat was tight, his chest heavy, and still the tears streamed, hot and steady. Not sobbing, not broken open, just a quiet letting go, a freedom he hadn’t known his body still craved.

He felt so happy - unbearably, dangerously so, wrapped in this fragile moment of warmth and ease - but he was also mourning. Mourning what had been taken from him. His uncle’s shadow still clung to every corner of his life, a stain that never washed clean, and in its wake lay everything Laurent might have been. He thought of all the years stolen, of all the cracks carved into him, the ways his life had been warped and twisted until he barely recognised the boy he used to be.

In another life, maybe he and Damen could have met differently. Maybe they could have been two boys in the sun, no shadows trailing them, no cruelty lurking at their backs. Maybe they could have fallen in love without fear, without shame, without the bitter weight of what had been done to him. He wept for that too - for the impossible what-if, for the version of himself he could never get back.

Damen didn’t move. If he noticed the faint hitch in Laurent’s breath, he didn’t say anything. He just remained there, back pressed to Laurent’s knees, a warm and solid presence.

Laurent let the tears fall silently, grateful for the dark room, grateful for Nicaise’s sleeping figure in the corner, grateful most of all for Damen’s oblivious - or perhaps deliberate - stillness.

This, Laurent thought, was the closest thing to safety he’d felt in years. And if this was all he could ever have - Damen here, warm and real, even for a little while - it would be enough.

When the movie finally ended, the credits rolling faintly in the dark, Laurent blinked and realised just how late it was. Midnight had crept into the room unnoticed, the city outside long gone to sleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the warmth of Damen’s back still lingering against him.

“It’s late,” Damen murmured, pushing himself up from the floor. He sounded almost reluctant, like he too had only just noticed the time.

Laurent glanced toward the window, the darkened streets beyond. This was a bad neighbourhood, especially at night. The thought of Damen walking alone through it made something twist sharp in his chest.

“You should stay,” Laurent said abruptly. Damen turned, brows raised. “The sofa. It’s not much, but…”

Damen hesitated, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. “I don’t want to take up your space.”

“It’s fine.” Laurent’s tone was quiet but firm. He stood, already moving to gather an extra blanket. “I’ll sleep in Nicaise’s room.”

From the corner, Nicaise stirred, blinking drowsily awake. His curls were a mess, his eyes heavy with sleep, but he didn’t argue. He simply shifted to his feet and padded towards the hallway, the ease of his acceptance speaking volumes. It was enough to show Damen just how close the two of them were, how instinctively they moved in step with each other.

Damen read the moment, and didn’t push. “Alright,” he said softly. “If you’re sure.”

Laurent gave a small nod. The three of them lingered there for a moment in the quiet, the hum of the credits filling the space. And then, almost shyly, they exchanged goodnights - Nicaise mumbling his as he vanished into the hallway, Damen warm-voiced on the sofa, Laurent low and careful.

Laurent led the boy down the hall, Nicaise trailing close at his side. For a brief moment, the apartment felt fuller than it had in years, the silence carrying not emptiness, but something strangely like peace.

The single bed was too small for two, but it always had been. They fit anyway, folding into the familiar press of limbs, knees knocking, shoulders brushing. It wasn’t uncomfortable. They’d done this for years, long before Laurent had managed to buy the sofa, long before things had even begun to steady.

Nicaise shifted until his face hovered close to Laurent’s, his sharp blue eyes too knowing for someone his age. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice barely a whisper in the dark.

Laurent didn’t answer. His lips pressed into a thin line, and after a moment he shut his eyes and gave the smallest of nods. It was all he could offer. His hand lifted instead, weaving through the boy’s unruly curls, smoothing them down in a gesture as old as their bond. He tugged Nicaise closer until their foreheads almost touched.

“Damen isn’t like… them,” Laurent murmured. His voice was rough, hesitant, but steady. “He’s a good man. I trust him.”

Nicaise sighed, the sound carrying a tired kind of wisdom that made Laurent’s chest ache. “You trusted your Uncle once too.”

Laurent’s breath caught. He swallowed hard, the weight of mourning pressing heavy in his chest. “I know,” he whispered, the words torn and quiet. “I know. But Damen… he’s never hurt me.”

For a long moment, Nicaise studied him, searching his face in the dim light. Finally, he let out another sigh, softer this time, and nestled closer. “If you say so,” he murmured, a note of reluctant acceptance in his tone.

Laurent tightened his arms around him, holding him close as if to shield them both. The room fell quiet again, the hum of the city seeping faintly through the thin walls.

Together, curled against each other in the too-small bed, they drifted into sleep.

The apartment was hushed, the kind of silence that only comes in the deep hours of the night. Damen lay awake on the sofa, the blanket pulled up to his chest, staring at the uneven ceiling, his thoughts heavy. Sleep hovered but never settled.

He still couldn’t believe it - that Laurent was here, that he was real. Not just some memory of a pretty boy on the beach, all sharp eyes and quiet smiles, the one Damen’s friends had laughed about when he’d told them, not believing the story of the golden-haired stranger who vanished without goodbye.

Damen had almost convinced himself they were right, that Laurent had been nothing more than a figment of one sunstruck week, too beautiful, too impossible to have existed outside of his memory.

And yet here he was.

Laurent was no longer fifteen, but still so unmistakably himself. That same gentleness, hidden under frost. That same shyness in the way he held himself apart. Still guarded, still wary, but kind in ways that slipped through when he thought no one was watching. Damen had caught it in every small thing - the coffee he set in front of Damen, the way his eyes softened when Nicaise spoke, the steady hand that had let the sleepy boy to bed.

There was a past there, Damen knew. A weight Laurent carried that he was too ashamed, or too afraid, to share. Damen could feel it in the silences, in the way Laurent’s words clipped short when conversation drifted too close to him.

Damen’s gaze swept the apartment, the thin walls, the mismatched furniture, the hollow corners where comfort should have lived. It pressed heavy in his chest - the stark, undeniable evidence of two boys trying to carve out a life from almost nothing.

And then - Damen heard something. A muffled sound - a whimper, soft but sharp enough to cut through the dark. It came from down the hall, from behind the closed door where Laurent and Nicaise slept.

Damen froze, listening. The sound came again, louder this time, and then the faint creak of the bed frame and the sound of a child’s frightened sob.

And then Laurent’s voice, low and urgent, broke through. “You’re safe. You’re safe. It’s okay, I’ve got you, Nicaise. It was just a dream, go back to sleep.”

The repetition was steady, like an anchor thrown into a storm. Damen could hear the way Laurent’s words wrapped around the boy, not just spoken but poured out, a lifeline in the dark. He murmured them over and over until the noises quieted, until the only sound left was the hush of the city beyond the walls.

Damen lay still, staring at the ceiling, his chest aching. He felt the break of it deep inside, sharp and helpless. Not just for Nicaise, but for Laurent too - for the way Laurent carried it all, bore it silently, turned himself into a shield no one had ever been for him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t intrude. He only listened, and let the ache settle in his chest, heavy and tender, until finally his eyes slipped closed.

Over the next weeks, Damen became something of a fixture in their lives. It wasn’t sudden, wasn’t forced - just a quiet persistence, the kind that settled in so naturally Laurent almost didn’t realise how quickly it had happened.

He walked with Laurent to class every Tuesday and Thursday, their strides syncing without effort. When Laurent’s teacher finally returned from sick leave, Laurent braced himself for the end of it, told himself it had only ever been temporary - a kindness that would fade once routine resumed.

But Damen was still there, leaning against the lamppost at the corner, hands in his pockets and a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. Still there the next night-class. And the one after that.

It was so casual, so unremarkable, that Laurent almost didn’t notice the weight lifting from his chest. Almost. He kept his expression composed, his tone cool and distant, but something inside him loosened, stretched open. He had forgotten what it felt like to look forward to company.

“You know,” Damen said one night, hands brushing against his as they walked, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you actually like spending time with me.”

Laurent scoffed, staring straight ahead. “I tolerate you. There’s a difference.”

“Mm.” Damen hummed, entirely unbothered. “And yet, here you are. Walking next to me. Again.”

“It’s on the way,” Laurent muttered.

“Of course. Totally coincidental. Nothing to do with my charm or devastating good looks.”

Laurent shot him a sidelong glance, lips twitching despite himself. “Devastating is one word for it.”

“Is that a compliment?” Damen’s grin widened.

“It’s… a word,” Laurent said primly, looking away before Damen could see the colour rising in his cheeks.

Damen chuckled, and the sound vibrated somewhere deep in Laurent’s chest, unsettling and grounding at once.

A beat of silence stretched between them, warm and easy. Then Damen tried again, a little softer. “I’m glad you let me walk with you. It’s nice.”

Laurent rolled his eyes, a reflexive defence against the flutter in his stomach. “You say that like I had a choice.”

“You did,” Damen said simply. “You always do.”

The words slipped under Laurent’s skin, caught him off guard. He hated the way they made his pulse jump - hated more how good it felt to hear them. His whole life had been a series of choices made for him. Now here was Damen, offering something so small and ordinary - the choice to walk beside him - and it felt impossibly large.

“Careful,” Laurent said, voice drier than he meant it to be. “If you keep saying things like that, I might almost believe you’re flirting.”

Damen’s eyes sparkled. “Almost?’ll have to try harder, then.”

Laurent groaned and sped up his pace, but Damen easily matched him, laughter spilling into the winter air. And even as Laurent rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, a betraying smile tugged at his lips.

He hated how much he wanted this - the teasing, the warmth, the stupid flirting. But as Damen’s hand brushed his again, fingertips grazing in a whisper of contact, Laurent didn’t pull away.

He didn’t want to.

Sometimes Damen showed up with food: warm pastries, a bag of groceries, leftovers he insisted would only go to waste otherwise. He helped Nicaise puzzle through homework, patient in a way Laurent could never quite manage after a long shift. He even showed up one afternoon with a ridiculous feathered toy for Marquise, who betrayed all loyalty to Nicaise by immediately taking to Damen’s hand, batting and purring.

And slowly - without fanfare, without Laurent even realising when the shift had happened - Damen had become a fixture.

Some nights they stayed at Damen’s apartment, a modest place a few bus stops away. The building was clean, the walls not peeling, the pipes not clanging with every flush. It wasn’t grand, not like the glossy spaces Laurent had frequented during his adolescence staying with Uncle, but it felt solid, safe.

Damen cooked there, simple things like pasta or stew, and though Laurent would never admit it aloud, he much preferred those evenings. Sitting at Damen’s small kitchen table, Nicaise talking animatedly about his day while Damen nodded along and asked questions - it was a world Laurent hadn’t known could exist for him.

Damen plated food differently for him. Laurent noticed, though he never said a word. Damen never handed him the largest portion, never pushed a second helping. Sometimes Damen would cut the loaf of bread unevenly, putting the thicker slice on his own plate without comment. Sometimes he’d let Laurent serve himself, as though it had always been that way. Small mercies.

And when Laurent only picked at the food, Damen didn’t call attention to it. Didn’t sigh or press or say, you need to eat more. He just kept the conversation going, asked Nicaise what book he was reading for school, told a story about his disastrous attempt at coaching junior football, smiled across the table like nothing was amiss.

It made Laurent ache. The ease of it. The way Damen noticed and adapted, not with pity, but with patience. No one had ever cared for him like that - not without demand, not without cost.

And Laurent would sit there, fork idle, listening to the sound of Damen’s laugh and Nicaise’s bright replies, wishing he could hold onto this fragile thing forever, even as his own body rebelled against him.

At work, Laurent found himself thinking about what was growing between them. Between serving customers, between dealing with complaints and exhaustion, he’d catch himself wondering what the three of them might watch that night. A film Nicaise would pick? Something Damen would suggest, grinning, something corny and warm? The thought carried him through the day, that quiet thread of anticipation.

It became normal to see Damen stretched out on the sofa, Nicaise pressed against his side, both of them jeering at some bad movie while Laurent pretended to scowl from the armchair, though his lips tugged upward against his will. Normal to hear Damen’s laugh in the kitchen as Marquise pawed at his ankle. Normal to feel Damen’s presence on the walk home, steady, unhurried.

And the strangest part was how natural it all was. Damen didn’t push, didn’t demand space in their lives - he simply filled the empty corners, quietly, as though he’d been meant to all along.

Laurent didn’t know how he had lived before this. Before Damen’s warmth, before the steady rhythm of three voices in a room instead of two. He told himself not to rely on it, not to want too much. But at night, when the apartment was quiet, he’d lie awake and wonder how he had ever convinced himself that survival was enough.

Laurent watched it all with an expression he hoped looked indifferent. But beneath it, there was a quiet, persistent happiness. A fragile, impossible thing, one he was afraid to name. Damen was weaving himself into their days, into their small, patched-together life - and Laurent couldn’t help but let him.

But the closer Damen drew into their lives, the harder some things became.

Laurent had built a wall inside himself long ago - a switch he could flick to make his body move, his mouth say the right words, his hands do what was expected. It was survival, a transaction. Nothing more.

But now, in the middle of it - a stranger’s sweat heavy against his skin, the act mechanical, detached - Damen would cross his mind. A flicker of a smile, a memory of his hand curling around Laurent’s in the cold. And suddenly, Laurent couldn’t breathe. His body froze, the performance fractured. It felt wrong. Betrayal. Like dirt spreading across something Laurent had no right to protect in the first place.

What would Damen think if he walked in right now? If he saw Laurent pressed against stained wallpaper, pretending, enduring?

Laurent had told him never to come by his work. He’d said it sharply, coldly, watching Damen’s brows furrow but not pressing. But each time he repeated it, the words cut deeper. It wasn’t protection. It wasn’t a boundary. It was a lie.

Because Damen thought Laurent was one thing, and here he was, something else entirely. Something ruined. And it felt like the more time Damen spent in their apartment, the more coffee they shared, the more laughter filled their evenings - the wider that chasm grew.

Laurent caught himself wondering when the truth would spill. When Damen would finally see him as he was, not the carefully folded shape Laurent presented. And when that happened - because it would happen - Damen would leave.

But despite that, the three of them slipped into a rhythm, the days folding together with a strange sort of ease. Damen’s presence was steady, anchoring - laughter at the table, a hand brushing against Laurent’s arm in passing, warm patience with Nicaise. For the first time in years, the apartment didn’t feel quite so cold.

Laurent found himself… cautiously happy. It was a fragile thing, edged in disbelief. Happiness had never been his. And yet, there it was, seeping in between Damen’s bright grin and the way he remembered exactly how Laurent took his coffee.

But with every step forward, every flicker of warmth, Laurent’s chest ached heavier. He was falling, slow at first, and then all at once - deeper than he’d ever meant to, deeper than was safe. His body betrayed him with its stuttering heartbeats, its nervous stillness whenever Damen’s gaze lingered too long.

He didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. The thought that Damen might actually return that feeling - that someone like Damen could want someone like him - was unthinkable. Damen was strong, golden, beautiful. Laurent was… not. His reflection had always been an enemy, a body he mistrusted, twisted by dysphoria, dulled by shame. His mind a constant drag, heavy with depression.

So he kept it all locked down, buried under sharp remarks and calm silences. He let himself fall, quietly, secretly - and told himself Damen could never possibly catch him.

One night, Laurent woke to the faint tug of the blankets shifting, the weight of a smaller body pressing into the sofa bed beside him. He blinked, disoriented, then felt the familiar curl of Nicaise’s thin frame pressed against his back, cold toes nudging his calves.

“Nicaise?” His voice was a rough whisper. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Nicaise muttered, the word muffled in the pillow. “Turn back around.”

Laurent hesitated, then obeyed, rolling back onto his side, staring into the dark. He tried to let the rhythm of Nicaise’s breathing lull him back to sleep, but the boy’s body was stiff, restless. Minutes passed in silence before Nicaise’s small voice broke through.

“Is Damen… gonna take you away from me?”

Laurent turned back at once. Even in the dark, he could make out Nicaise’s face, lips jutting in a practiced pout, but the shine in his eyes gave him away. His bravado was slipping, tears threatening to spill.

Laurent’s chest tightened, a swell of guilt and protectiveness so strong it nearly undid him. He brushed a thumb across Nicaise’s damp cheek, gentle. “No,” he said softly. “No one is going to take me away from you.”

Nicaise sniffed, ducking his head stubbornly. “You like him.”

Laurent’s breath caught. He searched for the right words, but honesty pressed up hot against his throat. “I do,” he admitted, quiet, “but liking Damen doesn’t mean leaving you. You’re my family.”

For a long moment, Nicaise just stared, as if testing him, weighing the words. Then he inched forward and tucked himself under Laurent’s chin, clinging tighter, as though to prove Damen couldn’t pry him away. Laurent held him, smoothing a hand down his hair, murmuring low.

Laurent smoothed a hand down Nicaise’s hair, fingers catching in soft curls. “Listen to me,” he whispered, voice steady though his throat ached. “I would never let Damen come between us. Never. Nothing changes that.”

Nicaise tilted his chin up, eyes wet but shining. Vulnerability cracked through his usual armour for only a breath, then he pulled it shut again. He sniffed, swiping his sleeve across his face. “You’re so dramatic. I was just asking.”

Laurent almost smiled. The boy’s pout returned, sharp and practiced. “Besides,” Nicaise added slyly, “he flirts with you all the time. It’s obvious.”

Heat flooded Laurent’s face. He shook his head sharply, retreating behind familiar denial. “He doesn’t. You’re imagining things.”

“Yes, he does,” Nicaise said, with the blunt certainty only a teenager could muster. “You’re just too dumb to notice.”

Laurent rolled onto his back, staring into the dark ceiling, words caught in his chest. He wanted to tell Nicaise that Damen was sunshine, too bright to reach for, too good to waste himself on Laurent. That whatever Nicaise saw was a trick of light, not reality.

Instead, he said nothing. He listened to Nicaise settle, the boy’s breathing slowing as sleep finally tugged him under again.

Laurent lay awake. Damen’s smile flashed behind his eyelids, the sound of his laugh, the warmth of his hand on his own. Every memory twisted inside him like a knife, sharp with want and impossibility.

He was falling. And it hurt. It hurt because he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t imagine a world where someone like Damen truly wanted someone like him.

So he let the ache sit heavy in his chest, eyes burning against the ceiling, one arm curled protectively around Nicaise. If this was all he could have - stolen hours, a hand held, a laugh shared - he would take it. And he would keep Damen at arm’s length, because to let himself believe in more would be a cruelty he couldn’t survive.

Laurent was bent over the reception desk, thumb hovering over his phone. Damen had sent something stupid again - a snapshot of Marquise batting at his shoelace, captioned “your cat likes me better than you, admit it.” Against his will, Laurent felt the edge of his mouth tug upward.

The ding of the desk bell snapped him back.

He slid the phone away, schooled his face into something neutral. An older man stood on the other side of the counter, heavy-set, smile stretched too wide. His gaze swept over Laurent, slow and appraising in a way that made his stomach turn.

“You’re prettier than the last one who worked here,” the man said, voice low, oily. “Bet you know how to keep a guest satisfied.”

Laurent’s throat closed. He summoned the mask - the one that smiled just enough, that tilted his head, made his voice light though it scraped in his chest. “Depends what kind of service you’re after, sir.”

The man leaned in closer, breath sour. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”

Laurent laughed, a sound brittle as glass. He could already feel his pulse stuttering in his temples, his fingers curling tight under the desk. Damen’s message burned in his pocket.

When the folded bills slid across the scratched wood, Laurent’s body moved on autopilot. He took the cash with steady hands, tucked it away, and stood. His legs carried him down the hall, the older man’s footsteps close behind.

He didn’t think. He couldn’t.

The smile stayed plastered on his face, his voice pitched in rehearsed amusement at the man’s muttered filth. Inside, Laurent felt nothing but the rising sickness, the hollowness. His body was a machine, walking the steps he’d walked too many times.

As the back room door clicked shut, the last thing that flashed in his mind was Damen’s dimples, Damen’s laugh. The warmth of his hand wrapped around Laurent’s in the winter cold.

And suddenly, the weight of what he was about to do felt unbearable.

His fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. They never did. Usually, his body moved without hesitation, as practiced as breathing. Today, though, his hands shook, clumsy and uncertain. Each layer of clothing peeled away felt heavier than it should, dragging at him until he could barely draw air.

Fear. Not sharp and immediate, but dull and suffocating, like a tide pulling him under.

The man reached for him, greedy hands sliding across bare skin. Laurent’s chest seized. He bit back the sound that threatened to escape, pressing his lips tight until his jaw ached. He had spent years perfecting silence, perfecting stillness. But today his body betrayed him.

He thought of the phone in his jean pocket, screen dark, Damen’s name resting unseen inside it. Damen who might even now be wondering why Laurent had stopped replying.

The client’s grip dug into his hips, rough and unthinking, and Laurent’s mind fractured. Hands - yes - but not these hands. He saw Damen’s instead: cupped around a coffee mug, brushing back Nicaise’s curls with absent gentleness, tugging a scarf loose with a grin.

Something inside him ached, sharp and bright and unbearable. He wanted to flinch away, to scream, to demand don’t touch me unless you mean it.

The man’s hand slid lower, rough and entitled, and something inside Laurent snapped.

Laurent struck before he could think - an open-handed crack across the man’s face. The sound split the air.

“What the fuck, you whore!” the man spat, clutching his cheek.

Laurent didn’t stay for more. His chest heaved, hair loose and clinging to the sweat at his temples as he scrambled for his clothes. Buttons misaligned, shirt half-tucked, shoes barely tied. His hands shook too hard to do better.

He bolted. Past the man’s curses, past the stink of the back room, through the narrow hallway until he was at his boss’s door. He didn’t knock. He shoved it open, words tumbling from him, clipped and sharp:

“I quit.”

Her brows rose, mouth opening to argue, but Laurent was already gone. The night air hit him like ice, cutting into his lungs as his feet pounded the pavement. He didn’t care where. Just away. Away from the filth of the motel, away from the hands that weren’t his to endure, away from himself.

When Laurent reached the apartment the rooms felt wrong. Too still, too quiet. Nicaise’s shoes weren’t by the door. His bag wasn’t slumped against the wall. He’s still at school, Laurent told himself, fingers trembling as he turned the lock. He’s fine. He’s fine.

He went straight to the bathroom, shutting the door until it clicked, locking himself into the small, tiled space. The mirror caught him - hair hanging wild, shirt crooked, face pale - and he couldn’t look. He stripped, each movement jerky and frantic, until his clothes lay in a heap on the floor.

The water came on scalding. He stepped beneath it anyway, the sting against his skin almost welcome. He scrubbed hard, nails biting into his arms, his neck, his chest as if he could scrape away the man’s touch, scrape away the years.

And then the sobs came, breaking through the silence like a storm.

They tore out of him, sharp and unsteady, his forehead pressed to the cold tile. His hands covered his mouth but it didn’t muffle the sound. The water mixed with tears, running down his body in rivulets until he felt raw, skin pinked and burning.

You’re disgusting. The thought pulsed with every breath. You’re filthy. He would hate you if he knew. Damen would hate you.

He could still see Damen’s face - smiling at him over coffee, listening to Nicaise with patience, holding his hand in the cold. It made the ache worse. Damen was sunlight. Damen was warmth. Damen was everything Laurent wasn’t allowed to have.

His fingers curled against the tile, trembling. He hadn’t even answered Damen’s last message. He should block him again, disappear, let him live his beautiful life untainted by what Laurent had become.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

The truth came to him like a wound splitting open: I need him. I can’t live without him. Damen was everything. And Laurent - Laurent was nothing but the ghost of a boy who never got to be whole.

He stayed under the water until it ran cold, until his breath evened out, until he could force himself upright again. But inside, he still felt stripped bare.

Laurent sat curled on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a towel that clung damp to his skin, his hair dripping cold trails down his back. The silence pressed against him, sharp and suffocating.

His mind ran circles. He tried to breathe, but each inhale hitched and stuttered. He pressed his palms hard against his temples, as if he could hold his skull together before it cracked open.

Keep him. Keep Damen close. The thought wasn’t a choice, it was a plea. A desperate mantra.

But how? How could he, when he was wrong in every way? His body was wrong. His mind was wrong. He was tainted - spoiled by years he couldn’t take back. He’d fucked his uncle. Let himself be used, ruined, dirtied. Damen didn’t know. Damen couldn’t know.

His chest squeezed so tight it was hard to draw breath.

Damen was beautiful, gentle, steady. He deserved someone whole. Someone untouched. Not Laurent - never Laurent.

And yet the thought of losing him, of watching Damen slip from his life, was unbearable. His pulse raced, fear drowning reason. He remembered what it was like to be discarded, the years with his uncle teaching him the cruelest lesson: love was conditional, survival was conditional. Affection was only kept through obedience, through sex, through submission.

His uncle had stayed by his side for years - years - so long as Laurent gave him what he wanted. And the moment he wasn’t enough, the moment he couldn’t perform, he was tossed aside, replaced without a thought.

The memory sliced through him, raw and brutal.

A part of him whispered that maybe this was the only way to keep someone. To keep Damen. To give before he could be left. To prove he was worth staying for.

The thought curdled in his stomach, shame thick and heavy, but it clung to him all the same.

Laurent dragged in a shaky breath, curling tighter against the wall. Don’t leave me. Please. I’ll do anything. I can’t lose you too.

Laurent pulled himself off the bathroom floor and moved to the living room. He sat on the edge of the sofa, his phone heavy in his hand, his thumb hovering. Damen’s last message still glowed on the screen - casual, kind, the sort of message that shouldn’t have been so hard to answer. Laurent had left it unanswered for too long, paralysed.

He thought of Damen’s laugh, the way his eyes lit when he spoke about things that mattered. He thought of how Damen looked at him, like he was someone worth listening to, worth waiting for. Someone worth loving.

Laurent’s chest tightened. He loved him. God, he loved him. He wanted Damen to love him back, wanted it so much it made his ribs ache. But what did Laurent have to offer? What did anyone ever want from him except his body?

Nicaise had said Damen was flirting with him. Openly, even. Laurent hadn’t believed it, couldn’t believe it, but the words dug in now, festering. Was that what Damen wanted? Was that what kept people close - sex, always sex?

Laurent hated it. He always had. His body tensed at the thought, bile rising in his throat. But he loved Damen. That much was undeniable, even if it was killing him to feel it. If this was the price - if this was the way to keep Damen by his side - then Laurent would endure it.

Better to give it freely, before Damen realised Laurent was worthless and walked away.

His hand shook as he typed. Three simple words, but they felt like a chasm opening beneath him:

Are you around?

The screen blurred with his tears, but he forced himself to keep going.

Can I come over?

He hit send before he could think too much, before he could stop himself. The message left him raw and exposed, a blade pressed to his own throat.

Laurent curled forward, pressing his forehead to his knees, phone clutched tight in his fist. Whatever Damen answered would decide everything.

Laurent showed up at Damen’s door with his shoulders hunched against the cold, his scarf pulled high, his knuckles white around the strap of his bag. He looked pale, shaky, like the winter air had bitten straight through him.

Damen’s face lit up, then fell quickly into concern. “Laurent?” His voice was warm, startled and steady all at once. “Come in - you’re freezing.”

Laurent didn’t argue. He stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. The apartment smelled like coffee and laundry detergent, small, ordinary comforts that made something in his chest ache.

Damen guided him gently toward the sofa. “Sit.” He fetched the blanket draped over the armrest and wrapped it around Laurent’s shoulders before sitting beside him. Up close, Damen could see the tremor in his hands, the too-bright sheen in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Damen asked softly.

Laurent tried to answer, but nothing came. His throat locked tight. His body betrayed him, shivering harder. Damen didn’t press. Instead, he reached out - slow, cautious - and tugged Laurent against his chest.

Laurent froze, every muscle taut. But then the warmth of Damen’s arms sank through him, solid and grounding. Slowly, his body gave way, trembling harder as he pressed closer, hiding his face against Damen’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Damen murmured, chin resting lightly atop Laurent’s hair. His palm rubbed up and down Laurent’s back, steady strokes. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Laurent squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to believe that, wanted to sink into it, to believe Damen’s arms could hold back everything that rotted inside him. He didn’t answer Damen’s question. He couldn’t. But when Damen’s arms tightened around him, keeping him warm, keeping him close, Laurent let himself stay there. Just for a little while.

Laurent stayed folded against Damen’s chest for a long moment, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It was too much - too safe, too kind. His body was trembling for another reason now, something coiled and frantic rising in him. If he wanted to keep this, if he wanted Damen to stay, he had to give.

He tilted his face, pressing his mouth close to Damen’s ear, whispering like a secret: “Damen… do you want me?”

Damen froze. “Do I what?”

Laurent pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, his own gaze wide and shining in the dim light. “Want me. Because I want you. So very bad.” The words fell like lines from a script, practiced and precise, the kind of thing that usually made men soften, reach for him, hand over what they wanted.

Before Damen could answer, Laurent leaned in and kissed him. Wet, messy, urgent - everything he’d learned men liked, nothing of his own. His hands clutched at Damen’s shirt, his mouth moving fast, practiced.

Damen made a surprised sound against his lips, caught off guard - but then his arms tightened around Laurent, holding him close. He kissed back, but not like the others, not with greed. It was warm, unguarded, and so utterly sincere it almost hurt.

Because Damen did want him. He always had. And now - now Laurent was here, kissing him, telling him he wanted him too. The joy of that nearly undid him.

They kissed for a long time, tangled and breathless. Laurent pressed closer, his body restless with a clumsy urgency, fumbling like he didn’t quite know how to make the leap but forcing it anyway. His hands dragged at the hem of Damen’s shirt, his hips shifting forward.

Damen pulled back just enough to look at him, flushed and panting, and he couldn’t stop the smile breaking across his face. “Laurent,” he murmured, voice rough with hope and disbelief, “you really want this?”

Laurent nodded too quickly, too forcefully. “Yes. I want you.” His voice cracked. “Please.”

It was all Damen needed to hear.

Laurent’s fingers shook as he tugged at his own shirt, tugged at Damen’s, skin against skin in clumsy rushes. He’d done this countless times before, undressing under hands that didn’t care, under gazes that didn’t see him - but this was different. Damen’s eyes lingered like they meant something, and that alone made Laurent’s chest ache.

They stumbled to the bedroom, Laurent pushing, urging, trying to keep momentum before he could lose his nerve. But Damen slowed him down, not with force but with warmth, with steady hands guiding him onto the bed as though he were something fragile.

And then Damen touched him. Not like the others - never like the others. His hands traced Laurent’s sides, his stomach, reverent. His lips followed, soft, pressing gentle kisses down Laurent’s chest, his throat, his arms. Every inch was treated like it was worth something.

Laurent lay stiff beneath it, his body responding automatically but his mind spiraling. He couldn’t understand this. Couldn’t understand why Damen looked at him like he was precious, why his kisses lingered as though they were savouring.

Damen’s mouth brushed against his collarbone, his arms wrapping around him, holding him close. His voice broke the hush of the room, low and tender. “You’re so skinny.”

It wasn’t lust, not really - it was concern, threaded with sorrow. The words burrowed deep into Laurent’s chest, sharper than any insult, kinder than anything he deserved. He flinched, his hands curling in the sheets, trying not to cry.

Damen kissed the side of his throat. “Laurent,” he murmured, “you don’t have to…” He didn’t finish.

Laurent tried to keep his breathing steady, tried to play the part. But the weight of Damen’s hands, the gentleness in every touch, the warmth of his voice - it undid him. It was too much. It stripped him bare in ways sex never had.

The tears came suddenly, choking, unstoppable. His chest heaved, sobs clawing their way out of his throat. He pressed his palms to his face, ashamed, trying to smother the sound, but it only made his body shake harder.

“Laurent?” Damen’s voice was startled, almost frantic. He pulled back instantly, hands lifting as if afraid he’d broken him. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’ll stop. I’ll stop.”

But Laurent was already crumbling, curling in on himself, every wall collapsing. He couldn’t carry it anymore, couldn’t be beautiful, couldn’t be wanted, couldn’t be strong. He was shaking so violently it hurt.

And then there was a hand in his hair. Broad, steady, fingers combing through as if smoothing out all the jagged pieces. Damen’s other arm came around his shoulders, drawing him in, rocking him gently even as his own voice wavered with worry.

“I’ve got you,” Damen whispered, over and over, the words falling like balm. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Laurent turned toward the sound like a man drowning reaching for air, his forehead pressing into Damen’s chest. His sobs shook them both, but Damen only held him tighter, stroking his hair, murmuring comfort he didn’t even know Laurent needed.

When Laurent’s sobs finally ebbed into hiccups and shallow breaths, he became aware of where he was - plastered against Damen’s chest, damp-cheeked and raw, the steady rise and fall beneath his ear the only thing keeping him anchored.

Damen had slipped a shirt back on at some point. Laurent didn’t remember when. What he did notice was the hand moving slowly across his back, soothing, patient. As if Damen had all the time in the world just to sit there and hold him together.

He tilted his head up, reluctant, and found Damen already watching him. The man’s mouth curved in a smile, but Laurent saw through it instantly. He saw the tightness around the eyes, the concern hiding behind the warmth.

“Hey,” Damen said softly, like it was the most natural greeting in the world despite everything.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent croaked, his throat raw. He hated how small his voice sounded, how broken.

But Damen shook his head at once. “No. Don’t - don’t apologise.” His tone was firm, gentle but unyielding. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Laurent blinked hard, but fresh tears threatened anyway.

Damen’s hand never stopped moving on his back, grounding him. “What happened?” he asked, voice low, careful, as if any wrong note might send Laurent retreating again.

The question hung in the air, simple but immense. Laurent’s chest tightened, shame crawling under his skin, warring with the warmth of Damen’s embrace.

Laurent’s voice cracked as he forced the words out, muffled against Damen’s chest. “I thought… I thought if I gave you what you wanted, you’d stay. You wouldn’t get bored. You wouldn’t leave me like - like everyone else.” His breath hitched. “And I even managed to fuck that up.”

He curled tighter into himself, dragging his knees up, trying to disappear into the smallest shape possible. His hands trembled where they pressed to his own ribs, holding himself together.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Damen said quickly, urgent but still gentle. He caught Laurent’s wrists and carefully drew them out, prying his arms away from that protective knot. He lifted one of Laurent’s hands and pressed his lips to the palm. The touch was soft, reverent, and Laurent went molten, his whole body sagging under the weight of it.

“Do you think all I wanted was to sleep with you?” Damen asked, his voice thick, almost wounded.

Laurent’s throat burned. He stared at Damen with wide, glassy eyes, unable to summon any answer but the one that had lived in him for years, a truth carved by loss and betrayal. “Yes. That’s all anyone ever wants.”

The words dropped between them like a stone. Damen inhaled sharply, but he didn’t let go of Laurent’s hand. Didn’t recoil. His thumb stroked once across Laurent’s knuckles, steadying, grounding, as if he could hold Laurent together by sheer persistence.

Laurent looked away, ashamed, waiting for the disgust, the anger, the withdrawal that always came. But Damen’s touch stayed.

Damen’s eyes softened, though sorrow glistened deep within them. It wasn’t pity, not quite - something heavier, something aching. Laurent caught it, and for one flicker of a heartbeat he thought maybe - maybe he’d been wrong.

He remembered what he’d told Nicaise not so long ago: that Damen wasn’t like them, that Damen was good. But the spiral had dragged him down so far, so fast, he’d lost sight of that truth. He’d lumped Damen in with the shadows of his past, and the realisation cracked him open all over again.

“I’m sorry,” Laurent whispered, the words spilling out broken, frantic. “I’m sorry for-” He couldn’t finish. He choked on the sob clawing up his throat, pressing a shaking hand against his own mouth as if he could keep the ugly sounds from escaping. “I’m sorry for thinking you were like them. You’re not - you’re not like them.”

“Laurent,” Damen said, voice low, steady, but laced with worry. His hand came to rest against Laurent’s jaw, urging him to look up. “Who are they?”

Laurent froze. The air felt sharp in his lungs. For a moment he wanted to swallow the words, bury them like he always had. But Damen’s gaze held him, unwavering, a tether pulling the truth out.

“My fucking uncle,” Laurent spat, the words bitter, venomous. His face crumpled. “And all those men. All of them. Since I was thirteen.” His body shook with the confession, the dam bursting. “I’m a prostitute, Damen. A whore. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

The words tumbled out faster, harsher, as if saying them could scrape the rot out of his chest. “I hate them. God, I hate them so much. They’d rape me and I’d smile, I’d moan, I’d pretend to love it - because what else was I supposed to do? And now I thought - you - I thought you wanted the same thing.”

His voice broke on the last word, and he folded in on himself again, consumed by the weight of his own revulsion.

But Damen didn’t let go.

The guilt poured out of Laurent in broken pieces, spilling faster than he could catch them. His words twisted over themselves, overlapping, muddled, but the pain beneath them was clear. Damen didn’t catch every detail, not the full story - not yet - but he understood enough: Laurent had been through hell. More than anyone should ever endure.

“Please love me, Damen.” Laurent’s voice was hoarse, pleading, his hands clutching at Damen’s shirt like a man drowning. “Please. Please, I will do anything.”

Damen’s heart clenched, and he gathered Laurent tighter into his arms. “Laurent,” he whispered firmly, but gently, pressing his lips to the top of his hair. “You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to earn this. I already love you.”

Laurent went still, as if the words themselves were foreign, impossible. His lashes trembled against his damp cheeks.

Damen tipped his chin up, slow, careful, so their eyes met. His thumb brushed across Laurent’s wet cheekbone. “Sex isn’t supposed to hurt you. It isn’t supposed to be punishment.” His voice broke, heavy with both sorrow and conviction. “It’s supposed to feel good. Safe. Something you want, not something taken from you.”

Laurent’s lips parted, his breath shaky. He looked startled, almost dazed, as though the very idea had never crossed his mind. “I don’’t know how to make it like that,” he admitted, barely more than a whisper.

And Damen’s chest ached so fiercely he thought it might split open. He drew Laurent back into his chest, holding him as if the strength of his arms alone could shield him from the past.

Damen’s hand lingered in Laurent’s hair, smoothing the damp strands from his face. His voice was quiet, but steady when he spoke. “I think I’ve loved you since that night in the cave.”

Laurent’s breath hitched. His eyes snapped up, wide, disbelief written across his face. “You can’t,” he whispered, almost desperate. His hands fisted in Damen’s shirt as if to push him away and cling to him all at once. “It’s not possible.”

But Damen only leaned closer, brushing his lips over Laurent’s trembling mouth, soft and reverent. The kiss wasn’t heated, wasn’t rushed - it was full of patience, full of the weight of everything Damen had been holding back. A kiss that gave instead of took. That bled love instead of hunger. “I love you, Laurent.”

Laurent froze for only a heartbeat before something in him shattered open. He felt it - the truth Damen was pouring into him, undeniable, steady as a heartbeat. His lips moved against Damen’s in a fragile return, and he whispered against his mouth, “I love you too.”

Damen’s breath caught, his arms tightening around him, and Laurent clung back as if he’d never let go. They lay down together, bodies twined, hearts pressed close. In the hush of the dark, they traded soft promises - love and care, apologies for wounds never meant to be inflicted, quiet hopes that everything would get better.

And for the first time in years, Laurent let himself believe it might.

Morning light filtered weakly through the blinds, painting the room in pale gold. The world outside was still quiet, the kind of hush that belonged only to early dawn. Laurent stirred first. His body shifted against warmth, solid and steady, and for one sharp moment panic threatened - until he blinked, until he remembered. Damen.

He was curled into Damen’s chest, his cheek resting over the steady beat of his heart. Damen slept on, face slack in peace, dark lashes brushing his skin, his mouth softened without its easy smile. Laurent didn’t dare move at first, afraid to break the fragile spell of calm.

Then, slowly, tentatively, he lifted a hand. His fingers hovered, then brushed along the curve of Damen’s jaw, light as air. Over the ridge of his cheekbone, the line of his brow, the warm skin of his temple. A map he wanted to memorise. He traced him like he might vanish if Laurent didn’t learn him by touch.

It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t a performance. It was intimacy, raw and quiet, indulgence in something he’d never been allowed before: to touch someone simply because he loved them.

Laurent’s chest swelled, the pressure almost painful. Damen was beautiful. More than beautiful - he was safety, gentleness, the proof that there was a different kind of love in the world. And Laurent loved him. Loved him so much it frightened him, but in this dawn-lit silence it felt less like terror, and more like truth.

His gaze softened, drifting inward. For a moment he saw not Damen, but a boy - himself. Thirteen, thin shoulders hunched in a hotel room that smelled of sweat and perfume, waiting in the dark for a key to turn in the lock. Alone. Sad. Believing there was nothing else for him but this.

Laurent blinked hard, and whispered inside himself, to that boy: Hold on. You have to survive this. I know it hurts. I know it feels endless. But it isn’t. At the end of it, you’ll meet him. You’ll meet the love of your life. And you’ll be loved. You’ll be loved.

His throat burned, but he didn’t cry. He just pressed closer, tucking himself tighter against Damen’s body, letting the warmth and heartbeat hold him steady. Damen murmured in his sleep, one arm tightening unconsciously around Laurent, and it was like a promise.

For the first time, Laurent believed it: everything would be okay.

Damen stirred with a quiet groan, the slow stretch of a body just waking. His arm tightened instinctively around Laurent, pulling him closer before his eyes even opened. When they did, they were soft, still heavy with sleep, and he gave Laurent a crooked smile.

“Morning,” Damen murmured, voice rough with drowsiness. He shifted, easing onto his back, guiding Laurent to follow until Laurent was lying half across his chest, cradled there like something precious. One large hand rubbed slow, soothing circles between Laurent’s shoulder blades, grounding him.

“How’d you sleep?” Damen asked, gaze searching, gentle.

Laurent ducked his head, the corners of his mouth twitching before he gave a small, almost bashful smile. “Good,” he said quietly, as if admitting it out loud might shatter it.

The way his cheeks flushed only made Damen’s smile widen. Adorable, Damen thought, the word so loud in his chest he nearly said it aloud. Instead he just brushed his thumb against Laurent’s side, marveling at how shy and beautiful he looked in the morning light.

And then Laurent leaned forward, hesitating only a breath before pressing his lips to Damen’s. It was soft at first, tentative - then warmer, deeper, as Damen answered him. Their mouths met again and again, slow and unhurried, tasting, exploring. Laurent’s fingers curled against Damen’s shirt, clinging, and Damen let him lead.

When they finally broke apart, breath mingling, Damen stroked his knuckles along Laurent’s flushed cheek. “Is this good?” he asked, quiet but steady, wanting to be sure.

Laurent’s eyes flickered open, and for once there was no hesitation. No doubt, no performance. His lips curved in something almost like triumph.

“This is good,” he said, confident, certain.

And then he kissed Damen again, slower this time, as if to savour every second.

Laurent rested his head against Damen’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. For a long while, he just breathed, caught in the warmth and quiet. But the weight in his chest pressed too heavy, and before Damen could even ask, the words started to spill.

“My parents died in a car accident,” Laurent said, voice flat at first, like reciting someone else’s story. “I was little. Too little to understand, but I understood enough. Auguste… my brother… he was in his early twenties. About the age I am now. He took care of me.”

Damen’s arms around him tightened almost imperceptibly. Laurent kept speaking, his voice soft and unsteady.

“And then he left too.” A pause. A trembling inhale. “Killed himself. I was told it was grief, that he couldn’t stand to live without them. But I was still here. And he left me anyway.”

The room seemed to hush around them. Damen’s hand stroked idly through Laurent’s hair, wordless, patient.

“I moved in with my uncle,” Laurent continued, the words catching more now, harder to push past his throat. “He seemed… kind. Caring. Like someone who could save me from everything else.” His fingers curled against Damen’s shirt, clutching tight. “But he wasn’t kind. He wasn’t caring. He made me his pet.”

The last word cracked like glass, small and splintering. Laurent squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed even to say it. His voice dropped to almost nothing. “He loved me. That’s what he told me when he raped me. That’s what I thought love was. I was thirteen”

Damen didn’t interrupt, didn’t recoil. He just held Laurent tighter, his lips brushing the crown of Laurent’s head, grounding him in silence.

Laurent’s voice was quiet, but steady enough to keep going now that the dam had broken.

“He took me out of school,” he said. “Told me I was too sensitive for it.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And I believed him, because… what else was I supposed to believe?”

Damen’s chest rose under him, the rhythm of his breath careful, contained. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush him, just let Laurent pour the truth into the silence.

“It started with him,” Laurent whispered, shame curling his shoulders inward. “But it didn’t stop there. He… he sold me. To other men. That’s what I was. Just another way for him to make money. I was a-” His voice faltered, broke. “-a thing he could rent out. A body.”

Damen’s hand stilled briefly on his back, then resumed, slower, more deliberate.

“It went on for years,” Laurent said, words hollow but heavy. “Years of hotel rooms and car rides and being paraded around like I wasn’t even a person. Like I was just… his pet. A creature he could haul from place to place, tell me when to smile, when to kneel, when to-” His voice caught, strangled by the memory. “When to perform.”

The word tasted like ash in his mouth.

He pressed his forehead harder against Damen’s chest, trying to hide from the images flickering behind his eyes. “That’s what I was, Damen. That’s all I’ve ever been. And when I met you - back then, in that hotel - I wasn’t even a boy anymore. I was… nothing. Just a pet waiting for instructions.”

The confession left him raw, trembling. He expected disgust, withdrawal, the sharp sting of rejection.

But all he felt was Damen’s arms wrapping around him, solid and unyielding, holding him as though he wasn’t fragile or tainted, but something infinitely precious.

Laurent’s words slowed, but he wasn’t finished. His lips brushed against Damen’s collarbone in a faint, fleeting kiss, reverent and small. “That week with you… it was the best week of my life. You saved me. You don’t know how much you saved me. For those few days, I got to be… just a kid.” His smile was soft, private, like he was sharing something too fragile to exist outside this moment.

“Laurent?” Damen’s voice was gentle, coaxing, but Laurent only shook his head, still smiling faintly, unwilling to break the thread.

His voice grew quieter, but sharper, like glass beneath silk. “When I grew out of my body, when I wasn’t… small anymore, he didn’t want me. He got himself another kid to fuck.” His chest constricted, his body curling tighter against Damen’s, as though the warmth might shield him from the words. “Nicaise. He went through the same thing I did with Uncle. Every fucking thing.”

Damen’s arms tightened around him, but he didn’t speak.

“One night, social services came. No warning, no knock to prepare. They just walked in.” Laurent’s voice cracked, but he kept going, mechanical, as though if he stopped he’d never start again. “They found me in one room, with men. And in the other room, it was him and Nicaise.”

His breath hitched. His nails dug into Damen’s shirt, clutching tight, his words a strangled confession. “He pulled his gun from the bedside table before they even had the chance to call the police.”

Silence stretched. Laurent’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t see it. But I heard it.” His throat worked, a soundless sob catching there. “And when I ran in I found him. Blood everywhere. All over the sheets. All over Nicaise.”

His voice broke into fragments, trembling and raw. “He killed himself. And Nicaise… Nicaise was covered in it. I-” Laurent shut his eyes, pressing his face hard into Damen’s chest. “I couldn’t get it off him. No matter how hard I scrubbed. I couldn’t get it off.”

Laurent took a shuddering breath. His voice was almost steady now - a strange calm after the storm. “He left us money in his will,” he said quietly. “Not much. Barely enough to cover the funeral. I think it was his way of saying we were never really worth anything to him - even in death.”

He paused, staring past Damen’s shoulder, as if seeing the memory play out behind his eyelids. “But I wasn’t going to pay for that bastard’s funeral. I took the money and I packed everything I could fit in one suitcase. Took Nicaise and left the next morning. We came here - to Akeilos. I thought if I could just… start over, I could keep him safe. Give him the life he should’ve had. I didn’t care about mine anymore.”

Laurent’s fingers fisted in Damen’s shirt, clinging like an anchor. “I’m his guardian now. His brother. His parent. I’ll work myself to death before I let him hurt again.” He exhaled, voice cracking. “You make Nicaise happy, Damen. You make me happy. And I’m sorry I couldn’t do the same for you. I’ve ruined everything.”

Damen’s answer came soft but certain, his voice breaking around the edges. “Hey.” He cupped Laurent’s face, coaxing his gaze upward. “You’ve ruined nothing.”

Laurent’s lips trembled, but Damen didn’t let him look away. “Laurent,” he said, steady now, “I’m so proud of you. You’re still here. Still breathing. You survived something that should’ve broken you a thousand times over.”

He drew Laurent into his arms, pressing a kiss to his temple, holding him so gently it almost hurt. “You love Nicaise. You love me. And we love you.”

Laurent blinked, stunned - as if those words were something foreign, something he didn’t know how to receive.

“Nothing your uncle did can change that,” Damen whispered. “If anything, it makes me love you more - that after everything, you still have the strength to let me in.”

Laurent’s breath hitched, but his hands rose slowly to rest against Damen’s chest. The air between them felt sacred, fragile. And for the first time, Laurent let himself lean into it - not as an apology, not as a performance, but as something real.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick with everything that had been said - and everything that no longer needed to be. Laurent’s head rested against Damen’s chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm beneath his ear. It was the calmest sound he’d ever known.

He had never thought love could feel like this - soft and simple, without the pull of fear or the weight of shame. It didn’t claw or consume. It didn’t demand anything of him. It just was.

Damen’s thumb brushed the edge of his jaw, coaxing his gaze upward. There was no pity in Damen’s eyes, no hesitation. Only warmth. Only love.

The first kiss was slow. Careful. A question. Laurent answered it by leaning in, letting the world fall away until there was nothing left but the brush of lips and the shared breath between them. It wasn’t desperate, wasn’t about hunger or performance. It was something Laurent had never known - the quiet, unhurried pulse of being wanted.

Damen kissed him like he was something precious, and Laurent, trembling and awed, kissed him back because he was.

He could feel it - the love that had been blooming quietly between them for weeks, maybe years, finally breaking through the cracks. It didn’t scare him. It didn’t make him flinch or wish for rescue. It simply was, warm and steady, filling all the hollow places inside him.

When they finally pulled apart, Laurent’s cheeks were flushed, his breathing uneven, but his eyes were bright - unguarded. Damen smiled, resting their foreheads together.

“I love you,” Damen murmured, like a promise.

Laurent’s voice was soft when he answered, but sure. “I love you too.”

The memories of the night before pressed at the edges of his thoughts - the trembling, the panic, the tears. And the love that had followed, quiet and unexpected. But still, guilt lingered.

He swallowed, eyes tracing the line of Damen’s collarbone, the warm skin he’d kissed minutes ago. Without thinking, he reached out - fingers trembling - and let his hand drift lower, brushing over the morning hardness beneath Damen’s clothes. The heat of it, even through the fabric, made his breath catch.

But Damen caught his wrist before he could go further, gentle but firm. He brought Laurent’s hand to his lips and kissed the inside of his wrist, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving Laurent’s.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said softly. “Not for me. What’s between us… it’s not a debt, Laurent. It’s something sacred.”

Laurent’s breath hitched. The words felt like sunlight through glass, warm and blinding. His mouth opened, then closed again, and finally he managed a small, shaky smile.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted you,” he whispered, shy but certain. “I really do. I just… I want it to be right. One day, when I’m ready… I’ll show you how much I love you.”

Damen’s smile was tender, almost reverent. He lifted a hand to cup Laurent’s cheek. “You already have,” he said. “I know exactly how much you want me, Laurent. I feel it every time you look at me.”

Laurent ducked his head, cheeks burning, but he was smiling. The kind of smile that reached his eyes and stayed there. Damen leaned forward and kissed him - unhurried, full of quiet joy.

They stayed like that for a long while, exchanging soft kisses and quiet laughter, until the sound of Laurent’s stomach growling broke the silence. Damen chuckled, pressing one last kiss to his temple before pulling him up.

“Come on,” he said. “Breakfast.”

Laurent followed him to the kitchen, still smiling, still light - the kind of light he never thought he’d feel again.

Damen insisted on cooking.

Laurent sat at the table, legs folded neatly beneath him, watching the older man move around the small kitchen with a kind of practiced ease. It felt strange - almost unreal - to sit and be cared for. Damen asked what he wanted at least three times, phrasing it each time differently as if to coax an answer that wasn’t just “I’m fine.”

“Toast? Eggs? Fruit? You’ve got to give me something to work with,” Damen said over his shoulder, teasing lightly.

“Just toast,” Laurent said at last. “Maybe coffee.”

Damen gave him a look - fond, exasperated, familiar. “Toast and coffee aren’t enough for breakfast, sweetheart.”

Laurent’s cheeks coloured faintly, but he didn’t argue. Damen hummed under his breath, pulling things from the fridge. The smell of butter and eggs soon filled the apartment, and Laurent found himself relaxing, watching the way Damen’s hands worked - steady, capable, gentle even when cracking eggs or slicing fruit.

When Damen set the food down, Laurent blinked. His plate was modest: a slice of toast, half an egg, a few pieces of melon. Damen’s own was twice the size, but he didn’t say anything, just nudged Laurent’s plate closer.

The first few bites went down awkwardly, his stomach knotted and uncertain. Damen watched, not hovering but there, a quiet presence beside him.

Halfway through, Damen reached over, tore a small piece of toast, and held it out.

Laurent frowned. “I can feed myself,” he murmured, embarrassed.

“I know,” Damen said simply. “Humour me.”

Laurent hesitated, then leaned forward. His lips brushed Damen’s fingers as he took the bite, warmth spreading across his cheeks. The food went down easier this way - maybe because Damen’s eyes softened every time Laurent’s lips touched his fingers, or maybe because it reminded Laurent, quietly, that he was safe.

Damen smiled through it all, acting as though feeding Laurent from his own hand was the most natural thing in the world.

“Better?” he asked, voice low.

Laurent nodded, unable to meet his gaze, but his mouth curved in a shy smile.

“Good,” Damen said. “Then next time, I’ll make pancakes. Proper ones. You’ll see - they’ll ruin toast for you forever.”

Laurent gave a quiet laugh, the sound soft and genuine. “You’ll spoil me.”

“That’s the plan,” Damen said.

And for the first time in a long while, Laurent let himself believe that maybe being spoiled wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

When Damen finally put his fork down, he leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh and pulled out his phone.

Laurent, still picking at his toast, tilted his head. “What are you doing?”

Damen didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crooked a finger, wordlessly inviting Laurent closer.

Laurent hesitated, then slid from his chair and crossed the short distance between them. Damen’s hand found his waist, steadying him as he settled easily onto his lap, the motion so natural it made Laurent’s heart skip. From here, he could feel the steady thrum of Damen’s heartbeat beneath his ribs, solid and grounding.

He glanced down at the screen - pictures of snow-dusted cabins, warm amber lights glowing from frosted windows, smoke curling from stone chimneys.

“I think we should go away for Christmas,” Damen said, almost casually, as if he wasn’t about to change the shape of Laurent’s world with a single sentence. “You, me, and Nicaise. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere with too much snow and too little signal.”

Laurent froze. His throat worked silently before he found any words at all - and even then, they didn’t come.

The idea felt too big, too good. A Christmas somewhere else. Away from the city. Away from the ghosts that clung to every cold corner of their apartment.

He couldn’t say any of that, couldn’t find a way to tell Damen that the simple thought of being wanted - included - made his chest ache in that tender, terrified way love always did.

So instead, Laurent leaned in and kissed him. Just at the corner of his mouth - soft, deliberate, the quietest thank you.

Damen smiled, the kind of smile that reached his eyes, and Laurent pressed his forehead to his collarbone, breathing in the faint scent of soap and coffee clinging to his skin.

Damen’s arm came around him, easy and sure, as he scrolled through more photos. “Look,” he murmured, “this one even has a fireplace. Nicaise will like that, right? He’ll sit there pretending to read and actually be roasting marshmallows.”

Laurent hummed faintly, his voice almost lost against Damen’s shirt. He could picture it - Nicaise’s laughter, the warmth, the snow outside. It felt unreal, like something that belonged to someone else’s life.

But Damen’s hand was warm on his back. The world felt real enough.

Laurent didn’t say anything more. He just stayed there, turning his head to watch as Damen scrolled through cabins with wide windows and wraparound porches, imagining for the first time that maybe Christmas could mean something good.

Christmas night had settled softly over the cabin, the snow outside faintly blue in the fading light. The world was hushed, muffled under its blanket of white.

They had dragged blankets onto the porch, where a small campfire crackled in the cold. The air smelled of smoke and pine, the kind of crispness that bit at the nose but made everything feel clean.

Laurent sat tucked beneath a thick scarf, his cheeks and the tip of his nose flushed pink. Damen was beside him, close enough that their knees pressed together under the blanket they shared. Nicaise lounged on the other side of the fire, roasting marshmallows with exaggerated annoyance.

“You two are disgusting,” Nicaise muttered without looking up, rolling his eyes as Damen leaned in and kissed Laurent’s temple.

Laurent laughed - a sound that still surprised him every time it escaped. “You’re just jealous,” he said, his voice soft with amusement.

“I’m scarred,” Nicaise corrected, waving his marshmallow stick like a weapon. Damen only grinned, reached over, and flicked a bit of snow at him, earning a squawk of outrage.

The moment felt easy - the kind of ease Laurent had never thought he’d earn.

Damen turned back to him, gaze fond and unhurried. He tucked a stray lock of Laurent’s hair behind his ear and leaned in to kiss the tip of his nose, where it was red from the cold. Laurent scrunched up his face at the touch, smiling despite himself.

“What are you thinking about?” Damen asked quietly.

Laurent hesitated, then lifted the book in his lap. “I was just going to tell you about this,” he said. His voice carried a faint tremor of pride - not in the story, but in the fact that he could say that sentence at all. That he could read again, that he could care again.

Damen shifted to face him fully, expression warm, patient. “Tell me,” he said.

So Laurent did. He talked about the story - haltingly at first, then with growing confidence - his hands moving as he described a character he loved, a line that had stayed with him. Damen listened, the firelight dancing across his face, the corners of his mouth soft with affection.

At some point, Damen reached over and laced their fingers together. Laurent squeezed back, his chest full in a way that no longer frightened him.

Nicaise grumbled something about “grown-ups being boring,” but when Laurent glanced over, he caught the boy smiling into the fire.

The snow continued to fall, lazy and gentle.

Laurent leaned against Damen’s shoulder, the warmth of him a quiet anchor. He felt the weight of the scarf around his neck, the weight of the world just a little lighter.

He still had bad days - days where the dark pressed close, where eating felt like climbing a mountain, where the past clawed at the edges of his peace. But there, in that moment, with Damen’s hand in his, Nicaise humming tunelessly to himself, and the fire popping in the cold, he knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Damen pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Laurent smiled against his shoulder, whispering, “Merry Christmas.”

Damen’s arm tightened around him. “Merry Christmas, love.”