( he was ever glad to have been gifted invisibility at just the right time. he's not strong enough to rescue everyone on his own - he needs to go along a group of other rule-breakers to do so, and he's really only good at helping with wounds and using that invisibility. it's time-based, and he has to be quick: there's no time to dally and check everyone over. not even the brat prince that he helps, that looks straight through him, and aspen doesn't really care because he's used to humans treating him this way but -
what he does care about is the clear injury on laurent. the brand. it makes him furious: it's a slow, simmering anger in the pit of his stomach that he harnesses as he continues his part of the escape plan.
he has to withdraw and let other people handle the rest. it makes him angrier, and he channels that into the salves and serums he uses to wrap wounds and scrapes. he's one of the first out so he can help others actually flee. he's looking people over as they cross his vision, and the moment he sees a shock of blonde he double-checks to see who it is.
... why is he running away? ugh! what a fucking brat. )
Laurent. ( he calls for him with an insistent tone, not daring to touch him but also closing the distance. ) Would you take a moment? I need to speak to you.
[ he'd found his clothing in a bin by the mausoleum, his jacket draped over his shoulders while carrying the rest. no time to attend to his complicated attire at present, and the brand on his arm proves increasingly painful, too tender for even the brush of fabric. aspen has been busy tending to the other more mortally wounded restless, and laurent has no inclination to ask for assistance — he will find his own way and tend to his own wounds, so he strikes out on his own, leaving behind the chaos and hoping to shake off the uncomfortable memory of being bound in the dank prison.
no such luck. he has hardly had time to make his escape before aspen notices and, apparently, disagrees with such actions. but something happens at the snap of his name, some visceral movement that strikes him like a shock of lightning, unearthing something raw and bloody from beneath years of darkness, loosening his tongue against his will.
he turns, still in his tattered rags, an unbearable pressure in his throat. he tries to swallow, and can't. even as he desperately tries to pull them back, words come spilling out. ]
I went to my uncle for help. He said — he would comfort me. He — [ panic seizes him, his heart rabbiting wildly in his chest. ] He took me to bed. For nights. For years. Again and again. I was thirteen, and my brother had just died. I had no else to turn to. And no one else again, after that.
[ the pressure ceases, but the damage is done. laurent stands silent, struck with a wave of brittle horror, cracked open. aspen is the sort to offer sympathies, and they will only feel like fingers digging into his open wounds. ]
( aspen stares, a sort of horror in his eyes that can only be shared by painful empathy. it's not sympathy. aspen is not standing there in horror because what he illustrates is a painful, traumatic thing -
he's standing there because he finally, finally understands. it clicks into place uncomfortably like a broken and pulled arm set correctly in its socket. it's the same bloody and tormented injury, worlds apart - privileges apart. laurent was a crown prince. aspen had been a street orphan. while aspen's hadn't been family by blood, it was the only family he'd had.
he does not offer sympathy. )
I was twelve. ( his voice is quiet, almost distant.
ever since they met, even on that rickety boat on the way to stygia, aspen's meticulous care of his appearance was apparent. he always kept his hair primped and polished and brushed through, his wings fluffy and snow-white, with neat dresses and skirts and blouses. he gave off an air of sophistication and elegance, even when he was spitting back venom at laurent.
yet that's not the case today - in an undyed linen shift with his hair not even pulled up or braided, rumbling down his back in completely unruly waves. there's a bandage on his lower arm, likely some sort of scrape he suffered in the rush to help - and though he has tiny slippers on for his tiny feet, one of the stockings is completely ripped open. it serves to show how grounded his words are, how much smaller he looks when he doesn't act larger than life. ) No one thinks too hard if you're purchased by a teahouse's father, and... no one there would try to help their competition.
( if laurent will spill his deepest scars, aspen will do the same. but... of course, that leaves the reason why he said anything in the first place. )
Did they - touch you? ( anger returns, simmering in his eyes angrily. ) I saw someone impaled on a - I had thought that was the worst of it, but if there's more, I'll tear their tongues out.
[ it's a mirror image, a reflection in still waters. an ache blooms in his chest, the same feeling he'd get every time he looked at the slaves he could do nothing for, every time nicaise would talk to him with foul-mouthed condescension to mask his youth. it's been apparent to him for some time that he and aspen shared too many similarities, but this — ]
No. [ they hadn't touched him, aside from branding him, the wound starkly red on his arm. he feels dizzy with the thought that they could have, that no one would have come to his rescue because in the whole of his life, no one ever has. he cuts the thought from his mind and forcibly flings it aside before it can overcome him. ] You have permission to leave their tongues intact.
[ he needs to pull himself together, acutely aware of his disheveled appearance, his wide-eyed edge of panic, the jagged pace of his breath. he clings to one of the few things he can immediately control, fisting the tattered rags he wears and delicately sliding them off his body. to be naked in vere is commonplace; laurent has no qualms about his body, all pale skin and slender lines of lean muscle, but after his confession, he feels too exposed. if only damen was here to attend to his damnable veretian attire.
he pulls on his trousers first and leaves them unlaced, hanging low on his hips, then slips on the white linen shirt, sleeves and collar loose as the laces trail over his body. his eyes flicker to aspen, unable to outright ask for assistance but clearly in need of it. ]
( aspen calms a little, but only a little. there's still rage in that small body, though none of it is pointed at laurent.
like laurent, he isn't overly affected by naked bodies. he doesn't seem to notice at first, though when he realizes laurent is disrobing he politely glances away and makes sure to spread his wings so people don't snoop and leer. while he has no problems with nakedness, the way some people act around bare skin makes his skin crawl, and he doesn't want laurent to be subject to that when he's still... exposed. vulnerable.
he catches laurent's gaze and starts momentarily. it's not the first time he's gotten a look like that, and apparently... well, apparently this might not be the last. he draws closer, helping to lace him up. he only needs to look at it for a moment or two to understand. )
These laces are just like Laufient - ...
( ... wow, that's a strange coincidence he hadn't noticed before. his brows scrunch up. )
Just... like another country's dress that I'm familiar with. ( he doesn't want to think on that now and focuses instead on his clothes. )
[ unwillingly, thoughts of another flit to the forefront of his mind — damen, attending him morning and night, their familiar, hateful ritual. his fingers had grown quite deft at dismantling veretian attire, and laurent had grown accustomed to his presence so close. having been without for some time now, it's jarring now for aspen to fill that space, his hands smaller, working quicker. laurent does not think of their shared history or consider the formation of any sort of bond, already raw from his forced honesty and unable to abide the thought of such intimacy. ]
I'm going hunting. I've heard the skin of a badaliscus can heal the brand. [ there are scars on his body, but he doesn't like the idea of being marked in this way. aspen sees to the laces along his spine, and then laurent holds out one wrist so he can secure his sleeves. the other he leaves loose, pulling back the fabric so it doesn't touch his wound. ] Just wrap it so it doesn't get in the way. That will be enough.
( he meets laurent's gaze when he says it, firm in tone. it's only when he's finished rolling his sleeve up that he fishes out some bandages, and tends to the brand. )
It wasn't until hours later that I learned you were right. D told me that what we ingested was affected, and I saw similarities in his demeanor and yours.
I'm sorry. I was far too drunk to be rational or understanding, but I shouldn't have let myself be drunk in the first place. I hate how out of control it feels.
( he lowers his gaze so much it's hard to see his eyes, but the way his hands shake minutely give context when he can't utter the words. he ties off the bandage with a knot, and tucks the ends in so it's not too unwieldy. )
There are others here capable of healing. You may not have to go through all that trouble, especially when you're already injured.
[ he looks at aspen, still, silent. an apology is not what he expected upon coming here, though he isn't sure what exactly it was he was expecting. his anger is not directed at aspen, per se, but the feeling of helplessness, the lack of autonomy, the way he can't be sure it was his own want that made his hands reach out to touch the soft feathers of aspen's wings or if it was the poison served at the festival.
it must have been the poison. but even now, he looks at aspen's wings and can't rid himself of the memory. he doesn't know if he's simply falling into the trap of loneliness after having the fleeting experience of a companion of sorts — if his slave counted as such. but damen was by his side, riding on horseback, sleeping in his tent, sitting at his table going over maps and strategy — all things laurent has never had before, and likely will never have again, and now here stands aspen showing him a kindness that doesn't feel deserved. ]
We won't speak of it. [ the warmth that forgiveness requires doesn't come easily to him, mostly out of his own spiteful nature, but in part because no one has ever tried to atone for hurting him. it's not the veretian way. ] But if you choose to be a drunken lout in public, someone will take advantage of you.
[ slowly, he draws his hand back, his arm now bandaged. something flickers in his gaze. ] You should know just as I do that no one will come to our rescue. You have to mind others and their shadows.
[ he wants to turn away now, to end this conversation by leaving altogether, set on hunting the monster, but he stops, a heavy silence hanging between them. ]
You're right. I know better, but I was careless and lulled into false security.
( and aspen isn't bothered by saying it - by agreeing that laurent's bleak view is the correct one. he shares it, as much as his sunny disposition and proclivity to help is a complete opposite to it. there are ways to oppose that point of view, and aspen is certain of it - to unfailingly insist the world was better, to be the sun in darkness, which needed a will stronger than the world's. and there was acceptance of every mortal's darkest inclinations, to admit the world was crass and ruthless and uncaring - and care anyway in just as crass and ruthless in a way of perseving balance.
aspen seemed like the former, yet was the latter.
as he tucks the bandages away, he hums, thoughtful. )
My wing, you mean? Thankfully, I was able to heal it with no complications. It wasn't too long after you broke it that I was able to heal, as healing magic requires more thought than the soul magic I used on you.
[Look who is here to darken Laurent's metaphorical doorstep once more. "You won't see me again" — technically, this still holds true. They don't need to look at each other to have a conversation in this way.]
You've violated our agreement. That didn't take long.
have you come to ask me for something? because the answer is no. i will not rescue your kitten from a tree. it can stay there until it starves and dies and desiccates to bone, and you can anguish over yet another death you've caused. have fun.
Is it my attention you truly wanted after all? It seems we can't avoid one another. Not as long as you continue to speak about me to others on matters they have no right knowing. I haven't so much as said your name to someone else.
and what would you even say about me? that we have a dead brother in common, but i didn't slay mine? that you hunted me down like an animal and then couldn't even deliver the killing blow? i'm all ears. how's your illness?
[What would he say? That of all he has met, Laurent is the only one who seems to share an understanding of grief and pain and suffering woven by the same thread. That he is sharp, and challenging, and contrary — that encounters with him are both fraught and thrilling. That Sasuke had wanted to know him better.]
You ask that question only to determine how soon I'll be dead.
Those red flowers, were they for Damianos of Akielos?
[ the words land like the most calculated of physical blows. he's reeling in an instant, struggling to piece together how sasuke came upon that name at all. he told him of his brother. he had not shared the name of his killer.
he might've, with time, if things had gone differently. he still remembers that quietly budding trust, too young to have opened its petals to the light. dead, now. he sweeps dirt over the memory. ]
[As a former international terrorist who once endured the whole world, save one, against him — Laurent's continual bid for his death is easy to disregard.]
Pretend as much as you like, you're as affected by your Shadow as I am.
You said his name. You mock me for what I suffer with this disease while suffering the same.
because i’m cold to you? because i look forward to your death? these are not reflections of my shadow. it’s pretty that you presume to know me after a few false exchanges.
[ his pulse flutters rapidly, tension coiled tight in the pit of his stomach. something isn’t right. ]
you misheard. tell me why i would be suffering from your same illness over my brother’s murderer? these flowers are nothing more than familial, for my dear uncle whom i love and miss daily. i can tell you want badly for company in your misery, though.
[In the evening, Laurent will return to his assigned dorm to find the same fat cat from the café he once carried to the register to make his order, now sitting in a perfect calico loaf upon crisp bedsheets. It blinks drowsily in Laurent's direction, having woken from a several-hour nap.
Directly beside the cat is a notebook, folded open to the first page — where Laurent will find a painstaking list of information detailing proper feline diet, toys and play, cleanliness, and behavioral training. A small bag on the floor contains cat treats, cat nip, a box of high-end canned tuna, a feather teaser, fake mice, a plain and unadorned collar, and a variety of other helpful items. It is, essentially, a cat-owner-starter-pack.
There's no signature. Only a black cat-eared headband, left on Laurent's pillow.]
[ he does not reach out with his gratitude for the gift, spending his time acclimating the grumpy feline to her new habitat, which is mostly comprised of laurent's bed. she hisses every time he enters his room, which he takes a certain amount of delight in, and he wakes every night to find her curled against various parts of his body — his knees, his hips, his chest, once atop his mass of hair. he finds that he prefers her to people.
a week or two passes before (against his better judgement) he opens up a video chat one night, cross-legged in bed, his face fresh and glowing from his nighttime routine. his normally severe clothing has been replaced with a soft white and blue striped long-sleeve with matching pants, loosely fitted so that his collarbones are on rare display. behind him, the cat glares from her perch on laurent's pillow. ]
Hello. [ his hair is loosely held back by a black cat-eared headband. ] I heard you got fired.
[He's alerted to the call that night, unexpectedly, a hand fishing his phone from where it was abandoned in a pile on the desk mixed among books and papers — an orderly mess. Before answering, Sasuke moves to the bed to lie back, head pillowed at a slant, eyes hooded and seeming drowsy if not for the sharp look within them.
Laurent. A name that sends a tight, warm flutter of excitement through him, kicking his pulse a little faster. What boundaries he's respected by giving Laurent space are reluctant, yet admitting this to himself makes everything worse, and he's still unaccustomed to the peace of this dimension compared to their last. It feels like his nerves are on edge.
His gaze spends a moment on the display of collarbones before drifting.] It was a temporary position anyway. [Looking, now, at the cat.] Have you named her?
[ he is not expecting sasuke to answer like this — tucked comfortably in his bed — though he doesn't know why it surprises him. it's night, after all, and laurent is similarly shut in his room, sequestered to privacy. it simply feels foreign, almost taboo, as if he's entertaining the sort of company he has no experience entertaining. ]
You were bad at it. [ as if laurent has not made this sentiment clear already. but the cat nudges his ribs, a reminder of her presence or more likely a request for her bowl to be filled despite her recent meal. a reminder of sasuke's silent generosity, his ability to understand laurent's particular needs without giving voice to them. ] You deserved to be fired.
[ but he'd tried. exceptionally hard, in fact. commendable, in its own way. laurent cannot make those words pass his tongue. ]
No. [ no, he has not named her, because overthinking is his specialty and his careful research into the perfect cat name had yielded pages of names but no real results. he clears his throat, his eyes drifting to a blank point on the wall. then, slowly, with his heart beating very fast — ] I thought I might ask you for suggestions.
[It is a strange intimacy different from their encounters before, one step further into the privacy of themselves shut behind bedroom doors in the night. He could close his eyes and imagine Laurent beside him in bed, whispering into his ear — the thought enough to inspire a warm chill — but then he wouldn't see Laurent's face, or the black cat ears crowning his head. The smirk is tempting, but Sasuke schools it.]
You're right. I wasn't good at it. [He can admit his own deficiency; his pride lies in other areas of expertise.] Working in a shop like that is something the civilians of my village used to do, not me. I shouldn't expect to be capable overnight. It's a skill like anything else.
[With work and effort, however, he could change that. If he wished. Now, he's more interested in Laurent's mild little statement: I thought I might. The smirk tugs more stubbornly, so he turns, covering it partially with his pillow. Laurent looks away, but he doesn't.]
Maru, maybe. It means "round." [His smirk has tempered into a smile, barely visible on his lips.] Or Hime — "princess," since you're the prince.
[ he tries to imagine sasuke back in his village, but it only conjures memories of that small, dark-eyed child running through his bloodied home. it's not what he wishes to think of now, when he has never seen sasuke so curiously at ease — likely because he is alone, and solitude affords a certain relief from the constant tensions of being on guard. ]
What did you do in your village? [ laurent's eyes drift to the locked door as he considers lying down to match sasuke's relaxed posture, but the mere thought makes his spine grow even more rigid. he refocuses. ] You must have trained extensively, to be the warrior you are today.
[ there is only a tinge of bitterness in his tone, barely susceptible. he is looking at the set of sasuke's mouth, the faintly soft angle that belies a smile. he doesn't know what to make of it, a gentle warmth blooming in his chest. ]
Princess. [ he repeats it slowly, a too-careful lack of emotion in his tone. ] My brother used to tell me that I would grow into liking women. He preferred them. [ then — ] I like Maru. She is a large cat.
I did. I was a shinobi, an agent whose purpose is to complete missions in the name of the village. I was trained in espionage, warfare, tracking and reconnaissance, surveillance... [He's still watching Laurent, perceptive enough to notice that stiffening of posture. He has no clues to tell him what it means; observation is a privilege gifted by this method of communication. Their past conversations have never been so clear or so casual. What is Laurent like when he is not throwing soap dishes, or spitting foul words, or disrobing, or lashing out?] Not every shinobi has the same abilities, or the same potential to excel. Their bloodline matters. Or in some cases just the person they learn from.
[The voice he uses is low, murmured between them with an honesty he has not allowed anyone else.]
My skills only mean that you wouldn't be able to hide from me. I'd find you. [Sasuke finally breaks away his gaze, surprising himself with what he's said. His mouth firms into a flat line.] ... Maru is overfed. I included detailed instructions on how much food you should give her to fix the problem.
[You better put her on a diet, Laurent. But then curiosity stirs, and his eyes venture back, furtively, in a glance that dares to linger.]
And you haven't? Grown into it. [Incomprehension furrows his brow — less for that confession than his own puzzle of understanding at such preferences.] Would your kingdom need an heir?
Edited (i'm sorry for so many edits it's late) 2023-02-22 05:18 (UTC)
[ for all of sasuke's wondering, he's seeing the truth right now, that laurent, when not spitting acid, is like this — quiet, inquisitive, more comfortable curled up on his bed than with a weapon in his hands. ]
And your bloodline is special. [ it must be, with those peculiar eyes. laurent has never seen anything like them. ] But that isn't all. Who taught you espionage, warfare, and everything else?
[ not his brother. the memory flits through his mind once more. the boy running through that house, afraid, was too young. laurent's gaze flickers back to the screen, settling on sasuke again now that he's looked away. i'd find you. another peculiar sentiment. laurent has never had anyone come for him since auguste died, and has long since let go of his faith in such things. only auguste could have found him anywhere. only auguste would have come to his aid in any trial. now, there is no one. certainly not sasuke. he sets the thought neatly aside. ]
Maru eats the amount necessary for her happiness. [ hardly. laurent can feel her spiteful glare at his back. but at the inquiry, he blinks slowly, a steady pang in his chest. ]
Auguste was good with everyone. Especially with courting women. He wasn't allowed to — we aren't allowed to be alone with the opposite sex, remember — but we all knew he would find a suitable match, make her his queen, create strong heirs. He was all that a prince, and a future king, should be. [ a beat. ] I didn't grow into it. [ liking women. being a suitable prince. ] My kingdom would need an heir, but I — [ shame blooms inside of him at speaking such a thing aloud, even as his words hold steady with conviction. ] I would not bring them forth. I would not continue this bloodline. Not for weak, tainted heirs that will suffer for crimes they did not commit.
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what he does care about is the clear injury on laurent. the brand. it makes him furious: it's a slow, simmering anger in the pit of his stomach that he harnesses as he continues his part of the escape plan.
he has to withdraw and let other people handle the rest. it makes him angrier, and he channels that into the salves and serums he uses to wrap wounds and scrapes. he's one of the first out so he can help others actually flee. he's looking people over as they cross his vision, and the moment he sees a shock of blonde he double-checks to see who it is.
... why is he running away? ugh! what a fucking brat. )
Laurent. ( he calls for him with an insistent tone, not daring to touch him but also closing the distance. ) Would you take a moment? I need to speak to you.
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no such luck. he has hardly had time to make his escape before aspen notices and, apparently, disagrees with such actions. but something happens at the snap of his name, some visceral movement that strikes him like a shock of lightning, unearthing something raw and bloody from beneath years of darkness, loosening his tongue against his will.
he turns, still in his tattered rags, an unbearable pressure in his throat. he tries to swallow, and can't. even as he desperately tries to pull them back, words come spilling out. ]
I went to my uncle for help. He said — he would comfort me. He — [ panic seizes him, his heart rabbiting wildly in his chest. ] He took me to bed. For nights. For years. Again and again. I was thirteen, and my brother had just died. I had no else to turn to. And no one else again, after that.
[ the pressure ceases, but the damage is done. laurent stands silent, struck with a wave of brittle horror, cracked open. aspen is the sort to offer sympathies, and they will only feel like fingers digging into his open wounds. ]
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he's standing there because he finally, finally understands. it clicks into place uncomfortably like a broken and pulled arm set correctly in its socket. it's the same bloody and tormented injury, worlds apart - privileges apart. laurent was a crown prince. aspen had been a street orphan. while aspen's hadn't been family by blood, it was the only family he'd had.
he does not offer sympathy. )
I was twelve. ( his voice is quiet, almost distant.
ever since they met, even on that rickety boat on the way to stygia, aspen's meticulous care of his appearance was apparent. he always kept his hair primped and polished and brushed through, his wings fluffy and snow-white, with neat dresses and skirts and blouses. he gave off an air of sophistication and elegance, even when he was spitting back venom at laurent.
yet that's not the case today - in an undyed linen shift with his hair not even pulled up or braided, rumbling down his back in completely unruly waves. there's a bandage on his lower arm, likely some sort of scrape he suffered in the rush to help - and though he has tiny slippers on for his tiny feet, one of the stockings is completely ripped open. it serves to show how grounded his words are, how much smaller he looks when he doesn't act larger than life. ) No one thinks too hard if you're purchased by a teahouse's father, and... no one there would try to help their competition.
( if laurent will spill his deepest scars, aspen will do the same. but... of course, that leaves the reason why he said anything in the first place. )
Did they - touch you? ( anger returns, simmering in his eyes angrily. ) I saw someone impaled on a - I had thought that was the worst of it, but if there's more, I'll tear their tongues out.
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No. [ they hadn't touched him, aside from branding him, the wound starkly red on his arm. he feels dizzy with the thought that they could have, that no one would have come to his rescue because in the whole of his life, no one ever has. he cuts the thought from his mind and forcibly flings it aside before it can overcome him. ] You have permission to leave their tongues intact.
[ he needs to pull himself together, acutely aware of his disheveled appearance, his wide-eyed edge of panic, the jagged pace of his breath. he clings to one of the few things he can immediately control, fisting the tattered rags he wears and delicately sliding them off his body. to be naked in vere is commonplace; laurent has no qualms about his body, all pale skin and slender lines of lean muscle, but after his confession, he feels too exposed. if only damen was here to attend to his damnable veretian attire.
he pulls on his trousers first and leaves them unlaced, hanging low on his hips, then slips on the white linen shirt, sleeves and collar loose as the laces trail over his body. his eyes flicker to aspen, unable to outright ask for assistance but clearly in need of it. ]
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like laurent, he isn't overly affected by naked bodies. he doesn't seem to notice at first, though when he realizes laurent is disrobing he politely glances away and makes sure to spread his wings so people don't snoop and leer. while he has no problems with nakedness, the way some people act around bare skin makes his skin crawl, and he doesn't want laurent to be subject to that when he's still... exposed. vulnerable.
he catches laurent's gaze and starts momentarily. it's not the first time he's gotten a look like that, and apparently... well, apparently this might not be the last. he draws closer, helping to lace him up. he only needs to look at it for a moment or two to understand. )
These laces are just like Laufient - ...
( ... wow, that's a strange coincidence he hadn't noticed before. his brows scrunch up. )
Just... like another country's dress that I'm familiar with. ( he doesn't want to think on that now and focuses instead on his clothes. )
Do you want a salve for the brand?
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I'm going hunting. I've heard the skin of a badaliscus can heal the brand. [ there are scars on his body, but he doesn't like the idea of being marked in this way. aspen sees to the laces along his spine, and then laurent holds out one wrist so he can secure his sleeves. the other he leaves loose, pulling back the fabric so it doesn't touch his wound. ] Just wrap it so it doesn't get in the way. That will be enough.
[ then — ] I had no intention of speaking to you.
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( he meets laurent's gaze when he says it, firm in tone. it's only when he's finished rolling his sleeve up that he fishes out some bandages, and tends to the brand. )
It wasn't until hours later that I learned you were right. D told me that what we ingested was affected, and I saw similarities in his demeanor and yours.
I'm sorry. I was far too drunk to be rational or understanding, but I shouldn't have let myself be drunk in the first place. I hate how out of control it feels.
( he lowers his gaze so much it's hard to see his eyes, but the way his hands shake minutely give context when he can't utter the words. he ties off the bandage with a knot, and tucks the ends in so it's not too unwieldy. )
There are others here capable of healing. You may not have to go through all that trouble, especially when you're already injured.
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it must have been the poison. but even now, he looks at aspen's wings and can't rid himself of the memory. he doesn't know if he's simply falling into the trap of loneliness after having the fleeting experience of a companion of sorts — if his slave counted as such. but damen was by his side, riding on horseback, sleeping in his tent, sitting at his table going over maps and strategy — all things laurent has never had before, and likely will never have again, and now here stands aspen showing him a kindness that doesn't feel deserved. ]
We won't speak of it. [ the warmth that forgiveness requires doesn't come easily to him, mostly out of his own spiteful nature, but in part because no one has ever tried to atone for hurting him. it's not the veretian way. ] But if you choose to be a drunken lout in public, someone will take advantage of you.
[ slowly, he draws his hand back, his arm now bandaged. something flickers in his gaze. ] You should know just as I do that no one will come to our rescue. You have to mind others and their shadows.
[ he wants to turn away now, to end this conversation by leaving altogether, set on hunting the monster, but he stops, a heavy silence hanging between them. ]
You should be wounded. After what I did to you.
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( and aspen isn't bothered by saying it - by agreeing that laurent's bleak view is the correct one. he shares it, as much as his sunny disposition and proclivity to help is a complete opposite to it. there are ways to oppose that point of view, and aspen is certain of it - to unfailingly insist the world was better, to be the sun in darkness, which needed a will stronger than the world's. and there was acceptance of every mortal's darkest inclinations, to admit the world was crass and ruthless and uncaring - and care anyway in just as crass and ruthless in a way of perseving balance.
aspen seemed like the former, yet was the latter.
as he tucks the bandages away, he hums, thoughtful. )
My wing, you mean? Thankfully, I was able to heal it with no complications. It wasn't too long after you broke it that I was able to heal, as healing magic requires more thought than the soul magic I used on you.
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un: 火
You've violated our agreement. That didn't take long.
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have you come to ask me for something? because the answer is no. i will not rescue your kitten from a tree. it can stay there until it starves and dies and desiccates to bone, and you can anguish over yet another death you've caused. have fun.
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Is it my attention you truly wanted after all? It seems we can't avoid one another. Not as long as you continue to speak about me to others on matters they have no right knowing. I haven't so much as said your name to someone else.
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You ask that question only to determine how soon I'll be dead.
Those red flowers, were they for Damianos of Akielos?
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[ the words land like the most calculated of physical blows. he's reeling in an instant, struggling to piece together how sasuke came upon that name at all. he told him of his brother. he had not shared the name of his killer.
he might've, with time, if things had gone differently. he still remembers that quietly budding trust, too young to have opened its petals to the light. dead, now. he sweeps dirt over the memory. ]
where did you hear that name?
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Pretend as much as you like, you're as affected by your Shadow as I am.
You said his name. You mock me for what I suffer with this disease while suffering the same.
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[ his pulse flutters rapidly, tension coiled tight in the pit of his stomach. something isn’t right. ]
you misheard. tell me why i would be suffering from your same illness over my brother’s murderer? these flowers are nothing more than familial, for my dear uncle whom i love and miss daily. i can tell you want badly for company in your misery, though.
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a little present
Directly beside the cat is a notebook, folded open to the first page — where Laurent will find a painstaking list of information detailing proper feline diet, toys and play, cleanliness, and behavioral training. A small bag on the floor contains cat treats, cat nip, a box of high-end canned tuna, a feather teaser, fake mice, a plain and unadorned collar, and a variety of other helpful items. It is, essentially, a cat-owner-starter-pack.
There's no signature. Only a black cat-eared headband, left on Laurent's pillow.]
i had to
a week or two passes before (against his better judgement) he opens up a video chat one night, cross-legged in bed, his face fresh and glowing from his nighttime routine. his normally severe clothing has been replaced with a soft white and blue striped long-sleeve with matching pants, loosely fitted so that his collarbones are on rare display. behind him, the cat glares from her perch on laurent's pillow. ]
Hello. [ his hair is loosely held back by a black cat-eared headband. ] I heard you got fired.
opens my arms
Laurent. A name that sends a tight, warm flutter of excitement through him, kicking his pulse a little faster. What boundaries he's respected by giving Laurent space are reluctant, yet admitting this to himself makes everything worse, and he's still unaccustomed to the peace of this dimension compared to their last. It feels like his nerves are on edge.
His gaze spends a moment on the display of collarbones before drifting.] It was a temporary position anyway. [Looking, now, at the cat.] Have you named her?
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You were bad at it. [ as if laurent has not made this sentiment clear already. but the cat nudges his ribs, a reminder of her presence or more likely a request for her bowl to be filled despite her recent meal. a reminder of sasuke's silent generosity, his ability to understand laurent's particular needs without giving voice to them. ] You deserved to be fired.
[ but he'd tried. exceptionally hard, in fact. commendable, in its own way. laurent cannot make those words pass his tongue. ]
No. [ no, he has not named her, because overthinking is his specialty and his careful research into the perfect cat name had yielded pages of names but no real results. he clears his throat, his eyes drifting to a blank point on the wall. then, slowly, with his heart beating very fast — ] I thought I might ask you for suggestions.
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You're right. I wasn't good at it. [He can admit his own deficiency; his pride lies in other areas of expertise.] Working in a shop like that is something the civilians of my village used to do, not me. I shouldn't expect to be capable overnight. It's a skill like anything else.
[With work and effort, however, he could change that. If he wished. Now, he's more interested in Laurent's mild little statement: I thought I might. The smirk tugs more stubbornly, so he turns, covering it partially with his pillow. Laurent looks away, but he doesn't.]
Maru, maybe. It means "round." [His smirk has tempered into a smile, barely visible on his lips.] Or Hime — "princess," since you're the prince.
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What did you do in your village? [ laurent's eyes drift to the locked door as he considers lying down to match sasuke's relaxed posture, but the mere thought makes his spine grow even more rigid. he refocuses. ] You must have trained extensively, to be the warrior you are today.
[ there is only a tinge of bitterness in his tone, barely susceptible. he is looking at the set of sasuke's mouth, the faintly soft angle that belies a smile. he doesn't know what to make of it, a gentle warmth blooming in his chest. ]
Princess. [ he repeats it slowly, a too-careful lack of emotion in his tone. ] My brother used to tell me that I would grow into liking women. He preferred them. [ then — ] I like Maru. She is a large cat.
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[The voice he uses is low, murmured between them with an honesty he has not allowed anyone else.]
My skills only mean that you wouldn't be able to hide from me. I'd find you. [Sasuke finally breaks away his gaze, surprising himself with what he's said. His mouth firms into a flat line.] ... Maru is overfed. I included detailed instructions on how much food you should give her to fix the problem.
[You better put her on a diet, Laurent. But then curiosity stirs, and his eyes venture back, furtively, in a glance that dares to linger.]
And you haven't? Grown into it. [Incomprehension furrows his brow — less for that confession than his own puzzle of understanding at such preferences.] Would your kingdom need an heir?
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And your bloodline is special. [ it must be, with those peculiar eyes. laurent has never seen anything like them. ] But that isn't all. Who taught you espionage, warfare, and everything else?
[ not his brother. the memory flits through his mind once more. the boy running through that house, afraid, was too young. laurent's gaze flickers back to the screen, settling on sasuke again now that he's looked away. i'd find you. another peculiar sentiment. laurent has never had anyone come for him since auguste died, and has long since let go of his faith in such things. only auguste could have found him anywhere. only auguste would have come to his aid in any trial. now, there is no one. certainly not sasuke. he sets the thought neatly aside. ]
Maru eats the amount necessary for her happiness. [ hardly. laurent can feel her spiteful glare at his back. but at the inquiry, he blinks slowly, a steady pang in his chest. ]
Auguste was good with everyone. Especially with courting women. He wasn't allowed to — we aren't allowed to be alone with the opposite sex, remember — but we all knew he would find a suitable match, make her his queen, create strong heirs. He was all that a prince, and a future king, should be. [ a beat. ] I didn't grow into it. [ liking women. being a suitable prince. ] My kingdom would need an heir, but I — [ shame blooms inside of him at speaking such a thing aloud, even as his words hold steady with conviction. ] I would not bring them forth. I would not continue this bloodline. Not for weak, tainted heirs that will suffer for crimes they did not commit.
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