[ The funeral for his brother, is by all rights, lovely. It's perfectly coordinated. Absolutely no part of it goes wrong, though it's not because of Laurent's involvement - money can, in fact, buy competence to a certain level. No one misses a beat, no one misses any words and Laurent ensures that his voice doesn't so much as tremble when he has to give the required speech. His voice is fine; behind the podium, his hands are tearing the prompts to shreds, trembling. Ice creeps over the paper, flares and blossoms over the wood. It's invisible to anyone except him and when he finishes, it's gone, the power pulled back and dissipated from where it came from.
The music is low and somber and when they bury him, there are roses, a smattering of a few others.
It is, someone says, not realizing who he is or perhaps not caring, the nicest wedding they've ever been to. Auguste would have loved it.
It takes everything in him not to whirl around and hold them still until he explains in perfect, pristine detail the level to which Auguste would have hated this monstrosity and would have laughed at anyone who dared call it perfect. Call a spade a spade. It was a funeral. It didn't matter how lovely it was, how many people came, how good the catering is, whether or not the wine was flowing. None of it mattered because at the end of the day, they still lowered Auguste's body - if there was anything left, they wouldn't even tell him - into the ground and the dirt still covered it. Auguste still died, reduced to a (very nice, very expensive) rock in the middle of the ground, with nothing else.
Laurent throws himself into the fray of Heroes and school and everything between. He finishes his school work with perfect marks across the board and unsurprisingly, does what is necessary for being a Hero, too. Auguste, he's told very warmly, would be proud. As if they knew him. As if they were thinking about anything but how his success would benefit themselves.
He doesn't freeze their hands off as they utter it when they shake with him, but he does spread the faintest sheen of slick across the ground later that night, watching them tumble, the ice melting away into vapor before anyone knows what's happened. Someone ought to have caught on by this point - they're in the twenties, now, with how many times it's been hollowly uttered. At some point, someone ought to catch on but it's just a waiting game.
It would be foolish not to keep track of all the others out there, so he does. Notes who they are, weaknesses and strengths, keeps it all filed away and gives pretty, nonsense answers where asked. There is, after all, someone out there who killed his family. There's a puzzle and he has some of the pieces but he needs more time, needs the connections this gains him to be able to start putting them together.
His uncle, of course, thinks it a fool's errand but doesn't try to stop him. He rests a hand on his shoulder and tells him how proud he is, while Laurent sits ramrod straight and stares straight ahead and thinks someday.
It is a very, very cruel joke the world plays on him when he finds himself saddled with - bad enough, another Hero, but worse yet, this Gladiator. It's someone's idea of a joke - the network, perhaps, or someone else. Just as Marlas, as Auguste stop being mentioned in the press for any period of time, they pick right back up again with speculations on Royal. On his thoughts about the Gladiator, on how he felt being partnered with one of the very men who may have been responsible for the death of his brother. But how do you feel, Royal, he hears, over and over again and smiles prettily and delivers the lines with just the right inflection, the right gestures, every time. This is a game he can play.
The worst of it, though, is that the idiot, the Gladiator, is too stupid to actually be responsible for any of the things that Laurent so desperately wishes to pin on him. He's huge and bumbling and a barbarian whose company apparently was so mismanaged that he wound up here. It's supposed to boost ratings, to ensure that things keep on the track that those who control them would have them be on, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. He makes a show of it, delicate chains attached to the limiter, neatly stopping Gladiator from saying anything where he might make a mess of things. He manages the brute and really ought to be thanked for it, rather than saddled with him permanently, but that isn't the way of the world.
And then. And then, things change. It's Damen, instead of Gladiator. The brute, the barbarian isn't as awful as initially suspected. Despite everything, there is intelligence under dark curls and a ridiculous mask. There is kindness, despite the world treating him otherwise and from every single moment Laurent has seen, it's kindness without the expectation of payment back. Kindness for the sake of kindness. Every time Laurent digs his hands into the tangled web that Damen manages to get himself caught in, it's someone else, it's Damen, big guileless eyes, a sweet smile and the declaration of I just want to help.
It's infuriating. It's utterly infuriating and Laurent hates him for that, too, among a thousand other reasons. He hates him so much he thinks that he could never, ever feel anything else but he grows used to the idiot. Growing used to turns into a sort of complacency. Complacency shifts into mutual respect and instead of his lips twitching when Damen nearly loses an arm, he finds himself dragging a hand up, summoning a wall. They fight better together, not even thinking about it, than they ever have before. He hears the talk about ratings and approvals and everything under the sun but he doesn't care. As long as they continue as they are, there's less attention turned on him while he tries to track down the monster still out there.
He forges alliances where he can, nothing on paper, nothing tracked, nothing but words and handshakes because that has to be good enough. Damen has what sounds like a very adventurous night with Kashel, while Laurent and Halvik work over the particulars of their deal, quiet and careful that no one thinks to listen in on them. It is, he says lazily, very boring to listen to.
And then of course - because nothing, nothing is easy, he winds up at death's door due to a simple slip, something he should have caught, but didn't. Jord is the one who solves it, but it's not Jord - or his uncle, at his side when it's done. That night, he feels a warm hand clasping his, hears soft words as the doctors check on him and thinks Auguste.
When he wakes, it's nothing so pretty. They give him a slew of medication, instructions on bed rest and look at Damen as if he's supposed to be Laurent's keeper, and not the other way around. One look at him should be enough to project that no matter what they're telling him, Laurent fully intends to do things his own way.
Once back at his apartments, the spread of medication across the marble countertops, Laurent finally dares to look at him, his heart beating what feels like audibly, his hands curled tight against the marble. If it's out of anger or to support himself from keeling over, it doesn't matter; Damen isn't fool enough to ask, he hopes. ]
If you expect me to thank you- [ Laurent pauses, waiting until he's certain that he has Damen's attention, tongue rolling over the long Akielon vowels, the mouthful of jumbled words that somehow makes a language. ] You shouldn't hold your breath.
no subject
The music is low and somber and when they bury him, there are roses, a smattering of a few others.
It is, someone says, not realizing who he is or perhaps not caring, the nicest wedding they've ever been to. Auguste would have loved it.
It takes everything in him not to whirl around and hold them still until he explains in perfect, pristine detail the level to which Auguste would have hated this monstrosity and would have laughed at anyone who dared call it perfect. Call a spade a spade. It was a funeral. It didn't matter how lovely it was, how many people came, how good the catering is, whether or not the wine was flowing. None of it mattered because at the end of the day, they still lowered Auguste's body - if there was anything left, they wouldn't even tell him - into the ground and the dirt still covered it. Auguste still died, reduced to a (very nice, very expensive) rock in the middle of the ground, with nothing else.
Laurent throws himself into the fray of Heroes and school and everything between. He finishes his school work with perfect marks across the board and unsurprisingly, does what is necessary for being a Hero, too. Auguste, he's told very warmly, would be proud. As if they knew him. As if they were thinking about anything but how his success would benefit themselves.
He doesn't freeze their hands off as they utter it when they shake with him, but he does spread the faintest sheen of slick across the ground later that night, watching them tumble, the ice melting away into vapor before anyone knows what's happened. Someone ought to have caught on by this point - they're in the twenties, now, with how many times it's been hollowly uttered. At some point, someone ought to catch on but it's just a waiting game.
It would be foolish not to keep track of all the others out there, so he does. Notes who they are, weaknesses and strengths, keeps it all filed away and gives pretty, nonsense answers where asked. There is, after all, someone out there who killed his family. There's a puzzle and he has some of the pieces but he needs more time, needs the connections this gains him to be able to start putting them together.
His uncle, of course, thinks it a fool's errand but doesn't try to stop him. He rests a hand on his shoulder and tells him how proud he is, while Laurent sits ramrod straight and stares straight ahead and thinks someday.
It is a very, very cruel joke the world plays on him when he finds himself saddled with - bad enough, another Hero, but worse yet, this Gladiator. It's someone's idea of a joke - the network, perhaps, or someone else. Just as Marlas, as Auguste stop being mentioned in the press for any period of time, they pick right back up again with speculations on Royal. On his thoughts about the Gladiator, on how he felt being partnered with one of the very men who may have been responsible for the death of his brother. But how do you feel, Royal, he hears, over and over again and smiles prettily and delivers the lines with just the right inflection, the right gestures, every time. This is a game he can play.
The worst of it, though, is that the idiot, the Gladiator, is too stupid to actually be responsible for any of the things that Laurent so desperately wishes to pin on him. He's huge and bumbling and a barbarian whose company apparently was so mismanaged that he wound up here. It's supposed to boost ratings, to ensure that things keep on the track that those who control them would have them be on, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. He makes a show of it, delicate chains attached to the limiter, neatly stopping Gladiator from saying anything where he might make a mess of things. He manages the brute and really ought to be thanked for it, rather than saddled with him permanently, but that isn't the way of the world.
And then. And then, things change. It's Damen, instead of Gladiator. The brute, the barbarian isn't as awful as initially suspected. Despite everything, there is intelligence under dark curls and a ridiculous mask. There is kindness, despite the world treating him otherwise and from every single moment Laurent has seen, it's kindness without the expectation of payment back. Kindness for the sake of kindness. Every time Laurent digs his hands into the tangled web that Damen manages to get himself caught in, it's someone else, it's Damen, big guileless eyes, a sweet smile and the declaration of I just want to help.
It's infuriating. It's utterly infuriating and Laurent hates him for that, too, among a thousand other reasons. He hates him so much he thinks that he could never, ever feel anything else but he grows used to the idiot. Growing used to turns into a sort of complacency. Complacency shifts into mutual respect and instead of his lips twitching when Damen nearly loses an arm, he finds himself dragging a hand up, summoning a wall. They fight better together, not even thinking about it, than they ever have before. He hears the talk about ratings and approvals and everything under the sun but he doesn't care. As long as they continue as they are, there's less attention turned on him while he tries to track down the monster still out there.
He forges alliances where he can, nothing on paper, nothing tracked, nothing but words and handshakes because that has to be good enough. Damen has what sounds like a very adventurous night with Kashel, while Laurent and Halvik work over the particulars of their deal, quiet and careful that no one thinks to listen in on them. It is, he says lazily, very boring to listen to.
And then of course - because nothing, nothing is easy, he winds up at death's door due to a simple slip, something he should have caught, but didn't. Jord is the one who solves it, but it's not Jord - or his uncle, at his side when it's done. That night, he feels a warm hand clasping his, hears soft words as the doctors check on him and thinks Auguste.
When he wakes, it's nothing so pretty. They give him a slew of medication, instructions on bed rest and look at Damen as if he's supposed to be Laurent's keeper, and not the other way around. One look at him should be enough to project that no matter what they're telling him, Laurent fully intends to do things his own way.
Once back at his apartments, the spread of medication across the marble countertops, Laurent finally dares to look at him, his heart beating what feels like audibly, his hands curled tight against the marble. If it's out of anger or to support himself from keeling over, it doesn't matter; Damen isn't fool enough to ask, he hopes. ]
If you expect me to thank you- [ Laurent pauses, waiting until he's certain that he has Damen's attention, tongue rolling over the long Akielon vowels, the mouthful of jumbled words that somehow makes a language. ] You shouldn't hold your breath.