untamedantinous | closed: and i soar through a world that is new, that is free (post-dance)

Laertes is just coming back from his own most recent baking adventure--he's made conchas as part of his effort to develop a satisfactory brioche recipe for Grantaire, and he's just set down a tray of them in the café. The sugar topping looks wrong (the cracks aren't nearly so well-defined as they are in the picture in the book), but they taste good enough, so he's considering them a tentative success. He's munching on a final concha when the glow of firelight catches his eye, and then its sheen on familiar curling hair. "Lucien," says Laertes with delight, coming over to drop a kiss on his brow. "Thou art the picture of warmth and cheer. How dost thou?"

Lucien stretches, very like the cat he named himself a few days ago, and smiles up at him. "Well enough, but I would be better with company. Join me?" He indicates a chair beside him. "I am trying to look for something else to bake. Something that doesn't take quite as long as a baguette, for instance."

"Something like a bread? Or simpler still? Scones or biscuits could be done inside half an hour." Laertes comes around to take the offered chair, glancing over Enjolras's pile. None of the cookbooks in it are ones that he's tried.

"Oh, I don't know. Something from Paris, I am missing all the winter foods as of late. I know I requested cassoulet from you two, but maybe onion soup? I haven't quite decided yet." He shifts his chair a little closer to Laertes', half-wishing he had chosen a couch to drape himself over. Lounging and paging through recipe books with him does sound quite appealing.

"The distance, however, does allow Laertes to regard Lucien archly as he remarks, "I imagine Grantaire is missing them, too."

He raises an eyebrow, considering Laertes for a moment or two, before he glances down at his book. “He might be, but he did not say as much when I saw him when I was baking the other day,” he answers, carefully.

"And not over wine at the dance, either?" Laertes teases, grinning so hard that it digs a dimple in one cheek. "Well, he must have had more important matters to discuss with thee."

Oh, there’s the blush that he knew was coming, no matter how hard he tries to pay attention to his book, he cannot help but lift his head to see that grin on Laertes’ face. “I, ah. Was not aware you had seen.”

"Only a glimpse," says Laertes, but he can't stop smiling as he reaches across the gap between their chairs for Lucien's hand. "Didst look so happy with him, my sweet."

He takes the offered hand and twines his fingers with Laertes’, looking thoughtful. “I. Well, we danced, and I could not stop thinking about him; and you know very well that I am not a patient man,” he laughs sheepishly. “That is to say: I was. I am? It —feels correct.”

"Then let's make an onion soup that thou canst share with him," says Laertes, rising to his feet again with a last bite of his concha. He pulls Enjolras's hand, urging him to stand.

“Oh, but I was very comfortable,” he says, though he does stand and pulls Laertes close. “I wasn’t intending on cooking anything at the present moment.”

"Then I'll not press it on thee," says Laertes, and he nestles easily into Lucien's arms. "Thou didst look warm and settled in thy place. An thou wouldst rather sit by the fire, I'll sit at thy feet and hold thy hand."

“I would do anything you desired by the fire, cher.” He nuzzles close, smiling. “I enjoyed our dance as well, the other night. I enjoyed most of the evening, to be truthful.” Clearly that good mood has held over.

"That makes me glad to hear--I'd feared that obligation would compel, where I would rather inclination invite thee to dance."

“I would not say I am inclined as a rule, particularly, but the company was very good.” He smirks a little. “Sagramore was—ah, quite the gentleman.” He is actually being serious, though it’s a little hard to tell.

Laertes laughs and tugs Lucien over to the couch across the fireplace from their two chairs, snatching up the last of the vin chaud to carry over with them. "Oh? Was he sweet to kiss?"

“I have not had all that much experience,” he laughs, and sprawls down on the couch with a will. “As I said, he was a gentleman. Quite polite about it, even asked if he might. It was ah, sweet, yes.”

"Wouldst have him kiss thee again? Or hast thou had thy fill?" He takes a sip of the vin chaud (still deliciously warm on his tongue) and then passes it back to Lucien. It's easy, now, to adjust so that their bodies are comfortably angled together: Laertes's legs thrown over Lucien's lap, his arm tucked under Lucien's, curled around his back.

“I have had my fill for now, I think; it was mostly for your reaction.” He’s smirking still, happily snuggling in as close as he can to Laertes. “I am glad you like the vin chaud, it seemed appropriate for the weather.”

"I'd like it just a little sweeter, but ay, the spices are good," says Laertes. "We might make a brioche after the old fashion with these fruits and spices; I know not how to bring the taste of wine in without making a soup of the bread dough, but I'm sure there's some recipe that will answer the purpose."

“That can be easily fixed with sugar, but I haven’t any at the moment.” He takes a drink himself, and looks thoughtful. “I don’t know how to do it either. I’m sure someone has, though, we need only look.”

"That reminds me--hast thou thought further of what thou wouldst like to print?" They've done some practice typesetting to make room labels in service of Laertes's vision and Susan's, and they're starting to gain something approaching proficiency with the art.

“Mmm, not quite yet. I still need to ask Magnus what he would like to learn of social sciences, we have not encountered each other much since he has been outside.”

"Susan has begun a project of inventory; there may soon be call for further signs, and she'll likely appreciate the precision of the printed word," suggests Laertes. "But thou might'st try writing an essay of thine own, about the principles thou hold'st sacred. To have our own thoughts on the right organization and conduct of a society set down and shared will make them easier to debate, when we begin having meetings."

“That’s true; it has been some time since I’ve written anything.” He takes a thoughtful sip of wine. “Perhaps you might as well, if you like; I know we have similar views but not entirely so.”

"I doubt my philosophy would stand to be written--it's a thing felt more than thought, composed of passions more than of arguments," Laertes demurs. "Considered with an academic eye, all its unfounded premises would fall to pieces."

“You needn’t, then, if you don’t wish to. I will speak for the both of us,” he says fondly. “I do not know how much debate there may be had in this place, however, everyone seems to see it differently. Temeraire, I know, would like it much better if his Laurence was here; but he does like the company.”

"If it were merely a matter of liking, then there could be no debate; as the ancients tell us, there can be no disputing of tastes," laughs Laertes. He noses against Lucien's cheek. "But other questions--whether leadership is needful; how disputes ought to be resolved--may become more urgent as our small society grows."

“Mm, yes; and I would have it be a republic,” Lucien says, one hand coming up to rest in Laertes’ hair. “But others—certainly one in specific—may wish to rule; and I have had quite enough of kings, thank you. It is a mercy that we are not so big yet.”

"How wouldst thou resolve a dispute, in this republic of the mansion?" Laertes asks as he settles. "Say--one steals from another that which cannot be replaced. Tress's spores, perhaps. Lan Wangji's blade. How wouldst thou answer the theft?"

“You make it sound as if I intend to lead,” he says quietly, but he’s willing to entertain the idea. “If elected, I would, of course; but I do not wish to. Let me think. If this was the case; surely we would need people here as —as peacekeepers, if not police; but I would like to think that most everyone here is adept at fending for themselves. But that would also assume there would be some —punishment if the object could not be found, and I cannot think what that would be here, where there are no courts or things of that nature. Justice must be satisfied, however; and I...” He sighs a little. “Ah, you have already heard my form of justice at the barricade. I would not wish for that here.”

"That is the fundamental problem of Rousseau, is it not? How to attain order not through the threat of force--which always encourages the exercise of force--but instead through mutual agreement. But if we defer the ability to wield force to the republic, we have not resolved the problem of force; we have only changed who is permitted to wield it."

“It is, yes,” he allows, and nuzzles close to kiss Laertes’ cheek lazily. “It would, perhaps, require a group of people rather than one singular man or woman. I would hesitate to make such decisions on my own, in a time and place that is not fit for such things.”

"Even so--in Denmark, electors chose who held the throne, but seldom were their voices united in perfect harmony. What of those whose election fell upon a man unchosen? And what of those who had no voice in choosing--those with no land or title? What of women, and children? The rule of the majority may place the means of violence into the hands of a chosen few, be they kings or constables, and those who have the least voice in apportioning that force may suffer most by it."

"Mm. Good points, all -- we've no land, here, nor title -- and women; I would not have them left out. They are quite as capable as any of us, one need only look at Mlle. Nina or Mlle. Tress to see such things. It does bear some discussion, of course, but I need to get my thoughts in order, and I think it would be well to gather everyone together and do it as a whole, should it come to that. So perhaps that is what my next work on the printing press will be, then."

"No, there's another point beyond that," says Laertes, wrapped up now in his argument and losing the thread of the conversation somewhat. "What I mean is that if a decision does not suit all, and a few are compelled to a choice they would not have made, then it matters not to those few whether the force of compulsion comes from a king or a republic."

"That is so," he says, curling a little closer to Laertes now. "That was somewhat the root of our second revolt at home, and before in 1830 as well. A king was chosen for us that we did not want. But I think there is only perhaps one here that might be interested in such a thing, and I have only spoken to him once."

"And I, just as little. How didst thou find him?" Laertes asks as he winds one of Lucien's curls around a finger.

He makes a soft pleased noise at Laertes' touch, but wrinkles his nose at the question. "Disagreeable, for the most part. He was somehow under the impression that I am a supporter of Buonaparte." Which is, quite frankly, ridiculous.

"We have some friends in common, so I will trust that they'll stay his worse impulses--but beyond the admitted beauty of his visage, I confess, I've thus far found little to like in him."

He shrugs. "You are far more pleasing than he, but I am no great judge of such things. Buonaparte," he scoffs derisively. "If I supported that man, Pontmercy and I would have gotten along much better. But France does not need a man such as Buonaparte to make her great."

"He was the emperor, was he not?"

"Yes. He came to power after the fall of the first republic, worked his way up through the army and gained power about ten years before I was born. He very nearly conquered the whole of Europe after that, until a coalition helped in part by England brought him down some years later. --Though I suppose trying to invade Russia in the winter did not do him any favors, either. Pontmercy's father fought with him, I think? I never asked."

Laertes hesitates, then asks, "I know thou wouldst have no kings, but ... am I the kind of person thou wouldst trust with power?"

Lucien gives him a long look, as though he's weighing and measuring in his head. "Yes," he finally says, leaning to kiss Laertes' cheek. "You are wise and politic, even if you do not think you are, and you take care to remember those who are often forgotten. I do not think it would go to your head."

"I wouldn't ask, except--more than one person has said it, and I thought it best to have an opinion from a man who would suffer no kings." He lets his knuckles light along Lucien's jaw, chasing whatever slight rasp of stubble he might find there. "From thee, I believe it."

"Mm," he nods, and nuzzles against Laertes' knuckles much like the cat he claimed to be. "I could certainly see you as a leader of men, along with Combeferre. Myself -- well. We've spoken of that."

"Hast been a leader of men--they've seen thee give thyself to the pyre of their struggle, and know thou meanest to light their way." As though Lucien is a cat in truth, Laertes massages with his fingertips a little behind Lucien's ear.

"Yes, well. As I said, I --never really thought past that point, at home." He makes a soft pleased noise and closes his eyes. "Perhaps I am your cat," he adds, laughing a little. "I do so enjoy your pets."

"Shall I scratch down to the base of thy tail, and see whether it makes thee arch thy back?" says Laertes mildly.

"I'm sure you could think of other ways to make me arch my back, if you liked," he says, just as mild, but grinning a little."

"I could," Laertes replies as he scrubs soft, circling little scratches down between Lucien's shoulder blades. "And, if thou wish it, I may."

Between the warmth of the fire and the delightful feeling of Laertes' nails on his back, Lucien is practically boneless as he attempts to snuggle still closer. "I do, mon cœur," he says, quiet but grinning all the same. He does rouse himself enough to stretch for a soft, mostly gentle kiss.

Then Laertes keeps scratching down Lucien's spine with slow, methodical strokes, gathering him closer into the kiss with every inch his hand falls, until his fingertips are circling over the back seam of Lucien's trousers and he's breathing hotly into the kiss.

Enjolras, for his part, has shifted happily to continue that kiss, making small encouraging noises as Laertes' hand moves ever downward. He is actually dressed in a buttondown and black jeans today, they are so much more convenient and have a good deal less buttons than his usual trousers. He is tempted to continue that kiss a little longer, but for now he just looks at Laertes with deep, dark eyes. "You've been told, I'm sure, that you are very good with your hands," he says, smiling.

"I have, but mostly in the crafting of boats or jewelry," Laertes laughs. "I've lately been learning to work clay--wouldst have me shape thee thus?"

"I would like you in whatever way you can imagine," Lucien says earnestly. "I would learn from you, I would --I do --love you," softer, still just as earnest, and he reaches to cup Laertes' jaw with a hand. "I will be quite attentive," he adds, impish for a moment. "Do not worry."

"I love thee as I love sunlight, cher." Laertes leans into that touch. There is something he's been longing for, and felt too ridiculous to ask--but the earnest affection in Lucien's voice makes him brave. "I'd like very much to rub thy back, and to have thee touch me in kind," he says, and meets Lucien's eyes. In the firelight, his own look closer to brown-golden than to green, the lines around them soft with fondness. "Wouldst thou like that?"

"Yes," quietly, and he brushes his thumb across Laertes' lips with a small smile. Enjolras' eyes, already darker than normal, look almost as dark as the sea in the flickering gleams and shadows of the fire. "I do like your hands on my back, if that was not apparent." It is not often at all that he permits anyone to touch him, but Laertes is of course a special case. Sometimes, he feels he cannot get enough of it. Now is one of those times, and he drifts a little closer, finally pulling his hand away to rest at the buttons of his shirt. "Would you like this off?"

"Let's close the door--I'd not shame thee," says Laertes, stilling Lucien's hands with his own.

"Ah, alright." He grins and presses a kiss to Laertes' cheek before he moves to get up to close the door. "I did show up in this place with a shirt in tatters, but I do appreciate your concern for my modesty." He returns quickly, settling back on the couch and promptly snuggling close once more.

"That's another sign we can print," Laertes says, turning a laughing look on Lucien as he starts to undo his shirt-buttons one-handed. "'Do not enter.'"

"Mm, yes, and just carry it 'round in our pockets," he laughs. "Or we might be sensible gentlemen and do such things in a bed, but --there's no fireplace in my rooms."

"I will happily carry all thy furniture to this room, and these chairs and couches to thy room, and thou canst have a fireplace hereafter," Laertes offers.

"We needn't do all that," he laughs. "You haven't had enough of moving furniture for me yet?"

"Never," says Laertes as he undoes the last cuff button. With both hands, he eases the shirt over Lucien's shoulders and then down over his arms. "Lie down on thy front. Canst pillow thy head on thine arms."

"In that case, you should have been quite helpful at the barricades," he teases wryly; and rolls to settle onto his stomach, pillowing his head comfortably as directed.

Then Laertes moves in to straddle his thighs, settling his weight just beneath the swell of Lucien's backside. He leans in to sweep his hands over Lucien's shoulders--and then he notices an exit wound, shining differently from the skin around it. Unbidden, he reaches out to touch and circle it.

Enjolras shifts a little at his touch, but does not say anything. Yes, Magnus had healed him; but the scars are still new and relatively sensitive to the touch. It is not unpleasant, just different, and he makes a quiet noise.

The noise recalls Laertes to himself. He fans out his hands, fingers settling to either side of Lucien's spine, and digs them deep into the muscle as he strokes out along the lines of Lucien's ribs.

“Ah,” he groans happily at first, overwhelmed by the pleasant sense of being driven down into the couch before remembering: “You can touch those, if you like,” he says, shifting a little so his voice is not muffled in his arms. “It does not hurt.”

"Thy scars?"

“Mmhm.” It is a little difficult to nod with one’s face in one’s arms, but he does give the general impression of a nod. “This, though, is quite lovely as well.” He can already feel himself starting to relax more.

With a hum of acknowledgment, Laertes begins to stroke and knead in earnest. He takes care to keep his touches symmetrical--digging his knuckles in under each of Lucien's scapulae, stroking down from his ribs to his flanks, rolling his fingertips in slow circles over where the gluteal muscles attach near the base of the spine. It's a meditative act, and soon his own breathing is slow and even.

Once again, Enjolras lets himself melt across the couch. It’s still somewhat new, this process of finding what pleases him and letting himself fully enjoy it; and he does enjoy the fact that he can fully let himself relax around Laertes as he would with his two other halves at home. He makes small pleased noises whenever Laertes touches a particularly tight spot, encouraging and warm and drowsy.

Time goes slow and syrupy. Laertes thinks it must be close to an hour later when his hands still at last, and he stretches out over Lucien to rest all his warm weight on Lucien's back.

“Hello,” Lucien says, warm and wondering, entirely content to just lie there for a while longer. He feels heavy and languid, too heavy to move just now; but appreciative of the welcome weight of Laertes against him. In the dimming glow of the fire, his hair is all golds and browns, less like the usual halo and more like a lion’s mane.

"Mm. Hallo." Laertes closes his eyes and nuzzles into all that wild hair, inhaling Lucien's scent. He feels lax and comfortable like this, all too happy to doze by the embers and soak in the warmth of Lucien and the fire.

“That was lovely,” he says sleepily, reaching up behind him to twine his fingers with Laertes’ own. “And I shall return the favor just as soon as I can move.” Right now, though, is very nearly perfect. He has not truly felt so relaxed in a very long time.

"I'll have to help thee with that, and at present I'm not inclined to." Laertes turns his hand to clasp Lucien's in kind; his heart feels full, his body heavy and sleepy.

“That is alright, I’m not inclined to have you move either, mon cœur.” Even though the heat from the fire is subsiding now, he still feels quite warm and comfortable. “I could stay like this for hours,” he adds, smiling into his arms. “Except that Sagramore might eventually wonder where you’ve got off to.”

"He'll guess that I'm with thee--it makes him happy, to see us together," says Laertes. "Just as it makes me happy to hear him speak well of Grantaire."

“Mmhm,” Lucien agrees contentedly. “Grantaire is—“ He laughs a little. “A puzzle. Intensely frustrating by turns and then astonishingly clear-headed. I am…pleased to get to know him better; without everything at home.”

"I believe he would say that he's frustrating because he's clear-headed; he sees the world as it is, and not as it ought to be, and his purpose is to frustrate its ends."

“I think his purpose is to frustrate me, half the time,” he says mildly. “But I could tell—if we had a chance to start again, we—“ He pauses, thoughtful. “I knew he loved me, at the barricade. I just did not want to admit it to myself.”

"Why not?"

“We were in front of a firing squad, mon cœur. Hardly the time for such things, and besides, you know well that I am not used to such…affection.”

"Surely there is no better time to admit love than when there is nothing to be lost by it," says Laertes; with his free hand, he starts combing through Lucien's soft curls.

Edited 2024-01-04 20:09 (UTC)

“It did shock me,” he says, closing his eyes again for a moment to enjoy that combing. “But in a pleasant kind of way. And then we both got here, and I did not know how to act around him, by ourselves —I am still uncertain.”

"What wouldst thou have?" asks Laertes, soft as cotton, soft as down. "Wouldst have him lie with thee like this, and touch thy hair, and kiss thee sweetly?"

“This is quite nice, but I—I do not know if he and I are at that point yet.” He makes a contemplative noise, quiet and warm. “I would have that, eventually. I would also have him as I would have you; fierce and bold and wonderful.”

"Then reward his boldness when thou canst," says Laertes. "Reward his fierceness. Thou wilt not credit it, but when I came here, I was the soul of meekness; I am as thou seest me because my friends proved to me that I could be other than what I was."

“As you are proving to me,” he says fondly, nuzzling into Laertes’ hand in his hair. “But I will try and remember that. He is not often bold with me, in those terms. In fighting —with sticks or words, then yes.”

"In those terms--thou meanest in matters of love?"

“Yes,” laughing a little bit. “Then again I suppose I have not seen much of him in love, or I have not paid attention to it.”

"Hast not paid attention!" says Laertes reprovingly, with a nip to Lucien's ear. "I've met him but a handful of times, and his love for thee shines through him as though he's no more than window glass--he cannot think of thee but his looks turn to love!"

"I am not accustomed to paying attention to this sort of thing," Lucien protests, but it's mild. "My only love at home was ever France, this is all --" He huffs out a sigh. "I do not know the signs, I suppose, and I do not know where I might go from here -- you, mon cœur, were a special case, you lead and I followed."

"I may be wrong in this, but I think Grantaire is inclined to follow--albeit like a straying mule, who follows in part to find new opportunities for mischief."

He laughs outright at that, shoulders shifting in a wry chuckle. "You are entirely correct about that, my dear. Remind me, some time I shall tell you about what he did at the Barriere du Maine."

"We have nothing but time," says Laertes. "Only tell me if I grow too heavy for thee."

"Oh, no, I am quite wonderful at the moment." Laertes' weight is a comforting, warm presence at his back, though he would dearly love to roll over and give him a quick kiss. "Anyhow. We had need of the marbleworkers and painters at the Barriere du Maine, and were keen to recruit them. Everyone else was busy at the time, I had intended to send Pontmercy; but he had disappeared. Grantaire offered to do it; he made a pretty speech about our ideals and such, even put on a Robespierre waistcoat, and assured me all would be well. He left to go try and recruit them; and after some time had passed, I thought of going down there myself to see how he was doing. I found him in a hearty debate regarding the rules of dominoes."

"No doubt an essential point to clarify for their recruitment," Laertes says with a laugh.

"Oh, indeed." The eyeroll should be evident, even if he can't see Lucien's face.

"Did he win them over?" Laertes slides down to press a line of slow, suckling kisses to Lucien's spine, which doubtless makes answering the question a little more difficult.

It does indeed, that drowsy heat that has been coursing through his body until now quickens a little, and he sounds a little breathier when he finally answers. "Mm. Yes, but it was not nearly enough as expected, and it was certainly not how I had thought he might do it."

"It sounds to me as though he takes direction well, but improvises equally well within his sphere," says Laertes thoughtfully. "Wouldst thou practice giving direction?"

He makes an amused noise, turning his head so he can give Laertes a playful, half-lidded glance. "Do you doubt my ability to give orders?" There is a faint jump in his stomach at the thought of holding that sort of power over someone; he is not quite certain how he feels about it. (He is, however, mindful that he will not let himself abuse it.) The amusement may only partially cover that sudden burst of nerves.

"Not in the service of a cause--but thou hast admitted, thou art untried on the field of love," says Laertes. He climbs off of Lucien's back entirely to perch on the edge of the sofa, close against his hip. "It's one thing, to ask a man to serve the cause of liberty and brotherhood. We all agree upon those virtues. It's another thing entirely to ask that a man serve at thy pleasure, and to believe thy pleasure worth the service."

"..Well, yes," Lucien replies slowly, rolling onto his back so he can face Laertes properly. "I --do not understand that portion. Might you explain it?"

Laertes reaches down to cradle Lucien's face in his palm, meeting his gaze with a tender expression. "Only that I think love is the greatest service we can do one another, but some inward resistance demands that we not accept it. Whence this resistance springs, I know not--from our knowledge of man's sinful nature, perhaps, or from the thousand pressures of being brought up with the expectation of excellence. But it has been the case more often than not, that those men whose days I most wish to ease with my love are the men least willing to accept that service as their due."

His eyebrows knit together in confusion. "But I --I have not earned it, I should not wish to place you beneath me when we are equals, we are brothers." He's reminded of Combeferre, briefly --showing his love for mankind by healing them. Perhaps it's like that? "--Or am I misunderstanding, again."

"Ah--I begin to unravel thy confusion. It's the question of power, then? Thinkest thou he would do thee not the service that one brother owes another, but another kind? That of man and master, or of tame beast and man?" Laertes licks his lips. He knows, with a fearful certainty, what service Grantaire would do. "Of man and god?"

"I do not deserve worship," he says quietly, sitting up to curl into Laertes' touch. "I am only a man. I--" He takes a shaky breath. "I fear what might happen, if he treats me as he often does."

"Thou art a man, my sweet," says Laertes, and he strokes back Lucien's hair as soothingly as though he's taming a nightmare. "What is it thou fearest? That he will love only the idol of thee that he's crafted, and not the man who bakes bread and lids his eyes like a cat's and laughs because his friend has been distracted by dominoes?"

"Yes, but also --that I might let it go too far. I am unaccustomed to it, I may not know when it is too much, I might hurt someone, and I could not bear it if I did that to anyone I care for." With that said, the sinking heaviness that has crept into his stomach seems to lighten just a little, now that all his worries are out in the open.

"May I be very candid with thee?" Laertes asks, scritching again behind Lucien's ear. He has no wish to trouble their easy companionship, but it might do Lucien good to hear some of what he would say.

"Of course you may, I have lain my soul bare to you how many times, now?" He cannot help but nuzzle into that touch, though he is still a little nervous considering their topic of conversation.

Then Laertes draws his shirt up to his throat to reveal a mass of bruises over his chest. Some of them are almost recognizable as bites, still sharp crescents impressed in the skin; others have spread and faded into purpling washes over the skin. "I begged for these bruises, and though he feared to the heart of him that it would harm me, my husband was brave enough to give me them. He asked that I give him a word that I might speak, if ever I wished it to stop--and when I asked him to stop, he heeded me. There is care in this. I touch these bruises, and I feel his care for me, written deeper than my skin."

"Why did you beg for them?" It is earnest, an honest question. The bruises don't faze him too much, though he is slightly taken aback at the sheer number of them. (He has had a long friendship with Courfeyrac, he is used to seeing such things.) The word, he thinks, makes perfect sense -- a clear signal; but he does not quite comprehend why someone would beg to be bruised.

"Why do I run, or fence, or eat good food? Because it pleases me to test the limits of my body," says Laertes. He lets his shirt fall again. "There is more to it than pain, though--some longing to be purposeful and useful that's satisfied when I serve my lover's needs. And, equally, a longing to be treasured. In my youth, I knew not how to be what I was expected to be, but in this ... when I serve another, I know how to be enough."

"I see," Lucien says thoughtfully. And he does, a little, Laertes' mentions of purpose, of course, hit home. Perhaps the rest will come in time. He chances a glance at Laertes, searching and hesitant. "Would you have me serve you?"

"I could accept thy service, if thou wouldst test thy taste for it," Laertes says. That soothing hand slowly fists in Lucien's hair. "Wouldst thou try?"

He lets his eyes flutter closed for a moment, swallowing hard. "I would," he says after a slight pause, and his tone settles into something more final. "I would like to see if it helps me understand."

"What wouldst thou be to me? Servant, pet, supplicant?" He leans in, his lips brushing Lucien's earlobe, stirring the fine hairs there with breath. "Or only mine?"

He wrinkles his nose at all those options, none of them to his taste. It would chafe at him, even in such situations as this. "Only yours, I think," he says, shivering just a bit at Laertes' nearness.

"Mine, then." Laertes kisses just beneath Lucien's ear. He pulls just a little at Lucien's hair, twisting it around his fingers until he draws the faintest pinprick pain from the roots. "What may I do with my sweet man? In what things should I stay my hand?"

Enjolras hisses just a little at the pull, it sends little pleasing frissons down his nerves. “I, ah,—“ he starts, considering the myriad of ways he might answer this question. “Do not draw blood, perhaps. I do not know what else to ask for.”

"Wouldst like pain, too? Or only command?" As though to help Lucien choose, Laertes bites gently at the thin skin over his pulsepoint, testing and teasing with his tongue as he rolls that snatch of flesh between his teeth.

“Ah—,” Lucien says softly, shifting his weight a little more into Laertes’ touch. “I—yes, a little, I know I liked it when you, ah, left marks…”. Keeping his train of thought going is a little difficult at the moment.

Laertes releases the bite, satisfied (a little smug). "On thy knees then, sweet."

There is, in truth, a small part of him that wants to refuse, just to see what would happen. But he is spurred on by Laertes’ hand still in his hair, the lingering sting of that bite, and so he straightens his shoulders, nods, and sinks to his knees.

Laertes climbs to his feet, unhurried, secure in his power. He gazes down at Lucien as he paces a slow circle around him, inspecting the swell and fall of his bare chest and the curve of his upturned face. "There's defiance in thee yet," says Laertes mildly. "Canst thou quell it? Or wouldst thou be reprimanded?"

“Of course there is,” Lucien says, as reasonably as he would while having a debate in the café. “It is not so easy to turn off.” He sits back on his heels some, tracking Laertes as he circles. “I was only wondering what would happen if I didn’t listen.”

Laertes's grip eases in Lucien's hair. "Only what thou wouldst wish to happen. I could urge thee to obedience with sweet words and persuasions, or we could leave off the game of obedience and try another. Or I could give thee something to resist. Or something else. Where doth thine inclination lead thee?"

“Mm.” He thinks a moment. “Persuade me,” he settles on, smiling a little. “Perhaps we will manage to not get distracted by debates, should your tongue be clever enough.” —They both know they probably will at some point or another.

Laertes permits himself a long inhale. This is the form of domination he's least ready for, the kind he dreads giving the most. His father did not raise him to win debates on their merits; he raised Laertes to acquiesce under a torrent of words, no longer sure what any of the premises were or how to measure whether he had succeeded. Persuasion has only ever been a means by which he has been made to cede power.

Sagramore had said that Claudius wanted persuasion not to cavil with him, but because he wanted to know that Laertes would answer goading with kindness and control. That he would be worthy of the trust placed in him.

That, perhaps, Laertes can do.

"Open thy mouth, sweet," says Laertes, letting his hand fall to grip Lucien's jaw.

Had Lucien known, then he surely would not have suggested it. He is simply curious to test his own limits, to find out what he is comfortable with as well as Laertes.

He looks up at the other young man, defiance mostly quelled for now by the earnestness in his gaze, and nods once, opening his mouth.

At once, Laertes rewards him with a smile. (He can do this, he can do this; he can rule through love rather than fear.) "How good thou art," he says, rich and warm and low. "Such a pretty mouth on thee." He eases two fingers into Lucien's mouth, stroking his tongue as though it is made of finest velvet.

He’s trying to make himself relax, to feel as he did earlier, boneless and pleasant and warm. Laertes’ smile does help with that, it warms him from top to toes, and if he were able, he would nuzzle at his hand again. Instead, he sucks experimentally at Laertes’ fingers, arching an eyebrow in a silent question.

"Yes, my heart. That's good, that's well." Laertes just can't stop touching Lucien's hair; he threads the fingers of his other hand through all those warm golden curls, cradling the base of Lucien's skull, holding him still as Laertes starts to work his fingers slowly in and out of Lucien's mouth.

Lucien makes a noise, low in his throat, at both of the sudden movements. The hand in his hair is good, all the little nerve endings in his scalp are tingling pleasantly. His eyes flutter closed for half a moment before he continues licking and sucking at Laertes’ other hand.

"Sweet, beautiful man," Laertes murmurs. "I have thee. I'll repay thy sweetness with all thou desirest." He bends a little, curves his body around Lucien's as though sheltering and holding him. His hips are very close to Lucien's face--close enough that it's clear what those fingers on his tongue are meant to simulate.

It is indeed clear, he stills his movements just for a moment to glance up at Laertes, letting his hands hover near Laertes’ jeans. If he is permitted, he will tug them down. (If he is not, he might do it anyway.)

"Thou mayest," says Laertes, and his smile is all pride, all encouragement. "Dost thou hunger for it, sweet-heart?"

“Yes,” his voice is a little thick as he sets to pulling down Laertes’ jeans. This, too, will be new to him; but he wants to see Laertes smile again, wants to be his with a fierce ache he can’t quite name, he wants much, and it is somewhat dizzying. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and looks up at him again, eyes wide and dark. “Tell me what to do?” One hand lingers near Laertes’ cock, and he lets his fingers trace along it gently.

Laertes had withdrawn his fingers to let Lucien answer; now he curls his hand around Lucien's, urging him to stroke and caress Laertes to hardness. "Only taste it, first," he says softly. "Be slow. Take it not into thy mouth until thou hast tasted and kissed every inch of it."

Lucien nods, letting his hand touch and stroke where it will, following each with a gentle kiss or a tentative stroke of his tongue. He feels as though he is drawn tight like a bowstring, only waiting for Laertes’ words to direct his next action. It is—strangely freeing, letting the other lead the way; an act of trust that he hasn’t yet let himself experience.

"Hast been so good," Laertes whispers. "Hast pleased me so well, my heart." He feels hazy and warm, a little awed at the readiness of Lucien's submission. He had expected teasing and defiance, and braced himself to balance kindness with authority--but the power to offer praise is its own kind of authority, and one that he's all too happy to wield. Lucien ought to know how good he is, how well he's doing, how much Laertes cherishes him. He lets the hand in Lucien's hair tug him a little closer, urging him to take Laertes in his mouth. "Open for me. Show me thou art mine."

"You already know that," he replies, a little tart and smirking. It is all too easy to let himself just listen, to do what Laertes wants him, to drift in a haze; but now that he's getting a little more comfortable he cannot help but let himself tease. He does take Laertes in his mouth, though not without bringing his hands up to press his nails into the other's hips and buttocks, leaving crescent-shaped indentations. He shifts his weight back to settle at his ankles again and cocks an eyebrow, insolently.

Laertes follows, stepping closer to stand over Lucien's thighs--that insolence sends a little charge through him, but he elects to pretend he hasn't seen it. He slides deeper into Lucien's mouth, slow but sure, forcing his jaw open in little increments until the pressure and weight of him is overwhelming. "Thou sweet thing," he says. His hand falls from Lucien's hair to graze blunt fingernails over his shoulder. "Wouldst like a little sharpness to repay thee?--canst nod or shake thy head."

He nods then, taking a moment to get used to the weight, the taste of Laertes, small hints of salt from his skin. Perhaps in a bid to prove he's not quite as sweet as Laertes says he is, he scratches down the side of the other young man's hip, none too gently.

For that, Laertes just catches Lucien by the hair again and pulls him off. "My heart," he says, "an thou canst not be sweet for me, I'll not give thee what thou want'st."

He huffs out a mildly teasing sigh and nods. He'll behave for now, if only to bide his time and find a way to continue to test these limits.

"Good. Blunt thy claws, little cat." Then Laertes feeds himself back into Lucien's mouth, slow but smooth and inexorable, until the tip of his cock taps the back of Lucien's throat.

"Mmhm." He smooths his hand down where he had scratched earlier, a silent apology. He will try to be well-behaved.

Laertes smiles. "Good. Thou art good, my love." Again, he trails his fingernails in light, meandering paths over Lucien's shoulders, the back of his neck, down the valley of his spine--and when he's reached down as far as he can, to the cut of Lucien's waist beneath his ribs, he digs his nails in deep and rakes them hard up Lucien's back.

That gets him to make a low, choked-off noise of pleasure that culminates in a pleased hum, and Lucien's hips twitch a little as well. He gives Laertes a pleading look, eyes wide and wanting, waiting for his next directive.

That hum wrenches a gasp from Laertes's lips; he drives his own hips in a little harder, accidentally knocking deeper against the clutching ring of Lucien's throat. Remembering himself, he pulls back at once to rest upon his tongue. "Too much?"

He shakes his head in answer, though it was sudden, he doesn't mind it for now. He is more than willing to bear a little pain for a greater purpose -- in this case, pleasing Laertes.

"Thou takest me so well," says Laertes, and there's wonder in it--awe at the indomitable engine of Lucien's body, the flesh that can yield and not be harmed in yielding. He slowly begins to rock his hips up to meet the warmth and openness of Lucien's mouth. "If thou canst, suck hard when I pull out of thee," he whispers. "Use thy tongue along the ridge around the head--I like that so much." He digs his nails in again, deep and slow, leaving red furrows that swiftly swell into welts.

Enjolras takes a deep breath in and nods again, trying his best to comply with Laertes' requests. He makes another low noise in his throat at those scratches, and his shoulders tremble a little with the sensation of it. He flicks his tongue along Laertes' crown, cautious but willing to please all the same.

Laertes groans and shudders under those careful ministrations; he feels as though he's unspooling, everything soft about him unfurling to reveal the naked spike of the spindle at his core. "Canst use thy nails now, little cat," he says, and already his voice is breathless.

Lucien would be smirking now if his mouth weren't otherwise occupied, but it is evident in his eyes and the teasing little licks and strokes he is giving Laertes. "Mmm," he agrees, though it is partially an effort to get Laertes to gasp again, before he rakes his nails across the same spot he scratched earlier.

And he'll get everything he wishes; Laertes hisses and drives into him harder, claws at him harder, hunches around Lucien's face with convulsive urgency. "Let's play a game," says Laertes, and Lucien will be able to hear how breathless he is. "The harder thou scratchest me, the harder I'll fuck thy mouth--"

"Mmhmm," Lucien says, and it is fierce and triumphant, moving his other hand to scratch against Laertes' opposite hip; the scratches are hard and deep. His own hips arch abortively, but he is engrossed in their new game. His eyes are watering some, but once again, he does not mind.

Then Laertes grips him by the hair and forces him all the way down, pushing his lips to the root over and over again, using his mouth roughly enough to prick tears from Lucien's eyes. (For all that he's careful, careful, watching for the faintest sign that Lucien's stopped enjoying himself.)

Lucien knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he must look positively debauched at this moment, curls in his face and taking Laerters as deep as he can, but he cannot bring himself to care. His eyes are still bright and fierce, encouraging even as he lets out a pleased, muffled groan and moves his hands to brace at Laertes' lower back and scratch there.

Laertes looks down at all that fierce eagerness, and pride blazes in him. I made him thus, he thinks. All the flushed cheeks and streaming eyes, the tumbled curls and flexing hips are for him. He's done well. He's given Lucien something that he craves, and Lucien has repaid him a hundredfold. He braces a hand on Lucien's cheek (tenderly, tenderly, a warm touch from palm to fingertip) and shifts to slide his leg between Lucien's spread thighs, giving him an ankle to rut against.

He nuzzles against the hand on his cheek briefly, and there is a softening in his eyes, a silent thanks, as he arches toward that ankle. Meanwhile, he is continuing his ministrations to Laertes' cock, licks and little teasing grazes of his teeth as he tries to keep himself from becoming too breathless.

"I'm close," says Laertes softly. "Wilt thou swallow me down, sweet?"

"Mmhm," with a nod, and he takes a moment to suck at Laertes, hard, before he gives him one more lighter scratch to his lower back. His purpose at this moment is Laertes and Laertes alone, and he will devote himself with a will to that until he is finished.

And in answer to the lightness of that scratch, Laertes eases his thrusts with a supreme effort of will, so that by the time he comes, he's only cradling Lucien's beloved face in his hands as Lucien holds Laertes in his mouth.

Lucien, then, looks faintly triumphant as he swallows, and slides his mouth off of Laertes with a filthy noise as he tries to finally, properly catch his breath. He tilts his head to rest it against Laertes' hand, smiling though his cheeks are certainly sore. He has forgotten all about himself in the moment, just looking up to watch Laertes, heavy-lidded.

Laertes smiles down at him for a moment while he gathers his wits, and then he's falling to his knees to gather Lucien in his arms and kiss him soundly. "My love," he says between slow, hungry kisses. "My heart, my treasure--"

He wraps his arms around Laertes as well, returning those kisses with a will. "Yes, yours," he says, hoarse and smiling. He does not look as if he regrets any of it.

"Come here," says Laertes, as though they aren't already crushing each other close; he feels as though he can't get close enough. He smooths his palms up from Lucien's hips to his ribs to his shoulders, then scratches back down as though he means to carve wings on Lucien's back.

He probably looks like a debauched archangel in truth, hair askew and cheeks still flushed, grinning like he's fit to burst. "I love you," he says, hoarse and quiet, with a little content noise at those scratches.

"As I love thee," Laertes answers, low but fervent. "Wouldst have me make thy quietus?"

"Please," he says, laughing a little and nuzzling against Laertes' neck. "I'd nearly forgotten."

"That's a fine compliment," Laertes laughs as he works Lucien's trousers open. "I have a lover who likes to spend on my command--wouldst thou play that game?"

"I can try," he says, thoughtful. "I have already tried much today."

"Thou hast, and done so well. I'm so pleased with thee." As his hand finds heated flesh, Laertes leans in to sink his teeth into Lucien's throat--a hard bite, but tender, with all the drunken sweetness of a kiss.

That is very nearly a whine that comes out of his throat, and his hips jerk into Laertes' touch, head falling to the side to give him better access. "'m glad," he manages to gasp out, and he would thank Laertes but forming words is somewhat difficult just now.

Laertes shifts the grip of his teeth, working his way up the side of Lucien's neck. He strokes Lucien slow and firm, his grip inexorable. He wants it to hurt. He wants to make Lucien scream. He wants Lucien to have bruises to touch, and remember.

Lucien is already stretched taut between the firm hand at his cock and Laertes’ teeth, and he gasps and moans, the two opposing sensations sending fire coursing through his veins. “More,” Lucien says, breathy, and bites at his own lip, thrusting into the other’s touch. “Please, a little more.” It’s driving him wild, but that is not their game, just now. He cannot get his release just yet.

"More sharpness? Or more speed?" He rakes his free hand down Lucien's spine.

“Ah—“ His hips buck again, and he takes a shaky breath, trying to master himself. “More sharpness…”

"Even to blood?"

“A little.”

Laertes raises his head to catch Lucien in a swift, searing kiss, then sinks his teeth into the other side of Lucien's throat. He seals his lips around the bite and sucks hard, intent on leaving a mark--intent on having Lucien remember this tryst every time he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Laertes claws at his back over and over again, wounds crossing and recrossing--his nails are too blunt to break the skin, but they can raise thick red welts everywhere they they press.

Lucien looks fierce and wild, letting his hips arch again with a noise that is almost a shout. He doesn’t want it to end, but he knows he is close, and somehow, he summons up the words. “Mm, yes, please —yours, mon cœur, may I…?”

And Laertes unlatches his teeth from Lucien's neck to press a kiss to his ear and breathe there, "Come for me."

He does, then, letting himself spill over with another noise that may as well be a shout, breathless and sated. He sags against Laertes for a few moments, just to get his breath back, and gives him a careful nuzzle. “I love you,” Lucien says, fierce and quiet and triumphant. “I am yours.”

Laertes only laughs and wraps Lucien in his arms, holding and rocking him. "My sweet man," he says; "my heart, thou wert so good for me. Didst heed me so well, and make such sweet sounds for me. I love thee. Thou art mine."

“Entirely,” he agrees, still pressing little nuzzles into Laertes’ hair, smiling. “Thank you for the lesson; I understand a little more now, I think.”

"Didst thou like it?" Laertes asks. He nuzzles right back, and presses his smile against Lucien's cheek.

“Very much,” he says, as if that wasn’t entirely obvious to the both of them. “But just with you.”

"Next time, thou canst have charge of me, and see whether thou likest it as well," Laertes offers. "Take care, though; sometimes, a great rush of desolation comes after a game like this. It's usually brief, and fades with care--but I would not have thee think thou hast done something wrong, if it should come."

“Mmhm,” Lucien says lazily, moving to thread his fingers in Laertes’ hair. It is easy to see why that might happen, after being on the edge of something for so long surely there must be a fall. Right now; though, he is content and complacent, grounded by his hand in Laertes’ hair and the other’s arms. “I am alright for now, I think.”

"Lie down with me a while," says Laertes. "After a rest, we can try our hands at an onion soup."

“Yes, alright,” Lucien says, and somewhat stumblingly gets to his feet to settle himself on the couch, offering Laertes a hand up once he is settled.

Laertes laughs and stands without taking the hand. "Thou art but a kitten now; thy legs can scarcely bear thee," he says as he snuggles in at Lucien's side.

“Yes, well, you might consider that a job well done, I should think.” He snuggles up as well, pressing a fond kiss to Laertes’ cheek.

"Could we speak of it?" Laertes asks. "It would help me, to know how it pleased thee, and what thou didst newly understand in it."

"I -- yes, of course." He considers a moment. "Is there anything in particular you would know, or just in general?"

"What thou didst like best," says Laertes, and kisses Lucien's cheek in answer. "And what went hard with thee."

“I liked —when you marked me,” he says, running his hand across his throat tentatively. “I liked testing my limits, knowing I can be marked; it is good. I think, however, I would be better at giving orders than receiving them. It does chafe at me a bit; but perhaps I am only in need of practice.”

"Needst not learn for my sake--I only enjoy commanding someone whom it pleases to be commanded. And in truth, even that goes hard with me. I always ..." He folds his hand over Lucien's, pressed lightly against the deepening marks. "I always feel as though my lover will realize how foolish it was, to entrust himself to my care."

“Oh, no, certainly not.” He snuggles a little closer. “That is another thing I liked, putting my trust in you. I knew you would only go as far as I asked.”

"I think thou wilt have greater need to command than to obey with Grantaire, if Claudius's insinuations have merit in them," says Laertes, with a provocative lilt and a savoring kiss where Lucien's jaw meets his throat. "He might have used the word 'biddable.' Wouldst thou have that sweet man do thy bidding, Lucien?"

He considers it for a moment, Grantaire on his knees, only waiting for a word fro him —and shivers a little. “If that is what he would have, then I shall not deny him. I just fear…he would not stand up for himself, if I was involved.”

"What would ease thy heart on that account?"

“I do not know. Perhaps, as you said, a word to stop at. But we are far from anything such as that just yet.”

"I'll not try thee further today," says Laertes, a little apologetically. He drops one last kiss on a bruise blooming at Lucien's throat, then ducks his head to settle his brow against Lucien's clavicle. "I'll only thank thee for thy willingness to learn."

He settles an arm around Laertes’ shoulders, in that case. “I should thank you for being such a patient teacher. Even if I don’t listen, some of the time.”

"Thy defiance charms me," laughs Laertes. "Thou wouldst not be thyself, if thou wert meek and obedient."

“That is so,” he agrees, smiling a little. “At least it charms someone, hm?” It charms more people than he would think, actually.

"It does. And although there is no impulse in thee to obey--I think there is all the same a desire to serve that's the mirror of mine own."

“I do enjoy being yours. It pleases me to please you.”

Apparently this is the day when all of Laertes's insecurities will have their airing, because he admits, voice hushed, "At times I fear I ask too much of thee. I know thou art less desirous than I am--and I would not ask more of thee than thou wouldst gladly give."

“You have not yet, mon cœur, do not worry.” He pets at Laertes’ hair a little. “It is enough just to spend time with you, sometimes. I will tell you, should it come to that.”

"I'm glad of it." That reassurance eases the last tension lingering in Laertes's body. He closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy being held and petted, curled up close so that he's warm all through. He dozes a little like that, safe and cozy in Lucien's arms.

Lucien will let himself doze too, eventually. He still has much to consider -- both from their recent activities and in general, but right now he is content to continue petting and snuggling until he, too, dozes for a short bit.

Edited 2024-01-08 04:01 (UTC)

closed: and i soar through a world that is new, that is free (post-dance)

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