Laurent put a hand against the undercloth pressed warm against Damen’s chest by his armour. Kissing felt much more intimate when sword and breastplate were discarded on the path and it was body against body. Laurent’s mouth opened to him, and he tongued inside in the way he liked. Laurent encouraged it, fingers curling around his neck.
Dressed like that, it was like having him naked; there was so much skin, and nothing to unlace. Damen pressed Laurent back against the marble. The bare skin of Laurent’s inner thigh slid along the inside of his own, the movement lifting his leather skirt slightly.
It could have happened then, pushing up Laurent’s skirt, turning him and thrusting into his body. Instead, Damen thought, with indulgent slowness, about taking his time, about the pink nipple that was close to the asymmetrical line of Laurent’s chiton. The restraint was part of it, the competing desires of wanting everything all at once, and wanting to savour each increment.
When he pulled back his skin felt flushed, his whole body much more hotly engaged than he realised. He managed to pull back further, to see Laurent’s face, his lips parted, his cheeks heated, his hair slightly disordered by Damen’s fingers.
‘You’re here early.’ As if only now noticing this.
‘Yes.’ Laughing.
‘I planned to greet you on the steps. Veretian protocol.’
‘Come out and kiss me in front of everyone later.’
‘How far behind did you leave them?’
‘I don’t know,’ Damen said it, his smile widening. ‘Come on. Let me show you the palace.’
Lentos was a sea crag, where the mountains were wild and the ocean was visible from the eastern side, between headlands of tumbled rocks. Water crashed into cliffs and stone and the tumble of land into the sea was jagged and inhospitable.
But the palace was beautiful, nestled in a series of gardens, with flower sprays and fountains, and meandering paths that offered startling views of the sea. Its marble colonnades were simple and led inside to atriums and further gardens, and cooler spaces where the heat of summer was distant, like the outdoor hum of cicadas.
Later he would show Laurent the stables and the library, and the path that wound through the gardens, through the trees of orange and almond. He wondered if he could coax Laurent into sea bathing or swimming. Had he done it before? There were marble steps down to the sea, and a beautiful spot for diving, where the water was calm, with no undertow. They could set up a silk awning in the Veretian style, cool shade for when the sun was at its height.
For now it was the simple pleasure of Laurent beside him, their hands linked, with only sunlight and fresh air about them. Here and there, they stopped, and everything was a delight: the leisure to kiss, to linger under the orange tree, the bits of bark that clung to Laurent’s chiton after he was pressed up against it. The gardens were full of small discoveries, from the shaded colonnades, to the cool waters of the fountain, to a series of balconied garden outlooks, where the sea stretched wide and blue.
They stopped at one of them. Laurent plucked a white flower from the low-hanging branches, and lifted his hand to tuck it into Damen’s hair, as if Damen were a youth from the village.
‘Are you courting me?’ said Damen.
He felt foolish with happiness. He knew courtship was new to Laurent, didn’t know why it felt so new to himself.
‘I haven’t done this before,’ said Laurent.
Damen took a flower of his own. His pulse sped up, his fingers felt clumsy as he tucked it behind Laurent’s ear. ‘You had suitors in Arles.’
‘That was side stepping.’
The view was wilder here, unlike in the capital, where on a clear day you could see Isthima. Here there was only the unbroken ocean.
‘My mother planted these gardens,’ said Damen. His heart was pounding. ‘Do you like them? They’re ours now.’ Saying the word “ours” still felt daring. He could feel it mirrored in Laurent, the shy awkwardness of what was so dearly desired.
‘I like them,’ said Laurent. ‘I think they’re beautiful.’
Laurent’s fingers found his again, a small intimacy that had him overbrimming.
‘I don’t think about her often. Only when I come here.’
‘You don’t take after her.’
‘Oh?’
‘Her statue in Ios is three feet tall.’
The corner of Damen’s mouth twitched. He knew the statue, on a plinth in the north hall. ‘There’s a statue of her here. Come and meet her.’
It was part of the nonsense they were sharing, a whim, to show Laurent. He tugged; they came to an arched open garden.