‘You didn’t?’
He remembered long evenings together, sharing a tent, with the sounds of a Veretian camp outside. Laurent had never seemed to feel self doubt, just as he had never complained about his circumstances.
‘Believe you’d make it back to Akielos? Yes. I did. You were a force of nature. It was infuriating to fight you. Frightening to have you on my side.’
‘Frightening?’
‘You didn’t know how afraid I was of you?’
‘Of me? Or of yourself?’
‘Of what was happening between us.’
The sunlight was brighter than he expected when he opened his eyes, sparkling across the water. Laurent was still sitting behind the shade line.
‘Sometimes I’m still afraid of it.’ Laurent’s voice was honest. ‘It makes me feel—’
‘I know,’ said Damen. ‘I feel it too.’
‘Come out,’ said Laurent.
He emerged hotter than steam, overheated like one boiled, his olive skin turned ruddy by the water. Laurent filled the pitcher from the secondary sluice, approached, and shifted his grip. Damen threw up his arms instinctively.
‘No, Laurent, that’s cold, it’s—’ Gasping.
Shock of the frozen water. Ice cold on superheated skin, like plunging into a river, a too-sudden revitalisation. Instinct propelled him to grab Laurent in revenge, to drag him forward, their bodies colliding.
Cool body plastering against hot. Laurent was unexpectedly laughing, his skin warm as sunlight. The struggle took them both to the slippery marble.
It was unthinking to get on top, to pin Laurent with a wrestler’s move. Damen progressed through three simple positions in his enjoyment of that sport before he realised that Laurent was responding to his wrestling holds with counters.
‘What’s this?’ Pleased.
Laurent, moving: ‘How am I?’
‘Wrestling is like chess,’ said Damen. Laurent moved, he countered. Laurent moved, he countered. Beneath him, he felt Laurent try out all the variations that he knew, a beginner’s set, but well executed. The part of Damen’s mind that liked wrestling above all sports took note, appreciatively, of Laurent’s form. But he was a novice: Damen countered him again easily, wise enough to keep his own hold strong and ready, even when he had Laurent fully pinned.
And then he thought about it. ‘Who’s teaching you?’
‘Nikandros,’ said Laurent.
‘Nikandros,’ said Damen.
‘We use a Veretian variation. I don’t take my clothes off.’
Then you’ll never learn effectively. Instead, he found himself frowning, saying, ‘I’m better than Nikandros.’
He wasn’t sure why that returned him Laurent’s laughter, but it did, soft and breathless, saying, ‘I know. You have vanquished me. Let me up.’
Damen stood, held out his hand and hoisted. Laurent snagged up one of the soft towels and draped Damen’s head in it. Engulfed, Damen let his hair be rubbed about, then let Laurent dry the rest of him, the softness of the towel against his skin as unexpectedly tender as any touch Laurent had offered him. It wasn’t sensual, it was coddling, comforting, and so unlooked for that it made him feel strange, lucky, part of the summer scents, the sunlight and wonder of this place.
‘The truth is you’re very sweet, aren’t you,’ said Damen, taking Laurent’s fingers in a tangle of towel. He dumped a towel over Laurent’s head before he could answer, and enjoyed watching Laurent emerge from it with his hair mussed.
Laurent stepped back. To dry himself, he used the same unconcerned motions with which he’d washed himself: he swiped the towel over his torso, under his arms, between his legs. Before he did any of this, he unhooked the flower from his hair and bent to unwind his sandals. Leave them on, Damen wanted to say. He liked the piquant way they drew attention to Laurent’s nudity.
Laurent began to look around for a wrap to wear, but Damen took his hand instead. ‘We don’t need one. Come on.’
‘But what about—’