#and he always sounded certain of himself yet not overly pompous | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theshatteredrose · 3 years

Text

Like A Thief in the Night - Etrian Odyssey Nexus Oneshot

Title: Like A Thief in the Night

Summary: Guildmaster Mueller gets a late-night visitor. It is an encounter that leaves him frustrated, confused, and maybe just a little bit happy…

Pairings: Maybe or maybe just platonic, who knows at this point?

AN: Do not ask questions as I do not have the answers. These boys are the ones in control, I am just a vessel for them to reveal their stories. So, enjoy~

Ao3 | Wattpad | FFNet

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was late at night as Guildmaster Mueller kicked out the remaining stragglers out of the guildhouse and closed up for the night. He may be a studious guildmaster, but he couldn’t stay at the helm all day and night. Even he needed to sleep.

Despite that need, he knew that he was in for a restless night.

Mueller felt his eye give a small, distinct twitch when his gaze fell upon the city’s daily newspaper. Usually filled with the shenanigans of the myriad of explorers, the headline of todays was far more frustrating to him;

Third Jewellery Store Robbed – Could It Be Magina’s Infamous Thief Blazing Shadow?

With a disgruntled sigh, Mueller set the newspaper aside harshly and set about removing his armour in order to get comfortable. Of course it was that infuriating Blazing Shadow. The methods, the lack of evidence, the knowledge of the guard roster; it was no doubt him.

Blazing Shadow…such a preposterous name given to him by the public. Mueller, on the other hand knew him as Norbu. Someone he knew. Well, someone he thought he knew.

That was the most frustrating aspect of the entire situation. Norbu was once a loyal and trustworthy guard. Someone that Mueller himself trusted. Skilled, courteous, though hardly modest. Someone who got under his skin, but not entirely in a negative way. He read him. Knew him. And Mueller considered him a friend.

Until one day he disappeared. Simply vanished while on patrol. Which was quite a feat as the city had been airborne at the time. Confined to one place, unable to leave; locating the missing in action guard should have been easy.

Yet, it wasn’t. And for good reason.

Pirates. Sky pirates at that. A ludicrous notion and he had laughed outright when someone first revealed them to him. Unfortunately, it was true.

Airships, similar to the ones that were crafted and made in Tharsis, only a lot less structured and in all honesty, completely unsafe. Made from scrap and from the minds of restless inventors. Built in the bowels of Maginia, hidden from view. Out of sight, out of mind.

The day that Mueller learnt of the existence of sky pirates was the same day that he learnt that Norbu, someone he had trusted with his life, was the notorious jewel thief Blazing Shadow.

Two shocks in one day.

Mueller felt absolutely foolish when he learnt of the sky pirates. He should have known such Ruffins and never-do-wellers would have resorted to such methods of leaving and entering the city, even in flight, at will. And he felt infuriated that Norbu, the man he had trusted in finding that slippery, talented thief was the very man he was looking for.

His ego had taken quite a battering that day. And the memories still made him bristle.

Norbu’s crimes were petty, simple robbery. No one was ever hurt. No one was ever even alarmed by his actions. It was as though he purposely ensured that his methods, his antics were someone benign, if one discounted all the stolen wares, of course.

Still, Mueller couldn’t wait to wring his stupid neck. If not for the thefts, then for the crime of breaking his trust in him.

That was what angered him the most. It was something he had initially denied, but he had come to accept it finally. Betrayal was a painful emotion to feel. Worse still, he wasn’t able to demand answers from Norbu. Not that he would have gotten a straight answer, most likely. He left the city upon one of those contraptions, roguishly blowing him a kiss and the promise of his return.

Seemed like he had kept that promise.

The sudden and startling feeling of someone standing behind him, well into his personal space pulled Mueller from his musings. Before he even had the chance to reprimand himself for getting lost in his own thoughts, something wrapped around his middle, pinning his arms to his sides. An easy accomplishment thanks to the removal of his armour. Something else crossed over his chest and pressed something cold against his throat?

A knife? Mueller immediately tensed. Worse still, he was held captive? How was that-?

“You let your guard down there, Mewler~”

Mueller froze. That voice. That ridiculous and demeaning nickname. Only one person was responsible for both.

“Well, isn’t it Norbu,” he said in response, subconsciously relaxing the tension in his back and shoulders. “Or would you rather, Blazing Shadows?”

A deep laugh in his left ear prompted Mueller to wince in an attempt to cover up a shiver. As soon as Norbu loosened his hold on him, Mueller stepped away and spun around, coming face to face with someone he thought he never wanted to see again.

Wild black hair with red highlights. Deep brown eyes, his square jawline lined with stubble. Dressed in clothes that were honestly surprising for him, yet were sure to blend in with the new inhabitants of Maginia.

Mueller quickly looked at his hand, where Norbu twirled an object casually with his fingers. And infuriatingly, it was just a pen. Mueller had been held captive by a pen. Although, he had to remind himself how skilled Norbu truly was. Even a pen could be a deadly weapon should the need arise. Even so, something told him he wouldn’t have used it on him, regardless.

“Surprised to see me, Mewler~?” Norbu asked in his usual drawl, plopping himself down at his desk and propping a foot onto the table. All with his usual casual flare.

He…hadn’t changed a bit. Same cocky grin. Same overly-confident swagger. He even had that baritone voice, purposely empathising his blasted nickname in a way that brought shivers down his spine. How or why that occurred, Mueller didn’t know. Nor did he care to learn.

Everything about the man frustrated him to no end.

“I’m surprised to see you as an Arbalist,” Mueller said simply in return, half surprised at himself.

Norbu laughed a good hearty laugh, obviously amused by Mueller’s observations. He readjusted his goggles upon his unruly hair and shot a smile at him. “Naturally. A jewel thief hiding as an Arbalist? Not every subtle, with the explosives and all. But they do come in handy whenever a stubborn safe or lock gets in the way.”

Mueller frowned. He had noticed several small explosions around the city lately, but they couldn’t have all been Norbu’s doing. After all, there were plenty of riled up and bored explorers loitering around the city now.

Which was no doubt one of the reasons why Norbu chose to return. As for the others…

“Why are you back?”

Norbu shrugged. “Seems more exciting now that you have all these explorers hanging about. Not to mention I heard rumours of this Guardian Guild of yours.”

A frown tugged at Mueller’s lips. “What have you heard?”

“That a certain redheaded, axe-wielding guy has a punch that makes you see God. Both literally and figuratively.”

For some reason that caused Mueller to laugh. A short, brisk laugh. One he soon got under control. But he had to admit that it was indeed a sound of amusement. “Is that so? Then I look forward to the two of you meeting.”

“Ooh, that’s cold, Mewler~”

“Stop calling me by that ridiculous nickname.”

“But you like it secretly, don’t you, Mewler~?”

Why was he bothering to banter with the infuriating man? He should just arrest him. Although, Norbu was likely to have a good understanding of the city’s jails and underground tunnels. Not to mention slipping out of the handcuffs would be child’s play for someone like him. So likely a pointless venture.

Still…

“Why are you really back?”

Norbu heaved a sigh as he hefted himself to his feet. He maintained that nonchalant, if somehow charming façade of his as he rounded the desk. “Now now, I won’t spoil the surprise. Where’s the fun in that?”

Surprise, huh? Right.

“Still, nice to know that Maginia’s favourite guildmaster has a strong guild on his side.”

That was said in jest, his tone light and casual. And yet, Mueller felt that there was a serious undertone. The words harmless, but insinuated something nevertheless. What that insinuation was, was of course, a mystery. Much like the man himself.

“Is that so? Will they finally prompt you to behave yourself?”

Norbu laughed and sent him a wink. A pompous, flirty wink. “Oh, you like it when I’m wild, Mewler~”

Typical response. He truly hadn’t changed a bit. And, surprisingly, that was reassuring to him. He wasn’t about to let it show, however. “As self-assured as always.”

“Better be careful, Mewler.”

The sudden serious in Norbu’s tone caught Mueller off guard for a moment, and he arched a questioning eyebrow. “Oh?”

“If I broke in, someone else can, too.”

Mueller rubbed his temples. A migraine was slowly starting to seep in. He truly needed some sleep. “Who would be stupid enough to break in here?” he muttered, not actually expecting a reply.

“This idiot sure did.”

Well, he couldn’t deny that, could he? Although, Norbu did know the layout of the guildhouse well. It hadn’t changed since he last visited, after all. As for breaking in? The only time the doors were closed was at night, when he tried to get some rest. Otherwise, explorers and guards were coming in and out all day. There was nothing to steal even if they did break in.

“Still, you better be careful there, Mewler,” Norbu continued, pulling Mueller from his musings once more. “Someone might become interested in your connection to your precious princess.”

Mueller sent him a truly puzzled look. What nonsense. Imagine him as a target. He’d prefer it, if it meant protecting the royal family. “Are you insinuating something, Norbu?”

Norbu shrugged dramatically before he folded his arms behind his head. “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I’m the one you need to keep an eye on.”

“No doubt about that.”

“Ooh, are you getting excited about a potential cat and mouse?”

There was that haughty, over confidence of his. He was never the one to turn down a chance to flirt pompously with him. “Maybe. Just so I can finally arrest you.”

“Handcuffs? Sound fun. Just so you know, I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, too.” Norbu then sighed dramatically once more and turned his back toward him, slowly ambling away. “Welp, that will have to wait until tomorrow. Mr Precious Guildmaster needs his sleep. Until next time, Mewler~”

Mueller bit back a smirk, content to yet Norbu simply walk away for the time being. Maybe he was a little bit glad that Norbu was back. To cause untold problems, to be sure. But…he should liven things around here a little bit.

“You really haven’t changed a bit…”

A small, nostalgic frown appeared on Mueller’s lips. He just wished that Norbu would tell him why he left him three years ago…

#Etrian Odyssey #etrian odyssey nexus #fanfiction #mueller #oh look a new character #just what I needed

3 notes · View notes

thelioncourts · 4 years

Text

title: the mannequin gallery fandom: captive prince pairing: damen/laurent rating: mature words: 5366 for chapter six (6/?); 35387 all together

Damen was almost certain that his dream had been a pleasant one. There wasn’t anything all that concrete he could hold on to in memory of it, but he recalled lots of sunlight and the smell of freshly baked bread. He would have liked to have continued in that dreamworld for a few more hours, but it had been interrupted by a sudden –

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The person at the door, Damen first thought upon hazily waking up to the sound, must have a death wish.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Still too asleep and too caught up in trying to remember if the warmth from his dream had been from the sun on his skin or the warmth of an oven, Damen couldn’t even process a second coherent thought yet. Instead, he groaned. It was that overly loud kind of groan someone might do after not having used their voice for a few hours. Then he turned his face into the pillow, willing the person on the other side to magically disappear.

Knock knock knock.

“Damen.” Nik groaned too, his groan somehow sounding more frustrated in its tone than Damen’s own. “If you don’t answer that right now, I will not be responsible for the murder I commit.”

Damen ignored Nik for a moment, flipping over onto his stomach and bringing the pillow up and over his head so it muffled the sounds from outside.

Knock knock knock.

With yet one last groan, Damen threw his legs over the bed and stared blearily at the red lights of the alarm clock on the joint nightstand between the two beds. 5:47. When there was again another knock knock knock, he finally stood up and shuffled his way across the room.

Damen really was normally hard to frustrate or anger, but exceptions could be made for ridiculousness such as incessant knocking before six in the morning. It’s why, as he crossed the floor and flung open the door whilst rubbing sleepily at his eyes, he didn’t even have anything particular he planned on saying to the person on the other side, he was just going to say whatever came to mind. And, if he had actually stopped to think about that before he did it, he would have probably tried to stop himself because he was (rightfully) pissed off and nothing good ever came from greeting anyone while (rightfully) pissed off and –

After he pulled the door open, it took his sight a moment to adjust and come to the realization that it was Laurent DeVere standing outside his hotel room.

Laurent, very much unlike Damen, appeared to have been up for some time already. He looked impeccably put together, a black peacoat falling just below his waist and leading down to black pants and black shoes similar to what he had been wearing the other evening, and his eyes – blue and bright – looked perfectly awake.

“Hi,” Damen said dumbly, a total one-eighty in his voice from what he had intended.

“Were you planning on sleeping the day away?”

It took Damen a moment to react, but when he did, he squinted as though trying to make sense of conversation. “It’s not even six in the morning.”

He realized they were talking too loudly, and he began to whisper in courtesy for the old woman staying in the room next to their own. Damen and Nik had run into her once or twice as she gallivanted from party to party, and she was quite a firecracker.

“I thought I was giving you two a grand tour of my city today. So unless you plan on wasting my time, I suggest you put on whatever you consider clothing and come get a coffee so we can begin,” Laurent said, already turning and walking back down the hotel hallway.

“But what about –” Damen began to call out after him, but Laurent didn’t turn around and Damen didn’t want to yell anymore. With a heaving sigh, he closed the door and went back into the room where Nik was sitting up on his own bed, his hair a mess of darkness and his mouth pulled in a sleepy frown. Then he flopped back onto his pillow and gritted out, “Please tell me I didn’t hear who I think I heard.”

[Continue on AO3]

“Laurent asks that we go downstairs and meet him for coffee immediately,” Damen said, already rummaging through his bag and pulling out some clothes.

“Well Laurent,” Nik started, “can begin to learn that not everything has to be done on his pompous self-regulated schedule. I’m going to need at least half an hour.”

“I’ll buy you whatever you want if you say that to his face,” Damen said with a laugh. “How about I go right now so he doesn’t go on some kind of diva-freakout, you order a cappuccino from room service, and he and I meet you back here?” Damen offered. He flicked on the bathroom light and Nik groaned again.

“A cappuccino sounds really nice right now.”

Damen’s morning routine was simple enough. He jumped in the shower for no more than five minutes, and then he was out and brushing his teeth, combing through his hair, and drying off best he could before pulling his clothes on. It didn’t matter to him if his hair was still wet before walking out the door because he never did much to it anyway; his curls had a mind of their own.

Laurent was waiting for him. Well, actually, Laurent was waiting for them. Watching the door for a moment, Laurent turned to Damen with a delicately quirked eyebrow.

“Your friend not coming?”

It hit Damen, suddenly in that moment, just how odd this situation was.

Not even a month ago, Damen had been entirely in the dark about Nik’s attempt to begin something professional with his photography and now Damen was grabbing coffee, alone, with a model he had met sporadically over the course of three days so said-model could show them around Paris.

But if Laurent found it odd, he didn’t show it. Instead, he waited for a response.

“He’s just waking up,” Damen said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “He’s going to order a cappuccino from room service and then we can all meet up.”

Not missing a beat, Laurent didn’t say anything else, but began to walk, his demeanor full of an arrogance that Damen would simply follow. Damen did.

The streets were relatively empty of people and it allowed Damen to pay attention to the things one missed while dodging foot traffic, like the intricate designs on buildings, on the flowers just beginning to bloom, on the way the wind snuck through the gaps between buildings and rustled his hair. But with such a leisurely walk at hand, Damen found his attention wavering to the stranger at his side.

It was a confirmation to Damen that Laurent was a thousand times more beautiful without anything on his face. His outfit wasn’t attention-getting, his hair was simplistically done, and yet he was impossible to look away from. In fact, without anything deterring one from looking at only him, Damen found that there had never been anyone he’d ever seen with such effortless allure. (Nik would tell him right now he was biased and always weak when blond hair was involved. Actually, Nik would probably tell him just that at some point today.)

Realizing he was staring (a horrid habit he seemed to have mastered since arriving in France), Damen asked, “Do you go get coffee this early every day?”

“Nearly,” Laurent answered, not looking in Damen’s direction. “Mornings are often quiet. I try to enjoy them unhurried.”

Before Damen could comment back, something about how his and Nik’s mornings were often hurried in trying to visit entire cities in a week or less, or how the only time they got coffee this early was when they were already at the airport for a before-sunrise flight, Laurent was turning and walking through the doors of a cafe.

It was a small place, unsuspecting with its glass doors with gold handles and a handful of tables both outside and inside. The tables were black, as were the chairs, with only the smallest of gold decorations on them. The counter to order was also black, and very tall, and it was all so very much like how Laurent dressed himself, so very much opposite of how Etoile did anything Damen had seen yet. Damen couldn’t help but smile.

The baristas here seemed to know Laurent too, reacting warmly to Laurent’s ‘Bonjour.’ Without even needing to order, Laurent paid for whatever they were already preparing. After his own ‘Bonjour’ and weathering the curious gazes of the two baristas as they looked between him and Laurent, Damen ordered un petit café. Laurent grimaced visibly.

“What?” Damen asked after paying.

“It tastes like what I would guess gasoline tastes like going down your throat,” Laurent said. He motioned to where the barista was pulling the singular shot of espresso into an espresso glass, the crema on top sleek and shiny.

“It’s not that bad,” Damen said. Just then, the second barista handed Laurent his drink. It looked to be un café crème, a latte-like drink of espresso and steamed milk. Damen couldn’t help but notice the pile of sugar cubes next to the glass.

They took a seat outside, per Laurent’s lead, and Damen watched as Laurent took one of the sugar cubes and dipped it into his café crème just long enough for the sugar cube to take on a light brown color before popping it in his mouth.

“You like sweet coffees, I take it?” Damen asked. His espresso was warm in his hands.

Laurent hummed and took a drink. Damen wondered, briefly, if he was using the coffee to wash down the graininess of the sugar cube or if he was using the sugar cube to continue to sweeten the coffee he was drinking. “I was in New York for fashion week a few years back and tried this horrid sugary concoction they tried to pass off as coffee. It was a double-shot of espresso in a pool of chocolate and caramel, shaken with milk and ice, and topped with whipped cream. It was delightful. We don’t have anything quite like that here.”

“I’m pretty sure something like that would be considered blasphemy.”

“Very un-Parisian in every way,” Laurent agreed. He popped another sugar cube into his coffee, then his mouth.

It got quiet for a moment. Damen sipped his espresso and his mouth puckered at the taste. He had heard that Parisian coffee wasn’t up to par with expectations, but having spent as much time in Italy as Damen had in his life, he had a coffee-tuned palette that was displeased greatly with the drink in his hand. Across from him, Laurent was looking out at nothing in particular. This close, and with the newly shining sun facing them, Damen could make out the length of his eyelashes.

“So,” Damen began after it started to feel awkward, after he couldn’t help but shift around just to do something that wasn’t sip on espresso and stare at Laurent, “why are you doing this?”

“This?”

“Showing me and Nik around.” Damen paused as though thinking about what he was going to say. In reality he was waiting for Laurent to respond. When Laurent didn’t, Damen continued. “I’m not trying to sound rude, but you don’t exactly seem the type.”

That got a smile, however small, out of Laurent. “You don’t say.”

This time Damen did wait while Laurent, unhurriedly, took a drink of his coffee.

“I hadn’t been lying when I said that this would keep my uncle off of my back. Every year I spend weeks enduring his demands that I participate with his Paris’ Got Talent search photographers and every year that I don’t, his patience wears thinner. Over time I’ve chosen at least one photographer to,” he did air-quotations with the hand not holding his cup, “‘get to know’ for a day so that I can’t be lectured when I abandon the Friday luncheon early.”

“You’ve done this a few years?”

“Of course. It didn’t take me that long to figure out what to do to appease him.”

“And what made you choose Nik? Why not choose Guillame or someone else?”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Laurent began, leaning back in his seat and crossing one leg over the other. “Guillame is a mumbling and weak little thing. Had I approached him about anything he would have pissed himself before he could find words. Hendric had other matters to attend to. Those matters, of course, being one of our makeup artists, Genevot. Talik and I would have had more conversation with a brick wall than each other, and Jeurre is a friend of my uncle’s and I am tired of old French men who are friends with my uncle. That, you barbarian, is how I found myself stuck with your friend and, in turn, you.” He paused to take another drink. “You two may be social media celebrities, but nothing could be easier for me than giving you a tour of the city I’ve spent my entire life living in.”

Damen ignored the jab about being a social media celebrity. “Alright, that’s fair enough.”

After running their dishes back indoors, Damen waited for Laurent to get off of his phone so they could go back to meet Nik. While walking, Damen found himself saying, “I don’t understand why you want your uncle off of your back so badly though,” before he could stop himself. He might as well have not said anything at all though. Laurent didn’t react.

Nik was ready and outside by the time they arrived. He had his camera in hand and was taking advantage of the emptier streets like Damen had, only he was using the opportunity to snap photos of Paris in the soft morning light. There was no acknowledgement from him that Damen and Laurent had gotten there but instead, like it was instinct, he turned the camera to Damen and Damen simply talked.

They fell into their normal routine.

“Routine” was probably an extravagant word for what they did. The reality of it was this: Nik occasionally had Damen move around and they chatted while Nik took photograph after photograph after photograph. Damen had learned a long time ago he couldn’t just stand there, it was too awkward, too forced. This “routine” allowed for Damen to not feel like he was doing something fake while also allowing Nik experience with a moving subject. It’s what had built Damen’s Instagram, these candid photos taken while Damen sometimes talked about the most mundane of things, like what he wanted for dinner or that tomorrow was leg day.

They chatted about nothing in particular at this moment. Damen asked how the cappuccino was, Nik said it was shit. Nik asked how the espresso was, Damen said it was shit. They discussed how shit French coffee was and how the next time they were in Italy they were going to drink espresso by the gallon. It wasn’t until the sun had completely risen over the horizon that they both remembered Laurent.

Laurent had been completely silent as they had gone on about like the day was any other day in a new city. When they both turned to him, he was leaning against one of the many columns of the hotel awning, his expression almost amused. Then, with a bored tone, he asked, “Are we done here? Or are you planning on standing outside of your own hotel the entirety of the day?”

On foot, they were able to witness how the streets gradually became busier with bustling herds of people off to work and tourists wandering in every direction. Despite the growing population around them, they could have easily gotten to wherever Laurent was leading them in a short amount of time, but Nik was stopping every five steps to take a photograph of something new. After about twenty minutes of this, Laurent finally let out a huff of annoyance. Damen was pretty surprised he held himself back that long.

“If you would stop taking pictures of every godforsaken lamppost in the city, you would find we are but a street away from something actually worthy of attention.”

In front of them was a building that looked to be made from the mind of Lewis Carroll. It was the polar opposite of everything else along the walk of the now very familiar Rue de Rivoli street, namely for the faces from a Steampunk world that stared out at every passing Parisian and tourist, beckoning them to come inside its bright yellow front door.

Laurent didn’t say anything. He waited while both Damen and Nik walked the outside of this odd building to take in the colors and the signs and the flowers made of metal hanging off of its railings and when he decided they had had enough time, he wandered inside. Upon entrance was a spiral staircase littered with hundreds of writings in mostly French, but there was also English, Arabic, Spanish, German, Mandarin, and Korean that Damen could spy along the way down.

Nik found a painting on the wall to their left, a painting of realistic gemstones glittering between the bones of a stark white skeleton. Next to it was a painting from the election in 2010. Next to that was a drawing of a school desk covered in various graffiti.

“What is this place?” Damen asked, his head tilted up to take in the paper airplanes hanging from the ceiling.

“59 Rue de Rivoli. Otherwise known as the Aftersquat,” Laurent said. He began descending the spiral staircase. “In the late nineties, three artists broke into this building. It had lain abandoned for nearly fifteen years and they had decided it could be put to much better use. Thus, it began to become what it is today, a set of artists’ studios.”

Damen and Nik followed, their eyes trained on the walls. There was every kind of art style imaginable along the way. Damen wasn’t an expert, but he recognized pop art and realistic art and abstract art. There was art that looked like it could have belonged in an old church, its style Renaissance-esque and Biblical. There was traditional and modern Japanese art as well as minimalistic art. It was overwhelming to the senses and yet entirely captivating.

“This place is insane,” Nik breathed, his eyes caught on a painting of a woman staring into a lake at her own reflection.

“It is French counter-culture at its finest,” Laurent said.

They were walking by a room that they realized quite quickly wasn’t a room at all, but an open artist studio. Laurent continued on, but Damen and Nik both stopped to peer inside when a man who had been staring at the doorway stood up from a desk and came out to the hallway far too excitedly.

“Laurent!”

Laurent turned to face the man, his face unreadable. “Torveld. I didn’t know you were still here.”

“I took a two-year sabbatical from the studio to return home for some time, but I couldn’t stay away. Paris has too much beauty to leave behind,” the man, Torveld, said. His face, unlike Laurent’s, was entirely readable, full of adoration and awe at Laurent’s presence in this place. “It is wonderful to see you again.”

“You as well,” Laurent said. “I assume since you’re back you’ll be meeting with Charls soon. He still adores your work.”

“I very much hope so. He’s great to work with and he does work with the most beautiful of models in all of Paris.”

Damen and Nik were standing somewhat to the side, quietly taking in Torveld’s blatant flirting. Nik gave Damen a look that said he was making a silent prayer in Torveld’s honor.

“Charls is wonderful, I’m sure you two will create something just as stunning as the last time,” Laurent smiled. “I’m sorry to rush off, but I did promise these two a tour and we’re already horribly limited on time.”

“I apologize,” Torveld said with surprise in his voice and even a little bit of laughter. “I’m being rude. I am Torveld Patran, one of the artists here in the Aftersquat. This is my third year of residency.”

“Damianos Vallis.”

“Nikandros Kyroi.”

Torveld motioned to the camera in Nik’s hands. “Are you one of the photographers for Etoile’s show this year?”

“Yes. Rehearsals start next week.”

“What an exciting time. Etoile truly houses the best Paris has to offer.”

“So you’ve said,” Damen chimed in.

Laurent was already down four steps toward the next level, and he threw a dismissive wave in Torveld’s direction as an end to the conversation and Damen and Nik did the same, their curious eyes focused on Laurent’s retreating form.

“This is the level that, I believe, will interest you the most,” Laurent said. Around them were photographs layered upon one another like they were pages in a book instead of art on the walls. There were black and white photos to the left and colored photos to the right, all of a variety of subjects. Nik, nearly in a trance, immediately wandered to the photos of a desert near the top of the right wall.

“You seem familiar with this place,” Damen said in reference to the building and its inhabitants as he watched Nik with a smile.

Laurent hummed. “Charls, Etoile’s designer, loves this place. A few years back he was here looking for inspiration for Paris Fashion Week and met Torveld. Torveld’s art is painted on fabric. Charls adored him and had me come meet Torveld as well and to compare Torveld’s art with my skin and my hair and so on. That year, it was no surprise the designs were based upon Torveld’s own. But I came to enjoy this place more than most.”

“Why?” Damen asked. Laurent turned to look at him, his expression unreadable once more.

“My uncle despises this place.”

Damen was going to respond, but just then Nik called him over to point out a photograph of Pulpit Pit. They both brought their phones out to pull up their own photos from that trip which had, of course, involved some very fun rock climbing at a different and less touris-filled area of the Rogaland region. While they talked, Nik began to take pictures of the room, of Damen, of the view down the rest of the open spiral staircase. Like at the hotel, they fell into what was natural for them and only when they remembered they weren’t alone did they stop to face Laurent who was leaning against one of the photograph-covered walls.

“I’m not used to not being in front of the camera,” Laurent said.

“Sorry,” Nik began, fumbling with the camera as if trying to figure out if he should put it down or turn its lens toward Laurent.

“It’s quite more relaxing on this end. Perhaps you can fill in for me during Fashion Week,” Laurent said, angling his head in Damen’s direction.

‘I could fill in a lot if you’d like,’ Damen found himself thinking before he could help it, but, luckily, he bit his tongue. Nik threw him a glare as if he knew what was running through Damen’s mind.

They wandered through every floor of 59 Rue de Ravoli with wide eyes and a camera ready for anything. Damen’s favorite art was a section of one of the walls on the fifth floor that was made like an ancient Greek creation, all inlaid with gold and people with straight noses. Nik kept wandering back to the floor with all the photography and even had a good chat with an artist that showed up around nine in the morning. Eventually, after they had seen a lot and not even a quarter of what was there, they exited out of the multicolored side of the door to leave.

The streets were busier at this time, but in the earliest days of March it wasn’t near as busy as it could have been such as in the summer. Laurent didn’t miss a beat in walking out of the door and onto the streets, and he began walking toward wherever he had set his mind to go. Like before, they would have gotten there earlier if it hadn’t been for Nik only, this time, it wasn’t really Nik’s fault. A group of (assumed) friends across the street were struggling in getting a group photo and when they saw Nik’s camera in hand they yelled across the way, causing quite a scene, to ask for a few pictures of them together.

“We’ve never been to Paris,” one girl stammered out, looking stressed.

“And we don’t know if we’ll ever get to come back!” another girl said.

“And selfie sticks can really only do so much,” one of the boys said too.

After a shove on the shoulder from Damen, Nik obliged and thus began an actual friendly photoshoot in the middle of a Parisian street just after breakfast. Eventually, after everyone seemed content with at least one photo each, Nik was freed and turned a slightly worried look to Laurent who must have been horribly irritated. But Laurent was on the phone, listening, not talking, and after it became evident he wasn’t going to get off of the phone with whoever he was on the phone with, Damen and Nik wandered up and down the street, taking pictures with beautiful and colorful doors, with script written signs and tiny alleyways, with clothing store fronts and bakery food items.

“What are you doing?” came Laurent’s voice out of the blue. Now he looked impatient. His right foot was angled out in front of him, the heel firmly planted on the ground almost as though he would begin tapping his toe against it at any moment.

“Waiting for you,” Damen said. Nik burned a hole into the side of Damen’s head with his stare. If Damen noticed it though, or cared, there was no sign. He looked at Laurent, meeting Laurent’s gaze without any kind of challenge. Laurent didn’t react. After a moment he said, “Let’s go,” and began walking as though all of this had been his plan the entire time.

Damen and Nik followed, or tried to anyway. It seemed as though Laurent was determined to have them tour the entire city on foot in a handful of hours with the pace he was walking. It was exhausting, Damen thought, as he tried to look up and around at the blur of buildings.

Damen spent a lot of time looking up. Whenever they travelled, which was always, he walked with his head and eyes up, taking in the way the sky set against unique skylines, taking in the way locals casually went around to their familiar spots, taking in the way that atmosphere felt around them. Right now, all of that was impossible with the worry he had of listing Laurent in the crowd or tripping over unknown grounds.

It was Nik, unsurprisingly, who finally forced them to come to a halt. There was something on a wall that caught his attention, and it was as though his camera gravitated to it without his own action.

It was impossible to miss, truly. It was exceedingly large, especially for its placement not but three-quarters of the way up on a wall, and it protruded from the wall at least a meter, casting large shadows all around. Its gold and black coloring shined on the plain beige of the wall it was on, but most striking were the gold figures. A man with a sword, a dragon, a crab, and a rooster, all made of hammered gold, stood under the watch of a round and golden clock. The hands of the clock were still, stuck, and people rushed by it without a glance.

“What is this?” Nik asked, already taking pictures.

“The Defender of Time,” Laurent said. He was staring up at it with something almost sad in his eyes. “It’s a clock. It hasn’t worked in years.”

Nik was moving so he was facing away from the sun, allowing his camera to pick up on the glint of the gold, on the shadows on the ground. “Why hasn’t it worked in years?” Damen asked.

“The funding for it ran dry. It’s expensive to keep a mechanical clock of this magnitude working.” He paused, his eyes scanning over the craggy landscape, over the gaunt face of the man with the sword. “It hasn’t worked since 2003. I never got to see it running, but my brother had apparently loved it.”

“What did it do exactly?”

“On the hour, the man would fight one of the three animals. Each animal is representative of something, those somethings being the ground, the sky, and the sea. It would depend on which animal the man was fighting, but each fight was accompanied by sounds, like the earth moving, the wind howling, or the waves crashing. But then three times a day the man would have to fight all three creatures at the same time.”

“You said it was a funding issue that turned it into this?” Nik asked. He was scrolling through the photos on his camera already. Laurent nodded. “Why not just fund it yourself then? You seem to enjoy it.”

“I’ve never seen it, how on earth could I enjoy it enough to spend money on it?” Laurent asked back. Then he was walking again, not sparing a glance for the Defender of Time.

Nik kept lagging behind, eyes catching on statues, on buildings, on people, and on light, and Laurent looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but here. Damen, picking up on that, did what he did best: talked.

He watched Nik change his angle around an extravagant statue of a man on a horse before asking Laurent, “How exactly did you get into modeling?”

“I was thrown into it,” Laurent said.

“Thrown into it? I thought you wanted to do it,” Damen said, recalling a conversation with Laurent’s uncle from days earlier.

“I did ask to do it, yes. But I never intended on it being my life.”

“But –”

“The wants of a thirteen-year-old are far different than the needs of one. I was too young to know what I needed.”

Damen knew there was a furrow between his brows, knew that whatever was about to come out of his mouth was going to probably piss Laurent off, and yet he asked, “Then why do you do it?”

Laurent finally looked at him, eyes scanning the expression on Damen’s face as though looking for something. “It’s what I know.”

He said it so simply, as though it made perfect sense, as though there was no other option at all and Damen was stupid for even asking such a question.

Damen was struggling with what to say, or ask, next. There were so many things running through his head, namely things that seemed to contradict one another, and he didn’t know where to start. Luckily, or unluckily, for him, Laurent had the next question already sorted out.

“You don’t know about my family, do you?”

For once there was no maliciousness or superiority in the tone of his voice. He sounded curious, his eyes trained on Damen’s face as though still looking for something, though Damen had no idea what.

Damen didn’t want Laurent knowing about his midnight-Googling, of the way his brain couldn’t put together that Laurent was the son of the slumped over bodies of Aleron and Hennike Devere.

“No.”

The word sounded strange coming out of his mouth. Laurent huffed, the sound almost a laugh. “Well you’re not from France so I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Content to keep adventuring, Nik joined them and broke the heavy tension. They began walking again, this time at a more leisurely pace, but eventually the need for food after a coffee-only breakfast made Damen’s stomach rumble in the middle of an alleyway where the sound almost reverberated off of the walls.

“We’ll want to get him food,” Nik said, still shuffling through photos. “He’s insufferable when he’s hungry.”

Damen didn’t argue. “Any recommendations?” he asked Laurent instead.

“Café de Flore is just around the corner.”

To say Café de Flore was busy would be an understatement. Damen was about to suggest something more casual so they wouldn’t have to spend most of their time awaiting their seats, but Laurent was known by the hosts who saw him and said something in French too quiet for Damen to hear. Before he knew it, they were being shown their table.

Nik asked for Damen to get him water before following signs to the restroom in the back. He took his camera and Damen rolled his eyes; it might be a few minutes before Nik was finished photographing every window and light fixture in the cafe.

“Do you come to this café often?” Damen asked Laurent who hadn’t even picked up his menu yet.

“I haven’t in a few months, but, yes, usually I’m here at least once a month or so.” His eyes were trained on the tablecloth, almost as if he was remembering something, before he said, “This was my mother’s favorite cafe in Paris. She said she used to come here almost every day when she first moved to the city.”

“Where was she from?

Laurent actually smiled, though Damen couldn’t for the life of him figure out what he was smiling at. “She was from Sweden.”

“My entire family is from Greece. Mostly from the same city and everything. It must have been nice having two different cultures to grow up within.”

Laurent hummed. “I suppose. Being in Paris, having a French father, and having him immersed in French politics made it oftentimes feel like a singular, all-consuming culture. But my mother did her best to take away some of the seriousness at times.”

“I wish I would have had something like that growing up,” Damen said, but he didn’t sound bitter.

“Was your mother as serious as my father?” Laurent asked. The corner of Damen’s mouth quirked.

“My mother died giving birth to me, so I never met her,” Damen said. There wasn’t any sadness there, feeling and being as removed from it as he was, but it changed the atmosphere in the room. “And my dad was quite serious. But,” he started, trying to change the atmosphere back to what it had been, “my brother’s mother was always kind to me and I feel lucky enough to have had her.”

“How old were you when your father remarried?” Laurent asked.

“Very young. Maybe two? But my brother, Kastor, was already around, had been since before I was born. And his mother had always been in the picture as well. So nothing really changed when my father remarried.”

This time, it was Laurent who had a furrow between his brows. He was just about to say something, ask something for clarification, when Nik came back to the table, just catching the tail-end of the conversation.

“Are you talking about Kastor?” Nik asked with blatant dislike in his voice.

“Yes, Nik,” Damen said with a sigh.

“Damen’s family has more drama than any show you’ll watch on television,” Nik said as he slid into the seat next to Damen. “His dad got Kastor’s mother pregnant back in 1984. Mind you, he got her pregnant while married to Damen’s mother, Egeria. Egeria stayed. Theomedes, Damen’s dad, was part of Kastor’s life and, in turn, Kastor’s mother’s life during all of that. A decade later, Egeria became pregnant and died. Then Theomedes deemed it okay to marry Kastor’s mother.” Nik stopped to take a sip of the water the waiter had left on their table silently. “You would think with Kastor being a whole ten years older he would be more mature than he is, but –”

“Nik, I don’t think Laurent needs or wants to hear about my family drama,” Damen said, doing his very best to change the topic. But Laurent was resting with his chin on his hand, face void of any judgement or emotion.

“Oh no, do tell. I feel as though there’s a story there and it’s only fair. I have been showing you around my city, it’s the least you could do.”

Damen wanted to argue, wanted to say that Laurent wasn’t showing them around out of the goodness of his heart, but instead he found himself saying, “Nik has always hated my brother so you’ll have to take that into consideration.”

“Damen,” Nik started with a sigh. “You –”

“Here, how about I tell it instead,” Damen interrupted. “My brother slept with my girlfriend while knowing of my plans to propose to her. She initiated it, but that doesn’t make it…” He trailed off at the end.

Both of Laurent’s eyebrows were raised, not in disbelief but moreso in fascination, when Nik said, “And sleeping with Damen’s girlfriend was just the final straw of things Kastor has said and done over the years.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” Damen started off just a degree louder so as to speak over Nik, “because I forgave them both, I moved on, and now they’re getting married. Clearly it was the right move on their part.”

“We are not doing this again, Damen,” Nik said.

“I may have to flag the waiter over for a drink,” Laurent said. “Do continue.”

Nik, predominantly, did continue until their food came. He rambled about Kastor’s jealousy, about Theomedes’ unwillingness to come across as having favorites, about Damen’s horrid inability to not immediately trust those he was expected to trust. Damen waved it all off with a dismissive hand, having a reason for everything, and Laurent listened silently but with rapt attention. Damen swore he saw something new in Laurent’s eyes, a kind of understanding of something Damen didn’t know.

Eventually they were off and walking, but not before a very heartfelt goodbye from the host to Laurent. There was something different in the way Laurent was acting now though. He was talking more, pointing out more landmarks and telling their histories with a less guarded facade up and surrounding him. He still wasn’t talking a lot, by no means a chatterbox, but it was as though the things that were necessary, like explaining the meaning behind a building’s title or the reason a gargoyle on top of one of the buildings was missing a bat-like wing came out of his mouth without thought.

He once even laughed – not a long and loud laugh mind you, but a small and quiet yet genuine laugh – as they walked by Jules Lavirotte’s 29 Avenue Rapp and Damen said, “That reminds me of Etoile.”

“I’m not sure if that’s intended to be a compliment or not,” Laurent had said, more amused by that than Damen knew to make sense of.

Eventually, Nik’s instincts had him minding traffic as he crossed the street to ask a woman if he could take her picture. It made perfect sense; she was an older woman, probably in her sixties, maybe even seventies, and she was dressed like the model she most definitely was at one point. The black jumpsuit she was wearing was accentuated by the leopard print scarf that was tossed carelessly over one shoulder. Her red lipstick left a perfect ring on the cup she was drinking out of. She, unsurprisingly, relished in a photography session. It was obvious how stunning the photos would look, her backdropped against the cafe with its swirls in its name and its red curtains in the window.

Laurent seemed to be looking at nothing in particular whilst Nik when about doing his thing. Still standing in front of Damen from the position he had been leading them on their tour, Damen could take in the way the wind played with the end of the braid down his back.

“Can you explain this photographer thing to me?”

The question had left Damen’s mouth suddenly, but he knew why he had asked it immediately. It had been something that had been nagging him since this whole thing started, a thing Vannes had mentioned condescendingly almost (“...one of our photographer experimentees,” she had said with a laugh), a thing that, the longer Damen dwelled on it, seemed odd.

“What do you mean?” Laurent asked, not turning all the way around to face Damen, but turning enough so he could see Nik in his line of sight.

“The whole,” Damen paused to find the words, “competition of it. It’s not normal, is it? This isn’t a thing commonly done, having photographers send in applications and having them participate in a week of photoshoots and events in order to decide who should be at the show?” Damen waited for an answer, but when it never came, he kept talking, asked, “Is it a thing your uncle came up with to give unknown photographers a chance? He was a photographer when he first started, right?”

Laurent still didn’t answer right away, but now Damen had nothing else to say or ask. He continued to wait, trying to figure out why it was taking Laurent so long to answer, and when he couldn’t read Laurent’s face, he turned to watch Nik again. The woman was directing Nik around now and Nik did what she said without complaint.

“Etoile used to have its own photographers. Many of them were older, friends of my uncle’s from his photography days. Some of them are still around. But four years ago one of the photographers made an accusation toward my uncle. As you might expect, my uncle was quite displeased. From then on out he decided that finding new people who wouldn’t get the chance to become familiar with Etoile’s ins and outs.”

The explanation came as the last thing Damen expected to hear. He had perhaps expected a heartwarming tale of using one’s position to provide opportunity. He had expected a story of desire to find the best the world had to offer before anyone else. He had even expected a story of corporate desire to save money by hiring more unknowns. And all Damen could think as his brain tried to comprehend what Laurent had just said was what he had heard that first day of the photoshoots:

“Jeurre over there has worked with him before. Jeurre says that at a photoshoot two years ago, Laurent made one of the newer designers cry so hard that he quit on the spot. I’ve heard one of the current designers talking about how Laurent refused to let one of the newest models, one of the newest signees, be part of this show at all and put down his foot until his uncle gave him his way. I also heard another one of the models say that Laurent gets to lead all the shoots because of his name.”

“He’s a spoiled and entitled brat,” Vannes said matter of fact. “Over the years, he’s gotten mouthier, refused to listen to his uncle or the Etoile board on what he needs to do to represent us. He won’t re-sign because he doesn’t want to be told what to do.”

“Oh, yes, appearance-wise he is. But, as I said, the world of fashion is cruel and it made him cruel. I’m sure you witnessed some of his callous behavior.” Neither Damen or Nik confirmed, but they didn’t deny it either. Laurent’s uncle flashed them a sad smile. “It pains me that I couldn’t protect his innocence. I had thought I was doing the right thing in allowing him to choose his path in life but…” he trailed.

“What were the accusations?” Damen asked.

Now, Laurent turned to look directly at Damen and Damen felt horribly assessed as though he had done something wrong.

“Is there anywhere else you two would like to go before I leave you two to your own devices? I’m afraid I have dinner plans I’d like to not be late for.”

Damen looked at his phone. It was just after two in the afternoon.

Nik was joining them again, ruining the chance for Damen to figure out how to push for Laurent’s answer, and somehow took over the conversation. They ended up walking alongside the Seine once more, Nik stopping every now and then to take photos of peoples’ reflections on the water, all while Laurent led them to wherever Nik had negotiated as a final sight.

Eventually they came across a park with closely cropped grass and artfully trimmed bushes. It was the Parc André Citroën. It was fairly busy with people lying out on the grass, with people and their children admiring the water features. But what was most eye-catching was the enormous and unmissable balloon that read Balloon Generali in beautiful red writing.

Laurent was walking toward it, allowing his words to trail behind him with the wind. “This is the Balloon Generali, a hot air balloon that will get you to the second highest point in Paris.”

Damen could tell Nik was excited. Things like this were familiar territory for them, views and cityscapes. Sometimes they got there by climbing mountains and sometimes they got there by ski slope, but it was what they did, what they always wanted to do. Even Damen was dragged into the excitement, momentarily forgetting the uncomfortableness he had felt in that last conversation with Laurent.

They didn’t have to wait long to get on the balloon. Each ride was only ten minutes long and the ride before them had been up for at least half of that when they arrived.

The place to stand in the balloon was essentially like a donut. There was a hole in the center where people couldn’t go as the cable controlled by the hydroelectric winch was there to raise and lower the balloon. Damen and Nik filed in behind Laurent. There wasn’t a lot of room to move forward or back, but there were only a few other people on with them so there was plenty of space to go around.

They weren’t given much warning before the cable began to turn and Damen felt the ground fall out beneath them.

Nik was shoving Damen with friendly and familiar hands to stand where he could get pictures of him. Damen laughed, relishing in the feeling of the wind picking up around them, and ignored Nik in favor of staring out at the sights coming into view. They could see everything and could see more the higher they got. Right near them was the Seine which got longer and longer the higher up they got. Turning, Damen could see the maze of rooftops come into view around them, could see the Eiffel Tower across the way, a beacon for Paris, could see people walking streets and sitting on benches.

The camera was clicking in Damen’s ears as he turned and looked at Laurent. There was a strand of blond hair out of his braid and he was looking out at the city with a kind of contemplation. Damen wondered what it was like to live here, to have been here as long as one could remember, and Damen wondered what Laurent was thinking.

Nik found something else to garner his own attention which was a group of people on a rooftop across the river. He quickly changed a few settings before finding them. Damen knew the photos would be clear they’d be able to see the color of the men’s ties.

Too soon they were landing, the ground finding its stability under their feet once more, and they exited with windswept hair and Nik’s camera still clicking.

“I found something just over there,” Nik said, pointing in a vague direction. “I’ll be right back.”

He was off without waiting for Damen, or even Laurent’s, reply. And as he walked away Laurent shook his head physically. Damen didn’t like it.

“What?”

Laurent turned his cool gaze on Damen.

“Is this truly all you do? Take a million photos in a city and leave just to do the same thing in another?”

The huff left Damen’s mouth, but he heard Nik in his head saying, “He’s a spoiled, entitled, and, again, raging bitch. If he doesn’t like someone, he can and will make their life a living hell. And in this case, that means that if he doesn’t like me, it’s me whose life will be made a living hell.”

“We do actually work,” Damen said. “There’s a lot of planning, a lot of days we stay up until dawn making sure things are the way they need to be.”

“But you simply travel. Anyone with a camera phone and some money could do what you do,” Laurent pushed.

“Then why don’t they?” When Laurent’s gaze didn’t budge, Damen continued. “It wasn’t always like this either. We worked hard for our first year of travelling. And our hard work was enough to get us tickets to places, but not enough to get us in nice hotels or houses. We stayed in hostels, we ate cheap street food to save money, but we were happy getting to do this. Then it gained traction and we realized we would be stupid to not take an opportunity when it was presented to us.” There was a boiling feeling underneath Damen’s skin, one that had been there since the day he had taken in the extravagance of Etoile, since the day he had realized his joke about Nik having to deal with stuck-up high-fashion snobs was a reality and not just a joke.

“Besides,” Damen said, “I don’t have to explain my life to you, and I definitely don’t have to justify it. How is what we do any different than what you do? You stand there and look beautiful. Other people choose your clothes, other people do your hair, your makeup. Hell, you didn’t even have to work for where you are because your uncle owns the place and gifted you with an opportunity some people work years for and never get to have.”

Nik was calling out Damen’s name from somewhere behind, but Damen couldn’t not watch the way Laurent’s face transformed. It was the small things that changed; the subtle raising of plucked brows, the clenching of his jaw, the squaring of his shoulders.

“There’s a restaurant called La Grenouille Bleue around the corner,” he said, voice hard, just as Nik joined.

Without so much as a goodbye or even a snide comment, Laurent turned and left, his head high and his hair moving with each step.

“What was that?” Nik asked.

It took Damen a second to tear his look away from where Laurent had been, where he had just disappeared around a corner with a flash of gold. When he did, he found Nik’s look a mixture of genuine curiosity and What the fuck did you do now, Damen?

“High maintenance models,” Damen said, hoping that would be enough. It wasn’t.

“What did he say?”

That night, Nik fell asleep fairly early. As he had yawned for the seventh time in but a few minutes, he blamed it on Laurent’s early wakeup call and the fact that they probably walked twenty miles. Damen envied him now, watching for a moment as Nik shifted onto his left side. Tomorrow was the luncheon event and it was going to be a long day, but Damen couldn’t get his brain to stop thinking of Laurent. Infuriating and cold and everything his uncle had said.

Unbiddenly, his fingers were typing Laurent DeVere into the search bar on his computer again, almost as if trying to justify his current feelings. The images were all modeling photos, most of them runway shows, and Damen couldn’t help but curse that someone with Laurent’s disposition was so unbelievably beautiful.

The images went on and on, all professionally taken with but a few paparazzi photos outside of the now-known apartment building, and soon Damen found himself adding something to the search bar. He didn’t really know why. Laurent DeVere young.

The photos here were entirely different than the ones he had just seen. In the first picture was a beautiful blonde woman with perfectly styled hair and a small smile on her face. She was holding a bundle in her arms, a bundle wrapped in blue, and when Damen clicked on the image the caption said Hennike DeVere with her newborn son (2000). There was another picture, the one right next to the one of Hennike, of a child that was unmistakably Laurent at the age of seven or so with an older boy ruffling his hair. The older boy was nearly a man actually, probably nearing the age of twenty in the photo and he was looking at Laurent with unbridled affection. Auguste and Laurent DeVere at the UN Council Meeting (2008). There were more photos like those, ones of Laurent hiding from the cameras behind his brother’s broadening shoulders, ones of Laurent holding hands with his mother, and just a handful of ones of Laurent watching his father.

Not long down the list, however, there was a change. Damen saw Laurent’s uncle sitting in a velvet-lined chair, a tiny body in his lap leaving his dress shirt tearstained. Funeral of Auguste DeVere (2013) is what the caption said. There were a series of funeral photos next to that, ones with captions reading for Auguste DeVere (2013) and Aleron and Hennike DeVere (2013).

There was yet another shift, the only photos of it on the first page of results just at the bottom. Damen was sure they continued and were probably the entire content of page two. They must have been some of Laurent’s earliest modeling photos for he looked exceedingly young. His blue eyes were startling and large, trained on the person behind the camera as he clutched the sheer red fabric over his bare chest. Behind him were roses dripping with water and the water must have been on Laurent as well for the ends of his hair were curled and a shade darker than the rest of him. It was clinging to his eyelashes the same way it clung to the petals of the roses.

Laurent DeVere’s first magazine cover, February 2014.

#the mannequin gallery #mannequin gallery 'verse #captive prince #laurent of vere #damen of akielos #nikandros #my writing

10 notes · View notes