#apologies for waxing poetic (not really at all but it feels like i’m dumping— don’t know if anyone will even read this. oops. okay bye) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

busterkeatonfanfic · 3 years

Photo

Chapter 11

Filming for Steamboat had wrapped by the first Saturday in September. Weeks of cutting still remained on the horizon, but Buster could do that from the comfort of his production room at the Villa. The cutting was precisely why he was now knocking on Joe’s office door. If he had anything to say about it, the words ‘Supervised by Harry Brand’ would not appear anywhere in the credits. Once was more than enough.

“Come in,” said Joe.

Buster walked in and seated himself in the chair in front of Schenck’s desk.

“What’s on your mind?” said Joe. He was drinking coffee.

“The picture. What’s on anyone’s mind right now?” said Buster affably.

“Sure,” said Joe. “Still on track to finish tomorrow?”

“That’s the plan,” said Buster.

Joe wasn’t stupid and Buster could see that he was trying to figure out what the visit was about. He seemed a little uneasy as he sipped his coffee.

“So,” said Joe.

“Sew buttons,” Buster said, the witticism lame and off-handed, before getting down to business. “Anyway, I was thinking about how we’re going to cut the picture and that got me to thinking about the credits. About how we’re doing things in general.”

Joe looked at him, waiting for him to go on.

“So you’ve got a picture. Say it’s a Doug Fairbanks picture. For example, Doug comes on and you say, ‘Douglas Fairbanks supervised by Joe Doakes.’ It’s bad on the face of it. You’re belittling Fairbanks. Fairbanks, not Doakes, is what you’re selling.” Buster leaned forward and knit his hands on the desk.

“I’m listening,” said Joe. A frown was creeping onto his face.

“When you’re talking about a picture, what do you really need? Three things. One man writes it, another man directs it, and a star acts it. Those three people are responsible for every great picture that was ever made. In some cases one man is all three—Chaplin,” said Buster.

“I see where you’re going with this and I disagree,” said Joe, giving a frown. “Supervisors are the big thing. All the big studios are using them.”

“Maybe they are,” he said. “But they can be wrong. It’s not going to last long. The whole damned thing’s a bad joke.”

Joe shook his head, looking displeased.

Buster laid the trump card on the table, poker-faced but confident. “There’ll be no more supervisors in the pictures Buster Keaton makes.”

He waited for Joe to reply. As the seconds ticked by in silence, he began to wonder if he was in for a real fight. He’d said he was taking the pot, but maybe Joe didn’t know that he wasn’t bluffing.

At last, Joe cleared his throat and said something. Buster had to lean forward to catch it. His brain grappled with the words, not comprehending.

Buster Keaton isn’t going to make any more pictures.

That’s what Joe had said.

He sat back in stunned silence as Joe continued.

“No, no,” said Joe. “That didn’t come out right. What I mean, Buster, is that you’re not going to make any more pictures for me. I’m dissolving the studio.”

“Why?” Buster managed to say. His lips felt tight and dry.

“Now I don’t want you to worry,” Joe said, holding up a hand in a benevolent way. “I’ve gotten it all straightened out. You’re going over to M-G-M. That’s where Nick is. He’ll take great care of you. Look, I know it’s not what you want, but just think about it for a minute. You’ll have ten times the opportunities. A whole staff of writers working for you, helping you with cutting and production and stories. The money’s bigger. The pictures will be better. You can’t lose, it’s a chance of a lifetime.”

Buster couldn’t make his mouth work. Joe was now waxing poetic about the settlement Buster would be getting for his interests in the studio. The studio? His studio. Buster Keaton Productions. Five thousand dollars for eight years of making millions for Joe, and now he was finding out in the worst possible that he didn’t have the power in his own enterprise that he thought he did.

“Nick will treat you just like his own son. I’m telling you, you’ve got nothing to worry about.” Joe was more animated now as he reviewed the details. It was clear that he had been chewing on this decision for a while now and there was no appealing it.

Buster listened on in disbelief. An image was crystalizing in his mind of a theater trunk sitting in an alley, left behind and forgotten. He’d felt exactly the same way the day he’d split up The Three Keatons.

He didn’t remember what he said to Joe before leaving the office. He didn’t even remember leaving the office. He just found himself walking east on Romaine Street toward 1025 Lillian Way. His thoughts couldn’t seem to coalesce. He supposed he was in shock. Part of him wanted to think that it was all a dirty joke, but Joe—Joe, who attended the Sunday barbecues at the Villa faithfully, who had been so worried for Buster when he’d returned from France that he’d emptied his wallet for him, who’d lent Buster money to buy his first house—had never been that kind of man when it came to serious matters. Buster was torn between wanting a stiff drink and wanting to jump off a bridge.

He did neither, of course. Back at Lillian Way, there was a film to finish. He now knew what the crowning gag would be. Tomorrow, the Saphead Would Face Down Certain Death. Whether he survived, he didn’t much care at the moment. *** Nelly had never worked on a Sunday before, but the Sunday before Labor Day was the final day of shooting and she couldn’t object even if she wanted to. Of course she didn’t want to. She’d been with the picture from almost the first and couldn’t think of a greater honor than finishing it out. The other actors and much of the crew had departed since they’d left Sacramento, and now it was just her, Bert, Buster, and a skeleton crew. A small set had been built on the United Artists lot and she was presently furnishing a small two-story house. The second story needed only to be filled with boxes, but the main floor required homey touches, so she and Bert arranged a rug, a sofa, a chair, and pictures on the wall. She set a lamp on a table in the center of the room. The house had a breakaway facade that was lying face-down in the dirt, but had hinges enabling it to be drawn up.

As she decided whether a fringed floor lamp should go to the left or right of the sofa, Buster and one of the crew walked up. They both got on top of the flat facade and she watched, pretending to be busy with the lamp, as Buster stood in the frame of an open second-story window and looked to the top of the house. She positioned the lamp to the left of the sofa and slid the cord under it and out of sight. When she glanced at Buster again, he was hammering a nail into the dirt inside the window frame. She couldn’t imagine what he was doing. Plumping one of the throw pillows on the sofa, she looked again. He was hammering a second nail. “This’ll do it,” he said to the crewmember.

Bert came through the back door of the house with an armful of curtains as Buster and the crewmember walked away.

“What’s he doing?” Nelly said to him under her breath.

“Buster?” said Bert, sounding a little out of breath as he dumped the curtains on the sofa. “Figuring out where to stand. The facade’s gonna come down right on top of him. Except he ends up in the window and doesn’t get hurt.”

“On top of him?” said Nelly, her innards seeming to go cold. The breakaway facades weighed a ton. The crew and cast had been warned to stay well away from them when the previous breakaway scenes were filmed, since getting caught underneath one would spell catastrophe.

“That’s right,” said Bert. “It was just supposed to fall down near him, scare him a little bit, then he’d run toward another building and it would fall down too, but he got the idea to have the window pass over him last night he said.” Bert didn’t seem to be at all perturbed by the nature of the stunt as he set to hanging a curtain.

“He’s going to get killed!” Nelly said, rooted to the spot. “That facade has to weigh at least a ton.”

“Two tons,” Bert said, walking across the room and pulling down another curtain rod. He eased a curtain onto it.

Nelly felt panicked. “He’s crazy. He’ll get killed. Has anyone tried talking him out of it?”

Bert laughed. “You think anyone has ever talked Buster Keaton out of anything once he’s got an idea in his head?”

“He’ll be killed,” she said. She was starting to feel almost hysterical.

“Trust Buster,” Bert said, stretching up to hang the curtain on his tiptoes. “He’s always fine.” Nelly sat down on the couch, trying to calm her thoughts. Bert was probably right, but suppose …

All of her supposes, like the hinges failing or a wind machine shifting the facade just inches in either direction, ended up with Buster crushed to death. Bert walked back out the back door and she barely noticed. She tried to think of some way to stop the maddening act, but couldn’t. She didn’t know Buster as well as Bert, but she knew Bert was right. Nothing stopped Buster once he was set on something.

“Better move, sweetheart, we don’t want you in the scene.” She looked up and Buster was at the corner of the house peering in at her.

It was her chance to beg him to reconsider, to throw herself on him, scream, and rend his clothes. Instead, she apologized and let herself out the back door. There was nothing that causing a ruckus would do except delay filming and possibly get her kicked off the set, spoiling her future chances of working for the Buster Keaton Studios. The facade gave a titanic creaking as it was eased back into place. Outside of the set, a couple crew members were wetting the dirt in front of the house with a hose so that it was slick and muddy as if from a cyclone. Nelly made her way toward some other crew members clustered off-camera to the right of the house. As she got closer, she noticed they were huddled in a funny way.

“...hallowed be thy name

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done

On earth as it is in heaven.”

They were praying. The realization almost made her sick to her stomach. She didn’t go in for religion, but as she stopped in their midst, she made the decision to join them. If there was any chance the prayer would spare Buster, it was worth it. The ending lines had a foreboding potency they’d never had before.

“But deliver us from evil

Now and at the hour of our death.”

The hour of our death. She looked up and saw Buster a few feet from them, looking placid in his baggy pants and suspenders. Was she seeing a man in the final hour of his life? If she had any sense, she’d leave. There was no reason to watch this. Yet she felt duty-bound to stay. A superstition said that maybe it would help preserve him from the stunt going wrong.

She watched Buster helplessly as the minutes went by and the final preparations were made to the set and the cameras. The wind machines were turned on and Buster walked in front of the house. He went down to his knees and sprawled out flat onto his chest in the mud.

“What’s he doing?” she said to one of the electricians.

“Continuity,” the electrician replied. “He was muddy in the scene we shot yesterday.”

The cameraman yelled something she didn’t hear and Buster walked in front of the house. He faced one of the cameras. Nelly felt almost light-headed. What if the wind had blown the nails out of place? What if—

Buster rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his jaw. The house’s machinery groaned and the facade heaved forward. At the last second, she turned her head. There was a gut-wrenching thud as the facade landed. Tears sprang into her eyes.

After an interminable second or so, a roar went up from the men around her and they began to clap. She looked back. Through the glaze of her tears, she could just make out Buster, still rubbing his neck and rolling his jaw nonchalantly. A great cloud of dust had sprung up. Buster pretended to suddenly realize what had just happened and dashed out of the ruined facade, stopping once at a safe distance to stare at the house in terror.

“Cut!” shouted the cameraman over the wind.

The group of men headed toward Buster at a clip. There were hoots and handshakes and claps on the back, and Buster was grinning. Nelly shielded her face with her hand and cried, overcome with relief. She still felt weak and sick.

“Why are you crying?” said Buster.

He had crept up without her noticing. She turned her face away quickly, shaking her head. “Because you’re a damned idiot!” she said, not caring now whether speaking her mind would ruin her chances of staying on with him. “You had no business doing that.”

Buster touched her shoulder. “Look, I’m okay, ain’t I?”

She shied away. “No gag is worth your life,” she said.

Buster looked surprised. His hand fell from her shoulder. “Okay.”

He left to go talk to the second cameraman and Nelly stole away, tears still coming, feeling downright dreadful. She wished she hadn’t stayed on for the final day of filming. It hadn’t been the celebratory end she’d expected. It had been awful, like seeing a man trying to commit suicide but by a miracle failing. Note: The dialogue with Joe Schenck is adapted from Rudi Blesh’s biography.

#Buster Keaton #Fan fiction #Fan fic #RPF #Actor RPF #Silent films #Golden Age Hollywood

14 notes · View notes

sdottkrames · 4 years

Text

You know what? (I learned that from you!)

@comfortember prompt 7: blanket forts.

Summary: Peter decides to introduce his uncles Thor and Loki to the concept of blanket forts

Note: I just really love Uncle Thor and Uncle Loki, ya know? I need more Peter & Loki fics. (Again, let me know if you have any recommendations)

I suggest you read my fic I’m Just Saying If You Really Loved Me You Would Share Him before reading this one (at least the UncleNapped chapter) but it’s only briefly mentioned here so this can be a stand alone fic, as well!

Read on AO3: here

“Tony, I’m hoooooome,” Peter sang as he entered the living area of the compound, promptly making himself giggle. When there was no immediate answer, he walked through the floor, trying to find his mentor. Each room was curiously empty.

He was heading back to the living area when his phone rang, lighting up with Tony’s picture.

“Hey, Tony. Where are you?”

“Sorry, kiddo. Running a little late at a meeting with Pepper. I’ll be there in a little while, okay? There should be a surprise landing for you in about...oh...30 seconds.”

“Okay,” Peter said slowly.

“It’s good, I promise. I gotta go, I’ll see you later, okay? Bye, Pete!”

“Bye?” Peter said, but it sounded like a question. Shaking his head, Peter stood in the middle of the living room, wondering what this surprise was that was supposed to come.

He didn’t have to wait very long. A bright light filled the living room, making Peter squint. Then it vanished as quickly as it came, and standing in its place were two familiar faces.

“Peter!” Thor boomed, bounding forward to pick the boy up in a big bear hug.

“Hey Uncle Thor!” He giggled. “It’s good to see you again!”

Once on his own two feet again, he walked over to the other God, who held out a fist for him to bump.

“Hey Uncle Loki. So, what brings you two to our neck of the universe?”

“Well, there was this thing-“ Thor began, scratching his neck and shuffling his feet.

Loki rolled his eyes. “We wanted to see you again,” he interrupted.

“Really?!”

Peter’s face absolutely lit up. He hadn’t seen the two Asgardians since they had “kidnapped” him after school a few months ago. They’d spent a day exploring New York together, and he’d had so much fun. He’d missed them.

“Absolutely,” Thor said kindly, and Loki nodded.

“Well, what do you want to do, then? Tony should be here soon, so maybe we keep it a little closer to home this time and stay in the penthouse?” Peter thought for a moment. “We could play games, or watch a movie. There’s plenty of snacks and blankets-“ suddenly an idea hit him and his eyes got all big and excited. “ooooooh! Blanket fort!”

Loki blinked. “Blanket fort?”

Thor looked equally confused. Peter just grinned.

“Trust me. It’ll be fun! And when we’re done, we can watch a movie in the fort. C’mon! Let’s go get some blankets!”

Without waiting to see if the gods were following him (or to think about the fact that he’d just ordered two gods around) Peter hurried down the hall towards the closet, where he knew all the blankets were kept.

Tony had started stocking that closet ever since Peter started spending more weekends at the compound. The older hero had pretended to be annoyed that his mentee was always complaining about being cold, but soon that closet had been emptied of its previous contents (just random junk, according to Tony) and stocked with all the softest, fluffiest blankets Peter had ever seen. And a massive first aid kit, as well, also courtesy of Peter’s spending more time there.

Once Thor and Loki had made their way to the closet, Peter piled on the blankets and pillows, grabbing a pile himself before heading to the living area and dumping them unceremoniously onto the floor. The other two followed suit, Thor looking amused and excited, and Loki wearing an expression of mild interest.

“So you’ve never heard of a blanket fort before?” Peter asked, mentally taking stock of the room and the best vantage points for hanging and draping the fort walls and ceiling.

“No. We have no such tradition in Asgard. How, exactly, is a blanket a suitable material for a fort? It would offer no protection whatsoever,” Loki asked.

“Well, it’s not for protection,” Peter laughed. “It’s for fun.”

Loki nodded, thoughtfully.

“I like fun,” Thor offered.

“Perfect. Now let’s get started. I need the couch moved over there, and we also need a chair. This fort is gonna be epic!”

The next hour or so, Peter taught the others how to build a blanket fort. He showed them the way Ben had always tied up the top of the fort, explained that said top had to be the lightest blanket, and waxed poetic about the uses of duct tape. The gods listened with rapt attention, and Peter smiled to himself, feeling important as he directed them. He may have even showed off a little by handing from the ceiling when setting up the top of the blanket fort.

Soon, the living room was transformed into a fuzzy kaleidoscope of colors, complete with a floor of equally eclectic pillows. Peter flopped down onto the pile, grinning happily at the ceiling.

“I have to admit that was rather...fun,” Loki said, quietly.

“I thought you might like it!” Peter smiled at the trickster.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, brother,” Thor said. “Now, we need some food and drink for the movie.”

“Ooooh. Tony keeps a big box of pop tarts in the pantry. And a giant container of hot chocolate mix.”

“Sounds delightful. I’m rather good at hot cocoa,” Loki said. “I can make the drinks.”

“Alright. I’ll grab the pop tarts.” Thor stood and they both headed toward the kitchen.

“I guess I’ll pick the movie,” Peter said to himself. He grabbed the remote and started browsing Tony’s extensive collection. “What about the newest Star Wars?” He called.

“Not sure about Point Break and Reindeer Games, but I’d say you’ve seen that one about 19 times.”

Peter spun around at the new voice. “Tony! You’re back!” He said happily.

“Yeah, I am. Now, why does my living room look like a blanket rainbow just threw up?” Just then, Loki walked in carrying three mugs of steaming hot chocolate. “And why is the god of mischief making cocoa?”

“I was advised that alcoholic drinks were unsuitable for young midgardians, and I make a very nice cocoa. I can change it to something stronger if you like,” Loki said, placing the mugs down on the table inside the fort.

“NO!” Tony nearly shouted. “Cocoa is fine. I’m just very curious about how all this happened.” He gestured towards the colorful masterpiece.

“It was my idea! They’d never made one before,” Peter explained. “And watching a movie is 1000 times more fun inside a blanket fort. Everyone knows that.”

“You’re right,” he said. “And you know what?”

“What?” Peter asked, tipping his head sideways.

“I learned that from you. I never did blanket forts until I met you, either, and they are definitely a must for movie nights.” Peter beamed. “You got enough cocoa for me, Loki?”

Loki snapped his fingers and a fourth cup appeared on the table. Tony eyed it skeptically.

“It’s not poisoned,” Loki rolled his eyes. “I’ll have that one, if you prefer. You can have one of the ones I made earlier.”

Tony grabbed a cup, and Thor walked in with about 20 pop tarts piled onto a plate.

“Wow, uncle Thor. You like pop tarts?” Peter asked, grinning.

Tony groaned. “Kid, you aren’t the only reason I keep, like, 30 Costco-sizes boxes of Strawberry Pop Tarts. Once, we ran out, and Point Break here accidentally fried the electricity, he was so upset!”

“I did apologize,” Thor pouted.

“Yeah, yeah. No harm done, Thor.” Tony patted his arm, and Thor’s smile returned easily.

Peter chuckled lightly to himself, grateful for his crazy, silly family, and pressed play. As words started lighting up the screen, proclaiming news from a galaxy far, far away, Peter found himself stretched out with his head in Tony’s lap and his feet in Thor's. Tony was playing with Peter’s hair and making the boy slowly fall asleep. It was so relaxing, and he was surprised when he felt a set of new hands scratch his scalp. It felt amazing. Loki (Peter swore the asgardian could read his mind) smiled at him knowingly, and the hands returned so there were two sets playing with his curls.

Really, there was no way he could stay awake now.

“Loki, I was here first. You have to wait your turn,” Peter heard Tony say, and felt one of the hands pushed away.

“You can share, tin can. Peter likes it, don’t you, spider?”

Peter smiled. “M’sleeping,” he mumbled, and the others quieted as their hands continued running through his hair. Peter fell asleep with a smile on his face.

#comfortember #comfortember 2020 #mine #i love my iron dad and spidey son #sorry this is late #my nephew got baptized today so I was busy ALL day

6 notes · View notes

nikanndros · 6 years

Note

YOOOOOOO. SURPRISE! I’m not here about your fabulous new update (even though I could wax poetic on that in another ask) I’m here to inquire about that BOMB ASS INFIDELITY FIC YOU WROTE. look. I would write you ANYTHING In exchange for more of that fic/anymore infidelity. That shit is great to explore. Anyway. Marry me, have my babies and don’t cheat on me but I LOVE YOU YOUNG G

Hahahaha There is a special place in my heart for that fic tbh, so I’m glad you liked it. For further reading, I did post here a Laurent POV version of that AU that you can read HERE.

I actually started a sequel to that story a while ago, which I never got around to finishing because I didn’t really know where it was going, hahaha. But there’s no point in letting it gather dust in my google docs, so here is the first two thousand plus words of what would have been the adultery sequel.

“Do you want to come inside?” Laurent asks.

He wonders if his eyes are still red. If Damen will turn around and see that he’s been crying and - what? Recoil? - Laurent doesn’t know. He just knows that this moment feels penultimate. This could decide the course of the rest of his life, the rest of their relationship together. He’s never cared much for people’s opinion of him, but he is desperately afraid of Damen’s rejection.

Damen curls his hand in his pocket - the pocket he keeps his car keys in, Laurent has undressed him enough times to know - and Laurent wonders if he’s considering it. Just getting in the car and driving away. Maybe back to his home, where Jokaste will be. She’d forgive him eventually. Laurent knows because he thinks he could forgive Damen any slight just for the opportunity to hold and be held by him.

Slowly, Damen takes his hand - empty - out of his pocket and turns around. He looks lost. He looks beautiful, he always does. Damen rubs his fingertips against his forehead, warding off a headache, and sighs.

Laurent doesn’t know what to say. The moment is heavy with pressure. There’s a fork in the road, which path will they take?

Eventually, Damen nods. “Let’s go inside,” he says.

They’re barely in the front entryway when Damen puts a hand on his shoulder.

Ask me to stay with you, Laurent thinks. “Yes?” he says, heart in his throat.

Damen isn’t quite looking at him. “I have to talk to my parents,” he says. “They had that look about them.”

Concerned, was the look. Probably worried that their polyamory has set a bad example for their son. “Okay,” Laurent says.

“You should talk to Nicaise.”

Laurent frowns.

“Laurent,” Damen says. “He’s just a boy. It’s not fair for you to be upset with him. And you know how much your opinion means to him.”

It hurts right now, to be reminded of the way Damen is. He can be an oblivious idiot sometimes, but he also has a kindness in him. Laurent has never seen him hold a grudge in his entire lifetime of knowing him.

“I know,” Laurent says.

“Okay,” Damen replies, and then, finally, he looks directly at Laurent. “I’m sorry.”

Laurent closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to cry again, he doesn’t want to cry at all - but he knows he won’t be able to control himself if Damen dumps him here and now. Not that it counts as dumping, when they weren’t even in a real relationship. Just illicit sex and intimacy that has changed the fundamentals of who Laurent is as a person.

He cups Laurent’s chin and Laurent hates himself a little for leaning into it. Then Damen continues. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I should have told you that Auguste knew. Well I should have done a lot of things differently. But I’m sorry it all came out like this. You don’t deserve it.”

I do, Laurent thinks. Because he’s the catalyst for all of it, the reason it happened in the first place. He had known he shouldn’t have kissed Damen. He shouldn’t have even let him through the door.

“I’m going to talk to my parents,” Damen says, like he’s making a mental checklist. “I’m going to stay here tonight. And tomorrow -” he hesitates, “- tomorrow, can we talk?”

What does that even mean? Laurent just nods, eyes still closed. He doesn’t know how to speak. But he feels-

He feels Damen press a gentle kiss to the centre of his forehead, and then the source of warmth disappears entirely. When Laurent opens his eyes again, he is standing in the hallway, alone.

Auguste parked at their parent’s house, and so the whole family has to ride back in the same car together.

It is a very silent trip.

Laurent sits between his brothers in the backseat and feels the crippling awkwardness that comes with knowing that not only does his entire family know he’s been fucking someone - but that he’s been fucking their family friend who was in a relationship. He knows his mother will try to understand, but his father is probably furious. Auguste, supportively, has one hand resting on his knee. Nicaise, to his other side, is squirming uncomfortably. He looks guilty, which Laurent wants to be happy about, but he remembers Damen’s words and ends up just feeling bad.

“Laurent,” his mother says, finally breaking the silence. Her voice is soft. “Will you stay at the house tonight please, baby?”

It’s actually a question. He knows he can refuse and avoid another terrible conversation tonight, and his mum will let him. “Okay,” Laurent says. He keeps saying that. He doesn’t know when he became so agreeable.

When they get out of the car, Auguste directs their father into his office with him, and Nicaise immediately runs up the stairs. His mother links arms with him and pulls him into the sitting room and onto a couch.

The couch is covered in colourful pillows, his mother is fond of over-decorating everything in the house. They sit together for a long moment and then she seems to deflate and she pulls Laurent into her arms like he’s a child. Laurent lets it happen.

He misses this kind of maternal comfort, but since moving on campus he’s felt too old to ask for it. His mother is always soft and she radiates love. “I’m sorry,” Laurent says, quietly. It seems to be a night for apologies.

“Oh my baby,” Hennike says. “My sweet boy. What a mess.”

“I love him,” Laurent tells her, because it’s been on the tip of his tongue for years and he’s never let himself vocalise it before.

“I know,” she says, soothingly. “I know you weren’t being malicious. You’re just in love. Life can be so complicated sometimes.”

He’s glad that he was right about his mother being sympathetic; he thinks that he needs this unwavering love and understanding that he can be certain in.

“I don’t know what to do,” Laurent admits.

“Do you remember how your father and I got together?”

“Yes,” Laurent says. He knows. Now doesn’t feel like the appropriate time to talk about his parent’s perfect love story.

“Tell me,” his mother prompts.

“You were friends in university,” Laurent says. “And then you realised you were in love with each other and eloped a week later. Happily ever after.”

“Yes,” his mother agrees. “I never told you this, but on the day that your father finally told me he loved me, I was seeing someone else.”

“What?” Laurent sits up. This isn’t part of the story.

“I was dating a boy from my highschool, who my parents loved and I felt okay about. But I was wildly in love with your father, and when he told me he felt the same I couldn’t refuse. We had to run away because my parents were so mad when they heard I’d broken up with my boyfriend. We got married so that they couldn’t try and pressure me to go back to him.”

“But you broke up with the guy,” Laurent says. “You didn’t have an -” affair. He shouldn’t feel squeamish about the word.

“No,” his mother says. “But what I want you to understand is that love is complicated. It’s a series of choices that you have to make, with no way of knowing which is the right decision… You boys shouldn’t have done that, not while Damen was still with Jokaste. But it’s happened now, and it’s time for you to make a choice of what you want to do next.”

“I don’t really think it’s up to me,” Laurent admits, quietly. “Damen told me he wants us to talk tomorrow. It sounded ominous.”

“Oh honey.” His mother pulls him back into her arms. “No matter what happens - one day it’s going to all be okay. I promise.”

Nicaise is sitting at the top of the stairs, when Laurent ascends them, his skinny legs sticking out between the balustrades.

“Do you hate me?” Nicaise asks in a small voice.

Laurent stops on the step that he’s on and looks up at his little brother. “No,” he says, finally. “Of course I love you. I’m just upset right now.”

“Do you want to sleep in my room?” Nic asks. “We can pulls out the air matress and then you won’t have to be upset by yourself.”

He has his odd moments of sweetness. Laurent opens his mouth to reply, but that’s when Auguste makes his presence known, stepping into view. Laurent briefly wonders whether he was waiting out of sight just in case he had to stop his siblings from fighting.

“Nope,” Auguste says. “We’re having a sleepover in my old room tonight. Go brush your teeth, Nic, and we’ll let you come too.”

Nicaise runs off.

“You’re staying too then?” Laurent asks. He tries to sound like he doesn’t care, but his acting skills aren’t up to scratch tonight apparently.

“Of course,” Auguste says. “I can’t risk missing any more drama.”

He holds a hand out and Laurent takes it.

“There are a lot of people who love you, Laurent,” Auguste whispers, later that night when Nicaise is asleep between them. “I really hope that you and whatever you’re doing with Damen works out but-- either way, I want you to know that I love you very much, and I’m on your side for everything.”

“I know,” Laurent replies, just as quiet. At least he has Auguste.

Laurent ends up getting to the cafe he’s meeting Damen at twenty minutes early. He orders a pot of tea, finishes it, goes to the bathroom, and then orders another tea - take away this time, just in case - all before Damen arrives.

He’s in the middle of anxiously wondering whether he should get Damen his usual coffee order or if that’s going to look too desperately sad, when he finally walks in. All dark olive skin and wearing a faded tank top that looks like it belonged to him before his last growth spurt. It clings tightly to his chest. At least that means he hasn’t gone back to his apartment, where Jokaste will be, for a change of clothing.

“Hey,” Damen says, and he puts a hand on Laurent’s shoulder. “I need coffee.” He disappears off to the counter.

Laurent is pretty sure his heart is going way too fast just from that brief moment. He is suddenly passionately glad he opted for chamomile tea rather than coffee. No need to add excessive caffeine to this hot mess.

A moment later, Damen is pulling out a chair and sitting at the table, opposite him rather than adjacent. It is very hard not to read that as a rejection of sorts.

“How are you?” Damen says.

“We should just get to the point,” Laurent replies.

Damen sits back in his chair a little. “Oh,” he says.

Laurent purses his lips, and then he forces himself to relax a little - or just appear to be more relaxed anyway. “I’m okay,” he says. “I talked to Auguste and my mum last night, and I told Nicaise I didn’t blame him. I’m going to take him to the beach tomorrow, like I promised.”

“That’s good,” Damen says. He leans forward again. “My parents all teamed up on me. And then dad called Kastor and told him everything, and Kastor called me just to call me an idiot. Oh, and to tell me that Vanessa is pregnant again and I can only go to the shower if I promise not to bring any dramatic revelations.”

Laurent gives him a half-hearted smile. “Brotherly love,” he says. Kastor is so much older than them and further in his life that he’s always felt more like extended family than anything else.

“I know, he’s terribly sentimental,” Damen replies.

They take a moment to regard each other, before Damen speaks again, this time in an almost pleading voice. “Laurent, what are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” Laurent replies quietly. This is it, then.

“You’re going back to university in a couple of days,” Damen says. “And everything is a mess. I don’t know what we’re doing, or even what we should be doing.”

“Me either,” Laurent agrees. He isn’t willing to say much more than that. He wants to drag this out - this ambiguous stretch of time where things aren’t yet officially over between them - for as long as he can.

“I love you,” Damen says, in a rush. “I’m in love with you.”

Oh. Oh. That’s - not what he expected. “I…” Laurent has to force himself to talk. Even when Damen has already cut out his own heart and laid it on the table before them, Laurent feels resistance in letting himself be vulnerable. “I also feel like that. About you,” he manages, weakly.

“Okay,” Damen says. He looks flustered. “Okay, good.”

“Good,” Laurent repeats. His shoulders drop, and he runs his fingers through his hair. “I thought you were going to” - break up is the wrong term, they weren’t dating - “...tell me to leave you alone.” He winces at the awkward phrasing.

“No, I don’t want that,” Damen replies. “I know we’ve done everything wrong, but I really do want to try with you. It’s just that…”

Oh no. “What.”

“Everything is a mess right now,” Damen says. “I have to find a new apartment and you’re going back to uni, and I think we should get all of that sorted before we try to make what we have work.”

It’s so logical it makes Laurent want to scream. “So you are telling me to leave you alone?”

“No,” Damen says. “Just maybe we should give it a couple of weeks for things to settle and then talk about what we want.”

This is hardly the let’s elope immediately reaction that Laurent had maybe wanted.

#the adultery au #writing #captive prince #i may pick this up again one day #Anonymous

130 notes · View notes