Laurent found him in between corridors, drawing him away from the guards flanking him.
“Damianos,” he said, when he had Damen pressed against a shadowed corner, hands on Damen’s bare shoulders.
He trailed his palms until he was framing Damen’s face, a thumb caressing the stubble on his cheek.
He went on his tiptoes and rested his mouth on Damen’s, soft, slow. It was the kind of kiss they exchanged when entering or leaving a room the other was in - a greeting or a farewell, no less instinctual than a verbal one.
When he pulled back, Laurent’s lips remained glistening and parted. He seemed surprise by himself. Damen smiled helplessly.
“Did you need me for anything, dear?” Damen asked, wounding his arms around Laurent’s back. “Or were you just overwhelmed by -”
“Hush,” said Laurent, his mouth against Damen’s jaw, deliberate now. Then, in his ear, “Can you fake a Patran accent?”
“You know I can,” said Damen.
Laurent stepped back, still in Damen’s arms but far enough to look him in the eyes. He had that diabolic look he employed when he tried to be approving.
“Good,” he said. “Don’t shave today. We leave at dusk.”
He gently moved one of Damen’s curls away from his forehead, in his eyes a dangerous glint. Then he was gone, a flurry of blond hair and blue clothes, before the curl had time to fall down again.