a CP ficlet, as promised
(idea courtesy of @echoing-artemis, who said CAPTIVE PRINCE BACHELOR AU which then turned into UNREAL AU in my head because let’s face it, in any situation like this, laurent will still be full of machinations.)
When Damen laces his hands together, the left thumb is on top. Laurent fixes this detail with a look that is, as it were, a warm-up for the look he’s about to direct at Damen’s face. Damen is perched on the edge of the plush, over-quilted, impeccably white satin bedspread, elbows resting on his spread knees. He is crushing some of the red rose petals. Laurent makes a mental note to send a production assistant in here with fresh ones before they film the individual segments after the cocktail party.
Someone knocks at the closed door and says, “Um, I think–”
“No,” snarls Laurent, wasting the first and most icily searing few seconds of his expression on the door. Silence follows.
“All right, what is it?” Laurent demands of Damen. “Is it drugs? Do I need to send someone out for some cocaine? Do you have a fucking headache? Has a soft-hearted AD whom I will summarily fire snuck you your phone, and you’ve found out that your cat’s died?”
“No,” Damen says, apparently to all of the above. After a moment he adds, in a tone that Laurent can’t parse, “I don’t have a cat.”
“Then what the fuck is wrong with you? I’ve seen potato salad with more vivacity than you’re showing out there.”
“It’s all so–staged,” Damen says, with distaste.
Laurent manages not to roll his eyes, but the violence with which he wishes he were rolling his eyes causes dull pain to gather behind them like a stormcloud.