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Auguste closes the door behind him. Shoves his shoes away and hangs his scarf on the hanger. The hall remains empty. Their home’s silence isn’t unusual, but the lack of greeting is a first clue.
Laurent hates Valentine’s Day. Understandably. The past five years, he spent it brooding in his room and snapping at him for stupid things, like breathing too loud. Auguste doesn’t pay too much mind to these moods. It’s normal. He’ll inform Laurent’s therapist on Monday, as per usual.
"I’m home," he shouts to the silent corridor.
The idea of the apple pie they bought yesterday carries him to the kitchen. He’s had a long day at the firm, and he’ll need to see to the horse afterward. He enters and—
There’s a bouquet of pink roses soaking in their mother’s blue vase. On the center of the table. Glaring at him. Tied with a red ribbon. He grabs his phone, already urging toward his brother’s room. The judge has forbidden him from contacting them! Their lawyers will hear about that!
The number’s ready to dial when he bangs on Laurent’s door.
"Laurent! Laurent! Open!"
He heard the muted footsteps on the cracking wooden floor, so typical of Auguste’s baby brother.
Second clue: Laurent slams the door open. And then lean on the frame. He’s holding himself carefully and gives Auguste a look that’s trying to fool the two of them that Laurent’s in control.
Defensive. Protecting himself. Auguste fears the reason.
"Auguste," he drawls. "You thought I didn’t hear your mammoth walk? You really need to lose weight—"
Auguste cannot handle this little dance at the moment.
"The roses. Where are they from?"
Laurent looks at his fingers. Stalling. Trying to keep control. Shaking him would do Auguste a disservice.
"I can’t have roses for Valentine’s Day?"
A fist of anger rises. Auguste extinguishes it. Laurent needs support. Laurent is trying to get a rise out of him because he doesn’t know how to handle his emotions properly. Laurent needs compassion.
"You can have anything you want," Auguste says. Calmly. "I’m just worried about their origin."
Laurent makes a brave attempt at staring defiantly at Auguste. Except that he blushes. He blushes. Alright. Crisis mode activated.
"There’s some pie left," Auguste says. "We can see if you still beat me at cards?"
"Well, we all know that depends on your willingness to let me win."
This time it’s Auguste’s turn to blush. Since when did he know? Laurent flows past him, heading to the kitchen.
The bouquet stands between them, begging to be addressed. His baby brother wants him to talk about it, otherwise he would have hidden them. Laurent serves them the pie, while Auguste deals the cards.
Laurent won’t talk about it first. Naturally.
They play round one, Laurent talks about his mare, and Auguste wins. They play round two, Laurent talks about his current reading, and Auguste wins. They play round three, and Auguste says, "You know I love you."
Laurent looks up, briefly, but keeps hiding behind his hair.
"I know," he says softly. It brings a smile to Auguste’s lips. Then Auguste wins the game.
"Alright," he says, putting down the card and grabbing Laurent’s finished plate. "Tell me about the roses."
Laurent’s embarrassment is a fretting animal behind him. Auguste opens the dishwasher and goes to put a plate in it.
"I have a secret admirer," Laurent confesses. Sheepish. Urgh. Lovesick? Why hasn't he talked about it with him? That mustn’t be good.
Auguste puts the dishes away and goes to Laurent's side. Blushing, avoiding, tugging his hands, Laurent. He touches his shoulder.
"Are you being stalked?"
Laurent looks up at him, his big blue eyes still childlike despite his upcoming twentieth birthday. A smile blooms on his lips, and Laurent bursts into laughter. A rare sound. Something in Auguste’s chest unfolds, something he hadn’t known was tied. He chuckles as well.
"You’re so, dramatic!" Laurent laughs, a hand before his mouth. "Oh my god. Auguste. Never changes."
Auguste laughs a bit, more because Laurent’s hilarity is contagious than because of real enthusiasm. It’s definitely not roses sent from him, but he still doesn’t know where they come from.
He circles his arms around Laurent’s waist and brings him to his chest. He sways them as Laurent laughs and laughs and laughs.
When his baby brother hiccups and begins to breathe again, he says, "I’ve met someone."
Auguste carefully feels nothing about the news. Laurent puts an arm on Auguste’s back and holds his shoulder. His golden head stays on the place his heart beats, and his warmth soothes him.
"You’ll like him. He’s all chivalrous and pragmatic and all. More funny than you, though."
Auguste huffs at that. Smiling despite himself. "What does that mean?"
"That means that you’re boring."
Auguste shoves him away. "What do you mean I’m boring? I let you win at cards!"
"That doesn’t disprove anything."
"You’re a little shit," Auguste says warmly while herding him back in his arms. Sways them again. The silence is comfortable.
"Is he kind?" Auguste asks softly.
"The kindest," Laurent answers. He looks up at Auguste. "I think you’ve met before."
"Have we?"
"At the horseback riding competition."
"He’s part of the staff?"
Something devious crosses Laurent’s face, and Auguste braces himself.
"No, he’s the guy who beat you."
Laurent pushes him away and runs to his room. Auguste stands there for a critical second to process what he’s just heard.
"Wait! Fucking Damianos?" He shouts as he runs after Laurent, who laughs like an evil little goblin.
Auguste fails to catch up to Laurent. His baby brother’s door slams shut in his face. He bangs at it.
"Are you fucking serious!"
"What? He’s an even better horse than rider!"
Auguste pauses. Registers what he just heard. Resumes the banging, even harder.
"What the fuck, Laurent!!"
And Laurent laughs and laughs and laughs…