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Lauren?iu lifts his pianist’s fingers—sometimes, he offers to play at court, though Rosier is very possessive of the piano, to which the vampire replied, “Let them keep at it. It means more to them than it does to me.”
Lauren?iu makes quick work of Paimon’s clothes with a detached efficiency. He deftly unlaces the front of Paimon’s tunic with a cool stare. No matter how many ties or buttons, Lauren?iu knows his way around clothes, especially Paimon’s. Or maybe he’s just telling himself that.
When Paimon submerges himself in the burning hot water, which smells of roses, Lauren?iu doesn’t need instructions on what to do next. He kneels on the tiles, towering over Paimon. He takes a white vase, painted with poppies and roses, and begins washing Paimon’s hair, tipping the vase and spilling water into his curls and down his shoulders and chest.
There’s something to be said about the calm routine. No surprises. It’s a far cry from the turmoil of Hell, which can grow familiar in an exhausting way.
Lauren?iu lowers his hands into the water and rubs them together, lathering pomegranate and honey shampoo
Now this, this isn’t tiring. Paimon could get used to it forever. Although, he wishes there could be more. Not only sex, but this. Reciprocation—he’s never had this desire before, but he thinks about washing Lauren?iu’s hair and making him breakfast—what would a vampire eat? blood sausage? worth a shot—or...domestic shit.
Of course, doing it all with gold, nice baths, massages, and orgies is preferred.
Meanwhile, Paimon basks in the pleasant comfort of Lauren?iu’s fingers scrubbing his scalp. Fastidious Lauren?iu always does his best not to get soap into Paimon’s eyes, though that never really bothers Paimon; most pain is lost on him. After losing Heaven, having his grace and forgiveness ripped from his heart, most other pains are pleasures.
“How do you like court?” Paimon asks the little vampire once he’s done pouring water over his head, and the suds float on the fragrant water.
“It’s always animated,” Lauren?iu supplies with his usual dryness that Paimon can appreciate. That doesn’t quite answer the question, and it does.
“Animated. Yes.” Paimon leans his head back, so he can partly see Lauren?iu, the swish of hair he wants to reach out and touch, but doesn’t. “Do you think I’m kingly enough?”
“In what way?“
“You know. I project a certain confidence.”
“You always look the part,” Lauren?iu says.
“Oh, I know. We can’t have things looking too much like a Hieronymus Bosch painting, although his anal fixation was something. Downright Freudian.” Paimon’s tail fidgets in irritation on the side of the bath. “It’s just...this palace, I know it’s not quite as grand as Pandæmonium.”
“I like that it’s quieter. Pandæmonium can be very...”
“Stupid.” After Paimon says it, Lauren?iu gives pause. When the fallen angel shifts to face him, Lauren?iu has his hands on his knees with that permanently solemn face. “Pandæmonium can be very stupid. The bureaucracy, the people...”
“That wasn’t the word I had in mind.”
“Belial and Beelzebub aresoterribly stupid. I can’t believe Lucie puts up with them. ‘Oh, Lucifer, you could have just seduced you-know-who in the desert if you had a couple of smoking hot babes.’ Cretins. No imagination. I don’t see why Lucifer still listens to them.”
Surely, they weren’t more essential than Paimon. He and Lucifer had probably fucked at least seven-thousand times, but who’s counting?
Of course, he knows what Lucifer would say if Paimon asked why he put up with some of the angels he clearly had little patience for.
Loyalty. Belial and Beelzebub never abandoned Lucifer, or Paimon; they only had each other when they were weeping blood in a forest of ash and smoldering feathers. True loyalty is rare, especially if you’re immortal. Imagine promising yourself to someone for life, but with no possible end date. The fallen angels are a catty, arrogant, imperfect, traumatized lot, and Paimon is no exception.
Still,ugh. It’s funnier when he does it.
As if reading Paimon’s mind, Lauren?iu inquires, “You are all family, aren’t you?”
Paimon grimaces. “No blood relation.”
“You don’t need blood, do you?”
“I suppose not,” Paimon concedes, a rareness.
“It must be nice, in ways,” the vampire says faintly. “You know that you’ll always have someone to talk to.”
Paimon turns back over and leans the back of his head on the tiles by Lauren?iu’s knees. “Oh, they can be dreadful to talk to.”
The vampire leans over him, and their eyes meet.
