His nerves almost get the better of him-- and there's a laughable thought, that he, Nyx Ulric, ex-refugee, hardened soldier, and former Captain of the Veretian Guard, could be left quivering in his boots at the prospect of kissing one too-beautiful prince.

Which is... nonsense, of course. What is he, some sort of shrinking virgin? No, Laurent has a hand at the back of his head, lovely lips curved into a soft smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes, and if Nyx doesn't-- think too hard about things such as consequences and royal decorum, about nothing else but the promise he'd made Laurent...

I'm yours.

Nyx closes that last inch between them, covering Laurent's mouth with his own. It starts out careful, tender and chaste, until a faint pang of terror/dread/guilt tightens in his chest and Nyx leans in further to shut up the voice of reason, deepening the kiss with warm lips and a careful brush of tongue.