It's become so damned domestic...
So terribly normal...
So blessedly content...
Who could imagine that a year ago you were spending your time buried in That Book, delving into the Pages, scripting out the Wilds of London in the few spare moments you gave yourself? Never stopping long enough to feel that something was missing. Boxing. Screwing. Drinking. Sniffing. Dancing. And that was that...
And it had begun to bore you...
It bored you...
Who would ever have thought that domesticity, bliss of hearth and home, would have been what you were seeking, Edward of Blois? And now you're flipping through Chester's mail with a smile on your face, a beautiful man on your sofa, napping lightly from the tanglement that preceded it. And it's all yours... the whole ruddy thing. Beauty. Love. And Peace.
But there's one piece of mail in that pile with your name on it. Not Chester, but Edward Meurelle. A card. Like a business postcard.
That's what it is...
On the front is an excellently designed montage of reds and metallic golds, of naked torso busts, sketches that become living figures in the corners. With the logo in a thin, gothic font.
The Abbey...
Flip it over. All it says, in handwritten black ink: It's waiting for you there...
The handwriting is William's. There is no stamp. It would have had to have been delivered directly into your mail slot...
Chester never gets this sort of mail. Well. No, never. Edward exhales faintly as he flips the card over again, peering at the montage upon the front. The Abbey. A familiar name. Ah. Will's. Yep, right there. His handwriting. But I wouldn't have anything there waiting.
Edward crosses his leg, glancing over to make sure he doesn't disturb the man next to him. Instinctively, hand comes out to rest upon you somewhere, a casual touch as he sets mail onto his lap to peruse with other hand.
The card is examined again. Vampiric eyes peer at the images in the montage, isolating each with precision.
You can see the layers of artwork upon which this card was designed. A blend of Leonardo, Boticelli, Waterhouse, Vermeer, Picasso. The gold screened on after in the printing process. Amazing detail. Beneath it all, the scope and instruments of a navigator...
You might tell more from the handwriting...
Made with an ink pen, not a ball-point but something more felt-tip. Lift it to your nose, you could still smell the ink. And something on the card of the one who touched it perhaps. It was left today...
There is a stirring beneath your hand, a fencer's strong and lean back twisting in a stretch, the small of his back meeting your touch. "Combien de temps est-ce que j'avais dormi..." A soft question: how long have I been sleeping? "Ami," The smile pulls at the cushion, upon which he yet rests his head. "...souhaitez-vous sortir ce soir? Ou devons-nous aller de nouveau a la salle refletee..."
To mention the room with the many mirrors... it brings a gutteral laugh. Soft, summery. Simmering. Twisting again, Valan lifts to look at you, his face still dreamy, his eyes still glazed. But his smile is living warmth. He is quite awake. "We can go dancing... would you like... or roam the city in a prowl...and then return to our reflecting room..."
The fencing chamber. Amazing how little fencing is done in there of late...
Valan settles back on the sofa, dissolving into its softness and comfort. "Que regardez-vous la tellement studieusement?" Soft, he asks about your study of that card...
There's a smile as you wake, a stroke as you ask questions. But you answer them already. Edward's brows arch and he grins, "Not so long," comes his French as he sets the card at your hip. Read at your discretion. "We don't have to go out, ami," Edward offers, eyes back on his pile, "...no need to entertain me," he grins at you.
"But it looks as if the card is from Will. Some...show..."
~*~ ~*~
It only took another hour to decide what to do. Shall we stay or shall we venture out into the wide world? And whyfore? What could possibly be so interesting? Yes, work and business are compelling, but who said we had to do those with any regularity. We're independently wealthy...
Yet the call of a friend is strong. Well, the obligation is. And once that it was not a 'show' featured at The Abbey, but perhaps something more personal...well, that was enough to part company upon the sofa. Shower found and lounging ended, one had to dress quickly to leave before the genteel evening melted into overnight.
Edward trusted you to lock and alarm the townhouse while he backed the Cobra out of the drive. Maybe it is time for a visit to France. A new vehicle is in order. That was all he could think about. How boring the Cobra was. How tiresome the Spyder had gotten. How he missed his Sauber formula car.
But hand rested upon your leg as he drove along. He on the right, you on the left. It only left when he shifted gears, returning to seek your fingers. He is much like that these days, eyes elsewhere but hand twined in yours.
Crossing the City proved anxious, though. Kensington was rife with partiers and late evening shoppers. Whitehall was filled with traffic. All the way down Pall Mall to Regent. Perhaps he should have taken Coventry. The things you realize in hindsight. Edward smiles constantly through it all. In truth, it matters not. What matters is the hand that he holds, Valan. Yours.
Have you seen the Abbey? South of the lights of Picadilly? Finding a spot was not so difficult -- you take one of the ones marked 'Staff of The Abbey.' Most of them should be long gone anyway. But who knows. Perhaps this is an intimate display where some of them may be needed?
He has learned the dance you have taught him. The one to soundless music, the one that marks its turns and motions in now timeless fashion. Every motion is still, to some degree, practiced -- or held in-check. A balancing act between the potential of an action and the right amount of force, or speed. Or grace...
And so it was with the arming of the alarm, the locking of the house, the last check of his pocket for his cigarettes...
And a finger's sliding against the postcard...
If it is not a show, ami... I bet it is a gift for you. I think he promised, didn't he? That the photographs would be used...
The thought makes him redden a little, and only briefly. He has not yet commanded a natural flush.
And his fingers tangled with yours. Warmly. Constant, except when you drew them away. And through the traffic, he grinned. There was laughter. There were soft words. There was silence. He watched the reflection of the city on the windows of your car. It passes by like a carnival. And the shadows have a life of their own these days...
As the car pulls into a space marked 'Staff of The Abbey', Valan turns his head against the back of his seat. A lift of his smile to you. A corner, quirking. "It does not look," comes his English, still heavily accented -- from a lack of recent practice, "... like it is busy..."
There is a car or two parked in the shadows, toward the back and side of The Abbey. But the lighted sign is on, and you can feel some element of life within.
Valan leans over, a quick capture of a kiss and he grins into an exhale. "It is good I cannot die, ami... the curiosity would be killing me otherwise..."
Edward laughs at that, unlocking the doors. He nodded, noting the vehicles in the darkened way. "Maybe you're right," he murmurs, the click of the opening door sounding through his observation. About it all. The invitation. What might be transpiring. Hmph.
Edward quickly swings from his seat, tossing the door closed. He is moving to your side, as he always does, hand opening the door in rapid fashion. "And I'm glad you cannot die either, ami," he whispers, standing aside to let you out. "Otherwise, I would not know what to do with myself..."
"Me too," he says, and his voice is warm and carrying as he moves out of the car. And this, too, is a dance. But more familiar. One that comes so much easier. From the car, to standing flush against you. The shadows and the evening hiding the swiftness of the motion. And the kiss is sliding slow.
"Me too, ami," he says quietly in a muddle of English and French. Valan grins.
I have not once regretted my decision. My choice. My fate. I have never second-guessed it. Look what I have. Who would not want this?
He is in fawn-colored suede. Light and supple to the touch. The shirt is a gold-threaded green. To match his eyes. It was selected with that intent. And the gold in them sparkles moreso for the compliment. His hand finds yours. Fingers warmly tug. And he is with you...
Moving in light and moving in shadows. Going purple, briefly, when he walks beneath The Abbey's sign.
It appears to be open. The hour is not late. It is perhaps merely a slow night...
As you are against him, the city disappears.
Her lights...
Her garish colors...
For a moment, the world does not exist. For a moment, I can only see a beautiful young man who causes my heart to race. Simmering hair and eyes. With such lips, it makes me forget my very self. That I stand. That I exist. Everything is suspended, and time, once compressed, does not move.
And when he moves, I can finally sigh.
Edward watches you walk away from him, and he turns slowly to deal with the door. Every motion takes thought.
Close the door, Edward.
Lock the car, Edward.
Turn and go within.
Yes...that's it...move along...
He waits for you at the door to The Abbey, your beautiful young man. Pondering -- you can see it in the motions and in the smile to you -- a last cigarette before heading within. The hand stills upon the pocketed front of the shirt. Linen and suede. The textures. The colors. These were chosen for you.
I do not even know... I do not remember... I do not care how long or how short it has been, this time with you. I do not know how long I have been looking at you this way. I turn my head against the wall or door. I smile to you. I wait for you. You will be here in a blink. Will you carry me somewhere tonight, Eduard? Will I hear my name whispered against my ear, whispered against my soul tonight...
Let tonight be like last night... and the one before that... and the one before that. And yet... do not let it stop there.
The door is unlocked -- the gallery open. With a spreading smile, his back to the door, Valan opens it. Facing you. This is why we do not go out as much, ami...
"Ah, well, thank you, ami," Edward grins, seeing one good deed certainly returned. When he passes you, a kiss is given to your cheek, but like you, a cigarette would have been a good idea.
Past the metal doors are two bronze and stained glass gates...
These stood open -- and it is a good thing or Valan's backward journey would have ended rather abruptly. Would you not have laughed? But still more turned toward you than the confines of the gallery, he has not yet studied its light and shadows. Its positive and negative space. How a spotlight lands upon a series of three paintings -- large paintings -- prominantly displayed.
There are three paintings that cannot be missed. The spotlights of the gallery are softened -- so much darker than it would be in more prime hours. Blue Ethereal. Ruddy Earth. Crimson and Orange Life. And the face...
You will recognize it surely...
There is life up above, though it cannot be seen. It can be heard. The sounds of the cafe. You can hear the soft words. One of the young men, a waiter, talking about his date last night...
Rounded and straight. The definition of Positive and Negative space. The white walls of the gallery curve and bend, like white pottery around an artist's hands, and then... frozen there. And sudden and erect walls break rounded asymmetry. Open space pools into partial corridors, and then reopen.
And shadows and colored lights play on the curves. It is what gives definition to such white space. To other rooms branching off. To secrets uncovered by the indications and stroke of light and color.
Paintings, photographs -- a variety of images, explosions on the nature of color, a variety of artists -- hang on the walls. Large and small. Classical and deconstructionist. The gallery that first reveals itself in a sprawl of rounded curves next reveals the colors of its true form.
Myriad.
As both turn within, Edward's arm slips around your waist. Instinctive nowdays. And yes...something in the way. Filling the view...
Three tall panels make up this modern tryptych. Tall stretched canvas, some five feet in height, nearly three feet in width -- the middle portraiture wider than the outer two. And though the subject is the same, the three pictures are vastly different in coloration, in mood, in energy.
Arm scarcely touches your back, Valan, before falling away. Warmth replaced with a cool breeze pulled from the space around you.
Edward stares quietly, eyes lifted to the tryptych. Black turtleneck hugs his throat, threading downward to Edward's chest. Once at his waist, it disappears into black slacks. He was typically dressed tonight, but for uptown.
A swallow.
I cannot stand this. It is the one I have come to love...more than I can say...so...
I don't even know the word.
A blink.
Perhaps that will stop the tears. It is like someone saw into my heart. To see that he is all things to me. All of these things here. Hanging. More exquisite than any can know.
But someone knows.
Edward's face suddenly drops, brow furrowing. Where he stood in Toreador-like reverie, now, he seems stiffened. Like stone. He moves quickly around the work, feet loud upon the floor. Angry. Demanding.
"Plantagenet!" he screams in the gallery.
Someone had better find him. Find him now.
There were voices a moment ago, a noise.
Edward heads that direction, a blur in black. His face crimson. His eyes crystal...
The last breath of laughter lingered in the air, hanging pendulous. Until it shattered into silence. And Valan's feet are made of stone. Solid. Marble. He cannot move, even after you have vaulted off. Oh, what if he were from the Family of The Rose? Would the sight have killed him...
pA hand lifts to his mouth, and he finds he... does not know what to do with it.
Valan begins to turn, able to move a little, finally -- but you are already upstairs...
The Confessional Cafe is empty -- there is just the young waiter and the barista cleaning up. And as you appear in a blur, the French name from your mouth still hanging in the air, all the waiter can do is point. There is a broken cup and saucer on the floor. He dropped that at the sudden shout.
But no one reaches for a phone. Maybe it's not unusual for people to run in daft, screaming his name out loud and looking furious.
It's not like the waiter or the barista can even think yet. They only gape, bovine in shock...
Upstairs. Another flight...
There is a light on somewhere down the hall of offices and studios. And you see a tall shadow. A dark tower. Dressed in blacks and greys. "Edward?" Yes, he knows that it is you...
And yet his voice still carries a question. What is the problem, brother?
He is Angry. Livid. Exposed.
Edward looks up, and immediately swings around the next set of stairs in similar fashion. And he does not stop until he hits you, William.
A hair shorter, but no less a mirror. The emotions heave from his pounding chest. But it is a wary expression he gives, a half-askance look. A flicker of the feet around one's eyes.
Something to be said, upon sizing.
It is you, William, yes? You have done this thing? You, narrowing eyes say, how could you?
"I won't have you in my head, William. Understand?" You can't have this. It's mine. My innermost thoughts, my innermost feelings. My own soul bared on canvas...how I see a young man.
"Do..." the tears finally break their boundaries, crystalline at his cheeks, "...do you...understand?"
I do not mean this as it comes, William. This is the only way that I know. If you were any other, I would vent my fists at you, for such treachery to my heart. Just because you have this Gift, do not turn it at me. It is unfair.
His chin dips, really wondering if you see. I am not the others, William. I do not revel in being found out. He is my secret. Mine. I have so few. I have so few shots at this...
This does not mark the first time that Plantagenet has had a back to a wall and an eyeful of someone's anger...
And as he is fortunate that you love him, you are fortunate that you are loved. Who else would be tolerated coming at him thus? So close. You are in one another's shadows. The air does not grow sharp. The beautiful face, so beautiful ... too beautiful... does not harden in anger. There is the tinge of shock. The uplifted brow. He has shaved. He looks so young. And the surprise. The Almost King was not expecting to almost be pummelled by Edward Meurelle.
There is peace for your ire, Edward. There is quietude for your rage. There is directness, the fixed look. For he feels the things you do not say.
And he sees the tears...
"I understand," the French is now considered ancient. This dialect long dead. Primal Occitan, smooth as honey, edged with the fire lilt of Medieval cadence.
As you dip your chin, Plantagenet inclines his head. You and he. You are a passion play of balancing and counterbalancing differences and similarities. And for the first time in many, many years you even seem related.
"I did not mean to cause you offense," the old French comes again, that of his mother. That of Aquitaine and Provence. And a languid hush, deep and soft. "I will have them destroyed." His words are measured and careful. Quiet. And he merely stands. Back to wall and Blois before him. There is no move to stride away. There is no look nor sign of his own displeasure. Neither is there any fear.
You can feel the ease then. The internal exhalation. Glinting brown eyes look away, past you to some spot on a nearby wall. The rage still crackles around Edward, but now, calm begins to return from the inside out. A secret closed again and locked within his heart.
Him, I cannot share. I won't. We cannot be seen, he and I. Not by you, not by anyone. Not by any vampire eyes or preternaturally divine vision. Not by magical scalpel. We are mortal there, where you look, William. And in a right world -- where supernatural talents do not exist -- no mortal eye could see.
And thus, it would forever be Ours.
But such things do exist. Edward knows. His next breath is audible, and he steps back, out of your immediate space, bringing hand to stroke down his face.
He cannot say whether or not you meant to offend. He doesn't want to. Once hand lowers, he looks at you again.
A curious being, you are, William Plantagenet.
A swallow.
The next exhale is symbolic. Energy dispersed. Edward licks his bottom lip and suddenly is in your face again, hand at the nape of your neck. A firm grasp, it is not in anger. A clasp. His forehead to yours.
"I need to go." Forgive me. It is not what I had planned, brother.
That is what you are.
Edward's lips touch your cheek, and only then does he release the cupping. A sniff, and he turns about to see the one who inspires so much emotion.
That is what it is, really. Pure emotion, riding a burning star...
What reason would there be to offend one who is so greatly loved? To test you? Does Plantagenet care for testing? To rankle you. Does Plantagenet think to rankle? To show you something you may or may not know? Is Plantagenet a sage? Was the emotion you saw in those paintings yours for Valan, Edward, or were they William's for you?
This is the nature of art. Art, the sphinx. Art, the oracle. Inexplicable and full of meaning...
There was no motion as you touched him. No pulling back. There is the narrowing of eyes as you touch your forehead to his own. No, both how it affected you and your reaction have surprised him. Perhaps William's hands are merely an instrument of something else. Something he has no control over.
Dark eyes, both blue and violet look to you, as your hand moves from him. As you turn. There is one word whispered behind you. Occitan apology...
And the door closes to a studio. He needs a moment, Plantagenet does. A moment to absorb the rush, the emotion, the anger, and the event. Indigo eyes narrow, and behind closed doors William looks to his hands...
Valan is standing with the waiter. Something was explained. The cup cleared. He will tell you that story sometime. When you tell him your own. He turns to the second stairway when the waiter is distracted by the ringing of a phone...
The shock has begun to taper, but you can still feel it hovering around the air. Are you alright, ami? The words are now in French. Soft. Soothing. He followed you. He put the trembling mortals at ease...
He doesn't answer the question posed. It's felt indeed, just like the hand that suddenly grasps your own, pulling you down the stairs and to the exit. The waiter was never acknowledged, save a...
"Tell him...not to do anything. I'll...call him later."
And with that, you both are headlong down the stairs, Edward's feet more dextrous than your own...
The waiter pivots. You hear him repeat the words...
He said not to do anything... he will call you later. Is there anything else before we go? We can ... sure... I'll bring it up...
The rest is lost in the sound your steps make on the curved stair...
It is a blur, ami... like when I was living and you would carry me up the stairs. In Fleurlil. In London. In Switzerland. I squeeze your hand and then the world seems to stop, and we're in your car again. "Je ne sais pas quoi penser a cela," Valan whispers, turning his head against the seat of your car. To look at you. "Pour se voir haut tellement vrai la."
There is a half pause and he leans in toward you, "Avez-vous discute, Eduard..." Did you argue? Was there a fight? Are you alright, ami? And his hand is on your arm. Within the safety and insular privacy of your car.
Non, je ne sais pas quoi penser a cela. I do not know what to think about it. Je sais que je vous aime...
I only know that I love you...
None of those are answered. Once within the car, your door was closed, and Edward slipped into his side, locking you both within.
Once you look at him, he pauses thoughtfully. Suddenly, Edward twists and grabs your shoulder, pulling you towards himself even as he leans in. The kiss he places at your mouth is warm, soft at first, but gaining in intensity. It grows, hand softening to slip down your arm, lips parting vulnerable.
Surprise. It brought a little smile. But the smile was lost in your mouth. Claimed for another, greater purpose. And it melted into warmth. Sliding slowly. Then pulling. Grasping. Then softening to tenderness. Matching intensity, for love is returned even as it is given. Answering the questions your mouth poses as it parts...
I love you...
And there is warmth. The touch and feel of his skin. Not heated naturally, but by artifice of surroundings. The touch is gentle. The touch is firm. Supple. Inviting.
He does not ask what brought this on...
He does not ask what passed between you and Plantagenet...
Valan rolls, agile, into your hold. As much as the car allows...
As William merely stood in the face of your ire, Valan merely loves. Always.
"Hey," Edward breathes, breaking the connection for a moment. The color still fills his face, and the crystal tears leave trails upon his skin.
Once, they would have been invisible to you. Now, they are apparent.
"If we go now..." he smiles, glancing at his watch, "...we can be at Fleurlil...well...we can make it to Memnare by...sunrise." Inland from Calais. Upon the N17 to round Paris for points near south.
That slant of a smile. Moments ago, you saw it cut across a canvas. Trailing blue. Trailing ruddy earth. Trailing crimson. But it lives here for you. Only for you. And his hand brushes over your cheek. Wiping at the wetness. Capturing it upon his skin.
"Allons," Valan laughs quietly, "Je chanterai mal en grande musique. Vous conduirez rapidement et nous ferons l'amour en France..." Leaning in, his forehead brushes your own. Then his mouth, your cheek. Then your mouth.
"Allons," he murmurs there. "Allons en Fleurlil..."
Our home. Where we first met. Where we first loved. Where I joined you on our first night. Where I joined you for all the rest of the nights to follow.
A golden sweep of eyebrows arches upward and Valan sits back. "Voulez une cigarette?" Fingers slide into his shirt as he settles back. And out come two of your favorites. Stolen from one of your packs. Naturally.
How comforting you are. Edward smiles and agrees to it all with a nod of his head. Fingers come up to accept one of his own, and his expression twists to recognize it. "Vous tes au moins un voleur beau," he slips quickly, fishing out his silver lighter from within a pocket and flicking the flame brilliant.
Soon enough, the Cobra rumbles to life. Edward feels better already. Maybe it was the cigarette. Or the companion. He'll never complain on either. Turning about to see behind, the car is shifted into reverse and he backs out of the space, soon for the lights of Regent Street.
It is such a great comfort to be able to comfort you. And he holds out his hand, your beautiful young man does, with a twist of a smile and a gleam of gold-green eyes. "Meme si on ne peut pas toujours etre precis, on devrait toujours essayer de sembler bon tout en faisant la tentative..."
Gone is the English. Even the expletives. And in full force is the golden young man you met at La Maitresse de L'Empereur. Such cavalier language. Such beautiful freedom. He couples it with a wink. Yes, ami, if one cannot always be accurate, one should always look good while making the attempt.
Dieu...
~*~ ~*~
Another phone rings. This one closer to you, William Plantagenet, diviner. It is your own celphone, chiming softly.
The phone close to a large, charcoal stained hand is lifted. A sound of a breath. "Yeah?" The smooth baritone is... as it always is. Deep. Soft. But the tone, the inflection. There is something else there. As if he were really busy at the moment. Or hates the sound of his phone ringing...
"You're busy?" comes Ian's voice, a smile upon it. Timely, he'd be called, if you and he did not share more. "I should have thought so," he says quietly, barely above the sound of the lapping North Sea.
"Non," a breath exhaled, "just annoyed..." There is a pause, and whatever it is that has annoyed him is set aside. The tone softens, "I'm finishing up here. I have a couple of things to tear down and then I'm heading home. If I drive fast enough, I can make it back before you start to yawn..."
Another half moment. "Maybe I'll just have someone else do the tear down... I'll just go now... how was your night?" There, the missing warmth resurfaces...
Tear down? Ian listens, responding only, "I'll be waiting." Very simply said. "The lighthouse, the sea, the wind." That is all that is there. It was an unplanned visit.
"What night?" he suddenly thinks. "It's night?" And Ian chuckles.
Tear down. Artist jargon for taking something off of the wall, ending a show, ending a project. "I'll be needing that," French is soft and warm. His dialect. "It's been a long night already. Dieu," a pause, "...it's not even ten. Well... plenty of time then before you sleep."
You can hear him, he's in motion. Just the sound of his feet. Everything else is quiet. Echoing. The gallery must be deserted.
Quite.
"If you haven't gotten out of bed," the sensuous mouth makes its first half-smile, "don't bother... I'll be joining you there shortly, amours. Do you want anything from London before I bid her good riddance?"
"No," Ian says softly, "...nothing I can think of." Maybe I was right to call. "Just you, that is. So. I will see you...as soon as you can?"
The surroundings are quite still. He's just paused inside, a moment from leaving, from locking up. "That's easily done," and that in Gaelic. "You will see me," a quiet promise. "In a few hours or so. I don't even have to pick up anything from the Palace...I'm heading straight for you..."
There's a moment of quiet. You know he wants to say something. You know he's not sure quite what to say. And then there is a quiet, "Thank you for calling. I needed it..."
There's quiet, but you know he is there. "How could I not, Gwilym?" Gaelic in return. "I will see you...as soon as I can see you. It won't be soon enough, laird. Drive safely, hmm? I love you."
"I will," a whisper, "and I love you, too." The smile tries itself again and a hand rakes back shorter, black hair. "I'll call you from the border so you can put a kettle on..."
And when the call is disengaged, it is held for a moment before it's pocketed. The long grey overcoat, its inner lining of silver fox fur, folds about him, regal. And gloves hide the charcoal, hide the paint he doesn't bother to wash. The artist folded into the existence of the much older warrior and king.
There's a last look to the three paintings. A last search. And then a half frown. A sigh. A shake of his head. And then the paintings are hidden by the sudden absence of spotlight.
Posted by Criseyde at May 01, 2003 10:05 PM
