It is early in the evening...
     But past waking...
     Past the first grasping, the first seeking of your mouth. The first giving of himself. Past the shower...
     Past dressing, past a hug. Past the whisper of 'Good Morning'. On the heels of 'I love you'. Valan moves... no... it's more of a languid sweep into the kitchen. Fast. A blur. He is learning. And the shirt is open, a near sheer wine colored shirt, unfastened. Untucked. Suede has given way to something softer than khaki with the approach of spring. And sparkling at his stomach, the silver chain. He is seldom without it. Only when bathing. His golden hair is artistically mussed, like when you first met him. Mod but modern. "Do you have any business in town?" He drops so naturally into French. He has to remind himself still to speak the Queen's English. He caught himself at the word 'town'.
     Valan is illuminated by refrigerator light. His golden-cream complexion a little ...lighter tonight than it was last night. Thanks to you.
     And he does thank you...

     It is past even all of that. The sound of a car slowing outside. A heavy car. Not a rover... something... with a little more weight.

     "Non," Edward murbles softly, distracted for the moment. Last night's mail. Maybe, now that the two of you are sated for the moment, he might look at it.
     Like you, he has managed to survive the first rounds of the evening. Twilight has given way to dark, and Edward shuffles in a pair of black silk lounging pants that shimmer as he walks.
     "Ugh...a bill," he laments, moving to English as you do, trying to encourage you. Yet as you tend to move to English, he moves to French. You remind him of who he is...and that's not a bloke from the East Side. Edward sighs as he swings the envelope between two fingers and then tosses it over his shoulder, towards the front door.
     Steps bring him to the living room.
     "I should get an accountant for this crap." One envelope is held up and he grins. "Chester Andrews," he smirks, an alias for himself. "Such a good name. How'd I come up with that one?" Grinning, he moves to the sofa and plops down, taking up as much of the space as he can. "Maybe it's time for Chester to die and his son to take over 156 Dannerly Court..."
     Wait. Edward quirks and looks over his shoulder, past the sofa. "What is this?" he says suddenly, "Paddington-fuckin'-Station?"

     Chester...
     Chester?
     With less blood, sure it is harder to blush. But when the flush comes, it comes brilliantly. As does his laughter. Warm, bright. He closes the refrigerator door and leans against it. "Dieu, vous ne ressemblez pas a..." Wait for it. "Chester...ah, ami...non, non. Chester should have a son..." He waves with his left hand, as his right hand holds a can of beer. He is not yet up to wine, but he take a little Boddington's. See, he is trying to fit in.
     Pushing off the refrigerator, he moves to you. So quick, he is, a winding arm is already around a broad shoulder. "You need something more... sexy," his English rolls, oddly but well enough, "... like...I do not know... Marcus or Armand or Geoffrey." Gold-green eyes flicker with a wink. As if those names would do. "Me? I like Eduard. I also like Phillipe..." Both of them are your names, yes...
     Arm yet around you, Valan pivots. A glance toward the door. A lift of brows and he looks to you. "You are so very popular, mon ami... the city cannot get enough of you. I know I cannot."
     I cannot help it, ami. A bend, and I kiss you. A warm press to the crook of your neck. A breath I wear. I pretend to need. And then I move. "I am going to suggest that we spend a nice evening at home... I just want to say that up front..."

     The car is pulling in toward your manor. 156 Dannerly Court. It's taking its sweet time. Or... maybe it's just a long car.

     "Ooh, a son, I do like..." Edward nods, mulling over another envelope addressed to Chester. He smirks as he's kissed and then twists his lips when his own names are mentioned. Maybe Phillipe is good. But then you kiss him, and for an instant, the driveway is forgotten.
     "Mm, you want to answer that?" he wonders, eyes straying back to the envelopes in his hand. "Well," Edward blinks, twisting to see you, "...be careful, right?" tipping his chin to remind you.

     Ah oui, Edward, I shall be...
     He has learned some of your more careful tactics. Though, you might see the seas boil before you see a gun in his hands. Still, there is a quiet stride to the door, past you to the foyer. A peer first, from front window. Just a finger barely parting a drape.
     "It is a limousine..."
     And then he peer through the small view-hole in the door. "A man, in fashionable tweed, bearing an envelope..."
     This he sees, this he tells you, as he sees the man exiting the car. "There is only one, ami. I will answer..."
     But I will let him knock. If you are nervous by this, it will allow you to get ready, yes? Valan pivots and leans against the foyer wall, waiting for the knock.

     Many things interest him. Few make him nervous. Edward simply sits upright, giving himself a quicker chance to his feet.

     And so the knock follows. Three short raps...
     And so, Valan moves, a quirk of a smile -- curious -- already in place. He opens the door. It is both cool and warm. It is a lovely spring evening. Lightly misty. Humid. The weather that makes the grass green, yes? And Valan opens the door fully -- fully enough for you to see the man on the other side.

     He is tall. He is blonde. He was once thirty or so. He is one of the Ventrue, not of London, but of France. You know that, Edward, because you know him. One of the Poitiers Ventrue, who serve William by older rules than even Clan. Alire. He can tell, can he not, that the one before him is younger than he. Valan wears the world so youthfully. "J'ai une livraison... de William Plantagenet..."
     Of course he was given a description of what he should find. And if he found it not?
     The package in his hand is offered to the young vampire. "Le maitre a la maison?" And he asks for the master of the house. That must be you.

     Edward's brow furrows, worry setting in there. "Alire," he says evenly, standing in full view in the living room. C'a ete un moment. Vous semblez bon -- je suis etonne de vous voir honnetement. "Mon Dieu... souhaitez-vous entrer?" Already Edward is moving towards the foyer, face clearly asking the question: Is everything alright?

     There is a glance behind him. Some silent motion given to the waiting car outside, and Alire steps in and closes the door behind him. He removes the sunglasses and the Ventrue Chill in the air noticeably warms. The smile is slim by nature, but does not lack for warmth. "Je ne puis pas rester longtemps, mais vous remercie. Ce, est pour vous et a M. Montague..." Alire pauses there and turns toward Valan. A nod of greeting. That must be you. You are as he described. And then, holding out the package, the slender smile turns to an almost grin. "Ventrue Express..." He says in sudden English.
     And then the package is tossed toward you, Meurelle. And with a wink. "It is good to see you. I heard you were in the area... not long ago. I saw William in Poitiers...ah... two months ago? A month ago?" A shrug. Who can keep up. He looks back and forth between you and this M. Montague.

     Valan steps back, a smile given to the guest. A hand comes out, "Oui... M. Montague. Valan is good. Please... would you like to come in, some tea or coffee maybe..."
     Such a host he is, your Valan. And how his posture changes when he realizes it's an acquaintence. A rather handsome acquaintence. I am almost jealous. This man. He is tall and strong and lovely. A knight too, I should think.

     "Really... it cannot be long, but..." You see it hang in blue eyes. "... Very well," Alire smiles. "I will have a little tea. I cannot refuse."

     Edward nods at it all, catching the package in nimble hands. Hmm. He examines it for information, wondering what should bring Alire forth.
     "Yeah," he replies distractedly, "...I was at Fleurlil for a while..." he looks up between both of you with a grin, "I had a reason." He's not known to be there much otherwise, but this time, the reason is obvious.
     "Come on," Edward motions, turning about, fingers opening the package. "Valan is from home," he notes, making conversation as you go. Not that you couldn't tell, Alire. "Please," Edward's hand motions to the sofa, unfolding the contents as he too takes a seat. "It must be important...that you came?" All the way to England? "Things alright?" In France, that is.

     "It is sunny in the south, the limestone keeps the heat. A good year for wine, I can tell it..." Such easy words. They come from Alire with dancing, light tones. Soft-spoken. "And the package. He said it was personal. You know how he is about personal things. He doesn't trust many to carry such things without diving into the packages for illicit detail." He sits then, another look to Valan. Another look to you. A knowing smile. "Yes, when the lights came on in the old castle, you should have heard the gasps from Anjou and Poitou," Everything with him is so precise. So well-mannered. "You should think it was the return of Charlemagne for such racket..." He removes his gloves, he folds them just-so and tucks them into his jacket. "Ah... from the region, yes." He gets back to Valan. "I can see that... how are you liking London?" And your new life...

     Valan is in the kitchen as the two of you move to the living room. The motions, the sounds of preparation. He is fluency, your Valan. Such grace and refinement already. The kettle is on the burner, full, set to boil. "Oui, I like it very much," he calls, "I am still getting used to the language..." As if apologizing for the odd position of words, or the Loire accent.

     That makes Alire laugh, quietly. "Hmm... I sympathize," he says in French, modern but shifting with a far older dialect from time to time. "You are doing better than I." As Alire sees you opening the package, Edward, he leans forward toward you. "Everything is well...and seems so with you, Edward." He is a very handsome young man, you have. It is good to see. "I am glad for it, ami. Truly..."

     The package. Within the plain manilla envelope, with no discernable mark at all, there are other packets of envelopes, bound together with string. Upon these, various stamps of the Mediterranean. Mallorca. Ibiza. Espana. There are three in all, with other envelopes included, marked only as Do Not Bend, Pictures Enclosed.

     Edward gives a knowing smile, something in his cheeks lighting up when his lips pull in the curve. He's glad you are glad for him. Only now can he accept such compliment and know that others have noticed his existence -- and what was missing.
     "Valan has learned much in a few weeks in London," Edward smirks, twisting to see the kitchen archway. No need to really give you the gory details Alire. Yes, Valan is young, but how young, no one really needs to know. "And, William..." Edward's knees part as his elbows come to rest upon them, "...is travelling near Espana." No secret there. "Hmph," he says, sitting back and beginning a solitary idle as he opens one of the envelopes and begins to read....

     There is an envelop for each of you with a stamp from Spain. Yours -- Andalusia. Valan's -- Ibiza, Mallorca. A symbol for each island. Yours is a little thicker -- more paper. Valan's is a little heavier. It must hold something else beside a letter. You look at yours, and it begins...

     The Rigel
     Andalusia
     Espana

     Frère,
     We have docked in Malaga, Andalusia. I am having to restrain myself from going inland after horses. I may have to have Ian tie me to a mast or somewhere on deck like Ulysses, to resist that 'siren call'. I know you are chuckling at me, Meurelle. You've taken to cars so much more easily than have I. For me? Though the motorcycle and cars are nice, nothing will ever compare to the horses of this region.
     Once, I said the same thing for its women...

     There is no press for such detail. Nor does he inquire of your letter, nor lean in. Alire merely sits, waiting on his tea. "I am to tell you, though he has included it for you I think in one of the bundles, that you may reach him on the Rigel, he has his phone. But you may also send any post through me. It has been a while," the smile returns, "... since I have been able to play Apostle. Et...oui... d'Angevin is taking the old routes, it seems. He was homesick. It was ... harder being in America than most wish to acknowledge..." And there is a glimmer of blue eye, seeking tea. No, he really can't stay long.

     A glance as much brings it. Valan carries a cup, a slice of orange on top, cinnamon already mixed in. Served Continental. "I am trying," his English continues, despite the use of French from everyone else. "You are from the Loire as well, it is always good to meet cousins..." A pause. Did I get your name?

     "Alire," he says quietly. And no, he hadn't given it before. "I am an....old transport into Poitiers. My family is from colder lands." Switzerland to be precise. He sips at the tea. A nod to Valan, a glance to you as you continue to read. "Merci..." Another sip.

     Your arrival, handsome, is not marked by the usual fanfare. Edward now sits back against the sofa, immersed in the reading of a letter. He holds it gently in his strong hands, fingers at either edge. It grips him, this epistle, and he only grunts in lifting tones to acknowledge that he has heard what is transpiring between you both...

     There is a curious look. Letters? He does not yet open the one with his name on the outside, though he sees it on top of the remaining bundle. Interesting, that he should send me something.
     It makes him smile, Edward. To have received something from William himself. William the Aloof. He thought he was not as well regarded by your cousin. Your other friend, Davydd. So much with him seems on the surface. If he likes you, you know it. If he does not, you certainly will know it. He is anxious. You can feel it on the air. Alire can likely as well. Is it good news? Is it a revelation?

     The tea is held and Alire is quiet for a time. Even as Valan is quiet. Another sip and looking to you both, smiling warmly, though slimly, "I should go," he says softly. "You have gifts from the prince, and I have to get back to France tonight." He looks then to Valan as he rises. "Valan Montague, it was a pleasure to meet you. Good luck in this England. Perhaps Edward will visit France again and I may play the host for once."
     He removes his gloves from his jacket pocket. He unfolds them, just-so, and places them on his well-manicured hands. "I will see you, yes, Edward? Call me next time you are in Chinon or Fluerlil. We will meet." You look happy. It gives hope, yes, that one day we all might be.

     "Mm," Edward chirps, coming out of his daze. The guest is leaving. He looks the very part of the affected vicomte, and blinks before he quickly stands. It dawns upon him that you are going.
     "Absolutement," Edward nods, extending hand to Alire. "Always a pleasure, Alire. Do take care and give my best to yours, oui? And..." he lifts the letter in his other hand, "...thank you for these. They are of some import to us..." a smile there as he shakes Alire's hand with more energy.
     "I'm glad you took time out to see to this yourself," Edward adds, moving around to escort the guest to the door.

     "I rather got that impression. There was that... certain something to his voice..." The grasp of his hand is strong, amicable. "You are welcome. My pleasure... to both sender and receiver," he twists to take Valan in his scope of attention again.
     There is quiet French, old French between you as you escort him to the door. You look good together, he says. And bring him with you when you come. You must tell me a little of his story...
     Ever the curious Alire...

     "Merci," Valan says, a brief shake of Alire's hand as well, before the apostle moves away with you. And he sits back, curling up on the sofa with a letter in hand. You hear him opening it. And then Valan, too, is silent...

     Alire pauses at the door, a twist to see you both. "Have a good evening," he says softly. Moments pass -- unmarked by Valan -- and Alire is gone.

     But to Valan, it seems sudden. He looks up from the letter. Holding it still, open, in progress. He is as quiet as you. Not withdrawn, simply... studious. Serious. He is drinking those words with the same care that he drinks blood.

     The older French is returned with a traditional greeting. Be safe as you travel.

Posted by Criseyde at May 28, 2003 07:01 PM