The black car, sleek and rounded. Old jaguar coupe. Something from the 1960s. The lights of London stroke fingers of color against it. Neon is a whore spreading over the fender...
Knightsbridge...
     I should go somewhere else, but I'm too fucking pissed off. Too drunk. I've already killed one cat.
     God damn it...
     A hand lifts, pinching away a burning at his eyes. All that for a fucking cat and you can't muster a sob for the fact your on-again-off-again is fucking Vincent the art dealer on your favorite chair. Not even bothering to stomp humping when you step into the room... Fine.
     Who needs it anyway...
     That poor cat...
     There is a sound outside your door... do you hear it, Edward? The sound of a loud motor. Someone racing into the drive. Do you recognize it, Edward? The rumble of a British motor. The spark against the air...
     You hear it. The sound of a car. A motor rumbling into nothing. The closing of a door...

     He may be distracted, but Edward's body is not so easily turned from its path. A moment passes before the physical catches up to the mental distraction, and Edward's body lifts from Valan, if still pressed within. His hands slide away as the cool air comes between you, and from your position, you can feel his torso twist.
     The front door.
     "Someone...is coming," he breathes heavily, his chest barrelling from the expanses of air recently acquired.
     But is it so. There is quiet now. Edward turns his head, ear angled to capture the sounds again, if they continue...

     Who would be coming at this hour? Golden eyebrows knit together. Curious wonder -- wonder, more likely, the residue of what was about to pass. Valan lifts with you, twisting just slightly. Craning his neck toward the door. "Not expecting anyone..." he murmurs. A question. As much a statement.

     Someone is coming. A half second after the car door is heard to close, there's a knock at the door. Heavy. Male...

     Valan groans your name again, you still snug within, and he curls his hips, stretching in renewed motion beneath you.
     Don't stop...
     I was so close, Ami!
     Wide his thighs spread beneath you again, the curl of his hips brushing his rear against your groin.
     "They will go away... oui? Someone lost... or... selling something..."

     But you know the hand. And you know the thud that follows after...
     Davydd...

     Ah, but how his body leans forward to pick up where he left off. Simply on your groan and motion. Yes, they will go away. Oh...yes...eyes on you...they will go away...
     But Edward stiffens and inhales sharply, cutting that off. "Fuckin' hell..." he shudders and begins to retrieve himself right as the hand lands at the door...

     Whomever it is, ami... they will go away...
     Go away!
     Yes?
     "Oui..." gutteral that moan and loud as Valan shifts, filling himself with you again. A sharp breath. A quickening at your own shudders and he meets you with a loud sound. His skin against yours. His voice. So close.
     "Fermez-vous ainsi, ami..." Valan's voice lifts, "Je detruis mon esprit..."

     Oh Jesus. Is there no one in England who's not humping their brains out? Well... except me. "I know you're busy, Edward!" comes the voice through the door. You can hear it anyway. Maybe one of your neighbors. "But can you lend me a room for the night...I won't even make you put the boyo down to let me in!" He's been drinking.
     Extensively...

     That did it. Edward's retreat is final. His fingertips drag down your back, but he is quickly standing. A mess, certainly. He reaches across the carpet to his slacks, stumbling into them as he moves towards the door.
     "I can't not let him in, ami, forgive..." he murmurs, leg half-in one side of his trousers. He looks back at you, pained, and then to the door as he trips towards it, bent as if hunchbacked.
     "Yeah, Davy, shite, wait and shut up..." he calls, head hitting the solid door. "Fuck!" Edward laments, trying to fasten his pants and half-turning about to see if you've covered up.
     Only then does he trip the locks and jerk at the door...

     "I am sorry," Davydd is already saying, already backing up on the front landing, twisting to set the alarm on his car. "It's been a fucking night from fucking hell... I came home, my shit's all over the place... jesus...anyway...the couch will do. Fucking Plantagenet's guards on Kensington wouldn't let me in." Me! Of all people...
     That came out in one breath, mind you, and he's just ... quiverin...

     In the living room, Valan gets up off the carpet, his body shaking, showing the wear. And he grins. Not even able to tell you It's all right before your friend with the rapid tongue starts in. Oh! Davy. That must be the Prince of Wales. Twisting, Valan grabs one of the nearby rugs. Pants be damned...

     "...so... anyway... there it fucking is... sorry, sorry... I know you're entertainin..." He'll start in again, if you don't stop him.

     "No, no, Davy," Edward sighs, not really feeling any anger. All he can feel now...is interrupted and worried. Both of which will pass. "Um, yeah...come on in, mate," he murmurs, stepping aside. Indeed, there's no hiding what's been going on.
     The door closes behind and Edward trips the locks again. "Um...Davy..." he tries to move around you, to give the man inside some cover, "...can you give me a few? We need...to..." clean up, is the idea. "Oh...Davy..." oh, not introductions, Edward awkwardly stumbles, hand running over his hair. "Nevermind...um...yeah...come in..."

     No, no there's no hiding it. He isn't spending a lot of time looking at you. "Take your time. I think I have two more hours till I turn into ash..." he rumbles. "I'll wait here... no rush. I mean, if you just want to give me the keys to the next door pad, I'll just go crash on a sofa on the other side..." You don't have to hold my hand. Fuck her anyway. Her and Vincent...
     Davydd twists, pulling a pack out. "I need a smoke anyway. So I told her... as I was picking my clothes up off the royal green... that I didn't want her to be my queen anyway, the half-welsh tart..."
     And Davydd sits on the stoop with no other introduction to his evening than that.

     This is going to take longer than a few minutes, I can tell. I am psychic about these things, ami. And so a hand reaches out and grabs for trousers. Gah, the suede. It will be hard to wear but...
     The rug is dropped and the trousers taken up. Pulled on. "I think I'm presentable enough, mais oui? Is he alright?" a lover's quiet concern for your friend...

     He looks back at you, Edward does, then to the stoop. He shakes his head negatively and whispers an I'm sorry, your direction. "Come on, Davy..." Edward steps aside, "...we're all presentable, eh? What in the hell happened?"

     Glorious indiscretion, thy name is Montague...
     Barely clothed, and done so in moments, in afterthought, Valan settles on the sofa. Sitting, in a sprawl that speaks volumes to how he has been spending his evening. The shirt is on again, but undone. He is beautiful for the wear you have put on him. But no... it will not be a mystery...
     Maybe I should get him a drink. Ah... hmm... he sounds as if he has had a few already...

     Davydd takes a long pull from the cigarette. I shouldn't have come. I should have gone whoring. More drinking. But he rises all the same. Davydd sends the first smoke outward, launching from his fingers like a comet and he turns, eyes still only glancing. "Aye... I won't keep you. Just point me in a direction..." and he enters the foyer. His green eyes lift to you and then seek out the other one he feels and hears and smells. But you can see it...
     It took a lot to show up...if Kensington had not been locked down...
     "I came home to find her fucking Vincent on my favorite chair no-fucking-less... and she had pitched half my shit out on the lawn. Something about being sick of being treated like ... my favorite chair. No one ever said Rose didn't have a sense of humor..."

     Edward looks unsure of himself, glancing past you to see Valan. "No worries, Davy, okay? Just come on in," he murmurs, trying to get you into the living room proper and out of the foyer. "Davy...this...is Valan..." Edward motions to the young man across the way. "Valan...this is my brother," familiar term, "...Davy..."
     "Hey...um...wanna drink?" Edward asks, moving around towards the bar. Further in. Come in. "Ami...if you wanna...go upstairs...that's fine too, okay?" You don't have to stay if you don't like...

     Though my legs are shaky, I rise. Smile? That comes easy to me. "Bonsoir, Davydd," pronounced almost correctly. Better than most would at first meeting. Gold-green eyes flick from you to your...brother. "A pleasure..." All in English. Heavily accented.

     I'm not really into men, Edward. But he is a looker. You chose well. "Bonjour, monsieur, c'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer. Desole pour l'interruption grossiere." Whoever would have thought that Davydd's French could be so courtly and polished. A glimmer of refinement. The glimpse of diamond in the Welsh coal. He nods to him. Pausing. Boy, when I interrupt, I really interrupt. When Davydd turns to you, he knows. He smiles a little. Looking guilty. Apologetic. A pivot carries his glance to Valan briefly again, then lastly to you. God, I didn't want it to be like this.
     "Ah... no... you guys... go... back to what you were doin..." Davydd mutters, then clears his throat. A gesture to the hallway and he starts to turn. "This way, aye? Will your maids scream if they find me on the sofa..." You know... dead.

     "Yeah...take the first door upstairs, mate," Edward says softly, "...here..." he picks up the nearest bottle, "...take this with. How 'bout I come see you..." he glances to you, Valan, "...in a few minutes? Just to make sure you're all settled in?"

     The nearest bottle will do. Always the best in Chez Meurelle...
     Davydd glances back. This time, there is not apology but gratitude. And he gives your 'boyo' a last look too. A mild measuring. Apparently, he likes what he sees. There's no commentary.
     Now... when has Davydd ever lacked for commentary? He won't lack for drinking at least. He's already taking a drink as he turns to the stairs.

     Valan looks down the hall, following the guest as he disappears into the other half of the house. And then to you, a soft smile. Residue of regret in the parting. But understanding. "I will meet you in bed," Valan murmurs. "Go on to him. He sounds like he's had a rough night..."

     He inhales deeply, Edward does, the desire still there in the pit of his stomach. Even now he could call it up and unleash it yet upon you. Instead, he gives a faint smile and an apologetic exhale. He crosses to you and places a chaste kiss at your cheek, though it slips to your lips, lingering there a moment before he parts.
     "In bed," he smiles, winking quickly. He will see you there.

     A chuckle, low in his chest. Soft, warm. And the fire is still there. Easy to call upon again. Shining in the gold-green eyes. A wink in return. "Hmm... in bed... I will get rid of the suede and wait for you there..." A brush of his lips to yours...
     God... so close, Edward...
     It is there again, in the hum of his mouth against yours. In the slight tease of his tongue. Lilting as he parts. I will see you there.

     Upstairs, the Welsh prince turns to the left... that's the newer half of the house... The bottle lifting, tilting, for every four breaths...

     How the body drags when it is compelled. Edward's walk down the long corridor to the west stairs was more of a gantlet. After running his hand over his head for the twentieth time, fingers came to land upon the bannister. Strength pulled him up the stairs as much as will, his body dragged along.
     The floor sounded with each step of his barefeet, skin sticking to the slickened cherrywood.
     "Davy," he calls at the landing, turning to head to the first room. Is the door open? Regardless, he knocks at it, a way of announcing himself.

     Can you feel him there, the echo of your lover? In warmth against your mouth where he last kissed you. Do the sensations yet remain? Of his arms around you, or the brush of him against your stomach. It hasn't been that long, only a few minutes, since he was under you, spread out upon the carpet. The more you feel him, does it slow your steps to the rooms above?

     The light is off, he did not bother. But then, Davydd does not need light to see in darkness. The door was only barely closed. When it is open, the what light there is in the landing pours in and lands against the shock of him in black. He is unchanged from when you laughed with him earlier tonight. Before midnight even. Hours ago now. He glances up, belatedly, at the sound of the knock and you entering. A snort and a gruff. I shouldn't be here. And neither should you. Well... not in this part of your house. There is an exhale and the pours another drink...
     It's just what he needs...
     The only other source of light in the room is the burning end of his cigarette. "So, you were having a lovely evenin'," he whispers, as if out of some consideration for someone sleeping somewhere -- though he knows no one is. "I don't want to put you out... I just need to sit a minute and think and then I'll go back to Kensington and act sober. I'd break in, but I don't think poor Will'am's heart could take two invasions in one year..."

     "You're not goin' anywhere," Edward says evenly, not raising his voice at all. It comes through the darkness as if well-met. A chair squeaks as he sets himself into it, the slacks still all he has one. He extends his legs for a stretch, arms long around the chair's supports.
     "So, what happened? You...wanna talk about it? If not, that's fair, too, Dauphin..." an endearment and nickname if there was one. Edward smiles in the dark, knowing full well he is clearly visible.

     "For all the good it may do either one of us," comes the snort. "And I don't know why I'm upset, anyway... it's not as if I love the woman." Oh really. The words are quiet now and muffled by the balanced cigarette. A hand finally comes up to catch it, hold it, flick the ash away as he finishes the pouring. Scotch. Excellent choice. "So I was mindin my own fucking business after I left you... I did a bit of a king's stroll through the village," his pet name for London, "...heading back up to a bit more posh environs, but not too posh, mind you. I didn't want to get a nose bleed," the grin is sudden. But it doesn't linger as it would on most occasions. And he shrugs.
     "So I went home about... well, right before I came here so let's say it's been an hour," green eyes sparkle and hit upon you, "smelling of scotch and my favorite waitress at The Black & Tan... come home and my shit... whatever her little arms could toss out, was lying on m' front lawn...!" Said not loudly but with the emphasis of how-dare-she-that-harlot.
     A chair squeaks as Davydd throws himself into it. By some miracle, it doesn't break. He takes a swallow of the scotch and reaches for his smoke. An exhale there. "So... I go in, none of the servants are about, and she's fucking Vincent the Fucking Art Dealer Toreador Shite on my favorite chair in my den. Doesn't even stop when I walk in...the tart..."
     And his hands make a motion. And so I'm here. And he seems done. But by the constant motion of his fingers. The glaring of green given to dark spaces. You can tell it's boiling up to the surface again.
     It's one thing, afterall, to say your woman has other lovers or to think she might or should. It's another thing entirely to see it. "So she tells me she's taking her house back... so..."

     "I...I just can't believe that, Davy," Edward says softly. And in truth, you know he does not. Such guile or intent isn't his way. "Rose...she...is like that?" Some natures never die. He shakes his head and looks stunned, hand out and palm up to the world. "She is like that? Why would she do something like that?" It'd never occur to him. "You have been together for a long time!" No, he'll not comment on love, but in truth, all of this is but a blur and total unknown for him.
     "You sure...someone wasn't...you know.." Edward tries to explain, "...like...doing some Ventrue thing to her?" Controlling. "That don't make sense, Davy. People don't just up and do things like that."

     There is a lifting of red brows, a soft little smile. One could almost call it tender, and then he looks to his cigarette and takes a pull from it. "Nah, no one's pulling shite. I'd know it. You know... you love me because you don't have to live me. I'll still nominate her for sainthood when the time comes..." He exhales smoke and shrugs. "So... you know... patience isn't unlimited and he makes pretty words, that Vincent Defranco. I'm not saying I blame her for it, Edward-bach. She's just a tart, she can't help it..."
     He chuckles at that, shrugs again and downs a bit of whiskey. "She just ran out of patience, boyo..." he murmurs. "Found a man that makes her feel like a lady, hangs on her words, treats her like a queen, doesn't come home late at night for the one-billionth time smelling of Guinness and Elizabeth... I mean, truly... if you were a woman, would you put up with it?"
     Davydd smiles. The tenderness, what there was of it beneath the shit-eating-smug humor, gone now. Replaced by a glimmer of mischief. "She wants something I just... can't give her. I'm not like you French lot. I don't love by the rose or the book or the modern dance clubs and cafes. I just... don't, Edward."
     And then the air snaps. "Course, doesn't mean she's not a fucking whore and a trollop. My last words to her ... I stormed out of the house," he closes his eyes, half smiling and motioning with his hand, the cigarette burns trails on the air, "and yelled up at her, woke the neighbors. Told her... I didn't want her to be my queen anyway, the half-welsh tart..."

     He continues to look at you stunned. Huh? She's a tart? You don't do what? You're...of course you're refined. You just act like this. And you like her, and she likes you.
     Edward sighs and settles back into his seat, brow furrowed. Distress and confusion. "So...that's just it, Davy? That's it? You both just walk off like, nothing's happened all these years?"

     Refined? By 12th Century standards, without a doubt. He could speak seven languages as a mortal. Many more now. Raised in diplomatic courts, such as they were then. But he's not a man who... bears his heart to the world, hardly to anyone. You are one. William is another. But Rose?
     "Well... I'm not sure what else to do, Edward," he murmurs. "She chucked my belongings out the window and onto the lawn and is fucking another man on my prized leather chair. It's not like we argued over finances. She wants something I can't give her..." his hands are animated again. "I mean obviously. Or she wouldn't have done it. She was a good confidante... I don't hate her..."
     A pause...
     "I'm a bit pissed off... but I'll learn to live with it, I'll get over it. I don't think she'd set to fuck me over. So long as Vincent is keeping her thighs occupied..." A shrug of broad shoulders. And then he is quiet. "We've broken off... what? How many times now, Edward? Once every fifteen years? Maybe the woman's just... tired of trying to make something work that should have ended years ago were she less sentimental..." Davydd tilts his head, looking to his cigarette, his drink. And he frowns. "I don't think I can live with her if Vincent Defranco is having her. It's better to just... let it go. She made her choice and she's a big girl. She can live with it."

     Edward blinks a few times, but really has no idea what to say. He has no expertise in this area. In truth, it is about as foreign to him as anything. He only knows what the books say. "I'm sorry, mate, really, okay? I...dunno what to say or...how can I help? Great, Meurelle, you sound like a fuckin' wanker." He tosses his hand aside and slips back into the seat looking at you.
     Several moments pass in silence. Edward looks at you, then to the floor. Sometimes...at his own feet and hands. Occasionally, he shakes his head and looks at the door.

     "Eh... ne'ermind it, boyo," comes the affectionate rumble of his voice. "It was my shite out the window and my woman on the lap of another man and I don't know what to say either." He laughs suddenly, downs the scotch and stamps out the cigarette. "I don't need someone to take care o' me. I am used to livin on me own terms. It'll be good to be a bachelor again."
     Green eyes find you and he tilts his head. "Why don't you go back t' bed. Ye know you're chomping at the bit for it anyway. Seems a nice young man. Not the way I wanted to meet him. Probably thinks I'm a class one asshole." He laughs brightly, leans in and gives your leg a hard pat. "G'on... I'm just going to crash here for a bit, maybe call Prince Prissypants an' see if his man will let me stay up the palace for a few days till I settle in right. Some night. The future Prince of London bein' tossed out of his bed and onto his ass... this'll make the first meetin' a grand party, no?"
     Green eyes sparkle in a wink, and Davydd rises. "This room alright? Your maid's not going to call the cops...?"

     "No, no one's callin' no one," Edward affirms, guessing it's his time to go. He sighs and sighs again, finally saying, "It's like watchin' yer parents spill the milk, y'know? Parents divorcing or something." He looks sorrowful and sighs again, leaning forward as if preparing to go.
     "It ain't your place or Kensington, but y'know, Davy, y' can stay here with me as long as y'like, right? Valan won't mind either. We'd be glad if y' stayed with us. And...he thinks you're probably nice. Said so, too." So don't think he dislikes you. No one in this house does. "Want me t' bring you another bot'le to keep you company? There's Chinese in the fridge, if you want it. If it gets cold, you know where ever'thing is, right?"

     "You're a good man, Edward Meurelle," he says lightly, quietly. "Even if you are French. I know y' can't help that..." A tease, true. But beneath it honest sentiment. He's not sentimental on the surface often. Rarely. But he is tonight. You see it on him. Settling in. He nods. Maybe I'll miss her. He nods and looks to you. The smile is back. "It won't take long to get a nice house. Maybe a nice half-palace... an old kirk..." His way of saying 'thank you' but noting he won't be here long. But you can hear the gratitude in the hush of his voice. In the smile. The nod.
     "Aye, I know the house like the back of my own ass..." Davydd laughs sitting forward. "Hmm... g'on back to your evenin', Edward-bach. I can find m' own drinks. Ooh... Chinese. I'll pinch that in a bit... ah.." He goes a bit red and clears his throat. "Can I get to the kitchen without... you know... walkin in on anything that might shock me...?"

     Edward stares at you accusingly. For several moments.
     "You're deader than a cut tree at Yule, Davy. What in the fuck could shock ya?" He smirks and pushes himself up from the seat, sighing once more. This isn't right, dammit. But so it goes.
     "And the answer's no. You'd have to..." he turns about, "...go all the way down this corridor to the last room on the other side..." in the older part of the townhouse. "I mean, if ya come lookin', you'll find it." Whatever that might be. He chuckles and moves around his seat to go.

     Now, that is funny. And it delights the old paganized catholic. Loud laughter and raucous. And like any good celt, tears are converted to comedy. He'll laugh until he can cry. Then he'll drink. Then he'll sing. This is the way of it...
     Aye well... right and wrong are strange creatures, Edward-bach. His laughter quiets and Davydd rises from the chair. Regardless of what may be on ya, or not, you're swallowed in a great bear hug. "Diolch, Edward," Davydd whispers. And then he lets you go with a bit of a shove and a hard, brotherly pat. "You're a good man, and free with your liquor. So... you've no maid on duty now or any lass tucked away for me then?" A sigh. Better get used to the cold, dragon. He smiles and makes a wave. Bah. Another night.
     "I'll see ya in the morrow, count... give the boy a flourish for me..."

     No, Edward smirks and shakes his head. "You know I don't keep folk around here." Not Mr. Security Conscious. "But, it's not like you can't make a call," his hands waving around his head and eyes. Certainly not by telephone, he means. "Let whomever y'want in..."
     The hug was well-received. Returned, even with a pat of his own. "As for th' rest...I'll do what I can..." he smiles, moving to the door.
     "Night, Davy," Edward smiles, pulling the door to behind him...

     Huh. That's true. I could place a person-to-person...
     Davydd makes a wave, "Aye, nos dda, brawd..." The Welsh lilts like Truth from his lips. Lyrical and almost sweet. With a shave and a haircut and a nudge in the right direction, he could be turned Romantic.
     The refinement most often hidden is shown now and then. Glimpses, like the glimpses of gentleness, tenderness and affection. But this is the most he's aired serious personal business in a century. Maybe Rose has gotten too modern for her own good...
     Or maybe it's a knack that comes easier to Toreador men...

Posted by rowan at April 18, 2003 05:58 PM