It has become a daily...
Strike that...
It has become a nightly occupation. Non, ami... not in the bedroom. Here, here in the fencing room. When I am not there, I am here. Occasionally, you have even woken to see me typing away, working -- novel concept for most of your friends, non? -- but mostly, you can divide Valan's hours like the hours of the day and night.
Fencing...
Filling your bed...
Of course, what my favorite is... there is no contest, ami...
And so, quick Valan... learning to move again, Valan... becoming agile again, slowly... Valan, he moves into a riposte. And in the absence of the mask, he grins.
"Very nice," comes Edward's voice, he not so far away, a bit out from one of the corners. He has watched you from his perch, short hanging bag the only obstruction in his view of you. But if he hits it fast enough, and he does, the optical illusion suffices. A whole image of you, fencing.
He is clothed in black sweatpants and nothing more. His arms remain up, rattling the bag in rhythmic strumming. Well practiced this, his preference over fencing. It explains the quickest hands in all of London and the most-defined arms and torso this side of Budapest.
"I can't begin to think of how better you've gotten," Edward says, eyes upon the rattling bag still. Occasionally he needs to see it, in order to keep his hands in proper revolutions. "The speed ... an' yer so precise," he murmurs, panting faintly. "Good basics...never fail..."
The rubber tip of the blade touches to the glass of one of the surrounding mirrors. But there is no crack, no breaking. The blade bends upward, as he lowers to a thrust that...
Well, one that would even make William happy...
And it was graceful. Almost human. Almost normal. And the strike? To his mirrored heart. And the recoil. The strike, the pause, the shot that would be so well captured on film, and then... as seemingly effortless, he is back on his feet. Admiring the memory of it. Or maybe he's just taking a moment of pride, or recognition.
Actually, he's looking at your own reflection...
Dieu...
"Merci, ami," he murmurs, and he smiles to you there, warm spreading. Spreading -- he can't help but do that with you. And after another moment he is turning. Such posture. He would have worn the 18th and 19th Centuries well, your Valan Montague. And now he looks to you directly. "It has done me good, this... every night... I do not feel so... lanky like a colt as before. All knees and arms..." Brilliance in the sudden grin.
I will work on footwork later... for now... I want to work on watching you...
There's the sound of a slowing car. Do you recognize the engine's purr? The 1965 Jaguar coupe, convertible. You know who...
A dark brow lifts, and Edward's head tilts to the side, clearing the hanging bag. He smiles to see you stare, but as the sound of the car draws close, he turns wicked smile towards the driveway.
"Hmm. Llewelyn," he notes for the record, hands grabbing the bag still, ending the revolutions suddenly.
Too bad. He was forming thoughts. Edward looks back at you and steps from his position, walking around towards you and the mirrored wall. "We...will have to continue this later," his words suddenly French. Always that way when his mind turns in certain directions. Edward grins, wiggling his brows.
"He loves you, your Llewelyn," that comes in laughter, soft it echoes off the shining glass. And the several mirrors make his smile several more times alluring. To watch you thus. To have male energy swirling so.
Valan sighs, head against the mirrored wall, but his smile does not fade. No, he does not mind. "Shall I get scotch for him in advance?"
He's a quick study, this Montague...
"Hmm... and when we do continue this... I suggest here... it is a room with a view, ami. Il y a beaucoup de vous a voir. Et beaucoup que j'aime voir..." With a laugh, warm and heady, Valan rises and he sets the practice foil -- a light foil -- aside.
It was, indeed. You can hear the familiar rumble of the car in idle, then the hush. A few seconds, and there's the knock.
I should have called...
He's probably giving his boy a flourish. Ah well...
You know him. First comes the solid knock. Then the tinkling of doorbells, then the rhythmic Shave & A Haircut: Two Bits...
The first knock is ignored. Edward watches you, taped hands coming to rest on his waist. His smile slants as you stand there, your question going unanswered, but your words quite heard.
The second knock annoys him.
"Yeah, yeah," his English booms, "I hear ya, Llewelyn," he shaking his head. You tempt me too much, Valan Montague. Maybe that is why I have made you mine.
"Scotch is good," he murmurs, turning to head back down the hallway, half-expecting you to attend him. "I could use...a pint." Of something.
And attend you he will, in the unspoken knight and squire dance you sometimes do. The unconscious one. It has been present even before his mind and heart knew who and what you were. And are. It is his pleasure to do so. And no matter how new he is, it is an old thing between you.
As if done a thousand times before...
"Ah oui, I will get it..."
His hand is at your back. A touch. A press. A slide. And then a smile. His mouth makes a slightly puckered motion. As if to speak. As if to kiss. "How about a shot for now... you can have the pint after he's gone..."
And he is going, right?
You hear the laughter. Something in it you haven't heard for the past couple of weeks. He's been a brooding man, your Llewelyn. But there's some sunlight in it. "Put your clothes own, you naughty man, and let me in!"
Shot? Oh. You mean drink. So hard to tell with the hand stroking my back. Edward's expression changes from supremely interested to correction. He laughs and nods, "That's fine," he grins, turning at the foyer for the front door.
"Christ," Edward blurts, reaching quickly and jerking the door open. "What's wrong wit' ya, man? People are sleepin'...an' we're dress'd." Mostly. He smirks and stands out of the way to let Davydd inside.
"Who's sleeping at this hour? You know Lord Alfred across the way is busy banging his secretary. His wife's at the flower festival..." Mars strides in, waving his hand. You know, it's like the swallows and Capistrano...
"And you are mostly dressed, I'm impressed..." There's a wink and a pat to your shoulder. "Actually, I can't stay long, I just didn't want to call..." a softer sound. And though there's mirth to it, and a lingering... quietude? No, that's not it...not quietude, more like... bemusement... still, the smile remains.
And then there's a glass of scotch, neat, offered to him by a golden hand. "Ah," green eyes light up. "You're a beauty, lad. Merci, Montague...ah, fencin' again, good to see." And without missing a bit, he twists to look at you. "I like him," Davydd rattles in his Welsh both rough and smooth. "He's brilliant, Edward-bach." And then, a smile and a pat to Valan's arm.
"But ... you know... I can understand you wanting to keep 'im to yourself, so I won't be setting up camp," this as he takes a seat on the sofa in the living room. "I just... I don't even know why I'm here..." Davydd smirks to himself and shrugs. "It was on the way..."
Well, not really, but you're not far.
Golden eyebrows both cocked up at the strange tongue. And with a bit of a What was that? expression, Valan hands the second glass of scotch to you. "Ami," he smiles. That smile. Summer in it. His thoughts? They're not on the Welshman, but the room of mirrors.
You can see it in the smile and in the motion as he turns. It is a good thing Davydd isn't staying long.
He joins your friend in the living room. "You look better, how is the palace?"
Edward simply spins at the pass, the talk, the drink, the sit. He follows into the open living area, expression quirked. Brown brows are lifted, his head tilted askance...and hands at his hips. He is as curious as you are bemused.
He doesn't say much, letting Valan take the lead in asking the questions. "Merci, ami," is about all Edward manages, taking the shot and sitting at the near end of the sofa. Hand extends for Valan to sit upon sofa's arm, curled in Edward's embrace.
"Ah, good... good..." He says, and he takes a swallow of the scotch. Ah, sweet maiden Mary -- only the best in the houses of Meurelle and Dunross. He sits a moment, and then he looks to Edward. Sitting forward, his drink dangling. And there's a shite-eating grin that any canary-eating cat would kill for.
Not to mix the metaphors...
It's not a rascal's grin, no... there's... something else about it. "I was dead depressed last night," the grin gives way to a story, as only Llewelyn can tell it, and he settles back, glass of scotch in hand. "Everyone in the world has somewhere to go, or someone to see but me..." His hand makes a motion, and on and on -- you know how the brooding Celtic heart can be.
"And so I walked the city almost to dawn. I guess... just two hours shy..."
But wait, there's more...
Valan takes a seat in one of the nearby chairs, settling in and listening. No drink in hand, he looks between you both. Ah, that's right... you were out with Llewelyn a while last night. And I was working on a new website...
Edward grins at Valan's solitary sitting, letting his open arm fall back into his lap. "I guess there's more t' this," Edward peers, watching you intently. "Somethin's up, hmm?" he wonders, hoping with a smile that it has a good ending.
A story...
He doesn't know much about the Welsh, but what he's learned from a few sources on the world wide web is that they're fond of going on. At length. And so... it's not to be a quick tale, most likely. A glance to Edward, and a warm smile. And Valan rises.
Well then, if it's going to be an epic, I'm going to be with Edward. I might need him to nudge me if I fall asleep...
The outstretched arm is then full, and the hand given something else to curl around. Golden eyebrows lift and golden hair, mussed yet from his earlier workout hangs in his eyes. "Well, from the looks of it, it ended well...?"
"I'll get to that in a minute, laddie," Davydd tushes. Patience, boyo. A look to you -- he's as bad as you are...
Well then, I suppose the apple didn't fall far from the tree on that one...
With vigor in his eyes, but a quiet sing-song quality to the rest of his demeanor, Davydd turns his head to the both of you, sitting on the sofa with him. "By the time I get to Kensington, I'm just a little... reflective. Thinking about what Marta said," did he ever tell you he talked with her, "...thinking about... everything. I walk in... and there's a woman in my apartments...the private apartments..."
"Marta?" Edward blinks. "When'd ya see her?" he murbles, curling arm around Valan, needing him close. Other arm holds the scotch. In both, he's doing quite well.
"Wait. There's a bird in your private apartments?" Edward rolls his eyes. "Veronique right? How'd she get in?" Then he blinks. "Stupid fuckin' question that..."
Oh, I didn't tell you did I. Davydd waves a bit away, taking another swallow of the scotch. "Eh, I drove up there last week. I was feelin' puny, mate... but anyway, no, it wasn't Veronique... though you know, when the housekeeper told me I was half-expectin' it to be her. Though, you know... we discussed that showing up unannounced bit..." Red hair, copper and bronze both, catches the light and seems burnished as he shakes his head. "So I open the door, slow and quiet-like. I mean, with Panitou showing up for the fuck of it on another night, who knows who could be on the other end..."
A rumbling chuckle hangs about in his throat and chest as Davydd makes a motion with his hands. Spooky...
Then the demeanor changes again. Returning to that... almost quietude. That sing-song bardic bemusement. But at the corners of his lips, the twitch... just the slight upturning of that smile again. "I never expected that it'd be Sandrine Jorgenson..."
And from the look of his face then, it was a pleasant visit. It was a most pleasant visit. A restoration. That's what it is.
Valan has fallen quiet and he looks back and forth between you and Davydd. Marta? Veronique? Panitou? Sandrine Jorgenson?
Edward grimaces at mention of Panatiou, curling his fisted drink in front of himself and jerking it in obscene fashion. He sighs and listens, keeping Valan near, until mention of who it indeed was.
His eyes fly open and head drops to his chest. Edward's nose twists up in a rather confused-unsure-about-the-taste fashion. He winces, corner of his mouth jerking in the shiver. "Sandrine Jorgenson?" he spurts. A name out of the Where-Are-They-Now bin. "Sandrine Jorgenson?" Are you sure? He shakes his head, trying to get out the cobwebs. I did hear him right. The woman in his bedroom was Jorgenson.
"What on earth brought her there?" Of all people. In your rooms? She's still around? Hmph. "Haven't seen her in....aaaaaaaages," he drawls out, tossing back the rest of his scotch and setting the glass down on the nearby end table.
Oh. Edward blinks and twists to see the man in his arm. "Um," he begins, glancing at Davydd. How do I explain this? "Um...Davydd...was visiting Marta...Marta is...a friend's..." he looks for help, "...she's a friend's...friend." Or whatever. "His girlfriend. And then," he swallows, waving free hand in a motion to Davydd, "...Davydd...well...Davydd's fucking...Veronique." You recall her, yes? "Oh, did you meet her? Well, nevermind." No mention of how Edward knows her.
"Anyway, Panatiou...Brujah. Fuckin' flunky an' screwjob of Mortimer...that's the Primogen." He's told you about him. "And..." and now his eyes return in wonder to Davydd, "...Davydd saw someone that I haven't seen in forever. Ages. Real beauty..." to give her credit. "Shite, Davydd, I ha'nt seen her since the War, I bet...." He's not one for Tattinger's functions.
"I've seen her since, now and again..."
Davydd Llewelyn, your ears are going a bit pink, mate...
But he swallows scotch and the color recedes. Stretching back, Davydd leans into the sofa's comfort and weight. "Ah well," a hand lifts and gives his chin a half-scratch, habits of the bearded. "So we had a right lovely evening. Talked... really. That's all..." And he seems amazed by it.
"Talked and had some tea..." And he even has to chuckle at that. "I just left her actually... well, not long ago. I gave her a tour of Kensington. I don't think I'd said so much to her at all of Tatt's parties," said pahtees. "I still don't know the real reason, I mean... it's not like I'm William. I don't have to step over the bodies of women flinging themselves at my door..."
But no, you can tell by the look into the scotch. He didn't give her what-for. There was no sheet tearin'. He wasn't the Davydd you expected him to be.
"We're going to Wales for four days. Next week. Can I impress on you for a favor? Could you watch Rhyddid and Bwci," the dogs, "...for the four days? I don't want to take them with. I'm taking the Jag not the rover..."
Ah, for a sporty drive and romp. Aha. "She's lovely as ever by the way..." And then, that grin again. Knee-deep in wickedness.
Valan chuckles at the Veronique comment. "She was the one... who was it? The cold fish was looking for her...ahhh..." And he wags his finger at Davydd, chuckling still.
There's no comment to the others. Much like Davydd, he leaves it lie. "So... you are going with her on a trip," his English is still thick with French, but less broken than before. The smile spreads, warm and wide, and Valan tilts his head. He looks positively sinful. Well. We know what happens when those who are into one another go on trips...
"She's an old flame?"
Edward stares at Davydd. What is this? Blushing? Looking into drinks. Edward sits mute, blinking occasionally. Nose twisting periodically. Brow wrinkling and unwrinkling.
"Talked and had tea. She's lovely as ever. Right lovely evening," he parrots hollowly, not making fun at all. Just repeating as if needing to hear the words again. It's all so terribly...chaste.
And where did the rambling on William come from?
"You're...goin' t' Wales." Okay, out of the blue. "W..w..with Sandrine...Jorgenson." Lemme get this straight. "What?" Try again. Tilt.
"Oes, ah yeah..." The first bit in Welsh. Close to the sound of yes it is. The scotch is downed. "Just for a long weekend you know... just a pop over. She's never been. I said I'd take her." There's not even a half-breath and he's continuing, "...doesn't mean anything. I mean, it's just a jaunt to Gwynedd...with a woman I barely know...well, not barely, I mean I know her, I just don't," hands move in gesture, "know her..."
And she's an archon. Oh, we forgot to mention that.
"So," the glass is on the table, and he's preparing to rise, "... you know, if you could look after the dogs, I'd appreciate it. Normally, fuck 'em, I'd leave 'im in the kit, but... you know... they're not used to the palace yet and god forbid they piddle on or eat one of Dunross' pillows. I'll never hear the end of it..."
Hands on his knees, he's a moment from standing, surely.
Interesting. Valan studies you a moment, Edward, gold-green eyes playing between the two of you. "Who's Sandrine Jorgenson, other than lovely?" Curious. Prying, since neither of you are answering. "Is she famous... a model...?"
I've seen Davydd blooded, sexed, drunk, miserable, elated, poetic. Tonight, I'm watching him squirm, too anxious for his own skin. Trapped...and giddily so. "She's...well...just a Toreador, ami. She's an alright, lass, really, just...she's not in the main circles, y'know?" An absent kiss is placed at Valan's forehead.
"Yeah, aye, we'll see to th' boys," the dogs that is, "...whate'er, don't worry on it, Davy." But this is just wierd. Edward can't take his eyes from Davydd, needing to see every strange look and twist he does. It's just...boggling.
"I'd say...good luck an' all...but..." is that the right thing to say?
Blooded, muddied, sexed, drunk, miserable, elated, poetic, mad, joyful, wicked and reverent. You've seen them all come and go in brilliant, martial display. But this? Squirming is it...
I suppose it is...
Maybe for something a little different. Maybe for something that's not proper. Maybe for something... he doesn't know whether it's good or bad. It just is...
Maybe it's nothing at all. Maybe it's just a trip to Wales and a nice drive. A bit of tea in a Gwynedd castle garden. A kiss on the cheek and then on with the usual grappling. Maybe that's all it is.
And then he chuckles and rises. He shakes his head. "Nah, no wishing me luck. It's just a weekend romp... it's not like I'm off t' get married..." Heaven forbid it, once was enough for me. And I'm sick to death of political beds. I just want something...
I just want something.
Green the gaze, shades of emerald and jade as he claps Edward on the shoulder. "I knew ye'd do it, you're a good man, Edward-bach. I'll bring 'em next week..."
Lastly to Valan, a wink. "You're rubbin' off well on him, Montague. Well done. And next time, I'll go a match with you at swords and teach you some campaigning tricks..." A cuff on the golden head, gentle but playful. Like a brother.
How well they've taken to him. Your friends to your lover.
"Going already?" Valan says, rising after. Well... alright...
Valan looks to you. What's going on? "Well, it was a good story," he says in English. "Ah... it was..." shorter than I expected, "... at least it had a happy ending..." And he grins, your lover Montague. The cocky smile returning to his features.
"Yeah," Edward rises last, trying to shake off the reverie. Memories of all sorts of times have come flooding back. "Y'don't need t' go, Davy." You seem nervous. Embarrassed. "We'd like t' hear about her," Edward murmurs, looking to you, Valan, for agreement.
"I mean...if you wanna tell us about her?"
There's no disagreement from Valan. No, indeed. His gilt-green eyes are full of the raw elements of curiosity. "Oui, Davydd..." he begins, his hand gesturing for Davydd to go back to the couch. "We have some of the mead you gave us for the holidays still left," the French comes now -- he gets lazy after a while, dropping into what's familiar.
Davydd chuckles and brows lift. Eyes dance in it. It is easy to see the face covered in mud and blood and laughing in glorious relief...
I'm alive...
Or later, in dust. Laughing. Drunken. You've heard the drunken laugh -- repeatedly, frequently. And the quiet sort when he knows he's being made fun of. And the raucous one, when he's making fun of someone else. "Ah, alright... I can't turn down mead," a hand rakes through short red hair, unused, still, to the length. Or lack of it. And he plops back down on the sofa. "You've taught him well, Meurelle. How to charm dragons..." Davydd rolls his head toward you both, head against the couch. "Go on and pour, Montague. I'll teach you to drink it like a proper Cymri..."
Nervous. Embarrassed. I suppose I am a little.
Great shoulders shrug. You can almost hear the rattle and chime of armor in it, Edward. Sometimes, the old and the new, they blend. "She's a nice young woman. Lovely. But she's mild you know... she's smart. I...just found myself enjoying talking to her. Not much to tell. I didn't do anything..." He chuckles. "Aren't ya going to laugh at me, Edward-bach? Not taking a woman who's sitting in my own chamber? Get this," he leans in. "I even gave her my bed... but didn't sleep in it with her..."
What's wrong with me...
Edward smiles at the praise given Valan, giving him a long look. "No, no," Edward says sympathetically, "I'm not gonna ride ya, Davy." No, not from the looks you have. You are enamored and it is nice to see. "That's good she's smart, I'd heard that. You know, though," he offers, hating to spoil the humor of the evening, "...she's...an archon, right?" Of course you knew this.
Hand reaches up to touch you as you leave to find mead. When Davydd is gone, your Edward will need a talking to. Already his mood is going warmly wistful, which turns into a sort of melancholy.
"I'm amazed though," Edward looks to Davydd again, "...I mean, it's all..amazing. Fast..." he nods, suddenly sitting up on his cushion and looking left and right. A smoke. "So...did she want anythin'? Why was she there? A problem?"
Duw, a smoke would be the livin' end. Ah... what am I doin'...
Hands pat his shirt -- it's warm enough to drive the convertible coupe without a jacket most nights now -- and he takes the four cigs and a lighter he stowed there. A lean and a stretch and he hands a cig for you. One for him. Well, maybe two for him. Maybe three...
Sitting back, there's an eruption of flame from his finger tips, then the lighter's tossed, flickering. Shining to you. "Ah..." Long and low is the pleasured sound from the dragon's chest, "I fuckin' needed this...ah, and ...yah, I know what she does for a livin'..." He chuckles quietly. "I mean... it's a known thing, aye, and ... it's..." A shrug of his shoulders. Not an issue. Not at the moment anyway.
There's a glance for Valan as he moves off to get the mead, but the look isn't long. It isn't leering. And then it returns to you, a red brow lifting. "No, she... didn't have any Family Business," comes the familiar rumble, "...she was there... to see me, to visit..." And he shares a look through the smoke with you. Probably there for more, but I had to turn into a ruddy gentleman.
"Fast," Davydd murmurs. A thought. A question. "We actually didn't say a whole lot... but you know, by sunrise... I felt I'd told her everything." It's dangerous stuff, attraction. "I didn't of course, no business... it was just a strange night." Still is. "And... we wandered the Kensington gardens for a bit. She knows the name of every flower, every plant. She even knew what sort of gardner tends it, what he's attempting to do with the space. She was pruning a little, even..."
Scandanavian women. Quiet, like glaciers. But what is it about them that just sets a fire in men's souls?
Posted by rowan at April 18, 2003 11:12 PM
