Golden hair, mussed on purpose, nearly drapes with the bending of your lover's head. And the concentration. As you and he slip into a kind of early evening normalcy. You find him this way now and then when you wake. The shower still condensing off his skin, a lift of steam from where he sits on the living room sofa.
There was another page under construction. Another virtual existence in design. With the clicking of a small, flat keyboard, he answered mail and checked his own site's stats. Pageboy. He named his 'company' -- a kind of joke between the two of you.
But that working moment has passed and the laptop set aside. He is thumbing through a small binder full of black and white photographs. To find the three for William.
The gates open for a top-down Jaguar, 1965. And spring air, warming in a slow drawl toward summer, moves through red, curly hair. He has to get out and move or else he'd pace a rut into the marble flooring of the palace. He should come see you, should he call you first?
He knows what you'll be doing when he arrives if he does not...
And so, an ungloved hand reaches for a small phone...
The kiss is lingering at the top of your burnished head, pageboy. Edward walks about, still in his own towel. He has made a pot of coffee and moves to and fro upon barefeet. He sighs after the kiss, more a finishing action than any sort of boredom. Where to turn my attention next?
"Do you want to go to Venezia," Edward half-says, wandering towards the fireplace. For some reason, it is chillier this spring evening. He crouches at the hearth, finally deciding to make himself useful. A set of matches appear in his hand.
And he closed his eyes, and then he looked up into it. That kiss. That knight. And when you move, only in the towel, Valan is caught staring. Surely you shall catch him. Fingers linger where last they sought, perched upon a corner of a celophaned page, artful picture of him beneath. There are many of them. Some photographer took these -- they are professional looking, both posed and caught mid-Tours and mid-Paris.
There is a swallow when you crouch. How you do these things, ami, that catches me. Such simple things. Like bending to place a kiss upon my forehead. Or crouching to light a fire in the fireplace. You hear the sofa stir as he leans his weight upon it. He is clothed in crimson linen drawstring trousers, the linen very thin and showing off strong and lean physique and thighs beneath. There is a white cotton t-shirt that fits him closely until sides taper, and there does it fall loose. Nothing upon his feet -- as he likes it. And the garnets at his throat.
"Venise par nuit serait tres belle pour voir. Ce serait notre premier voyage ensemble depuis le grand miracle..." Golden eyebrows lift and lower, dancing at that. The great miracle indeed. "I would be up for going," Valan finishes in English. "That is, if your work allows you time, ami..."
And there is a sudden ringing...
Your celphone. Wherever it is... the first chirping... no, now the second chirping...
"All-- " Edward begins, moving catlike upon the balls of his feet. He does an almost 180, part to see you and then as a reaction to the phone. "Forgive, ami," he nearly sighs, so content, too content, to simply stay in with you these nights.
Suddenly, Edward tosses himself, flat, across the carpeted floor, hand reaching to grab his celphone off the glass table.
"Yeah," Edward says sharply, the air pushed from his body in the fall. His brows lift and he rolls onto his back, hand coming to land at his stomach. "Hello?" he says, one knee extended, the other falling to the side, testing the limits of the towel's fabric.
"That's impressive," it's almost as if he could see you, that Llewelyn. And the rumble of the voice and the accompanying rumble of the car engine -- you'd know that sound anywhere, the old Jag -- it's unmistakable. "By the third ring, even. Who died? Say," Davydd doesn't skip a beat, "I'm about to round into Knightsbridge... have your Guinness handy!"
As if you keep stocked in it...
"That is, you know, if you don't mind, Meurelle..." Now ... what is this? Davydd's asking to visit? With a d'ye mind even.
"All," Valan seconds, and laughter lifts from him as you roll over and then... such a display. The towel won't last. It doesn't have a chance. What can you expect? It is only cotton. All. All mine. And with skin reddening, warming, he looks back to the photographs. Selecting one of him from a Paris cafe, taken while he was looking off camera -- as many of them are.
"Well, y'don't need t' ask," Edward replies. With that kind of response, who else is it. "I dunno about the Guinness though, but there's coffee." Edward smirks as he looks up from the floor, getting an upside down view. You're just as handsome this way too. He laughs silently, teasing the towel by reaching down and flipping a corner over at his knee.
"How far are you?" he wonders into the celphone, brown eyes still upon you. And the cover of the book of photographs. "I like the one you had earlier," he semi-whispers, moving the phone from the immediacy of his lips.
The look. If playfulness and lust could be captured and defined, it would be by the look your Valan is wearing now. The flip of the towel caught the young vampire's attention and...
The look sprung as if Venus from the foam of Zeus, yes?
How far is he. Far enough, ami? If he isn't, I soon shall be. God, it is a sickness. And I love every minute of it. You can see it moving through him, Edward. How the blood and the energy inherited from you flows through him. How it is so easily heated. "Oui?" Valan murmurs. He flips back and takes out another. The one you liked.
"I'm ... shite, sorry squirrel... I think I pinched one, ah Duw, I hate it when that happens." A hard exhale. "I'm not far. About fifteen minutes with traffic? I'm going to stop off and get some Chink... want any?" Chinese take out, he means. "I thought I'd come over, you know, and camp out on your sofa...how about we say thirty minutes, give or take. I'll get us all a box and we'll teach your lad to eat if you haven't got him going already. Poor fuckers that can't eat food, I'll never understand it. Alright? Alright then... I'll see you there..."
And before you can say yes or no or hey or I'd like... he's gone.
And Edward's mouth, which was open, closes. Hmph. He shrugs and exhales, pushing the 'clear' button on the phone and tossing it onto the carpet. "Davy's comin'...thirty minutes."
His brows wiggle at you, suggestive even upside down.
"Thirty minutes," Valan says, mouth pulling into a crooked smile. "I can pack a lot of forever into thirty minutes, mais oui?" And so can you. Shall we? And the crooked smile begets a wicked laugh, soft and teasing. And the black-and-white photo, the one you asked for, is set upon the coffee table as Valan stands.
It is a crimson sky, white clouds moving over your lover's chest. The view you're offered as he stands over you. Then crouches down. Such agility. Such balance. A fencer's ease. He barely brushes the towel as he nearly sits in a straddle over you.
"You are so handsome. Tempting like the devil... I would be afraid for my soul if I had any desire of saving it." And as he quietly laughs, he settles onto you and with a forward bend, brushes your mouth with his smile.
And all the while, there's a black Jag on the outskirts of Trendyville, circling, parking, picking up take out. Thirty minutes, he said. You know... give or take...
Somehow, he has managed to make a moment for the photgraph. Saved in the ruckus. The fire rages for the time being, recently set alight. It too, as with all things, shall calm.
The towel was long cast aside. Edward's hand reaches out for the photograph, bringing it up above his eyes. A new sky, for the moment, one of black and white, some sepia. "I love this one of you," he whispers, voice much lower than minutes before. "You are so real here," his French comes.
How you bring the language to him again.
"Your eyes, the way you look away. How are you caught in a beautiful moment," he tries to explain, never known for his eloquence. "A young man on the streets. A French beauty. All of them must look like you, oui?" he wonders, turning his gaze from the young man in the photograph to the one beside him.
"And here you are," Edward smiles, "...the young man in the photo that I find so beautiful." He turns upon his side, offering the photo to you. "Here, next to me. Sometimes, it is like a dream."
There is such peace here. There is such strength. I will never tire of lying against you, with you, on you. Feeling your hands move me. The smell of your skin. And your words. Your words are like your hands. Earnest. Grasping. Loving.
Valan smiles, the smile winding upon his lips for moments before the corners curve with it. And fingers capture a corner of the photo. He looks at it, and at the young man captured there, and then gold-green eyes lift to you. "It was taken in Paris... a week, I think, before I met you at L'Emperor. I was there that night... with Astrid. Astrid is the photographer..." Remember here, the French beauty among the beauties he lingered with.
He looks to you again, a serious moment. "I love you... this young man on the streets. Though there may be many like him in Paris, I am glad it is this one who is in London with you."
And then the knock. Sudden. Loud. Llewelyn...
Open mouth closes again. Edward's arm had just tightened, and now it loosens with the knock on the door. He gives a grin and sigh simultaneously, chuckling as he rests back against the carpet, letting his eyes close.
"Just a minute!" Edward calls, needing the pause to transition from this....
...to that.
He turns to you again, picking up where he left off. "I cannot begin to say how I feel," Edward smiles, chest threatening to explode from the swelling surge within. He simply blinks, always at a loss for words when it comes to you. So, he sighs, this time leaving so many words hanging. The ache of it shows in his expression. You know there is so much I feel. I just don't know how to tell you...
You do not have to say. The smile says it knows. The ache you feel has its own mirror, see... it reflects back to you in kind. Even if words could say it well, sometimes this is better...
A touch of his hand to your face. The squint of eyes. The smile. The brush of his mouth at your jaw. At your ear. Then a breath. Another smile.
Valan lifts a little, beginning to move off of you. And the smile softens. "I know... and sometimes... the three words," I love you, "...sound too quick, not enough." Valan smiles. "Not enough." And he pulls and savors a kiss. A suckling upon your bottom lip. "I," he whispers there, "will let you get the door, yes? Before he breaks it in..."
But unlike times past, when he would continue to knock, move to ringing the bell and just annoying the holy hell out of you, Llewelyn was content with that one knock. You know he's waiting. He knows you know it. Extraordinary, wot?
Edward's eyes narrow.
"He's...stopped." Oh, boy. "I better see...what's with him..." he suddenly thinks, sitting up and bringing you with him. He grins and gives you a kiss upon the chin, lips, and nose, a finish to the thoughts from before.
At least you understand.
"You want to..." Edward waves a hand at your pants and shirt, hand fluttering towards the towel. He sighs only then, beginning to push himself up from the floor.
"I'm coming..." he calls, wrapping towel around his waist and extending a hand to you so you might stand with ease.
He does understand, it's written everywhere upon him. And... just now... you can see it all. And his hand fills your hand, grips it, brings himself to standing by your strength. And with one last kiss, this one wild and sudden, he sends you off.
Go on, or we're going to leave him standing out there all night...
"But go slowly," he murmurs, smile broadening and slanting. "I want to see you going..." he laughs and flushes, from red garnets to... his toes. And with a bend, he captures pants and t-shirt. Pulling them on before you open the door.
And then you see him... the last glimpse of him before you're all for Davydd. And that is a look of such placid innocence. As if he had been sitting on the sofa the entire time. The utter cheek of it all...
The amber about Edward's throat seem a little brighter than before. The effects of the fire and you upon him, indeed.
With towel securely wrapped and you, innocent-as-can-be, upon the sofa, Edward's last survey is met with a nod. Hand firms upon the latches, and he smiles, swinging the door open wide.
"What took ya so long?"
What's with him, you wondered...
Well, for starters, when you open the door... he's damn near radiant enough to cast his own light. Who needs the sun? And it's not that he's grinning, or singing like a fool. In fact, Davydd's just... standing there. Head half-cocked to give a last peer skyward -- as if there'll be rain, and he's marking it for the jaguar's sake.
And he looks to you as the door swings wide, the smile perched on his mouth where it can spread like a hawk's wings later. He's let his hair grow out a bit, just enough for the curls to sort of go their own way. And he's not dressed in his usual dour grey and black, but a swirling green shirt that'd do the Soho proud, and does a fair amount for making his eyes give off that light, perhaps. And this over a kind of black, vinyl-painted denim. Not jean, not leather -- but some hybrid in between. The black leather jacket lies over the button-down green silk.
Yes, silk...
"What ho, mate... I see you got dressed for th' occasion," he leans in as he turns and moves to duck in, "...and the thirty minutes was for you. Hell, I've already had a box of chow mein..."
What ho, indeed. Edward had something planned in the wide swing of his door, but when blinded by the light, he came to a screeching halt.
"Who th' bloody hell are you?" he screeches, chin dropping and brows arching wide. Sable eyes blink and stare, even if the cool breeze sweeps in over him.
"When did the 60s come back in? No, wait...you're a flaming fag now?" Edward comes alive again and moves askance, simply flabbergasted.
"Some man is here..." he calls to you, Valan...
"Fine fine fine, laugh all you want... you know you want to be me..." the rattle of the Dragon's voice -- well, it's not so much a rattle, though the Anglo-Welsh does clip with the laughter that comes with it. But it's a bit more quiet than that. More a rumble. "Can't a man wear a green shirt without being called a raving poofter or tree hugging bender?" The red brows fly up and Davydd grins. Fuck ya, Meurelle.
"Hello, M. Montague," Davydd calls out. "It's just that fucker Llewelyn..." And with a heel he gives the door a push and a close. "Don't just stand there gaping," he says, green eyes back on the sable, and he hands you off a bag of still warm Chinese food, "make yourself useful. And you don't like the shirt? I thought it was smashin...bit bright, but you know...maybe I should stick to red..."
When was the last time you saw him wearing red...
He is Mars reborn, and the quick stride carries him into the living room. Damn near leaving trails of light behind him. Radiant. Like someone shook the soot off of him. You know, like when they clean up old movies and such and folks had forgotten that it had once been a vibrant thing.
Valan just looks. An open stare. Who is this, ami? And he sits forward, closing and putting away his album of pictures for now. "Ah... hello? Davydd?"
Edward stands too, save now having the rear view. Once he animates, however, hand comes up to his head and he says, "Um, I'm going t' get something else." To wear, that is. "Be back...in...a jif."
That's it. He'll leave you alone with him a minute, Valan. "Don't go...anywhere, Davy..."
"Just to the sofa, brother, hey, Montague... grab us a couple of beers, boyo, and I'll split the sweet and sour with y'..." There's an exhale as he lets his weight fall on the other end of the sofa. A bit of couch and some Chinese take-out. That's the best thing for it. Get my mind off of it for five minutes. Off of her for five minutes. Ah, damn. Not even... there I go again...
Boxes are taken out of the bag, and he settles back, chopsticks in hand and poised like a professional about to tear into some mongolian beef proper. He leans over, catching a photo on the table, and green eyes lift to Valan -- that's you, eh? "Nice pix... I don't know about cameras... it's the one modern thing I just can't grasp. I turn into a real primative, cave-dwelling, blue tattooed bastard when I've got one of those things focused on me..."
Valan can only sit a minute. It is ... so much. He is a bit struck and then, when asked for the beer, he stands up, pulls on the t-shirt and closes the mouth that was gape-open as well. A look over his shoulder. What happened to the sort of handsome gruff old man who never looked like he'd even seen a razor? "Sure, Davydd," Dahvuth -- he's gotten the hang of it. "Ah... hmm... how have you been?"
He's a quick change artist. Seconds fly by, and the out of step race back downstairs must be Edward, trying to put his pants on. He slows in the hallway, but it's still a quick walk.
What did I miss? Well, other than beer and Chinese food?
"Hey!" Edward calls, rushing into the room...to find two eating. "Sorry, mate," he apologizes, moving around the sofa to Valan's side to sit.
A large hand comes up, "S'alright, mate. I wasn't keen on seeing the south end of Blois..." Eyes fly wide and Davydd grins, "Besides, seen it already..." A chuckle for some memory somewhere that he doesn't divulge -- not even when Valan looks at him that way. A groan and the box of mongolian beef is set on the table, chopsticks sticking up like tiny flags of surrender. And Davydd leans in, taking up the can of Guinness and settling back with it.
It rests on a vinyl-denim thigh as he relaxes on a full one-half of the sofa. The grin has calmed to a smile, and his normal gruff exuberance has eased into a kind of ...thoughtful demeanor. But his eyes. His eyes are wild with whatever he knows. And what he doesn't know but is feeling. And maybe that's it.
That's it...
He's feeling something...
Valan looks up from his sweet and sour shrimp as you burst in. "Ami, there's a box of beef and mushroom and then the mongolian. Davydd was just mentioning his trip to Wales..."
"Oh, yeah, thanks, ami," Edward says softly, just watching his friend. Hand reaches for the box, missing the first time. Second time's the charm. Edward's returned in a pair of black sweatpants, his feet still bare.
"So...you went to Wales?" Edward picks up, reaching for chopsticks. He sits flush to Valan, black leg along burgundy-colored one. "Um...how was it? See anyone? Is the food alright?" He sees you all have drinks...can't question that need.
Is this what I'm reduced to? Filling air with sound?
"You alright, Davy?"
He looks at the can of Guinness as your questions move over him, a tilt of the black and gold tall can and then he sets it aside. Wait a tick. Davydd... setting aside a can of Guinness... as in... not going to drink it. "Did I hear you right about the coffee? I'm feelin' oddly peckish for a cuppa," And he rises, smile yet in place. "Yeah... aye... I feel smashin'..."
His voice trails off a bit as he heads into the kitchen, but it returns soon enough as he opens the fridge and hunts for cream. "I had a lovely four-night. God, lovely. It was an amazing four-night, Edward-bach...anyone else up for coffee?" You see him from the kitchen, leaning back and lifting the pot, "I'm for pourin'...anyway..." he starts in again as he pours his own cup, "...I drove the top-down..."
A pause...
"...with Sandrine...when I went to pick her up, she was looking out of a movie. You know, Grace Kelly..." You hear him pouring cream, tending to the sugar. "Have any buns? Scones? Biscuits? Ah, she was..." was that a sigh? "...you should have seen her. In a pink suit, with a chiffon scarf. I thought m' knees were for the pavement..."
"I'm fine, Davydd, merci..." Valan calls, this in between bites of sweet and sour shrimp and noodles. He's curled up, half against the sofa, half against you, Edward, leaning his weight into you and eating out of a box of cheap but good food.
And as Davydd is in the other room, Valan leans in toward you. A wink and a grin shared. Something's come over your friend, ami. He seems quite...
Alive...
Twisting, Valan turns toward the kitchen. "Oh, there's not any scones, but I did stop at the cafe," so he says in his broken English, "... there is an apple croissant left. They are too much for me still..."
Edward is quiet, nodding at each comment. And when Davydd rambles on, heading to pour coffee, he looks to you Valan, his brows twisting into knots. A secret question...what is that about?
"Oui, Davy, there's a croissant left," word said as it should be, "...and no on the coffee, okay?" Hmph. Edward looks down into his box, fishing at scurrying pieces of mongolian beef. After a moment, he sighs and sets box aside, leaving chopsticks standing upright in a swirl of meat and sauce.
"So, you and she went to Wales, then? Seems like you had a nice time," Edward calls. No need to mask the dining thing. He wasn't really so hungry. "She was nice, huh?"
"Ah, beauty... diolch," a murmur, but it is plain to your vampiric ears. And his hunger is not a manifestation of the need for human food, but... for the need to do something with all the blessed energy moving through him. And it's constant. Food, drink, movement. When he returns from the kitchen he is balancing the coffee like an overburdened waiter -- damn your light colored carpet -- and has an apple croissant stuck in his mouth...
He settles on the sofa, setting the coffee immediately down. And then the croissant. He looks at you -- both of you -- and smiles. That secretive smile. The one that knows.
And does not know...
"Aye," he says quietly, eyes sparkling. "I did, Edward-bach... the drive was the best drive I could remember. She has the best and brightest laugh, and she's got so much for intelligent conversation. I've never talked so much to a woman in all m' life...We drove straight to Powys, to the manor, the first night. And it was just..." He picks up his coffee in both hands -- saucer balanced in his left, cup held by his right. He looks into the coffee and then lifts it for a sip. "... I couldn't keep my hands still or my mouth shut..." And he laughs a bit, and goes a bit red. "She's just so gentle, and lovely, and smart... she takes an actual interest in things, you know?" Green eyes are full of emerald and forest, dark and brilliant. Another sip of coffee and he sets it down. "And the next night we walked in my gardens. She ... knows so much, Edward... she was talking about hybrid crossing roses... and," he shakes his head, "... she wandered in it at twilight, pruning and working. She knows so much..."
And he would appear to be... what...smitten?
Davydd?
Valan is quietly listening, but he leans forward smiling. First just a little slantwise, but then it broadens, warming. Brilliant, your golden young man. "So... this Sandrine... she is ah... she sounds quite lovely. You are seeing a lot of her then?"
This is the first flush of love, ami. Gold-green eyes flick from Davydd to you and back again. Back and forth, and he grins. Oh yes, ami. Look at him. Look at his hands that don't know whether to pick up the coffee, find a cigarette, grab the spirit of the woman he Wants or pinch himself. Look at the eyes that take on a life when he talks about her, and how when he does not talk about her, he begins to fidget. How all things eventually move back to her, even if you were asking about the weather. Or talking about coffee...
I can see it, ami. But I do not think Davydd has seen it. It is primal. He is in motion to a song he hears but does not yet recognize.
It is that.
Edward recognizes it, yet is still amazed.
Is that how it looks? How it feels? Yes, I remember how it feels. A glance to you, Valan. Just like that. On the verge of exploding. Wanting to explode. Release it. Get it over with. But that is not how the world works.
Not at all, Davy.
Finally, Edward begins to smile. Sympathy. All you speak, Davydd, is perhaps true. It is in your mind, your eye. Your heart. In the end, that is all that matters.
"She sounds really nice, Davy," Edward grins, deciding the coffee is indeed the way to go. He picks up his cup and sits back. Forget food.
"So, she prunes? She knows about flowers? Not too many women can say that nowdays, you know? It's good she's smart too..." he agrees, smiling all the while. Sympathetic.
Can Davy and I share this too? No, we are so different, but yes, it is upon him. It makes him seem so different. This is a man I do not know. And I guess that is alright. He's a happy man, and that's fine with me. I know what it is like...
"She does," the inflection noticeably rises, as it does with the Welsh when they get excited, and his hands start moving, punctuating various thoughts, words. Much as William and Girault do, only less so. But the Welsh are known to gesticulate as much as the more Mediterranean sorts. "And the way she moves through it," hands make for the coffee again. Another swallow of it. A few more minutes and the rest will be too cool to drink. "Like she's Blouedowedd," a Welsh goddess, and such an old name, it reverberates from his lips, "... flowers spring from her toes as she walks..."
And he hears himself say it, but he can't stop himself. And he smirks suddenly and leans with all his weight back into the sofa with a sigh. "She has such grace, I find myself just watching her, you know...?" Do you know? And he looks to you for the first time in a few minutes, finding you both looking at him. And he clears his throat. "Aye, well... she knows her way around a garden. And it was a good trip to Gwynedd, took her to Snowdon, then we stayed at Harlech...toured those gardens, and talked and roamed the land a while. It was a good trip. I think she liked the old dragon mountain, I told her the legend of the white and red dragons," a chuckle, "and made her sit through it. She handled it well."
I must be puttin' you to sleep. "So, I took her to her place when we got back to London. She has a greenhouse at her apartment. Automated panels and the whole works. Spent the night there... and..." A chuckle hangs in his throat. "... I think I prefer it to the palace... I didn't want to leave." I can't believe I said that either.
Another swallow of coffee. "Duw, I'm rambling," he murmurs...
Valan grins and leans forward, interested in the story, damn near laughing at the sight of it all. How the words are coming in streams rather than sentences, and with the lilt of his voice, it sounds like a river running down the mountains he talks about. Often. And he looks at you, Edward. "You know her? Maybe we should ask her over for drinks one night..."
Your lover, the matchmaker of the undead. Course, there's not much to match that hasn't been matched already...
Edward blinks as your voice comes clear through Davydd's narration. "Hmm? Oh, yeah..." Edward nods, "...well, maybe she doesn't want to be in...you know...someone else's place, but oui, maybe dinner out some place?" Public and safer that way.
Edward finally goes on, expressing his own thoughts. "She just sounds wonderful, Davy," Edward grins, color returning to his face, "...just like a dream." Eyes to you, Valan. He winks at the shared remembrance, and then looks to Davydd again. "And she didn't flinch at the dragon story. That's good to know." He tries not to get into stories of her apartment.
"So..." Edward smiles, "...so what's it all mean then, lad? You keen on her?"
And sudde
Posted by rowan at April 19, 2003 10:24 PM
