Dieu, he is glorious.
     Every inch of perfection. His skin, his arms. His color. His hair. The way he feels upon me. Around me. The way he breathes. The way he smiles. The way he stretches, arms above his head. How his legs move; how his muscles flex and relax.
     I can't get enough of him.
     How he thinks. How he whispers to me. How he calls to me and challenges me with his smile.
     How he dares me to love him. How he dares me to live.
     Dieu, what have you done to me? To what I was. To what I thought I'd never know or never be. And in the blink of an eye, my world spun. You did this, Christus. You, and this...man...who lies beside me.
     But I have to make this call. It needs be done now.
     Edward Meurelle exhales, sheets stirring as he rolls upon his side, back to the man who rests against him. The call should not be long, but there is no need to wake the man yet from his gentle slumber. That will happen later.
     Digits are dialed. A number unknown to most. A number that rings somewhere else on the island, somewhere in Scotland.

     It is answered immediately...
     By laughter...
     You know the rich roll of sound. From the gut to the chest. It is not overpowering -- he is holding the phone at a tilt. You can hear the lilt and drag, the punctuation of fire that is Occitan from the Angevin mouth.
     Something to Ian, no doubt -- That's not funny, look, he is hiding from the cold...when did you become so greedy...
     The laughter quiets as whatever it is that is going on in Scotland is paused. "Yes?" There is still mirth hanging from the edges of his voice.

     Somewhere in Scotland...
     A hand is reaching for some nearby blanket, something to warm the chill now that furs have been taken. There is the sound of a fire...
     Nearby, yes...
     But on a night such as tonight fire will not be enough...

     "Greetings," Edward says quietly, as if trying to still his voice, retain some calm, "...I hope I'm disturbing you. Sounds like I've achieved my goal. Greetings to the Scot as well..." almost familiarly now.

     There's a grunt, the end of laughter. And when his voice sounds again, it is smooth and languid once more. "You are indeed... interrupting a merry war betwixt the Scot and me. So, now that you have my attention..."
     Or, at least most of it...
     You hear him settling on a bed, something quiet said to the one who must be with him. Your name -- the answer to some query. And your greeting conveyed. "How are things in ... you are still in France, oui?"
     Willaim smile, the smile heard on the voice. You miss his lordly sprawl. The conquest of the bed. The lying of the dark head among crimson sheets and white skin. The gold of the cross of his father at his throat. The dark of his hair against his lover's thigh.

     ... beside you there is a slight stirring, but Valan does not wake. He merely rolls to lie and doze upon his stomach...

     "And how may I help you, Comte du Blois?"

     "Well," always a fearsome beginning where Edward is concerned, "...a story, mais Duc. There is a young man in need of some education in art and painting. I..." ah, one of Edward's yarns, "...do not know what you've heard...but apparently a particular flower shop here in the City -- and yes we have returned -- was recently redecorated against the proprietoress' will. In colors of an Italianate type."
     His bed shifts too, Edward needing to see the man that sleeps so sweetly. As a result, his voice lowers.
     "The painter of the flower shop, a man of an Artistic Bent, owns a gallery here in the City. Since he did not get enough of paint with the flower shop, I thought you might help with his...artistic development. Some of his works need...touchups. Would you care to hear more?"

     Oh, now you have me intrigued...
     There is a sudden stillness of the air around him. Not even the bed creaks, although his hand is in motion. Lazy circles drawn against much fairer skin. You can imagine the look. The slightly lifted brow. The setting and fixing of indigo. The tilted corners of his mouth in that archaic smile.
     "Just call me maestro," teacher, indeed. "Oui... I am listening..."
     A pause...and you can nearly feel the pull of the smile on the other end of the phone, from the other end of the Island. "Do go on..."

     "Certainly, magister," Edward grins. "Education of said youth, whom, by the way, was seen last near a certain chair with a woman familiar to us both, might find, tragically, that his work was sadly destroyed in an act of painting against his will. In truth," he explains, "...the work was merely experimented with, as the originals were place in safekeeping during the young man's educative period. In for...touchups, as it were."
     A sigh, then, "While the works are being lovingly...restored...he shall have to deal with a few theoretical issues of art: what is art, how do you tell your work from another's, can you restore work that has been -- handled against your will, and," Edward chuckles, "...how to file insurance claims when you're dead."

     The laughter start again...
     Smooth and low...
     Trailing, lingering...
     From rich to wicked, soft to dark. "Important lessons, all. Vital, in fact. Ones which every collector with Artistic Bent should face," and a good many such collectors have. "But, you know... I am only a teacher, sometimes artist," a slant of grin at that. "I think we will need to employ... professionals," a dark head turns against a pale thigh and indigo eyes drift upward to mercurial silver. "... to handle the originals until which time these paintings might be... lovingly restored. I will speak to my associate. He is used to handling such... delicate matters."
     He can barely say it with a straight face...
     "So when shall embark upon this...educational journey..."

     "Immediately," comes the voice, still now. But he's smirking, your cos. "And indeed, if you know any professionals who care to teach, I am glad to know of it, and shall trust you in all dealings. Please let me know when the restorations begin, and I shall see to the things here."

     "You will hear from me shortly. I will speak with my associate in a few moments... we will arrange the primary preparations for the ...transfer. I will call you tomorrow evening and let you know the results..."
     You hear the bed sound again, the plaintive squeak of an old set beneath even older Plantagenet weight. Much to bear, is it not. Yes, he is leaning to set the phone upon the nightstand, feeling the call's conclusion. "I look forward to working with you. It has been too long..."
     We've been so good, cos...
     We've been so quiet...
     Now, it is time for a little wickedness...
     And I shall toast it with a night of glorious sin...

     It has. Edward simply chuckles, ending the call without another word.
     Silence returns. He sets the phone down, knowing cos won't mind the laugh and click. That all said, there's other things to think about, other things to do.
     In London, the phone is tossed towards the foot of the bed, mixed in among the clothing, linen, and piles of pillows.
     How I'd love to wake you, and tell you that I adore you, ami. That whatever you wish, I would give. How so much of what I do, involves thoughts of you, your smile, your eyes, your skin.
     Even now, I laugh, but I cannot wake you for my own selfish needs. To see you beneath me again, to hear you in my ear. You're sleeping peacefully, I cannot ask for much more bliss for you...

     And in Scotland...
     There are whispers in firelit darkness...
     When shadows play against the stone, there is laughter...
     There is a plan...
     The rest is laid at the feet of the old bed as the merry war is renewed...

Posted by rowan at May 06, 2003 12:56 AM