A folded map lies on a leather car seat, and an interior light shows a highlighted trek through Highlands. An X over a major city. Major connections ticked off like a checklist.
Narrow roads and no lighting but the moon and headlights on the snow. Piled slush marks the boundaries of roadspace. All else is blackness.
Up the road that so few travel, there is the sight of slow approaching headlights, widing and approaching the long road to Strathfayr.
A phone rings beside the bed, where it rests on a side bureau along with two nearly emptied glasses of wine. And a deep voice whispers, "Don't answer it," as the mouth that bore it tangles with another.
It is the house phone, of course. Calling from the gate...
There is a burning fire. There is a burning set of hands. Nights have passed like this since the arrival of the Caravaggio. The boy with his basket of fruit and his half-closed wanton eyes. And the artist repairing it repairs nightly to his bedroom to find you there...
...taking his breaks filled with taking you...
So it passes again this night. While the house phone is ringing, there is twisting underway under furs...
"Don't..." comes the query. The other with you only slows his grasping for a moment. Natural hesitancy as the mind decides. But often, decisions are made much faster than reaction.
Not this night.
Tonight, the blonde young man in your bed is slower to respond. Think, think. What line is that? What was that sound.
All the while, his hands and mouth continue on at your prodding. The sheets rustle with the most of it, friction becoming energy becoming friction again.
"I...It's the...gate." That's it. There are the words, Ian Dunross, what you were trying to say some thirty seconds ago. Gate means someone is actually here. Someone asking for our presence.
Despite it, Ian disappears beneath the furs and sheets again, already distracted by the tangling.
Damn. The gate. Can we ignore that?
A heavy sigh says No...
A large but fine hand emerges from coverings of sheets and fox. Blindly reaching, finding its way. Trying to find its way. And then the phone is grasped and dark hair emerges next, the lifting of a head from its task causing furs and coverlets to shift away from him.
And as he hands the phone to you with a wink, William rolls against you. Atop now and spreading. And you've got an eyeful as he holds himself up on knees and braced by a hand in the bedding...
Gold-green eyes look from the guard to the gate as the phone is finally answered. I should have called ahead. And Valan smirks.
So this is what it feels like to be Davydd...
But as the guard tends to his phone call, he lets his eyes wander over the long bridge that crosses the moors and ends into a castle. Ancient. Not like the fairy tale of Fleurlil. This is more Macbeth than Cinderella...
No, no. Ian shakes his head, laughing now. You do it. His hands push the phone back at you, suddenly occupied at the linens' edges. His legs snake around, settling upon your thighs. "Tell 'em," he whispers, "...to go away..."
Blithe...
The placid wickedness the guard cannot see...
The upraised eyebrows, the disheveled black hair. Does he know the sound of that laugh? Will he understand the warm "Yes?" he receives in that languid baritone? The one syllable that stretches the space of two. The hand on the bedding lands upon your shoulder, anchoring...
..while the world of furs and fine linen shifts...
His mouth parted to say Tell them we're busy or Tell them to come back tomorrow, yes tomorrow night will be better, but William stops. "Montague? Yes, I know him. Ah... yes, he is fine to come in...Is he alone?"
Indigo eyes look down to you, flickering in a wink again as his hand anchors itself at your hip, curling, pulling you to him again.
"He is. Hmm. Very well, let him in."
And before the guard can give his own affirmation, the call's done and the phone is put aside. "Valan Montague is here to see us," words that emerge darkly in the tangling of mouths again. "Sans Meurelle... Dionnach," a grin pulls against you, "will keep him occupied..."
And the universe shifts again...
"Drive forward and around, Mr. Montague," the guard directs with a smile and a gesture toward the bridge. "One of the house will meet you there and show you in. Have a good evening, sir..."
"Thank you," the warm reply meets cold air with a frosty cloud...
Headlights mark the car's creeping across the bridge. And the house...
You can hear it, Dunross...
...is alive in preparation for the sudden guest. How Dionnach lives for this moment...
He may be wrapped around you, but the furor of the moment begins to wane. Though he is flush from the blood that rushes beneath his skin and has left trails at his mouth, already your young man begins to cool.
"Montague?" Ian wonders, quirking a brow, "Alone?" Does this strike you as odd, Plantagenet?
Arms encircle you, but you know how he is once something has taken seed in his mind. You move and he moves in kind, but those silver eyes, you must know, are open. Looking up at the canopy above you. Wondering.
This isn't the first time your eyes have drifted up to the ceiling and thoughts splayed themselves out to you there. Business or strategy or just news there hovering. We've started many a night like we have tonight and ended it both on our backs, staring up at the ceiling and talking it over.
And so I know it when I feel it. There's a difference to the grasp of your hands.
"Oui, I think it is strange," William is already beginning, midstream from where your thought left, and with a wry pull of that mouth, he lifts from you. So much for this...
A hand rakes through dark hair as he settles on his back and William exhales. "Hmmm... well, I will get dressed and go see." Dark hair clings to the linen of the pillow as he turns his head. "You are coming with, oui?"
A brush of his mouth against your forehead. A murmur of emotion, a rapturous look. Oh, how splendid would it have been...
I brought a coat. It is not enough for this! Valan closes the door and bag in hand, he clasps his thick coat to him. There is laughter, frozen. It clings to the air even after he passes...
Heading into the light and the promise of warmth.
A brown suede satchel -- some modern combination between saddlebag and backpack -- rests on stone. And the youngest immortal of you all keeps equidistant from the flames of the two great fireplaces south and west. And his eyes travel up, as they must.
The stone vibrates with such age. It is like the castles in the films. Haunted by the ghosts of Rob Roy and Macbeth...
Well, he's just like every other tourist in that assumption...
Golden hair, disheveled Mod, moves when he moves, thick and wavy -- even though short -- it holds its style, even when Montague tips back his head and scans the ceiling, the sparkle of firelight off the glass panes.
Theseus. Standing in the center of the labyrinth...
"You missed a button," Ian murmurs, pushing the door from the stairs open with his back. His own fingers finish off a button at midriff, but he seems not so worried about it.
He's already asked the major questions. Is something wrong? But you said doubtful. Then what could bring a neonate with a well-placed sire to these climes? There was no answer forthcoming, so Ian was silent as he tossed on his clothing from the previous evening. Slacks, socks, shoes...the floors are often cold...and his shirt. Sweater was unnecessary, as Ian doesn't expect to remain dressed for long.
Not wrong. Interesting...
Doubtful there is anything truly wrong, for would we not have been called? But, it is also not for nothing this ...visit out of nowhere...
Logic and Deduction. These were worn upon the tongue even as he pulled on a light shirt, not bracing against the cold but for the leather. The shirt, haphazardly buttoned as you have pointed out, is violet -- and it makes his eyes seem all the more so. But there's no repairing how it's fashioned. William Plantagenet will seem as he is -- interrupted. Hastily prepared. Pulled from his bed. And the leather, shiny. Fitting as his shadow, but for where it must gather in allowance.
The prince's feet are otherwise bare. He'll live with the cold until he can warm them by the fire...
You're not going to let me into bed with feet of ice, mais oui...
"I will let you fix me later," comes the drawl of Gaelic, tugged and plied in Gallic fashion. And you feel him, even though skin does not touch. You know him. Humming on the air. Living energy. Palpable. And violet-blue eyes are full of darkness and full of light.
Valan turns toward some upper door, the echo of something opening... or closing. And he glances to the fireplaces, the healthy fires within them burning, and...
...he turns away, heading to a chair away from the fire, a seating area to the north. Setting his satchel down on the chair, he rolls off his wool overcoat. Draping there...
I'll drape it there...
I should have called, I think...
What a great old place is this. A hand of Montague strays over his coat as he draws away from the chair and takes a seat near a bookcase. His eyes stray over the titles there. His thoughts stray some six hours southbound. I wonder, mon ami, where you are in your task now. A hand reaches up and fingers toy with the garnets strung at his throat.
"M. Montague," comes a familiar voice. That icy blonde from Switzerland, the one who was mostly silent. He smiles, dressed more casual than the last time you saw him, moving quickly across the keep's great room toward you. "A surprise," Ian's French pours, almost native. "You are alright? Things are alright?"
"A dog of the House of Montague has moved me from my bed," Ah, true son of Henry in that. The French that rises and falls, the voice that, though smooth and seemingly not lifted in tone, fills the hall. Undeniable in its sound as his face is in its image. "How now, M. Montague..."
William is perched yet upon the last step, his stride languid, unhurried though he has dressed in haste.
To one voice and then the other. To the energy, that something on the air that told him you were coming -- like Edward has, that energy, that rush, that space -- Valan is turning. Standing. Staring.
Wakening...
You and he, you shine like stars. I see it now, what I did not see before. Beauty. Power. Age. Things I feel, even if I don't recognize them fully. I know, without knowing.
Valan smiles to the French, "I am..." and immortal, young, beaming, gold-green eyes, gold hair. "I would have called, but things were... hurried. I will explain, yes... good to see you," and then his eyes lift, not landing long on William -- no longer than they may land on flame, "... and you, William. Je suis desole pour vous tirer hors d'un lit chaud une nuit si froide..."
Valan smiles, in that way of his, that carefree, careless way. But there is something behind it. A lover's concern. "I needed to get out of London for a few days," he begins, "... I hope it's not an imposition..."
"Absolutely not," Ian grins, the first to reach you, Valan. He grins as he comes to a halt before you, a face as young as your own brother. A kiss lands at your left cheek and then right. "You are always welcome, hmm," and he bends, as if looking over your shoulder, "...where is Edward?"
You and he are about the same height even. He maybe an inch, just a hair taller perhaps. And the continental greeting is returned. There is a... it is not relief. But there is a kind of relaxation with the warmth of it. He thought he would be welcomed warmly, he was confident in this. But to truly feel it is an even greater thing. "He is in London," Valan murmurs, and the smile fade a little. It does not turn into a frown, it just withdraws. "He had some business to handle. He is... giving answer to... whomever burned down his favorite gym. So," his hands open outward, "... he thought it better if I were out of the city. I did not want to go so far as France. I ...wanted to be with friends," his or mine or both. The smile returns, first and most fully to his eyes.
"I am ... new to all of this," he says lowly. "It shows, yes?"
There is a hand, large but fine. It lands against Valan's shoulder. No kiss and hug from him -- he'd have to shove Ian out of the way to do it. But it is a familial greeting all the same. The next moment finds William settling in a nearby chair. Not sprawling, not yet. But settling. And an eyebrow is lifted, a dark arch. "London seems to be restless these days," violet-blue cut to mercurial grey, before returning and fastening on the younger. "So, someone's torched Palmer's." There's an exhale. "When is he going..."
"Tonight." Valan turns, sitting on one of the gathered chairs, eyes to his hands.
Tonight? A faint frown does flush across Ian's features to see your own reaction and the full story. "That is sudden," Ian wonders. Does he plan for such things? Well, maybe, since you are here, Valan Montague. That is a smart thing.
"But he can take care of himself, right?" Ian murmurs, moving around to take a seat upon the arm of William's chair. No need to intrude upon Montague's space. "We are glad," Ian looks down to William, "...that you are here though. And yes, you may be new," Ian smiles, "...but we were all new once."
"You seem a little tired," Ian peering for tears at your hands, "...we should get you into a room promptly, hmm? You have eaten..." a question in that.
And already, a side door opens, smells wafting behind the young man that enters on cue. He looks at Ian, but stays a discreet distance away.
"Ah. Fabrice," a French name, "...good. A room for our guest...and all he requests please." Off-handed information, but not insisted upon. If you are ready to go, the young man is there. If not, the young man can easily occupy himself for a bit until you are, Valan.
He sits up, and the smile that is his trademark, that is his signature, is wide and warm. "Ah merci, Ian... It was a long drive. But... I am fine. And oui... Edward can more than take care of himself. Oui." Yes, I know this, too. You are right. Why worry?
But he does not rise to go. No, he is not yet tired. Not yet ready. But there is a look to Fabrice. A look, a smile and he looks back to you both. The smile remains. "Merci. It is good to hear. This thing about princes and cities. It is something I will have to get used to. I do not understand much of what is happening. People are not happy," shoulders roll with laissez-faire care. "I see this. Me? I do not want to get involved in it. But I understand sometimes, you must. And this is a time when Edward must..."
"I did not call," Valan adds, "... because I did not want to increase the chance of maybe being followed, or giving someone a sign that I even existed in that political world." Gold-green eyes widen as he laughs, "In short, I made like the French army and ran..."
Ah, this I like...
As Ian sits upon the arm of his chair, William's mouth pulls in a warm smile of its own. Spreading smoothly, slowly. And a hand rests upon his lover's thigh. A strong hold even in a light touch. Eyes meet, violet-blue to mercurial-grey as Ian speaks for both, the lift of a smile, and his gaze seconds whatever Ian says. "And even though I am old, I sometimes act as though I'm new. It is all the same," a quiet and brief chuckle to that, in unison with the curl of fingers against Ian's leg. "Sudden sometimes is best," William murmurs. "Sometimes unavoidable. But," and he leans forward slightly now, "I have worked with Edward on more than a few occasions. He is most capable. It is natural to worry, I worry when Ian has ...business of similar nature, I'm sure he worries a little for me, but..." Indigo sparkles in a wink, "...trust me. It will be worse for Them." Whomever they are.
A hand pats Ian's thigh. "But, oui, if you are tired... do not feel as if you should stay up to be polite..."
Am I being blatant -- can the Want be seen plainly on my face. Or are my features too distracting...
He falls into periods of staring at you both. How different you are now. How amazing. Eyes drawn, torn between you both.
"Just see to the room, please," Ian twists to say to the servant, giving him allowance to go. He will do just that, Fabrice, following Dionnach's commands to the letter in a room above.
Ian nods at the conversation, quickly returning to it. Instinctively, his hand covers William's, a smile for the notion of the army. A nod for William's words. "You did perhaps the best thing, M. Montague," how he likes the literary aspect of that, "...a quiet stealing into the night. With hope, you will return to your home soon."
It will be worse for Them...
There is a dark smile. Something maybe he is beginning to understand. Something immortal... budding. A first unfolding. A first flowering of something...
Predatorial?
Gilt-green eyes do not look at the expansive fires, but rather the reflection of that light and warmth from the living angels sitting in attendance with him. One of you at least should be able to feel that... bubbling of blood. How Spanish vintage runs hot. He, only partially aware of his Spanish, his Moorish, his Carthaginian influences, all new. All so young. All coming in a rush. "I am no fighter," Valan says softly. "I have nothing to offer in that life. I know this about myself. I know, for he has taught me already, and I have paid attention, who to trust and not, and so I have come here. But, of what I know of London and the things that happen there, I did not want to leave a burning trail behind me. Ah, there goes M. Montague," he, too, liking that suddenly. Perhaps because you use it, Ian. He has admiration for you. This, too, you see when gold-green eyes return and lift to you.
Valan sits back, hands lacing at his stomach. "I... do not want to offend my friends, my hosts," he looks to you, the darkness of the smile, the vampiric self... receding slightly. "I... wish to know what I may or may not do. I ... maybe it will be good to be distracted, yes? I ... feel it would be good," Valan echoes quietly, "... to be distracted. I get worried for him, and then I feel..." hands lift, ball into fists. "...constrained." Tense. A Brujah on edge, as they say. "Like when," he chuckles suddenly, eyes widening and shining, "... I first tried to crack an egg with this new... strength and obliterated Edward's kitchen," oh, well, it was funny, and I can laugh at it now. Silliness...
A hand curls around its partner. Skin sliding, warmth and living energy, the bond between them passing back and forth like a circuit. Like a ripple against the blood. And Valan's own... energy... is contagious. William's fingers curl against his lover's thigh, Ian's fingers captured along the way. And tilting his head, black hair shorn short to give an unhindered view of indigo eyes, his eyes are given to Ian.
I shall let you explain it, amours...
"Distraction," comes the languid baritone, the elongated modern French tugged by his own southern accent, "...can be arranged. We are good at that." And then the smile...
That smile...
"We have entire wings of the castle dedicated to it..." The quiet laughter...
That laughter...
And Michelangelic he looks. Beautiful. Decadent -- more so because it is natural, not worn, nor tried, nor acted. Simply Existing because he does.
"Indeed," Ian grins, "...there is little trouble you can get into here," he explains. "We can provide you a small map, or you can explore as you wish. In the keep, there is a room of collections above, filled with things from past lives. There is a rampart. There are...billiards, a music room, and a greenhouse," free hand points to the nave northward, "...on the other side of the wall. Stables are here for you to enjoy as well."
"In the other parts of the grounds, there is a full collection in the west, plus a series of rooms never used. A ballroom to the south. The gardens outside, the forest beyond, the moor around that." Wilder and wilder as he explains, layers and layers outward. Only this does Ian claim as tamed. "Certes, if you venture forth, take someone with you..."
"Of course, it is a little late for a round of golf..."
A labyrinth. A discovery. Some adventure. An old castle and who knows what may be found. Yes...
Yes, this is the very thing. Est ce de ce que j'ai besoin pour vous maintenir dans mon esprit, Edward, et pour vous garder avec moi. Et ne pas se piloter fou avec des pensees de tir et du combat...
Valan is sitting forward and smiling. "Billiards. Music room. Collections. An adventure in learning," a hand raises, finger to the sky, "...this is good! This is what I need." And the smile is wide, edged with distended canines he could not help but lower. Signs, all signs, that movement, that distraction are needed. Welcomed. Wished for.
There is a part of him, no fighter true, but he wishes to protect the one he loves. To be there for him. He will someday, he knows, not need to run. Not need to take shelter. I wonder if you can feel me there, Edward...
"I should let you return to your interrupted evening," Valan murmurs, rising. "I will entertain myself by wandering..." He looks to the joined hands at the thigh. Yes, he can imagine what he might have interrupted. Though he cannot imagine what that looks like between you. One cannot imagine the copulation of angels. It is... something harder still than imagining one's own parents...
"Pity that, but we can golf tomorrow. I'll be the grateful caddy," comes the quip. Warmth, lilting. His voice bouncing off of stone. William looks from Ian to Valan, smile sliding slantwise as Valan stands. Such youthful energy. Such light. It is easy to see why Edward loves you so, M. Montague. You are... contagious. The smile spreads, "Oui... plenty to wander." His voice softens, his hand releases his lover's own. A pat, gentle, upon his lover's thigh. Yes, amours, let's go.
"Do not worry if you get lost," William adds, his voice mulling humor as much as dark eyes smolder with it. "It happens to me frequently. There are plenty of servants who can lend a hand."
Or whatever...
Valan looks from one to the other of you both. You see it? The reaction? The eyes that do not realize they stare. The softening of his features. The senses straining to keep up with it all. Unable to do so from time to time, particularly with William, but it does not stop the attempt. He is like sunlight, you are like stained glass windows. Sometimes the ray of light can find himself within. But sometimes, he simply bounces off, reflecting as much as the firelight.
Ian, the young Brujah looks lastly to you, smiling. You, who receive him so naturally. "Merci... ah, golf. Something I should learn now that I am in its country," Scotland and England.
For his part, Ian seems keenly the host. Dynamics pass around him this evening. He stands too, nodding at the notion of golf and getting lost. "Will is right...there are those who would be happy to help you," he nods, "..and when you are ready to retire, just let them know and they will take you to your rooms. We can see to golf tomorrow," Ian grins, hands brushing his slacks.
"Make sure you remain warm, however. That is the most important thing to do."
"I will stay inside," a laugh at this, and warmly so, even though he has not learned how to conduct his own heat like a star. He, a planet like Jupiter or Saturn. One day, he may burn. But now he is just a gathering of beautiful elements. Clouds. Dust. Planetary. He revolves in youth around the oldest of you...
Valan closes the distance, a hand out to Ian.
"Merci, Ian," he says again. A look to William. "Merci, William."
Thank you...
Golf. Tomorrow. And hopefully a phonecall and Edward's voice: yes, I am alright, ami. I will see you tomorrow.
William has been revelling in the background. Content with Ian in the fore as host, Ian is the consummate host and William, from his distance, can watch him with a slightly detached... decadent study. He, finding his place with Valan. Present, yes, but like a talking statue. It will have to do for now. From where he sits, William may watch it take form, watch it becoming, seeking to become, being what it is.
With that angelic cast, that seraphic presence, he looks from Valan to the small of your back. You can feel his eyes there, Ian Dunross, as surely as you could feel his hand or his mouth.
But even though William is detached, more so than you, it does not mean that he is not warm toward Valan. He leans forward, preparing to stand also. "Vous etes bienvenu, Valan, nous etes heureux vous etes ici. Faites-vous a la maison, oui?" And the smile...
That smile...
... makes him resplendent, and as he rises he is as large as he seems, yes? Larger than life...
A hand lands briefly on Valan again. A pat on the shoulder, like an older brother. And he is in motion again. "Get lost, mais oui," William echoes, "it is the best way to understanding..."
Posted by rowan at May 06, 2003 08:39 PM
