After the Caravaggio was delivered back to the bosom of its benefactor, William returned to the rowhouse on the Royal Mile. Strange that he should find himself there twice in the same year, when it had been sixty years between the previous visits.
     There was the requisite phone call. Amorous words that did not require a phone to be vocalized. But he needed to hear his husband's voice. It would be several more nights before he could return.
     So, married as he is (and so thoroughly it is not to be believed), after the delivery William's evening has been one of wine and reading.
     A hand reaches out, scooping up the wine glass, the bowl balanced, the wine swirled and then swallowed. The residue of a cigarette lingers in the air. M is opened, the London Times lies near.
     The sound of the celphone breaks the quiet of 9 Royal Mile. The display flashes.
     William glances up from the magazine, setting his wine aside. He leans in, looking at the number. And then he smiles.
     The call is connected...
     "Bonsoir, ami, Comment allez-vous?" Of course he knows it's you. He recognizes the number.

     "You! Oh," Edward's heat is palpable, "...you are shite for brains, aren't you? I am having a perfectly fucking fine night, when shite blows up like a fuckin' Christmas-cracker-candle. What the fuck's wrong with you, for fuck's sake?"
     At least it's all wireless.
     "I'm...well..." no matter what he was doing, "...and this call comes ---"

     He lets your tirade move over him in a wave and he settles back to listen. A sip of wine. He even holds it up to the light to look at it. "It is good to hear from you too, Eduard," the English comes in a languid purr, deep and edged with blandness. So thick his accent is! "I am glad you are doing well. You know, I can have this running dialog with the Polite You ad infinitum..." And William chuckles. "What?" he says in the middle of your stream of syllables...

     "What? What? You know what!" Edward says. "Didn't you think anyone was going to notice that the FUCKING CANVAS WAS MELTING!? Oh, no, no one's going to notice that. No, no. Don't mention that part to Edward, who stood out there and covered your pale, well-fucked ass!"
     "You know what it's like to get a call...oh...ten fuckin' minutes ago...from the fuckin' Toreador Prince of London? Wondering why you've fucked one of his pretty boys? One of his boys who has his head so far up Thierry Tattinger's ass, that he's soon crawling out of his mouth?"

     Laughter. That's what you get. Warm, Occitan laughter. Heady and full of wine and himself and pure, pure joy. Such a sound. If you were Ian or any other man or woman it might make you quiver a little. "That was genius, wasn't it?"
     And Ian must have laughed a full fifteen minutes on the phone...
     William exhales, his laughter falling away and pauses to light a cigarette. It was that good. "So Thierry called you, so what. He should have been more concerned that the Toreador up his ass pissed on their own archon's furniture. You are not going to sit there on Valan," he is grinning, "...and tell me that you are not amused. Vincent has learned two very valuable lessons. Don't shit where you eat, and don't fuck with my friends. He's lucky I melted forgeries..."

     "That was some shite!" Edward tries not to laugh. "Oh, my fuckin' God -- fuckin' Frenchy tried to put that shit on me, and apparently, his fuck toy forgot to fuckin' mention anything about the shop! Not a shit. Just left that out there for me to fuckin' pick up. I LOVE it! I didn't even know what to do! Oh. Well, save to rub the shite in Thierry's face."
     "Edward...Vincent's an ancilla? Why do you need to bully him? And destroying his work? His art! His livelihood...you're better than that. You didn't think I wouldn't hear? What in Christ's name is going on?"
     "Oh, fuck Christ -- so I told him that well -- and fuck me you would have been SO laughing your ass off when I was so fuckin' polite and said -- well, normally I don't get into Toreador affairs, but this was too much of an exception..."
     "And!" Edward's laughing now, "He goes...what Toreador affair?"

     Now, he can't even talk. The only sound you hear is William Plantagenet laughing his ass off. A quiet roll of sound, deep, from the gut and held in the throat and in the chest. All the way through your explanation.
     When you mention your polite response, he actually cackles.
     "Oh stop.... stop... you're killing me," William chuckles. "So," catching breath and halting laughter for a moment, he breathes smoke and words. "...what did say to that? I have to hear this..."

     "Oh, I explained the shit to him. How Vincent dared to insult an archon by vandalizing her place of business. Her livelihood. And then -- you would have died -- you should have heard the silence. Fucker. Christ. After all I have done for that bastard." True, but he still likes Thierry, you know.
     "Fuck all! So. There. And now he knows. But, even after I explained why I handled it like I did -- and no mention of any others, of fuckin' course -- he wondered about the melting painting bit. Just when I figured that I'd spindled his brain and he'd fuckin' let that go! So, well, I told 'em it was my idea and he can go fuck 'imself. That his cuntlapping Vincent deserved what he got for fuckin' with Sandrine...and how she's a nice lady...an' maybe his precious-fuckin-twat ancillae shouldn't fuckin' try to dish what they can't fuckin' eat!"
     "And fuck you, Valan's sitting on me, thank-you-very-little for bein' in my fuckin' business."

     Cuntlapping. Jesus. "Less visuals, Edward... you are going to make me nausceous," William chuckles. He exhales. "It is a pity Thierry, whom I like mind you, was not outraged for her case, more upset about his...as you say," in English, this is all very funny coming from him, that accent you all love, "...cuntlapping lackey than the archon of his clan. This won't play well for him, but that's his problem. Personally, he should thank us for handling it quietly and with a little...panache, mais oui."
     The grin is audible. Palpable. It carries across the phone lines and distance. "Is he...that must be quite the view." He mulls on that. You do have a beautiful boy, Eduard. Ah well. William exhales again. "And fuck you for taking credit for my work. You couldn't paint yourself into a corner..."

     "And you coulda mention'd that, mate. Fuck you!" Edward laughs a little. Perhaps Valan has moved. Off doing something else unheard over the phone. Edward sighs. "Well, he was. An' he was more like 'imself once I told 'em. He want'd to know what happened clear then -- no bullshit. So I told 'im." You can almost hear the shrug.
     "I said that I'd see t' the twat...that I had his shite fuckin' art." So called. The fingers for quotations were required.
     And Edward wouldn't roll on you. Not ever. His plan, his idea, his problem. But surely, you're right. Edward can't paint. That can't be lost on Thierry Tattinger.
     "Wait. What do you mean 'quite a view'? Don't even think it. Don't think about 'im in any way. He's a wall, as far as you're concerned." Ew. Thinking nasty thoughts about his boy, eh? Edward could almost appreciate it right now.

     "I cannot tell you everything, Eduard. What would be the fun in that?" For me, anyway. William settles back in his leather chair, becoming one with the folds of it, it creaks behind him. "A lesson to all, mais oui. What the Lord giveth, the lord taketh away..."
     Laughter, rolling warm, chest-held. "He's more a chaise lounge, ami. Sitting is alright, but he's made for laying..." and then he roars. Oh. I kill me.
     "Well, let me know when you want the art delivered. I will be in Chinon again in a few days, I can make the arrangements." He pauses. "Perhaps I should deliver them personally..."

     "No one's made for layin'. Move the fuck on," Edward comments, calming as well. "No need for ya to show. Just have 'em sent to Dannerly, eh. I'll send 'em on."

     William chuckles, "Alright... I will look into it when I get back home," Chinon. An exhale and the humor clears. "You know, we will have to work together again some time. This was much too fun. I would come out of retirement to do it again."
     Retirement. He keeps saying that. As if anyone's buying it...

     "Too right, cos. But..." Edward says, trailing off. There's a murmur. "We're done, mate. And there's more important shite than you about, hear?"

     "I'm not sure how to take that," comes the Plantagenet drawl. "But I will leave it at good night, ami. Ciao." And the connection is ended...

Posted by rowan at August 03, 2003 02:49 PM