Palmer's Gym.
     The bruisers have turned from rings to bar stools. Would-be boxers return, bloodied, to the street and the swell of London at Night. The writing on the glass is spotlighted by the few lights still on within. It's not completely deserted. The storefront, held in the darkness along a dark stone street, is relatively swept clean. Even the loitering, crouching "door shadows" -- men on the verge of out-of-ring violence -- are gone. There are greener pastures on the darker streets. Peterborough Lane is remarkably quiet.
     Past locked doors, the gym is closed but not dead. Even as we are not. Dead that is. There are only two lights lit. One bathing the 'ring' in a dingy sort of illumination. The other along a hallway leading back to changing areas and the phone kiosk. And this illumination plays upon the stretching ropes. Ropes stretching with partial Plantagenet weight. Sweat. Miraculous. Magic. His hair is inky black with it. And where light lands on him, it catches it.
     And the bottle of water tipped back for a swallow. Blood. From a punch of yours that landed. You are now tied, Blois. Is he faster than you recall? How long has it been? Since the liberation of Alhambra? Oh surely not so long as that. When was the last time... There is nothing so glorious as you and the Angevin in combat. Re-enacting, with bloody grins, the wars that once -- ah, more than once -- turned the rivers of our Valley red. A sensuous lip was split. It has already healed. Pity. It complimented the slow pull of his smile well. Blood... is his natural, and perhaps his best element. Ah, what would it have been like, Edward, had William been one of You...

     He had other plans for Palmer's tonight, until he got your call. A fighter by the name of Yang Ping was to meet for a bit of martial arts. But plans change. Ping had been there regardless, but after finding another opponent and then watching others, he gave a wave and departed. Another time. Instead, Edward mustered himself together to face his cousin instead. While he was glad to see you, there was something else behind his expression. No matter. With usual fare, the rest was dispensed and the ring taken. Now, he stands ahead of you, well-bruised and simultaneously healed as you are. In black kickboxing sweats no less, and a short-strand of amber around his neck.
     "What's so funny?" Edward pipes, expression stern. He's not smiled as much this night. Ah, the smirks do come at good blows, but otherwise, he comes across a little lifeless. No pun intended. "C'mon," he says, tapping gloves together and raising them defensively. Rising on the balls of his feet, it is a amazing such structure can fare so lightly. But that is the way of the preternatural life, yes? It has caused more than brows to raise on spectator's faces tonight.
     A sigh and lift his brow indicates that you are slow and he is getting Bored.

     Eastern art, Western art. William can move through them interchangeably. Whichever works best and quickest. Of the two, he prefers the Eastern -- there is more emphasis on redirection, balance and mind. Western arts always did rely more on bludgeoning. But, there is beauty in both. But for all your... is it impatience or boredom? Can both exist at once? William takes his time. It is unhurried, this. For all his intensity this evening, he has been the 'still pond'. Placid. As if this were meditation. Ah, inner peace found in the pursuit of war. How is that for Zen?
     Water bottle is lowered, set tucked in his 'corner'. He is dressed as you, no shirt, barefooted. He prefers to fight without gloves, but for boxing's-sake ... hands are covered. The smile lingers a little, archaic at the corners of his mouth. Not giving away what is, apparently, amusing him. "Do you wish to continue to fight me, Blois," comes the smooth intonation of his voice, that languid baritone rolling upon Our Mother French, "... or the bug you have up your ass..." A dark brow lifts and in the low illumination, indigo color of eyes erupt. Half-turned, William grabs a towel, rubs down face and hair. "I can sit back and watch for a while, if you'd rather..." Damn him. The grin is a little bloody. Smug, Plantagenet. Is he baiting you now, Blois? Even as you had on his last visit?
     Preternatural strength. Preternatural quickness. Agility that is something beyond grace. Power, at its most beautiful. Beauty, in formidable expression. This... is the sight of both of you in motion. Light, though your frames are heavy. Deft, though you are both tall. No human moves as you two do...

     The gloves touch and Edward lifts from defensive posture. "What bug up my ass?" he demands, hands lowering, head tilting. "You're making shit up, cos," he murmurs, "...let's go or stop, aye, whatever. To 5 then." Hands come up, but that is about all. The stance is retaken, perfected over centuries. A tap of the gloves, and Edward puts on his 'ready' face.

     But your heart isn't in it. Where is it exactly, Blois? "Stop then..." words remarked simply. Without emotion. Merely, there was once action, and now there is not. But you know him. And he knows your heart is not in it. Distraction, Edward. It is a palpable thing. William bows his head slightly, "Merci..." is murmured. But he backs up a pace and lifts his right hand to his mouth. Lips and teeth to tug the fitting to free it. "I needed this," he remarks easily. And the ropes soon pull with his weight again. Leaning, he frees his right hand, tossing the glove to the side. "I am going to have to... take some time in Edinburgh or Inverness... I can't drive down to London every time I get the 'bloody' urge..."
     Indigo eyes lift from the freeing of his hands to you. And there they settle, electric in color. Vivid. "You've something on your mind..." A dark brow lifts again, querying quietly. Light the steps that carry him to the corner, and quick. A sweeping bend and the water is in his hand again.

     He is a bit surprised when you say stop, hands lowering slowly. He watches as you remove the teeth guard, then realizes that you mean it. No sudden sucker punch, no pausing to get over some sentimental notices, then back to kicking ass. No, you seem to mean to end for now. Edward has no objections, oddly enough, and follows after you to pick up a wet towel.
     Edward sighs as his mouth parts and the guard falls out. Expert tongue. Setting it aside, he begins the task of remove the loosely-fitted gloves. "Nothin's on my mind, hmm," English coming forth. He tosses a glove down to a nearby assistant-friend, quickly followed by the second. "Just tired from all the back and forth, I think," he offers instead. "Sorry on that, old bean." Better to hear that voice. Hands free, they land on his hips as he twists, deciding where to move next. Towel. Turning about, he leans over the post to take the towel from the friend. "I'm thinking of taking a holiday," he says casually, shrugging. "Something to do."

     "Bah," William says quietly -- he's been hanging out with Davy-bach too much, has he not? "...no apologies. I am satisfied with the draw..." You speak English, he speaks French. He does not waver. Flecked with the Loire. Tugged, permanently, by Provencal. From his tongue, the very definition of languor. But, it is punctuated, now and then, by something more exacting. A dash of something forever Norman.
     The ropes sound as hands part them. He steps out of the ring, bottle of water in hand. Towel draped around his neck. And then his right hand lifts, towel rubbed against the back of his neck. This, before it is tossed. It lands heavy on the top rope. "Holiday?" Since when do you take vacations? The smile pulls to a warm, broadening grin. "Where to?"

     He follows, picking up a bottle near the associate's chair. "Dunno, cos, I'm thinkin'....maybe Switzerland. Luxembourg?" No, he's not thought it out really. "A chalet somewhere. High up," his hand lifting as if pointing to some fictional mountaintop. "With an ice cold lake to wake me up at dusk. Snow caps year round. Maybe ski."
     Tossing back some water, Edward wipes his face with the towel, then looks to his bag. "A couple of weeks might be good," he breathes, taking another drink from his bottle. "I haven't skiied in a while." Well, not since the British-Italian Alpine Corps in the war. But that was then. "Might be a good way to spend the holiday, y'know?" Holiday? Plans? He actually observes those?

     "You will have to let me know where you are so... I can send you a present for Uncle Raymond's Birthday." His uncle Raymond, prince of Jerusalem. Well... once upon a time. He calls it that as much as Christmas. Indigo flickers in a wink. Brilliant. Even as he is under the bare spotlight. Taking a seat in one of the benches near the ring, William looks up to you. Hands fishing in a black leather duffel for his shirt. "Doesn't Georg have a gran chalet in his Switzerland?" And to Georg, the Swiss Brujah -- and one of Our Affiliation, it is his Switzerland.
     William pulls on a crimson and black sweatshirt, thick and striped rugby -- with the insignia of The Canterbury Crusaders on it. And he does have the build for it, your bruiser cos. As you do. "Sounds lovely. Dieu... I haven't been skiing since the war..." William murmurs. A memory crosses his face, but then with a smile it is dispelled. "You should, Edward. Get away, get some snow. Drink warm...drinks," he says, smile slanting. "You deserve it." Seriously spoken, his dark eyes settling on you. "Take time for yourself, hmm? It is easy ... to spend ...the surplus on everyone else... myself included." William tugs on his shoes. "Everyone... needs a holiday...no better time to be in Switzerland than in December ... hmmm... I may have to keep that in mind for next year..." That softly to himself.

     He smiles now. No questions. "I think it's a good idea...and I'll give regards to Georg...though I had no plans to see him. I'm sure he'll send a message." Or a gift. He's like that. "What about you?" Edward wonders, turning to filch his bag, dragging out a singlet shirt that drapes at his chest and underarms. "God, I need a bath," he notices, but goes on, moving to take a seat near you to change shoes and socks. "What are you...both...doing for the Yuletide," laughter rising. "Ah, I love the British. No plum puddings?"

     The first phrase that leapt to his tongue was: Hopefully one another. But... you see it...hold there. Instead, it transforms into a spreading smile. You said both, Edward. And you can tell he ... recognizes the difference. Inclusion. Both brows lift a little. "Stay home. We have plenty of snow in the highlands. Girault invited us to Fiorenza..." Florence, "...but... we decided to keep to the furs and moors this year." Something dawns on him, borne upon that beautiful countenance in warm. I am married, aren't I. William chuckles quietly, a smirk at himself and he rises. "I am thinking venison pies and Yorkshire pudding. Maybe plum too... would that my stomach were as accommodating as my gaze. Plenty of scotch and brandy..."
     There is a smile for words of bath, and then a chuckle. "I wasn't going to say anything..." as if he is in any better strait so far as that goes. Blood and Angevin sweat. But it has a summer quality to it. "We should meet in Chinon after the first of the year...I'll let you shoot the cannon..."

     He smiles, this more genuine. "Ah, well, thanks, mate," Edward smirks, "I do so love that cannon." Not really, but it sounds good. "Sounds like you're going to have a nice Yule," he ponders, bending to tie other Doc Marten on. "Cuddled up in your hidey hole," he smirks, putting an elbow into your side. "That's nice," said warmly, head bobbing as he continues with the laces. "Everyone should have a nice holiday season."
     Pushing up with both hands on his knees, Edward looks around, "Hmph. Cleared out the joint. Well," he stands, "...scotch and brandy sound good," echoing your earlier notice, "but I don't think they'll wanna see us in the Metropolitan Club like this." That nice spot above Pall Mall that Ian sometimes meets Robert. "What d'ya wanna do cos? High or low brow?"
     "Or...." he realizes, stopping, "...do you need to get home or something?" If Ian is expecting you. Marriage and all.

     Laughter. Quiet ease of sound that holds in throat and chest. He knows you are humoring him. But he does love explosives. Ah, a wistful look for that. "Be sure to call me, oui?" He is serious about meeting in Chinon. He owes you a night, does he not? But the laughter eases into a look. An expression somewhere midway between placid and lustful. You know it as the Plantagenet look of love. It is the look that simultaneously beautifies him and...enlivens him. No one... deserves to look as he does -- least of all him. And it is, perhaps, only partly due to the power of the blood. "Oui... cuddled... the only sure way to fight the Scotland winter. It is... of course... my favorite time of year in Scotland. It will... be good to be with Ian ...and be home. Though... I do like the chalet in the Alps idea...." Inclining his head, William grins. "Exactly..." a returning nudge to your shoulder. "Everyone does, ami..." Ami.
     He pauses at the thought of a drink, stride halted. "Would you mind popping by Kensington," he offers. "I want to at least...shower and change. And... I do have the best brandy in England..." He's not lying either. You recall it. Indigo settles on you and brows lift in the offer. Yes, care to join me at my...his... place, Edward?

     "Sure," he says, standing, "...I'll steal something from your closet." Edward only smiled at the word ami , and for a half-second, he paused to enjoy the grin. But that quickly evaporated, and he spins around, picking up towel and water to toss into his bag. "Ah, thank ye, Charlie," he calls to the wandering late-evening attendant, "...yer a good man, you are." Zipping the bag and keeping the water, he moves past you, heading towards the door. "I'll take my car," he notes, "I gotta go somewhere later," Edward notes for the record, expecting you'll remain at Kensington for the night. And why not? Schlepping along, he tosses the bag over his shoulder and tips the bottle up for another swallow of water.

     A nod for that and Understanding. He won't be leaving Kensington tonight. Perhaps a game of billiards and some brandy -- something entwined with Old and New, Aged and Modern. And continued conversation. He won't see you again for a while. "Of course, you are welcome to it..." His closet that is. "I'll meet you there, hmm?" Leather duffel is lifted and shouldered easily. With a pivot, a nod is given to Charlie. "Thanks..." Nothing if not polite. Oh, what the centuries have done for him.
     Preternatural motion. A turn that defies the eyes of mortals -- hidden by the dim lighting. A half-turn, Otherworldly. "I'll have the brandy waiting..." Yes, I am going to get there before you. Care to wager on it A grin slides again upon that mouth and he heads for the door. His car is parked outside. What a car. His-and-his F1s is how he and Ian traveled southward. It wasn't so long a drive as all that. Hmmm. Imagine that.

     "I'm sure you will," Edward smirks, having flown himself over the small sea. "Sorry, some of us can only afford Cobras," and Saubers, but he'll not mention that little gem in the Chateau's garage. That's only when he's in a mood, or going to Paris. "I'll see you there," he waves off, passing the doorway and out into the night air.
     He stops outside on the sidewalk, glancing upwards. Most of the sky is washed out, but smart eyes can pick up other pinpricks here and there. A shake of his head and smile to you, and Edward heads off down the sidewalk, not so rushed. A causal walk towards his car, and a touch at his throat and nape.

     What time is it, oh newly-learned day sleeper. Bad habits that new guy has started. Up until all hours of the early morning. But it's only been weekend, and such sacrifices are always made for new attractions. How can you can sleep anyway, when the body courses with excitement and exhilaration?
     Despite a lingering parting a few mornings ago, perhaps it is a good thing that Edward's gone to see about whatever it is he does. London for most of the week. Maybe it was timed that way. Maybe it was luck. But even the most jaded of lovers knows that absence truly can make the heart grow fonder, and that seeming too eager can lead to overexposure.
     It may be a surprise then when your phone begins to ring somewhere after 11pm. But you have so many friends...it could be anyone.

     It took half the week just to readjust. To not having a full bed. To not sleeping during the day -- well not so much after noon any way. For exhilaration to ease back into normalcy. For the smooth pond of an Easy Life to settle after a ...rather huge wave. It was tidal. That weekend, those three days... no, nights... are burned into his skin. He is reminded of it. He dwells on it. Like all new lovers do, oui? In the first parting. But it is good to let it boil and sit unattended. Not constantly stirred. Not constantly checked upon.
     Work. It is the white noise of our Existence. You have yours. I have mine. On the screen of the laptop is a half-designed image. A new logo for father. Something new for Bordeaux. Not so old and stodgy, papa. We are not English. Leave that to them, oui? It is a large 'M' in shades of wine, three-dimensional, with a kind of orange behind it...
     And the phone rings. Fingers leave the keyboard, eyes leave the screen -- both laptop and television alike -- and as right hand reaches for the phone, left hand grabs the remote. It's probably Denis. Ou etes-vous, Valan? Sortez au croise et joignez-nous dans une boisson! But I answer, simply. "Vous avez Valan. Bonsoir." You have Valan, good evening. What a greeting. Egoist!

     "I do?" Edward chuckles, not quite expecting that. "That's good, then...I think," he falters, rather amused at the greeting. Clouds of melancholy are pushed away -- you surprise and cheer him. "Um, though now that I have him.." his French clearly Anglicized, "...what am I supposed to do with him? I guess I should say something. Ah, right. Good evening, M. Montague..."

     I should not smile so quickly. Dieu, not so broadly, Valan. Your face will crack. Did you learn nothing from your sisters on how to seduce a man? Where is your blasé? Where is your ambivalence? Where is your pout? And so I chuckle and put all of my sisters' teaching to ruin. Ah well. "I am certain, M. Meurelle, that you... enterprising as you are... will figure something out, yes?" His French is warm, full of Tours. Which is where he is sitting. "Bonsoir," he says more fondly, at least you will hear it has less egoism in it. "It is good to hear from you," Valan continues. "How is London? Still damp?"
     You are missing quite the view, my friend. Sitting as I am in the living room of my nice loft, in nothing but some white cotton, brushed soft and thick. It is a bit chilly in Touraine these days.

     He laughs and picks up the conversation, sounds of a phone shifting, "I am still in the heart of the City," my city, "...and it is somewhat chilly, yes, but no rain today. There may be some overnight, however. That is the way here. And what of you? How is home?" His and yours. "Ah! And your...package arrived too..." Edward's voice slowing, softening, "...it's lovely, Montague," almost sweet. "I put it on immediately of course," not said brightly, but with a sense of destiny. There was nothing else to do with it. "But again, how are things there?"

     He is quiet for that. For a moment. "I am glad it pleases. You wear it, and I will suffer England's damp along with you." That too held a softness, but the wink that followed it is almost audible. "Ah, and for Tours...? It is has gotten... remarkably cold..." You are not here, ami. Ah, too fond, Valan! "Other than this, I must tell you that I have nothing thrilling to report. Fencing by day, lazing by night. No parties. No discos." No fooling around. "I have been working... a little...shhh, ami... do not tell anyone. This must be...notre petit secret..." Our little secret. Valan chuckles.

     "What?" Edward gulps, drinking something, "That you work?" He laughs, "Usually secrets are things worth keeping, M. Montague, but...if you want, I shall not speak of it. And it is too bad that it is cold there...I have not seen the weather reports of late. But then again, it is winter..."

     Let's not talk about the weather. Save that for when we're sixty and can't indulge in other matters for want of energy. Old men talk of the weather. Or old women. "What are your plans tonight? You are going to hit the discos? Listen to the Industrial? I want an image to carry me through the rest of my evening, ami..." You are not here. It is under my skin. It is making my leg bounce. Hearing your voice sets off a thousand reactions, all of which are ...hard to bear when bearing them alone.
     You hear Valan rising. Breathing as he heads into what must be his kitchen. You hear softened steps suddenly sound. Barefoot upon ceramic tile. The sound of a refrigerator opening. A bottle removed from it.

     "Oh, nothing such as that," Edward says, sounding in motion himself. "Just visiting a friend. Went to the gym for a while. That is all..." Ami. "My cousin is here and I am going to his home for the evening, I think...then back here." A pause. "Are you busy tonight?"
     "Non," he replies easily, quietly. A pause for pouring. Water from a bottle in the refrigerator. "I was just winding down. Half-watching old reruns of the Highlander," a chuckle for that. See what you have done! "... and working on something for the Senior Montague. I am going to e-mail his logo to him tomorrow. Nothing significant. Ah, I am going to bore you..." A quiet wince. "It is after eleven. I am not going to go out, non. Just... lounging about on the top floor...oh, your cousin? Was he the one with the cigarettes? Or is this someone else?" He's gotten it confused maybe. Or did you ever say the tall, dark one was family? It could be believed. You are both dark. Both beautiful. Though it is true, you do not look alike if it is so. Hard to see family in that.

     "Yes, that's my cousin," Edward explains, something rustling. Clothing. Then a pause. "I...was thinking. If you are not so busy, but it sounds as if you are for your father, perhaps you would come to London for a few nights? I will have to return to Fleurilil in a few days regardless. I...have a friend in Tours...if you are near there...who could fly you over?"

     "Be sure to borrow another one or two of those from him when you see him, Edward... I will owe you, oui?" The grin is wide and warm. And I will pay you in whatever way you wish. Valan is quiet when the invitation is received. You hear his steps go soft again -- carpet -- and a glass of something with ice in his other hand. "I am not so busy. Besides... my desk is always portable. I am a modern gypsy... I would ...love to come visit you for a few days..." It has been a week. I am going to explode. Valan settles on a sofa. Your ears can perhaps pick up some sound of the television, even though it is turned down. "I am in Tours... so this will be no problem. When... would your friend be able to do this?"

     "Less than an hour," Edward murmurs, distracted for a moment. Time. "By the time you get a case together and get there, he should be ready. I will...meet you at Stansted later tonight then?" Is this a deal?

     Exhilaration. "I will throw on some clothes, throw some others in a bag. What I miss, I will buy tomorrow. I will be there..." Though his lips are edged with a smile, there is something else there too. Desire. The skin seeks to be doused of the burn, the heart soothed and the groin satisfied. I miss you. I do. "I will see you tonight then... at Stansted," Valan murmurs. "I should go then," he grins. A chuckle finally edging his words. Quiet and warm.

     It connects you both, Desire. Edward would not show it either, content to speak of things lightly on his mind. But the end truth is the same. "Yeah, you'd better go," he murmurs, that pause coming again. Checking his watch. "If you go to the private flights counter, there will be a man, Josef, there expecting you. He will be in a dark green suit. Josef Menrit. Just let him know who you are and he will take you to Emil Farad's jet. Emil is a pilot. And let Josef know where you have put your car, he will see to it, if you want." A cluck of his tongue, and Edward smiles, "I will...see you soon then."

     "Josef. Emil. Stansted. Et oui vous me verrez bientot, ami..." Ami . And thus the call ends. The phone, like so much else, will be tossed in the bag. Clothes thrown on -- something wine colored to go with the garnets around his neck. Or something ivory. Ah... who has time to decide? Clothes are thrown on. Exhilaration will keep the healthy mortal body going yet for many hours. At the end of those hours, he will be with you.
     Desire does connect you both. Though neither spoke of it directly, it was there. Pulling at the words and the quiet. Even as it had before you called, Edward. When you were melancholy and fighting off an Angevin horde of 1. As it had with Valan, as fingers fell upon the keys of a modern machine.

Posted by rowan at February 03, 2001 07:31 PM