The streetlights comprised a reflected cosmos against the forms of two cars. False fires moving in colors over rounded engineering. Every bit as Otherworldly... as preternatural... as the two of you...
     You have seen the passing spheres of British class structure rippling outward from the East End and Palmer's to the structures of prestige and power. It is, in its way, quite nearly scientific. From base models to Platonic-Perfect Forms. And among these? Kensington itself. What remains of the Windsors yet mourn its passing from family hands, but, in truth, it has reverted back to older, more genuine rights. Before the age of Hapsburgs. Given his way, however, you know that William would prefer the familial estate of White Tower...
     The gates opened wide for you. The door opened by that... remember him?...stiff English butler. Lord Propriety himself. "Do you wish to show yourself to the den, sir?" He remembers your... preference for going your own way. To coin a phrase.

     It took a little longer...he decided to make a swing by his own place. A hasty shower, change...and a phone call. A ring somewhere in the heart of France. But he could not stay long. He had someplace to be. Edward's words were simple though: Come to London.
     "That'll be fine, Jeeves, thanks, old man," Edward chimes, his voice a bit brighter. "Hallo!!!" he calls, "You in there?" Oh, wait. Ian might be here. Edward's feet slow and his voice lowers as he head towards the den. "Hello?" he says softer, pushing at the doorway, "...Will, you in there?"

     "I'm taking your advice of our last occasion," comes the Plantagenet roar. If only Henry could hear him. Course, with that outreaching volume -- who knows but that Henry did hear it. And covered his ears with a grin. "How's this for a better summons, cos...! Bit more to your liking, oui?" The great Angevin ass.
     Follow that voice -- and it's not difficult, Edward -- down the large main hall and then again to the left. One of two doors open. And within. Brandy poured in crimson glasses -- and the liquid seems red... which means it must be golden or translucent. No dark plum. Not yet. He has showered and changed, and from his recent shave -- yes, he was clean-shaven tonight. Who died? ... Now there is a touch of evening stubble. By morning it will all be back. Good as new. More or less. Dressed in a pair of khakis and a t-shirt. Looking every bit of his twenty-five summers. But no more. The gold chain of his crusader's cross -- his father's cross -- visible just at his throat. Mouth pulls into a smile, sensuality and amiability both springing from his lips. Warmth moving across his features.
     He is midway in a billiards game. The table old, heavy and large.

     "Much better. Politeness grows on you, like moss," Edward notes coolly, grinning as he steps inside. He seems better, your cousin does, hands stuffed into his pockets. This evening, all black. Stem to stern. But it's always that way in the City. "Amazing what a shower will do, huh?" he murmurs, walking immediately investigate his choices of a cue. "The brandy smells great," Edward murmurs, making a quick selection then walking towards you. In the end, the cue matters not. A social evening. Despite being unsure whether it is a good idea, Edward offers no argument.
     "Hey...I'm sorry...about before," he shrugs, not quite sure what he's apologizing for. Moving to where his glass sits, he picks it up to lift it your direction. "Probst," he offers, already practicing his Germanic toasts.
     There is one thing not black on him. The amber that still remains around his neck. It dangles as he moves to meet you, cue upright. A soldiering partner.

     "Must be the damp English weather. Before long, I shall be saying please and thank you ..." Quipping. He is in a mood. Ah well, you know what fighting does for him.
     The brandy. It has a heady smell midway between apples and fire. It has a color and resonance not unlike topaz. Liquefied. It smells of honey. Apples. You have been served Normandie in a glass. Not the Normandie that is sold, fine as it is. But of the Duc du Normandie's ... private stock. Held in the crimson glass, hand-blown at that, the gold of it can only be known when it is tipped. Just moments before it is sipped.
     He holds the cue as he would a lance upon the ground -- habit, that. And he moves with it easily. As if it were an appendage. He'll make no comment about the other one he's famous for. This is a kind of soldiering. A kind of combat. But ...civilized. If you can call billiards with William civilized. "Ah, merci. I hope you like. If you wish another... strain of it, do let me know. My bar is open to you, cos." There was only a grin for the apology. Apologize for what? A hand lands at your shoulder and William strolls to the nearest corner of the table, lifting his own glass. Eyes stray to the amber. "That's new... I like that... early Christmas gift from one of your many admirers, ami?"
     Indigo eyes take quick survey of the table, and mouth puckers in thought of a shot. Hmm... break didn't leave many options open did it...

     He looks to it. "Something I picked up," Edward goes on, moving around the table. "You start, and thanks for the bar," he smiles. "Always good to know." Moving to take up a nearby perch, Edward leans against the back of a chair, mulling your motions. "Is..." yikes, to say his name with meaning is still hard, "...Ian...not here tonight?"

     A shot is seen. Keen artist's eye for geometry helps. Physics known through paint and sculpture, and the practicality of billiards and bets. Indigo eyes lift, even as he readies the shot. You actually refer to him twice on the same night? This is new. He appreciates the attempt, fully realizing it must yet be work. It is what the attempt tells him that holds the most meaning. "He's back in quarters engrossed in a treatise..." Something more tome than novel, most likely. Dunross wouldn't read 'lightly'. "I made sure he was well stocked," lips curl as he bends, hands readying the shot and he stills. Again, dark eyes lift to you. And the curl of mouth becomes a grin. "... in scotch and brandy before I came out. I have a hard time... sitting still to read all night.. But... " There is a sudden, resounding crack. And the shot of solids sinks. One in the far corner pocket. "... I am better than I was. I can read for a few hours at a time." William straightens, smile going lopsided. "Then I have to screw something or kill something...It's ...just easier to play billiards, ami..."

     "I guess someone has to be the educated one," Edward laments, rolling his head to the side. An almost boyish look and then he shakes his head with a smile. "Well, that's nice...he doesn't mind you having company." A blink and Edward lets the cue drop to his shoulder, arms gesticulating, "I mean, cos," hand waving, "...you can do things separate, like have visitors."

     "Well... yes... I am bound," William says, leaning his weight upon the cue, like a lance that once bore similar weight. "But I am not gagged and chained." There is a smile for that. "I go out, he goes out. Sometimes together, sometimes not. Sometimes he has friends over... sometimes I do. He does not mind, nor do I likewise. But at the end of the evening, it is always he and I." There is nothing wistful in that sentiment. There is simply Open Truth revealed. The smile slants. "He never begrudges me time with those I love. And, oui, that includes you Edward Meurelle." The cue is directed to you. "He has always been a man -- and I know you will find this hard to believe. You might want to sit..." Humor lights in his eyes, as well as something degrees warmer. For their darkness, they are nonetheless brilliant. Like a handful of sapphires and amethyst tossed to flames. "...He has always operated from a position of Love. Most of our Kind... would not know Love if it bit them and bled them." William pauses. You can see the realization move over him that he has just had a candid conversation with you about Ian. Words tumbled from my lips before I knew that I spoke them...

     He should look away at this point, chuckle something amusing, and go on with the game, dismissing the depth developing. Depth is...well, he should rather not go however far the hole is leading. Yet tonight is different. Edward only nods at you, gaze casual, as if he has learned something. No egregious sentiment or emotion follows, but a simple nod. "Maybe many are too busy making sure they survive the next lifetime than worry about Love, William," Edward explains. Give them a break. Give us a break. "You and he...are lucky that way, hmm? You have..." he pushes up and moves to the table, "...fantastical money, fantastical power, fantastical connections...even if something happened tomorrow," Edward stops and turns to see you, "...if you...suddenly had no cash...you could tap into all sorts of resources. Some are simply trying to make enough to stay in the dark for one lifetime, y'know, Will?" Yes, you and Ian are special. He will not speak of the Love but instead of the economics of it. "Only a few can have thousands of lifetimes in a backpocket. Some...are just tryin' to get through a night." He might not think of himself so much in that, but sympathy is something the terribly humane Edward knows.
     A sigh and he returns to looking at the table. "It's lucky...that you have had...what you have. You are blessed." Perhaps the rest of us are not. "You should see..." he shrugs, "...how the rest live. Many...in squalor. Especially childer. They..." he smiles wistfully at you, "...do not have time for Love. They can only dream about it...if any of them can dream at all." Maybe he does speak of himself somewhere. Edward smiles and decides on a shot, leaning to finally take it.
     I wish I had what you have had. If I am guessing correctly. Well, perhaps not. He feels you speak honestly and attempts to imagine -- in the lining up -- that Ian has loved you all this time. That the strangeness of all these centuries, was you loving him. Is that what has driven everything? Lucky then, you are indeed. "Two," Edward whispers, the sound cue and ball tapping following his voice.

     "Yes. I know," William says simply. Both taking the reproach and speaking from absolute knowledge. He inclines his head and he studies you. "One paint stroke less accomplished, and I should have very little to show for it. One terrific storm, and perhaps ships would not have sailed as they did. But it is... our way. It is how we move through this life. That we prepare now for the next century. Perhaps taking our passage for granted." So sayeth the Ventrue. "The economics... what we have now was purchased five, three, two centuries ago. One century ago. I am still living of paintings sold fifty years ago." There is a short chuckle. "I remember crossing from the Holy Land on a boat, and I had nothing. I only had my clothes, a bloody mess. In the hull of a ship I thought should be my coffin, led by a young man... whose pockets were not yet lined as they are now. When passage... at all... had to come with some blessed kiss of Lady Fortune or of God. I to this day... neither know how it is we made it at all... or to whom I should give thanks, Edward." Laughter has eased into a look and into softness. "I am ... far removed from that sort of struggle. You are right. But I have not forgotten it." The money was made over centuries. It did not come with the Ventrue kiss. "You are right... to remind me," William says again, weight leaning once more to the cue. Indigo eyes settle on you, and then on the balls upon the table. Like men upon a green field. "One should never forget one's blessings. That... should never be taken for granted. I am blessed. That I have been loved, am loved. That eyes have watched me and hands have borne me up. Out of love providing what most do not have. So that I should never know the squalor of his own early life."
     Ah, I have said too much. William pauses there. "I know your existence has been different... though you are not poor, Edward... the role you have... what you do for the Camarilla and for Brujah ... has never really allowed for that. You were never still enough," the smile returns, though slightly. But, though slight, it is warm. William rests his forehead against his lifted hands, hands wrapped around the would of the cue. Indigo eyes upon you. Unwavering. "One night... I hope that you sit still... long enough to let someone cross your path for a while. Before I die, for good, Meurelle, I am going to see you fall in love. Even if I have to arrange it." The smile spreads, smooth and slow. I am Ventrue. Do not make me pull out the Ventrue Voodoo...

     The shot was done, and before it fell, as you spoke, he rose and gave you his attention. His expressions change with the commentary you make, but the last, upon his own existence, does Edward's expression turn away, a casual walk to the next shot. Arranging love. A smile comes and he shakes his head, leaning in once more and setting cue parallel to the floor. "You would try to arrange love," Edward murmurs, "...even when it is not what seems to have happened you?"
     Brown eyes look up an instant. Edward is quiet a second, swallowing. "You have not talked much about how you came to Be. Not that I wanted to know ever, but...it sounds..." eyes return to the shot, "...like it was..." he shrugs, not sure how to explain it, "...a sad affair. I'm glad in a way, that you remember it," a supportive smile there. "We should all...me included ... remember...what it was like. To be young. To have nothing. To be Dead and frightened out of your mind..." and the tap of a shot. More sympathy. He sighs and rises, having effectively changed the topic, "You oughta see some of them, Will. They're..." he looks up, face frowning as he searches for the right words, "...living in shit conditions in Paris. Madrid. Barcelona. No money, no skills. You know," Edward chuckles, "it costs a lot...a fucking lot...to live in Darkness safely. To not be able to make money during the day hours when it's the only way you know how. Unless you're a janitor at night in some place, cleaning floors..."
     "Tell me, Will," Edward chimes again, "...if you were embraced tomorrow...by someone...of weak blood...and yours was even weaker....and you were two years from secondary school...what would you do? And...they walked off and left you after telling you what you were? Just...a pretty toy for a few weeks...just fucking tossed aside like dead meat?" And he's upset now, your Edward is. Passion for something. "Who would help you?"

     Ah, but it was arranged by someone. Partly Ian himself. Partly Clan Ventrue. Partly Clan Toreador. But, true, it was not love that was hoped by it. The arrangement and the emotion... these were not bound together. The smile yet rests in place, holding perched upon that mouth of his, the birthplace of sensuality. Quirking at the corners. "It was the perfect way to end my last year," he chuckles quietly, lifting his head, leaving a wink behind. The laughter does not last long, and though there is no sorrow -- it was too long ago for that -- there is memory. Of when there weren't million dollar cars and castles and homes and paintings. And beauty. "I never did talk or think on it much. It was enough to recall it ... from time to time. It was... not sad, Edward. It ... simply was what it was. It was going to happen, sooner or later. I am glad it happened when it did, how it did, and to whom. That... that is where I was fortunate. That... is when God smiled down on me." By letting it be Ian. Of all who wanted me for whatever designs they had. "I do not like to think of it as sad. I ... prefer to think of it as miraculous. It is... " the artist smiles slanted, "... all a matter of perspective, oui? And yes... we should remember. What it was like, Edward, when there were only two classes. Those living in shit and those living in houses throwing their shit out of windows..." A summary of the Middle Ages.
     He is quiet as you speak. His weight shifts and he stands upright. Eyes more upon you than the shot. "I have seen them," he murmurs. "And what if they had been embraced when their only occupation was working fields or milking a cow, or shoveling the shit thrown on the streets of Firenze, Edward? I cannot imagine it is worse now than it was then. When the only occupations... were during the day. Unless you were a prostitute...which many became. Maybe I am too removed to understand." William is not without compassion, you can see that. It is the face of an old duke. What do you do when your people are starving? Do you feed them, or do you teach them to feed themselves? Both. "I have helped a lot of the young in my time in America," another thing he talks of but rarely, "... street kids, forced out of mortal homes by mistreatment and drug abuse, with the secondary burden of being a nightwalker. San Francisco... was... the American mecca for that. I lived in a cathedral on Nob Hill...but worked in the lower districts. I had two homes... one for me, one for discarded immortal children." A pause. "...and a few homeless guys who served in Viet Nam."
     There was quiet again. You are making him think about things he hasn't thought about in a while. Before the time of reunion with Ian and Catherine's Ghost. "If I were embraced now... weak in blood... and discarded like human...or inhuman garbage... I would go to the cliffs of the Welsh Coast... and end my life like a man and not a dog. By my own terms, and by no one else's. I do not know. I ... have always... been a prince, Edward. Always. I ... do not know that I can conceive of ... being anything else."

     That may be true. Edward only bobs his head. When have you seen him like this last? He sighs, instead of moving to take his next shot. "Maybe I should go," Edward murmurs, not sure where to take the conversation, not sure where to take his own emotion. It wells inconsistently of late. The cue is tossed onto the table, but to one side. His hand lifts, running through his hair, even he now wondering where all of that came from. "I'm rambling," he murmurs, twisting his lips and looking for his jacket.

     "Have I grown tiresome... apologizing for my three castles...?" A question ... and a poke of humor at himself. How insincere I must sound. A ... son of a king... saying 'yes, yes' to words about the poor. "I am sorry, Edward, and you're not rambling. You're just speaking English..." A poke at you and him both. Soothe it with humor, it is your way. William finally moves from where he stands and the cue is lain upon the field. Surrender spoken in it. "But I understand..." You are passionate about the Common Man. Compassionate Brujah, cut of the old cloth and showing the fabric of it tonight. I... I am philosophically compassionate. But cut of a king's cloak I show how removed I am. But there is no judgment. Let there be none between friends. I love you for the passion you have. At times, even envy you for it, Meurelle. "You know... I think the world of you, oui?" that coming in quiet French. "And that if... anything were to happen to you, I would be the first to show his face. To those I love, as I have the luxury to do so, there are no bounds." Apart from betrayal. But that's a subject better left unsaid. William smiles suddenly. "I'm not going to see you until after the new year. 2010. Whoever thought we'd both see that?" Eyebrows shoot up slightly for a look of mock -- and not so mock -- surprise. "No one we know..." And then the grin is born upon his lips, wicked and warm. Full of humor and love. "I've grown accustomed to your face, Meurelle, what shall I do when I can't ring you up and see you on the drop of a hat?" As if Scotland were as removed from London as the Himalayas...

     What? Edward laughs, easily dispensing with the rest. "You can ring me up and I'm sure I'll show, matey," he concurs in succinct fashion. Ah, the jacket. He is quiet as he brushes at his shirt, then swings jacket around to slip pile-driving arms into it. He watches you as he adjusts collars and lapels, a smile on his face the entire time. "I hope you have a good Yule, eh? Think of me while I'm skiing. And I'll see you at Chinon, like you said, right-o? 2010, hmph," Edward snorts at you, "...who woulda thunk it?"

     "You... in Scotland?" William says with mock amazement. "This I shall have to see. Be sure that I will ring you. Et vous, Edward," he echoes more quietly and warmly. That, sincere. "I will send a seasonal tiding to Georg's. Call me when you return from Switzerland, we will arrange to meet in Chinon..." He crosses from where he stood at the flank of the table and now to you. No, you're not going to get out of here without a more personable farewell from the old lion. It's just not possible. "I will be sure to think of you... during the quiet moments of my Yule, oui..." The grin slants. He says no more. Thinking you will more than be able to fill in the blanks, much to your displeasure. He's such an ass, your cos. But... only because he loves you. "Hmm ... indeed... 2010. I am still getting used to the miracle of television..." Indigo flickers in a wink. His right hand comes out, lifting. Just a skimming touch upon amber. Brief. His hand lowers the next instant. Nice. "So...you're off then... I'll ... talk to you after your trip." He never does say goodbye. Even if he does live forever.

     Raised brows fall, and a smile pulls as the amber it touched. Yes, it was a gift. "I will speak to you later," he grins, left hand patting your shoulder. He is not one for goodbyes either. He has seen you much this year, and it was truly nice. Who needs America anyway. Hands fish in his pocket for keys, and Edward turns to head out of the room, tossing a wave over his departing back....

     Apart from the Americans? Not many. Least of all him. Though... perhaps a city or two wishes it yet had him. But his place is Europe. Scotland and France. To your wave? "A visit to Kensington and not a single summons!" A last Plantagenet roar. This is how much I love you...
     Indigo moves back to the table, not for the pool but for his glass of brandy. Crimson glitters in his grasp, fingertips lightly hold, his palm lightly balances and he moves through a hidden panel in the den to a bedchamber held upstairs. Private quarters. And you. All nights end the same. And I am blessed. And I know it.

     Upstairs, another panel opens...
     And somewhere else, beyond Kensington and the riches of immortal Almost Kings, a plane begins its final descent and its turning approach to Stansted...

     Can you feel me? When you turn the pages of your book, amours, can you hear it echoed by my steps upon a hidden stairway. Some pricking of the skin. Some hum of my approach. I have a journey across the sea on my mind. I can almost taste it. Nearly feel the swell of the Mediterranean beneath my feet. It is only the stairs, I know. Can you hear that? The brush of my fingers against the secret passage wall...
     There was a time when I could not remember it at all. When memories sent me reeling and I would wake up muttering Saracen and Langue d'Oc. And I would see your eyes and wake. But now? I can remember and I remain in this time. The wall is the wall and I know you lie above me. Reading...
     The panel leading to a set of stairs, stairs which descend to the master's game room and den below, opens. Slowly. Who else could it be, indeed? You heard his steps. You felt the swell of Angevin presence through the walls. And now you see him -- clothed in lounging gear, no spot of black on him but for his hair. All lingering signs of earlier fighting gone. Even the bruises. Remarkably restored, your Crusader. Holding a crimson glass. You can smell brandy. And his expression? Bemused. Recalling. And his eyes lift immediately to find you. Even as his left hand reaches back to close the panel softly.

     "Mmm, brandy," Ian purrs, sitting in white with a pile of pillows at his back. A vision, he is, framed in the drapes of a bed, covered to his waist. Across his lap rests an open paperback, now turned upside down. Tome reading, indeed. It is the latest in Eden McGinn novel. Young successful women finding first love with brash, rugged men...who are suddenly tender. Strange that. If he had been reading something else earlier, there are no signs.
     Hands lift and slip behind his blonde hair. Sculpted still. Forever so. "How was your visit?" he asks gently, still starry from the romantic reading. "Did you have a nice time?" Ian's voice matches your mood. Yes, he heard you arriving. Felt you. And in that, he swims, grinning with what connects you both.

     Brash, rugged men can be tender. You have quite-nearly living proof, do you not? You certainly saw the effects of a brash, rugged evening when he passed through earlier. Agitated from the fighting, in a mood that had little to do with literary pursuits. But the earlier agitation, like the bruises that bore it, has passed away, leaving behind something more thoughtful. Emotion strumming what exists between you. You first felt it some minutes ago. Now, it is at hand.
     Time, folded. And space. The next moment, the bed is sounding with his added weight. The glass of brandy, still full, is offered to you. The glass is crimson, and it holds cupped gold within, the finest brandy of his Normandy. Compliments of the Duc du Normandie. As the glass is tipped in offerance, you can see the shimmer of topaz-colored liquid. Perhaps you have been reading too many romantic tales tonight, for you could swear that William came upstairs, handed you a glass of brandy and then left upon your mouth a pulling and, yes, tender kiss. It is no imagination or a hallucination from so much reading...
     William parts the kiss and rests his forehead to your own, the crimson glass still held out for you to take. "It was a nice visit, oui... he is going to go to Switzerland for the holidays so I bid him good Yule. How is the book coming along...?" Words are spoken at your mouth, syllables become an embrace.
     He leans into you, thinking of the sea. Thinking of your hands tending him then. And blood that was the only thing that soothed the young throat. Smiling, for his blessing -- for that is what it is. But overwhelmed. How did we make it from the Holy Land, you and I?

     "Oh, that is sweet," Ian agrees, heady from the kisses. He keeps his forehead at yours, turning only to tip himself to take a drink from the glass. His mouth murbles at the awkward angle, but he manages a few dribbles and a laugh. Sucking his bottom lip, he wonders a moment about your curiosity and intimacy before asking, "It was a nice visit," repeating your words, "...but? Something else?" He can feel you. There is a question lingering. Something fondly remembered. "What?" he whispers, grinning with your smile.
     "We were talking... strangely... about love, which Edward and I... we never do." Indigo eyes narrow a little. "I don't even remember... how we got on the subject. I think it started with you..." Will that surprise you? William sits back a moment -- long enough for him to toss off the t-shirt, long enough for you to take a long drink of the crimson glass and its golden brandy. The bed sounds again as William shifts upon it. The khakis will be the next to go. "And... after talking about how fortunate we are and how unfortunate most others are... I actually... mentioned our travel from the Holy Land. A reminder," indigo eyes return to you, as khaki trousers are pulled off, leg by leg, "... that we have not always been as we seem to the rest of them. And... it was the first time in a long time that I ...thought about the trip at all. We have come a long way..." William smiles, even though his eyes are glassy with moisture. Crystalline, by virtue of the magic you taught him. Yet another thing you have done for him. "... from the huddle in the hull of a ship..."
     Now the cross is all that remains on him. The rest is gloriously uncovered. Your crusader. Then and now. Indigo returns to you, and as the smile winds its way across his lips, and sensuality is there in equal parts to adoration and love, dark lashes blink. You... of the heightened senses. You who see so much and hear so much. You can see the glimmer of moisture fall and hear it sliding over a high and noble cheek. It is not sorrow. It's just ... understanding.

     Oh, yes. That. Ian smiles to think of it now, centuries being a help, but the resolution of the last years being the most. Sadness stripped from such recollections. "I won't ask really how you got to that," he smirks, "...but...that's a strange topic of billiards conversation. Or were you playing snooker," you hustler. He grins and leans to kiss you, finger touching the cross.
     "So what did you decide?" Ian asks on, wondering if this should all lead anywhere. "We are very lucky, yes," he agrees in general, smiling. "I see that now, I guess. I would not have said so a few years ago. But, that is another story," he smirks. "Did the memories of the hull of a ship," Ian smirks, finger touching your nose, "...upset you or something such, laird?"
     The tear catches him and his finger moves softly over to catch it deftly upon the tip. Parting his lips, Ian touches the tear with his tongue, brows lifting to wait upon your answer.

     That is the most remarkable part of all. "No," William murmurs, responding to the laird title quite naturally. As one might expect he would. "No, not at all...just... that I could remember it... and remember that I recalled it without ...theatrics." No regression. So I have conquered that fully, it would seem. "And... just I suppose I had never thought of it as luck... but as hard work. Yours. Your hard work for me and for us," he murmurs. William reaches over with a hand. Book lifted, place saved. "Edward and I ... agreed that I have been blessed and then he had to go." Odd night. William closes his eyes and after a deep inhalation... stills the energy. With the exhale, falls the overwhelming feeling that came with thoughts of first days... first nights.
     The inhalation came with your touch to the cross. Broad chest expanded. "Blessed," he murmurs in Occitan, and then his left hand sets the book aside. Upon the small table, it rests face down. You can read it later. The bed sounds as William moves. More weight to bare and against you as well. No signs of bruising. Just the one scar at his hip from a fall when he was thirteen. The taste of his tear is followed by that of his mouth. Did your story read something like this?
     "And how was your night? Did you enjoy your peace and quiet reading?"

     His grey eyes are filled with wonderment. Ian scans you, hears your words. You are affected lovesick and he smiles. "I did, it was nice. It is a book about a young businesswoman who..." he blinks, remembering the phrase, "...cannot have it all. Did you know that if you are successful, you are not supposed to find love?" Curious thing that. "And so, she meets this man, a sailor, but he is kind, apparently." A chuckle and he lifts and drops his shoulders. "It is a romantical tale," he reassures, letting you know he is not so easily duped. Much.
     The compliment about hard work was taken quietly. But now, he returns to it. "We both did the work, you know, Will. Sometimes, I thought we would not make it. But...you helped too." Finger returns to the cross and your chest. Wandering star. "I like to remember nownights," Ian whispers, "...because I cry, but I do so with a smile. Remembering...how much we loved. We wanted...to live. To survive. To be left to our own devices...and to learn...about each other. About..." he smiles at you, "...what we could do together."

     You are right, amours. Dark eyes lift to grey, indigo settles on the silver. And then your fingers. Black hair drapes forward, a sheen most like silk, touching to cheekbones. "I do and have loved you. I do and will love you." How is that for a vow? They drip from the crusader's lips. Prayers to an amorous and sensual saint. "I have been thinking about it all lately. And, like you, I smile and I cry ... all at once. I think... it is being back home, Ian. Back in Strathfayr," William murmurs, and he lifts his gaze back to your own. "I walk hallways now that I did then. We sleep in the same bed that I first made love to you in. It... has been..." There is no word for it. He just shakes his head. Just slightly.
     Those who are successful are not supposed to love? Oddly representative of his night, in a way. Is that supposed to be a sort of equilibrium between those who live in shit and those who live in houses and throw their shit out of windows? That those who live in shit can find love -- every peasant tale has it -- and those who live in houses can keep their roof and bed? The king deserves love as much as the peasant... we are lucky, perhaps. But we have worked hard for this luck. No one else knows how much, how hard. So we have three castles. Sue us...
     William's eyes narrow in the chuckle that follows, though it comes quietly from him, held deeply in the expanse of the chest that is bare of all but cross. "Were... there any scenes on a boat... or ... interesting metaphors about the ...size of his ship?" Your great Angevin ass. "Was it just romantic or was it... seductive? Here, I will lie beside you and you can read me passages..."

     He laughs a little, shaking his head. He was to respond to how much being at home means, but instead, Ian leans to retrieve the book. "There were plenty of metaphors about...size. Tossing to and fro. Waves, crests," his hand waves, "...you know that sort of thing." A chuckle and he flips his book over, seeking a passage. "There was this one bit...when she finally goes sailing with him on his sailboat. Finally," he laughs. "And, well, you know how it goes...." fingers flipping quickly through bent corners.

     A sound pulls from his throat, resonating in his chest. He makes no comment to size, he need not. What other comment could he make but that the eyes could not already see? The sound, more growl and purr -- you purr better than he, much finer -- transforms to a chuckle as the bed sounds with his readjusting weight. Beneath the covers now. Hidden ways against you, you feel his form entwine. Warm, with magic. To a living flush like you. Heated by the earlier activity and the shower that followed it. William begins the slow process of surrounding you...
     Just like a Norman...

Posted by rowan at February 03, 2001 08:27 PM